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  ‘Come on!’ John shouted as he grabbed Rabbit’s arm. They scrambled to the wall, which rose four feet above the barricade. John pulled himself up and dropped over the other side. He landed on top of a Saracen, knocking the man unconscious and sending them both sprawling. John sprang to his feet to find himself facing three more men. The closest stabbed at John with a spear. John blocked the blow with his shield and thrust with his sword, impaling the man through the chest. Another man attacked, and John was forced to jump aside, leaving his sword with the dead Saracen. He backed away, his shield raised, as the two remaining Saracens advanced, their spears pointed at him. One of them screamed ‘Allah! Allah! Allah!’ and had started to charge when Rabbit landed on him from above, knocking him flat. John rushed the other Saracen, taking advantage of the surprise. He slammed his shield into the man’s face, dropping him. He turned to see that Rabbit had slit the other man’s throat. The boy was white-faced and shaking.

  John clapped him on the back. ‘Well done. You saved my hide.’

  ‘Th-that’s the first man I ever killed.’

  ‘You did well,’ John replied as he wrenched his sword free from the chest of the dead Saracen. ‘We have to deal with those archers.’ He pointed towards the tall building before them. ‘Are you up for it?’ Rabbit nodded. ‘Let’s go, then.’

  John kicked the door of the house open and rushed inside. The bottom floor was empty. He and Rabbit hurried up the stairs on the far wall. The door at the top was locked. John raised his shield, then kicked the door hard. As it swung open, a volley of arrows thumped into his shield. John threw it aside and charged. Four archers stood along the far wall, each frantically trying to nock another arrow to his bow. John slashed across the face of the one furthest to the right, dropping him before his arrow was free of the quiver. The next in line had managed to nock an arrow, but John sliced the man’s bow in two before he could shoot, then finished him with a thrust to the chest. He turned to see a third archer kneeling and holding up his bow in a vain attempt to block Rabbit’s sword. Rabbit’s blade sliced through the bow and cleaved the Saracen’s head in two, spilling blood and pink brains on wooden floor. Rabbit turned away and vomited.

  The final Saracen, a beardless man no older than John, raised his bow and shot. But the man’s hands were shaking, and the arrow flew wide, embedding itself in the wall. The Saracen threw down his bow and drew a knife. As John approached, sword held high, a puddle of urine formed at the feet of the wide-eyed Saracen. ‘Drop it!’ John ordered, and the archer threw down his weapon.

  ‘No hurt! No hurt!’ he babbled in broken Frankish. ‘I prisoner!’

  ‘There you are, Saxon,’ Ernaut said as he limped into the room, sword in hand. Four arrow shafts protruded from his chest; they had penetrated his breastplate but not made it past the thick leather vest beneath. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve taken a prisoner.’

  Ernaut shoved John out of the way and impaled the archer through the chest. He turned back to John. ‘We don’t have time for prisoners.’

  ‘He could have told us about other ambushes,’ John protested.

  Ernaut frowned. ‘You’re a smart bugger, aren’t you,’ he said as he snapped off the shafts of the arrows protruding from his chest. He pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘God, I could use a drink. We found a path that leads around the barricade. Let’s get to that damned river.’ He turned to leave, but then stopped in the doorway. ‘You two chop off those sons-of-whores heads and bring them with us on spears. Maybe that will make the bastards think twice before they attack us.’

  ‘’Sblood,’ John cursed as he turned to his gruesome task.

  Yusuf and Turan stood on the wall above the al-Jabiya gate and watched as Muslim troops poured out of the orchard and splashed across the river, heading for the open gate. Behind the troops, a procession of disembodied heads approached through the orchard, bobbing high above the trees. A moment later, the first Frankish knights stepped out of the orchard, carrying spears with the heads of Muslim soldiers impaled atop them.

  ‘They are savages,’ Yusuf whispered.

  ‘They will pay for this indignity,’ Turan spat.

