The Man From Outremer

By Dave Burke

1291: Derwent, a Knights Templar sergeant in Crusader Palestine, escapes from Acre when the city is sacked, but is suspicious about the part played in the city's fall by a devious Englishman. Disillusioned, Derwent returns to Roslin in Scotland to become an unassuming churchman.

1302: A friend of Derwent's disappears in Paris. He sets off to find him and uncovers a strange connection to the events of Acre. As Derwent struggles to make sense of this - and the involvement of his Acre nemesis - events move towards war with England and, with a strange symmetry, inexorably back to Roslin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave Burke
• Release date: Mar 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301539437

Book preview

THE MAN

FROM

OUTREMER

T. D. Burke

Comely Bank Publishing

The Man From Outremer

T.D. Burke

Copyright T. D. Burke 2013

Published by Comely Bank Publishing at Smashwords

ISBN 9781301539437

The right of T. D. Burke to be identified as author of this work has been identified by him in accordance with the Copyright, Patents and Designs Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

To my Mum

Principal Characters

Audley, Sir Hugh - Experienced English army leader serving under Sir John Segrave

Aeldred - Melrose Abbey Sacrist

Berard, Peter - London Temple, deputy-commander, former Crusader in Palestine

Botetourt, Sir John - King Edward’s Chamberlain, head of Wardrobe and King’s expenditure

Breun, Richard - London silversmith, former Crusader in Palestine

Carter, Gordon - sergeant serving in English army

Cockburn, George - senior steward of Sir Simon Fraser

Comyn, ‘Red’ John - Lord of Badenoch, one of the Scottish Guardians, nephew of exiled Scots King John Balliol

Comyn, Sir John - Earl of Buchan, ‘Red’ Comyn’s cousin, one of the Scottish negotiators in Paris

Confrey, Ralph de - Manton’s steward

Courtney, Raphael de - experienced Captain in Segrave’s army

Deedes - One of Manton’s henchmen

Derwent - Prior of Temple chapel, former Crusader sergeant

Drokensford, Sir John de - Keeper of the King’s Wardrobe - which administers King Edward’s expenditure - reports to King’s Chamberlain John Botetourt

Douglas - young novice monk at Melrose Abbey

Dunbar, Earl of - of Dunbar Castle, pragmatic English sympathiser

Dunstan - veteran senior steward at Dalhousie Castle

Ethel - Lorna St Clair’s maid at Roslin

Flotte, Pierre - Paris lawyer, adviser to the French King Phillip

Fraser, Sir Simon - Laird of the clan Fraser based at Neidpath and Oliver castles, Scots rebel leader

Grandson, Sir Odo de - English knight and aide to King Edward, former Crusader in Palestine, Manton’s first liege lord

Hastangs, Sir Robert - Sheriff of Roxburgh

Hay, Sir Gilbert - of Borthwick Castle, friend of Henry St Clair, led the siege of Linlithgow Castle

Henderson, Dan - veteran English sergeant with Segrave’s army

Johnston, Jack - veteran English sergeant with Segrave’s army

John - senior steward at Roslin Castle

Juliana - young maid at Dunbar Castle

Kirsten - Margaret Ramsay’s maid at Dalhousie Castle -

Langton, Sir Walter - close friend and Treasurer of King Edward, in charge of raising finances

Le Bret, Richard - Irish hobelar who uses his itinerant blacksmith’s trade to report unusual English military activity to Bishop Wishart

Leclerc, Guillame - zealous French lawyer working for Flotte

Lenihan - Irish ruffian who works with Deedes

Lenton - Manton’s bodyguard and hatchet man

Letwin - secretary to Sir John Segrave

Maalouf - Persian doctor in Acre, friend of Derwent and St Clair -

Manton, Sir Ralph de - Controller of the King’s Wardrobe, nominally reporting to Drokensford, Manton is the de-facto chief of King Edward’s English spy and informants’ network

McAiden - Irish monk skilled in herbal remedies

McLaren, William - farmer at Mountmarle Farm near Roslin

Macpherson, Sandy - aide to Sir John ‘Red’ Comyn

Neville, Sir Richard - friend of Sir John Segrave

Nogaret - French mason, former Palestine Crusader, friend of Derwent

Ramsay, Sir Edward - of Dalhousie Castle, close friend of Henry St Clair (jnr)

Ramsay, Margaret - of Dalhousie Castle, sister of Sir Edward

Ross, Sir James - head of Knights Hospitaller at Torphichen

Sarthe, Jacques - French sea captain, friend of Nogaret

Segrave, Sir John - wealthy Leicestershire leader of the English army

Seton, Bill - senior steward to Sir Simon Fraser

Somerfield, Sir Simon - Lanarkshire landowner, former Bruce supporter now behind Scottish cause

Soulis, Sir John de - a Balliol appointed Scottish Guardian, one of the Scottish negotiators in Paris

