I will do what I can, he had vowed, at the time. No, he decided, I will do more. I will build that haven from the storms of death and destruction. I will build a kingdom where the Holy Light shines as a beacon flame in the darkness of that terrible night.
At Emlyn's touch, Murdo came to himself with a start. 'What were you saying? It sounded like Sanctus Clarus-are you well, Murdo?'
The young man nodded.
'We should see if there is anything we can do,' the monk said, moving on. Murdo followed, leading the camel, his heart and mind churning with the certainty that he had been called to this place and this moment.
Picking their way among the bodies, they came at last to the place where the crusaders had made their stand. Here, the corpses were heaped one upon another on the ground, and there were few horses. The unhorsed knights had been no match for the mounted Seljuqs. Arrows bristled from every corpse; most had been struck many times.
Here also, the people of Jaffa had begun their work. A number of them were removing the harnesses and saddles from the horses, and others were skinning the animals and butchering them where they lay. Their red, raw carcasses glistened in the harsh light, and the rank smell of their entrails mingled with the sweet stink of blood already thick in the air. A little apart, other groups of townsfolk were separating the crusaders from the Turks-flinging the Seljuqs onto a heap, and dragging the Christians off to be placed in long ranks on the ground, where other men and women were moving along the rows, stripping the dead knights of valuables, weapons, and any useful items of clothing.
These articles were then taken to waiting wagons where they were loaded under the watchful eye of a man in a tall black hat with a staff in his hand. He was standing before a small heap of objects on the ground.
As this man appeared to be giving orders to the others, they went over to him to learn what they could of the battle. Emlyn greeted the fellow politely, and he turned his face towards them, frowning. 'What do you want?' he asked, eyeing the camel suspiciously.
'We saw the battle,' Emlyn said. 'We were on our way to Jaffa and saw-
Black Hat turned away and shouted at a fellow standing in one of the wagons. 'Only the weapons in that one!' he cried. 'How many times must I tell you?'
Turning back to the priest, he said, 'It was not much of a battle. The Turks were waiting for them.' Indicating the pile of valuables at his feet, he said, 'Have you anything to sell?'
'We saw smoke,' said Murdo. 'Was the city attacked?'
'Aye, they tried to burn the gates,' the merchant told them. 'Third time this month. But we put the fire out.' He shouted at his helper in the wagon again, then said, 'If you are going to stand here, you might as well make yourself useful. I pay good silver for their belongings.'
'What about the wounded?' asked Emlyn looking around.
The merchant shrugged. 'If you find any, you can give them last rites.'
There came a clatter of steel from the nearby wagon. 'Careful with those!' the merchant roared. 'Can I sell broken blades?'
A woman came up to the black hatted merchant; she was holding a belt with a silver buckle-a knight's sword belt. The man took the belt, looked at it, and threw it down on the heap in front of him. Reaching into a purse at his side, he drew out a fistful of coins and counted a few of them onto the woman's palm. She bowed her head and scurried away, returning eagerly to her work.
Murdo and Emlyn moved among the fallen, searching for any who might yet be saved. They had not gone far when they heard a soft, moaning sigh. 'Over there!' said Emlyn, hurrying towards the sound, calling encouragement as he went. Murdo quickly tied the camel to the pommel of a dead horse's saddle, and removed the waterskin hanging there; he joined the priest as he knelt beside a knight with an arrow in his chest and another in his thigh.
The wounded man struggled up onto an elbow as Murdo handed the priest the waterskin. 'Turks…' he gasped as the priest knelt over him.
'Rest easy, friend,' Emlyn said gently. He drew the stopper and offered the skin. 'Drink a little. We will help you.'
The knight, a fair-haired young Norman, grasped the skin clumsily and tipped it to his mouth. He drank, the water spilling from his mouth and down his neck to mingle with the blood oozing from the wound in his chest. He drank too fast and choked; water gushed from his mouth and he fell back.
The monk quickly retrieved the waterskin, replaced the stopper, and said, 'We must remove these arrows. Murdo, give me your knife.'
'The Seljuqs attacked us… They took it…' said the knight. Seizing Emlyn by the mantle, he jerked the monk forward. 'They were waiting for us -' He grimaced, gritting his teeth against the pain. 'Tell Godfrey the lance is gone…'
Murdo reached into his siarc and brought out the slender knife Ragna had given him. The knight, his face twisted in his agony, reached his hand towards Murdo. 'Tell Godfrey… they took it!'
'Peace,' soothed Emlyn. 'Be still. We will soon have those wounds bandaged.'
Before Murdo could ask what he meant, the knight closed his eyes and passed from consciousness. Emlyn lowered his face to the wounded man's, and then sat back. 'He sleeps.' Turning worried eyes to Murdo, he said, 'It will be dark soon. We must work quickly.'
Using the knife, the monk carefully sliced through the soldier's siarc to expose the wound. The arrow had entered at the top of his chest, below the bones of his left shoulder. 'This one was fortunate,' Emlyn observed.
Taking up the waterskin, the monk dashed water over the wound to wash away the blood. Then, holding the blade gingerly in his fingers, he carefully pressed it into the wound beside the arrow. The knight groaned, but did not wake.
'Grasp the arrow firmly,' he directed. Murdo did as he was told, and the monk said, 'Now, on my command, I want you to pull upwards on the shaft. Ready?'
Murdo gripped the arrow in both hands. 'Yes.'
'Pull.'
Murdo gave an upwards tug and Emlyn, pressing down on the shoulder with his free hand, twisted the knife blade at the same instant, and the arrow came free. The knight jerked his arm, and then lay still.
'That was well done,' breathed Murdo, tossing the arrow aside.
The monk handed him the knife. 'Cut strips from his mantle to bind him,' he said, dashing more water over the wound. Reaching into the pouch at his belt, he took out a small bag and withdrew a pinch of yellowish stuff which he sprinkled over the shoulder, before binding it with the strips which Murdo handed him.
That done, Emlyn turned his attention to the wound in the knight's thigh, repeating the procedure with a deft efficiency which caused Murdo to marvel anew. Twice in this eventful day he had been surprised by the monk; he wondered what else the priest could do that he did not know about.
They were just finishing tying up the leg wound when the sound of horses reached them from the hills east of the plain. Murdo turned towards the sound, expecting to see the Seljuq horde sweeping down upon them. Instead, galloping towards them in the yellow afterglow of the setting sun, he saw two long columns of knights.
'Who are they? Can you see?' asked Emlyn, rising to stand beside him. 'The banners-can you see them?'
'Black and yellow, I think,' replied Murdo.
'The yellow and black-that is Prince Bohemond,' said Emlyn.
The crusaders skirted the battlefield and came on to where their comrades had made their final stand. They reined up along the fallen front line, whereupon many of the knights dismounted and began moving quickly among their dead comrades. Their leaders, meanwhile, rode on to where Black Hat stood directing the scavengers.
'Stay with him,' Murdo told the monk. 'I want to hear what they are saying.'
'Greetings, friends,' called a tall, broad-shouldered man to the Jaffa merchant as Murdo edged near. The knight's freshly burnished helm and hauberk glimmered golden in the fading light. His long fair hair curled from beneath his helm, and his arms bulged with knotted muscle as he struggled to hold his mount still. From the man's easy authority, Murdo knew it must be Bohemond himself who addressed them.