Back on Earth again, Tardis lands DOCTOR WHO and his
friends into the midst of the harsh, cruel world of the twelfth-
century Crusades. Soon the adventurers are embroiled in the
conflict between Richard the Lionheart and the Sultan
Saladin, ruler of the warlike Saracens...

‘They’re well-written books—adventure stories, of course,
but with some thought... the creation of the character of the
Doctor    had      a   touch    of    genius     about     it.’
WESTMINSTER PRESS


ISBN 0 426 11316 0
           DOCTOR WHO
             AND THE
            CRUSADERS
Based on the BBC television serial by David Whitaker by
arrangement with the British Broadcasting Corporation


           DAVID WHITAKER




                    published by
              The Paperback Division of
               W. H. Allen & Co. Ltd
A Target Book
Published in 1973
by the Paperback Division of W. H. Allen & Co. Ltd.
A Howard & Wyndham Company
44 Hill Street, London W1X 8LB

First published in Great Britain by Frederick Muller Ltd, 1965

Copyright © 1965 by David Whitaker
Illustrations copyright © 1965 by Frederick Muller Ltd
‘Doctor Who’ series copyright © 1965 by the British
Broadcasting Corporation

Printed in Great Britain by
The Anchor Press Ltd, Tiptree, Essex

ISBN 0426 11316 0

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way
of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise
circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of
binding or cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition including this condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
CONTENTS

Prologue
1 Death in the Forest
2 The Knight of Jaffa
3 A New Scheherazade
4 The Wheel of Fortune
5 The Doctor in Disgrace
6 The Triumph of El Akir
7 The Will of Allah
8 Demons and Sorcerers
                          Prologue
As swiftly and as silently as a shadow, Doctor Who’s Space and
Time ship, Tardis, appeared on a succession of planets each as
different as the pebbles on a beach, stayed awhile and then
vanished, as mysteriously as it had come. And whatever alien
world it was that received him and his fellow travellers, and
however well or badly they were treated, the Doctor always set
things to rights, put down injustice, encouraged dignity, fair
treatment and respect.
     But there had been changes inside the ship. Susan had gone,
left behind in an England all but destroyed in the twenty-first
century when the Daleks had attempted the conquest of Earth,
an invasion only just foiled by the Doctor. No decision was more
difficult for Susan or easier for her grandfather, who knew in his
heart that she must share her future with David Cameron, a
young man she had met and fallen in love with during that
terrible struggle between the Doctor and his arch-enemies.
     Only Ian and Barbara, kidnapped by the Doctor from their
lives in the England of the 1960s and now his close friends, knew
the real aching sadness the loss of Susan meant to the old man,
and it was they who persuaded him to take a passenger a young
girl named Vicki whom they on as rescued from the planet Dido.
And, as the Doctor grew interested in the little, fair-haired
orphan and devoted more himself to care and well-being (which
Vicki repaid with a totally single-minded love and respect) his
friends were secretly overjoyed to see a new and vigorous spring
in the Doctor’s step, a happy gleam in his eye and a fresh interest
in the unknown adventures that lay ahead.
     Ian and Barbara had changed too. Ian was now a deeply
tanned bronze, his body trained to the last minute, n single trace
remaining of the ordinary Londoner he had once been. But the
alteration wasn’t confined to muscle and sinew alone. Ian had
encountered situations beyond the concept of any young man of
his age. He had faced dangers and been forced to make decisions
a countless number of times, where not only his own life, but the
lives of others, stood in peril. Experience had proved to him that
strength and fitness alone weren’t enough in the sort of
emergencies he had to handle, and so he had turned his new life
to advantage, learned from it and improved by it, until his brain
was sharp and active, tuned to deal with whatever problems
might present themselves.
     The change in Barbara was entirely different; harder,
perhaps, to find; a much more subtle thing. For unlike Ian, she
could have been put back in London in the old life she had
known, among friends and acquaintances and not one of them
would have found any major alterations to puzzle or bewilder
them. The golden tan on her skin might have come from a long
holiday in the West Indies. Her superb physical condition could
be explained away by regular visits to a gymnasium. For what
was totally new in Barbara grew and fostered inside the girl. She
had always had that sense of mystery about her, even on Earth in
her own time; she had always been very beautiful, her mind had
always reached ahead for answers and conclusions while others
struggled to grasp the situation. Now, life inside the Tardis had
given full reign to her air of mystery, and the adventures outside
it had deepened her love for life in all its various forms,
maturing her sense of values, giving her the ability to taste the
joys and sorrows of existence to the absolute last drop. Where
her face and form had conjured up beauty in the eye of any
beholder, now beauty radiated from within and trebled her
physical attractions, making her the admiration and desire of all
who met her. But always her eyes turned to Ian and their hands
were ready to reach out and touch, for, whatever world of the
future enmeshed them, they knew their destinies were bound up
in each other - the one sure thing, fixed and unalterable, in the
ever-changing life with the Doctor.
     The question of change itself became the subject of a
conversation one evening in the Tardis, between Ian and the
Doctor. Barbara and Vicki were playing a game of Martian chess
– a complicated affair with seventy–two pieces – while the two
men rested on a Victorian chaise-longue facing the centre-
control column of the ship, for the Doctor’s eyes were never far
away from his precious dials and instruments. Behind them lay
the adventure of the talking stones of the tiny planet of Tyron, in
the seventeenth galaxy. Around them, the ship shivered faintly
as it hurled itself through Space and Time. A dozen minute tape-
recorder spools whirled frantically on one side, while hundreds
of little bulbs on the central control column glowed
intermittently, in a never-ending sequence. The a stately Ormolu
clock ticked its needless way through a time pattern which had
no meaning, kept in the ship purely for decoration. On the other
side of it, some twenty feet away on a tall marble column, stood
the magnificent bust of Napoleon Bonaparte. The pale gold of
the interior lighting of the Tardis shone down on the travellers
like warm after-noon sunshine.
     The Doctor shifted his feet impatiently and then leaned
towards the Martian chess-board, darting out a rigid finger.
     ‘You’re forgetting the one important rule, Vicki, my dear,’
he said testily. ‘To marry your Princess to an opposing Lord, you
must bring up your Priest.’ He smiled apologetically at Barbara,
as Vicki nodded excitedly, moved up one of her pieces and
captured an enemy Lord.
     ‘I’m sorry, Barbara, but you did leave yourself open.’
Barbara looked at him indignantly.
     ‘I was planning to marry my Captain to her Duchess. Now
you’ve made me lose a dowry.’
     The two girls started to bargain over the forfeit as the Doctor
sat back.
     ‘I’d better keep myself to myself,’ he muttered to Ian. He
wriggled himself into, a more comfortable position, crossing one
leg over the other and folding his arms. The polish on his elastic-
sided boots gleamed beneath the immaculate spats. The perfectly
tied cravat sat comfortably beneath the stiff, white wing-collar,
enhanced by a pearl stick-pin. No speck of dust or tiny crease
were anywhere in evidence on his tapered black jacket, with its
edges bound in black silk, on the narrow trousers, patterned in
black-and-white check. The long, silver hair hung down from the
proudly held head, obscuring the back of his coat collar. Gold
pince-nez, attached around the neck by a thin, black satin tape,
completed the picture Ian and Barbara had always known. For
the Doctor’s favourite costume was that of the Edwardian,
English gentleman of the early nineteen hundreds. Ian had
always thought the Doctor might have stepped straight out of the
drawings of the famous magazines of the period, The Strand or
Vanity Fair. And as Ian marvelled (for about the thousandth
time!) at the Doctor’s obsession with that one, short period of life
on Earth, when he had all space from which to choose, it
brought a question to his lips he had often wished to have
answered.
     ‘It’s often puzzled me how it is, Doctor, that we can visit all
these different worlds and affect the course of life. You most
confess we have interfered, often in quite a major kind of way.’
     ‘Always for the best intentions, and generally we’ve
succeeded,’ murmured the old man. Ian nodded.
     ‘That really isn’t my point, though. Why is it that when we
land on earth, with all the pre-knowledge of history at our
disposal, we can’t right one single wrong, make good the bad or
change one tiny evil? Why are we able to do these things on
other planets and not on Earth?’
     Barbara and Vicki forgot their game and stared at the
Doctor, who pressed the fingers of his hands together and
thought for a moment before replying.
     ‘You see, Chesterton,’ he said eventually, ‘the fascination
your planet has for me is that its Time pattern, that is, past,
present and future, is all one – like a long, winding mountain
path. When the four of us land at any given point on that path,
we are still only climbers. Time is our guide. As climbers we may
observe the scenery. We may know a little of what is around a
coming corner. But we cannot stop the landslides, for we are
roped completely to Time and must be led by it. All we can do is
observe.’
     ‘What would happen if we cut those ropes and tried to
change something?’ asked Vicki.
     ‘Warn Napoleon he would lose at Waterloo?’ smiled the
Doctor. ‘It wouldn’t have any effect. Bonaparte would still
believe he could win and ignore the warning.’
     ‘Suppose one were to assassinate Adolf Hitler in 1930, then?’
suggested Barbara.
     The Doctor shook his head. ‘But Hitler wasn’t assassinated
in 1930, was he? No, Barbara, it would be impossible. Once we
are on Earth, we become a part of the history that is being
created and we are subject to its laws as the people who are living
in that period.’
     ‘Then we can never die on Earth,’ said Ian.
     The Doctor said, ‘We do not have everlasting lives, my
friend. Of course we can die on Earth or anywhere else, just as
we can catch colds or suffer burns. Try and understand.’
     The Doctor leaned forward and, as he did so, a part of his
face slipped into a shadow.
     ‘Often our escape clause on Earth has been that we have pre-
knowledge that some awful catastrophe is going to happen. We
would know when to leave Pompeii. We would not go fishing on
the Somme river in the summer of 1916. We would not disguise
ourselves as Phoenicians and live in Carthage in A.D. 648 and let
ourselves be destroyed with the city by the Arabs. Or go for a sea-
voyage in the Titanic.’
     ‘Then we can do nothing for suffering,’ murmured Barbara
sadly. ‘We can never help anyone on Earth or avert horrible
wars.’
     She looked up at the Doctor and was surprised to see a slight
smile on his lips.
     ‘There is a story about Clive of India,’ the old man remarked
casually, ‘which tells how he attempted to commit suicide as a
young man by putting a pistol to his head. Three times he pulled
the trigger and each time the gun failed to explode. Yet
whenever he turned it away, the pistol fired perfectly. As you
know, Robert Clive did eventually take his own life in 1774. The
point is that Time, that great regulator, refused to let the man
die before things were done that had to be done.’
     The Doctor held up a hand as all three of his friends started
to speak.
     ‘I know exactly what you’re all about to say. Why do men
like Lincoln and Kennedy, those two outstanding American
Presidents, have their lives cut off short when everything lay
before them, and they had shown themselves capable of doing
good for their fellow men? How can I, or any person, answer
that? It is too easy to say that the sharp, shocking manner of
their deaths underlined heavily the contributions they made.
Life, death, the pattern of Time, are eternal mysteries to us.
Here you find one man squandering his talents on wholesale
slaughter, evil and terrible acts of indignity. There, another
makes every effort for peace, goodwill and happiness. Inventors
of medicines and advantages for others are laughed into insane
asylums. Discoverers of murder weapons die in old age as
millionaires. True love is set aside, hatred seems to flower.’
     ‘But that’s appalling!’ said Ian vehemently. ‘That’s,the
gloomiest view I’ve ever heard in my life.’
     ‘My friend,’ said the Doctor softly, ‘it is only one small part of
what I am saying. Time is constant. Look at history. You’ll find
the brave have their share of successes. You’ll see that honesty,
unselfishness and good works overflow in every generation. All I
am saying is that what is going to happen on Earth must happen.
If Rasputin is to die, no will to survive by that extraordinary
man, no black arts, no personal power, can save him. Remember
that they drugged Rasputin, shot him and then drowned him.
No, don’t try to understand why a fine man is cut off in his
prime and an evil one prospers. Try to understand what benefit
there is in observing history as it actually happens.’
     ‘I don’t see that there’s any benefit in it at all,’ muttered Ian,
‘except for the fascination.’ His eyes turned to the Doctor’s. ‘And,
frankly,’ he went on, with a more definite note in his voice, ‘that
isn’t enough. We ought to be... to be doing things. Not just
watching them happen.’
     The Doctor stood up and walked over to the central control
column. He stared down at the dials and switches for a few
seconds and then turned to face them.
     ‘We are doing something. We are learning. Why do people
kill each other, steal from each other; rob, slander, hurt and
destroy? Why do thousands upon thousands of young men hurl
themselves at one another on a field of battle, each side sure in
the justness of its cause? Until we know, until control greed,
destructive ambition, hatred and the we can dozen and one
other flaws that plague us, we are not worthy to breathe.’
     The Doctor looked up at the ceiling of the Ship, his eyes
strangely alight.
     ‘The next time we visit Earth,’ he said, ‘I hope we encounter
a situation where two men are opposed to each other, each for
the best reasons.’
     He suddenly looked down, turning his eyes from one to the
other, with a directness that riveted their attentions.
     ‘That is the only way to understand the folly, the stupidity
and the horror of war. When both sides, in their own way, are
totally right.’
     He turned back to his controls, adjusting some, switching off
others, until the Tardis began to shiver quite noticeably,
responding now to a hundred thousand impulses of power, and
a dozen different orders. The little Time and Space machine
began to wheel in its path through the limitless pattern of the
cosmos, describing a huge arc. Suns, satellites, stars and planets
appeared and faded, all ignored, as the ship headed towards its
objective – Earth!
                   CHAPTER ONE
                  Death in the Forest
The hawk turned in the sky above the forest, almost as if it were
standing on its wing for a split second, and then darted down on
its prey, its bold eyes of orange yellow glinting darkly in the
bright sunlight; talons rigid and ready to catch and hold, the
beak sharply poised to put down any struggle. It flashed lower,
swooping to the right slightly, a compact weapon of destruction;
slate grey above, a white touch on the nape, darkly streaked on
its wings and tail. Beneath, the russet colour was broken by strips
of brown. Whether the little bird, its prey, took fright because it
recognized the danger of the colouring, whether it saw death in
the broad, rounded wings and long, barred tail, or whether it
simply sensed, as victims often do, a fast approaching end to its
life, is something far beyond the knowledge of human beings.
Sufficient to say, the little bird took fright and tried to elude its
pursuer, with an urgent thrust of its tiny wing-span.
      The man, whose red-gold hair was barely visible beneath his
hunting cap, shaded his eyes and followed the battle eagerly. He
watched as the birds circled, darted, joined and fell apart, noting
a feather shoot away from the smaller of the two fighters and
drift to the ground listlessly. Then the prey took flight and
darted down into the trees, closely followed by the hawk, and
both hunter and hunted disappeared. The man let his hand fall
to his side and glanced at a companion dressed similarly in
simple hunting clothes, who was sitting on the mossy ground of
the forest glade, struggling to bend the clasp of a jewelled belt
with his fingers. Another man, also in hunting clothes, leaned
against a tree with his eyes closed, his face turned up into the
sun, enjoying the peace of the afternoon, and he also received
the amused attention of the one who had followed the battle in
the skies with such fascination.
     ‘It seems my friends have no interest in the battles of
nature,’ he murmured. His two friends looked at him, the one
leaning against the tree flushing rather guiltily at his inattention.
Before either of the men could reply, however, the hawk
reappeared in the sky. Although normally rather quiet, the bird
was clearly excited now, uttering a sharp ‘taket, taket, taket’, as if
protesting at some insulting treatment it had received from
within the depths of the forest, where it had pursued its prey.
Finally, the hawk dived down and settled quietly on the
extended arm of its master, who extracted a small leather pouch
from his belt and slipped it over the bird’s head.
     ‘I am the only day and night for you, hunter,’ murmured
King Richard the First of England, stroking the back of the
hawk’s body gently. ‘But why no success today?’ He continued,
reprovingly, ‘I bring you all this way from England to see you
made foolish. I hope this is not an omen, bird.’ He handed the
hawk to a waiting servant. The man leaning against the tree
folded his arms and watched the servant walk away with the bird
on his arm.
     ‘I wish I were a hawk, Sire, and Saladin my prey.’
     ‘Now there is a subject for our troubadours and actors,’
laughed the King. ‘Speak to the Chamberlain about it, I beg you,
de Marun.’
     ‘I will, My Lord. And I shall have the players call the
entertainment, “The Defeat of Saladin, the Sparrow of the East!”’
     The three men’s laughter echoed through the wood and the
man who had been trying to bend the clasp of the jewel-studded
gold belt, Sir William de Tornebu, put his work aside and joined
in the merriment, until they heard the and of footsteps through
the bushes. Branches were thrust aside and a tall, dark-haired
man, a sword held firmly in his right hand, stepped into view.
Richard held up a hand in mock surrender.
     ‘No, des Preaux, I will not fight today!’
     Sir William des Preaux lowered the sword with a slight smile.
     ‘I think he means to slay us all,’ murmured de Marun.
     ‘Aye, and eat us for his dinner,’ added de Tornebu, who had
returned to work on the clasp again. Des Preaux glanced at the
three men and rather surprised them by not replying to their
jokes in a similar vein.
     ‘I have heard sounds in these woods, Sire,’ he said seriously,
walking over to the King. ‘You are too far from Jaffa and the
Saracens too near.’
     The King shrugged, stooped down and picked up a skin of
water and a silver goblet from a little pile of refreshments laid
out by the servant. He poured himself a long drink of clear water
and drank deeply.
     ‘Have you seen any Saracens?’ asked de Tornebu, and des
Preaux shook his head.
     ‘No, but I sense them about at, This wood might have been
designed for ambush. We have none of Nature’s warning voices
on our side.’ He looked at the three men, one after another,
significantly. ‘There is not one bird in a tree.’
     ‘Put up your sword,’ murmured the King. ‘My hawk has
frightened away the birds. Come, come, des Preaux, you sound
like an old woman surrounded by shadows.’ He spread himself
on the ground, rummaged among the provisions and found a
bunch of grapes and began to eat them.
     Des Preaux looked at him anxiously.
     ‘I have put Alun and Luke de L’Etable with the horses, Sire.
All is ready for the return to Jaffa.’
     King Richard’s eyes moved from his contemplation of the
bunch of grapes and stared into those of the man with the sword
coldly, the lazy air of relaxation dropping away from his
reclining body and changing too stiff tension. Des Preaux shifted
uncomfortably, conscious that he had presumed to make a
decision before referring it. But he held the King’s gaze because
of his genuine concern, and his belief that danger was
everywhere around the man he had sworn to serve.
     Richard said ‘We will stay here.’
     There was a moment’s pause as the two men stared at each
other, the one completely certain of his right to decide, the other
afraid to give way. Finally, des Preaux reddened and dropped
his eyes. Immediately a change came over the King and he
smiled. Not because he had won a battle of wills or because he
had achieved his own purpose. Richard, although impulsive, was
not the man to feel any triumph in succeeding when he had no
chance to lose. The reason men followed him, fought and died
for him, was that his fairness and judgement of character were
acute.
     ‘Yes, we will all stay here,’ he continued, ‘until, William the
Wary, you recover your composure. And, I hope, your sense of
humour.’
     As the King and his three friends gathered around the
refreshments and ate and drank, a man with a vivid scar running
down the right side of his face, parted some bushes about a
hundred yards away and peered at them. He watched the four
men intently for a moment, let the bushes close together again
and sank down under cover, beckoning slightly with one hand,
each finger of which was holding a jewelled ring. His dark eyes
glittered and there was an air of suppressed excitement written
all over his swarthy face. The Saracen soldier he had
commanded crept up to him, and lay beside him patiently.
     ‘One of these four men is the English King, Malec Ric,’ the
man with the scar whispered. ‘We will come at them at close
quarters. They are dressed too much alike for me to tell which is
the King and which are servants or friends. But one will declare
himself as they fight for their lives. He who takes command is the
King and he must be taken alive.’ He looked at the soldier beside
him, their faces close together.
    ‘Alive, do you understand?’ he muttered viciously. The
soldier licked his lips and nodded.
    ‘Then get my men placed well, and when I move tell them
they are all to show themselves. Now go!’
    The man with the scar pushed at the soldier rough,y,
watched him squirm back the way he had come then turned his
attentions to the unsuspecting men in the little forest clearing.

      In another part of the wood, the Tardis found itself a clear
patch and materialized, its safety precaution selector deliberately
choosing a place well screened by tall thick bushes. It was one of
the features of the Doctor’s ship that it always assessed the place
it landed in in one millionth of a second before it materialized,
and was thus able to avoid appearing in busy streets or under
water, or any of the hundred and one hazards which might
endanger the safety of the ship and its occupants. Had its safety
device been of much wider sort, of course, it is more than likely it
would have detected the presence of the coming struggle in the
little forest outside Jaffa. But, of course, if its sensitivity had been
so fine there would be no chronicles about Doctor Who.
      Ian was first out of the ship. He crept over to the screen of
tall bushes and peered through them. Barbara came across from
the Tardis and stood beside him quietly.
      ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I don’t know where we are, but it
looks like an ordinary wood.’
      ‘The Doctor says we’ve landed on Earth again.’
      Ian pushed his way through the bushes, holding them back
for the girl to follow him, and together they wandered a few
paces through the trees.
     Barbara said, ‘Have you ever thought what you’d do, Ian, if
the Doctor landed us back in our own time in England?’
     He looked at the sunlight filtering through the trees above
their heads, occasionally catching in her eyes as they walked. It
was a question which had often occurred to him, one he had
frequently thought of asking her. Before he could answer, a
sudden shout broke the silence of the forest, stopping them in
their tracks. The word itself meant nothing to them at that
particular moment, and it’s doubtful if they even realized it gave
them the key to where they were on Earth and the period of its
history. All they did know was that the sound was the beginning
of danger, of trouble.
     ‘Saladin!’
     The one word pierced out of the silence and hung around
them in the short silence that followed. Barbara glanced quickly
at the man beside her.
     ‘That wasn’t either of you calling, was it?’ they heard the
Doctor say from the other side of the ring of bushes. Ian took
hold of Barbara’s hand as other cries and shouts began to ring
out from the forest and the sharp ring of metal striking metal.
     ‘We’ll get back to the ship,’ said Ian.
     They were just moving back to the safety of the bushes when
a man came running through the trees, a curved sword in his
hand. He wore metal helmet with a long point and a short cape
was pinned at the neck and hung behind him. Under the
sleeveless breast-plate of small chain metal, a rich dark-blue
jacket finished just below his elbows and the rest of the arms
were covered with leather wrist protectors studded with metal
buttons. A dark-red sash was tied round his waist and the loose,
baggy trousers were thrust into soft leather boots with pointed
toes. As soon as he saw Ian and Barbara he raised his sword,
changed direction slightly and rushed at them, his dark face
tightening into fury and hatred.
     Ian dropped on one knee and gripped the sword hand of his
new enemy, but fell with him in the power of the man’s
approaching rush.
     ‘Run, Barbara!’ he shouted.
     Barbara looked around quickly for a stone or a thick piece of
wood to help Ian as the two men rolled and wrestled on the
ground. Finally she saw a thick branch some yards away to her
left, partially hidden by some bushes. She ran to it and started
pulling it out from the grass which had over-grown it. A hand
appeared from nowhere, clamped itself around her mouth and
pulled her through the bushes, the other arm pinioning itself
around her threshing body. Barbara looked up wildly at her
captor, who was dressed in similar fashion to the man with whom
Ian was fighting only a few yards away. She kicked out with her
legs to try and break the man’s hold on her, nearly got free and
then slumped to the earth unconscious, as a sharp blow from the
man’s fist caught her at the base of the neck.
     The Doctor and Vicki peered out from the bushes at Ian’s
struggles. The soldier had lost his sword by this time, but he had
a very good stranglehold on Ian’s neck and was doing his best to
squeeze life out of him.
     ‘Get me a rock or something, my child,’ murmured the
Doctor mildly as he watched the fight. Ian managed to break the
stranglehold, half rose from beneath the soldier’s body,
intending to throw him to the ground but fell back as one of the
man’s leather and metal wristlets smashed into the side of his
head, the effort causing the Saracen’s helmet to fall off.
     Be careful, Chesterton; said the Doctor, ‘he’s going to butt
you with his head. Ah! I told you he would.’
     The soldier, conscious now that he had a new enemy behind
him, was trying to get away from Ian and reach for his sword.
The Doctor walked over a few paces and stepped on the sword
firmly. Vicki ran up with a small stone and handed it to the
Doctor, who weighed it in his hand reflectively.
     ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ panted Ian.
     ‘Oh, very well. Hold him still, then.’
     Ian rolled so that the soldier lay on top of him and the
Doctor stepped nearer and brought the stone down on top of his
head sharply. The soldier groaned and rolled away. Ian picked
himself up, and Vicki helped him to brush the dirt and leaves
from his clothes.
     ‘Thanks very much,’ he said, sarcastically. The Doctor
suddenly pitched the stone away from him and hurried his two
friends into the cover of the ring of bushes as he heard the sound
of approaching men.
     In a second, they watched as four or five men in simple
hunting clothes, obviously retreating through the wood, fought a
rearguard action against twice as many soldiers with the pointed
helmets. One of the men in hunting clothes was badly wounded,
a short arrow sticking out of his body at the top of his right
shoulder, the blood coursing down his tunic, the red stain
showing up clearly in the dappled sunlight. Another of the
hunters fell, an arrow through his heart, while the tallest of the
huntsmen, different only from his companions by his head of
red-gold hair,. fought a violent, hand-to-hand battle with three
of the pursuing soldiers, running his sword through one and
crashing the hilt on top of another’s face. The third, who carried
a lance, reversed it suddenly and swung it in an arc. The end of
it just struck the top of the red-headed giant’s forehead. With a
roar of rage and pain, he fell into some bushes and disappeared
from sight.
     ‘We ought to help them,’ said Ian urgently, but the Doctor
held on to Ian’s arm.
     ‘Think of the women, Chesterton! We most hold ourselves
ready to defend them.’
     ‘Yes, Barbara’s hiding somewhere on the other side of those
trees,’ murmured Ian, with an anxious frown.
     Suddenly the fighting stopped and one of the huntsmen, the
only one left standing, held up his arms as four of the soldiers
made to run at him.
     ‘I am Malec Ric,’ he shouted.
     A man pushed his way through the small ring of soldiers and
approached the huntsman.
     ‘You have no friends to protect you now, Malec Ric.’ The
huntsman looked slowly around the wood, his eyes moving from
first one and then another of his friends lying on the ground.
     ‘I am the Emir, El Akir,’ continued the man with the scar.
     ‘Am I to die as well?’ said the man at bay. ‘If so dispatch me
and have done with it.’
     El Akir shook his head slowly, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
     ‘Your fate will be decided elsewhere. To tell of killing the
English King, Malec Ric, is a vain story that only a fool might
invent. To show a captured Malec Ric is what El Akir shall do.’
     The tall huntsman stared at the Emir coldly. ‘Take me then
and leave my friends in peace.’
     ‘A king at liberty may give commands. A captured one obeys
them.’
     He gestured sharply to the soldiers and the prisoner was
hustled away by two of them. A look of utter satisfaction filled El
Akir’s face, as he beckoned up another of the soldiers to his side.
     ‘Take such men as you need, search out the others and kill
them,’ he commanded. The soldier bowed his head and the Emir
walked away, following the soldiers who were now disappearing
through the trees with their prisoner.
     As soon as he was left alone, the soldier began to beat in the
bushes with the flat side of his sword, searching for any hidden
enemies. Another soldier appeared and did the same thing.
     Vicki suddenly realized that her foot was showing through
the bushes. Before she could draw it out of sight, one of the
soldiers spotted her, thrust a hand through the foliage and
dragged her out into view. Ian immediately launched himself out
of his cover, while the Doctor picked up a discarded lance and
beat off the approach of the second soldier. Once again the wood
resounded with the sound of conflict, but this time the contest
was considerably more uneven than befoec. The Doctor’s lance
was no match for the curved sword and all he could do was
thrust and parry desperately, while Ian found himself up against
a strong opponent, and without any weapon at all.
     One of the wounded men in hunting clothes, Sir William de
Tornebu, still weak from the arrow wound in his shoulder,
pulled himself to his knees and signalled to Vicki, who ran over
to him. He was struggling to draw the sword that hung at his
side and she pulled it out for him. He gestured her gently, but
firmly, to one side, held the sword lightly as if it were a javelin
and threw it with all the strength he could muster, falling to the
ground with the effort.
     The sword flashed through the air and struck at the soldier
who had pinned Ian against a tree. It buried itself deeply into his
back, just as he was raising his sword to cut Ian in half. Fora
second or two the soldier stood, his weapon raised in his hand, a
look of absolute surprise on his face. Then he staggered and fell
to one side, the sword slipping out of his nerveless hand. Ian
picked it up and ran over to where the Doctor was engaged with
the other Saracen and, after a few short strokes, ended the
matter finally with a fierce cut as the soldier’s guard dropped.
Ian threw the sword away from him and walked with the Doctor
to where Vicki was trying to nurse de Tornebu, whose effort had
expended his last reserve of energy. He lay in Vicki’s arms, his
eyes closed.
     ‘We have our friend here to thank for our lives,’ said the
Doctor seriously, bending beside the injured man. ‘These
Saracens would have killed all of us without a second’s thought’
     ‘Saracens!’ echoed Ian.
     ‘Of course. You heard that man announcing himself as
“Malec Ric”, didn’t you? That was what the Saracens called King
Richard of England.’
     ‘Richard the Lionheart,’ added Vicki. The man in her arms
opened his eyes and looked up at the three people around him
weakly. It was obvious that even the effort of keeping his eyelids
open was a strain.
     ‘Not... not the King,’ he muttered. The Doctor bent down on
one knee.
     ‘What was that, my friend?’
     ‘The man... who called himself Malec Ric...’ the other
gasped, ‘was Sir... Sir William des Preaux. The King... if he
lives... give him the... belt.’
     De Tornebu’s head fell back again.
     Vicki said: ‘Is he dead?’
     The Doctor shook his head. ‘No, but he’s badly wounded.
We must take that arrow out.’
    ‘What did he mean about the belt?’ asked Vicki. She
searched inside a pouch belonging to the unconscious man,
pulled out a jewel-encrusted gold belt and gasped in
astonishment.
    ‘Gold... and rubies. Diamonds too, Doctor.’
    ‘Very useful,’ murmured the Doctor thoughtfully. He
suddenly looked up. ‘Where’s Chesterton gone?’
    Ian suddenly came running towards them.
    ‘I can’t find Barbara anywhere,’ he cried. ‘I thought she
must have hidden when the fight started, but she isn’t anywhere
    The Doctor looked at the young man seriously, then down at
the ornate belt in his hand.
    ‘I’m afraid it looks as if the Saracens have taken her,’ he said
quietly. There was a pause for a moment or two, then Ian
reached down and picked up a sword from the ground. ‘What
do you think you’re going to do?’
    ‘Go after her, of course,’ Ian said.
    ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said the Doctor sharply. ‘We’re in enemy
country and surrounded by huge armies. You’d be
outnumbered thousands to one. Try to be sensible, I beg of you.’
    Ian pressed his lips together stubbornly and started to argue
with the Doctor. For a moment, Vicki thought they’d come to
blows, as the older of the two men stood up, his fists clenched
and his whole body shaking with rage.
    Ian, almost beside himself with anxiety, tried to ignore what
he knew was sound advice, but eventually realized he couldn’t
possibly succeed by throwing himself after Barbara. He looked at
the sword in his hand disgustedly, broke it over his knee and
threw the two pieces as far away from him as he could. The
Doctor put a hand on his shoulder sympathetically.
    ‘We all have the same wish, Chesterton. I have a plan to
achieve Barbara’s return, too. We have this wounded knight
here, and we have this valuable piece of jewellery.’ He held up
the golden belt, and the sunlight brought out all the facets of the
jewels embedded in it, until it dazzled the eye with its richness
and beauty.
    ‘How can they help us?’
    ‘We shall take both the knight and the golden belt to King
Richard,’ stated the Doctor. ‘He will be in our debt. He will then
accede to your request to go after Barbara, to the court of
Saladin, and arrange for her release. It’s the only way, my boy,
believe me.’
     Ian turned the plan over in his mind and then, after a few
seconds, he agreed with it. The Doctor patted him on the back in
satisfaction.
     ‘Good. Now you’re being intelligent. But can you also be
patient?’
     ‘Why?’
     The Doctor spread out his hands.
     ‘We can’t possibly go to King Richard wearing clothes like
these. We are on Earth at the time of the Third Crusade, my
boy, in Palestine; some time between A.D. 1190 and 1192. We
must find wearing apparel suitable to the time and place.’
     ‘Haven’t you anything in the ship?’ demanded Ian.
     The Doctor shook his head. ‘Worse than that, my boy, I have
no money either. However, it can’t be very far to the town where
Richard has his headquarters. I will go there and find a way to
get us something to wear. You and Vicki must wait here and
look after this wounded man.’
     Ian stared at him stubbornly for a few moments. The Doctor
read all the doubt and anxiety in his eyes and knew that the
younger man was matching this against all those other times
when the Doctor’s advice had been the wiser course of action.
Eventually, Ian nodded and turned away. ‘Fetch my long, black
cloak from the ship, will you, my child?’ murmured the Doctor.
     Vicky ran away and disappeared through the screen of
bushes. The Doctor rested a hand lightly on Ian’s arm.
     ‘We will find her.’
     ‘You’re so sure. So certain. Doctor, we’ve lived on a knife-
edge. We can’t go on and on relying on luck and good fortune!’
     ‘Do you really believe that’s what it’s been?’ The Doctor
shook his head. ‘Frankly, I never rely on luck. A most dangerous
occupation. No, my boy, I believe in positive thought. I believe in
optimism, provided one never takes it to ridiculous lengths. But
above all, Chesterton, I’m convinced in the strength of logic and
reasoned action. Impulse is all right in a fight, when the odds are
against you and only some brilliant piece of improvisation can
turn defeat into victory.’
    ‘Maybe.’ Ian managed a smile. ‘You’re usually right’
    The Doctor chuckled and took the robe from Vicki as she
returned. He moved off, saying over his shoulder, ‘Now keep
under cover. Possess yourselves in patience. The old Doctor will
find a way.’
    As soon as the Doctor disappeared through the trees, the
long cloak huddled around him to disguise the rest of his
clothes, Ian felt all his worry returning. It was exactly at
moments like these when he was very like the Ian Chester-ton of
old; unsure of himself, frustrated with inactivity, his fertile
imagination working overtime as he pictured Barbara in the
hands of the Saracens, and particularly a prisoner of the man
with the scar, who had called himself El Akir.

