Martin Lake [Lake - Outcasts

OUTCASTS

Copyright Martin Lake 2012

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either a product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

Text copyright Martin Lake 2011. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission of the author.

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BOOKS BY MARTIN LAKE

NOVELS

The Flame of Resistance

Triumph and Catastrophe

Blood of Ironside

In Search of Glory

Land of Blood and Water

Blood Enemy

Wolves of war

A Love Most Dangerous

Very Like a Queen

A Dance of Pride and Peril

The Artful Dodger

SHORT STORIES

For King and Country

The Big School

The Guy Fawkes Contest

Mr Toads Wedding

Mr Toad to the Rescue

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For Adam

JERUSALEM 1185

The young man sprawled in the dirt, desperate to avoid the spears that stabbed towards him.

'Get out, you filth,' cried an old man from the edge of the baying crowd.

The spears prodded once more, driving the young man to scurry away like a crab in the sand. He turned, crouching low, and his powerful arms knocked away the points to prevent them harming him.

Beyond the spearmen a crowd of citizens watched in fascinated dread.

'This is shameful,' one man cried, his eyes wide in horror. 'He should be honoured for what he did, not reviled in this way.'

'You are right,' said his companion, an aged Greek merchant. 'But tell me Bernard, would you allow such as him to enter your inn?'

He turned to watch the bitter scene unfold.

'Get out you filth,' cried the old man once again and this time his cry was taken up by others in the crowd, their tight throats yelping like street-dogs.

The young man staggered to his feet, shielded his aching eyes from the burning sun. He saw a young woman in the crowd bend to the ground. She straightened, weighed a heavy stone in her hand and threw it at him. Her aim was good and the stone smashed into his cheek, tearing at his lacerated skin.

This seemed to act as a signal. Dozens of stones flew from the hands of the onlookers, pelting him with vindictive fury. He did his best to shield his head from the missiles and staggered out of their reach.

'He should be allowed to join the Order of Saint Lazarus,' said the inn-keeper. 'He was a soldier of the King.'

The old Greek shook his hand. 'True. But he was not a knight. Even lepers, it appears, are ranked by birth and blood.'

The young man halted a short distance from the crowd and stared back at them. One of the spearmen stepped from the ranks and approached him, flinging down a bundle of white linen clothing and a bell before hurrying back to his fellows.

'Get away from us,' cried the voices from the crowd. 'Get away, you filth.'

'I shall do so,' the young man called. 'I have no desire to live my life with you.'

He stooped to the bundle of clothes, and turning, limped off towards the desert.

The crowd hooted in derision.

CHAPTER 1

ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES

The David Gate in Jerusalem June 1187

John and Simon Ferrier climbed up the steep track towards the city. John felt he might die at any moment. The sun poured out of a clear blue sky, an intense, implacable heat which seemed intent on beating him to his knees. He uncorked his flask and sipped at the water. It tasted of iron and gave no relief to the desert of his mouth.

Nearly there, he gasped to his cousin.

Simon gave him a blank stare.

The last mile was the worst. John forced his eyes to peer through the glare but no matter how often he looked he appeared to be no closer. It seemed the city would stay forever beyond his reach.

Could that be, he wondered? Was Jerusalem so holy a place that those unworthy would never attain its bliss?

The two men lurched together. The contact gave them renewed purpose and their pace quickened. Finally, they reached the city and stumbled into the deep shade beneath its walls.

At last, said Simon.

Ten months, John said. Ten months. But weve got here.

Just outside the gate to the city a cistern had been placed for the relief of pilgrims and their horses. The water was brackish and oily, strewn with wisps of straw and dead insects. They plunged their heads into it and swallowed great draughts. In England it would have been too warm to drink; now it was like water from an icy stream.

Eventually they drank their fill and took up their staffs. Hearts hammering with excitement they strode into the city.

Crowds of people lined the road, jostling for position. The sheer numbers pressed the cousins back until their legs slammed against a stone shrine. The noise of the crowd was almost unbearable.

Two small boys squeezed behind their legs and clambered onto the shrine.

They yelled to each other in joy and excitement.

Whats happening? John asked them.

'King Guy,' cried the youngest boy, 'King Guy is going to war.'

Almost immediately a trumpet called from deep within the city. A heavy and regular beat sounded in the distance. It grew louder and soon the reverberation jarred the ground beneath their feet.

A huge cheer rose from the crowd and the children shrieked with delight.

Riding down the cobbled street came two lines of knights, pennants high, bright armour glistening in the sun. The knights in the line nearest to them wore white coats emblazoned with stark red crosses, the others wore red surcoats with white crosses.

Who are they? John asked.

Knights of the Temple and the Hospital, cried the youngest boy. I am for the Templars but Claude-Yusuf is for the Hospitallers.

'Gerard is too young to know better,' explained the older boy with a shrug.

Five yards behind the knights rode two men on great horses.

The older man was a red-head with rough beard and close-cropped hair. He sat forward in his saddle as if hoping by his stance to push it faster. His eyes were wide and shining and he glanced about him with an exultant look.

Who is that? asked John. He did not say but he was disturbed by the look of the man.

Raynald of Chtillon, said an old man in the crowd. He leaned closer. If you are wise you would make no comment about him, no matter what anyone says, good or ill.

John and Simon exchanged wary looks.

And the other? John stared at the man who rode beside Raynald.

He was tall and slim, with thick, flowing hair and neat trimmed beard. His face seemed carved from stone; handsome and dignified, with full lips and a strong chin. His eyes were stern and imperious and he glanced about him at the crowd acknowledging their cheers with a nod of his head.

'That is Guy of Lusignan,' said the old man.

King Guy, King Guy, cried Gerard. Hooray for King Guy.

The king, hearing the cry, searched out the owner of the voice and held out his hand. Gerard gasped and reached up for the kings hand. Guy took it, shook it in a sign of triumph and smiled.

Delighted, Gerard grinned at Claude-Yusuf. 'King Guy has shaken my hand,' he cried, 'King Guy has shaken my hand.'

Behind the king came a compact body of noblemen who looked neither to right nor left. They were followed by long lines of knights and foot-soldiers. The boys became even more excited and Claude-Yusuf began to yell at the top of his voice.