  ‘Inshallah.’ On the far side of the river more Christians were emerging from the orchards. Most went straight to the waters to drink. A few shouted up at the wall and made crude gestures. Below Yusuf, the gate slammed shut behind the last of the Muslim warriors. Yusuf looked beyond the orchard to the horizon, where the sun was just setting. The battle for the orchards had taken the best part of a day. He looked away from the blood-red sun to see his father approaching along the wall.

  ‘The Franks have taken the orchard, Father!’ Turan shouted to him.

  Ayub nodded. ‘Unur will have no choice now but to ally with Nur ad-Din. He has invited us to dine at the palace. Come, we are expected.’

  ‘Should we change into finer clothes?’ Yusuf asked. He and Turan both wore plain white cotton caftans.

  ‘No. Unur prefers simplicity.’ Yusuf followed his father through the city to the emir’s palace, a jumble of domed buildings and simpler wooden structures that sat behind a tall wall and deep moat. A dozen mamluks guarded the bridge across the moat. Their commander nodded respectfully as Ayub approached. ‘You are expected,’ the mamluk said, and the soldiers parted to let them pass.

  They entered the palace entrance hall and found themselves before a pair of tall bronze doors guarded by two muscular Nubians. ‘Remember,’ Ayub said to his sons, ‘you are here as guests. Do as I do. Do not speak unless the emir speaks to you first. And if you must speak, keep your answers short. Everything you do and say will reflect upon our family. We can ill afford the emir’s disfavour.’ Ayub nodded to one of the Nubians, who knocked on the door three times and then pushed it open.

  ‘Najm ad-Din Ayub,’ the Nubian declared.

  Yusuf followed his father and brother into a large, circular room, brilliantly lit by candelabras mounted on the marble-clad walls that rose to a vaulted dome high above. The dome’s interior was covered in ornate script in gold-leaf, with Emir Unur’s seal at the centre. Generals and ministers of the emir sat on cushions that had been placed in a circle around the edge of the room. They were already eating, selecting their food from dozens of platters placed on low stands. Emir Unur sat directly across from the door, on a dais that raised him two feet above the others. He wore robes of white silk embroidered with an interlocking pattern of red roses and green thorns. Unur was fit and olive-skinned, with a clean-shaven chin and scalp and crinkles around the corners of his bright, hazel eyes. He smiled broadly when he saw his guests. ‘Welcome, Ayub,’ he said in a pleasant baritone. ‘These, I take it, are your sons?’

  ‘Turan and Yusuf,’ Ayub affirmed. The two boys approached and bowed low.

  ‘Fine young men,’ Unur approved. ‘Sit here, beside me. Eat. Now that you have arrived, we shall have entertainment. Afterwards, we shall talk.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Bring the girls!’

  Yusuf and Turan were directed to cushions just to the left of the emir’s dais. Their father took his place on the emir’s right. No sooner had they sat down than four young women entered wearing veils and loose, diaphanous silk robes that shifted as they walked, revealing glimpses of firm breasts and long, golden-brown legs. A drummer had entered behind them, and at the first sound of his drum the girls began to dance, circling slowly to the beat. Their arms and feet traced intricate patterns while their waists and hips swayed slowly side to side. One of the girls paused for a moment before Yusuf, fixing him with dark eyes ringed with kohl. Yusuf blushed and looked away towards his father.

  Ayub had begun to eat, scooping up stew with a piece of flatbread. Yusuf followed his example, tearing off a piece of the warm bread and using it to scoop up a delicious mouthful of chickpeas, onions and roast lamb. He noticed that Turan had not touched his food. His eyes were fixed on the dancers. Yusuf looked back to the girls, who were each bending forward now, allowing the men to
see the curves of their breasts. He shrugged and scooped up more of the lamb. He could not understand his brother’s fascination.

  The drum began to beat faster, and the dancers moved in time, spinning and leaping. Suddenly they stopped circling and fell to their knees. They shook their chests, then leaned backwards so that the back of their heads touched the floor. Turan was transfixed, his mouth hanging open. Yusuf looked over and saw that his father, too, had stopped eating to watch. The dancers lifted their hips off the floor slowly, then faster and faster, moving to the ever more rapid beat. They rolled over, pushed themselves to their feet and began circling again. They were now a blur of seductive curves and firm limbs. Then, with a final crescendo, the drum fell silent and the dancers fell to the floor, kneeling motionless with their foreheads touching the ground. Only their heaving sides betrayed the recent exertions.

