Jack Hight - Eagle

‘Where have you been?’ Ernaut demanded as John and Rabbit trudged over to the camp and dropped the skins. He unstopped his skin and took a long drink, eyes narrowing as he examined John and Rabbit more closely. ‘And what happened to you? You look like two pigs scrubbed up for market.’

John could feel his face reddening. ‘Nothing. It took us a while to find water.’

‘And they made us bathe,’ Rabbit added. John winced.

Ernaut dropped his skin, and water sprayed from his nose as he burst into a fit of laughter. The men nearby also began laughing, and the others approached to find the source of the merriment.

‘They made you bathe?’ One Eye asked with a wink. ‘Tell us all about it, Rabbit. Did the Saxon here scrub you nice and good?’

‘No,’ Rabbit said. ‘There were servants for that.’ This produced another, louder fit of laughter from the men.

‘Leave him be, One Eye,’ John said. ‘Come on, Rabbit. Let’s pitch our tents.’ John stomped away, followed by the men’s mocking laughter.

‘What did I say?’ Rabbit asked.

‘Nothing. Just try to keep your mouth shut around them.’ John dropped his rucksack and began to pitch his tent on the edge of the camp. He glanced back. The men were roaring with laughter as One Eye bent over, his arse in the air and a quizzical look on his face as he shouted out, ‘Is that a bar of soap, Saxon?’ John grimaced. The sooner the fighting began the better.

John’s shovel dug into the sandy ground, and he leaned forward, scooping up a pile of dirt and flinging it out of the three-foot deep trench where he stood. He paused to push his damp, blond hair out of his face. The June sun blazed down mercilessly from a cloudless sky. When he had first arrived in Acre, two months ago, he wouldn’t have lasted an hour under that sun. Now, after weeks of hard labour, he was tanned and fit, firm muscles filling out his bony frame. He had already been working for two hours, shirtless, as he shovelled out a new latrine ditch for the ever-expanding camp. The Germans under the Holy Roman Emperor Conrad had arrived shortly after John’s company to swell the ranks of the crusaders. In the past week alone, hundreds more had flooded into the camp outside Acre: Raymond of Antioch and his nobles; King Louis of France with two hundred mounted knights; and hundreds of Templars and Hospitallers from every corner of the kingdom of Jerusalem.

‘Get back to work, bath-boy,’ One Eye shouted from where he sat on the ground beside the ditch, shaded by a sheet of white linen. John plunged the shovel back into the earth. This time, when he flung the dirt out of the ditch, it hit One Eye in the face.

‘You’ll pay for that, Saxon!’ One Eye spluttered. He brushed the dirt away and jumped to his feet, fists raised, but then froze. John turned to follow his gaze. A group of mounted knights with Reynald at their head was approaching over the barren plain, their horses’ hooves kicking up a tall plume of dust. As they rode into the outskirts of the sprawling crusader camp, men began to cheer. John squinted. He could just make out four darker men in white turbans riding in the centre of the knights. They rode stiffly, hands tied in front of them. Prisoners.

‘You stay here and dig, Saxon,’ One Eye ordered. ‘If this trench isn’t finished when I get back, then you’ll answer to Ernaut.’

‘Bastard,’ John muttered as One Eye strode away. After a while, the cheering in camp stopped, but One Eye did not return. The sun crawled across the sky, passing its zenith. John was nearly finished with the trench when he heard Rabbit calling his name.

‘John!’ Rabbit skidded to a stop at the edge of the trench. ‘Come on! Get your armour!’

John dropped his shovel. ‘My armour? Are we under attack?’

‘No, it’s not that,’ Rabbit replied, his eyes wide with excitement. ‘Lord Reynald has captured prisoners. There’s going to be a tournament!’

‘By Christ’s wounds, it’s hot,’ John muttered, wincing as his hand glanced against the skirt of his scalding-hot chainmail. He followed Rabbit to a spot in the shade of the city wall, where a ring twelve paces wide had been marked off on the dusty ground. A large hour-glass had been placed on a stool, to keep time for betting purposes. Reynald’s men stood around the ring, shifting uncomfortably in their hot armour. John and Rabbit elbowed their way to the front, directly across from Reynald and Ernaut. As word spread, other knights came — Hospitallers, Templars, Franks, and Germans — forming a dense crowd, those at the back standing on their helmets for a better view. Others gathered on top of the nearby wall to look down on the sport.

When Reynald judged that a suitable crowd was present, he stepped into the centre of the ring. ‘Today, while out hunting, my men and I came across a dozen spies from Damascus, sent here by Emir Unur to gauge the strength of our forces. Their presence in our lands is an outrage, a violation of our treaty with the emir, and they fled at the sight of us. We gave chase, and three fell to our swords. By the Grace of God we captured four more!’ The men roared their approval.

‘Now, I have heard talk amongst you of our enemy, of their bravery, their skill, their ruthlessness,’ Reynald continued. ‘I have heard men say they are monsters, savage beasts.’ He turned slowly around the circle, meeting the eyes of his men. ‘But today you will see that the Saracens are no monsters. They are men of flesh and blood. And they die like any other man!’ He turned and called out over the crowd: ‘Bring forth the prisoners!’

The crowd turned as the four prisoners approached. They had been stripped of their armour and wore only flimsy linen loincloths. They were unarmed, but Reynald was taking no chances: the prisoners were led by a man-at-arms, sword drawn, and followed by two more soldiers carrying spears. As the Saracens approached, the assembled soldiers jeered and shouted insults at them. The first prisoner was tall and lanky, with olive skin and long black hair that hung well past his shoulders. The second was shorter, spare and compact. He was older, with a greying beard and a pronounced limp, left by some old wound. The third Saracen was a huge man; a good head taller than John, with a round chest like a beer barrel, an ample belly, and upper arms as thick as John’s legs. He was bald, and his head glistened in the sun. The last man was dark-skinned and solidly built, with thickly muscled arms and a broad chest criss-crossed with scars. Of all the prisoners, he alone walked straight-backed, his head held high.

The prisoners reached the ring, where they were lined up before Reynald. He examined the four men for a moment, then placed himself in front of the huge Saracen. The other prisoners were led off to the side, where they stood shifting their weight as they eyed the menacing crowd around them. Meanwhile, Reynald had retreated to the edge of the ring and grabbed a sword. He threw it at the feet of the giant Saracen, who picked it up cautiously, as if he feared some trick.

‘Ernaut, you hairy oaf!’ Reynald yelled. ‘This fat-arse is yours.’

Ernaut pulled on his helmet and stepped forth to face his adversary. As Ernaut drew his sword, Reynald turned the hour-glass. An excited clamour went up from the crowd as bets were laid on how long it would take Ernaut to dispatch the Saracen. A few men even took the long odds and bet on the Saracen to win. There was little chance of that. Ernaut was not quite as tall as the Saracen, but he was even broader. And whereas the Saracen had nothing but his sword to protect him, Ernaut carried a shield and wore full-length chainmail with plating on the chest.

‘Two coppers on Ernaut in under one turn!’ Rabbit shouted, waving the coins.