Understanding, his body taut with desire, he dropped his arms to his sides, and dipped his head.
North West of Jerusalem, 1191
Saladin was as good as his word. That day, they were well fed and had their wounds tended to. Early the following morning, each knight was given an adequate horse, supplies for the journey, and two guideswere appointed to take them as far as the oasis two days out from Acre. They had even had their weapons returned to them. Jean had questioned Tudor about his audience with the sultan. He had shown him the sealed letter and explained its contents and had been surprised at how much detail the Frenchman wanted. Similarly, Albert had wished to discuss the why’s and wherefores of their being used as messengers by the opposing army. Tudor had reassured them that he held terms for peace in his hand. They need not feel uncomfortable about doing the bidding of the sultan, as thousands of lives could be saved, and peace returned to the region. It was even possible King Richard could regain Jerusalem without a single sword being drawn.
As they rode out from the encampment, Tudor thought again of how being in the company of Saladin had made him feel. He wondered why it was he had experienced such a sense of calm and optimism when he was standing with the man who had slaughtered thousands of Christians. The man who could, had the mood taken him, have ordered the execution of himself and his fellow knights. As they made their slow and steady progress across the scorching sands, he frequently found his hand going to check that the precious letter was still in its place, beneath his shirt, close to his heart. He would not let it out of his sight for a moment.Albert had been insulted that he would not let him read it, even when he had pointed out that would involve breaking the sultan’s seal. Jean had, more than once, offered to look after it for him. He had refused that offer. The letter had been entrusted to him. He would be the one to deliver it into none other than the king’s hand. Beyond that, he had noticed a growing irritation in the manner of both Frenchmen. Albert’s grumpiness had become, at times, aggression. Instead of making jokes, Jean now complained about everything from the quality of the horses to the type of food they had been given. After two more days and nights of travelling, Tudor was growing tired of their company and was disappointed to find they were not the men he had thought them to be. So it was that when they came in sight of the oasis and the familiar figure of Tan could be seen waving enthusiastically beneath a slanting tree, he was truly happy to find him there.
‘Master! God be praised, you are free!’ The servant ran out to greet him, glancing warily at the two Ayyubid soldiers as he did so.
Tudor dismounted and embraced Tan. ‘I am glad to see you well, Tan. I feared that camel might be the end of you.’
The boy grinned. ‘He brought us here.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes, master. Look,’ he said, pointing back to the water hole.
Tudor squinted against the sun. Now he could see that standing in the shade of the small trees was a horse. A dark brown, fine coated horse. He smiled and whistled. The horse’s head shot up. With a whinny, it came trotting, kicking up sand as it slewed to a halt in front of Tudor.
‘It’s good to see you too, old friend,’ he muttered, patting the animal’s neck and rubbing its ears. He turned to say something to the others, expecting a joke from Jean, but their expressions were blank. He shook off the uncomfortable feeling that they were somehow watching him and put his arm around Tan. ‘Come,’ he said, walking towards the water and shade, ‘I want to hear exactly how you managed to look after my horse without getting bitten.’
As had been agreed, the guides left to return to their encampment. The knights could easily find their own way back to Acre from the oasis. The light was fading, so they made camp for one more night. Tan explained how he had allowed the camel to carry him on, sleeping only when it lay down, hoping it would take him to water, which it did. He had recognised the oasis and decided to stay there in the hope that his master might pass through it on his return to Acre.
‘And if I never came back?’ Tudor asked as they sat on a blanket by the camp fire, the darkness deepening around them.
Tan shook his head. ‘I did not let such a thought take room in my head. Besides,’ he added, pointing at the horse. ‘He knew you were coming. He was waiting too.’ He had explained how the horse caught up with the camel and followed, always keeping a distance away. ‘I never tried to catch him,’ Tan said. ‘He never tried to run away.’
Tudor ruffled the boy’s hair. It must have been an anxious time for him, not knowing if his master was alive or dead, wondering if he was destined to be lost, alone in a foreign land. ‘We’ll make a horseman of you yet, Tan.’
‘As you wish, master, but, please God, may I never sit on a camel again!’
As was the habit of the desert, as soon as the sun disappeared, the heat vanished with it, to be replaced by a brutal chill. Tudor nudged the fire with his foot, sending up a spray of sparks which flew up against the night sky, like so many stars sent to join the countless ones that studded the blackness above. He found the silence of the night time desert disturbing and was briefly assailed by a longing for home, for green fields and bright rivers, and for his family.
