At a Crossroads
Deep in the desert, somewhere between Edessa and Damascus, a small force of armoured men collapsed exhausted in a wadi as the sun began to rise. They made camp and erected their linen tents to provide shade through the heat of the day. They would rest until nightfall before continuing their long trek.
As they settled down to doze under the cloth bivouacs, a bedouin rider arrived by camel bearing a message with the royal seal of King Baldwin. It was addressed to Prince Guy, who snatched it from him and began to read its contents.
Freddie Swabia watched from a distance as the Prince's eyes darted eagerly over the scroll. He took on a sardonic grin as he rolled it up and began to discuss its contents in a hushed tone with his group of close advisors.
Freddie was not part of this group. He had the feeling the Prince did not altogether trust him. Guy had been displeased with the general state of the encampment at Mardin when he had returned from his jaunt into the desert. Freddie, long since sick of minding the fort, had let an element of chaos and anarchy seep into the day to day running of the camp, and if there was one thing Guy did not seem to like it was feeling that he was not in control.
Freddie recalled the day that the Prince and his small army had returned from their mission into the desert. He had been sitting out in front of the garrison house at Mardin throwing dice with a group of the newly-arrived young noblemen from Europe when a cloud of dust and sand had announced the return of Guy.
In a flurry of activity the Prince and his men had commandeered the best lodgings, wine and supplies for themselves while driving the local traders, fortune tellers and camel dealers out of the camp and back into the village. In the centre of the camp they had erected a set of poles upon which they planted various heads that they had brought back from their excursion.
Later that night at a feast hastily arranged to celebrate his return Guy had bragged incessantly about his bravery in vanquishing the host of saracens installed in the castle at Anbar, and of the fierce fighting and resistance he had encountered in capturing the fort for the glory of God and the crusade.
Freddie had detected more than a note of exaggeration in the tale and indeed, on inspection the heads did not seem to be those of mighty warriors but appeared to be those of wizened, old and malnourished men. Secretly Freddie began to suspect that Guy had conquered nothing more than a group of old peasant farmers and that the castle at Anbar had been largely unoccupied.
In the weeks and months that followed, Guy reigned in terror over Mardin, implementing strict martial law and a cruel and unjust system of punishment for any perceived infraction, particularly by the local Muslims, many of whom were tortured or summarily executed for little more than stealing food or saying the wrong thing to one of the Prince's men.
So harsh and unremitting was the administration of the camp that the locals deserted the village entirely and soon it was barely populated by any other than the installed crusaders.
It was at this stage that the Prince, upon hearing the news of Raymond de Chatillon's attack on Egypt and John of Ibelin's recapture of the Holy City, decided to up sticks and move the camp en masse back to the Levant, where he intended to install himself as governor of Jerusalem in Baldwin's absence.
So here they were, somewhere in the desert, thirsty and tired, their numbers whittled down by the long and difficult march through the dry and unfamiliar lands.
Tired of waiting for the Prince to share the news with the rest of the men, Freddie shouted over to him.
Your highness, what news?
Guy scowled at Swabia before responding.
The accursed Qara-Suu dogs have betrayed our King and attacked the eastern lands, cutting off your Barbarossa from the King who remains under siege at Baghdad. The King tries to negotiate, but to no avail so far. It seems Baghdad may fall.
Swabia jumped to his feet.
Why, then we must be away at once! To his aid!
Guy sat down on his pile of cushions, poured himself a glass of wine and smiled a cruel smile.
No my young prince, we must not. What sense is there is our getting killed for nought? I am the heir let us not forget. It is my...responsibility to stay alive and...protect the kingdom. Besides, Baghdad is nothing to me - that was Baldwin's fantasy. Let Barbarossa retake it if he cares.
We go on, at nightfall - if I am to be crowned King it shall be at Jerusalem.
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