     At that very moment, Barbara was being carried out of the
forest bound uncomfortably to a horse, her wrists and legs tied to
each other under the stomach of the animal, dizzy from the
blood running into her head as she hung downwards.
     ‘Who is the English woman?’ she heard one of the soldiers
say, who rode near her.
     ‘I do not know,’ another replied. ‘Nor do I know why we
waste our time taking her to Ramlah.’
     ‘Oh, she will fetch something in the slave market,’ said the
first soldier.
     Barbara closed her eyes, a dead weight of fear pressing in on
her. Her head swam and she felt consciousness slipping away
from her. As if from a long way away, she heard one of the
soldiers speaking again.
    ‘Perhaps she will be useful as an entertainment for El Akir.
They say he has a hundred ways to torture slowly.’
    And as the two soldiers laughed together, the merciful
oblivion of unconsciousness stole over Barbara, blotting out
everything around her in a jet-black cloud of forgetfulness.
                  CHAPTER TWO
                 The Knight of Jaffa
‘The less said about the Doctor, the better,’ Barbara had once
said to Ian in the ship, after a particularly dangerous adventure.
‘It’s his constant air of mystery that makes him what he is.’
      The Doctor hadn’t overheard this remark, but it would have
delighted him if he had. It was the Doctor’s very personal and
peculiar strain of individuality that made him capable of
bridging all the different places he visited, accepting them on
their own terms. He would land abruptly in a new world as a
stranger and yet, all at once, become a part of that world;
reaching out with curiosity and friendly interest to such a great
degree that people assumed him to be no more than an ordinary
visitor from across a range of mountains, or from over a small
sea.
      Thus it was in the town of Jaffa, where the Doctor quickly
found his way to the merchant houses and shops, where he knew
he could find the vital clothes he and his friends needed.
      As he strolled through the town, careful to observe as many
of the local customs as he could, noting every action of the other
passers-by, to that he would commit no offence or give himself
away, he might very well have been an old man walking in the
early evening, sightseeing perhaps, or a deeply religious person
wearing the simplest of clothes to mark his attitude to life.
Around him, the busy little town, prospering with the settlement
of King Richard’s armies, flourished and developed. It attracted
all sorts of people from a dozen and one countries. Groups of
strolling players followed the army, earning purses of gold for
their song singing and acting stories of the ancient Greek heroes.
Many teams of sinuous dancing girls, from Circassia, Greece,
India and Persia, some as dark as shadows and with tiny bells on
their slender ankles and wrists, tempted all to watch them.
Musicians filled the streets with melodies, tumblers and acrobats
delighted the eye with their speed and dexterity. Sailors from the
ships in the harbour drank the local wine of Jaffa and added
laughter to the many other sounds. Merchants from Pisa, Venice
and Genoa talked and treated, traded and made bargains and
most of all, in all this motley mass of humanity, the fighting men
from Europe mingled in and were the greatest number. Fine-
nosed Austrians, strong-jawed Germans and well-set Frenchmen
all laughed and walked, drank and talked with the men of Kent,
Cornishmen, Welshmen, men from Yorkshire and Lancashire,
the Englishmen who called Richard their King.
     Small wonder that the Doctor went unnoticed in this
seething mass of humanity and, although he blessed the crowds
for the cover they provided, it was, nevertheless, with a sigh of
relief that he turned into a quieter street and set his sights upon
the shop of one Ben Daheer. The trader stood talking to an
English soldier as the Doctor made his unobtrusive way towards
the two stalls which flanked the entrance, both loaded with bales
of silks and satins. It was obvious to the Doctor that the two men
were having some sort of argument, although it was conducted
in undertones.
     ‘Thatcher,’ said Ben Daheer, with a shake of his plump little
face, ‘these clothes you bring me are difficult to sell.’ The soldier
pushed his sullen face close to the shop-owner’s, and bared his
yellow teeth unpleasantly.
     ‘I took a chance fetching these things,’ he grated. ‘There’s
twice as much as I brought last time. Yet you offer me half as
much!’
     ‘If you are not satisfied, take the clothes back.’
     ‘You know I can’t do that, you fat villain!’
      Ben Daheer pretended not to hear the insult He opened his
pouch at his waist and counted out a few coins into Thatcher’s
greedy hands.
      ‘That’s all they’re worth to me. Complain to the people you
stole the clothes from.’
      The two men stared at each other, the one angry, the other
calm. Then Thatcher slouched away, muttering under his
breath. Ben Daheer turned to go inside his shop with the clothes
under his arm and spotted the Doctor.
      ‘Ah! Am I not looked upon with favour,’ he breathed, his fat
little body shaking with pleasure. ‘Of course you are from Pisa,
My Lord?’
      The Doctor peered at Ben Daheer, with a slight smile on his
face.
      ‘No.’
      ‘Genoa, then?’
      ‘I know the place.’
      ‘Ah, you traders from Venice are cautious.’
      ‘I am not Venetian. And I am not a trader.’
      Ben Daheer bowed as low as the clothes under his arm and
his considerable girth allowed him.
      ‘Your pardon, My Lord, the richness of your cloak is hidden
by the darkness.’
      ‘You have some fine materials here,’ murmured the Doctor.
      ‘The finest in Jaffa, My Lord.’
      ‘That’s what they all say.’
      Ben Daheer laid a persuasive hand on the Doctor’s arm and
urged him inside the shop, laying down the bundle of stolen
clothes he had bought on a table just inside the entrance.
      ‘My Lord,’ he said earnestly, ‘a man with nine sons and two
daughters has too many mouths to feed to tell lies. Examine my
goods. Baghdad, Basrah, Persia. Silk, satin, cloths of all kinds
and all colours.’
     The Doctor looked about him keenly and noticed the figure
of a tall, well-dressed man examining a roll of silk. The man had
an arrogance about him, a proud set to his head, and a pair of
black eyes which gave the Doctor a cursory glance, and then
dismissed him.
     ‘Serve your other client,’ murmured the Doctor, ‘and I will
search for what I want’
     Ben Daheer bowed and moved away. The Doctor waited
until both backs were turned to him, then bent down on his
knees and scuttled under the table beside the door, pulling and
arranging apiece of hanging cloth to hide him from view. ‘Now,
honourable master, how may I serve you,’ said Ben Daheer,
rubbing his hands together. The taller man turned from his
contemplation of a bale of particularly fine silk, his black eyes
piercing into those of the fat little shop-owner.
     ‘I am Luigi Ferrigo, merchant of Genoa. I am in Jaffa to buy
and sell.’
     Ben Daheer turned away thoughtfully, assessing the
meaning of the words. He did not want to lose a potential
customer, but he didn’t want to encourage a salesman. As if
divining his thoughts, the Genoese laughed lightly.
     ‘I have it in my mind to buy from you, Ben Daheer. I like
the quality of your goods. I can dispose of your entire stock of
cloth in Genoa, ten times over.’
     Ben Daheer was so excited, Ferrigo so intent, that neither of
them noticed the hand which crept out from beneath a small
table beside the entrance. The hand reached up as far as it could
to the clothes heaped upon the table top, fingering and sampling
until it came into contact with a cloth it liked. With a swift jerk
the hand pulled and some clothes disappeared.
     ‘My Lord, this is exhilarating news,’ cried Ben Daheer,
almost wriggling with delight.
    ‘However,’ interrupted the Genoese seriously, ‘one thing
stands in our way.’




