One day when we were practicing, I heard a voice call: ‘Move your feet, Alan, don’t forget to move your feet,’ and turned to see a tall man in a white cloak with a red cross on the breast, long sword at his side, and a wonderfully familiar face grinning at me from behind a huge black beard. It was my old friend Sir Richard at Lea, a Poor Fellow-Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, and one of the main reasons Robin had embarked on this Great Pilgrimage.
He and a hundred of his fellow Templar knights, perhaps the finest fighting men in Christendom, had come to our rescue in England at the battle of Linden Lea two years ago but only on condition that Robin brought his men to fight in the Holy Land. And here we were, and here he was.
I was tremendously pleased to see him, and clasped his right arm with enthusiasm, only wincing slightly as his powerful grip tightened on my recently mended wrist. He greeted Little John warmly and asked after Robin and Tuck, and then he turned and lifted his hand towards a man who had been standing beside him quietly smiling at our reunion: ‘May I introduce Sir Nicholas de Scras, a good Christian and a fine knight, but one who had the great misfortune to join the wrong order: he’s a Hospitaller, may God forgive him.’
‘Please pardon my friend,’ said Sir Nicholas, clasping my arm in greeting, although a good deal more gently that Sir Richard had done, ‘like many Templars, he has the great misfortune to think that he is amusing.’
While the Hospitaller politely greeted Little John, I studied him with interest: he was a man of medium height, iron-grey hair cropped short, slim, fit-looking with muddy green eyes and dressed in the black robe with the white cross of the Hospitallers. He looked a little too mild mannered to be a warrior, and I wondered if he eschewed battle and preferred to practice the gentler arts that this order of healing knights were famous for. I couldn’t have been more wrong. As I watched him, he picked up the shield that I had dropped and examined it closely, testing the strength of the layers of wooden slats with his thumb. ‘A strange device,’ he said, at last, turning the snarling wolf’s head towards me. ‘Am I right in thinking that you serve the Earl of Locksley?’
I nodded, and he continued: ‘And I understand his master of arms is showing you the finer points of combat with a shield?’ I nodded again. ‘Will you permit me to try a turn or two with your formidable friend? I might be able to show you something useful.’ I merely made a wide sweeping gesture with my arm that suggested that he was free to do as he liked in this quarter of Acre, owned as it was by his Order. And Sir Richard and I retired to a stone bench that surrounded the courtyard and sat down to watch the bout.
John looked a little uncertain to be facing an opponent who seemed so calm and yet who was so much smaller and lighter than him. ‘Don’t worry, Sir Richard, I promise to go easy on him,’ he yelled jovially over to us on the bench. But, despite his customary bravado, I think he sensed he was facing a master warrior.
‘Do your worst, John, he deserves a good thrashing,’ shouted Sir Richard cheerily, and he sat back on the warm stone to watch the fun. Sir Nicholas merely smiled at John, bowed his head, and they began. The two fighters circled for a few moments, and then John attacked, a heavy cut with his sword at Sir Nicholas’s shoulder. The Hospitaller merely shrugged it aside with a flip of his shield and immediately counterattacked with a series of lightning lunges to Little John’s face. The big man was forced back, back, ten feet, then twenty, back until he was almost against the stone bench on the other side of the courtyard; and then with the hollows of his knees against the warm yellow stone, he finally roused himself and, snarling at the smaller man, began to batter him with huge cuts at his head and upper body from the left and right in turn. Sir Nicholas blocked and blocked, again and again, using only his shield, gradually allowing himself to be forced back into the centre of the courtyard but continually holding his sword poised, his right elbow back, the snake-fast lunge always a potential threat. It seemed he was waiting for John to open up his body for the strike, but how Sir Nicholas survived that mighty battering from Little John without using his sword to protect himself I do not know - however, wherever John’s sword struck, there was the shield to deflect the massive blow. He did not use the wooden frame full on, to soak up the power of the sword, instead, Sir Nicholas used the curved outer surface to slide the blows away from his body, and waste John’s great strength on the air. And then the knight did something extraordinary: instead of blocking, he ducked a massive swing from Little John, which put the big man off balance, turned sideways, stepped under John’s sweeping blade and with the shield tilted the wrong way around - its rounded top down towards his own face, the narrow bottom end pointing upwards away from his body - he jabbed up with his elbow and slammed the tapered point up and hard into the side of Little John’s head, and immediately dropped the big man in a sprawling heap on the floor. He didn’t even look at John, but turned his head and stared at directly at me: ‘Did you see that, Alan?’ I gawped at him. He demonstrated the move once more, this time striking at empty air with the tapered point of the shield. Then the knight sheathed his sword, took off the shield, and went to kneel beside the giant on the floor. He wasn’t even out of breath. Little John had dropped his sword and, seated on his broad bottom on the stone floor, was swaying slightly and panting heavily. He had a dazed look in his eyes, and his mouth hung open in surprise.
