‘All that changed when we lost Jerusalem four years ago,’ Robin went on. ‘After that, the camel trains couldn’t stop in Gaza, as they had before; the buyers were gone. They could no longer meet their Christian merchant friends there and transact their business, as any Christian who showed his nose there would be imprisoned and quite possibly executed by the Saracens. The frankincense trains now have to come further north; more than a hundred, rocky, dry, bandit-infested miles north. Here, to Acre.’
I was slightly bemused by this lesson, and I must have looked puzzled, for Robin said, rather crossly: ‘Don’t you understand? Reuben and I went to Gaza to meet these frankincense traders. And we made them an offer. An offer they will find difficult to refuse. We offered to buy their entire frankincense stock and save them the expense and risk of having to camel-train it north through bandit-infested desert.’ It was the second time he had used that particular phrase. ‘It was Reuben’s scheme, and I think it’s quite inspired. It’s a good deal for them, and for us. Everybody is happy.’
‘What about these Christian merchants in Acre?’ I said. ‘Won’t they be angry that their frankincense is being bought by another merchant? That they are, in fact, being cut out of this trade altogether?’
‘I think it is written somewhere,’ said Robin, with just a little too much self-satisfaction, ‘that each soul must expect a little disappointment in this life, and he should try to profit by the experience,’ and with that, the matter was closed.
I was deliberately early for the dinner the next day and, finding a convenient corner in the luxurious dining hall, I sat and unobtrusively began to tune my vielle, and to think. My wrist was still not as supple as I would have liked, but it would suffice. I was very curious to see who Robin would be eating with that evening. I guessed Reuben would be a guest, as it was now clear why Reuben was so important for Robin’s plans in the Holy Land — plans that had not even the slightest connection with our avowed holy mission to rescue Jerusalem from the Saracens. Reuben was the key to Robin’s frankincense ploy because Reuben knew the trade, had worked on the camel trains, knew the right people for Robin to meet: I could now see clearly why Robin had sacrificed Ruth’s life in York, and saved Reuben’s, but the knowledge gave me no comfort. Robin had allowed a young girl to die to increase his chances of becoming wealthy. It was a chilling realisation, but somehow I was not as shocked as I should have been; it was more of a sinking feeling. I felt I was beginning to know the man that Robin truly was — not the shining, noble hero I had wished him to be, but a hard, ruthless man, who would do anything to protect himself and further his own cause. I also had the feeling that Robin had some other part of his frankincense plan that he was keeping to himself, and I dared not think what it might be.
I hadn’t had time to write any new pieces but Robin had given me to understand that I would just be playing soothing background music to entertain his guests, and possibly to prevent anyone from overhearing what was said. And so I merely ran through a few of Robin’s favourites by way of practice and waited for the guests to arrive.
The first to turn up was Reuben, looking lean and tired but in a new and expensively embroidered robe. I was glad that he had arrived first for there was something of great importance that I wanted to discuss with him: we spent a few minutes talking quietly in the music corner, and then, our mutual plans concluded, Reuben wandered away to find a servant and get himself something to drink. The next man to enter the hall was Robin’s guest, a thick-set man of medium height, whom I guessed was an Arab from his dark curly hair and intense eyes, but who wore Western-style tunic, hose and long sea-boots that came up to the top of his thighs. There was a definite salty air about him: from the way he rolled slightly as he walked, as if uncomfortable on dry land, to the heavy gold earrings in both ears, and the very business-like thick-bladed scimitar that rode on his hip. He ignored me, seated on my stool in the corner, but I was expecting to be invisible that evening. However, the Arab sailor did greet Reuben with a wary friendliness. Then Robin was in the room, accompanied by two archers who I knew slightly, and who were immediately banished to guard the door. He was dressed once again in the long Saracen robe, but was bareheaded and without the dye darkening his skin.
I began to play ‘My Joy Summons Me’, singing softly to accompany myself. And Robin looked over at me and smiled: ‘Play a little more loudly, Alan, if you would be so good. I don’t believe our guest will have heard this very pleasant tune.’
Obediently, I began to play and sing with more force, and as a result, try as I might, I could only hear snatches of the conversation during the long meal that followed. Reuben, Robin and the sea-going man, whose name I learnt was Aziz, sat on large cushions on the floor around a wide low table. Arab servants entered from time to time with dishes of unusual looking foods — tiny morsels of meat in delicate pastry, dishes of stewed mutton and chicken, bread made with honey and dates, and spiced glazed pears — and each time they did the three men broke off their conversations and waited in silence until the serving men had left and they were alone once again.
The first thing I heard, after a long, quiet speech from Aziz, was Robin saying sharply: ‘Refused my offer? What do you mean, they refused? Don’t they know a profitable deal when it’s handed to them on a plate?’ He must have heard a break in the rhythm of the piece I was playing as I strained to listen because he gave me a hard look and then lowered his voice to continue the conversation.
He forgot himself again, perhaps a quarter of an hour later, and I hear him say to Reuben just as I came to the end of a jolly canso: ‘… I don’t care if they have taken on extra protection, hired more armed men, I can still teach them a damned good lesson. I can still make them fear for their profits this year.’
Courses came, were eaten and cleared away; and the servants had just brought in a sherbert — a magnificent dish of mountain snow, lemon juice and sugar, which had my own mouth watering — when I just caught the end of something that Reuben was saying to Aziz. ‘… so you will agree to carry it for us to Messina, at the price we struck before; I take it then that you have no problem with that?’
The meal finally came to an end after a couple of hours. And my newly mended right wrist was stiff and sore by time the sailor rose to his feet, and bowed courteously to Robin. Whatever business they had been discussing, I got the impression it had been satisfactorily concluded for all parties.
Robin and Reuben also rose and bowed, and as the sailor was leaving, I heard him say, quite clearly, and it was the first time I had heard his voice: ‘Until the rising of the full moon, then,’ before he strode out of the dining hall, out of Robin’s palace and away into the night.
Two nights later, Reuben and I stood behind a small door in the top room of a half-abandoned tower in the eastern part of Acre, near the royal apartments. It was as dark as a witch’s soul, only a dim light seeping in from a small arched window on the other side of the room, and I could only just make out the shape of my friend on the other side of the doorway, as he stood with his back to the cool stone, a foot-long freshly sharpened blade in his hand. I, too, had had my poniard sharpened, but it was sheathed, for although this was work for short blades, I needed both hands free. We had been waiting in silence for more than an hour, ears straining for the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside the door.