     The shopkeeper was so attracted to the use of the word
‘our’, with its suggestion of partnership and future riches, that he
gripped hold of Ferrigo’s sleeve urgently. ‘Nothing is too
difficult. How can I help?’
     The other man detached the hand from his sleeve gently
and moved a little into the shadows. Ben Daheer followed
eagerly, anxious to close what seemed to him to be a wonderful
business deal. Again, neither of the men noticed the hand
appearing and disappearing rapidly, or realized that the bundle
of clothes recently acquired by Ben Daheer was rapidly
diminishing. Had either of them possessed ultra-keen hearing,
they might just have detected a soft chuckle emanating from
beneath the little table by the doorway. But, fortunately for the
Doctor, they were each too heavily engaged in their business
talk, and the wily old man, satisfied now with the clothes he had
acquired, was busily wrapping them around his body
underneath his cloak.
     ‘I must talk with the Sultan,’ said Ferrigo, after a pause. Ben
Daheer stared at him in bewilderment.
     ‘The Sultan?’
     ‘Saladin.’
     Ben Daheer stepped back, his face betraying nervousness,
his hands clenching and unclenching by his side. He looked
around him nervously.
     ‘Hush, I implore you,’ he stuttered. ‘Do you not realize that
his enemies are everywhere in Jaffa? To talk of the Sultan so
openly would bring ruin on both of us. Why, the English King’s
palace is no more than a short step from here...’
     ‘And a glittering fortune is near your hands,’ interposed
Ferrigo. ‘I need a horse and a guide. And an assurance I may
pass through to the Sultan without harm to my person or my
possessions.’
     ‘My Lord, it is impossible. I am afraid...’
     Luigi Ferrigo turned and walked towards the doorway.
     ‘Arrange for me to travel to see the Sultan and I shall make
you a rich man. I shall return in one hour for your answer, Ben
Daheer.’
     Ben Daheer ran after the Genoese, following him out a little
way into the street, confused and bewildered by the rapidity of
the conversation. Avarice quarrelled with fear and all of the little
shopkeeper’s emotions showed on his face as he turned back into
his shop again, his brain working overtime, testing this idea,
trying this one, abandoning another, until his head ached. He
was so busy wondering and worrying that he cannoned into the
Doctor and, with a little squeal of fear, nearly fell to his knees,
afraid that his recent conversation had been overheard.
     ‘Well, my friend,’ smiled the Doctor, ‘I fear I do not find
quite what I want to buy.’
     ‘Have you been here all this time?’ stammered Ben Daheer.
     ‘Yes, examining this and that. Did you make a sale to your
other customer? I did not hear what passed between you.’
     Ben Daheer’s body stopped quivering and he even managed
a half-smile.
     ‘We may do business, he and I. I am sorry nothing pleases
you here.’
     ‘Ah, but I am pleased. And I have to thank you very much.’
     Ben Daheer looked at the Doctor suspiciously.
     ‘Thank me? What for?’
     ‘For being here, my friend. When you were most needed.
And one day I shall find a way to reward you.’
     He turned and walked out of the shop, leaving Ben Daheer
with his temptation and his fear.
     The story of how the Doctor acquired clothes for himself,
Ian and Vicki, and what had transpired between the shop-
keeper and the mysterious Genoese merchant enlivened the
difficult affair of transporting the wounded knight, Sir William
de Tornebu, from the little forest to Jaffa. The Doctor found, on
his return to his two friends, that Ian had constructed a rough
stretcher of branches and that Vicki had patiently bathed and
dressed the knight’s shoulder wound, after having helped Ian to
draw the arrow. He learned that the knight had suffered a slight
fever, recovered from it and was now able to sleep peacefully,
although his waking moments were so few and far between it
gave them some concern. The Doctor owed his title more to
science than medicine but was, nevertheless, able to satisfy
himself that the wounded man was on the road to recovery and
could withstand the uncomfortable journey to Jaffa.
     Their reception there was immediate and popular. Dressed
in the clothes – which the Doctor insisted he had only ‘borrowed’
– from Ben Daheer’s shop, Ian now wore a simple hunting habit,
soft leather breeches and calf-length boots, and a russet-coloured
tunic belted at the waist. The Doctor wore a long robe of quiet
design, with a rather ornate collar fastened high on the neck and
covering his shoulders. Vicki was dressed as a page, with long,
dark-blue tights and pointed ankle-high shoes, an extremely
smart long-sleeve yellow vest and, over it, a thigh-length grey
tunic with short puffed sleeves. Ian was convinced that as soon as
they came in sight of the people of Jaffa they would soon be
pointed at, seized as spies or impostors and pushed into the
nearest dungeon to await an early death, but he soon found out
that there were many others dressed in similar fashion and that,
rather than bring rushed off to prison, the three of them were
hailed by soldiers and civilians alike as heroes for bringing in a
wounded knight, saving him from wandering bands of thieves or
discovery by roaming Saracen patrols.
     The Doctor immediately demanded to be taken before King
Richard, and found, as he guessed he would, an immediate way
through the various courtiers and advisers, where, in any
ordinary event, the three of them might have kicked their heels
in frustration for days.
     It was some five hours since the fight in the wood and they
were shown into a lofty stone room in Richard’s head-quarters to
find him suffering the rather ungentle hands of a physician, who
was attempting to clean a deep cut on the King’s forehead. He
sat in his chair, wincing as he listened to the three strangers
being introduced by their guide; the Earl of Leicester. Leicester
had a notable name as a fighting man, having on many occasions
stood by Richard’s side and helped him fight through small
armies of the enemy. He was a compact, tough warrior, averse to
fancy speeches and embroidered compliments. He told the King
simply that three heroes deserved his attention, indicated to
servants to bring in the body of the wounded knight on the
rough stretcher, bowed and withdrew.
     Richard ran his eyes over the Doctor and his two
companions and pushed himself away from his chair.
     ‘Enough, enough,’ he growled, wiping the water from his
‘face. The physician bowed and hurried away and the King
walked over to the stretcher and stared down at Sir William de
Tornebu, who was now awake.
     ‘Forgive me for not rising, Sire,’ he whispered.
     ‘Rest yourself. Tell me, if you can up the strength, what
happened in the wood? A blow on the head sent me staggering
into the bushes. I came to my senses and crawled away, lucky to
find a riderless horse, too dazed to know who I was or where,
until the walls of Jaffa cleared the mist from my mind.’
     De Tornebu related the events of the ambush and haw Sir
William des Preaux had gallantly declared himself as the King in
order that Richard might be given time to escape.
     ‘And I was too injured to know much more,’ he continued,
‘except that these kindly people saved my life and brought me
here.’ De Tornebu drifted off into sleep again.
     The King nodded and turned to walk back to his throne.
     ‘Good friends indeed. We thank you.’
     The Doctor bowed slightly as the King seated himself. ‘The
brothers L’Etable dead,’ murmured the King, ‘and de Marun.
Sir William des Preaux taken. What have I left from my foolish
hunting sortie but one wounded friend and a sore head?’
     The Doctor stepped forward.
     ‘One small thing remains yours, Sire,’ he remarked, opening
a pouch at his belt and drawing out the jewel-encrusted golden
belt. Richard took it from him and weighed it in his hand
thoughtfully.
     ‘You are honest as well as brave, and again we thank you.
But I’d change this for de Marun and the others.’ He suddenly
threw the belt angrily away from him and it flew, sparkling and
flashing through the air, skidded along the stone floor and lay,
half hidden, in the fresh rushes that carpeted the room.
     ‘Friends cut down about my ears, or stolen! My armies roust
about and clutter up the streets of Jaffa with the garbage of their
vices. And an hour ago I learn that John, my brother, finds a
thirst for power in England; drinking great draughts of it,
although it is not his to take. He’s planning to usurp my throne,
and so trades with my enemy, Philip of France! A tragedy of
fortunes and I’m too much beset by them. A curse on this day! A
thousand curses!’
     Richard hammered his fist on his knee in fury and turned
his head aside. The Doctor drew the others away slightly. ‘We
must ask him about Barbara,’ Ian said.
     ‘I’m not sure this is the right time,’ murmured the Doctor.
‘Oughtn’t we to wait until he’s in a better mood, my boy?’
     ‘We can’t wait any longer. This was your idea, Doctor, to get
the King to help us.’
     The Doctor shrugged and Ian moved to the silent man on
his throne, alone with his troubles. He looked up as Ian bowed,
his face clearing slightly.
     ‘Sire, there were four of us in that wood. Our other
companion, a lady, was stolen by the Saracens. We assume she
was held prisoner like Sir William des Preaux, destined for
Saladin’s court.’
     Richard nodded slowly as he listened, but it was obvious to
Ian that his thoughts were elsewhere.
     ‘I am most sorry,’ he said vaguely, ‘but I must ask you not to
bother me with such things now.’
     ‘I am only asking you,’ said Ian firmly, ‘to give me escort to
Saladin’s headquarters.’
     ‘And what do you do when you are there?’
     ‘Arrange for the lady’s release. Perhaps bring back Sir
William des Preaux, if I can.’
     ‘As my emissary to Saladin?’
     ‘Yes’
     ‘Pay him compliments, give him something in return for his
benevolence?’
     The Doctor moved forward.
     ‘He can hardly have much use for a player King and a
young woman, Your Majesty.’
     Richard shook his head definitely.
     ‘I will not do it.’
     ‘But I can get them back,’ insisted Ian.
     ‘No!’
     ‘All I need is....’
     ‘Are you deaf?’ shouted the King. ‘We do not trade with
Saladin today. Not today, tomorrow nor any day hence-forth.’
     There was a short silence as Ian and the Doctor looked at
each other. The Doctor patted Ian’s arm reassuringly and tried
to reopen the discussion.
     ‘King Richard, I beg of you to listen to us. Our friend is just
a woman, unused to the ways of fighting men and war.’ If the
Doctor was conscious of his untruth, he showed no sign of it on
his face.
     ‘A gentle, sweet-natured girl,’ he continued persuasively,
‘surely not destined for rough handling by hordes of fighting
men. Certainly not meant to be frightened, perhaps tortured,
and put to death. Have pity on her, Sire. Let us help her.’
     Richard obviously responded to the Doctor’s call for
chivalry. Before he could answer, however, de Tornebu, who
had fallen into a rather uneasy sleep, must have moved on the
stretcher, putting pressure on his wounded shoulder. A groan
issued out of his lips and made the King forget what he was
about to say. All he remembered was the ambush in the forest.
Worse, he remembered the warning of Sir William des Preaux,
which had fallen on such stony ground.
    White with fury, mostly aimed at his own shortsightedness
and obstinacy, Richard swung round and pointed a finger at the
Doctor.
    ‘Understand this,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll not trade with the man
who killed my friends!’
                 CHAPTER THREE
                 A New Scheherazade
There was a long silence. The King lay back in his ceremonial
chair, lost in anger and frustration, brooding over the
misfortunes of the day. The Doctor’s head was bent down, his
eyes searching the ground, as if he would find the answer to the
impasse there among the rushes covering the worn stone. Ian
felt the ultimate in despair, his confidence deserting him, making
him a prey to all the doubts and fears about Barbara he had so
successfully pushed to one side, in the belief Richard would help.
He hardly felt Vicki put a hand on his arm, scarcely saw the
sympathy in her eyes. He only knew that the woman he loved
was far away, in dangerous hands, while he was absolutely
powerless to save her.
      ‘A very proper attitude, Your Majesty,’ murmured the
Doctor, so mildly that the King darted a look at him to see if he
was being sarcastic. ‘If you want Saladin to score over you,’ he
continued.
      ‘What do you mean by that?’ snapped Richard.
      ‘I mean, Sire, that in your understandable rage you are
ignoring a chance to make Saladin look foolish. It may seem to
you that you left a little of your pride in that wood. But I assure
you there’s capital to be made of this affair. Besides the violence
and tragedy, it has a humorous side.’
      Richard stared at the Doctor as if he were mad. ‘Humour!’
      ‘Indeed. Here’s Saladin, mighty ruler, commander of huge
armies. A troop of his soldiers is sent to capture you; and what
happens? He ends up with one of your knights and a young
lady.’
     Ian, shaken now out of his torpor, appreciated the new line
the Doctor was taking and moved to his side. ‘You could turn
this into a good story against Saladin,’ he said eagerly.
     ‘A troop of men to capture one knight!’ exclaimed the
Doctor. ‘Why he’d need an army by itself to capture your horse!’
     ‘You could have this story spread by word of mouth,’ added
Ian. ‘Have songs sung, actors perform plays about it. All this
country would suspect that Saladin fears you so much, he spends
his time on foolish plots.’
     ‘And when you’d done all that,’ said the Doctor calmly,
noting the slight smile beginning to appear on Richard’s lips,
‘you could send to Saladin and ask him if he’d finished playing
games, and could you have your knight back.’
     Richard suddenly put back his head and roared with
laughter.
     ‘There is a jest here,’ he said at last, shaking his head. ‘A
grim one with our friends dead, but Saladin must be as much
put out by this affair as I am.’
     Richard stood up and put an arm around the Doctor’s
shoulders.
     ‘By my father’s name, you have wit, old man. We are
conscious of the service you have rendered and will like to see
you here in court. As to the sending of a messenger, let me think
on it. I must find a reason other than an exchange of prisoners,
or Saladin will believe they are too important to me.’
     ‘Very gracious of you, Your Majesty,’ murmured the Doctor.
     At that moment, a girl swept into the room, and Richard’s
eyes softened as he went to meet her.
     ‘Richard, are you wounded?’ she cried anxiously.
     Richard took both her hands, shaking his head.
     ‘A graze, no more. But meet with new friends, Joanna.
Courage, bravery and wit are gathered here.’
     Joanna stood beside her brother and acknowledged the bows
gracefully with a delightful smile, always happy to meet anyone
who held Richard’s admiration. She stood no higher than his
shoulder and her long, fair hair hung down her back in a
cascade of beauty. Ian could scarcely take his eyes off such a
vision of perfection, who earned for herself no more than a few
lines in the history books he had read. Her finely sculptured
face, with its high cheek-bones and wide generous mouth, the
delicate ivory of her skin, just faintly tinged with colour at the
cheeks, the classically simple gown that emphasized the perfect
proportions of her figure, all made an impact on him he knew he
would never forget.
     Joanna moved from her brother’s side to where de Tornebu
lay.
     ‘This man is losing blood. Why, it is Sir William de Tornebu,
Richard. I heard you had been fighting, but did not know your
friend was injured.’
     The King clapped his hands together twice in summons.
     ‘I will have the Chamberlain take care of him.’
     The Chamberlain entered the room, a tall, dignified figure,
so imposing in his clothes and manner that, to Vicki’s eyes, he
almost rivalled the King.
     ‘Chamberlain, take this knight and see his wounds are cared
for. Find places for these three friends. And note, they have my
patronage.’
     The Chamberlain bowed, signalled for attendants to take Sir
William away and then turned to the Doctor, waving a hand in a
most regal fashion.
     As he smiled at each of them in turn, his face became more
and more bewildered and finally, as he ran his eyes over Vicki’s
clothes, his bewilderment turned to a heavy frown of
concentration. The King touched him impatiently on the
shoulder.
      ‘Go about your business, Chamberlain! Why do you stand
here gaping? Be off with you, man, and see our friends have
every comfort.’
      The Chamberlain shook himself out of his wonderment,
convinced now that there was something distinctly familiar about
the clothes these new companions of the King wore. Putting the
mystery aside, he gestured grandly with his hands, requesting
that they follow him and, bowing to the King and Joanna, left
the room.
      ‘Go with him,’ said the King. ‘Come to me in a while, when
you have eaten and rested.’
      As soon as they disappeared, Joanna linked arms with her
brother and walked with him through the room, down a short
corridor which opened out on to a terrace. They talked of
Berengaria, Richard’s wife, who was in the city of Acre, which he
considered safer for her than Jaffa, only so recently captured.
They looked out from the terrace over the rooftops of the busy
little town and watched the proud ships that cluttered the
harbour. It was then that Richard noticed a fine jewel strung
around the girl’s neck by a golden strand and asked her where
she had bought it.
      ‘Oh, this is a strange gift, Richard,’ she laughed. ‘From the
men you fight.’
      ‘Saladin?’ exclaimed Richard.
      ‘No, his brother, Saphadin. I have given him no cause for
such attentions,’ she went on hurriedly, as she saw her brother’s
eyes darken. Richard shook his head in amazement.
      ‘Saladin sends me presents of fruit and snow. When I was so
ill, no kinder words were sent to me than his. Now his brother
decorates you with his jewels.’
      He looked out across the sea, the young man who had
brought the armies of Europe half-way across the civilized world,
the only man those armies would really follow and die for, if he
commanded it. In the ten years of his reign as King of England
that country would be his home for only a few short months and
he was destined to die before his time, in a foreign country. Now,
Richard, at thirty-four, a mixture of a man, whose fearless
courage on the battlefield was admired by friend and foe, yet
who could be moved to tears by music, wrestled with the
problem of his enemy’s strange behaviour.
     ‘These men oppose us,’ he said. ‘These courtesies they do us.
I am confused by their soft words, when all at once our men lock
in deadly combat; watering the land with a rain of blood, and the
thunder in the skies is deafened by the shouts of dying men.’
     ‘Your heart calls for England, Richard.’
     ‘Aye, it does.’
     ‘Is there no sort of peace with Saladin?’
     Richard didn’t answer her. His eyes had just fallen idly on
the jewel around her neck, noticing the girl’s fingers playing
with it at her throat. It was a rare stone, beautifully set, the sort
given by a man enamoured of a woman, who hoped such a
present might soften her heart and force her to listen carefully to
what an ardent man might have to say. As he stared at it,
assessing its worth and calculating the reason for the giving of it,
Richard suddenly realized it provided him with a key to unlock a
door he had long desired to open. The way to a peaceful
settlement of the war with Saladin. As if to lend force to the
argument, Joanna spoke again.
     ‘You should try and settle with the Sultan, Richard. The
armies have fought well but many, so many, have died. And
remember that John rules for you in England now. He is not to
be trusted, as well you know.’
     Richard smiled at his sister and put an arm round her
slender waist.
      ‘I promise you, beauty, I shall try and find a common
meeting-ground with Saladin. Now, we have had our little talk
and I have business to get under way.’
      ‘So I’m to be packed off, am I?’ she demanded, her eyes
catching fire in the sun, her chin thrusting out a little.
      ‘Aye, packed off and beaten first, if you don’t behave,’ he
growled ferociously. She suddenly laughed and ran away from
him into the building, her long hair streaming behind her, her
little jewelled slippers tapping over the stones and rustling the
reeds.
      Richard returned to his state-room, commanded the three
strangers to be brought before him and ordered that a monk be
found and conducted to the room, as well as the means of
writing.
      The Doctor, Ian and Vicki, who had spent their time
plealantly enough exploring the palace, found the King dictating
a letter. He waved them into the room where they stood silently
as he spoke to a monk bending low over the parchment spread
out on a small table.
      ‘And, not only this kingdom, its fortresses and tow. shall be
yours,’ said Richard, ‘but all the Frankish kingdom. My sister,
Joanna, ex-queen of Sicily, whose beauty is already talked of
wherever men of judgement and discernment are, is a proper
match for one who not only rejoices in so grand... wait...’
      The monk looked up expectantly.
      ‘Ah, I have it. In so eminent a brother, as is the Sultan
Saladin, but who possesses an eminence of his own. Prince
Saphadin, I beg of you to prefer this match between yourself and
my sister, and thus make me your brother.’
      The King waited until the monk had completed the letter,
read the contents aloud and then held the parchment for him to
press down his ring upon it.
    ‘See that this is taken immediately,’ he ordered, ‘with the
finest horse you can find as its accompanying gift.’
    The monk bowed and hurried from the room, clutching the
parchment to his breast as if his whole life depended on it.
    ‘The monk I trust as I would myself,’ observed Richard
significantly. ‘I hope I may rely upon you not to speak of what
you have heard?’
    The Doctor spread out his hands eloquently.
    ‘Your Majesty, we are deaf and dumb, until you say
otherwise.’
    ‘Very well. You see my plan, for it is important you should
know of it. Prince Saphadin, the Sultan’s brother, is ambitious.
He has set his cap for my sister. The marriage terms are peace.’
    The Doctor nodded.
    ‘Now you, sirrah,’ Richard remarked, gazing at Ian, ‘have
reason to journey to the Sultan. When you arrive, my letter will
have been delivered. You will be in the best position to see what
reaction it has, and yet not be suspect. Is Saphadin sincere? Is
there a real chance of peace? These are the two questions I shall
ask you on your return, and I trust you may be able to answer
them.’
    Ian was so overcome that the King had turned from his
former obstinacy that he could only stammer he would do as
much as he could.
    Richard nodded.
    ‘But you shall go properly, as my emissary.’
    ‘May I leave at once?’ demanded Ian.
    ‘I see my hospitality is such here that you cannot wait to get
away,’ the King smiled. ‘Boy, bring me down that sword.’
    Vicki, remembering her role as page-boy, ran to a wall upon
which was hung a heavy sword and brought it to the throne,
bowing low as she presented it. Ian looked bewildered, not
understanding what was to happen to him. ‘What is your name?’
asked the King.
     ‘Ian Chesterton, Sire... but...’
     The Doctor whispered urgently into his ear, pressing down
on his arm.
     ‘Kneel down, my boy, kneel down!’
     Ian did as the Doctor urged him to do and Richard stepped
forward with the sword in his right hand. The Doctor moved
away and stood with Vicki, watching the ceremony, as the King
in a simple, unaffected way, touched Ian with the sword.
     ‘I, Richard, King of England, by the grace of God...’
     Ian raised his eyes and looked up at the King as he spoke
the words over his head, suddenly and sharply aware of the
extraordinary turn of fate which had plucked him away from his
own time and chosen to set him down at another to receive the
honour. Yet, conscious as he was of the credibility of it, and of
the wide gulf that separated him from the man before whom he
knelt, still the tremendous weight of the occasion bore down on
him making his heart beat fast and drying his throat. Then he
realized that Richard had stopped and was laying down the
sword, holding out his hand. Ian pressed his lips to it and felt the
King lift him up to his feet.
     ‘Rise up, Sir Ian, Knight of Jaffa,’ said Richard. ‘You shall be
my man, be chivalrous and brave. But most of all,’ he went on,
his eyes twinkling with humour, ‘keep my secret’
     Ian inclined his head, almost lost for words and only just
remembering to stumble out some words of gratitude. ‘No more
speeches,’ said the King firmly. ‘Go to Saladin. Bring back this
lady, and Sir William if you can. And bring me news.’
     Ian bowed, gripped the Doctor’s hand, smiled at Vicki and
walked out of the room, every fresh step sharpening the picture
he had of Barbara in his mind, refusing to admit he might not
find her, relieved at last that the search had. begun.
     When Barbara came to her senses, she found herself in a
small antechamber, lying on top of some rugs laid on a long seat.
She raised herself up on one elbow and gazed out of a window
made up of many beautifully-carved arches which looked down
on to a courtyard. She was not in a position to see much of what
was happening below her, but the sounds of men and homes
floated upwards. She glanced round the room and saw a tall man
with dark hair talking to a woman by one of the arched
entrances to the room. Beyond them, the impassive figure of a
huge Negro stood, naked to the waist, a thick curved sword held
across his shoulder, blade uppermost, his arms folded across his
chest.
     The man in the hunting clothes gave the woman some coins
and took a cloak from her. The woman hurried out, passing the
guard outside fearfully, who simply turned his massive head to
examine her and then resumed his contemplation of the
corridor ahead of him. The man walked towards Barbara, the
cloak held out in his hands. She started back slightly,
uncertainly, then relaxed as the man smiled pleasantly.
     ‘I do you no harm,’ he said gently, laying the cloak over her.
He sat on the bench beside her, reached down and picked up a
simple goblet and a jug and poured out some water and handed
it to her, watching her while she drank gratefully.
     ‘I do not know who you are or how you came to be in the
wood outside Jaffa. Your clothing is so strange I felt you would
like a cloak to cover you.’
     Barbara realized how odd her short skirt must appear and
felt it better to keep her own counsel, without inventing any
excuses which might make things worse. She thanked him for his
courtesy and asked him where they were.
     ‘We are at the Sultan Saladin’s palace at Ramlah.’
     ‘I expected to wake up in prison. Why are we here?’
    The man smiled, adding more water to the goblet.
    ‘As for you, I can make no guess. But I am here as King
Richard, leader of the mighty host, the scourge of the Infidel.’
    Barbara said, ‘Richard had red hair.’
    ‘Had! Still has, if the ruse has worked.’
    He told her what had happened in the forest, how the
Saracens had ambushed them, how he had seen Richard
knocked into some bushes and had seized the opportunity to
cause a diversion to allow the King to get away. ‘I am Sir William
des Preaux, and some smiles will turn to long faces soon, I have
no doubt.’
    ‘What happened to... the others. In the forest?’
    Sir William shrugged. ‘I do not know. But I have a hopeful
heart and, what is better, a lucky King. And you, who will not say
her name?...’
    ‘Barbara.’
    ‘I am keen to know why one so gentle puts herself amid the
swords and arrows. And your garments are a fashion in
themselves.’
    ‘Take me back to that forest, Sir William, and I’ll answer all
your questions.’
    ‘You ask for the impossible very lightly.’
    ‘Is it so impossible?’
    ‘Today it is. I am the captive of one El Akir, an Emir in
Saladin’s forces. He believes I am the King and thinks he has
won the war for his master. He is puzzled about you, as I am,
and means to question you. How can I explain you to them?’
    Barbara drank the last of the water and put the goblet down
on the floor.
    ‘Let me help you with your pretence,’ she suggested. ‘Who
rides with the King?’
    ‘Berengaria, the Queen, is in Acre. But the Princess!’
    He smacked a hand down on the bench delightedly.
     ‘You shall be Joanna, my sister, and support me in my lies.
Then we shall truly make El Akir look stupid. To cause
disruption among allies is just as good as cutting them in two in
battle.’
     Barbara said, ‘I seem to have found a brother and a title.’
     ‘And a friend.’
     ‘That’s a very comforting thought.’
     ‘We will not confuse Saladin,’ murmured des Preaux, ‘but we
will make El Akir lose face.’
     ‘From the look of him, that might be an improvement.’
     The knight put back his head and laughed delightedly.
     ‘You appear to be in good spirits,’ said a voice from the
archway, and they both turned as El Akir strode into the room.
His clothes were richer now, particularly a white knee-length
coat of satin, edged with gold, and held together at the waist with
a belt of finely-worked silver.
     ‘Enjoy yourselves while you may,’ he continued, standing in
front of them arrogantly. Sir William yawned obviously and El
Akir’s eyes gleamed for a moment. In a second, he controlled
himself, but Barbara recognized in him a dangerous and vicious
enemy.
     ‘The Sultan Yusef Salah ed-Din ibn Ayjub has commanded
that all prisoners be treated with compassion. Would you not say
his wishes have been complied with?’
     ‘I have no complaint for myself,’ replied Sir William, ‘but the
Sultan of Egypt and Syria will not be pleased when he learns of
the way my sister has been treated.’
     ‘Your sister?’ El Akir looked quickly at Barbara, who had
drawn the cloak around her closely.
     ‘Aye, Joanna, widow of William the Second of Sicily; fifth
child of Henry the Second of England; Princess of a domain
stretching from the Cheviots to the Pyrenees...’
     ‘This explains why you were in the forest,’ interrupted El
Akir, his eyes widening. Barbara could almost see his mind
working. Sir William plunged in heavily to the attack, assuming
an expression of extreme indignation.
     ‘My sister has been grossly ill-treated,’ he stormed. ‘Slung
over a horse with her hands and feet tied together, to be carried
like a sack of flour. Handled roughly by your men, foul rags
stuffed in her mouth! Is this the compassion your mighty Sultan
speaks of?’
     ‘Enough of this,’ snapped the Emir. ‘The woman is all of one
piece.’
     Sir William shot out a hand, gripped hold of El Akir ‘s
clothes and twisted the man so that he was nearly on his knees.
     ‘Woman?! Watch your tongue, Saracen.’
     In an instant guards came running into the room and the
two men were pulled apart. As the guards bent the Englishman’s
hands behind his back, El Akir stepped forward and slapped him
viciously across the face.
     ‘You have no rights, no privileges, nothing except the
benevolence of our ruler! But he will not side against me if you
are too insolent. Remember, you are a prisoner here, not a free
man.’ He turned to Barbara and eyed her appreciatively.
     ‘I came to learn your identity. That you are the King’s sister
bodes well for me. I can serve both the Sultan and Malec el Adil,
or Saphadin as you call him. The brother of the Sultan will
rejoice to see the woman he has for so long admired. Bring
them!’
     El Akir turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
Fortune had played no part in his achievements of the past. He
was an Emir simply because he had murdered his brother. He
had riches because he had stolen them. Behind the man lay a
dark trail of evil, without one saving grace, without one worthy
deed. Even the scar he carried on his face was an advertisement
of one of the worst of his acts, when he had attempted, after he
had murdered his brother, to capture the weeping widow, a
woman he had envied and desired until the deed of fratricide
was no longer simply for the title but just as much for the wife as
well. But when he stood before her, his hand still holding the
sword of death, telling the grief-stricken girl what he had done
and what her future was to be, a sudden horror of him, plus a
determination he should suffer for his crime, had made her find
a desperate courage. She had seized up a heavy ornament and
struck at him with all her passionate anger. Although his servants
had run in and thrust their swords into her, as El Akir lay
groaning on the ground, she still had strength enough to say he
would carry the sign of murderer until the day he died. And now
all women were his enemies and El Akir delighted in enslaving
them. So his pleasure, as he strode towards the Sultan’s chamber,
was great: a woman would be humbled, her pride destroyed, and
he would find favour and perhaps the close confidence of
Saladin and Saphadin.
     He gained admittance to the chamber of the Sultan without
delay and found Saphadin examining a map. The room was
divided by a heavy silk curtain and behind it the room Emir
knew Saladin sat, meditating on the disposition of his armies,
pondering on strategy and ready to hear without being seen.
     ‘Malec el Adil, I bring good fortune not only for him who
rules over as, but for your delight as well.’
     Saphadin looked up from the map, rolled it in his hands and
walked over to a low couch heavily draped with fine materials.
He sat down and gestured with his hand for El Akir to continue.
     ‘My brother hears you as I do.’
     ‘Know then,’ said El Akir, raising his voice slightly, ‘that I
have the instrument to vanquish the invaders from across the
seas and bring victory.’
     Saladin, sitting on the other side of the curtain, heard the
words and moved his head slightly, his interest caught. A man of
slight build, with a somewhat melancholy face in repose which
entirely altered once he smiled, Saladin was many of the things a
leader of men needed to be. His force of personality was
tremendous, although he did not fight as Richard Coeur de Lion
did, at the head of his men. This was not through cowardice but
simply that his position as Sultan of the mighty Moslem army
forbade such action. He had simple tastes, with a hatred for
coarseness and ostentation. His courts abounded with
philosophers and well-read. He was refined, courteous and
generous. Above all, he had a fine sense of humour. None of
these things was important as the undoubted ability he had to
command and control the vast armies at his disposal. Syrians,
Turks, Arabs, each nationality divided into different tribes and
loyalties, status and rivalry; each commander jealous of his
position; every army anxious to gain success in the field.
     Saladin’s personal position was only secure when his plans
led to victory. He knew to the last degree how tenuous his hold
was over the Moslem host (collectively called Saracens by the
Crusaders) and that is why his fairness, courtesy and refinement,
which no insecurity of position could shake, were all the more to
be wondered at.
     He listened now, fascinated, as El Akin related the events
leading up to the encounter in the forest outside Jaffa, his hands
pressed together, almost as if in prayer. The arrogant,
triumphant voice of the Emir came to the end of his story.
     ‘And so, Prince, I bring you now the result of that skirmish
in the wood.’ El Akir snapped his fingers and a guard led Sir
William des Preaux into the chamber. ‘The King of the English,
leader of the invaders, Malec Ric,’ he stated. Saphadin remained
seated on his throne staring at the Knight curiously and El Akir
was half disappointed at the effect. ‘The Lion is in our cage,
Prince,’ he pointed out, but still the expected praise did not issue
forth from Saphadin’s lips.
     ‘This is but one part of it,’ went on the Emir, puzzled by the
attitude of his superiors. ‘Another prize was in that wood, a
glittering jewel already sparkling in your eyes, El Adil. This
priceless stone I bring to lay before you, as your heart desires.’
     Once again he snapped his fingers, and another guard
escorted Barbara into the chamber. El Akir moved to her, took
her elbow and brought her before Saphadin. ‘The sister of the
Malec Ric; Joanna is the way they call her. Here for your
command.’
     Saphadin looked at Barbara impassively and then at Sir
William. His eyes moved to the face of the Emir.
     ‘King Richard and his sister, Joanna?’
     El Akir said: ‘No less.’




    ‘Less than less!’ Saphadin spat out viciously, and El Akir
stepped back at the fury in the other’s voice. ‘Who is this
creature, this rowdy jackal who yaps at my feet with tales of
fortune and success! Not El Akir, trusted captain. It must be
some odious devil who has taken his form and sent himself to
torment me!’
     ‘My lord... all I have said is true...’
     ‘You vile worm, do you think I do not know the face and the
form of the Princess Joanna?’
     ‘But they told me... he said... she...’ El Akir tailed away, as he
realized the trick that had been played on him. He turned and
looked at the smiling faces of Sir William and Barbara.
     The scar on his face suddenly showed up a livid red as the
blood drained away from his face. Dark though the texture of his
skin was, it visibly paled and his eyes took on an extraordinary
glow of venomous hatred. Before he could utter the thoughts
which showed so plainly on his face, Saladin stepped through the
curtains.
     ‘It seems you are the victim of a pretty deception,’ he
murmured. El Akir made his obeisance.
     ‘At least we have the English King,’ he replied, and then
stared as Saphadin shook his head sorrowfully, and Saladin
smiled.
     ‘This is not King Richard,’ said Saladin. ‘A blacker head of
red-gold hair I never saw.’ Saladin moved across to Barbara and
stared into her eyes, liking the fearless way the girl returned his
attention. ‘You have the better bargain, brother. She may not be
the Princess, but her beauty lights the room. ’
     El Akir started to speak and Saladin held up a hand sharply,
getting the silence he commanded.
     ‘I do not wish to listen to you!’ he said scathingly, and then
he turned to Sir William, ‘but I will hear what you have to say.’
     ‘Mighty Sultan, know that I am Sir William des Preaux and
to aid my King’s escape I shouted out his name and took his
identity. This lady, Your Highness, has no part in this affair,
except to aid my pretence. I beg of you to look upon her kindly,
whatever fate you have for me.’
     Saladin nodded slowly. ‘I salute your chivalry, and your
words do not go unheeded.’
     El Akir stepped forward, plucking at Saladin’s sleeve.
     ‘Hear me! Let me make some good. This woman can be
made to entertain you. I can have her dance on hot coals, run
through a passage made of sharp-tipped swords or any of a
hundred ways in my mind, all for your amusement.’
     Saladin thought for a second or two and then looked at
Barbara gravely.
     ‘What do you say to this?’
     Barbara knew she was being tested as a person, and was
determined not to hurry her reply. She also knew that Saladin
would be disappointed if she begged for mercy, although she felt
he probably expected it. Barbara was never one to take the
course people anticipated.
     ‘It sounds to me,’ she said at last, ‘like the punishment for a
fool.’ Saladin’s eyes betrayed his interest. ‘And which of us here is
the most foolish?’ she added.
     The words hung in the room in the silence that followed, all
heads turning towards El Akir. For one, frightening moment, he
really believed that the punishment he had so vividly described
would fall on himself. He started back, fear written plainly all
over him. Saladin turned away contemptuously and sat on the
low seat, exchanging an eloquent look with his brother.
     ‘El Akir,’ he said, ‘I can devise my own pleasures. Go with Sir
William and let me hear you have treated him as an honoured
guest. Let him take all liberties,’ and he smiled a friendly way at
the Knight, ‘except of course, liberty itself.’ He waved a hand
and the two men left the room silently. Saladin beckoned
Barbara to come nearer. ‘Are you afraid of me?’
     Barbara shook her head and Saladin turned to his brother in
mock surprise.
     ‘If I cannot make women tremble, what hope have we to win
this war?’
     Barbara said, ‘I know of no person who doesn’t hold you in
respect. There is a most healthy regard for your general-ship,
My Lord. I am not a man, so perhaps I don’t fully understand
what wars are all about, but I feel men of character do not care
to fight against cowards.’
     ‘There’s philosophy here,’ murmured Saladin.
     ‘And wit, brother,’ added Saphadin.
     ‘Indeed. Now tell me the truth,’ said the Sultan. ‘You are not
of these lands, yet you appear to be a stranger to Sir William.’
     ‘I am... a traveller. I was with three friends. We arrived in
the wood.’
     ‘You rode into the wood?’
     ‘No.’
     ‘You walked into it,’ hazarded Saphadin. Barbara shook her
head, wondering how she could explain enough without asking
too much of their credulity.
     ‘We arrived. In a box.’
     ‘Ah! You were carried into the wood.’
     Barbara felt it wise to agree with Saphadin on this point.
Saladin sat back, rubbing a hand on his chin.
     ‘A reluctant story-teller!’
     ‘I could tell you... that I came from another world. Ruled by
insects. Or that my friends and I recently visited Nero’s Rome.
Before that, that we were in an England far into the future.’
     Saladin nodded slowly.
     ‘I understand. You and your friends are band of players?
Entertainers? You are the story-teller?’
     Barbara merely inclined her head, thankful to have found a
way to justify her existence, without entering into a long and
involved pattern of lies.
     ‘Frankly, I tell you,’ said the Sultan, ‘you are an
encumbrance. I do not dispense life and death lightly but you
have no place in my military headquarters. A wise man would rid
himself of you quickly and cleanly, and have done with it. So
either you must serve a purpose here, or you have no purpose.
We need diversion here and you shall provide it. If you succeed,
you shall receive every kindness and comfort possible, and come
to no harm. You shall grace my table tonight, with clothes more
suitable to your new station.’
     Barbara looked a little troubled, not quite understanding
what Saladin meant.
     ‘You are a self-confessed story-teller,’ he said. ‘If your stories
beguile me, all will be well.’
     Barbara said, ‘Like Scheherazade?’
     Saladin leant forward, a grim smile on his lips.
     ‘Over whose head, you will recall, hung the sentence of
death!’
                 CHAPTER FOUR
                The Wheel of Fortune
As El Akir waited in the courtyard of Saladin’s headquarters at
Ramlah, cursing for allowing himself to be made a fool of by his
prisoners, a tall, richly-dressed merchant sat drinking at a table.
El Akir had noticed him as he strode out of the palace,
dismissing him as one of a dozen foreign merchants who sought
to make profit from the war.
     It is always hard to understand a man without saving graces.
All human beings have facets which make them admired, as
much as those they may possess which dismay or repel. Those
who knew El Akir found nothing to recommend him, for they
recognized in him a man saturated with guilt, to much so that his
life could only continue by laying extra evils, one above another,
as if the man were tortured by the foul deeds he had committed
and had to hide them by inventing fresh crimes; and far worse
ones at that; curtaining off yesterday’s depredations with new
villainies.
     All these things Luigi Ferrigo recognized; if not the actual
details, certainly enough to know the type of man, for he was
expert judge of a particular sort of human nature. Ferrigo’s fault
by in his total inability to apply his judgement to all manner of
men. Put him in the company of fools, cowards, villains or the
greedy and he would find a way to make each one his cat’s-paw.
Introduce him into a gathering of talent, honesty and good
endeavour and he would with-draw within himself, become
unapproachable and remote. So, as each man instinctively
chooses the path in life he thinks will take him quickest to
whatever his desires may be, Ferrigo’s way was shadowy and
devious. Some said of him that he’d rather earn one gold piece
by guile than a fortune by straightforward dealing, while others
were convinced he was so filled with the lust for riches, he would
rise to any height, or sink to any depths to make a profit.
     A woman came out of the palace, keeping to the shadows of
the arched walk surrounding the courtyard. Luigi Ferrigo sat
back in his chair, giving every evidence of sleep, while El Akir,
seeing the woman he had been waiting for, drew himself into a
small alcove. As she passed by him, he stepped out and gripped
her arm. She gave a little shriek of fear and would have fallen to
her knees, if he hadn’t held her upright, his fingers pressing into
the flesh of her arm painfully, almost bringing tears to her eyes.
     ‘Sheyrah,’ he whispered fiercely, ‘where is the foreign
woman? Tell me and you shall be rewarded.’
     The woman stared into his eyes, frightened at the depths of
hatred she saw. He shook her arm impatiently and with his other
hand produced a ring from the pouch at his belt, a heavy thing
of silver, clasping a large and beautiful yellow stone.
     ‘Take it! Tell me! You are attending her, I know you are –
the Sultan ordered it.’
     As if the mention of Saladin gave her courage, she pulled
her arm away and stepped back, rubbing the place where his
fingers had gripped her. El Akir licked his lips and tried a
slightly different approach. He held up the ring, so that it caught
the light, and spoke more gently.
     ‘Bring the foreign woman to me, Sheyrah, and you shall
have this.’ He looked at her to see what effect he was having and
then took a step forward towards her as she shook her head
stubbornly.
     ‘Then deserve my enmity!’
     ‘My Lord is greater than you,’ Sheyrah said defiantly. El
Akir’s hand holding the ring bunched into a fist and raised
slightly in the air. Sheyrah cowered back, expecting the blow,
when suddenly Luigi Ferrigo appeared, fanning his face with his
hand, as if he had decided to try the cooler pleasures of the
shade of the archway. El Akir’s hand dropped to his side and
Sheyrah hurried past him, disappearing into another part of the
palace.
     ‘She was a fool not to take the ring,’ said Luigi casually and
El Akir, who was just turning away, stiffened and swung around.
‘But perhaps you were asking too much for it’
     The two men sized each other up for a few seconds and the
Genoese knew he had the measure of his opposite number.
     ‘I have some wine on a table over there,’ he stated
pleasantly.
     ‘Why should I drink with you?’
     ‘Because I have something to ask of someone. If only I knew
their price.’
     El Akir found himself being led out of the shadows and
across the courtyard, ushered into a chair and given a cup of
wine. He took it with a bad grace and drank deeply, liking the
gentle richness of the amber liquid, which held a stronger body
than the rougher wines he usually drank. Ferrigo added some
wine to the cup generously.
     ‘This is a wine of France, a sample of some stock I carry in
my ship which rests today at Acre. If you like it, I have a skin of it
to give you.’
     ‘I’m not bought by you, merchant,’ growled El Akir. The
other shook his head in pained surprise.
     ‘The servants here have told me something about you, El
Akir. You are an Emir, rich and prosperous already, with an
army of your own. You have, I hear, a fine palace in the town of
Lydda, a short ride from here. You do not think I imagine I can
buy a person such as you with a skin of wine.’
     ‘You know a lot. Why have you asked questions about me?
Who are you? What are you doing in Ramlah?’ The merchant
listened to all the questions tolerantly, taking a small drink from
his own goblet, his eyes never leaving the Emir’s face.
     ‘I have travelled a long way to speak with your Sultan; a
rather weary journey. Neither Saladin nor his brother will
receive me. As to who I am, well, I am a merchant, as you
guessed, and my business is to buy and sell.’
     ‘It’s nothing to me,’ said El Akir, shaking his head a little as
the strong wine began to take effect. ‘I’m leaving Ramlah.’
     ‘Returning to your palace at Lydda?’
     ‘Yes, if it’s any of your affair!’
     ‘Perhaps what holds you here is my affair.’
     The Emir stared truculently across the table and got to his
feet, an oath forming on his lips at the confusing way the
stranger was speaking to him. Yet something in the other’s
manner stopped him and made him resume his seat again.
Ferrigo smiled without any sign of triumph.
     ‘We both have reasons for being in Ramlah, El Akir,’ he said
softly, leaning across the table. ‘Can we not help each other?’
     ‘Tell me your reason first,’ said the other cautiously.
     ‘Profit. I wish to arrange a safe conduct for caravans of goods
to and from the Sultan’s headquarters, from Ramlah to Tyre and
back again.’
     ‘We are at war,’ replied El Akir stupidly, shaking his head
again to try and clear away the wine fumes.
     ‘Conrad of Tyre has fallen out with the King of the English
and is sending an emissary here to make peace with your Sultan.
Every army needs supplies and luxuries, while someone can be
on hand to buy the booty captured in battle.’
     El Akir nodded, trying to look intelligent. A fly buzzed
around his face and he made an ineffectual jab at it with his
hand.
     ‘What is my part in this?’ he said at last.
     ‘Arrange an audience with the Sultan or his brother. I
cannot pass the men who surround them.’ Luigi Ferrigo lifted
his goblet of wine and stared at the rim of it intently. ‘But how
could I return such a favour?’
     ‘There is a woman here, an English one, who has made me
look a fool,’ the Emir blurted out. ‘I want to take her to my
palace at Lydda. We’ll are who the fool is and who the master
there. Help me – and you shall see the Sultan.’
     There was a silence for a few seconds as the merchant raised
the goblet to his lips and drained it, wiping his mouth delicately
afterwards with a piece of silk he kept at his belt. He stood up.
     ‘Arrange my audience for late this evening. When it is dark,
wait by the stables. I shall bring the woman to you.’
     El Akir watched the merchant walk away into the palace,
suddenly finding that his head was hanging heavily on his neck.
His eyelids seemed to be having trouble staying open. The fly
returned with others and buzzed around him but this time he
found no energy to drive them away. He settled back in the chair
with one thing uppermost in his befuddled brain; that chance
had brought him a way to satisfy the hate and vengeance towards
the slim, attractive girl, whose smile had been worse than a
hundred daggers through his heart. And, in contentment, El
Akir let sleep overtake him.