St Clair, Sir Henry (snr) - of Roslin Castle, father of Henry and Lorna, twice a Crusader in Palestine, Derwent’s mentor and Mahida’s partner

St Clair, Sir Henry (jnr) - of Roslin Castle, son of Sir Henry (snr), close friends with Sir Edward Ramsay and Sir Gilbert Hay

St Clair, Lorna - of Roslin Castle, sister of Sir Henry (jnr)

Wallace, Sir William - war leader and former Scottish Guardian

Wenlok, John - Prior at Newbattle Abbey, formerly sub-prior at Westminster

William - young lay brother at Temple

Wishart, Robert - Bishop of Glasgow, former Guardian, Scottish Council collector of information from informants’ network in the Borders

Swinton, Abbot - Abbot of Newbattle Abbey

Outremer - French word for the Crusader states including the County of Edessa, the Principality of Antioch, the County of Tripoli and the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

Contents

Principal Charcters

Part I: Krak de Chevaliers, 1291

Part II: The Fall of Acre, 1291

Part III: Rhodes, 1297

Part IV: Echoes from the Past, Spring 1302

Part V: Subterfuge in Paris, Summer 1302

Part VI: The Approach of War, Autumn 1302

Part VII: Selkirk Castle, January 1303

Part VIII: The Expeditionary Force, February 1303

Part IX: The Enemy Advances, February 1303

Part X: Resistance, February 1303

Part XI: The Battle of Roslin, February 1303

Part XII: London, May 1303

Epilogue

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

P

art I

Krak de Chevaliers, 1291

The Krak fortress was built on a rocky outcrop which overlooked the dusty Plain of Lebanon. No-one knew who had built the first stronghold there, but everyone knew why. On the plain below, a few miles to the south, was the meeting place of two ancient trade routes. Whoever controlled the fortress controlled the trade. The Romans had laid a metalled road a thousand years earlier, but the route had been in use long before then. The Pilgrims’ Road ran along the valley floor past the fortress on its western side, and led from Jerusalem in the south to Antioch in the north.

A couple of miles to the south ran the road from Tripoli to Palmyra, a link to the ancient silk route and the far away lands of the Orient. The two routes met at Elmira, which for centuries had been a vibrant trading centre with its famous bazaar. Caravans arrived regularly from the east bringing their exotic goods of silks and spices. It was dangerous work travelling across the deserts and mountains of Persia and beyond. Men became rich, and Elmira became a wealthy town.

But not any more; two months ago El Ashraf Khalil’s army had arrived, and for those who had ignored the warnings to leave, death and destruction had followed. And warnings there had been. For two years since he had become the Egyptian Sultan, Khalil had sought to remove all traces of the Christian Franks from Outremer. He had started with Tyre. The ancient city state, home of the Phoenicians who had established their trading empire nearly two millennia before, had fallen after a brief siege. Next had been Sidon, and Khalil had methodically worked his way through Palestine taking one Christian city state after another. After the fall of Tripoli the previous autumn, most of the country was under his command, but between Khalil and final control of the central region stood the huge fortress of Krak de Chevaliers, home of the Knights Hospitaller.

Staring across the valley, the hundred foot climb made him shudder. Derwent pushed the thought away and turned to the man next to him. They were positioned on the eastern side of the Heights of Samos, an escarpment which overlooked the valley floor, well hidden behind scrub bushes from any enemy eyes.

‘There are more of them now than when we left.’

Henry St Clair agreed. He was a dark haired man with a tanned, unshaven face. At nearly fifty years of age he was old to be out here, but St Clair was still a strong, fit man. Knights who arrived in Palestine usually put in two or three years service then returned home, their duty done. Others remained. St Clair had come out here twenty years ago, and had returned home to his Roslin estate in Scotland after a hard fought two years service. But, unaccountably, he had missed the place, the heat of the summers, the emptiness of the deserts and the splendour of the bare sandstone mountains.

When his wife had died prematurely he had been shocked. They had been close, and St Clair found it difficult to adjust to life without her. As time went by it was suggested he should marry again, but the Roslin laird wasn’t interested. He took great pride in watching his two children growing up, but could never quite shake off a lingering sadness.

Three years ago, when a request came from the Jerusalem commander for experienced Templars to make another tour to bolster up their hard pressed numbers, few of St Clair’s friends were surprised when he responded. His sixteen year old son Henry was old enough to look after the estate with help from his staff and his younger sister, so St Clair had returned to Palestine.

Derwent had volunteered to accompany his laird. Born at nearby Gilston, he had served in the stables of the Roslin estate since boyhood. St Clair had let the young man join his retinue, and Derwent hadn’t let him down. The Gilston man had fought well in Outremer, and was now not just a Templar sergeant but also a friend.