Tan, ever sensitive to his master’s moods and needs, got to his feet. ‘I will fetch more fuel for the fire,’ he said, stepping away from the trees. ‘It is one thing the camels are good for!’ he called back.
Tudor could still hear him whistling as he gathering dung, but the night was so black it all but swallowed him up. He stood up and took off his sword, placing it beside his makeshift bed before rearranging the saddles and packs to make a passable pillow. Then, just as he was about to fetch more water, he became aware of the fact that he could no longer hear any whistling.
‘Tan?’ he called out, peering into the gloom. The sound of footsteps came towards him, but these were not the fleet, scurrying feet of the boy, but much heavier. It was Jean who emerged from the gloom. As he drew closer to the fire, Tudor saw that his face was contorted, that the veins at his temples bulged blue and angry.
‘Jean? What is it? What has happened.’
‘The letter,’ he said simply. ‘Give it to me.’
‘What?’
‘Why won’t you give it to me?!’ he shouted. And as he shouted, he ran at Tudor. And because he was shouting, and his actions were so unexpected and sudden, Tudor was unaware of Albert moving to stand close behind him. It was only in the second that Jean reachedhim that he saw the knife in his hand. That he saw the blood on that knife. That he understood what the French knight was about to do.
‘Jean, no!’ he cried out and tried to leap to one side. But Albert reached out and grabbed his arms, pinning them to his sides. And in that instant, Jean plunged the knife into Tudor’s belly.
‘That letter will never reach the king, and nor will you!’ Jean hissed as he withdrew the knife and then plunged it into Tudor’s chest.
As he slid to the ground, Tudor was overcome with a terrible sadness. Being a knight, he had risked his life many times. Danger was part of his existence, and every warrior accepted that he might die suddenly and before his natural time. To die at the hands of a friend, a fellow knight, however, was the ultimate betrayal. To know he would leave his wife a widow and his child an orphan broke his stuttering heart. But above all this, the thing that made his very soul cry out even as he resisted screaming, was the wickedness in these men that would prevent peace from being agreed. The letter would be destroyed. The king would fight on. Thousands would die. The ugliness he saw in Jean’s eyes as he leant over him to snatch the letter from his breast pocket would go on and on and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He lay helpless, feeling his ownblood seeping into the sand, unable to do anything but watch as the two men gathered their things, mounted up and rode away. As his vision started to fade he felt the gentle thuds of slow hoofbeats through the ground beneath him. Blinking, he saw that his own horse had come to him. It reached down and he felt its soft nose and warm breath on his neck. In that lonely place, two thousand miles from home, with his horse standing sentinel over him, Tudor’s eyes closed for the final time.
Gloucestershire, 1191
The house Rhiannon had been directed to was smaller than she had imagined it would be. It was timber framed, painted with a white wash, and topped with a smart thatch. To one side of it was a productive kitchen garden, and chickens scratched in the yard. It was not quite a farm, but she saw pigs in a pen and two young horses in a paddock. A doe eyed Jersey cow wastethered near the entrance, grazing the hedgerow. It looked, she thought wistfully, like a perfect family home. Except that this was a shattered family now. When she had had confirmation of Tudor’s death she had been so heartbroken it had made her unwell. She had taken to her bed and stayed there for two dreadful, almost delirious weeks. Such behaviour was so out of character, her friends and servants had feared she might die. But she had not. As the body blow of knowing she had lost him faded, she regained her strength. Her friends cared for her with great tenderness, even though they did not know, in truth, what ailed her. At last, she recovered enough to walk in the gardens. She listened to news of the farms and the harvests. She attended church. To the outside world, she was well again. All who knew her heaved a collective sigh of relief, offered up a prayer or two, and considered the crisis over. For Rhiannon, however, the torment continued. She had lost him before, of course. And she knew she would do so again. But this time should have been different. She had had a vision of her fellow witch. She had heard his words of reassurance:He will be safe. She had believed in her very bones that this time would be different because they would find each other. They would be together.
She had felt it, the moment Tudor’s soul had left his body. She had been carrying eggs from the hen house. A dozen of them, glossy and dark brown, cradled in her skirt as she hooked it up around them, and walked back towards the kitchen. That moment, that instant of his passing from one world to the next, accompanied as it was by a cry of anguish from the witch who had promised to keep him safe, had been so profound that she dropped the eggs. She had stood there, looking at the smashed mess on the ground, aware that people were speaking to her, but unable to make out their words. All she was certain of was that he had gone. She had lost him again.