Barbara listened seriously as Sheyrah warned her she had made
an enemy, repeating the events of the meeting with El Akir and
his obvious determination to find Barbara and exact some
vengeance on her. There was no fear that he would try and
attack her, Sheyrah promised, provided she stayed well within
the Palace.
     ‘I hear that he is returning to his own palace in Lydda,’ said
Sheyrah, as she combed Barbara’s hair, ‘so he will soon be far
away, and you will be out of danger. Your hair is very lovely, my
lady,’ she said, as if trying to change the conversation for her
own benefit, as much as for Barbara’s; for her fear of the Emir
was considerable. Barbara smiled at her in the mirror, then
looked doubtfully at the clothes she ware.
     She loved the sun and thought nothing better, in her own
time in the 1960s, of sunburning herself in a bikini on the
nearest beach at every available opportunity. But the beach was
one thing, whereas being attired for a social engagement with
Saladin – in a brief, two-piece bathing costume affair,
embroidered with beads, the only other addition being the
transparent Turkish sleeves and trouser legs fastened at the
wrists and ankles with slim bands of gold silk – wasn’t the same at
all. She frowned uncertainly as Sheyrah bent down and slipped a
beautiful pair of pointed slippers on her, sitting back on the
floor, clapping her hands with delight.
     ‘Are you sure this is what I should wear, Sheyrah?’ she said
anxiously. The servant rose to her feet, clucking her mouth in
self-annoyance.
     ‘Of course you are right, lady,’ she said, ‘and I am the most
stupid of women to forget.’ She crossed the room, ferreted about
among some other clothes on a chest underneath the window,
then returned to Barbara triumphantly, bearing a small piece of
diaphanous silk in her hands. She fastened the yashmak behind
Barbara’s head.
     ‘Now,’ she said proudly, ‘see how you look! All men will stare
at the beauty of your eyes this night.’
     ‘But the rest of me,’ said Barbara, in a small voice. She
arched for some way to explain, conscious that in Sheyrah’s eyes,
the briefness of the costume mattered less than that the face was
covered. ‘Sheyrah,’ she said suddenly, inspiration coming to her
assistance, ‘I’m not used to this climate. You wouldn’t have me
start shivering in front of the Sultan. He might think I was afraid
of him. And besides, how am I supposed to tell him stories, when
my teeth are chattering?’
     Sheyrah shook her head, bothered by the problem.
     ‘Could I not wear the cloak Sir William bought for me?’
     ‘You may wear a cloak,’ replied Sheyrah, ‘but it must be of
better quality. I will search and find one.’ Sheyrah bustled out of
the room through a bead curtain and began to delve into
another chest, in the ante-chamber beyond. Barbara turned her
mind to the role she was going to have to play for the Sultan. At
first, the idea of relating a story to an audience had terrified her
to death, until she had realized that worrying about it was simply
making it worse. Then she had remembered the rich heritage of
the English literary world, and so many plots and ideas had filled
her brain that she hadn’t known which to choose and which to
abandon. Now she sat quietly, composing her thoughts, selecting
what she felt might divert and entertain Saladin. Shakespeare, of
course, was the very first on the list. ‘Hamlet’ she considered too
difficult to put across; ‘Romeo and Juliet’, however, seemed an
excellent blend of drama and romance. She felt, also that she
could slightly change ‘The Merchant of Venice’, making Shylock
a Syrian or an Arab to bring the story closer to Saladin’s
understanding and provide him with a character with whom he
could sympathize. As she pictured herself actually relating any of
these stories under the unwavering gaze of what she knew would
be a most critical audience, a cold, clammy hand of fear closed
around her heart, but she resolutely pushed that vision from her
mind and started to tabulate a list of authors in her mind.
     Suddenly she saw a hand appear in the archway leading to
the corridor beyond, and a tall, richly-dressed man slipped into
the room, a finger to his lips, his eyes burning with intensity.
     ‘I am Luigi Ferrigo,’ he whispered urgently, ‘and I have
come to set you free.’ He stared about the room and spotted the
figure of the servant in the ante-room, sorting through the
clothes.
     ‘Who sent you?’ asked Barbara, a wild hope surging through
her, mostly that she would be released from the role of
storysteller she was inwardly dreading so much. ‘Was it Sir
William?’
     Foreign nodded quickly. In his right hand, he held a pair of
gloves; on the back of each was embroidered a snake picked out
with a series of small pearls. He laid them down on the table,
gesturing urgently with both his hands to lend force to his
persuasion.
     ‘I have a horse for you in the stable, and a guide to take you
to Jaffa. But you must come at once!’
     Barbara nodded and got silently to her feet, then thought of
the flimsiness of her costume.
     ‘I’ll need a covering of some kind,’ she pleaded. The
Genoese pursed his lips then swung the heavy dark cloak from
his own shoulders and wrapped it around her.
     ‘Come!’ He snatched up his gloves, urging her through the
archway, with a last look back at the servant to make sure she was
still occupied. Hastily but without any signs of panic, he
conducted her through a series of corridors, keeping as much to
the shadows where possible, stopping sometimes and listening;
his head bent forward as he searched with acute hearing to find
if danger lay around a corner. Once they slipped past a Saracen
guard, who stood half asleep, leaning on a lance – and just
before they reached the head of a small stone stairway which, the
man whispered to Barbara, led down to the stables. They had to
negotiate themselves past an open doorway of a well-lit room,
from within the depths of which they could both distinguish the
sounds of several men talking. The merchant risked a look in
and, satisfied that the men were heavily engaged in a game of
chance, hurried Barbara across and down the flight of stairs.
     Breathing rather heavily, he held her back with one arm as
he peered out of the archway which led out to a small street, on
the other side of which was a half-open door leading to the
stables. He glanced anxiously up at the moon, which rode high
in the cloudless sky.
     ‘Stay here,’ he breathed, ‘and run across to that door when I
call.’ Barbara nodded, and he stepped out boldly, turning his
head quickly from right to left. She watched him walk across to
the little door, push it open and then look back at her. Even
before he could open his mouth, she clutched the cloak around
her tightly and ran across to join him. He closed the door behind
her, took her by the arm, gently but firmly, and led her to the
other end of the stables. The horses tethered in their stalls stared
at the hurrying couple as they went by, the pride of the Grand
Sultan’s collection, each one as black as pitch, with coats that
rippled and gleamed in the moonlight filtering through the
small windows high up on the side walls.
     ‘Your guide should be at the other end of the stables,’
whispered Ferrigo, ‘the horses ready for immediate departure.’
     ‘How can I ever thank you,’ said Barbara gratefully. Ferrigo
smiled at her, and it was at that moment that a tiny icicle of
suspicion formed at the back of her neck, sending little droplets
of shivers down her spine. She heard the and of footfalls behind
her, watched the smile grow on Ferrigo’s lips, the eyes narrowing
with expectancy, watched almost with fascination as his tongue
appeared and ran over his top lip. Her heart started to beat
faster, certain now that she had been betrayed in some way, and
she took a step to one side. A hand gripped hold of her arm and
twisted it behind her cruelly and the face of El Akir was thrust
into hers, the livid scar suddenly picked out by a shaft of moon-
light, heightening it and making it a symbol of terror.
     In a few seconds, the Emir had tied a piece of cloth tightly
around her mouth, while Ferrigo bound her hands in front of
her with a piece of rope El Akir produced from his belt. She
made no attempt to struggle but just stood listlessly, while the
two men made her helpless, the heavy weight of despair robbing
her of any resistance, any thoughts of escape. El Akir led her to
where two horses had been brought just inside the stable doors.
     ‘You have settled my terms?’ inquired Luigi Ferrigo sharply.
El Akir lifted Barbara up on to her horse, and then mounted his
own, holding both reins in his left hand. He lent across, slipped a
rope through those securing Barbara’s hands and looped the
other end around his right wrist.
     ‘I have arranged your audience with the Sultan and his
brother. You are to dine with them tonight.’
     Barbara turned her head and stared down at the merchant
contemptuously, wondering how he could hand over the body
and soul of a human being for such a trivial reason.
    As if he read her thoughts, Luigi Ferrigo turned away as the
Emir urged the horses to a gallop so swiftly that the impetus had
Barbara grabbing desperately for the long mane of her steed.
    Luigi Ferrigo staggered backwards as the horses shot away, a
cloud of dust spraying up and covering part of his robe. With a
muttered curse, he reached for the gloves at his belt, intending
to brush himself. He stared at the single glove in his hand,
wondering where its fellow was. He started to go back on his
tracks, his eyes bent on the ground, searching out every dark
corner.
    The two horses galloped away from the Palace through the
town of Ramlah, startling the few people who were in the streets
and making them step into doorways and press themselves
against the walls. One look at the hard, set face of the Emir, bent
forward low over his mount, urging every inch of speed out of it,
was enough to make them turn their faces away and close their
minds to questions, although some of them wondered who the
beautiful girl could be whose hair streamed out behind her.
    The horses sped out of the town and into the surrounding
country, across fields baked hard in the long summer, every yard
adding to El Akir’s triumph, every inch increasing Barbara’s
desperation and despair.
    Luigi Ferrigo had failed to find his glove and would have
put the affair out of his mind as a trifling matter, except that
somehow it irritated him. He was a careful man and the gloves
had been specially designed for him, and had been very costly.
More than this, he had covered every inch of the ground he had
walked, except, of course, for that part of the Palace he and
Barbara had covered so secretly. The merchant had no intention
of venturing back there again, merely to find a piece of wearing
apparel. Finally, back in his room, bored with the problem of the
missing article, he made a complete change of clothes to be ready
for his audience with Saladin and tossed the single useless glove
on to a window ledge. He stared out of the window, trying to
forget the expression in the beautiful girl’s eyes as she looked
down at him from the horse. Then a servant entered and
announced he had come to conduct him to the Great Sultan.
     All thoughts of the events of the earlier part of the evening
now fell away from him as he planned his approach, discarding
this idea, adopting another. The servant con-ducted him to a
wide archway guarded by two magnificently tall fighting warriors
of the Sultan’s own race, the Kurds, and into a large, pleasant
chamber festooned with draperies and hangings, furnished with
low couches and cushions and luxuriant carpets.
     Saladin sat on one of the couches, his brother Saphadin
standing beside him, and both the men received their visitor with
smiles and words of friendship, the Sultan gesturing to the
merchant to sit beside him. Saphadin tapped his hands together
lightly and servants carried in a long, low table upon which were
some goblets and a wine-jug, dishes of sweetmeats and fruit.
Ferrigo was most interested in the wine jug, which he guessed
was of Roman origin, probably as early as 50 B.C. He questioned
Saladin about it and the Sultan complimented him on his
knowledge.
     ‘This is an actual reminder of Gaius Julius Caesar, and his
stay in Egypt. It is one of a collection presented by the General to
Cleopatra, the Queen of Egypt, and made specially for the
occasion.’
     A servant poured some wine from the wine-jug under
discussion and handed the goblet to Ferrigo.
     ‘Now tell me,’ said the Sultan when they had tasted the wine,
‘what is your business here at Ramlah?’
     ‘I would have you imagine Europe as a great shop, Your
Highness, constantly full of customers begging for perfumes and
cloth, ivory and gold and spices. All these things have been
scarce of late.’
     ‘Because of the war,’ pointed out Saphadin.
     ‘And wars are costly,’ replied Ferrigo. ‘The sale of these
items would produce a vast profit.’
     Saladin sodded thoughtfully. ‘As you say, wars are costly.
And we are not averse to trade, merchant, nor do we turn away
from profit. But our enemies hold the coast from Acre to Jaffa.
You cannot imagine you would make the land journey, for you
would be a prey to marauders and thieves every step of the way.’
     ‘No, I have ships, Your Highness. And my information is
that Conrad of Tyre wishes to make peace with you.’
     The brothers exchanged glances.
     ‘You are well informed,’ murmured Saphadin, ‘although we
have not concluded any terms with Conrad.’
     ‘What you are seeking,’ said Saladin directly, ‘is a concession.
Is that not so?’
     The merchant inclined his head. ‘With safe conduct
guaranteed for caravans to and from the town of Tyre.’
     ‘And where is our profit in this merchant adventuring?
When the goods are sold in Genoa?’
     ‘No, My Lord. In my ships at Tyre, I have stocks of leather
harnesses and bridles for your horses, a quantity of swords and a
thousand daggers of exquisite workmanship. I also have cattle
and sheep- What I am suggesting is that these goods go against
the goods I am to receive from you, or from your allies through
your patronage and introduction.’
     Saladin thought for a moment and then rose, to his feet.
Ferrigo stood up at the same time, out of politeness, wondering
if the interview was at an end.
     ‘I like your proposition, merchant,’ remarked the Sultan,
‘but I would know more about you first. Now a matter has
occurred here in my court which you shall help me judge. In this
way, I shall see the truth of your mind and the quality of your
heart.’
     Ferrigo bowed, convinced that he was very near success.
Saphadin moved to the archway, as the servant who had
conducted Ferrigo to the Sultan’s chamber appeared. Something
was passed between them, and as Saphadin returned, Ferrigo
saw him tucking some dark object into the sleeve of his flowing
robes. Then his attention was diverted as Sheyrah was led
through the archway by a guardsman. She threw herself down
full length in front of Saladin, who bent his head near the
merchant.
     ‘This is purely a domestic matter, but since it concerns a
person who is more of your way of life than ours, your advice
will be welcome.’
     Ferrigo bowed, rather complimented at the way the evening
was progressing. The woman on the floor began to moan
pitifully, begging her master not to blame her. Saphadin ordered
her to be silent, in words that brooked no denial. The woman bit
her lips and now kneeled on the floor, bending her head down
so that it touched the carpet.
     ‘A prisoner has escaped,’ said Saladin casually, ‘a woman I
had hoped would divert my court. I had reason to believe she
was a story-teller.’
     Ferrigo suppressed the smile that itched at the corners or his
mouth. This was ironic indeed. Then he looked towards the arch
as another guard conducted in a tall, dark-haired young man,
dressed in clothes that Ferrigo recognized as English.
     ‘Now we are all gathered,’ said Saladin. He reached down
and raised the woman up slightly. ‘Tell me your name.’
     ‘Sheyrah,’ she stammered, half in a whisper.
     ‘Then listen to me well, Sheyrah! I shall not punish you if
you tell me the truth. Where is the English lady you were
serving?’
     ‘I do not know, Your Eminence, I swear I do not! She
begged me to fetch her a cloak to wear, complaining of the cold.
I went to search one out, and when I returned there was no sign
of her.’
    ‘And that is all you know?’
    ‘I swear it! I swear it!’
    ‘Very well.’ Saladin looked across at the man in English
clothes, turned his head to Ferrigo and whispered who he was.
Ferrigo nodded.
    ‘Now, Sir William, do you know nothing of this affair?’
    ‘I do not, Great Sultan,’ replied the knight firmly. ‘I would
not encourage a lady to venture out alone.’
    ‘I believe you. Not do I believe she would go by herself.’ He
looked at Ferrigo. ‘What is your opinion?’
    ‘This lady of whom you speak must have had a companion,
an accomplice who helped her escape.’ He was glad to see the
gleam of approval in the Sultan’s eyes.
    ‘Yes, that is indeed possible.’
    ‘But improbable,’ broke in Sir William. ‘She had no gold
pieces, or coin of any kind. Neither did she have any jewellery.
This woman will tell you that I had to buy her a cloak to cover
her.’ Sheyrah nodded in confirmation. ‘So you see, she had no
way to bribe any of your people to aid her escape,’ continued the
Knight. ‘I cannot believe that in the short time she was here she
made such firm friendships that they would break their loyalty to
you, Sultan, and help her.’
    ‘I like the way you reason,’ murmured Saladin. ‘Let us
establish the facts we know of this mystery. The prisoner could
not escape by herself, could not bribe her way to freedom.’ He
turned to the Genoese merchant again, as if for his opinion.
    ‘I confess myself defeated,’ said Ferrigo, assuming a frown of
concentration.
    ‘Come, merchant, come! Is there not another reason to
explain this woman’s sudden disappearance?’
      Ferrigo rested one arm upon another, his left hand to his
chin, apparently deep in thought. Finally he shook his head.
      ‘No, Your Highness, I cannot unravel this problem.’
      Sir William said, ‘She was abducted,’ and Saladin nodded.
      ‘Yes, Sir William, your mind is sharp. It was not a friend she
had made in my court, but an enemy.’
      ‘El Akir!’
      ‘The same. But he was not alone. He could not tempt her
from the safety of her room. Someone else must have led her to
the Emir.’ He looked down at Sheyrah thoughtfully, and she
shook her head vehemently.
      ‘It was not me,’ she wailed, tears rolling down her face, ‘I
warned her of the Emir, El Akir. I liked the foreign lady...’
      Saladin held up his hand and stemmed the flow of words. ‘I
believe you, Sheyrah. Tell as what you discovered in the room,
after the prisoner had vanished.’
      Luigi Ferrigo watched, with a horrid fascination, as Sheyrah
produced a glove from the folds of her garments. As if in slow
motion, Saladin reached out a hand and took it from the woman
on her knees and held it up in front of his eyes. Suddenly his
eyes darted towards the merchant, and they were as cold and
hard as black pebbles on a beach.
      ‘Is this your glove?’ he asked in a merciless voice. The
question seemed to hang in the room, and every face was turned
towards the merchant. A nerve began to beat in his throat and he
felt the sweat start out on his forehead.
      ‘No. No, it is not. Of course it is not,’ he stammered,
incapable of seeing a way out of the trap the Sultan had laid for
him. Dimly he saw Saphadin produce another glove and hand it
to his brother, who placed the two together and matched them
as a pair.
      ‘Then why did we find the one that pairs with it in your
room?’
    Sir William took three steps across to Ferrigo, shot out his
hands and gripped him around the throat, forcing him to his
knees.
    ‘You vile, treacherous dog! Where is she?’
    He shook the hapless man violently, and then threw him
down to the ground in disgust.
    Saladin said, ‘We know where your friend has been taken.’
Sir William swung round and faced the Sultan, the question
trembling on his lips.
    ‘El Akir has gone, and so have two horses from the stables.
Questions will be asked in the town, but I have no doubt that the
Emir has abducted her and taken her to his palace at Lydda.’




    ‘Will you send after her and demand that she be returned?’
    Sir William stared at Saladin as he shook his head.
    ‘But why? Why not?’
    ‘Because she is just one woman, Sir William. El Akir, for all
his villainies, is an ally. He commands an army upon which I
may have to rely in time of battle. I cannot quarrel with him until
his use to me is over.’
     Sir William immediately started to plead with the Sultan to
reconsider and Luigi Ferrigo, seeing that they were occupied,
and realizing it might be his one last chance, suddenly sprang to
his feet and ran towards the archway.
     What vain hopes he had of rushing past the guards he knew
would be outside the chamber, making his way to the stables,
stealing a horse and fleeing from danger: no one can estimate.
Desperation born of fear forced him to act without proper
thought. A single, unhurried shout by Saphadin brought one of
the guards into view in the archway, his curved sword ready for
command. Saphadin brought his hand down sharply, just as the
merchant tried to slip past the guard, and with a swift circular
motion the sword flashed through the air and struck down at
Ferrigo, cutting deeply into the base of his neck. With a scream
of pain, he fell out of sight of the watching men, around the
corner of the archway. The guard took one short step and the
sword was raised again. There was a piteous cry for mercy and
then a half strangulated gurgle as retribution struck again,
ending the life of a man who had lived by treachery and deceit.
     The death of Luigi Ferrigo brought little satisfaction to Sir
William in the long hours that followed. Other matters
concerned the Sultan and his brother, Saphadin; there were
incredible rumours that King Richard had offered his sister
Joanna in marriage to Saphadin to bring the war to a speedy
conclusion and achieve with peace what a trial of arms had failed
to win, so the Knight was left to his own devices. His life was not
unpleasant, for such was Saladin’s chivalry that it was natural for
him to command that Sir William was well treated. Daily exercise
was permitted, food and all manner of delicacies were provided
and the rooms set aside for his use in the Palace were well
furnished and comfortable – but shadows appeared under his
eyes and his face became thin and strained, sleep was difficult
and relaxation impossible, for the Knight constantly tortured
himself with a thousand horrific fears for Barbara in the hands of
the vicious enemy who had seized and carried her off. Somehow
he couldn’t rid himself of the thought that if only he hadn’t
agreed to let her aid him in his pretence of being King Richard,
all her troubles might have been voided. Daily he sought such
company as he was allowed, men-at-arms and servants, the
philosophers and learned men whom Saladin loved to group
around him at his court; anyone, in fact, who was prepared to it
with him and answer his questions about El Akir. A terrible
picture emerged, which did nothing to bring him peace of mind,
for no one offered any consolation for the abducted girl, and
nowhere could he find a person who could say that the Emir had
a spark of mercy or a saving grace in his character, or remember
one single act of human kindness he had ever done.
     And then Sir William was told by his personal servant that a
representative of King Richard had arrived at Ranlah, under
personal truce, to seek the release of two prisoners. Sir William
requested he be allowed to talk to the new arrival and soon a
guard ushered in a young, well-bronzed figure who wore the
white surcoat emblazoned with the cross so proudly.
     ‘I am Sir Ian, of Jaffa,’ announced the new arrival, ‘sent by
the King to arrange your release, in company with the lady who
was captured with you.’ Ian saw how the other man’s shoulders
sagged listlessly, and a feeling of uneasiness crept over him.
     ‘She is here, Sir William, surely?’
     ‘She was here,’ replied the other, and related what had
happened, until all the buoyant hopes that had helped Ian on his
journey from Jaffa to Ramlah, began to sink in the depths of
despondency as the grim story was unfolded. The two men
stared out of the window, each fully occupied with his thoughts.
Finally, Ian turned away.
     ‘Of course, I shall go to Lydda and search for her.’
     ‘Will Saladin permit you to do that? Wander freely within his
territory?’
     ‘He cannot prevent it. I am here under personal truce, an
emissary of King Richard. I must find her, Sir William, and take
her back to Jaffa.’
     Ian looked keenly at the Knight, trying to read the
expression on his face. Eventually, their eyes met.
     ‘I hope you will find a way to settle the matter with El Akir,
at least.’
     ‘What are you afraid of? Tell me about the man.’
     ‘I could talk to you about him from now until the sun rises
again. He is a black-hearted villain, the worst kind of man alive.’
He sat down hopelessly on a small stool and leaned his arms on
his knees, a tiredness creeping into his voice, as if he were
putting into words, for the first time, thoughts that had haunted
him for too long.
     ‘El Akir is one whose pleasures are inhuman. He will not
spare his victims any humiliation his agile brain can well devise.
He is a past master in the arts of torture, not simply of the flesh,
but of the mind and soul as well. He does not kill lightly, because
he prefers to prolong suffering, pain and mental anguish. Search
into the darkest corners of your imagination, invent the worst
misdeeds you can, and still El Akir will surpass them by a
hundred-fold. All you can do, Ian, is pray that death has brought
a merciful release; for there’ll be no hope for her alive.’