  Emir Unur rose from his dais and stepped down amongst the dancers. He walked slowly around the edge of the circle, then touched the shoulder of the dancer opposite the dais. She rose and left the room, head held high.

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ Turan murmured, just loudly enough for Yusuf to hear him.

  Unur returned to his seat and clapped his hands. The other women left, followed by the drummer. The doors slammed shut behind them. ‘Lovely, are they not?’ Unur said with a wink towards Yusuf and Turan. ‘Even in trying times like these, we should not ignore life’s simple pleasures. Who knows when they will be taken from us?’ He turned towards Ayub. ‘I trust you saw the Franks arrive?’

  ‘I did. My sons and I stood on the walls for much of the day.’

  ‘And how do you rate our chances, wise Ayub?’

  ‘The Franks are many, and now that they have taken the orchards, the city will run short of food. Forgive my impertinence, Emir, but I do not believe you will be able to hold the walls for long. You need Nur ad-Din’s help.’

  Unur frowned. ‘I fear that if I call on your lord to drive off the Franks, then I will only replace one master with another.’

  ‘Perhaps, but a Muslim master, one who will leave you your throne and not pillage your city. All you have to do is acknowledge his lordship and promise to send troops when he calls for them. Is that so much?’

  ‘Hmph,’ Unur grunted. He looked around the circle at his generals. ‘Are you in agreement with Ayub?’ One by one, the generals nodded. Unur sighed. ‘So be it. Write to your master, Ayub, and tell him to send his army. But warn him that he must hurry if he wishes to win me as his vassal, for I plan to do better than merely hold the city until he arrives.’ He turned to face Turan. ‘Tell me, young Turan. What would you do in order to drive the Franks away from our city?’

  ‘I would strike now, before they dig in,’ Turan replied. ‘I would send men out from the eastern gate to circle behind the Franks.’ Turan used his right hand to show the movement of the soldiers. ‘And then I would attack from both sides.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘The Franks will be crushed!’

  ‘A bold manoeuvre,’ Unur mused. Turan grinned. ‘Although one which would leave us with too few men to defend the walls, and which would split our army in order to attack a defensive position. If the Franks learned of our men leaving by the east gate, then they would attack and the city might well be lost.’ Turan blushed. Unur turned his penetrating gaze upon Yusuf. ‘What of you, young man? What would you do?’

  Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘So long as the Franks hold the orchards, we are weak. They have food and water enough to last for months, while our supplies will grow smaller every day. We must drive them from the orchards at any cost.’

  ‘Agreed, but how? As I told your brother, we cannot send enough men to drive them out without leaving our walls vulnerable.’

  Yusuf’s forehead creased as he considered the problem. ‘Perhaps there is another way.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Yusuf lowered his eyes. ‘But there is no honour in it. It is best forgotten.’

  ‘Speak, young Yusuf,’ Unur insisted. ‘I wish to hear this idea of yours.’

  Yusuf looked past Unur to his father, who nodded. ‘If the Franks cannot be driven out, then perhaps they can be lured,’ Yusuf suggested. ‘Aleppo is a better military target than Damascus. The Franks must have come here because they seek riches. If gold is what they have come for, then give it to them. Pay them to leave the orchards.’

  ‘That is a coward’s answer,’ Turan muttered. Several of the men in the room nodded their agreement.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Yusuf hung his head. ‘I should not have spoken.’

  ‘No, it was a wise answer,’ Unur said. He turned towards Yusuf’s father. ‘You have raised clever sons, Ayub. They do you great honour.’ Ayub inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. ‘Now I must bid you and your sons goodnight so that I may speak with my generals. We have much to discuss.’

