Hospitaller Excerpt

 

Najya stood on the deck of the English ship reflecting on how one’s life can flip upside down faster than the single flap of a slave bee’s wing. She had escaped the doomed city of Acre when most had not. The sun was warm on her skin, the sweet smell of salt water teeming with life filled her nostrils, and the gentle heaving of the planks beneath her feet lured her into a warm sense of security. She leaned forward and rested her hands on the railing, thanking god for her escape and in the same thought prayed for the welfare of Foulques. In all honesty, she never expected to make it out of Acre before the Mamluks tore down its walls. Even though she offered her thanks to Allah, it was not God to whom she owed her deliverance. It was Foulques.

She had been one of hundreds, perhaps thousands, who had swarmed the docks pleading for refuge from the inevitable wrath of the city’s besiegers. She a lone Arab woman, neither rich nor clutching an infant like so many others, pleading for the masters of the last remaining ships to take on just two more souls, or at the very least one.

“Take the child! Please, take the child.”

Najya heard the refrain again and again. The intensity of the cries and sheer mass of the crowd had her wondering why she had bothered to come to the docks in the first place. What right did she have to be here?

She turned back, forced against the seething wave of desperation all about her, but found her way blocked by the cold mail of a grim-faced man-at-arms. He reached out an arm as thick around as both of her legs put together and made to push her aside. But his eyes caught on something on her hand and he halted his motion in mid air. His massive arm changed course and he seized her by her wrist, his eyes narrowing.

“Where did you get this?”

It took a moment for her mind to register his words, for they were English, a tongue she could understand better than she spoke. He gave her wrist a brisk shake, like a dog killing a rat.

“Where did you get this?” He pushed her own hand in front of her face and twisted it painfully until her eyes settled on the ring set loosely on her thumb. In the sunlight, the red stone overwhelming its center sparkled in a gaudy manner, demanding her attention. He gave her hand another shake and though she meant to speak in English, her words came out as, “Monsieur Grandison.”

The English man-at-arms’ eyes narrowed and the grip on Najya’s wrist tightened, if that were possible. He stepped past her into the crowd, pushing his way through those in front and pulled her along in his wake.

Long minutes later, she stood before a middle-aged knight, not squat and blocky like her escort but lithe and lean with a weary face, yet handsome due in large part to the bright eyes that peered at her with genuine curiosity.

“My name is Otto, Mademoiselle Malouf. We had almost given up on the honor of your company. Please forgive this rushed introduction but I will come find you once we are safely out of the harbor.” He gave her a short bow and then whirled on his heel and began shouting orders to the sailors and soldiers around him. After he was gone, she realized he had addressed her not in English but in perfect French.

The ship was crowded to overflowing. Sir Otto de Grandison had taken on as many passengers as he dared, but Najya managed to find herself a spot on the main deck up against the railing. Her slender hands gripped the polished wood as she stared out over the water. Voices traded back and forth all around her in every language imaginable, and though she was constantly being jostled, she had never felt so alone.

As the burning city grew further away it seemed to rob Najya’s body of its heat and a chill came over her. There were a number of black dots on the water in every direction she looked. Some were easily identifiable as ships, others appeared no more than insects in the distance or debris void of any life. She stood there for a long time, watching Acre grow more and more distant. She became so cold she began to worry about the papyrus tube hanging from her neck, concealed beneath her linens. Every so often she could feel a vibration of the queen and her court and a short-lived peace would come over her. She closed her eyes to better picture the life carrying on in the tube oblivious to the madness consuming the outside world.

No one touched her, but all the same, Najya sensed a new presence at her side. She opened her eyes. They flitted from her own delicate but work-hardened hands to a much larger set which exuded grace and strength in equal measure.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Malouf. Will you not join me on the upper deck? Brother Foulques would never forgive me if I lost you after all he went through to get you on this ship.” Sir Otto de Grandison stepped back and held out a hand indicating which direction to go. Najya stepped away from the railing and her position was instantly taken up by a young boy hardly tall enough to see over the ship’s side. No mother stood anywhere near.

They weaved their way through clusters of people until they came to a soldier guarding the base of a short staircase leading up to the helmsman’s deck. He stepped aside when he saw Grandison approach. The leader of the English stepped onto the narrow stairs and Najya followed a step behind.

“Have you known Brother Foulques for a long time?” Grandison asked as he cleared the final step.

“Since we were children,” Najya said.

They walked behind the helmsman and Grandison placed his hands on the sturdy railing there to look over the rear of the ship back toward the burning city.

“My father and his father were friends,” Najya said. Then added, “of a sort.”

“Ah. So you were playmates then.”