    At this very moment, El Akir led Barbara’s horse over the
brow of a hill and brought both the animals to a halt, staring
down at the town of Lydda beneath them. Barbara had been
given no food or water during the journey and the sun was so
heavy on her unprotected head that she felt as if a steel band had
been fixed tightly just above her eye-brows. The whole of her
body felt weary with the enforced ride and the cords around her
wrists had bitten deeply into the flesh, making the hands numb
as the flow of blood had been stopped. She felt the Emir’s eyes
on her and she lifted her head wearily, determined to hide as
much of her suffering from him as she could. He pointed
forward towards the town with one hand, pulling cruelly on the
rope attached to her with the other. She bit her lip as a stab of
pain cut into her wrists and he grinned slightly.
     ‘There is Lydda. My army is encamped around it. A new life
is about to unfold for you.’ He leaned towards her, a glitter of
satisfaction mirrored all over his face. ‘There will be difficult
lessons to learn and hard rules to follow. You will know sorrow
and shame, sleep will be driven away by tears. You will hope to
kill yourself, or try to make me kill you. But death will be far in
the distant future, only to be given when all your colours have
faded, your spirit is crushed and your mind has nearly gone.’
     He spurred his horse with his heels suddenly with a shout of
evil joy, nearly pulling Barbara off her mount, and the two
horses galloped down the hill towards Lydda.
                 CHAPTER FIVE
               The Doctor in Disgrace
     One might have imagined that the Doctor and his ward,
Vicki, would be having a reasonably pleasant time in King
Richard’s Palace at Jaffa, and so it was for a short time after Ian
rode out with his small escort towards the direction of the
Sultan’s headquarters at Ramlah. Richard liked richness around
him, and rarely took his pleasures singly. About him were
gathered all the men of wit and good conversation available and
the Chamberlain saw that a steady supply of entertainers
provided as many different forms of entertainment as existed, all
for the diversion of the court. Meats and vegetables, fruits and
nuts, wines and delicacies of every conceivable kind poured out
of the visiting ships in the little harbour to grace the tables of the
King. For, uneasy and of no fixed duration though it might be,
peace was on hand. The armies licked their wounds and rested
their tired muscles, turning their minds to their homes and
families, their businesses, trades and crafts.
     The Chamberlain was the busiest man by far. Administrator
of the King’s court, he was tall, with an imposing manner, and
could deliver a look so cold and haughty that even the wilfully
disobedient shuddered in awe and tried to mend their ways.
Rising with the sun each day, he interviewed his various
lieutenants and dealt with the problems they brought to him
quickly and precisely. A system of runners was always in
operation between himself and wherever the King happened to
be in the Palace, so that he could leave what he was doing at any
moment and deal immediately with any request or order
Richard might require he supervise.
     As one might guess, he possessed a phenomenal memory.
Frequently, he was called upon to produce a certain entertainer
who had pleased Richard or Joanna, or one of the nobles at the
court; one who had not performed for some days. Instantly, the
Chamberlain delved into the recesses of his mind, either
knowing where such a person was to be found or who would
know. By far the greatest feat of memory he could claim was the
record of the wardrobe of the Palace, for he was often asked to
provide clothes for visitors whose entire possessions had been
stolen, quite apart from maintaining the standard of dress
necessary to the servants of the King. Thus, he always kept a
good supply of clothes of all descriptions ready for any
emergency and because he was the keeper of the Household
Purse, he watched each and every article with care and devotion.
     He was certain that the clothes worn by the three new
friends of the King were from his own wardrobe. He was not the
sort of man who made mistakes but neither was he unfair
enough to accuse without absolute proof. He descended to the
rooms where the clothes were kept and made a diligent search,
eventually satisfying himself that the clothes worn by the Doctor,
Ian and Vicki (although he thought of her, of course, as a page-
boy) were indeed identical to those now missing from his
collection. But, again, he decided against facing them with an
accusation before he had investigated the matter properly. His
search of the wardrobe revealed other articles to be missing and
his alert mind began to put a simple two to a simpler two: a thief
with light fingers– a sale and a profit. Thus he under-took a tour
of all the clothing shops in Jaffa.
     Jaffa was not so large, nor the Chamberlain so faint-hearted
that such an unenviable task should worry him. The
Chamberlain covered every stall of every shop in every street,
inevitably coming upon Ben Daheer’s establishment.
     Almost immediately, he spotted a pile of clothes of English
design and let his hands wander over them idly as he talked to
the shopkeeper, satisfying himself that they were, indeed, the
property of the Palace.
     By the force of his considerable personality, the
Chamberlain persuaded Ben Daheer to accompany him,
pretending that he could arrange for the shopkeeper’s talent for
making clothes to be brought to the King’s attention. It took no
urging for Ben Daheer to order his eldest son to watch his
establishment while he clutched so samples of cloth under his
arm and hurried to keep up with his new benefactor. The
Chamberlain led him into the Palace, through several corridors,
finally stopping in front of a heavy door. He knocked upon it,
while the man beside him straightened his clothes and wiped the
perspiration from his face, thinking he wasbeing taken directly to
the King. He was nervous and glad of the Chamberlain’s hand
on his arm. A servant opened the door.
     The Doctor, who was enjoying a meal with Vicki, looked up
with a faint air of annoyance at being disturbed. He heard the
Chamberlain order the servant from the room, watched him
close the door himself and lean against it. Ben Daheer bowed
nervously, realizing he wasn’t in the presence of Royalty and
wondering where he had met the white-haired man before.
     ‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ asked the Doctor.
The Chamberlain advanced into the room, bringing Ben Daheer
with him.
     ‘Have you ever seen this man before?’
     ‘Yes, I was trying to remember when,’ replied the
shopkeeper.
     ‘He came to your shop?’
     ‘Yes. Ah, yes, now I remember. He searched among my cloth
but found nothing that suited him.’
     The Doctor’s eyes narrowed and he regarded the
Chamberlain carefully. It was quite clear where the man aiming,
but the Doctor kept his peace for the moment was and signalled
to Vicki to keep well in the background, although he could see
she was bursting with questions. ‘Did you miss any of your
possessions after this man had visited you?’
     ‘Why, yes. Some clothes had gone.’ Ben Daheer glanced
about him nervously, remembering that the things he had
missed had been stolen clothes he had acquired from Thatcher,
the Palace servant. ‘Just a few miserable garments, Your
Eminence,’ he said indifferently. The Chamberlain walked across
to the Doctor, plucked at the sleeve nearest to him and held it
out.
     ‘Clothes like this?’
     The Doctor pulled his arm away sharply and stood up so
rapidly that his chair crashed backwards to the floor.
     ‘This is quite insufferable!’ he raged. ‘How dare you burst in
here with these insulting accusations.’
     ‘Clothes like these were stolen from the Palace...’
     ‘But how,’ interrupted the Doctor, ‘do you know these are
the same? I mean exactly. They may resemble yours.’
     ‘I am quite certain the clothes you are wearing belong to the
Palace wardrobe. We keep a large supply here, for travellers may
not be able to transport wearing apparel. It is my duty to see
those who have audience with the King are properly attired.’
     ‘So you carry a large stock of clothes, do you? How large?
How many items?’
     ‘That is beside the point,’ replied the Chamberlain angrily.
The Doctor darted out a finger, pointing it straight into the
Chamberlain’s face.
     ‘It is just the point, my friend. You have in your Palace
wardrobe shoes, buckles, stockings, cloaks, belts, hats, caps, coats,
tunics, leggings, vestments, capes – all in different colours, sizes
and designs. You dare to stand here and tell me you’re certain
these garments belong to you!’
     The Chamberlain nodded but the Doctor had seen the
momentary indecision on his face and followed up his advantage.
     ‘Where is the mark on these clothes proving they are yours?’
he said sharply. ‘Where is your bill of sale?’ The Chamberlain
opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, realizing he was
on unsure ground. The Doctor’s manner softened suddenly. He
was an eminently fair man and knew perfectly well he was in the
wrong, even if the present difficulties had been brought about by
Barbara’s abduction.
     ‘I will tell you what happened,’ murmured the Doctor,
ushering the Chamberlain to a chair. ‘My... page and I met a
rough fellow in Jaffa firm whom we bought them simple
garments. Our own clothes were in a terrible state. Now whether
this uncouth man had stolen the clothes from you first is another
matter. Have you been missing things from the wardrobe?’
     ‘Yes, without a doubt,’ agreed the Chamberlain.
     ‘Then someone in your service at the Palace is a pilferer.
Someone who has access to the wardrobe. Of course, if you are
certain these clothes I am wearing belong to you, I shall see they
are returned to you immediately.’
     Vicki breathed an inward sigh of relief as the Chamberlain’s
manner became much wanner, mentally blessing the Doctor for
wriggling out of the awkward situation. ‘Of course, my page and
I have no clothes here,’ the Doctor went on, ‘and also, it seems to
we, this honest merchant has been involved without much
proper cause. Or profit.’
     Ben Daheer, who had been following the conversation with
increasing nervousness, terrified he would be revealed as a buyer
of stolen goods, perked up his head at the sound of the word
profit and his face brightened visibly.
     ‘Since we need clothes,’ the Doctor continued per-suasively,
‘couldn’t we employ the merchant to make us outfits?’
     The Chamberlain, also conscious he had brought Ben
Daheer to the Palace on a false pretext, immediately agreed. The
Doctor smiled.
     ‘And what do you think he should be paid?’ he asked
pleasantly. The Chamberlain rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘Well,
well,’ said the Doctor, before he could reply, ‘I’ll leave it to you.
You pay him whatever you think.’
     The Chamberlain stared at the Doctor.
     ‘I? Pay the merchant?’
     ‘You are the Keeper of the Household Purse, are you not?’
     Once again, the Doctor produced a battery of argument to
support his plan, and eventually the Chamberlain held up his
hands wearily then drew out a pouch from his belt. The Doctor
took it from his hand, extracted six gold pieces from it and
handed them to Ben Daheer; returning the half-empty purse to
the defeated Chamberlain. Ben Daheer rubbed his hands over
the coins in glee and was just about to launch into a long speech
of gratitude when the Doctor cut him short.
     ‘Let us not say anything more until you have cut and
stitched our clothes. There! This tiresome business has come to a
happy conclusion for all of us.’
     He turned and grinned at the Chamberlain’s long face. ‘I
know, I know. You think that six gold pieces are too much for a
single outfit each for my page and myself. But be contented, my
dear sir. A man in my position needs all kinds of things to wear. I
shall see your six gold pieces are used in the proper way. Besides
costumes for our immediate use, this honest fellow and I will see
that I am dressed for any occasion.’
     ‘My Lord, it is obvious to me that you are extremely
important,’ said Ben Daheer, ‘but to do you justice I might well
exceed the six gold pieces you have generously showered on me.’
     The Doctor waved a hand grandly and Vicki turned away to
hide her smile.
     ‘Whatever the sum is, my good man,’ he said airily, ‘the
Chamberlain will meet it.’
     Before the Chamberlain could argue, servants in the
corridors started up a cry of his name. A servant knocked at the
door and hurried in. Ben Daheer turned and then gasped in
surprise.
     ‘It was him! He is your thief. His name is Thatcher.’
     Thatcher, the culprit, gave a shout of terror as the
Chamberlain ran after him. The Doctor put his arm around the
shopkeeper’s shoulders.
     ‘Well, well. Now that we have that little matter settled, let us
discuss the clothes you shall make for my page and myself.’ None
of them saw the Princess Joan walk past the door, hesitate for a
second and then stand in the doorway.
     ‘You will make us some fine clothes, my friend,’ the Doctor
was saying. Vicki made a face.
     ‘Must I go on pretending to be a page, Doctor? Can’t I be a
girl again? The dresses are so attractive.’
     ‘A pretty deception,’ murmured the Princess.
     In the silence that followed she walked nearer to them, as all
three bowed, looking at the Doctor seriously.
     ‘Why have you deceived us all?’
     ‘Your Highness, this is a dangerous land, and my ward is as
young as I am old. I beg of you to remember that of the four in
our party only one was young and virile and capable of any trial
of strength. It is, I confess, a trick – but one intended for the
protection of a young and innocent person, not to gain profit or
favour.’
     The Doctor bowed as he completed his speech and Joanna
smiled at him, half in admiration and half in reproof. ‘You are a
good advocate, sir, and I shall not persist in this matter. But see
that the merchant here dresses your ward in more of a feminine
fashion. Her style of clothes,’ she added ironically, ‘might upset
the even tenor of our way of life if it became known the boy was a
girl. Legs as slim and straight were meant to be covered, not
emphasized.’
     Vicki restrained any ideas that sprang into her head of
describing other fashions which occurred to her, in times long
after the Princess lived. She simply kissed the hand that Joanna
held out in affection, glad to be rid of a costume she detested.
     ‘Go with this trader,’ said Joanna gently, ‘and see that he
designs good fashions for you. You shall be company for me,
sing and learn to play an instrument.’
     Joanna watched Vicki and Ben Daheer as they bowed and
left the room, then she moved to a chair and sat down. The
Doctor gestured to some wine and a platter of fruit, and when
she refused asked if she would object if he poured himself some
of the wine.
     ‘Please continue,’ she said, ‘and seat yourself, for I wish to
talk to you.’
     ‘I’m very grateful for your interest in my ward, Your
Highness,’ the Doctor said when he had out down.
     ‘I note your gratitude. I cannot ask you to repay me, but I
have something to ask you. There’s something new in you, yet
something older than the sky itself. You give me confidence and
I value knowing you, sensing I can trust you. Yet all the while I
am aware that we have exchanged but a few brief words, and
known each other for hardly any time at all.’
     ‘Madam, your beauty alone earns my interest, if I may
venture to say such a thing. Your mind commands my respect.
Whatever I can do in your service, shall be done.’ Joanna mired
at the Doctor’s gallantry and composed her thoughts.
     ‘I am my brother’s favourite,’ she said, at length, ‘yet now I
find I am excluded from his confidence. Oh, he smiles at me and
talks of this and that; he pays me compliments and seems to
listen so intently when I talk, I might, for all the world, be
Socrates returned to gift him with a wise advice. Here at
Richard’s court, I do not play at politics. All are Richard’s men,
heart and soul, so there is no one to whom I can honestly go, nor
any who will come to me in confidence.’
     ‘Are you sure you are not imagining this change of attitude?’
asked the Doctor, rather disturbed at the position into which he
was being drawn. Richard had already exacted a promise from
Ian, Vicki and himself to keep his secret of the marriage plan
between Saphadin and Joanna. And now his sister had guessed
that something was going on behind her back.
     ‘I sense Richard has made a plan of which I am a part,’ she
said slowly, examining the Doctor’s face. He never moved a
muscle, and met her gaze blankly.
     ‘I can hardly ask the King,’ he murmured.
    ‘But if you learn anything, you will tell me?’ She en-treated
him. The Doctor rose to his feet.
    ‘Madam, if I hear of anything that is in my power to repeat
to you, I shall do to, I promise you.’
    ‘Then will you go to the King now? He is locked away with
the Earl of Leicester, and again I sense that I am the subject of
their conversation.
    ‘Madam, I cannot burst in on your brother’s private
councils,’ objected the Doctor.
     ‘But Richard wants you to be present. His messenger will
arrive here to conduct you to his presence soon, for I heard him
give the order. But when you have attended this meeting, will
you come to me and tell me if my suspicions are correct, and
what my brother’s planning holds in store for me?’
     The Doctor almost felt inclined to break Richard’s
confidence there and then, but he said nothing, sure that if he
did he would regret it.
     ‘Do I have your friendship?’ she insisted, making a direct
appeal.
     ‘Unless the King binds me to secrecy, I shall come to you
and tell you anything which might endanger or distress you.’
     He could see that Joanna wanted to press him further and
try to persuade him to go to even greater lengths for her, but at
that moment there was a knock on the door and one of Richard’s
personal servants bowed and announced that he had come to
conduct the Doctor to the King. Joanna remained seated, smiling
sadly as the Doctor bent over her hand and kissed it, and he
carried the vision of her face as he followed the servant through
the corridors. Somehow or other, he told himself, he most
wriggle out of the net of court intrigue which seemed to be
enmeshing him. His place at the court of King Richard, and
Vicki’s, was tenuous enough already, without adding fresh
difficulties. But he could see no way out for the present, and just
had to hope that either Richard would make his plans public or
that Joanna wouldn’t press him too much.
     He was ushered into Richard’s council chamber, where the
King waved him into the room. The Earl of Leicester stood
listening as the King moved about the room talking.
     ‘... and when Sir Ian is with us again,’ he was saying rather
loudly, ‘he’ll bring back William des Preaux and the answer to
my several letters. News, my Lord of Leicester! And I have great
hopes that it will favour us.’
     The Doctor knew instinctively why he had been invited to
attend this meeting between the King and his staunchest fighting
leader. Richard was nervous. A fighter himself, rather than a
politician, he had stepped into a world he did not understand,
where pacts and clauses, bargains and words were the weapons,
and he was already finding his new role a difficult one. To a man
of action, the concentration of forces, manœuvres on the field of
battle and disposition of mounted men and archers were
necessary arts. What mattered most was that there would have to
be a distinct end in view – the conflict of arms, and the fight
would either be lost or won. Richard knew the value of reserves,
the art of thrust and parry, a violent charge of mounted horse or
a deliberate feint before a major blow. But in council or political
strategy he was unhappily ill at ease and the Doctor could sense
at once that even the simple task of explaining his plans to the
Earl of Leicester was no easy matter. So Richard had brought in
the Doctor to support him, the one objective person in all his
court.
     ‘Tell me what you have in mind, Sire,’ Leicester said eagerly,
his left hand gripping the hilt of his sword. ‘A new demand of
Saladin? A new victory like Arsuf?’
     Richard looked across at the Doctor who could plainly see
something of the trepidation in his eyes.
     ‘Not this time, Leicester. I have had another thought.’
     He began to walk again, as it’ll gave him confidence, one
hand tucked into the ornamental belt around his waist, the other
rubbing the back of his neck. Finally, he made up his mind to
escape the issue no longer, folded his arms and faced the puzzled
Earl of Leicester.
     ‘I am going to give my sister’s hand in marriage to Saladin’s
brother, Saphadin. It will make an end of this war, yet achieve
our purpose all in one.’
    The Earl stared back unbelievingly, the veins knotting in his
throat, his chin hardening as he clamped his lips together. The
Doctor moved forward slowly, feeling that he must support the
King, and justify the reason for his presence.
    ‘An admirable scheme, Sire, and one deserving success.’
    Richard looked at him gratefully. The Earl’s head turned
from the one to the other, searching for the connexion between
the stranger and the King he served, not liking this new alliance.
    ‘Your Majesty cannot have considered this,’ he muttered.
    ‘I think my words were plain enough.’
    ‘Has the Princess agreed to this?’
    Richard obviously decided to ignore the aggressive manner
the Earl was adopting.
    ‘She does not know of it yet. But how can she refuse? To
know this bond will sheath the swords of half the world...? To
stem the blood, bind up the wounds and heal a host of men, and
give them lives and futures...? Now there’s marriage contract
which puts sacrifice to shame and makes a a Saint of any woman.’
    The Doctor was pleased at the force of Richard’s argument
and nodded in agreement, avoiding the unpleasant look the Earl
was directing at him.
    ‘Who gave you this idea, Sire?’ asked Leicester directly.
    ‘It came into my head.’
    ‘It’s utter madness!’
    The King stared at him coldly, but this didn’t deter the bitter
flow of words in any way.
    ‘Your Majesty, with all the strength at my command, I urge
you to abandon this pretence of peace...’
    ‘Why?’ interrupted the Doctor.
    ‘Why?’ echoed Leicester angrily. ‘I’ll tell you why! Because
we are here to fight these Saracens and destroy them, not marry
with them and make them our friends and relations.’
     ‘This is an opportunity to save the lives of men. Why won’t
you even consider it?’
     Richard stood listening as his two companions quarrelled,
thankful to be relieved of the difficulties. It wasn’t any fear of the
Earl of Leicester which made the revelation of his plan a nervous
business. Richard was afraid of no man. His great problem was
that he knew the arguments Leicester would have on his side –
for both were true fighting men – arguments for which he had, if
the truth be told, a greater sympathy than the peaceful solution
he was advocating.
     ‘I speak as a soldier!’ shouted Leicester, glaring at the
Doctor, his eyes nearly starting out of their sockets with rage.
‘Why are we here in this foreign land, if not to fight!’ He turned
to the King, emphasizing his words with a clenched fist. ‘Sire, the
Devil’s Horde, Saracen and Turk possess Jerusalem. Have you
forgotten that? We won’t wrest that city from them with honeyed
words, or smiles and artifice.’
     The Doctor said, ‘With swords, I suppose.’
     ‘Aye, with swords, and lances – or the axe!’
     A passion of fury overtook the Doctor, whose detestation for
the slaughter of war overrode all his other emotions, ‘You stupid
butcher,’ he stormed. ‘Don’t you know anything else but killing?’
     ‘Oh, you’re a man for a talk, I can see that,’ sneered
Leicester. ‘You like a table and a ring of men. A parley here,
arrangements there; documents, treaties... but when you men of
State have stunned each other with your words, we... we, the
fighting men, the soldiers, have to face it out. And some half
started morning while you speakers lie abed, armies settle
everything... giving sweat and sinew, bodies, aye! and life itself to
right the confusion of the council
     ‘I admire bravery, sir,’ murmured the Doctor mildly, ‘and
bravery and courage are clearly in you in full measure.
Unfortunately, you have no brains at all. I despise fools.’
     Leicester pulled his sword free and advanced on the Doctor.
     ‘A fool can match a coward any day!’
     Richard stepped across and smashed his clenched fist down
on Leicester’s sword arm, numbing the muscles so that the
fingers lost their strength and the weapon clattered to the stone
floor.
     ‘Do you dare flourish arms before your King?’ He spat out,
his body tense with anger. Leicester realized he had gone too far,
muttered some words of apology and rubbed his arm.
     ‘We have decided on this marriage pact with Saladin,’
continued the King, in a clipped, formal voice. ‘If it fails, my
Lord of Leicester, then, and only then, shall we have a trial of
arms. You have my permission to withdraw.’
     Leicester gave a short, curt bow and, brushing the Doctor to
one side deliberately, strode towards the door.
     ‘And, Leicester,’ murmured the King after him, ‘my sister
knows nothing of this. Remember that.’
     As soon as they were alone, Richard gave a sigh and sat in a
chair moodily.
     ‘Do you think he will accept the idea?’
     ‘He has no alternative, Sire,’ replied the Doctor. ‘It will rest
easier with him if the plan succeeds, of course.’
     ‘And it must succeed! Saphadin desires it, and Joanna will do
as I tell her. All rests with this strange enemy of mine, this
Saladin, this mixture of friend and foe. I long to hear his
decision.’ He smiled slightly at the Doctor, running a hand
through his red hair. ‘I can embrace him as a brother, or meet
him on the field as a dangerous rival. Neither of these I fear.
But, oh, how I detest the weary business of waiting.’