St Clair missed his family back in Scotland, but had no regrets about returning to Palestine. Of course meeting Mahida had helped. St Clair had been wounded at a skirmish in Hmaira, and had convalesced at Acre in the Templars’ hospital. Mahida was a local herbalist employed by the Templars to mix ointments and remedies to help recovery. This form of medicine was far more advanced in the Arab world, and St Clair’s wounds had healed well. Mahida was a striking looking woman in her thirties, and had her own mind. St Clair had grown to like her, and, against all advice, when he was on his feet again they had started going for walks together. In time they became good friends, and then lovers. That had been two years ago, and, since then, the Roslin laird had not really thought about a return to Scotland.

‘It won’t be their numbers that defeat us, it’s the supplies,’ replied St Clair.

Derwent rubbed his face with his hands, grateful that the Arab howli was protecting his head from the sun. Their trip to Acre had taken many days and he was tired. Just twenty five years old, on days like this he felt twice his age. Derwent was a tall man, well built, and the Outremer sun had given him the appearance of a local. Reaching under his bisht cloak, he produced some khubz bread from a pouch and a water skin. St Clair accepted a crust without lifting his eyes from the valley, then a noise from behind made him turn sharply as a figure slipped down the hill to join them.

‘What’s happening down there?’

‘You were supposed to stay up there on look out,’ said St Clair mildly.

‘I don’t answer to you,’ said Manton tersely, taking in the vast army of Khalil in the valley below. Manton and St Clair were returning from Acre with bad news. It would be weeks before King Henry would be able to organise a relief force for Krak, and by then it would be too late.

Manton was a burly man, around six feet tall, with a ruddy complexion and a slightly perspiring brow. He struggled to keep his temper, but it was not St Clair he was angry with, it was life itself. The Englishman was a vain man, habitually carrying a light ceremonial sword instead of a practical battle weapon, and it had only been after days of exposure to the blistering heat that he had reluctantly conceded the need to adopt the Arab style of dress on missions like this. Manton even insisted on wearing his distinctive signet ring out in the field. It was expensive, and any captor would cut his hand off for it, never mind his index finger.

‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Derwent. A band of Egyptian scouts was skirting along the hillside just a few hundred yards below them. It looked like a routine patrol but they couldn’t afford to give away their position.

Derwent was nervous with just Confrey as their lookout on the ridge top, so he nudged St Clair to let him know he was heading back up top. Derwent gathered his bisht cloak and crawled up the hill. There was a small wadi which the winter rains had cut into the hillside, and using this to keep out of sight he worked his way up to the ridge summit. Confrey was still in position behind some boulders.

Derwent knew little about Manton, but even less about Confrey. Manton’s squire had accompanied him from England earlier that year. He was dark skinned, showing more of a Frankish ancestry than Norman, but that was where the likeness to the followers of Charlemagne ended. Confrey was weak, and seldom spoke his own mind. They were an odd couple. Despite his claims, Derwent wondered if Manton had any battle experience at all before they had come out here. God knew there were enough opportunities at the moment.

When the news of the advancing threat of the Sultan Khalil had reached the west, Pope Nicholas had responded by calling a Crusade. But, with the Great Powers all involved in regional wars and disputes, the response had been muted. Even the committed King of England had only sent a small force under Odo de Grandson, a loyal household knight of the English king.

Manton was his knight. He had first come to de Grandson’s attention as a jouster. De Grandson had lost a wager when Manton had unaccountably defeated his own favourite at a gathering at Chester, and de Grandson had subsequently kept an eye on him. Manton had won a succession of jousts, and impressed de Grandson enough to take him onto his staff.

‘Behind you,’ said Derwent softly, and Confrey whirled round.

‘Where did you spring from?’ he stammered.

‘A piece of advice. If you want to stay alive, watch behind you as well as in front. The Egyptians have a thin leather rope, they call it a lac, and if they catch you from behind….’ he made a sign of a knife across his throat. Confrey shuddered.

‘Is Manton down with you?’

‘Yes. Seen anything?’

Confrey shook his head. The ridge top was a mixture of low, scree covered crags and dunes, and it was in boulders in the lee slope of one of these mounds that they had left Manton and Confrey to guard their rear.

Derwent gazed across the undulating high plain which stretched away to the west for a mile or so before starting its gentle descent towards the distant Mediterranean coast. The sun was setting low in the western sky making it difficult to see. At sundown the Islamic forces would start their evening prayers, and that would give them an opportunity to move down the wadi to the valley floor then, under cover of darkness, to break across the Pilgrim’s Road to the Krak’s rocky base. Once there they would use the scrubby bushes as cover until they found the foot of the climb. He shivered at the prospect, but took some hope from St Clair’s remark that it was always easier to go up than down.