Najya nodded. “His uncle took me in for a short time after my mother died. Foulques and I became very good friends.” She thought she responded too quickly and had placed too much emphasis on the word ‘friends’. The way Grandison raised an eyebrow confirmed her awkward fear. She focused on the coastline.

“I have not known him long,” Grandison said. “But time is counted differently when you stand shoulder to shoulder with one in battle. I can imagine he would make a most loyal friend.”

Najya considered saying more, even though the older knight was not at all pressing her further on the topic. There was an openness about the older knight that invited her to unburden her thoughts. But what would she say? That Foulques and her had indeed been lovers for a brief period in their teens before he had taken up his black mantle? That they had explored an awkward and brief, but wonderful, few months together that neither one of them would ever dream of giving back? She held that thought. At least Najya knew she harbored no regrets of that time. How could she be sure Foulques felt the same?

“Was your father in the city?” Grandison asked quietly.

The coolness that took over her voice was instantaneous. “I doubt it. He is very good at avoiding situations that might be dangerous to his person.”

“I am sorry. It was not my intention to pry.”

Najya shook her head and let out a breath. “No, Sir Grandison. It is me who is sorry. When the topic of my father comes up I can be rude. He and I have not spoken in many years.”

“I see. And the rest of your family?”

“I have a brother who is in Aleppo. He tried to get me to leave Acre earlier, but I would not listen. If not for Foulques, and you, I would still be somewhere in the middle of all that.” Najya waved her arm toward the smoke spiraling up from the city. She closed her eyes to shut out the screams. She knew it was impossible to hear the suffering from this distance, but that did not stop the cries in her mind. “Or perhaps, if God willed it, I would be dead already.”

“Sir Grandison,” came a hoarse, gruff voice. It was the helmsman. His words were quiet, hesitant to intrude on his lord’s conversation with the woman, but it carried with it an urgency that demanded both Grandison and Najya look to where he pointed. Far away, scattered amongst the various specks bobbing along in the sun-streaked water was one that seemed to stand a little prouder upon the horizon. It traveled on a parallel course and all of its sails were hoisted.

“They fly the Sultan’s colors,” the helmsman said.

Grandison shielded his eyes and peered into the distance. “Are you sure it is us they want?”

“I have adjusted our bearing three times. As have they.”

“The Mamluks have no warships. Who in their right mind would make an attempt on an English galley? They could not possibly know we only have a skeleton crew of soldiers on board,” Grandison said.

Najya’s mouth began to dry out and the sensation spread to her throat. She leaned forward and peered in the direction both men stared. The question repeated itself in her own mind. Who would dare attack an English warship?

There was one man who would not care how many soldiers stood against him.

“Can we outrun them?” Grandison asked, not taking his eyes from the faraway shape.

“If the winds were with us and we were not carrying triple the weight we were designed for, we would have a fair chance. But even so, that ship has some fine lines. She is fast.”

Najya wanted to speak, to tell the men what she suspected. No. It was what she knew. But the dryness had turned into a poison that paralyzed her throat.

No one can outrun him, she thought.

She gripped the railing until she could no longer feel sensation in her hands. The queen in the tube hanging from her neck had been eerily quiet for some time now, and she prayed that she still lived.

For the next forty minutes, the English captain pulled out every trick in his repertoire to keep the Mamluk vessel from coming alongside, but he only succeeded in prolonging the inevitable. When the ship came close enough for Najya to make out warriors moving along its deck Grandison turned to her and said, “Perhaps it would be best if you found yourself a spot below deck.”

Najya shook her head. “There are too many people in the hold already. I would much rather be in the open air when…” Her words trailed away as she sought a tactful way to express her lack of confidence in the English to hold off the Mamluks. After an uncomfortable pause, she settled for letting her sentence die as it stood.

“Then put yourself at the bottom of these steps with your back against the wall. It will afford you cover from any stray arrows.”

A young man of average height with an elegantly hooked nose appeared at the stairs, where he stood and waited for Grandison to acknowledge him. He was narrow-waisted but his shoulders seemed to fill his mail and tunic well enough. In each hand he carried a longbow. The white of their sapwood backs contrasting with their amber bellies, the man-length weapons were bent with string and ready for use. One was noticeably thicker than the other.

“Are my archers in position, Gruffydd?” Grandison had reverted back to English and Najya’s head hurt from the constant switching between languages. He seemed to always address his men in English, but it was obvious he took every opportunity he could to speak French.

“Aye. They await your orders, my lord.” He spoke a strange form of English and Najya interpreted his words more than she really understood them.

Grandison turned back to Najya. “We may not have many archers here, but the ones I have will make those Mohammedan riffraff wish they had chosen an easier target.”