The two brothers who opposed Richard were considering the
proposition at that very moment in Ramtah. Saladin sat on his
favourite couch, reading the parchment which contained the
offer of the marriage, while Saphadin, who had already read it,
stood beside him. Saladin laid the document beside him at last,
smiling slightly.
     ‘A very entertaining proposition, brother.’
     ‘Why do you smile? Is it a trap?’
     ‘No, the English Malec Ric writes sincerely.’ Saladin
suddenly laughed quietly. ‘It is so guileless, it can only be
genuine.’
     ‘Think seriously about it,’ insisted Saphadin. ‘Alliance with
Joanna would give me title to much land, power over far-off
countries... a glittering empire...’
     ‘I did not know,’ interrupted Saladin gently, ‘that you were
so ambitious.’ Saphadin shifted his shoulders uneasily.
     ‘I would be the name... yours would be the voice.’
     ‘Ah!’
     Saladin glanced at his brother quizzically for a second or
two. ‘Do not look so troubled. See, I will humour you and let this
proposition go ahead.’ Before his brother could open his mouth
to thank him, Saladin tapped one finger into the palm of his
other hand, dropping his voice so that his words were attended
to carefully. ‘But listen to me well. I see this marriage plan as no
more than the end of an uneasy peace. Malec Ric is, as I say,
sincere. But his mind is like the shifting sands. If it goes ahead, I
will support it, to the hilt. But, brother, I beg of you not to rely
on it coming to this favourable end.’
     ‘Then you do think that Malec Ric is trying to make fools of
as, or trick us?’
     ‘I think this. That war is a mixture of many things. How long
the march, how short the battle. Strategy is worth a hundred
lances. Think, brother. How does this offer help us?’
     Saphadin sat down opposite his brother, giving him all his
attention. Saladin spoke with considerable logic.
     ‘Have England, France and all the rest come here to cheer a
love match? So many men-at-arms, ships, horses; with all the
armaments of war? I say this is a gesture of peace from a weary
man. But weary men can rest and rise invigorated... so you reply
softly to the letter while I call sharply to our forces. Dress
yourself in finery; I’ll see our men buckle on their swords.
Practise your love words; I’ll have our armies rehearse their war
cries. Then on the day of wedding or the day of war we’ll be
prepared.’
     What Richard would have thought if he could have
overheard this conversation is more than any man can say. He
might have admired the caution, while he welcomed the chance
of success. But in any case in a few short hours the whole grand
plan for peace was shredded into pieces and blown away. For
there was one factor the King had over-looked.
     Joanna.
     Richard had been practising sword play with one of his
friends, Hugh of Corillion, in small enclosed sun-trap within the
Palace. The exercise pleased Richard and when it was over he
stripped off his dusty clothes, damp with the sweat of his
exertions, and suffered his servants to throw sea-water over him
while he rubbed at the muscles of his arms, legs and shoulders
until they tingled. Totally refreshed, and very much at peace
with the world, he put on a loose robe that reached down to his
ankles and strolled back to his reading-room, intending to
devote the rest of the day to the tiresome dispatches from
England and the problem of his brother John, ruling there in his
place during his absence, and obviously plotting against him.
     The council chamber through which he had to pass
contained three people, but it was at Joanna he stared; the
presence of the Doctor and the Earl of Leicester only just
registering. The girl turned her head slowly as he entered and
there was a hard, fierce intensity deep inside the centre of her
eyes, which made them burn like tiny embers in an open fire.
The skin of her face was parchment white, except for two spots
of red high up on her cheek-bones. There was a flat, heavy
feeling about the room and it took no great brain-work on the
King’s part to recognize trouble. His feet slowed to a stop and for
the first time he glanced at the two men. Leicester looked
uncomfortable but strangely triumphant, while the Doctor’s face
was grave and troubled.
     ‘What’s this I hear, Richard?’ the girl said, her voice
crackling with suppressed emotion. ‘Marriage with that
heathenish man! That infidel!’
     Richard’s heart sank. ‘Joanna, there are many good
reasons...’
     ‘And when, pray, was I to hear the reasons? Afterwards? Is
this what you do – throw off your sister and then explain?’
     ‘It is expedient...’
     ‘This unconsulted partner has no wish to marry! I am no
sack of flour to be given in exchange. I am no paragraph in a
peace treaty!’
     ‘The decision has been made...’
     ‘Not by me, and never would be. Never shall be!’ Joanna
took three or four little steps towards him, the whole of her body
expressing her agitation and fury. ‘How dare you do this,
Richard!’
     He held up his hands placatingly. ‘Sister, I beg of you,
consider. The war is full of weary, wounded men. This marriage
wants a little thought from you, that’s all and then you’ll see the
right of it.’
     ‘And how would you have me go to Saphadin?’ she cried
furiously. ‘This handsome hero you’ve selected; this peerless
knight; this gentleman? Bathed in oriental perfume, I suppose.
Suppliant, tender and affectionate; soft-eyed and trembling with
adoration! Eager with a thousand words of compliment and
love!’
     She shook her head so violently, her hair became disarrayed,
some of it falling down the side of her face and spreading out
over her bodice.
     ‘But I like a different way, Richard – to meet the man I am
to wed; to talk to him, learn about his ways, his moods and
temperament; and show him mine.’
     ‘If it’s a meeting you want...’
     ‘I do not want,’ she flamed, determined not to allow him to
get his words out. ‘I will not have it!’
     ‘I urge you to accept, Joanna.’
     ‘No!’
     Richard sighed and tried another approach. ‘Very well, I
entreat you.’
     ‘No!’
     Richard took her by the arm, a new note of authority
entering his voice.
     ‘I am the King. I command you.’
     She pulled herself away. ‘You cannot command this of me.
There is a higher authority than yours to which I answer.’
     ‘Where is there any man who has more power over his
subjects?’ he said aggressively. ‘I am the King.’
     Joann said, ‘Look to Rome.’
     Richard stared at her, the awful realization of what she
implied seeping through him.
     ‘You would defy me and seek protection of the Pope?’ he
whispered.
     ‘You defy the world,’ she retorted, ‘the world we know, at
least. The very reason you are here in Palestine is the reason on
my side. Are you not here to recapture the Holy City; fight the
heathen invaders? If you marry me to one of them, Richard, you
make a pact with the Devil. No, I’ll never do it, never! Force me
to it, and I’ll turn the whole world into your enemy. Yours will
be a hated shadow, even to your family and friends. I swear that
I will demand of His Holiness that he bring down upon you the
brand of excommunication!’
     Her brother stared at her, his mouth dropping open in
astonishment.
     ‘You... you would not dare, Joanna.’
     ‘Beware, Richard. You have met your match this day.’
Joanna swept out of the room, leaving the startled, mortified
King and his two silent companions to their thoughts. Richard
sat down slowly in a chair, passing a hand over his forehead, a
dozen ideas chasing each other and his brain. Then suddenly a
pure and blinding anger drove everything from his mind. His
whole scheme lay in ruins and his personal pride had taken a
knock in the bargain, for he knew quite certainly that he could
never force the issue with his sister. He fixed his gaze
malevolently on the Doctor.
     ‘This ill-timed news,’ he growled, ‘I could have brought it to
her slowly. Who gave away my plan?’
     The Doctor took an anxious step forward.
     ‘Your Majesty, you must believe...’
     ‘Go!’ the King screamed, as that the room echoed with the
noise of his voice. ‘Get out of my sight. You are not welcome
here!’
     The Doctor bowed coldly and walked out of the room,
conscious of the smiling face of his adversary, the Earl of
Leicester. He was desperately aware that what had been a
peaceful haven, a most reliable refuge for him and Vicki, while
Ian went in search of Barbara, had now become a place full of
menace, where at any moment hands might descend and drag
the pair of them away and thrust them into some dark dungeon
from which they might never merge.
     He hurried to Vicki’s bedroom, where he found her
admiring one of the dresses Ben Daheer had had made for her,
holding it up against herself and walking about the room. She
ran to him immediately, holding it out for his approval, then fell
silent as she saw his face.
     ‘Vicki, my child,’ he said rapidly, ‘we are in the utmost
danger. We most leave Jaffa at once. Take what things you need,
put on a dark cloak and follow me.’
     ‘Why, Doctor? What’s happened?’
     ‘That infernal meddler, the Earl of Leicester, told the
Princess about King Richard’s plans to marry her to Saladin’s
brother. The King thinks I have given him away. Come along
now. We haven’t any time to waste.’
     Vicki obediently put down the dress, clipped on a cloak
which covered her page’s outfit almost completely and ran after
the Doctor. The two of them made their way hurriedly through
the Palace, taking the least-used corridors, and passing rooms
with open doorways as unobtrusively as they could.
     ‘Where are we going?’ she asked him breathlessly as they
walked out of the Palace, past the guards and into the town of
Jaffa itself. Then he stood with her in a doorway. ‘Back to the
wood, my dear,’ he said grimly. ‘Back to the Tardis. We’ll be safe
there, and Chesterton is a man with his wits about him. He’ll
realize that’s where we are and follow us with Barbara.’
     He turned and looked back at Richard’s palace. He watched
as a servant can out and spoke to one of the guards outside,
asking him some question or other. The guard nodded and
pointed to the direction he and Vicki had taken. The servant
then began to run back into the Palace, as fast as his legs would
carry him. The Doctor stepped swiftly out of the doorway,
urging Vicki round a corner, into a side street.
     ‘That servant was asking if we’d left the Palace, wasn’t he?’
the girl said, half running to keep up with the Doctor’s long
strides.
     ‘Yes, my dear, I’m afraid you’re probably right. But we’ll be
safe in the Tardis, I promise you. If we ever get there,’ he added
under his breath.
                 CHAPTER SIX
              The Triumph of El Akir
     Haroun ed Diin had overheard the news that El Akir was
returning to Lydda, and now he crouched on top of a half-
ruined building of that town, alerted at the sight of the two
horses galloping fast down the hillside. He eased his cramped
muscles, for he had been waiting for nearly four hours, since he
had learned the news about his hated enemy’s expected arrival,
wanting every part of him to respond to action when his brain
commanded. The two horses swept out of sight for a moment
behind a grove of trees, and the waiting man picked up the bow
and arrow which lay on the flat roof beside him, wondering who
the other rider with El Akir was, how it concerned his plans. He
looked now at the entrance gates to the Emir’s Palace. Guards
were already running (he could see quite clearly over the white
walls which enclosed the Palace grounds) and in a moment the
great doors were swung open. Haroun noted the guards. Two
now taking up positions outside, three more within, while a
Captain superintended - six altogether. He wondered whether it
was going to be possible to shoot his arrow at El Akir and make
his retreat, and ran over his escape route once again in his mind.
     The roof of the house upon which he lay, hiding behind a
three-foot parapet which ran all the way around its four sides,
adjoined, behind him, to another. He planned to cross the
rooftops, swing down on a knotted rope he had secured firmly to
the adjoining house, run across a small alley-way and lose
himself in the tangle of houses and shops on the other side. It
was getting across that alley that was going to be the most
dangerous.
     Haroun picked up the bow and fitted the shaft to it carefully.
The only reason to be alive, after he had killed El Akir, was his
youngest daughter Safiya. If they caught him... well, they would
catch him and kill him and that would be the end, and Safiya
would have to fend for herself. There was no question of his
putting off his plan. He’d already had to wait for nearly a year.
     The two horses came into view again and the man on the
roof picked out the details of El Akie’s travelling companion: the
costume, the way she dung to desperately to the horse and the
ropes binding her hands. So El Akir had found himself another
victim, thought Haroun. Again the two horses disappeared as
they entered the outskirts of Lydda and houses intervened, and
now me the most difficult part. Haroun dared not show himself
above the parapet in case one of the guards spotted him and
gave the alarm. He had to trust to his ears to tell him when the
horse brought El Akir near enough for him to be a certain target.
He lay down patiently, tensing his legs slightly.
     The sound of the horses’ hooves came nearer, riding fast up
the street. Haroun edged his head upwards and risked a look
over the parapet. He had judged the time absolutely, except that
El Akir had now drawn his prisoner’s hone parallel with his, so
that the girl’s body was accidentally interposed. Haroun decided
he must take every possible chance and sat up, clearly in view to
anyone who cared to look upwards, but the guards were busy
concentrating on the Emir’s arrival, bunching now in the gates.
     El Akir jumped off his horse and Haroun raised the bow, but
again, as if Fate were determined to interfere, one of the guards
moved and made the target impossible. Haroun ground his teeth
in anger and then forgot his own vendetta for the moment. El
Akir had hold of a rope tied to his prisoner’s wrists and he
deliberately wrenched on it, as that the girl was pulled off her
mount and sent crashing to the hard, sunbaked earth. The
guards laughed as the girl shook her head wearily and, although
obviously dazed by the fall, tried to pick herself up. She was
almost on her feet when she staggered and fell again, lying still
this time, a pathetic, crumpled heap on the ground. Haroun felt
a rush of pity for the unfortunate girl – then remembered his
reason for being where hew and watched furiously as El Akir
walked through the big gates and disappeared out of sight,
flanked by three of his guards and the Captain. Before he went,
he ordered the remaining two soldiers to bring the girl.
     Haroun let go of the bow and arrow in disgust and was just
about to retrace his steps to safety when he noticed the girl make
a tiny movement with her head and realized that she was only
shamming unconsciousness. The two guards were obviously
making some joke about her, probably to do with the treatment
she could expect from their master. He watched as the two men
strolled over to the girl, one moving towards her feet, the other
bending down to take hold of her bound wrists. Suddenly, with a
speed and an agility which almost took Haroun’s breath away,
the girl kicked out with her feet into the face of the guard behind
her and simultaneously dug her fingers into the other guard’s
face. Both men fell and in an instant she was on her feet,
running for all she was worth.
     In a second, Haroun bent double and ran across the roof,
leaving the bow and arrow where they were for another time. He
crossed to the other house to where he had fixed his rope and
was just in time to see the girl running down the little alley-way
with the two soldiers in hot pursuit.
     He stood, crouched beside his rope now, wondering if the
men would notice it, urging the girl silently on as she rushed
towards the very passage-way he had marked down for his own
flight, her tightly-bound hands held out in front and her hair
flowing behind her. She had long since lost her yashmak and
Haroun could see the cruel gag which stretched her mouth
open. He saw the loose stone ahead of her and almost shouted to
warn her, but in a second her foot had caught on it and she fell
badly, knocking all the breath out of her body as her shoulder
struck the ground. The two guards, who had seen their quarry
almost disappear into the safety of the maze of houses, their
brains shuddering at what their master would do to them, gave a
shout of joy and ran towards her.
     Haroun swung himself up to the little parapet and launched
himself into the air. His two feet struck the guards equally, right
in the centre of each of their backs, sending them both
staggering with the force of the unexpected attack. Haroun fell
to the ground, rolled and jumped to his feet, conscious that the
girl was staring at him in astonishment. He rushed over to the
dazed men, who had bumped into each other and fallen into an
untidy heap, heaved them up and banged their heads together
violently, watching in satisfaction as they rolled away and lay still.
He moved over to the girl and gently brought her to her feet.
     Barbara stared at her rescuer curiously as he untied her
hands and removed the gag from her mouth. She saw a strong,
compact man of just over six foot, poorly dressed in patched
clothes. Yet, for all his poverty of dress, there was a certain
dignity and bearing about him; and while lines of deep sadness
had cut their way into his face, his eyes had a genuine humour.
Barbara guessed his age to be in the early forties. Instinctively
she felt she could trust him.
     He took her by the arm firmly and guided her through the
passage-way, hurrying her through this arch and down that
turning, until her sense of direction floundered. ‘I am Haroun
ed Diin,’ he told her.
     ‘Thank you for helping me. But why did you?’
     ‘We have a common enemy in El Akir. It makes for
uncommon friendship.’
     ‘Where are we going?’
      ‘To safety. My daughter, Safiya, will give you something to
eat and drink. Then you will sleep, restfully, knowing that I am
on guard.’
      ‘Something to drink sounds marvellous,’ she said gratefully.
      ‘It will help to wash away the taste those carrion must have
left in your mouth.’
      Barbara noticed that they were moving into a much poorer
and more depressing part of the town. Where before the
occasional people they had passed had eyed her curiously, now
the glances were bolder, sharper, much more inquisitive. The
dwellings were more tightly packed, making a rabbit warren of
alleys and corridors.
      ‘Since Lydda has been in the grip of El Akin; Haroun told
her, ‘all manner of people are poor. But in the Old Quarter,
where we are now, the sweepings of the area are gathered.
Thieves, villains, cut-throats, these are my neighbours – some of
them my friends.’
      ‘Yet you are not one of them?’
      He shook his head, a wry smile on his face. ‘Not truly,
although I have adopted some of their ways this last year. There
is one consolation. El Akir’s soldiers do not come to the Old
Quarter.’
      He drew her through an old, crumbling archway and up a
winding flight of stone stairs, the steps worn down by many feet.
His hand at her elbow he guided her carefully, pointing out the
pitfalls, helping her where the stones were damaged.
      Finally, he stopped at a door upon which he knocked once,
paused and knocked twice again, pushed it open and led her
into a small hallway, composed of three blank walls in a bad state
of repair and an arched entrance covered with a curtain of
beads. He stepped over to the arch and held the strings of beads
aside, gesturing to her to enter.
      ‘My poor house is yours,’ he said softly.
     Barbara walked through and found quite the opposite to
what she had expected, for the room beyond was beautifully
clean (although she had anticipated this, at least, from her
estimation of the man) and furnished well. The carpet under her
feet was soft and so far beyond his means that she wondered if it
were stolen. And yet she put the idea out of her head, because
Haroun didn’t seem to fit the role of thief, even in the face of his
having said he had borrowed some of even his neighbours’
habits.
     A girl opened a door and walked into the room and Haroun
went to meet her, taking her hands and kissing her on the
forehead.
     ‘This is my daughter, Safiya.’
     She was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with a slender figure
and a beautiful heart-shaped face, physically a perfectly-formed
woman, yet with the innocence and mannerisms of a child, and
her pleasure at seeing Barbara was one of completely unaffected
delight. She ran over and hugged her, and Haroun gave
Barbara a grave smile above his daughter’s head.
     ‘Safiya welcomes company other than mine.’
     ‘Oh, Father, that is not true! You know I love you dearly.’
She looked up into Barbara’s face, for she stood less than five
feet. ‘But I do hope your visit will be a long one. For a moment,
Father, I thought you had found Maimuna.’
     Haroun’s face suddenly revealed a tremendous sadness, and
he turned away.
     ‘No, I have had no fortune with my search today, Safiya.’
The girl disengaged herself from the embrace and led Barbara
to a couch, chattering about her thoughtlessness in keeping
Barbara on her feet, and asking her if she would like something
to eat and drink.
     ‘Yes, bring our guest some refreshment. Treat her as you
would a close cousin, daughter. And bring clear water, as well as
wine,’ said Haroun.
     ‘Yes, Father,’ Safiya replied obediently. She took Barbara’s
hands and examined the weals on her wrists with dumb horror,
her eyes widening and filling with tears.
     ‘They look much worse than they are,’ said Barbara gently.
     ‘I’ll prepare some food, and then we must bathe them – I
have some salve which I shall spread on your wounds as soon as
you have eaten.’ She looked up at Barbara. ‘You have not told
me your name,’ she said timidly.
     ‘Barbara.’
     The girl kissed Barbara’s hands and ran out of the room.
Haroun drew up a stool and sat down.
     ‘Haroun, I don’t want to make trouble for you and your
daughter. You’ve done more than enough for me already,
getting me away from El Akir’s men.’
     He held up a hand as she spoke. ‘I am in constant danger,’
he said seriously. ‘A man who seeks vengeance always is. For I
have sworn to take the life of him who has destroyed all that I
hold most dear.’
     ‘El Akir?’
     ‘Yes, that vile and evil creature. Last year I lived some eight
days’ ride from here, in a prosperous little town, near the river
of Litani. I had a reputation as an honest trader, organizing
caravans from the coastal towns of Tripoli and Beirut to Syria
and Egypt. At that time I was accounted rich, but my real wealth
lay in a gentle, devoted wife, a son who honoured and obeyed
me and two daughters who adorned whatever place they visited.
We lived in a fine house, filled with laughter and happiness.’
     Barbara sat quietly, giving the man every scrap of her
attention. He spoke undramatically, not colouring his words with
any undue emphasis or emotion, as if he were relating events
which had occurred to someone else.
     ‘One day,’ he continued, ‘to that town of Selnik where I
resided with my family, El Akir came to trade. He and his men
had captured a Venetian ship that had gone aground near the
coastal town of Sidon, which lies between Beirut and Tyre. He
boasted how he had crept down to the beaches, slain the sailors
who were trying to save the ship’s cargo, and transported the
stolen goods overland. The prices he asked were four times as
much as the good were worth and of the first three traders he
visited two he slaughtered and one he had beaten so badly he
was crippled for life – for all three refused to do business with
lam. Then he came to me. I had been warned about the man,
and called out my friends and servants. Together we disarmed
his men and drove them from the town. El Akir we carried,
ignoring his screams for mercy, and dropped him in the River
Litani and made him a laughing-stock. Hundreds lined the bank
as the villain splashed and spluttered.’
     ‘You should have killed him then,’ said Barbara.
     ‘Perhaps, but at that time the punishment seemed the right
one.’
     The rattling of cooking utensils and the pattering of Safiya’s
feet in the kitchen broke the silence that fell between them.
Barbara waited, knowing she must hear the end of Haroun’s
story, realizing that perhaps he was relating it all for the first
time and that the very telling of it might help to ease his private
sorrows.
     ‘I had to leave Selnik to visit my business friends in Tripoli
and I took Safiya with me, for I believed that travel sharpened
the imagination of my children, so each one was my companion,
in rotation, on my journeys. El Akir had now collected a small
army. He descended on Selnik and burned my house, put my
wife and son to the sword, sold my servants into slavery. My
warehouses, livestock, vineyards, all were destroyed. And when
he left this death and destruction and came to Lydda he brought
my other daughter, Maimuna, with him.’
     ‘Wasn’t there anything you could do, Haroun? No law to
protect you?’
     ‘None. For the great battles take precedent over minor
incidents such as mine. So, when I learned of the tragedy this
awful man had visited upon me, I brought Safiya to Lydda,
adopted this disguise and waited my turn – I am still waiting.’
     A little shiver ran down Barbara’s back as she saw the
intensity which had crept into his eyes, making them glitter.
Then Safiya came in, bearing a pitcher of water and some plain
goblets and broke the mood. Soon the three of them settled
down to their evening meal.
     El Akir, of course, was quite unaware of the presence of
Haroun ed Diin in Lydda, or that he had become Barbara’s
unexpected ally. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten all about
the incident at Selnik, for all the women in his harem had been
taken by force and there were a considerable number of them, so
Haroun’s daughter Maimuna, even though her beauty was
considerable, represented no more than another triumph in a
chain of incidents to the Emir. He thought of them, collectively,
as the advertisement of his power, as a true fighting man might
count the number of his victories or a general add up the battles
he had won.
     As the Emir stared down at the two guards who had been
responsible for Barbara’s escape, the runaway became the
symbol of setback, and his vanity couldn’t accept such a thing.
His ingenuity had led to the girl’s abduction, right under the
nose of the Great Sultan himself. Now she had gone because of
the stupidity of two lazy, inefficient members of his Palace guard.
They had been brought before him and stuttered out the story.
A dozen men, they swore, had attacked them and carried the girl
off, each one of the men being seven feet in height and heavily
armed. El Akir didn’t waste any time considering the excuses. He
turned to the Captain of his guard.
     ‘Their punishment is your affair, Abu Talib, but see that it is
harsh. I have no use for fools.’
     Abu Talib spoke a few word and the two guards were pulled
away, screaming and protesting.
     ‘They will be flayed, master, until they reveal the real truth
of what occurred. Then they will be imprisoned... with a cask of
water.’
     El Akir studied the face of his Captain sharply and Abu Talib
smiled slowly.
     ‘The cask of water will have a large amount of salt added to
it!’
     The Emir nodded, dismissing the matter from his mind.
‘Now the girl! What has been done to bring her back?’
     ‘We have searched Lydda for her and can find nothing.’
     ‘All of Lydda?’
     ‘All but the Old Quarter, but that is a den of thieves, Your
Excellency. I would need many men.’
     ‘Take every man you require,’ shouted El Akir. ‘I want every
room in every place searched. Throw light on every shadow. Tell
the men I will pay fifty gold pieces for the woman, but tell them
she must be found.’
     Abu Talib put his right hand over his heart, bowed and
hurried away. Half an hour later, a hundred men descended on
their objective from four sides, separated into groups of twenty-
five, while another fifty men with the Captain at their head
marched to the very centre of the Old Quarter and set
themselves down in a crumbling old square, ready to strike at
any place should there be any serious resistance. Barbara awoke
to find Haroun shaking her shoulder. Immediately she heard
the distant sounds of shouts and running feet and quickly sat up
on the couch. Sofiya stood near her, trembling with agitation.
     ‘The soldiers have invaded the Old Quarter,’ Haroun said
quietly.
     ‘It’s my fault,’ she replied, shaking the sleep from her head.
‘They’ve me to search for me:
     ‘You will be safe here. I have a hiding-place.’
     He turned and nodded to his daughter, who ran obediently
to one of the walls and tugged on a rope which hung from the
ceiling. Barbara watched as part of the wall moved outwards,
revealing a small cubby-hole. Sofiya stepped inside it and melted
into the shadows.




     ‘There isn’t room for three of us in here,’ Barbara objected.
Haroun took out the knife he wore in his belt and held it out to
her.
     ‘I go out into the streets, my lady. I shall find a way the
soldiers have not discovered, return and conduct you and Safiya
through their lines. But take this knife. If you are careful, no one
will discover you. But should the soldiers search too diligently,
Safiya must not fall into their hands.’ Barbara stared at the knife
in her hands, a feeling of horror invading her.
     ‘Kill her?’ she whispered. Haroun nodded grimly. ‘Yes, and
then yourself.’
     ‘No!’
     ‘You must,’ he insisted, closing her hand around the hilt.
‘Maimuna lives, in degradation and misery. Sofiya must not
know that sort of future.’
     ‘I couldn’t do it, Haroun, I couldn’t!’ she whispered
helplessly.
     ‘You would not let them take Safiya?’
     ‘No.’
     ‘You know what El Akir is like?’
     She gazed up at him, a mute appeal in her eyes, finding no
remorse in his for what he was asking of her, no single indication
he would ever change his mind. He laid a hand on top of her
head, gazing at her steadily, as if to transmit his purpose to her
both mentally and physically. Then he turned on his heel and
left her.
     Safiya crept out of the opening and ran to Barbara, pulling
at her sleeve urgently.
     ‘Come, Barbara, I beg of you. We most hide. See, we have
the hiding-place, and Father has left a knife to defend ourselves
with.’
     Barbara let herself be led across the room and through the
opening in the wall. Safiya pulled on a handle and closed the
door, pushing a piece of wood through the handle so that the
door couldn’t be opened from the outside. The two girls then
sank down on the cushions which covered the floor – placed
there for just such an emergency – the older one putting her
arms around the younger, while the sounds in the streets below,
although fainter to them because of their enclosure, actually
began to get closer.
     Haroun ed Diin slipped out of his front door and ran silently
down the worn steps towards the shouts and the cries. He had
abandoned his shoes and left them in the little hall, needing
every possible protection silence could afford.
     But he was unfortunate. He ran straight into a body of
soldiers at the bottom of the stairs and, before he could stop
himself, they saw him. He tried desperately to turn and go back
the way he had come, but it was too late. One of the soldiers
crashed the hilt of his sword on the unlucky man’s head and
Haroun staggered to one side and fell through a window,
smashing the rickety shutters and plunging into the room
beyond. The soldiers peered in after him, ready to put down any
resistance, but when they saw his still body lying amidst the
debris of the shutters, they moved away laughing, walking up the
stairway, hammering on any doors they came across and
breaking them down if they weren’t immediately opened. The
same thing was happening throughout the Old Quarter.
Sometimes a man would join up with one or two friends and
wage a running battle but the soldiers were too many and too
well armed.
     The two girls suddenly froze into absolute stillness as they
heard a thunder of fists on the outer door, then a splintering of
wood as it was kicked in violently. Then there was a rustle and
clicking as the bead curtain was disturbed and two voices started
talking very close to the hiding-place.
     ‘You take the others and search higher up. I will make sure
no one concealed in the rest of this place.’
     ‘Very well,’ said the other voice, ‘but if you find the woman,
remember we have agreed to share the Emir’s reward.’
     Once again the bead curtain was disturbed. Barbara listened
as footsteps moved across the room into the kitchen. She gripped
hold of the knife in her hands, hoping against hope that the men
would not be too careful and start examining the walls. She knew
if they did that they would be bound to discover the cracks made
by the secret door. A piece of crockery smashed to the ground in
the kitchen, and Safiya clutched hold of Barbara, snuggling up
against her in fright.
     For the third time, Barbara heard the movement of the bead
curtains, as the other man returned.
     ‘There is nothing above,’ the voice announced. ‘Nothing
here, either. You know, whoever lives here has a rich taste. Look
at this carpet.’
     ‘Stolen, I shouldn’t wonder.’