I was no less stunned. I had never seen Little John beaten in a fight, and so quickly; it was almost unthinkable, and yet this slight man who only came up to Little John’s breast had dropped him in the dust with what seemed the greatest of ease. Sir Nicholas, kneeling beside his victim, examined Little John’s head, and called over his shoulder: ‘Richard, be a good fellow and get one of the servants to bring me a cloth and some water,’ and then he gently lifted Little John’s right eyelid, tilted his head back to catch the sunlight, and began to look deeply into his eye.
Sir Richard at Lea and I retired to the Hospitallers’ refectory and ordered a dish of roast fish, stewed peas, bread and wine from one of the brother-sergeants, and while we refreshed ourselves, I asked my friend what he had been doing in the past few weeks since the city had fallen.
‘The Grand Master has decided that we will make this place our headquarters until Jerusalem can be recaptured,’ he said. ‘So I have been busy arranging our new quarters. But the thing that takes up most of my time is dealing with the damned traders; I tell you, Alan, I’ve never met such a gaggle of greasy scoundrels in all my life. They’re a cowardly lot, always bleating about bandits attacking their camel trains and demanding protection from our busy knights. But then, damned nuisance that it is, protecting pilgrims and travellers from the human predators who roam the desert is one of our sacred duties here in the Holy Land.’ And he frowned and helped himself to another large piece of fish.
I knew that the Templars, though primarily a religious and military order, had branched out into trade; with their outposts, known as commanderies, all over Christendom, their own huge fleet, and connections up to the highest level, it was natural that they should expand the practice of shipping food and weapons to their own far-flung outposts to include goods that could be sold for a profit. They had even developed a clever system whereby money could be deposited by a merchant in one commanderie in, say, France, where the traveller was given a piece of parchment as a receipt, and on presentation of the parchment at another Templar commanderie hundreds perhaps even thousands of miles away, he was returned the same amount of money, less a small fee. It made travelling, always a dangerous business for merchants, much safer. The other great advantage the Templars enjoyed was an exemption from all taxes, by order of the Pope. It was often claimed that the Templars, despite their individual vows of poverty, now possessed wealth beyond the wildest dreams of kings and emperors.
‘And Saladin hasn’t gone away,’ Sir Richard continued. ‘He might have lost Acre, but he’s still out there in the hills with more than twenty thousand men. He’s waiting for us to leave the city, then he’ll swoop and we’ll have a proper battle, a proper bloody battle, by God. And we need to be ready for that - so when I’m not nurse-maiding merchants, I’m training the new men to fight.’
‘When will we leave here?’ I asked. I was anxious to see Jerusalem, the Holy City, and pray for the forgiveness of my sins at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the most sacred site of Jesus’s tomb.
‘That depends on our royal masters: King Richard is keen to press on south to Jerusalem but Philip is talking openly of going home to France; he claims he is not well, that this damned heat is killing him. The good news is that he and Richard have managed to decide between them who is the rightful King of Jerusalem: they have decreed that it is Guy de Lusignan, but - and this is a nice compromise, Alan - he’s only to be king for his lifetime, after his death Conrad of Montferrat or his heirs will succeed him. At least they’ve managed to agree that without more quarrelling.’
At that moment, I saw Nicholas de Scras approaching our table with William in tow. ‘I found this young fellow wandering around the hospital, looking for you,’ said Sir Nicholas with a smile. He seated himself on a bench at the table and helped himself to a piece of fish.