Something caught his eye to the right. A puff of dust? Damn! Had someone spotted the horses? Their mounts had been left in a secluded hollow just half a mile behind the ridge top, where a cluster of palm trees beside a water hole provided protection from the sun. Trained war horses were valuable, and they planned to collect them after the break out. For they now knew that this was the only option left for the defenders of Krak de Chevaliers, as hope of relief from Acre had gone. Their food had all but run out, and the three hundred men remaining in the fortress had a simple choice. Break out or starve to death. His eyes hadn’t left the place on the horizon where he thought he had seen the dust.

‘Go back down to the others and tell them that I may have seen something. I’m going to have a look.’

‘Do you think you should?’ began Confrey, but a look from Derwent silenced him, and the man scurried off down the hill.

‘Slowly,’ hissed Derwent urgently as Confrey scuffed the ground, kicking some stones down over the ridge top.

Derwent gave his full attention to the view ahead. To get to the horses unobserved he would have to begin by moving in a direction parallel to the edge of the ridge, keeping behind the low mounds. He squinted hard into the distance. Nothing. No movement. Gathering his cloak he loped along, keeping low.

From a distance it wouldn’t be easy for any enemy to be sure of him. Derwent’s face was dark from his time here; he wore the Arab howli around his head and a long bisht cloak. There were still some men defiantly working away in the area, trying to hide their scrawny livestock from the soldiers or stubbornly scratching a living from the soil.

The Scot reached the cover of the next mound, a sand dune held together by tough needlegrass. There was still no sign of any movement ahead. Maybe he had imagined it. Gathering his bisht he made for the next dune. From this position there was a clear view of the upper part of the gully, but he still couldn’t see anything out of place. His next move meant taking a chance. The sun ahead of him was low in the sky, a hindrance not a help. When he emerged from behind the dune he would by visible to any observer in the gully. Derwent still couldn’t see or hear anything. He tried to pinpoint what had alerted him in the first place, but it had been just a small movement at the edge of his vision. Had he imagined it? His sword was hidden under his cloak in an Arab baldric slung from his shoulder, and he checked that it could be drawn quickly. He moved out into the open, but this time didn’t run. Derwent hoped any watcher would just see an anonymous Arab moving forward with his arms folded. He walked along with his head lowered, but his eyes never left the entrance to the little valley.

The old Arab was irritated. He had been told to make a long, looping circuit up the escarpment, across the plain then back down to the camp. It was clearly a waste of time as there was no-one within miles. How could there be when the Franks were all locked up in the castle? All the others in their section would be resting before evening prayers and supper, while they were slogging across the hillside looking for a non-existent enemy. They had been about half way along their patrol route when the young lad had thought he had heard something. At first he had dismissed it. The youngster was over zealous, and neither he nor Bahran had heard anything. But just a few yards on and he too had heard something.

It’s a horse, he thought, then immediately looked around. Horses meant knights, and knights meant death to foot soldiers. There was nothing to see. The old Arab peered into the sun, the direction from which the noise had come, shading his eyes with his hand. He slowly turned and surveyed the entire area around them, but could see no immediate danger. Suddenly he felt exposed, and hurried the other men to the shelter of the nearest dune.

‘If those are horses we can hear, there must be some of those infidel Templars around.’

‘Then we must find them and kill them,’ said the youngster. ‘Allah will protect us.’

Bahran, the quiet one, said nothing. He stood motionless, waiting for the command to move on. The old Arab sighed. He had faced charging Franks on horseback before, and the thought made his heart beat faster and his mouth go dry. Gripping his scimitar tightly he moved along the lee side of the dune, stopping at its end. There was a small valley a short distance away. It was only a hundred paces to reach it, but there was no cover. If there were horsemen about, they would stand little chance. The old Arab waited for a minute, looking for any signs of movement. Still nothing.

‘What are we waiting for?’

‘You don’t want to walk straight on to a lance, do you?’

The young man glanced across for a moment then looked away, but not before the older man had seen the sneer in his eyes. That made up his mind.

‘Ready?’ he said, and with that the old Arab ran round the side of the dune and across towards the little valley. As they reached the edge they saw that there was a water hole just a few hundred yards down to their left, but, to the older man’s joy, the horses were tied up and untended. He looked round for a trap, but could see none. They reached the horses which were tethered to the squat olive trees that grew beside the water hole.

‘Where are the horsemen?’

‘I don’t know, but they can’t be far away. Go back up there and keep a lookout.’

Bahram gathered his robes and moved back up to the entrance to the little valley. The old Arab watched him take up his position, then turned back to look at the horses. They were expensive war horses which should fetch a good price. But just as he was thinking that perhaps the day would turn out well after all, he heard a cry from behind.

Derwent’s heart was racing, for this was the moment when he was most exposed. If there was a crossbow aimed at him, this was as good a place as any to shoot at him. The Scot reached the edge of the valley and almost ran into an Egyptian soldier. The man was as surprised as he was, but Derwent was quicker to react. Drawing his sword, he hacked down at his opponent. The Egyptian blocked Derwent and tried a thrust of his own. Derwent stepped to the side and crashed his sword-hilt into the man’s face. His opponent cried out but Derwent’s blade cut the cry short as he finished the man off. There were two others down by the water hole but, with his blood now up, the Scot charged recklessly down.