  The Frankish camp was set up at the edge of the orchard, near the river. John’s troop erected their tents in a clearing and dined on dark brown pods that they shook from the trees. The flesh was chewy but filling, with an earthy taste not unlike the black bread that John had grown up eating. His belly full, he removed his chainmail and crawled into his tent, where he collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

  He dreamt of his home in Northumbria, of a crisp autumn day, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. He was walking through a green field of knee-high oats, their stalks rippling in a gentle breeze. He crossed the field towards his family manor, a rectangular building of grey stone, surrounded by a broad moat. His father stood in the doorway, waving to him. But something was wrong. As John approached, his father fell to his knees, blood running from his mouth. Behind him, John’s brother appeared. Loud screams echoed from within the manor.

  John awoke with a start, but the screaming did not stop. Cries of agony came from outside his tent, joined now by shouts of alarm. John sat up just as a spear ripped through the side of his tent, plunging into the ground where he had lain only a moment before. He grabbed his sword and rushed outside, wearing only his linen tunic. The camp was overrun with ghostly figures, barely visible in the darkness – Saracens in dark armour, stabbing at the tents with their spears. One of the attackers saw John. With a cry, the Saracen charged, his spear pointed at John’s chest.

  John sidestepped the spear, knocking the point aside with his sword, and then stuck out his foot, tripping the Saracen as he charged past. He hacked down, finishing the man, then looked up just in time to twist out of the way of another spear thrust, which ripped through his tunic. John grabbed the shaft and pulled his attacker to him, impaling the Saracen on his sword. As he pulled his blade free, John looked about for another foe, but he saw only other Christians, some in armour, some still in their tunics. The Saracens were fleeing as quickly as they had come, disappearing back into the dark trees.

  ‘Come on!’ John shouted and charged into the trees, weaving between the closely set trunks. He caught glimpses of the Saracens just ahead, and he could hear his own men crashing through the undergrowth behind him. He had not gone far when he heard an arrow whiz past. Another embedded itself in the tree beside him. John took shelter behind a thick tree trunk as the air filled with the buzz of arrows. Around him, the night echoed with cries of pain and curses in French and German.

  The arrows stopped and John continued his pursuit. He left the trees and crashed through a row of grapevines. He peered into the dark shadows ahead, but could see neither friend nor foe in the thick darkness, although he could hear the other Christians around him. Then he caught a flash of movement off to his left and headed that way, entering another stand of trees. As he pushed on, the sounds around him faded.

  John squeezed between two trees and found himself at the edge of a clearing where two men stood talking. Instinctively, John stepped back into the shadows. The man facing John was a Saracen in a white turban and chainmail. The other had his back to John. ‘It shall be as you say,’ he was saying. The man turned. It was Reynald.

  John caught a flash of steel out
of the corner of his eye and ducked just in time to avoid being decapitated. He turned to find himself face to face with Ernaut. ‘Ernaut! It’s me, John!’

  Ernaut stepped back and lowered his sword. ‘Sorry, Saxon. I thought you were one of them. It’s damn near impossible to see out here.’

  ‘Saxon!’ It was Reynald, marching across the clearing towards them. The Saracen was gone. Had John imagined him? Reynald grabbed John’s tunic and pulled him close. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was chasing the Saracens.’

  Reynald’s eyes narrowed as he examined John; then he released him. ‘Very well. Since you are here, come with me. I must meet with the other leaders to discuss our response to this attack. Ernaut, you get back to camp and look after the men.’

  John fell in behind Reynald. As he walked he looked back to catch a glimpse of Ernaut marching into the darkness, a bulging sack slung over his shoulder.

  John and Reynald emerged from a dense grove of apple trees into a clearing that was almost entirely filled by a huge tent. From inside, John could hear the heated voices of many men. At the entrance, Reynald paused and leaned close to John. ‘You are brave, Saxon. You will go far with my help. But if you cross me, you will regret it. Do you understand?’ John hesitated. What had he seen, anyway? He nodded, and Reynald clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good man.’

  They entered the tent, and Reynald shouldered his way through the crowd to where King Louis stood with the German king Conrad and Baldwin, King of Jerusalem. John stayed at the edge of the crowd.