“I hope so,” Najya said. She looked at the man called Gruffydd. He hardly looked strong enough to pull either of the great bows he held, but his eyes held a hardness that contrasted with his youthful appearance. Still, he was far too young to meet the Northman.

Najya was not sure why, or how, she knew it was Badru Hashim and his Mamluks that were coming for them. She had only heard stories of the Northman’s ship and had never seen it firsthand. The Mamluks were not known for their sailing ability or ship build quality. But the way the galley in the distance cut through the water, her sails filled with wind and her nose unerringly turning to match the English helmsman’s every attempt to leave them behind, told Najya this was no ordinary Mamluk vessel or crew.

“It is time for me to take my leave,” Grandison said. “Brace yourself well when the two ships come together and I will see you soon enough.” He gave a short bow and nimbly took the stairs to the main deck two at a time, holding one hand on his sword handle, tilting it to avoid making contact with the narrow stairway. He accepted the smaller of the bows from Gruffydd and the two men made their way to the rear of the ship where the other English soldiers waited.

Grandison had no more than a dozen archers at his disposal. Uncompromising, seasoned men, who had seen more than their share of battles long before their King had commanded them to accompany the Savoyard knight to the Holy Lands in a desperate attempt to relieve the Christian forces. They were a grim-looking bunch, leaning there on their long, elegant bows, the color of which reminded Najya of strong honey. All of them wore good mail, and swords or maces hung at their sides, as well.

Najya descended the stairs and linked her arm through one of the railing posts. From her vantage point she watched as the archers spread out along the aft of the ship. Beyond them, sitting slightly lower in the water, the Mamluk vessel gained on them steadily. Najya could now see forty or fifty men moving about on the deck. Before she could discern individual faces, she heard Grandison shout, “Loose at will!”

Whispers began to fill the air as the longbow-men heaved their strings back to their ears and released their long wooden shafts at the enemy. There was a pause before the Mamluks realized they were under attack from above, and then they scurried for cover under shields or against the sides of their vessel. After a moment of frantic motion, the Mamluks found their chosen sanctuaries. But the arrows continued to fall and men cried out as iron-tipped shafts found them behind cover. As the ships grew closer to one another, more and more men screamed as arrows found exposed legs or pierced shields to embed themselves in men’s cheekbones.

Najya felt her breath catch in her chest with every Mamluk warrior who cried out. Her arm holding onto the railing began to ache. She watched Grandison loose another arrow. Beside him stood Gruffydd, and although both men bore the same weapon, there was a world of difference in their technique. The older knight was quick and efficient, demonstrating a skill with the weapon that had been achieved through long, hard hours of practice. Gruffydd, however, bent his bow and leaned into every shot with a grace one can only be born with, recognized, and nurtured. His body recreated the same fluid movement again and again. He nocked an arrow, pushed with his bow hand and pulled with the powerful muscles of his back while simultaneously lifting his bow until the bodkin point of his arrow was pointed at the sky. Then, just as he hit full draw, his bow arm would drop onto his target. The release was instant and so clean the string made hardly a sound as the arrow flew off the knuckles of his bow hand.

Though she fought it down hard, hope began to take hold of Najya. The young archer had gifts only God could imbue. Perhaps she had underestimated the English.

The enemy ship closed the remaining distance and her bow rammed into the English galley’s aft hull. Instantly, grapples appeared and tied the ships together. Mamluks came swinging down from the riggings or streaming across boarding planks. The wide boards stood on small adjustable towers on the deck of the smaller ship, which allowed the planks to be raised level with the larger English galley.

The first of many conically helmeted heads began to appear on the English ship and the archers were forced to throw aside their bows and draw melee weapons. They organized around Grandison and charged the enemy as a group. Their war cries were furious and they drove into the enemy with such force Najya felt another great swell of hope. The English archers were strong and aggressive. They knew only one direction: forward. Mamluks began to give way to their assault, but numbers were not on the archers’ side. Eventually, a small group of Mamluks formed on the English left flank and another on their right. They attacked with their curved swords and spears and the archers, one by one, began to fall to the deck. She saw Gruffydd struck down and trampled. Only Grandison and two others remained standing, and then a spear caught the English knight in the chest. He went down on one knee, his mail pierced. The last two archers fought in place until they too were cut down.

There was a brief flurry of activity as the Mamluks forced everyone still alive on deck to their knees, sailors and passengers alike. Even children were cuffed across the head until they too got the message to take a knee or sit while the younger ones huddled in their mothers’ arms and stared at the attackers with wide eyes. Two Mamluks ran chains through the hatches leading to the under-decks and secured them in place locking all those below. Najya could hear fearful murmurs come from the hold as the heavy chains were dragged across the exits.