    ‘Then let’s light a torch and burn the place. No reason why
the villain should enjoy his crimes.’
    The two men laughed.
    Barbara put her lips close to Safiya’s head.
    ‘Crouch up against the corner,’ she whispered.
    ‘What are you going to do, Barbara?’
     ‘Now stay here, Safiya. Do as I tell you! Lock the door after
me, but as soon as I’ve gone, go out in the streets and find your
father, for they may set light to the house. If you stay here you’ll
burn to death or suffocate.’
     Barbara moved quietly to the piece of wood securing the
door and withdrew it slowly. Then she pushed the door and
stepped into the room. The two men, fortunately, had their
backs to her, busily heaping cushions and some fabric they had
found on the couch, intending to set light to it. Barbara moved
quickly to the doorway then turned so that she stood with her
back to the bead curtain. Then she disturbed it sharply. When
the two men looked round, they saw, to all intents and purposes,
a girl who had just entered the room. One of them sprang up
and gripped her by the wrist.
     ‘Where did you come from?’ he grated.
     ‘I... I was on the roof.’
     The other guard walked over and took hold of her other
     ‘By the Prophet! I believe this is the woman for whom we are
searching,’ he said, in delight. ‘But you were not an the roof, for
I would have seen you.’
     ‘I was hanging by my hands, down the other side of the
building,’ said Barbara contemptuously. ‘You were so quiet in
here, I thought you’d gone.’
     ‘Well, we have you now,’ said the first guard.
     ‘What about this place? Shall we set fire to it?’
     ‘What for? This is our business, and there’s money here.
But, Selim, let us be careful.’ He dropped his voice and looked at
his companion conspiratorially. ‘The others may try to take her
from us.’
     ‘Yes, that’s true,’ replied the other anxiously. ‘Let us get her
down as secretively as we can, and hurry her to the Palace.’
     The two men bustled Barbara out of the room, out of the
building and ran with her down the stone stairs outside, each
one holding on to her arms tightly.
     They passed the shattered window which the unfortunate
Haroun had been knocked through, just as he was picking
himself wearily to his feet. He was just in time to see the three
figures disappearing down the steps and turning a corner at the
bottom, identifying Barbara grimly. He wiped a trickle of blood
that seeped down his face from a cut on his head. And then he
shrugged wearily, clambered out of the window and made his
way up to the room, a desperate fear in his heart for Safiya. As
soon as she recognized his quiet voice, she flung open the secret
door and embraced him, tears rolling down her cheeks in an
agony of unhappiness, stammering out the story of how Barbara
had deliberately sacrificed herself to stop the men setting the
place on fire.
     Haroun patted her head and comforted her as best he could,
resolving now to force an issue which had lain too heavily on his
heart for so long, the name of El Akir echoing and re-echoing in
his head like the steady beat of a drum, until the name became
not just the title of his enemy but seemed to be the incarnation of
every evil under the sun.
     Swiftly and silently, the two guards conveyed their captive
through the Old Quarter of Lydda, stopping and hiding
whenever they came across any other soldiers. Soon they moved
into the better part of the town and it was all Barbara could do to
keep up with them as they raced through the streets, each one
gripping hold of an arm, pulling her forcefully along between
them.
     Then, gasping and panting for breath, they raced into the
palace, through the great entrance gates, past startled guards
and into the vast entrance hall of the Palace itself. Up a curving
flight of marble stairs and down a long corridor they rushed her,
until her feet could respond no longer. So great was the pain in
her lungs and so sharp the agony of her leg muscles that she
sagged and allowed herself to be dragged along. Finally they
burst into a room and El Akir jumped up to his feet, at first
enraged at such an arrogant intrusion by common soldiery.
Then, when he saw their captive, he put his hands on his hips
and gave forth a huge burst of laughter, throwing back his head
and filling the room with the sound of malevolent joy. The two
eager and excited soldiers dragged her over to their master and
dropped her. She rested painfully on her knees, breathing as
deeply as she could to ease the stitches in her side.
     El Akir bent down suddenly and grasped her face cruelly
with his right hand. Barbara shook her head away from him,
brought her hand up swiftly from the ground and slapped him
across the face as hard as she could. He stepped back, stunned
with the force of the blow, then a smile twisted his mouth.
     ‘This defiance promises well for me. It means it will take a
long time to make you scream for pity.’ His voice dropped
quietly, a shudder of pleasure running through him and Barbara
felt a quiver of fear.
     ‘I shall sit here and devise some entertainment for you. Take
her to the harem,’ he ordered the two guards, throwing them a
purse from his belt. ‘She will learn a little of what to expect from
the other women there.’ He turned his black, fathomless eyes to
Barbara’s again. ‘But nothing will be so bad, so painful, so
shaming, or so terrifying as what is to happen to you.’
     For the first time in her life, Barbara fainted.
                  CHAPTER SEVEN
                   The Will of Allah
Ian left the small retinue which had accompanied him from Jaffa
with strict instructions to sound out as much as they could about
Saladin’s opinion of King Richard’s marriage proposals between
his sister and the Sultan’s brother, urging them to remember
every detail and make the return to Jaffa as speedily as possible.
Ian had already discovered that Saladin would not exchange Sir
William des Preaux at any price, a point about which the Saracen
leader was totally adamant. However, he promised that the
Knight would be well treated and that he would reconsider his
decision at some future date, and with that Ian had to be
content. Saladin, did, however, lend a most favourable ear to
Ian’s plea for permission to follow El Akir and rescue Barbara.
Much as he might not wish to quarrel with a potential ally,
Saladin had no objection to a third party intervening, though he
confessed that Ian stood very little chance on his own. His acute
sense of judgement told him that Ian would have to be forcibly
restrained, so he ordered that a clearance be given to him to
travel unmolested to Lydda, plus a declaration that Ian and ‘the
lady, Barbara’, should have a safe journey back to Jaffa.
     ‘I give you these passes,’ he told Ian, ‘because I admire your
bravery and courage, Sir Ian. Secondly, the lady Barbara had
believed she was under my protection and I would have that
belief honoured. Lastly, El Akir has presumed upon my situation
in this war, and his value to me in it, and I would have that
rectified. His main army, of four thousand men, it is true, is
placed with the body of my fighting men in front of Jerusalem,
but he has a personal guard in Lydda of several hundred. One
thing and one thing alone can bring success to your enterprise...
the Will of Allah.’ He smiled at Ian wryly.
      ‘But of course, you are a Christian, and my words mean
nothing to you.’
      ‘On the contrary, Your Highness, if you will forgive my
contradicting you, the names and the phrases differ but the
purpose is the same in all races of intellect and culture. You say
“the Will of Allah” where we would say “the Hand of God”.’
      ‘I see you have made some study of the subject, young man, ’
murmured Saladin approvingly, ‘but surely the conflict still
remains? The gulf between our separate faiths is too wide to be
bridged by such a simple explanation.’
      ‘I have a friend, a very wise, well-travelled man who spoke to
me on the subject of religions once. In the West, three main
streams dominate: Mohammedanism, Judaism and Christianity.
In the East, the Hindu, the Buddhist and the Moslem rival
Janism, Sikhism, Parsee and Shinto. But what is the sum total?
That all people, everywhere, believe there is something mightier
than themselves. Call it Brahma, Allah or God – only the name
changes. The little Negro child will say his prayers and imagine
his God to be in his colour. The French child hopes his prayers
will be answered – in French. We are all children in this matter
still, and will always be – until colours, languages, custom, rule
and fashion find a meeting ground.’
      ‘Then why do we fight? Throw away Life, mass great
continents of men and struggle for opposing beliefs?’
      Neither could provide an answer so Ian took his leave as
decently as he could, although Saladin was now keen for him to
Hay and hear the arguments put forward by the many wise men
and philosophers who filled his court. Ian’s only regret was that
he had had to speak for the Doctor and knew that his friend
would eternally regret not meeting the great Sultan.
      He rode hard out of Ramlah, following much the same route
that El Akir and Barbara had taken, until the fierce heat of the
sun warned him how unused he was to the climate. His horse’s
head was weaving slightly from side to side, its body covered with
lather, and finally he reined the animal on top of an incline and
gazed round the countryside. Nothing stirred in the merciless
heat which had by no means risen to its peak. The land was
quarter desert, tracts of sand broken by hard-baked ground,
occasional scrub grass and here and there little clumps of trees.
It looked like a dead world. He urged his horse towards one of
the nearest clumps of trees, where he knew he would find a
water pool. For a moment he thought he saw a movement but
then, when he searched the place with his eyes and saw no other
signs of life, took it to be imagination.
      He dismounted near the trees, leading the horse gratefully
through them, both man and animal enjoying the shade. The
horse was flaring its nostrils now, smelling the water ahead and
needed no urging. Soon, both came to a small pool of crystal-
clear water. Ian bent down and scooped some of it into his face,
enjoying the trickles that ran down his neck and under his
clothes. Then he drank with cupped hands and moved away to
the shadiest spot he could find and sat down. His horse lapped at
the water then raised its head, shuffling its hooves
uncomfortably.
      ‘What is it, old chap?’ asked Ian. The horse stood absolutely
still, except for a slight movement of its ears, and Ian had an
immediate sensation that someone’s eyes were watching him. He
started to get to his feet, his hand reaching for the sword at his
side, when something hit him a sickening blow on the back of his
neck. For a second he believed he could fight the pain and the
dizziness and tried to get to his feet, but then everything was
blotted out in a sparkle of light that flashed from somewhere
behind his eyes, and he started to fall. Before he touched the
ground he was completely unconscious.
     A moment later, it seemed to him, his eyelids fluttered open
and he was aware of the dull ache at the base of his skull. He
tried to get up and found that he had been pegged out, away
from the little oasis, lying directly underneath the full power of
the sun. He realized he must have been unconscious for some
time because all his clothes had been removed except for his
trousers and boots. He tugged at the ropes around his wrists
without any success then tried to move his legs, but they were
also very firmly secured.
     He closed his eyes tightly to shut out the overhead glare. His
mouth was dry and the perspiration the sun had drawn from his
naked chest had long since dried. His whole body felt as if the
skin had shrunk. He heard a movement from the direction of
the grove of trees and turned his head.
     A most extraordinary spectacle greeted his eyes, for
shambling towards him was an Arab dressed in horrible looking
rags which hung in such shreds on his body it was almost
impossible to imagine their original shape and colour. The man
had a frayed patch over one eye, which made him hold his head
rather to one side, and in his hands he clutched a small jar with a
stick of wood protruding from it.
     ‘Ah! My Lord, you are awake,’ he said, grinning with delight
and showing a mouth full of broken teeth.
     ‘I suppose you were the one who knocked me out?’ asked
Ian, even more conscious of how dry his mouth was.
     ‘The same, the very same.’
     ‘No chance that you’ll untie me?’
     The Arab looked at him in hurt surprise.
     ‘Well, how about some water then?’
     ‘Now that would be as rare to you as ivory, My Lord, I know
it would. Of course, there is plenty of water – and it costs nothing
at all.’
     ‘Bring me some, then.’
     ‘You see, it is the carrying of the water, My Lord. I would
have to do that, and very difficult and arduous work it would be,
too. What would you pay for such service?’
     Ian restrained his temper, knowing it wouldn’t do him any
good to start shouting or blustering. It didn’t seem to him as if
threats were going to have any effect, either – not in this
deserted part of the country, where the majority of people would
be hiding in the shade.
     ‘How much do you want?’
     The Arab sat down on his knees with a chuckle of pleasure,
for all the world as if he were about to start a conversation with a
close friend.
     ‘I am such a simple man. I want everything you have.’
     ‘Now listen to me carefully...’
     The Arab put on his most serious expression and bent
forward attentively.
     ‘Yes, My Lord.’
     ‘I have no money with me...’
     ‘That is a great pity.’
     ‘But take me to Lydda and I will pay you there.’
     The Arab sat back on his heels in absolute astonishment.
     ‘You want to go to Lydda, My Lord?’
     ‘Yes.
     ‘But that is a most peculiar thing.’
     ‘Why?’
     ‘Because,’ he replied, with rising excitement, ‘I live in
Lydda.’
     ‘You do?’
     ‘Truly, I would not lie to you.’
     ‘But this is very fortunate.’
     ‘It is kismet, My Lord, there is no other way of explaining it.’
     The Arab clapped his hands together with such pleasure and
chuckled so loudly that a smile edged at the corner of Ian’s lips,
and he nearly forgot his own situation.’Then you’ll take me
there?’
     ‘I’m afraid I cannot, My Lord,’ replied the Arab, with a
heavy sigh of disappointment.
     ‘But... but why not?’
     ‘Because you are tied up on the sand here, you see, and it
such an expensive business to undo the knots... and you have no
money.’
     He smiled at Ian apologetically. Ian let his head rest back on
the sand, realizing he had no simpleton to deal with. ‘Then I
shall just have to lie here and go mad in the sun, my friend, for
all my money is in Lydda and that’s that.’
     The Arab peered at him with exaggerated anxiety.
     ‘Surely, My Lord; you do not think I am such a terrible
fellow as to spreadeagle you out in the sand like this just to
deprive you of water, or to let the sun melt your mind into
fantasy.’ He clicked his tongue reproachfully. ‘That is a very
unworthy thought, My Lord, and it is not the sort of thing I
expect from you at all.’
     ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ murmured Ian sarcastically.
     ‘Quite right, because it is all very well for you. Here you are,
fixed in this position and able to say what you like to me, and I
can do nothing because you have no money. Really, My Lord,
that is hardly my fault, now, is it?’
     Ian glanced at the man blankly.
     ‘Not your fault! Who put me here in the first place?’
     ‘But what could I do? You arrive beside the water pool, and
I can see you are a rich Lord, so I am tempted to knock you out
and search your clothes. The temptation was your fault, for you
are obviously rich and I am obviously poor. So I search through
your clothes and I find nothing. Again, My Lord, am I at fault? I
most earn my living and Allah has decided that my profession is
to be a thief. I can tell you I was very frustrated, My Lord, very
frustrated indeed.’
      ‘So you tied me up?’
      ‘I could scarcely leave you where you were. What profit is
there in that? I would be a poor thief if I didn’t do my job
properly. Besides, you are much bigger and stronger than I
am,’and would undoubtedly attack me when you recovered if I
didn’t render you helpless.’
      Ian thought it might be worth trying a threat or two, to see
what this would do to the Arab’s confidence.
      ‘Now, listen, you scoundrel, I have papers personally signed
by the Sultan himself at Rautlah, giving me free travel
permission through this country.’
      ‘I know, My Lord, and very important they look too. But
only of value to you. My Lord, I want you to travel. I am most
anxious for you to be happy and to do the things you have set
your heart on doing.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘It all is so
expensive.’
      ‘Take me to Lydda then.’
      ‘Ah, I am cursed with the affliction of disbelief. And you have
done me an injustice already, when you thought I had placed
you out here on the sand for the torture of sun or lack of water.’
      Ian looked at him thoughtfully. The Arab held up the little
pot he had placed beside him gleefully.
      ‘A pot of honey, My Lord. Made from pounded dates, and
very sweet. Now if you turn your head to the left you will see a
mound. Look as closely as you can and you will be able to see
little creatures hurrying and scurrying about. Oh, it is a hungry
little home, My Lord, and its inhabitants go wild for honey.’
     Ian turned his head sharply in horror and saw the mound
not more than ten feet away from his outstretched left hand,
which was firmly tied, like his other limbs, to a stake buried deep
in the ground.
     The Arab stepped across his body and knelt beside his left
wrist.
     ‘Now what we do is daub a little of the honey on your hand,
My Lord, and spread a little trail to the ant-hill. And then I will
retire to the shade of the trees and dream of the treasure you will
give me – when the ants discover you.’
     ‘I haven’t any money,’ Ian said sharply, trying to keep the
panic out of his voice, ‘I swear to you I haven’t.’ The Arab
ignored him and started to daub honey on Ian’s hand with the
stick and letting the runny mixture drip down on the sand in a
line towards the ant-heap. Ian strained and struggled at the
stakes in a vain attempt to wrench himself free, but the Arab had
done his job too well, and in a moment Ian had to lie still,
exhausted in every muscle. The Arab returned, still with the
smile on his face, his one eye beaming out cheerfully.
     ‘There we are, My Lord – all done. Now remember all you
have to do is call me. I shall not be far away.’
     He walked away to the trees and settled himself down in the
shade of one of them, waving in a friendly fashion to Ian.
     Ian turned his head and looked at the ant-heap. Already he
could see a dark mass of the little insects investigating the honey
at the base of their city, and one or two were moving now to
investigate the sudden vein of fortune which had appeared from
nowhere. Ian tore his eyes away and tried desperately to think.
He wondered if he could get a purchase on either of his wrists by
arching his body, and he tried it, so that just his head and his
heels were touching the sand, but all it did was strain his
muscles. Then he tried to turn on to his right side, hoping he
could drag out his left hand, and the stake, by sheer sinew. But
this attempt had just as much success. Obviously the Arab knew
exactly what he was doing.
     He suddenly felt a thrill of horror as something began to run
over his hand and he turned his head quickly, his throat
tightening in fear. The line of honey was nearly obscured now by
the long, dark line of ants, all struggling and threshing, running
and working away, transporting the honey back tthe nest.
Another ant ran over his fingers and he agitated his hand
violently in a desperate attempt to shake them off or frighten
them away. He knew it wasn’t going to be any good. When they
reached the end of the honey they would then be attracted to the
salt in the pores of his skin and start digging for that. He
imagined them gradually spreading up his arm, could almost
hear the signals going back to the nest, calling for more workers
to mine this rich harvest spread out so conveniently near. He
pictured the wave of insects travelling slowly up his arm to his
shoulder, fanning out on the plain of his chest. He felt them
running along his neck and up his chin. He thought about them
invading his mouth and his nostrils, packing into his ears... his
eyes.
     His eyes.
     It was that horror, that shuddering expectation of agony
which made him cling on to the one faint hope he had.
     He called out desperately to the Arab and felt a wave of relief
as he saw the man jump up from the shade and shamble across
to him.
     ‘All right, I’ll tell you.... I’ll tell you where my money is,’ he
stammered, ‘only keep them away... from me.’
     The Arab stared down at him pensively and then nodded.
He stepped across Ian’s body and drew his battered shoe along
the line of honey, rolling it and its seething mass of insect life
back towards the ant-heap. Then he poured handfuls of sand
over Ian’s honey-coated hand and rubbed the sticky mess away.
     ‘I can always start the process all over again,’ he said
seriously to Ian, ‘if, of course, you are just making a fool of me. I
do hope you are not, My Lord, because now I am quite excited
and intrigued to know where this wealth of yours is kept.’
     He stood over Ian, waiting.
     ‘In my boot,’ Ian muttered hoarsely, shaking his head from
side to side, his eyelids drooping.
     The Arab bent closer, not catching the words.
     ‘Where, My Lord? You must speak a little louder.’
     ‘The... the boot...’ whispered Ian, and his head rolled to one
side and lay still. The Arab clutched his head, as if he were
berating himself for having overlooked such an obvious hiding-
place and darted to Ian’s right foot. He tore off the ropes
hurriedly, glancing every so often at his prisoner, satisfying
himself that he was indeed still in his faint. Then he pulled off
the boot and thrust his hand deep inside it. He scrabbled about
for a few seconds then threw it away in disgust. He hurried back
to Ian, grabbed him by the hair and shook his head violently.
     ‘You lied to me,’ he said fiercely.
     Ian opened his eyes gradually, blinking and having difficulty
in focusing.
     ‘The boot....’ he repeated.
     ‘There is nothing there!’
     ‘The... the left boot...’
     The Arab let go of his head and hurried to his left foot,
tearing at the ropes, sitting astride the leg with his back to Ian.
He was just starting to draw off the boot, when Ian drew back his
right foot, aimed it at the centre of the Arab’s back and
straightened his leg.
     It struck him right at the base of his spine like a ramrod,
jarring the whole of his body and hurtling him forwards. Ian
quickly drew up both legs and used them to lever his body
upwards, tightening his hands around the stakes in the ground
as he did so and heaving. The two pieces of wood were sucked
out of the ground in a spray of sand and Ian staggered to his
feet, just as the Arab shook himself and rose to his feet. For a
moment the two men stared at each other, and the Arab made a
dash for the trees. Ian ran across, the stakes tied to his wrists
flailing around him dangerously, and hurled himself through
the air in a flying tackle, catching the man around his waist and
falling with him. In a second, Ian was on top of him, kneeling on
his upper arms, his right hand gripping its tethered stake and
holding it like a club.
      ‘Lie still, or I’ll split your skull open,’ he said. The Arab
stopped his futile struggling and relaxed.
      ‘Don’t kill me, My Lord,’ he begged piteously.
      ‘I’ll think about it.’
      ‘I am only a miserable thief...
      ‘You’re certainly miserable. Get these ropes off my hands.’
      The thief obeyed hurriedly, talking crossly to the ropes, or
cajoling them when they wouldn’t move, smiling up at Ian as he
worked, apologizing for the delay. Ian never took his eyes off
him for a moment. Finally, the ropes fell away. Ian picked up
one of the stakes and prodded the Arab lightly in the chest.
      ‘What I ought to do is tie you down in the sand and let the
ants eat you for dinner.’
      ‘I would make a very poor meal for them, My Lord,’ he
replied seriously. ‘Very tough flesh, mine, enough to give even
an insect indigestion.’
      Ian suppressed a smile. The Arab would cheerfully murder
him if he turned his back, but there was an extra-ordinarily
likeable quality about into.
      ‘Take me to where you put my clothes.’
      The Arab started to move towards the trees and Ian grabbed
his arm.
      ‘Don’t move too quickly, my fend,’
     ‘I was going to run and fetch your things for you, My Lord.’
     ‘We’ll both go.’
     ‘Both go,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, of course, what an honour.’
     The two mrn moved into the shade of the trees, where Ian
found his clothes, neatly folded in a pile on top of his sword. He
picked up the weapon and saw the Arab shrug his shoulders
slightly, accepting the inevitable.
     ‘You aren’t afraid to die?’ asked Ian curiously. The Arab
shook his head. Ian pursed his lips and leaned both his hands on
his sword, embedding its tip in the earth around the pool.
     ‘Bring me some water. But don’t try and run away. I have
no intention of killing you, unless you do something foolish.’
     The Arab’s face split open in a wide grin of delight and he
scuttled over to a bush near by, where he had hidden some of his
own belongings, produced a little clay bowl then hurried to the
pool, filling it with water and bringing it to Ian.
     Ian assuaged his thirst and poured the rest of the water over
his body.
     ‘You’re going to take me to Lydda,’ he stated. The Arab
frowned.
     ‘Not a very nice place,’ he said.
     ‘Why?’
     ‘Full of thieves and villains.’
     Ian laughed and the Arab joined him gleefully, clapping his
hands together.
     ‘I couldn’t find anyone worse than you there,’ said Ian. ‘That
is a great compliment, My Lord, and I am very grateful to you or
it.’
     ‘Do you know an Emir, by the name of El Akir?’
     The change that came over the Arab was quite remark-able.
A sudden watchfulness showed on his face, a slight tightening of
the lips. He sat on the sand, his hands clasped around his knees,
his one eye regarding Ian intently.
      ‘You are a friend of the Emir, My Lord,’ he asked casually,
‘or a relative, perhaps?’
      ‘No.’
      ‘Ah, I understand. It is an army matter, and you carry
orders from the great Sultan to him.’
      ‘No.’
      ‘Then it is a matter of business?’
      ‘I have some business with El Akir, yes.’
      There was a pause. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’ said Ian, at
last.
      ‘My Lord, the Emir is a tyrant. He has made the rich so
poor, there is no one left to steal from. But that is just one thing.
In this world there are honest and dishonest men, good and bad,
the pure and the evil. I have seen El Akir have children
murdered in the public streets, watched as he laughed while
young girls were tortured to death. I saw the Emir once himself
commit the crime of hurling a man of religion from the top of a
building, because he had objected to the way El Akir ill-treated
the people.’
      The Arab turned his head and stared into the quiet pool of
water.
      ‘Now I am a bad man, My Lord, very bad indeed, and I
admit it. My father was a thief and his father before him. But all
of us put together would make a purer man than El Akir can
ever be.’
      Ian nodded slowly. ‘El Akir has abducted a friend of mine, a
young lady. I am going to Lydda to get her back again – even if I
have to kill him to do it.’
      ‘Then I shall take you to Lydda, My Lord,’ said the Arab
quietly, ‘and help you in any way I can.’
      Ian had some doubts about this new alliance, but it certainly
suited his purpose. He could hardly ride into the town and start
asking where El Akir was without arousing suspicion; and then
he had to find a way into the Emir’s Palace, rescue Barbara and
make his escape with her. He didn’t for a moment underestimate
the difficulties, so any kind of help was valuable, even if it had
the strings of caution attached. The Arab had tethered Ian’s
horse near his own, which was the saddest creature Ian had ever
seen, with ribs sticking out at its sides and a pair of huge,
sorrowful eyes which seemed to bemoan its lot in life with silent
constancy. Nevertheless, it was sturdier than it appeared to be
and Ian had no complaint to make about their rate of progress,
the Arab preceding him all the way. Neither could Ian find any
cause for dissatisfaction in the trust he had given his new-found
ally.
      Finally, with the sky darkening as the sun fled from above,
the Arab led Ian through a little pass of rocks and reined his
panting horse, pointing ahead of him. Ian stopped beside him
and stared at the town of Lydda lying ahead. ‘We must move
more slowly now,’ said the Arab.
      ‘What is your name?’
      ‘Ibrahim, My Lord,’ he said with a grin.
      ‘Do you know any way I can get into El Akir’s Palace,
Ibrahim?’
      The Arab shook his head. ‘It is very well guarded and the
wall is high. If you had gold you might bribe your way in...’
      ‘But I haven’t any gold.’
      The Arab chuckled loudly.
      ‘Yes, that was a very good trick with the boots, My Lord. I
must remember not to be taken in by it again.’
      The two men urged their horses forward once again, picking
their way slowly on the slight decline to the town, while Ian set
himself the task of finding a way inside his enemy’s stronghold.
      Had he ridden faster he might have come across the two
guards rushing Barbara through the streets towards the Palace,
and speed of thought and instant action might have plucked
Barbara away from them there and then. But Destiny had
decreed the pattern of events otherwise.

Barbara came to her senses in a huge room decked out with
tapestries and silk hangings, furnished with rich carpets and soft
couches. A girl was bending beside her on the couch, bathing her
face gently with scented water. Barbara stared at her for a
moment or two, relishing the gentle touch of the hands on her
face and the soothing quality of the water.
     The girl was delicately formed, with full, generous lips and a
pair of large and most expressive eyes. She stopped dabbing at
Barbara’s face, as she saw she had recovered and sat beside her
on the couch, holding both her hands. Her resemblance to Saflya
was quite remarkable.
     ‘He is not here,’ said the girl softly, anticipating the question
trembling on Barbara’s lips. ‘Lie still and forget him, while you
can.’
     ‘Your is Maimuna, isn’t it?’
     The girl stared at her in astonishment.
     ‘How did you know that?’ she cried. Barbara related her
meeting with Maimuna’s father, and her sister Safiya, and the
story she had heard of the tragedy which had befallen the family
of Haroun ed Diin. Maimuna finally covered her face with her
hands, sobbing bitterly. Other girls began to move towards them,
comforting the weeping girl and questioning Barbara about the
cause of her unhappiness.
     ‘I am not unhappy,’ said Maimuna, through her tears,
‘although the memory of that awful day when El Akir murdered
my mother and brother and wrenched me from the home I
loved is still almost more than I can bear. But I thought my
father and my sister were dead too – for El Akir swore he had
killed them.’
     ‘They are alive, Maimuna,’ said Barbara. ‘You must believe
me.’
     The other girls wandered away again, disturbed at the
mention of the tyrant’s name, as if the only way they could exist
was to shut him away from their minds on every possible
occasion.
     Each girl, Barbara noticed, was of a different race. One was a
tall Negress, loose-limbed and very full of figure, wearing a
mold-coloured costume and a pair of enormous bone earrings.
Another was a slim, enchanting little Indian girl of no more than
sixteen who walked with such dignity she seemed to glide over
the floor, her pale-blue sari, edged with gold, emphasizing the
grace of her body. There was a Turkish girl, older than the rest;
a Persian beauty; a brown-skinned Syrian – each one a testament
to beauty. But on all their faces was the mark of El Aldr – the sad
acceptance of enforced captivity and shame, for all were seized
from their families by force, and each one had her private
sorrow.
     Of them all, Barbara thought Maimuna was the most
attractive. Even the misery of enslavement had not marred her
loveliness. There was an almost transparent quality about her
skin and a depth of gentleness in her eyes. She had an air of shy
tenderness about her which spoke of a yearning to love and be
loved, in all the strength and purity of that much ill-abused
word.
     She brushed away her tears and brought Barbara a cup of
wine, watching her while she drank.
     Finally, Barbara stirred herself and asked Maimuna to lead
her to the window. They crossed the room and stood staring
down at the grounds surrounding the Palace. The huge entrance
gates seemed temptingly near, and the branches of a tree
reached out and lay only a few feet beneath.
     ‘The tree,’ said Maimuna, ‘is no more than heartbreak. Look
closely.’
     Barbara searched the shadows and suddenly saw a
movement.
     ‘El Akir leaves the tree to beckon us to escape. He also has a
guard beside it.’
     Barbara sighed hopelessly and looked at the gates again.
The solitary figure of a guard walked across the entrance slowly,
his hand on his scimitar, his bearded chin jutting out proudly,
illuminated for a brief second or two in the light of a fiery torch,
fixed to the outside of the entrance gates.

Ian poised himself in the shadow of some bushes outside the
gates, waited until the guard had stepped outside the ring of
light then shot out his hands and gripped the man fiercely round
the head. Simultaneously, Ibrahim stepped out and drove a
delighted fist into the guard’s stomach. The guard threshed for a
moment, Ian let go and, linking his hands together, brought
them down on the back of-the guard’s neck. He started to fall
and Ibrahim caught him and lowered him quietly to the ground,
smiling up at Ian in devilish glee. Ian quickly stripped off the
guard’s outer clothing and scrambled into it, buckling on the
dim belt which held the scimitar and swung the short red cloak
behind him and fastened it at the neck. The Arab picked up the
guard’s pointed helmet and tried it on Ian’s head. Finding it to
be too big, he snatched at some rags hanging from him, tearing
off sufficient to pad the helmet and make it into a passable fit.
Ian settled it on his head.
     ‘So far, so good,’ he breathed. ‘Now, Ibrahim, tie the man up
and gag him. Roll him into the bushes so that he’s well out of
sight. Then steal some horses and bring them as near to the
gates as you can, without being seen.’
     ‘Steal some horses, My Lord? Ah, what a partnership you
and I would make. I shall steal horses for you.’
     Ian turned away and started to adopt the guard’s route,
walking slowly back and forth in front of the gate. A few minutes
later, he saw the shadow of Ibrahim dart away. He had no idea
whether he had seen the last of his odd ally or whether he would
come up to expectations. He glanced up at a dimly lighted
window he could just see through the branches of a tree. He
could see the outlines of two women staring down, but it was too
dark to see their faces. At least he had a rough idea where the
harem was, although he thought it strange it should face out into
the grounds. He did not know about El Akie’s Tree of
Heartbreak. He continued his march, wondering when he could
risk leaving his post and make a way into the Palace.

Maimuna said, ‘You must be mistaken.’
    ‘No, I’m not, I know I’m not,’ Barbara insisted. ‘The guard
outside the gates had a beard. And now he hasn’t one. ’
    ‘Perhaps there are two guards.’
    Barbara nodded, the moment of interest fading. Suddenly
the double doors of the chamber were thrown open and El Akir
walked in. The girls in the room drew themselves away, standing
around the walls of the room, staring with trepidation at the man
and the short whip he carried in his right hand.
    He moved into the chamber and stopped in the centre of the
room, beside a long, low table. He turned and looked at Barbara
and Maimuna. A candle wavered and the scar on his face seemed
to be blazing out redly.
    ‘Bring her here, Maimuna.’
    Barbara pressed the girl gently away, so that she would have
no part of what was going to happen, and walked towards the
Emir, her heart thudding. There was absolutely no sound in the
room except the soft fall of her slippered feet and the slight,
insistent tap of the whip on El Akir’s leg. She stopped about
three feet away from him.
     They both stared at each other in the silence that followed.
Slowly then, very deliberately, El Akir raised the whip until it was
level with his face.
     ‘Your tender flesh,’ he said hoarsely, ‘is about to feel my first
caresses.’
                CHAPTER EIGHT
               Demons and Sorcerers
     The cry just touched Ian’s ears. It was half choked back, half
mixed with a sob, a sheer expression of pain and anguish – come
and gone so quickly he wondered whether he might come not
have imagined it. He crouched now, just out of reach of the
circle of light, straining his ears.




