Doctor Who and the Crusaders Read online

  ‘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 rest
ed.’

  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 s
earch 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.’