The old Arab knew that they should act together, not even the Lionheart himself could defeat two swords at once, but the youngster was beyond control as he faced the charging enemy soldier. The man was wearing a howli and looked dark enough to be an Arab, but his western features were obvious at close range. The fellow closed in on them, but then the young Arab lunged with his scimitar.

‘Edge to your right!’ the old Arab urged, but the youngster had the light of battle in his eyes.

‘Leave this to me, old man,’ and he stabbed forward again at the enemy soldier.

Derwent avoided this thrust, but the young Egyptian was quick. The Scot watched the scimitar, but was also aware of the eyes. The eyes would lead, the action would follow. The youngster drove forward again, but this time he feinted to the left before thrusting deeply forward to the right. Derwent read the change just in time, and fended off the attack as he hurriedly stepped back. A confident smile crossed the younger man’s face, and he stabbed forward once more, but his smile became frozen for eternity as Derwent stepped inside the thrust and buried his sword deep into the young man’s midriff.

Derwent had to wrench his sword out hastily as the older man came flailing towards him. When the youngster was cut down, the old Arab knew he should have been close enough to make his own instant strike, but he had felt that the young man was on top. He shouted and charged forward, but the foreigner reacted with a speed he could not believe. Derwent had desperately pulled his sword out of the dying man and raised it to parry the scything stroke just in time. The two men grappled for a few seconds before Derwent found enough space to smash his sword hilt into his opponent’s face. The old Arab fell backwards, ending up motionless beside the water hole.

Derwent finished the man off. It was going to be difficult enough to get across the valley without having their enemy on full alert. The Scot wiped his sword on the man’s cloak, and then walked across to the horses. His own horse Deneb stamped his feet excitedly at his approach, and Derwent smiled as he gave the big war horse a pat.

‘Keep your energy for tonight, old fellow,’ and he patted the other horses to calm them after the shouting of the last few minutes. With a last word for Deneb, the Scot moved back up to the edge of the ridge where St Clair was hurrying across.

‘It’s done,’ said Derwent, ushering his friend back behind the nearest dune.

‘What’s done?’ said St Clair, suspiciously eyeing the stains on Derwent’s sword.

Derwent told him of the skirmish at the water hole.

‘You’re a fool,’ he said. ‘You should have waited for me.’

‘I would have if I’d known there were three of them.’

St Clair shook his head.

‘You’re still a fool, but at least you’re a lucky fool. Let’s hope your luck stays with us tonight.’

There was no moon, but the light from a million stars helped them to negotiate the more awkward places in the wadi. The going became easier, and it opened out into a dry river bed which merged into the valley floor. Derwent pulled his bisht closer around him and walked purposefully on.

Their dress was indistinguishable from the thousands of Egyptians spread out across the valley floor, so they pressed on and trusted to luck. Derwent led, with St Clair beside him, Manton and Confrey at the rear. They walked past a camp fire, and heads turned to look at them. Derwent, his face scarcely visible behind his howli, nodded in greeting then turned back to St Clair as if in earnest conversation. No shout came from behind. Derwent’s nerves were jangling. If they were caught now, death would be a long time coming. Everyone knew what happened when scouts were caught. They approached another camp fire. Derwent looked for an easy way to avoid it, but the only other route took them further into the camp.

‘Kayfa haluk,’ enquired a figure from the camp fire.

Derwent’s heart sank.

‘Biyeyr shukran, tasharrafna,’ said St Clair.

Derwent glanced sharply at the older man. He caught the eye of an old Arab gazing up from the fire side, but the man turned away to stir the black pot hanging over the fire.

‘I didn’t know you could speak their language,’ he murmured.

‘Oh, bits and pieces,’ said St Clair airily, ‘I’ve been picking up a few words from Mahida.’

God give me strength, I do believe he’s enjoying this. Derwent glanced behind at the other two whose heads were largely covered by their howlis. Manton grimly returned his look, while Confrey stared nervously at him then looked ahead.

They reached the Antioch road, and more fires flickered. Derwent could see the sheer face of the Krak looming ahead of them, and knew that the start of their climb was still a few hundred yards to the north. They walked down the ancient paved surface for a few minutes before angling off between a series of camp fires. By now the main Egyptian camp was behind them, and, with gathering confidence, Derwent nodded to a group of men sitting round a fire. If any wondered why the small band was heading away from the main encampment, none challenged them.

The fear of discovery faded as they left the camp behind them, but for Derwent another worry now surfaced. He peered ahead at the squat bushes which grew at the foot of the cliff, trying to locate the base of the climb. St Clair stopped and looked back to check for any inquisitive enemy soldiers.