All this took mere minutes, and then as suddenly as it began, all movement seemed to cease. Najya was still frozen in place with her arm clutched around the railing. Somehow, she had been missed in all the action. She pressed closer against the wall, wishing she could disappear.

Movement caught her eye. Two men strode across the central boarding plank. The first was not a soldier. Set against the background of the cloudless sky, he was almost invisible with his pale blue tunic in the Turkmen style wrapped around his delicate frame. A step behind was the tallest man Najya had ever seen. He wore a short-sleeved coat of mail atop a midnight-blue padded undercoat and a rounded helmet that bore no point. He held the smaller man’s hand as he stepped off the makeshift bridge onto the deck of the English ship. The plank flexed under the giant’s weight and creaked in protest when he hopped off to land lightly beside his companion. Every man within his view tipped his head to him and pressed his right fist to his heart. He walked in a slow circle and surveyed his surroundings.

His eyes came to rest on Najya and she felt the last of her strength drain from her body. Her grip around the railing with the crook of her elbow gave way and she found herself sliding down until she sat on the deck, staring over the first stair, between balustrades, at the Northman.

Several years back, when a naive Foulques came to her and asked for her help in locating a man known simply as the Northman, she knew in her heart she should have refused. She had tried. In the end, the information she had obtained did nothing to help Foulques locate the elusive Mamluk slaver. But the mere act of searching for the man had somehow linked her fate to his. Even once Foulques had returned to Acre with the children, she could not help feeling that she would some day cross paths with the Northman. That feeling grew ever stronger during the long days and nights she spent at the gravely injured Foulques’s bedside in the Palais des Malades. Years passed and she began to dismiss those premonitions as nothing more than a young girl’s delusions during a trying time.

But now, here she was staring at the man himself. The man who had almost taken Foulques de Villaret from the world. From her.

Badru’s eyes narrowed and his lips parted to utter words she could not hear. He nodded his head once in her direction and two Mamluk warriors strode toward Najya. They pried her arm free of the railing and escorted her to where the other Mamluks had arranged all the survivors on their knees in front of Badru. There were perhaps a dozen sailors, another ten or fifteen refugees, mostly women and children, and only one surviving English archer.

As the Mamluks deposited her roughly on the deck, she realized the archer was the man named Gruffydd. There were several people between Najya and the young archer, so it took a moment for her to lean around them to get a good look. Gruffydd was bleeding from a scalp wound but he knelt up straight so did not seem to be too badly wounded. His attention was focused on something at deck level. Najya risked going up on one knee and saw that Gruffydd had his blood-soaked hand pressed tightly to the chest of Sir Grandison.

Najya let out a breath. The English knight lived. Thank the merciful god. But how hurt was he?

She craned her neck for a better view and saw Gruffydd do something strange. A young boy of maybe ten sat beside him. He carefully reached out and took his hand. He replaced his own bloody hand with the young boy’s and pushed it firmly in place. He may have spoken a few quiet words. Then his head turned side-to-side taking in the whereabouts of the Mamluks.

Najya was sure he was going to try to overpower one and she begged him with her mind not to try such a foolish thing. Even if he managed to take a weapon from one and kill him, the retaliation of the others would be swift and violent. It was certain death. Wordlessly, Najya pleaded again with the young man.

He would have none of it.

Gruffydd eased himself to a standing position and had taken two measured strides before the first shout went up. The shout was met by another cry of alarm from another Mamluk. Gruffydd’s pace picked up and after another few steps he was at the side of the ship. With no hesitation he hopped up on the railing and launched himself far off into the abyss.

Najya’s breath caught in her throat as Gruffydd pushed himself as far away from the side of the ship as he could, his legs continuing to pump until he dropped out of view. The Mamluks went silent and seemed as stunned as Najya. After long seconds one of them ran to the edge of the ship and peered over its side.

“He lives! He lives!” His eyes were huge. No Man of the steppes would ever dream of willingly throwing himself into the sea. That was the realm of devils and demons. The fact that this man had done so and lived, spoke of an unnatural dealing with unholy forces. “Bring your bows, quickly!”

Two warriors appeared at the side of the ship. They leaned over and the first man pointed. “There!”

They nocked arrows to the strings of their wickedly curved weapons and drew them back.

“Let down.”

The voice came from the left of Najya and it shook her at a primal level. Badru Hashim pushed into her field of vision and though she did not want to look at him, that was no longer her decision to make. He walked slowly toward his warriors and did not repeat, nor elaborate on, his command until he was at the side of the ship. However, unlike the other Mamluks already standing there, he did not peer over its side into the water.

“The English has had the courage to choose his own death. He is in Allah’s world now, not ours. As God permits, he will live or he will die.”

Deep in the folds of her clothing, Najya felt a frantic buzzing within the papyrus tube. And then nothing.

 

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