‘Sir, the Earl of Locksley has returned and asks that you to attend him, if your health permits, at your earliest convenience,’ said William. The presence of these two imposing knights had made my servant adopt a more formal manner than usual. I pushed myself to my feet, stuffed a last crust in my mouth and made to leave.
‘Do not exert yourself too much, Alan,’ said Sir Nicholas. ‘The brother-physicians at the hospital say that they are very pleased with your recovery, but you are to take as much rest as possible, d’you hear me?’ I nodded, waved farewell and hurried away to attend my errant lord.
Chapter Fifteen
Robin had commandeered a large building near the main harbour of Acre, in the north of the city, which had formerly belonged to a rich Saracen merchant. It was a splendid house, practically a palace, three storeys high and built of smooth white sandstone, with big cool rooms, large amounts of stabling and a large warehouse attached, in which about half of the men were encamped. The rest of our boys were scattered about the town, finding cheap lodging wherever they could. The merchant who had once owned this magnificent house was now one of the nearly three thousand ragged and almost-starving Muslim prisoners who were locked in the vast cellars deep below Acre. King Richard was holding them hostage for the agreed ransom from Saladin, two hundred thousand gold pieces, and most miraculously, a genuine piece of the True Cross, the actual cross on which Jesus Christ was crucified, which the Saracen warlord had captured after the disastrous battle of Hattin four years earlier.
‘I want you to play for us tomorrow night at a party I’m giving,’ said Robin when I found him. He was in a luxurious room filled with tall elegant pillars and flapping muslin drapes, which seemed to collect the sea breezes and cool even the hottest day. It was richly appointed with polished cedar-wood furniture, the floor covered with thick carpets and strewn with plump cushions. I almost did not recognise my master when I first saw him: Robin was dressed like a Saracen, in a long loose robe made of some light material, a curved dagger at his waist, his skin seemed to have been darkened with some kind of dye, his head was wrapped in a golden turban, his feet shod with silken slippers. I stared at him but managed to mumble something like: ‘Of course, sir, it would be a pleasure ...’ before I ran out of politeness.
‘Why on earth are you dressed in that ridiculous fashion?’ I finally burst out. I could not hold back my curiosity any longer. ‘And where have you been this past week?’
Robin laughed, and turned a full circle so that I could admire his Oriental finery. He appeared to be totally relaxed, happy and - something else. He had the indefinable air of a man who has just pulled off a great coup. ‘I thought you might be amused: in these clothes I am the mysterious and powerful merchant prince Rabin al-Hud, wealthy beyond measure, who wishes to enter the frankincense trade, buying the Food of the Gods to sell to the infidels. And I have just paid a delightful visit to some business acquaintances of Reuben’s in Gaza. We sailed back from there yesterday.’
‘Gaza?’ I said. He laughed again. I was mystified, but at least I could now understand the fancy get-up: as a Christian, there was no way he would be able to mingle with people in Gaza, far to the south, which was in Saracen hands. As I helped Robin to change out of his outlandish rig and into good Christian clothes - green woollen hose, a black tunic and a capacious green hood - he told me what he had been doing in Gaza, and what he planned to do to permanently solve his money troubles.
‘Frankincense is a valuable commodity, as I’m sure you know. It is burnt at every Mass in every major church in Christendom; so, as you can imagine, we use a lot of it. It is just the dried sap of some scrubby little trees that grow in a place called Al-Yaman, in the far south of the Arabian peninsula, which happens to be Reuben’s homeland. Now, the value of the incense increases the further it gets from its homeland. In Al-Yaman, you can buy a pound of frankincense for a few pennies; in England or France, it is worth more than its weight in gold.’ He stopped speaking while I pulled the black tunic over his head, and then he said: ‘Jesus, Alan, these clothes are so hot!’ and made me bring him a cup of watered wine, before continuing with his lecture.
‘For many hundreds of years, since before the birth of Christ himself, frankincense has been transported by camel train along the western coast of the Arabian peninsula, hundreds of dangerous miles through mountain and desert, arid plain and high pass, and for each step the camel takes the frankincense on its back becomes more valuable. Of course, taxes must be paid to the people whose land the camel train passes through, and there are the costs of hiring men to guard the train, and food and water, and supplies for everyone.