‘So far, so good,’ he said softly.

St Clair turned his attention to the towering rock face. Pushing his way through some bushes, he carefully reached up for a good handhold on the cool stone. The Scot knew Derwent’s fear of climbing.

‘Just put your hands where I put mine,’ he murmured, ‘and remember, don’t look down.’

The main approach to Krak de Chevaliers was a thirty yard bridge over a huge dry ditch, wide enough for three horses abreast, but the stronghold had a secret entrance.

Many years ago, a Hospitaller gazing down the eastern ramparts had noticed that there was a slight cutting in the rock cliff where, over the years, the winter rains had worn a small channel. He had reported this to the Languedoc commander, Michelle de Valence. When de Valence had been a youth, he had been a novice priest in the unorthodox Cathar faith, popular in that region. The Cathars were renowned for their hill top monasteries, and these often had a secret escape route to let them flee from persecuting enemies.

Years later, when the Krak sentry reported the cutting, de Valence had inspected it and its use became immediately apparent. Using volunteers with climbing experience, they spent the summer months roped together fashioning a series of handholds in the cliff face to create their own escape route.

Derwent put his hand on the bottom handhold and looked up. If it hadn’t been for Manton and Confrey behind him, the Scot might have asked St Clair to go up alone and he’d meet him back at the water-hole, but pride forced him on.

‘Keep looking up,’ called St Clair.

Derwent grunted and tried to copy St Clair. Looking continually upwards, he placed his hands in holds as soon as St Clair’s feet had left them. St Clair climbed steadily, stopping just once because his Arab baldric had worked its way round to his front. He eased it back round and moved on. Derwent had frozen to the cliff face while this was going on, and felt a film of sweat trickling down the small of his back. Keeping his gaze fixed on the leather boots above him, he forced himself on when the boots restarted. They were over halfway up the cliff, but, even although they were partly tucked into the small cutting, Derwent felt horribly exposed. There was no sound from the men below, but then Derwent had to quickly tuck in as a minor fall of pebbles cascaded down.

‘Sorry.’

‘Still here,’ Derwent whispered back.

St Clair resumed the climb and Derwent followed, sweating freely with the effort. The Scotsman gained a solid position on the rock face and paused for a moment.

‘Just about there,’ called St Clair softly, and Derwent saw him reach the top and pull himself to safety. Derwent followed a few seconds later, and just lay there for a moment, breathing deeply. He waited for his galloping heart to calm down, and looked up to see St Clair peering carefully back over the edge.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I can’t see the others.’

Derwent joined him.

‘What happened to them?’ asked St Clair.

‘I don’t know. You told me not to look down.’

‘You didn’t see anything at all?’

‘No,’ said Derwent, feeling slightly sheepish.

They waited a little longer, but it was clear that nobody was following.

‘We’d better get a guard down here, just in case.’

If the two Crusaders had been captured then it wouldn’t be long before Confrey was spilling the beans about the back door into Krak. The two men moved away and hurried on up towards the castle.

Foulques de Villaret was the leader of the Knights Hospitaller, a kindred Order to the Knights Templar. A small man with black hair and a finely trimmed black beard hiding a ruddy complexion, he had called a full meeting of the Krak defenders in the fortress’s Great Hall. De Villaret headed the ruling council but, perhaps due to its isolation, the tradition at Krak had always been to allow full discussion on key issues. Derwent looked round and admired the beauty of the Hall. It had graceful stone archways, and the wall behind the platform where the council sat was panelled with Lebanese oak.

As he listened to the views being expressed from the floor, Derwent reflected on the earlier crusaders who had sat in this very Hall. They had ridden out from this fortress to join the Emperor Barbarossa, and had been at Richard the Lionheart’s side when he had reached the walls of Jerusalem itself.

At first the meeting had been shocked that no support was coming from Acre, but Derwent could hear that the general tone from the floor was becoming one of dismayed acceptance. De Villaret made a rousing speech about the heroism of their spirited resistance, and how they could regroup at Acre and return to recapture Krak, but the despondent men sensed it was the end of their time here.

Once St Clair had passed on the news that Acre could offer no immediate supplies or assistance, de Villaret had pulled no punches at the meeting. Retreat was now the only option, and he used his strength and inescapable logic to quell dissent. Supplies were too low to continue resistance. The only hope lay in a surprise break out and a hard ride for safety. If they could do this, argued de Villaret, he repeated that they could gather in Acre and live to fight another day.

The meeting eventually broke up as small groups of men slowly moved out discussing their chances of escape, and de Villaret was left alone. He walked to the back of the Hall and out onto the terrace. The decision to leave had been unavoidable, but it weighed heavily on him. The leader of the Knights Hospitallers raised his eyes and gazed at the night stars and felt a rare moment of self pity.

