‘Are you injured?’ Tudor asked him.
‘A few scratches,’ was all he would admit to.
‘And the others?’
‘Dead. Apart from your servant, who was saved by his poor camel riding skills. And your horse got awaytoo. Three Arabs tried to take him,’ Jean gave a snort of laughter. ‘I believe that animal has the teeth of a crocodile.’
‘He’s particular about the company he keeps.’
Albert sat up, still swearing in French. Tudor was shocked to see how badly the skirmish had altered him. His wounds were not serious, it seemed, yet there were profound changes in his expression, his demeanour, even the way he held himself, his body hunched into itself awkwardly.
Footsteps along the passageway alerted them to the arrival of three guards. The knights got to their feet. The door was unlocked. Two guards marched forwards and took hold of Tudor. His friends moved to defend him but he held up his hands.
‘Do not concern yourselves with me,’ he told them, knowing that the gesture could result only in more injuries. He allowed himself to be led from the cell.
The guards took him along what transpired to be a short corridor, through an outer chamber that served no purpose other than to keep the cell more secure, and then out of the building. He blinked as the searing sunlight struck his eyes. He was not shackled, and the guards did not have their swords drawn, but the reasons for this quickly became clear. The small dwelling was but a tiny insignificant structure in the midst of the vastencampment. All around him, in every direction, were soldiers and weaponry and horses and camels and the general accoutrements of war. Any attempt at escape would be entirely futile. He was marched through the groups of men, past smouldering camp fires until they came to the sophisticated arrangements of tents which were so splendid and luxurious he surmised they could only belong to their exulted leader. He was made to wait while a soldier went inside to announce his arrival. When the word was given, he was shoved forwards, through the dark red rugs that hung in the entrance, and into the main tent itself. The interior was significantly cooler than the morning heat outside. The space was furnished as if it were a comfortable home, rather than a billet on campaign. There were tables with bowls of fruit and soft muslin curtains dividing up the area, beautiful silk rugs on the floor, and comfortable seating. On the far side of the room was a large chair, covered in goatskins, and on it sat the ruler of the Muslim world, Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, known far and wide as Saladin.
Tudor was pushed roughly to his knees. He waited to see what would happen next, uncertain of why he alone had been chosen to be brought before their illustrious commander. He was aware of his own shabby state, without armour, his clothes filthy with dirt and blood,his head wound unwashed. He lifted his gaze to meet that of his captor, but one of the guards pushed him down again.
‘Enough.’ Saladin waved the guards away.
Tudor raised his head a second time. When nobody sought to stop him, he got to his feet. Now he freely gave a small bow of his head. ‘I am honoured to be in the presence of such greatness,’ he said, understanding the custom for military deference and good manners.
‘You are an English knight,’ said the sultan. ‘I too am honoured.’ With a graceful hand he gestured towards a seat padded with leather and covered in the softest goatskin. ‘Please. Sit.’
Tudor did so with as much dignity as he could manage. The blow to his head had left him feeling dizzy, so that his feet did not willingly do his bidding. He was thankful for the chance to sit. Further signals from his host brought cups of water and a bowl of dates.
‘Eat. Drink.’
Tudor knew better than to refuse, and in any case was happy to be able to slake his thirst. He took the cup and drained it and naturally reached for the food with his left hand. When he noticed the sultan react minutely he stopped himself, setting down the cup so that he could use his right hand - the only one considered clean - toeat with. Only when he had finished his refreshments did the conversation begin.
‘King Richard must have many knights if he can spare three on a simple errand to find me,’ he said. His accent was pronounced but his use of English was excellent.
Tudor regarded him carefully. Had he been brought from his cell to be interrogated? He had barely been in Acre twenty-four hours and had not so much as set foot within its walls, so he was in no position to comment on what the king might or might not be thinking. He wondered how much the sultan actually knew. Was he the sort of man to play games? He was immaculately turned out. His robes were of very fine material and spotlessly clean. His headdress was a swirl of richly coloured fabrics and his eyes were deep set and darker than any Tudor had seen before. At the centre of the great man’s turban there was an enormous and glorious ruby.
‘I was happy to do my king’s bidding.’
‘Of course.’ He paused then, as if studying his prisoner with great attention. When he spoke again his voice was quite relaxed and his interest appeared sincere. ‘Tell me, English knight, what does it mean to you, to fight for the king’s cause?’
‘Everything. It is… what I am for.’
‘And you believe his cause to be just?’
‘It would make no difference if I did not. Such judgements are not for one such as me. Knights serve.’
‘Quite so, but youdobelieve him to be a just king? You believe that he fights for your God?’
‘Yes.’
‘And thus, if we are to follow that reasoning, I, by opposing him, must be unjust.’
Tudor chose his words with care. ‘I… am not privy to your intentions,’ he replied.
‘But they are in direct conflict with those of your own king.’
‘Your actions may be ruthless. I cannot speak to your motives.’
‘Ruthless? You think this? Tell me, what have your heard of Sal-a-dhin?’ he asked, deliberately mispronouncing his own name in the way a European might.
