‘That he is a man of honour.’
His host looked disappointed. ‘I have no interest in politeness.’
Tudor tried again. ‘That he is a fearless soldier, always at the front of his troops on the battlefield.’
Saladin nodded but was clearly waiting for more. Tudor was too sore and too weary to play games. ‘And that he shows no mercy. That after the siege of Acre,when he had lost the city, he executed all of his prisoners.’
Saladin drew in a long, slow breath and sat a little straighter in his chair. He nodded. ‘It is true, what you say. I had nearly two thousand men, some from the camp of the German Barbarossa, some belonging to the French king, but most, like you, Englishmen. Many of them knights. What you heard, that I chose to execute them all when I could have released them, this is indeed the truth.’ His expression hardened as he continued. ‘What you do not say, what truth you have not heard, is that before I did this terrible thing, your own King Richard - the Lionheart! The brave and good and fearless Englishman - he marched nearly three thousand ofhisprisoners out of the city. He stood them in front of the ancient walls and he paraded them, so that we could all see them. So thatIcould see them. They were not all soldiers. Many were old men, women and children who had been living their lives peacefully in what had, until only days before, been their home! Your noble king executed each and every one of them.’
Tudor gasped, despite his best efforts to remain inscrutable. Saladin was right. This was news that had not reached him. Nor, he suspected, had it yet reached anyone else at home in England or France.
‘So you see,’ Saladin went on, ‘I am not the barbarian you think me. I act as I must in times of war. Your compatriots were slain in retaliation for the actions of your king. Their blood is on his hands.’ As he spoke he hesitated, holding up his own hands to scrutinise them, as if they too might show the indelible stains of his own murderous acts. ‘Nor am I a warmonger. I resist each time I must send men to die on the battlefield. This… hesitancy that has lost me territory. Cities.’ He dropped his hands to his lap and met Tudor’s gaze again. ‘It may be it will lose me the very war itself. It may be this struggle will end only because one of us no longer has a stomach for slaughter. Do you think that person will be your proud king? Or the arrogant French monarch? Or the intractable German ruler? Will your holy father in Rome stop before every last Muslim soul has been claimed?’ When Tudor gave no answer to this he signalled to a servant and had pen and paper brought to him. He laid the sheet out on a board which was handed to him for the purpose, dipped the quill into an inkwell, and began to write. ‘I am no scholar. My family saw to it I could speak five languages because to do so was advantageous in business. I write in your alphabet for the same reason. The fact is, my humble English knight, Saladin the Great is a man of peace. I am tired of war. My people are tired of war. Our country’ssoil is peppered with the ground bones from it. Our rivers run red with blood from it. I will have you take these words to your king. Tell him Saladin will give him terms, will give him what he wants, in return for a lasting peace.’ He signed the letter with a flourish and had his servant apply the seal of his house. ‘Step forward,’ he said.
Tudor did as he was instructed. When he stood only an arm’s length from the greatest foe his country had ever faced, he found he could not hate the man. Far from being terrifying, there emanated from him a calmness, a marked tranquility, so noticeable that, to his astonishment, Tudor felt his own spirits soothed. Felt the pain of his wounds lessen. Felt his heart comforted. Confused, he took the letter and tucked it into his tabard.
‘In the morning,’ Saladin told him, ‘you and your brethren will be released. You will deliver my letter and tell your king that I am in earnest? Many lives depend upon it.’
‘I will. On my life,’ he said, holding his hand over his heart.
Saladin nodded and relaxed back into his chair. ‘All will be well, then,’ he said. ‘Now go with my men. They will take you to our baths, dress your wounds,clean your clothes, and feed you. Tomorrow before the sun has troubled itself to rise, you will be on your way.’
Dismissed, Tudor gave a bow, finding himself almost reluctant to leave the presence of the great peacemaker Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
London, 2019
Tudor and Deborah stood in the doorway of his houseboat surveying the chaos. When he had received the call from her of reports of a disturbance at his home he had pretty much known what to expect. Even so, and even with the lack of working lights, it was shocking. He had experienced many incidences of violence and danger in his professional life, but this violation of his own space, his personal sanctuary, was a new kind of trauma. The borrowed illumination from the lights strung along the boardwalk outside picked out the extent of the damage. Everything was trashed. The sofa was upside down, its cushions eviscerated, stuffing everywhere. Every drawer had been pulled from its place and upturned, the contents strewn over the floor. Books had been swept of shelves and searched, for what he had no idea. But it was more than a search, it was a deliberate ruination. The glass in every picture was smashed. Not a single ornament or plate was left whole. Even the lightbulbs had been hammered, hence the gloom.
Debs’ voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Well,’ she said slowly, using the light on her phone and stepping carefully into the mess, ‘someone hates you.’
‘Thanks for that,’ he replied, knowing that she was attempting to take the tension out of the moment. To make a joke without making a joke was a skill, and she’d always had it. Tudor stooped and picked up a photo of Emily, brushing the shattered glass from it, holding the broken frame with both hands, cradling it as he had cradled his daughter the day she was born. Emily’s don’t-make-me-smile face gazed back at him. At least she was safe. But his home wasn’t. Which meant being around him probably wasn’t safe either. But then, if he sent her back to her mother’s she would be completely unprotected. No, the Aurora was the best place for her. He knew she couldn’t stay there forever, though. He needed to put a stop to whatever was going on. And it had to be soon.
He walked to the fridge, treading with care. The cheerful light as he pulled open the door jarred in the darkness. ‘Looks like they didn’t have time to get to the beer. Want one?’ he asked, holding up a bottle. When she nodded he took the tops off two and handed one to her. They drank them where they stood, taking in the devastation some more, letting the beer buzz takethe edge off the nastiness. It was Deborah who spoke first.
‘Actually, I was on the point of calling you.’
‘Oh?’
‘After what you told me about your little escapade outside theJagoda, I checked out the cctv footage.’
‘Wanted to see me in action?’
‘Wanted to see anything that would explain why I didn’t hear a word about it. Gunshots in the middle of the day in the middle of London?’
‘And? What did you find?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Helpful.’
‘No, I mean, I didn’t find anything on the camera footage at all. Not you, not your car, not a skirmish, and most certainly not men with guns firing at you.’
‘That doesn’t add up.’
‘Tell me about it. That’s a Met cctv system. Our cameras. Which means…’
‘Only a Met officer could doctor the footage.’