Others had ruled from this castle for nearly two centuries, and they had managed to hold off all kinds of infidel attacks. In the scriptorium there were parchments which told of these times, and named the Knight Masters who had defended Krak and provided safety to Christian pilgrims. The name de Valleret wouldn’t be added. He sighed deeply and gazed down at the scene on the valley floor. Judging by the number of camp fires there were thousands of them out there. Breaking through wouldn’t be easy. De Valleret sank to his knees and prayed for help in the escape of his men from Krak, and made a silent vow not to leave until all others had gone.

PART II

The Fall of Acre, 1291

Derwent ducked as the huge rock crashed into the city wall, ploughing through the parapet and causing debris to fall into the street below. Chips of stone and mortar flew off at all angles, and he felt them rattle off his helmet and leather jacket. After a few seconds the Scot glanced up again, and watched in morbid fascination as the Mamluk soldiers gathered the swinging harness and attached it once more to the siege engine. Another boulder was manhandled into the leather pouch and slowly the huge coil was wound back into position. Derwent could see men being urged to pull harder, and the soldiers’ brown chests shining with sweat at the exertion of the task. The engineer held up his hand and the catapult was secured into position, the men scurrying out of the way. The Egyptian engineer looked once more at the towering city walls, satisfied himself with the contraption’s elevation and then signalled for its release. The wooden lever sprang forward, dragging the leather pouch along and flinging it forward into the air as the coil unleashed. The boulder was hurled high into the air, and Derwent ducked down once more. The wall not twenty paces along shook with the impact, and a cry came up from the street below where someone was hurt by falling masonry.

‘All right along there?’ called Berard.

Derwent waved back. Peter Berard was from London, and had made the rank of sergeant through hard work and courage. The Englishman was in his early twenties with a stocky build, and his bleary blue eyes stared across at him from a ruddy weather beaten face. Berard liked a drink at the end of the day, and they had spent many a night at Amin’s, their favourite Acre hostelry. Beside him Richard Breun raised a hand, another who had made his way from Krak to Acre. The group would always share the bond of their escape from the castle which guarded the Pilgrims’ Way.

Breun was a slight figure. He removed his helmet and stretched his back. Despite the amount of sun out here his freckled face was still pale, and his eyes had a mischievous look about them.

‘It was close, but we’ll survive,’ called Derwent.

‘For how much longer?’ came the reply. ‘That engineer is starting to find his range.’

St Clair was crouched beside him, muttering quietly to himself. He too was gazing across the valley at the Mamluk forces which stretched as far as the Galilean Heights.

‘Peter’s right, we’ve our hands full this time.’

‘No question. If those machines aren’t put out of action soon, then they’ll be breaching these walls in the next couple of days.’

‘God help that lot then,’ said St Clair, indicating the anxious citizens hurrying along the streets below.

Acre was the last Christian held city state in Palestine, but it was surrounded by the Islamic Egyptian army.

Only ten years previously the Christian King of Jerusalem had ruled a huge area of Palestine, including the city states of Tyre, Sidon, Antioch and Acre. One by one El Khalil, the Sultan of Egypt, had laid siege and captured these towns, but Acre had seemed impregnable.

Derwent glanced at St Clair – they had once thought the same of Krak. But their luck had held that night, their midnight break-out had surprised the Egyptians, and the Krak defenders had galloped through the Islamic cordon before the enemy could properly react. Casualties had been miraculously light, and Derwent and St Clair, using borrowed horses to make their escape, had broken off and collected their own mounts from the water hole. Most of the Krak men had found refuge in Acre where they had been made welcome by the commander and put to quick use in building up their defences.

‘Did Mahida go back home?’

St Clair shook his head. His new woman came from the village of Meron, a few miles away, and St Clair had tried to persuade Mahida that she should return there for a few weeks until they had repulsed the siege.

‘She’s very headstrong,’ he said a little sheepishly. ‘She is staying here as long as I do.’

St Clair shrugged, but Derwent detected a look of pride that his woman hadn’t deserted him.

‘It might still be all right,’ Derwent added unconvincingly.

Despite being surrounded on its landward sides, Acre didn’t have any supply problems. It had one of the finest ports on the eastern Mediterranean seaboard, and there was no shortage of Genoan or Venetian merchant ships anxious to land supplies at inflated wartime prices. This marine lifeline and the huge city walls had always been enough to ensure Acre’s survival, but perhaps not this time.

The current siege of Acre had its roots in some wanton acts of atrocity committed by Pope Boniface’s crusaders a few months earlier, and, as usual, politics had played a part in it.

Worried by the Sultan’s gains in Palestine, Pope Boniface had urged the heads of Europe to send military assistance. With regional conflicts to deal with, the response of the kings of England and France had been muted, but they had sent reinforcements under Odo de Grandson and Jean de Grailly. These soldiers were now reinforcing Acre, and, if that had remained the position, then despite their all-powerful march through the country, the Egyptians would probably have accepted this lingering Christian presence in Palestine.