    It came again, some violent and dreadful pain forcing more
sound out of a tortured body to quell the shocked activities of
heart and brain; a sound that bit its way into the conscience,
begging to know why it had been made at all, reaching out a
tremulous frond of agony to earn pity and peace, demanding
help – yet somehow not pleading for it – for the sound was made
in pain and not in fear. Courage and defiance were saturated
through the sound.
     It was a woman’s cry. And just before it, there had been
another noise, a slap or crack of sound, some hard, unyielding
matter meeting something else, something softer. Ian’s nerves
tautened and he felt a thrill of horror playing over them, a
ghostly finger touching each tiny strand. In a second he darted
through the gates and was lost in the shadows of the grounds
outside the main building, quite unaware that as soon as the gate
was left unguarded another man appeared and ran through
them.
     Ian knew he had little chance inside the Palace itself.
Whatever rough idea he had about the position of the harem,
other guards were sure to be about. One or two he might be able
to surprise and bring down, but the chances of being
overwhelmed were much too great. He made straight for the
tree which grew so conveniently beneath the windows of the
harem. A sudden movement alerted him, and he saw the guard
straightening up and looking in his direction. As the guard’s
hand flew down to his scimitar, Ian jumped forward and kicked
out fiercely, the point of his boot taking the man in the middle of
his solar plexus. The guard jack-knifed with a grunt and Ian fell
beyond him, turning desperately to keep his advantage. The
guard rolled in torment, struggling to get his breath to call for
help. Ian jumped up, drew out his scimitar and brought the hilt
of it down on the side of the man’s head.
     Another moaning cry from above his head spurred him into
feverish activity, and he started to clamber up the tree as fast as
he could.
     The man who had slipped through the gates when Ian had
left them had stood watching all this time, puzzled to see one of
El Akir’s guards behaving so strangely. Then he turned and
hurried off, avoiding the Palace itself and making for the stables
– for Haroun eel Diin had his own plan carefully worked out.
     Ian scrambled upwards, ignoring the twigs and branches
that scraped his hands and ace, losing his badly-fitting helmet in
the desperate rush to reach the top. In the peak of condition, he
found his muscles answering every possible demand and some
Divine Providence led his hands and feet to safe projections and
strong boughs.
     The fourth cry was louder now, and not just became he was
nearer. He heaved himself upwards and stood on a thick arm of
the tree and stared directly into the harem.
     He saw a young girl of astounding beauty, tears streaming
from her eyes, lying full length on the floor, pulling at the foot of
a man who held a whip in his right hand. He saw the man lift his
foot slightly and kick the girl away from him, and as his face
turned to her, Ian distinctly recognized the livid scar which
disfigured his face, knew the man to be El Akir.
     Then Ian looked at the girl who was stretched out on her
face on a long, low table. The ugly weals showed up across her
back and the knuckles of her hands showed white as they
gripped the edge of the table, waiting for the next blow to fall.
He took in the scene in slow motion, like a film that was being
shown at the wrong speed, so great was the shock of the drama
in that room.
     The girl on the table was Barbara.
     Suddenly he heard shouts in the corridor beyond and El
Akir cursed and strode to the doors of the chamber. At the same
time, Ian heard a gradual roaring somewhere away on his right
and a shower of sparks which rocketed into the air said him that
a fire had broken out on the other side of the Palace. This was
obviously the message being brought to El Akin, for he left the
room, slamming the doors behind him with a muttered curse.
     Ian immediately seized his opportunity and ran along tire
arm of the tree and jumped for the window, thankful there was
no glass in the way. The girl who had been kicked by El Akir had
rushed to Barbara, gesturing to the other girls, who started to
hurry across the room. But when Ian appeared, as if by magic,
they all stopped.
     ‘Barbara,’ he said urgently, jumping down from the window
and crossing to her. She opened her eyes, which she’d kept
screwed up tight, and stared at Ian as he knelt beside her.
     The smile she gave him was a whole book of expressions, the
sudden relief in her eyes mingling with an odd look of triumph
that he had found her still defiant, still determined, still with
plenty of reserves to withstand whatever trials and tortures El
Akir could devise.
     ‘Have you something you can put on her back?’ said Ian to
the girl beside him. She nodded and signalled to the little Indian
girl, who ran away to a corner of the room.
     ‘Maimuna, this is Ian,’ said Barbara, faintly. ‘He’s come to
take us away.’
     Maimuna took hold of one of Ian’s hands, raised it to her
lips and pressed it against her cheek. The Indian girl hurried to
them with a little jar of salve. Maimuna thanked her and took it,
asking her to listen closely at the doors and warn them if anyone
approached. Then she bent over Barbara’s back.
     ‘I will be as soft and gentle as I can,’ said Maimuna. Ian
moved around and bent down on one knee, his face near to
Barbara’s, trying to ignore the little winces she gave as the girl
started to smooth on the ointment with quick, deft little gestures.
     ‘Barbara, I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry. But I have horses
outside the Palace gates... if we can only get to them.’
     ‘Can we climb down the tree?’
     ‘I think it’s the best way. If you can manage?’
     She hunched her shoulders sharply, her teeth finding her
lower lip, as Maimuna completed the last of her work. Ian
unclipped the red cloak from around his throat and spread it
over Barbara as she sat up. Ian noticed the sheen of perspiration
on her face and he bent and kissed her gently on the forehead.
      The little Indian girl suddenly gave an agitated cry and
retreated towards them.
      ‘Quickly! You must hide. Someone is coming,’ she gasped.
The girls in the room all shrank back in their accustomed
positions, trying to find what comfort they could from a closeness
to the walls; all except Maimuna. ‘Take her out of the window,’
she said rapidly. ‘I will delay him.’
      ‘He’ll kill you, Maimuna,’ said Barbara.
      ‘My life does not matter.’
      ‘It does matter,’ said Ian. ‘Stay here with Barbara.’
      He drew his scimitar from its scabbard and ran over to the
doors, just reaching cover as they were flung open and El Akir
marched in arrogantly.
      Ian stepped behind him and closed the doors, leaning
against them. El Akir slowed to a stop aware that something was
amiss. He looked at the red cloak Barbara clutched around
herself, knew it as part of the uniform done of his guards. He
felt, rather than saw, that the women in the chamber were gazing
at him in some sort of a new way, as if they were waiting for
something expectantly.
      He swung round, then crouched as he saw Ian. His hand
sped down to the sword at his side and he unsheathed it.
      ‘What are you doing in here, carrion?’ he spat out viciously.
‘Don’t you know it’s death to be in my harem?’
      ‘Your death!’ Ian said.
      He took two steps forward and lifted his blade. The Emir
parried with a low cut, the two metals scraping together.
      ‘Are you mad?’ screamed El Akir, retreating a step or two.
Ian made a huge downward cut, his blade flashing through the
air. His opponent cut upwards defensively then twisted his wrist
to slash sideways at Ian’s legs. Ian jumped up, striking hard at
the other’s sword hand, just missing, his blade sliding off the hilt
with a spark.




    ‘Guards!’ roared El Akir. ‘To the harem! Guards!’ He cut at
Ian viciously, who felt the blade skim across his hair as he was
forced to duck. He lunged forward, using the scimitar more in
the fashion of an épée but El Akir knocked it aside and suddenly
advanced with a series of hacking cuts and blows that had Ian
defending desperately. Their hilts dashed and Ian jumped
forward, forcing his weight behind his sword, trying to press
both the blades back like scissors around his enemy’s neck. El
Akir flicked his sword hand expertly and swayed sideways,
letting Ian’s pressure impel him forwards. Ian staggered off
balance and the Emir struck at his back. Ian heard the rip of
cloth as the razor edge just grazed his clothes, missing the flesh
by a hair’s-breadth. It was becoming quite clear that El Akir was
a cool, dangerous swordsman, well practised in the art. He now
tried to follow up his advantage, but Ian swung round his free
hand and clubbed him on the cheek-bone, giving himself a
temporary relief as the Emir tottered sideways, shaking his head
from the blow.
     Ian saw all the girls running now, directed by Maimuna,
hurrying to the double doors. Some put their weight against it
while others began to drag the couches and the chests and other
furniture to block the door.
     El Akir realized what they were up to and, thrusting at Ian
so that he rocked back on his heels, turned and ran to the doors,
his weapon circling above his head, ready to cleave the nearest
girl in two. Ian reached down and pulled desperately at the rug
and his enemy staggered and fell on one knee, giving Ian time to
interpose himself and defend the girls. A hammer of blows
descended on the other side of the door and a gruff voice
shouted the Emir’s name.
     ‘Break down the door, you fools,’ he yelled, cutting once
again at Ian, who eluded the attack with nimble footwork and
responded so hard that he drew blood from a slight cut he made
on El Akir’s left shoulder. The Emir smashed at Ian’s right leg,
fortunately with the flat side of his scimitar but nevertheless
numbing it. Seeing that Ian was handicapped for a moment, El
Akir suddenly darted to one side and seized hold of Maimuna by
the hair and pulled her off her feet. Ian made a desperate
attempt to sever his enemy’s head from his body, but the blade
swung away a foot short and El Akir dragged the screaming girl
to the window. He pulled her, half fainting, to her feet, letting go
of her hair and gripping her round the throat with his free arm.
     The pounding on the doors was stronger now as more
bodies were hurled against it. El Akir shouted to them to double
their efforts then pointed his scimitar at Ian who was steadily
approaching.
     ‘One more step and I’ll cut this girl in two.’
     Ian looked at Barbara anxiously. She had managed to sit
upright properly now, although unable to move without a
hundred pokers of pain stabbing through her. Ian saw a change
in her eyes, a slight frown and then realization as she raised her
eyebrows. He looked quickly at El Akir for the answer. Behind
him began to emerge the shape of a large, poorly dressed man,
entering the harem by the same route Ian had taken.
     Haroun stood on the window and put his hands round El
Akir’s throat, so surprising him that the sword dropped out of
his hand in terror. The man exerted all his strength and lifted
the Emir off his feet.
     For a second the two men were poised, El Akir pulling feebly
at the hands around his throat, his tongue forced out between
his teeth, his scar glaring redly as the blood pounded in his head.
Then Haroun jumped down from the window, at the same time
twisting his hands to the right. As his feet touched the ground,
he pivoted, whirling El Akir like a throwing hammer. Suddenly
he let go and fell on one knee.
    El Akir hurtled through the air with a ghastly scream of fear
and smashed high up into the call opposite. There was a
sickening thud as the Emir’s head struck the wall, then the body
rebounded and slammed to the ground.
    Haroun clasped his daughter in his arms and beckoned to
Ian impatiently. Ian took hold of Barbara’s hand and hurried
her to the window.
     Despite the high pile of furniture the double doors were
beginning to move slightly now, the men outside battering it in
with something heavy.
     The girls began to retreat, looking at Ian for guidance. Ian
waved them to the window and grinned at Haroun. ‘I don’t
know who you are,’ said Ian, ‘but you’ve made a friend. The girls
can help each other down, while we give them as much of a
chance as possible.’
     Haroun nodded, an answering smile on his face. He urged
Barbara, Maimuna and the girls to make their way down the tree
and out of the gates, as fast as they could.
     ‘The guards who aren’t in the passage are busy fighting the
fire I started in the hay-barn,’ he stated as the last girl
disappeared.
     Ian threw down his sword and ran over and collected up
three of the small oil-lamps nearest to him. Their flames
fluttered as he hurried to the double doors, splintering now as
the men outside put all their strength into breaking through.
Haman saw what Ian was doing and fetched some more lamps
and together they threw them at the pile of furniture. The lamps
spilled out their oil and ignited, and soon a blaze was roaring.
Ian ran back and picked up his sword, sheathed it and gestured
to Haroun to precede him out of the window. Haroun replied
with a push.
     ‘You go first, or I’ll throw you out,’ he growled.
     ‘I’d rather climb, thanks,’ grinned Ian and scrambled out
and on to the bough. Beneath him, he could just see the running
shapes of the harem girls, rushing towards the gates.
     He and Haroun clambered down the tree and followed
them.
     As soon as they were outside, Ibrahim appeared and arged
Ian to help him swing the great doors to a close. Then the Arab
produced a thick bar of wood and he wedged it between the
outer handles.
     ‘You see, I am here, My Lord, just as I promised; he
beamed. Ian put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him.
Then Haroun hurried to them.
     ‘Don’t stand been dreaming!’ He turned to the Arab. ‘The
soldiers will be all around us, you half-wit!’
     ‘This half-wit has stolen all their horses, master.’
     ‘They can still use their legs then.’
     ‘But they cannot come through these doors. This half-wit has
seen to that as well.’
     ‘And is there no other way out of the Palace?’
     The Arab looked suitably disturbed.
     ‘This half-wit hadn’t thought of that!’
     He led them quickly to where he had tethered the horses,
some twenty in number and more than they’d need. They heard
the sound of a mass of running feet.
     ‘The rest of the guard,’ gasped the Arab. ‘They are
returning from the Old Quarter.’
     The three men helped all the girls to mount and with
Ibrahim leading and Ian and Haroun bringing up the rear the
party of seven girls and three men made their way out of Lydda.
     A half-hour’s ride without pursuit of any kind and Haroun
took over the lead, directing the party nowhere he had left Sahya
in a little orange orchard. Maimuna and her sister fell into each
other’s arms tenderly. Ian decided they could risk a five-minute
rest, but no longer he warned Haroun.
     ‘Probably we out of danger,’ observed Haroun, ‘although
you are are to be cautious. It is my opinion that the guards will
be quarrelling amongst themselves now the El Akir is dead.’
     The party rode onward, making a longer journey of three
hours this time. The night was clear with a strong moon and the
stars were strung out like fairy lights. There was absolutely no
movement in the air, not even a puff of wind, but the
temperature had dropped and all the girls were half frozen in
the flimsy costumes they wore.
     The route Haroun took was a circuitous one, deliberately
taking the longest and the most difficult paths to confuse any
possible pursuers. Once he led them down a stream for fully a
mile, twisting and turning with the course of it, keeping the
party firmly in the water to that no tell-tale hoof-marks were left
on either of the shallow muddy banks. Finally, where the stream
began to broaden out, obviously becoming a tributary, he
ordered them to guide their horses over a patch of shingle and
towards a cleft in some rocks overlooking the water.
     Satisfied now that everything had been done to disguise
their escape, he set them all galloping forward. There was no
talk for each one was concentrating on resisting the cold in his or
her own way, quite apart from the eye-straining business of the
constant searching of the ground ahead. Some of thegirls bore
the journey better than others, the Negress best of all, sitting
hunched over her animal, her head bent steadily on the ground
just ahead of her and following directly behind Haroun, echoing
his warnings to be careful of this loose rock or that sudden
depression in the ground. Maimuna and Safiya rode just ahead
of Ibrahim, the elder girl’s left hand firmly clasped in her sister’s
right, occasionally turning their heads towards each other as if to
reassure themselves they were together again.
     The worst to suffer was Barbara. Although the cloak Ian had
thrown around her kept out the cold well enough, it rubbed
against the wounds on her back. The movement of her body
itself was bad enough, but the two together were an almost
unbearable agony.
     Finally, Haroun called the party to a halt and dismounted at
the edge of a wood, telling them all to wait for him. They
huddled together, making a ring of the horses, keeping
themselves as warm as they could.
     Haroun reappeared after a few minutes and led them all
through the trees, Ibrahim bringing up the rear with the horses.
Eventually, they came to a ramshackle old wooden building.
     ‘It looks far worse than it is,’ he announced, ‘but the walls
and the roof are good enough to keep out the cold, and we shall
soon have a fire blazing.’
     Ian led Barbara in and cleared away a space in one corner
which was covered in dead leaves and some musty old hay.
Ibrahim appeared with the horses’ blankets and together they
made a bed for Barbara to lie face down on. She collapsed on to
it with a shuddering sigh of relief and fell into an mediate sleep.
     Haroun, who had been out foraging in the wood, returned
with an armful of dead branches and twigs and started a fire.
     ‘I used to use this place, with other caravan leaders,
sometimes,’ he told Ian, as he fed some bigger pieces of wood
into the flames. Sofiya appeared beside him, undoing a saddle-
bag filled with dried meat and fruit and she started to apportion
it out as carefully and as fairly as she could.
     ‘I see you came well prepared,’ said Ian with a smile.
     ‘Either I meant to bring back my daughter and your friend
Barbara – or die!’ Haroun answered briefly. ‘Fortunately I
allowed provision for a long journey, thinking we would need to
travel for many days if we were pursued.’
     ‘There will still only be just enough to go round, Father,’
said Safiya. She began to distribute the food, a piece of meat,
some bread and some dates for each person, and soon they were
all eating hungrily, except Barbara, who slept deeply now, and
peacefully.
     Haroun moved over to Maimuna and sat himself on the
rough floor. The other girls were settling down as comfortably as
they could and gradually one after another fell asleep. Ibrahim
lay against one of the walls, his head dropping over his chest,
resting his forehead on his bent knees, snoring slightly. Ian lay
by the door, the scimitar close to his hand, determined not to
leave anything to chance now that they had achieved so much.
     Maimuna stared at her father, tears rushing to her eyes;
then he put his arm around her, soothing away her sobbing until
her head cradled on his massive chest and she, too, fell asleep.
Haroun laid her down to the ground, gently, so as not to wake
her, and moved over to Ian at the door, settling himself so that
they could talk together quietly without disturbing the others.
     ‘A motley collection, Ian, my friend,’ he said, gazing about
the room.
     ‘What can be done for the girls from the harem?’
‘Fortunately, I am a rich man. My wealth lies with friends in
Damascus, held for me until I made my settlement with El Akir.
Oh, I shall not set up a harem of my own,’ he went on, giving
Ian a sudden smile. ‘I shall become their patron and either see
them married well or return them to their own homes and
families.’
     ‘I have one favour to ask you,’ said Ian. He pointed across at
Ibrahim. Haroun nodded.
     ‘I know the man. He is a disgraceful thief and a scoundrel
but I will see he is well rewarded for helping as. I cannot tempt
you into coming to Damascus, you and your lady Barbara? I
have a thriving business of which you could become a part.’ He
looked down at his hands, ‘There would be no son to rival you.’
     There was a pause, for Ian felt he couldn’t turn down the
man’s generous offer too rapidly. He let the silence pretend he
was considering the matter.
     ‘I can’t see how we could do that,’ he said at last, ‘much we’d
want to. I have two other friends to look after. Your search is
over, Haroun, but mine still has some way to go.’
     ‘What will you do?’
     ‘Give Barbara all the rest she needs and then ride for Jaffa.
There’s a little wood outside the town we shall visit first, in case
my friends are there waiting for us.’
     In the morning, Barbara found her sleep had completely
refreshed her, and the salve Maimuna had spread on her back
had done so much to ease the pain she found she could move
quite well, suffering no more than a dull ache.
     The parting was a sad one, Maimuna and Safiya begging
them to change their minds. Surprisingly, Ibrahim was
genuinely distressed at having to say good-bye to Ian, and not
even the promise of a handsome reward from Haroun seemed to
console him. The harem girls had come to regard Ian as the
symbol of their release, a lucky charm without which they would
all fall into evil hands again. But finally the tears and kisses came
to an end and Haroun led them all away, deep into the heart of
the forest, while Ian and Barbara sat on their horses watching
until the last glimpse faded and the trees swallowed them up.
The calls of good-bye and the accompanying clop of the horses’
hooves became fainter and fainter and were gradually replaced
by the silence of the forest.
     Barbara looked across at Ian, stretched out a hand and held
his. A dozen unsaid words hung between them in the
understanding of that moment. Modern people though they
were, they had stepped into a world of chivalry and barbarism
and Ian had not failed her. She had needed him and he had
come for her. She knew, whatever the age, whatever the place,
whatever the circumstances, he would measure up to her every
expectation.
     She leant across from her horse, put her arm around his
neck and kissed him softly on the lips. She sat back again, her
heart beating a little faster, a slight tinge of pink at her cheeks,
holding his eyes with hers.
     Then they rode towards Jaffa.
The Doctor lay quietly beneath the tangle of broken branches,
his hand just touching Vicki’s. Ahead of him, about twenty yards
away, a soldier was leaning against a tree, polishing his sword
with a rough cloth.
      The voices of other men intruded on the peace of the little
wood, the rattle of armaments and the occasional snort of a horse
– sounds indicating the presence of a body of men. Beyond the
solitary soldier who was working so industriously was the tall
ring of bushes hiding the Tardis. Twenty yards from safety. It was
worse than twenty miles, thought the Doctor gloomily.
      He and Vicki had had such good luck, too, in their flight
from Jaffa. They had dodged and manoeuvred through the
town, just keeping out of reach of the Earl of Leicester’s men.
And then the Doctor had remembered the shop-keeper, Ben
Daheer. Slipping through the patrols, he had guided Vicki to the
shop, told its owner that he and his ward wished to travel
incognito and persuaded Ben Daheer to give them complete
changes of clothes and some provisions for the journey.
Receiving their expensive clothes in exchange for some clean but
very well-worn monks’ habits and a little food made a good
bargain and he even went so far as to show them a private route
out of Jaffa, wishing them every success on their ‘pilgrimage’, for
the Doctor had pretended that he had a burning desire to visit
Mecca.
      They made the journey to the little wood in good time, their
spirits soaring, convinced they had eluded their enemies. Just as
they reached the cover of the trees, a body of horsemen had
galloped into sight with the Earl of Leicester at its head, and
before the Doctor and Vicki could run to where the Tardis was
hidden, the Earl’s men had set themselves down right in front of
it, effectively barring them from reaching it.
     They made no attempt to search the wood, although the
Doctor knew that would be their next step. He assured Vicki that
they didn’t know about the existence of the ship. He had already
worked out what had happened. Leicester, convinced that the
Doctor was agent working for Saladin, had collected all the
information he knew about the Doctor as soon as it was clear that
he had slipped through his fingers. The only clue he had was
that the Doctor had first made himself known in the wood, and
seizing upon that as a last hope had ridden there with some men.
The Doctor confirmed his assumption by stealthily climbing a
tree and eavesdropping on the Earl talking to some of his
soldiers.
     ‘These two are spies undoubtedly; sent by Saladin to learn
our secrets,’ he told them. ‘If I have judged correctly they will
come this way again.’
     ‘They will not pass by,’ growled one of the soldiers, and the
Earl nodded approvingly.
     ‘Well said! For they have had opportunity to study the
numbers of our army in Jaffa and make details of our stores and
equipment, all vitally important to the Saracens. Spread
yourselves about and let your ears be sharp and alert.’
     The Doctor had retired, raging inwardly, and he and Vicki
had then found the safest spot they could and covered
themselves with leaves and broken branches, lying as near the
ship as possible in the hope that they might be able to evade
Leicester’s men and slam the doors of the Tardis in their faces.
Then all they would have to do would be to wait for Ian and
Barbara to arrive (for both of them were quite convinced they
would, in time) and worry about admitting them when the
occasion demanded.
     The strong aroma of roasting meat began to drift through
the trees, and the soldier put away his sword, reminded of his
hunger. He moved forward uncertainly, then strolled in the
direction of the cooking. The Doctor’s fingers tapped on the
girl’s hand. She crept out from beneath the branches carefully,
spread the bushes aside and looked about her. The Doctor
whispered to her and she raced across the opening and
disappeared through the ring of bushes.
     The Doctor nodded to himself and eased his cramped legs
slightly. It seemed he had lain like this for hours, enduring the
bitter cold of the night, dozing fitfully in the early morning sun.
Now the heat of the afternoon poured down, bringing out beads
of perspiration on his forehead, and his heavy monk’s habit felt
damp and sticky. He crawled out from the camouflage of twigs
and leaves and peered about – everything seemed quiet and
deserted. He bunched up the front of his robe and started to run
across the little clearing. At that moment the soldier wandered
into view and with a shout of triumph charged forward and
grabbed hold of the Doctor by the scruff of his neck. In a second
the clearing was full of soldiers.
     The Doctor never panicked in emergencies and stood
quietly now, facing his enemies. The Earl of Leicester pushed his
way through the ring of grinning soldiers, a look of triumph on
his face.
     ‘I thought you would show yourself, traitor!’
     ‘I’m no traitor,’ said the Doctor calmly. ‘What do you want
with me?’
     Leicester scowled at him and put his hands on his hips.
‘First, I want the truth and then I shall rid this world of you.’
     ‘I will tell you the truth about this man,’ said a quiet voice.
Leicester swung around.
     Ian walked towards the group. Just visible behind him were
two horses, and the Doctor could see Barbara slowly
dismounting.
     ‘I am Sir Ian, Knight of Jaffa, charged by King Richard to
intercede with Saladin on behalf of Sir William des Preaux and a
lady who had fallen into Saracen hands.’
     ‘I remember you,’ said Leicester, ‘for I conducted you to the
King on your arrival with a wounded knight. But as I recall the
events you were this man’s companion.’
     ‘That is not true,’ said Ian. ‘We met in this wood and he
helped me carry the injured knight, de Tornebu, to Jaffa. But
his smiles and willing hands were only a disguise to ingratiate
himself. He desired nothing more than to worm his way into the
confidence of the King.’
     ‘I thought so,’ roared Leicester, his face black with fury.
     ‘I have discovered he is worse than a spy,’ remarked Ian,
moving nearer to the Doctor. Every eye was on Ian now, but the
Doctor just caught a glimpse of Barbara stepping through the
ring of bushes and disappearing out of sight.
     ‘He is a sorcerer,’ said Ian, dropping his voice.
     There was a silence. One or two of the soldiers moved back
slightly in superstitious awe, while Leicester’s hand fell on the
hilt of his sword.
     ‘Then let us dispatch him and have done with it.’
     ‘My Lord of Leicester, I have travelled a long way with but
one ambition.’
     ‘To watch this man’s execution?’
     ‘No, My Lord. To administer it.’
     The Doctor stood silently, making absolutely no contribution
to the conversation, his eyes staring steadily into Ian’s.
     ‘You would deprive me of a pleasure, Sir Ian,’ said Leicester
doggedly.
     ‘But it was he who arranged the ambush on King Richard in
this very wood,’ replied Ian. ‘It was he who was responsible for
the lady, Barbara, being abducted. The greater debt is to me, My
Lord, and it can only be met with his life and my sword.’
     Leicester nodded. ‘This villainy knows no bounds. Do it,
then, Sir Ian and we will ride back to the King and relate this
story.’
     Ian moved up to the Doctor. ‘Where will you meet your
end?’
     The Doctor shrugged.
     ‘Let it be a matter between the two of us,’ he replied quietly.
‘Behind those bushes.’
     Ian nodded and drew his sword. He followed the Doctor to
the ring of bushes and followed him through them. As soon as
the foliage covered them, the Doctor picked up his robe and ran
for the Tardis, where Barbara and Vicki were waiting.
     The Doctor produced the ship’s key from a cord round his
neck, opened the doors and they hurried inside, Vicki’s excited
breath of laughter echoing out as the doors closed behind them.
     On the other aide of the bushes the Earl of Leicester
stiffened.
     ‘Did any of you hear another voice?’ he demanded. ‘A
voice... that laughed?’
     The men looked at each other nervously. Leicester drew out
his sword and forced his way through the bushes, his men
crowding in behind him. They stopped in alarm as they stared at
the extraordinary spectacle of the telephone box. A light began
to flash on the top of it, and with one accord they fell to their
knees.
     Then the box faded and disappeared in front of their eyes
and in a second there was no evidence that it had been there at
all.
     ‘Witchcraft!’ muttered Leicester hoarsely. ‘Poor Sir Ian!
Brave fellow. Spirited away by fiends and black arts.’
     He stood up then looked commandingly at the trembling
men around him.
     ‘We will not speak of this. Let this story die here in this wood
or we’ll be branded idiots – or liars.’
     The men scrambled to their feet and crashed through the
bushes, intent on putting as much space as they could between
themselves and the accursed place. Leicester stood silently for a
moment, clutching his sword just beneath its hilt and holding it
straight out in front of him.
     ‘Poor Sir Ian,’ he repeated. ‘What dreadful anguish and
despair you must be suffering now.’
     At that very moment, Ian and the Doctor were trying to
quell the bubbles of laughter that threatened to burst their blood
vessels. The Doctor puffed and panted out his pleasure at the
way Ian had used his wits and fooled Leicester, while Ian held
his side and endeavoured to control himself. The two girls sat
side by side on the couch smiling happily.
     Finally, the two men recovered, knowing it was more the
extent of their relief than any genuine humour at the situation
which caused the outburst. They sat around as they were; the
Doctor and Vicki in their monks’ habits, Ian in his motley
costume, half Saracen guard, half English knight, Barbara with
the red cloak wrapped around her, the flimsy transparent
coverings on her arms and legs bearing the travel stains of her
escape from Lydda. They related their adventures to each other,
matching this action with that happening, describing one
character, revelling in another; passing from incident to incident
and adventure to adventure until the stories met and ended with
their last fortunate meeting in the wood.
     Then Ian and Barbara went off to their rooms to bathe and
change, leaving the Doctor to fuss around his controls. Vicki sat
on the couch for a while, silent with her thoughts. ‘Richard the
Lionheart never recaptured Jerusalem, did he, Doctor?’ she said
eventually.
     ‘No, but he came very near to it, my child,’ he replied, his
fingers brushing gently over his beloved switches and levers,
conscious of the healthy hum of the controls, sure that his Time
and Space machine was responding accurately to every impulse.
     Finally he turned and leaned against the control column,
smiling at Vicki. He thought of his granddaughter, Susan, for a
moment, who had sat in that exact position so many times
before.
     ‘He faced the Holy City, and then shielded his eyes,’ he said.
     ‘Yes, I remember reading that somewhere. But why? He had
come so far... why didn’t he do what he’d set out to do?
     ‘Frankly, I think Richard knew he could conquer the city but
couldn’t hold it. I believe he estimated what the capture of
Jerusalem would do – arouse a shout of praise and hope
throughout the Christian world. But against this he had to put
the dreadful shock it would be to his world’s morale when
Saladin recaptured it again. People always remember the last
battle, my child. No, Richard was right to do what he did.’
     Vicki stood up and moved nearer the Doctor, staring
fascinated at the lights that flashed and the wheels that spun, a
constant source of never-ending delight to her.
     ‘And where do we go now, Doctor?’
     He smiled and shook his head, the only answer he would
give.
     And the Tardis flashed on its way, hurtling through the
galaxies of Space, spinning through the barriers of Time,
searching for a new resting-place on a fresh horizon.