Pope Boniface, however, trying to capitalise on what he thought was the popular mood in Europe, ordered the preaching of the passagium. This impassioned call to arms from the pulpits of Europe had roused hundreds of ordinary people to respond and, earlier in the year, Acre had been inundated with bands of disorderly crusaders who had answered the Pope’s call.

Unfortunately, there had been no obvious infidel to fight. Instead, the unruly passagium crusaders had set out from Acre and killed hundreds of local innocent farmers, peasants and merchants.

News of this indiscriminate slaughter had reached Cairo, and the Sultan had demanded that the perpetrators be handed over. The Acre authorities refused leaving the Sultan no alternative but to assemble his great war-machine and march northwards.

‘Looks as if they’ve stopped,’ said the older man.

‘The infidels too have their prayers.’

‘Is it that time already? Of course,’ nodded St Clair. The sun was going down, and it was one of the times of day when the Sultan’s forces made their peace with God. St Clair relaxed, took off his helmet and slipped down the wall into a sitting position. The sun had lost its pounding heat of the middle of the day, and a wave of fatigue passed over him as he relaxed in the warm evening sun. He rubbed the stubble of the last few days with his hand, and let his eyes close. Derwent, satisfied that nothing would happen for the next half hour or so, slid down and joined him. Taking off his helmet, he wiped the sweat away from his forehead. He nudged St Clair.

‘No sleeping yet.’

St Clair grunted, but opened his eyes.

‘Come on, let’s go to the Hall.’

Earlier that afternoon they had seen the sails of a merchant ship arriving, and they were anxious to find out news of reinforcements. The previous month King Henry of Cyprus had landed with valuable support, and had told them that the Kings of England and France both had plans to send further troops.

‘See you back at the Hall.’

Berard and Breun wearily acknowledged them as they moved along the battlements of the city wall.

They climbed down the steep stone steps into the busy street below. The citizens of Acre had been through this many times before. There was fear of the random damage caused by incoming missiles, but there was no panic. The walls had stood firm for two hundred years, so as long as supplies could be landed at the port the townspeople believed they would survive the Mamluk siege.

The Hall of the Knights Templar stood in the heart of the city where the French knight Hugh de Payens had founded it over a hundred and fifty years before. It had originally been an Arab mosque. Over the years, adjoining buildings had been purchased to provide stabling for their horses. The two men continued along the Rue de Merchants, pushing through the surprisingly busy streets. With the lull in the assault, people were taking the opportunity to move in relative safety, to go to Compline prayers, to go down to the port to see if their goods had landed, to visit relatives, or just to go to the market and see what could be bought. The city might be under siege, but its citizens still had their daily lives to lead.

‘These people still don’t know the potential of the new machines,’ said St Clair.

‘We’re not sure ourselves yet.’

The older man glanced at him. ‘Have you seen anything like it before?’

Derwent considered this for a moment.

‘No, they had nothing like it at Krak.’ He walked on, ‘You remember when Arghun captured Damascus last year?’

St Clair nodded as Derwent continued. ‘Their walls were supposed to be as thick as ours. I heard that the Mongols had new siege engines. Maybe Khalil learned from them.’

In Cairo the Sultan had the best Arab engineers in the world. Derwent guessed that they must have learned from their defeat at the Syrian capital, and been able to copy the Mongol design and build similar siege machines. The Arabs had brought them to Acre and had puzzled the defenders as they had assembled the machines to a size not seen as far west as this before. The extra weight and stability allowed the better designed slings to hurl bigger rocks further and faster, causing their impact to be much more destructive than previous machines. If they kept it up, a breach would be formed and, once a breach was formed, then the superior Islamic numbers would win the day.

The road became steeper in the old town, twisting and turning as the two men moved through the narrow streets. It wasn’t any quieter up here. Children were playing, women were leaning from first floor windows conversing with neighbours across the alley, and old men were sitting outside watching the world go by. Derwent could see strain on some faces but no fear. They reached the stone steps outside the Hall and, as they climbed up, he glanced behind. The late afternoon sun was sparkling on the sea. Over the roof tops Derwent could make out the harbour with the high masts of the Venetian merchant ships clearly visible. The position they had defended on the eastern city ramparts was visible, and he wondered at the scale of the city walls. They enclosed not just the city, but enough open ground for farmers to graze cattle which gave the citizens fresh milk and cheese. The city could survive, but the new siege engines had to be stopped. The guard acknowledged the two men as they entered the Templar Hall.

Derwent was honoured to be a part of the Templars, proud of their worthy history, and proud of their independence, despite attempts by French royalty to bring them under control. For an uneducated country boy to become a sergeant at the age of twenty five could only happen in the Templars. It was ability that counted out here, but he knew the debt he owed St Clair. Derwent followed the older man into the Knights’ Chamber where they could hear a heated argument taking place.

‘….and if