As mentioned in the post before this one, I wrote my first novel in my mid-teens. Originally it was titled ‘Tiger’s Eye’ after the stones in my hero’s sword hilt – I was being fanciful. Currently I’ve titled it ‘The Knight’s Road.’
Several decades and well over 20 published novels later, I had a couple of days to revisit ‘Tiger’s Eye’ which I have retitled ‘The Knight’s Road.’ I can understand just why it didn’t get published. Even with an edit, it’s a little naïve around the edges. But it might lend itself to a comic book strip, or a swash-buckling film where you enjoy the action and don’t think too hard about the rest of it.
The original story synopsis went like this.
Jordan de Beaumont, a half-European, half-Greek who has been raised in Northern Syria during the years of Frankish settlement following the First Crusade, is a young knight and ‘fixer’ for King Fulke of Jerusalem. Fulke himself has come from Anjou to rule as King of Jerusalem and oversee the European crusader state. Jordan gets into various scrapes while performing his duties and while doing so, meets up with a family on pilgrimage. He falls heavily for their beautiful daughter, Cecile, although in true historical romance fashion, there’s a lot of misunderstandings between them along the way. As Cecile and her family make to return to Europe, it coincides with the unexpected death of Jordan’s male landowning relatives in Europe, and Jordan and his family leave the Holy Land and return to the England and Normandy of the Stephen/Matilda civil war and have various problems and uncertainties to deal with. As I remember, I wanted to explore the idea of what would happen when a settler family decided to return to Europe from the Middle East. The novel was set about 50% in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, 10% on the journey home, and the other 40% tackling the difficulties of settling back into European culture.
I don’t think it’s one that I’m going to full rewrite at this stage – way too much work, but here for your entertainment are the first few pages:
Port of St. Symeon Syria, Spring, 1136
When Raymond awoke from a restless doze, the darkness of night had yielded to a dingy daylight and heat was already prickling his skin. His thighs and calves spasmed with cramp and he ached all over from being too longed trapped in this poky little hole. He was weary of hiding, of being a fugitive, of running for his life.
The beaded curtain dividing the back-room from the shop counter on the street, clacked to one side. Raymond whipped his dagger from his belt, ready to strike. The shopkeeper recoiled, and wine slopped over the rim of the goblet he held, staining his yellow silk tunic.
‘I have brought you a drink, sire.’
Glowering, Raymond took the wine and downed it in half a dozen gulps. His throat was as parched as dust and his belly was clamped to his spine with hunger. ‘Bring Another cup,’ he said brusquely, ‘and something to eat.’ He knew the shop keeper was no more delighted about concealing him here, than he was about being cooped up in this store room, but money always talked.
Voices sounded from the direction of the sales counter – French voices carrying the peculiar dialect of French native to England. Once again, Raymond’s fist tensed on his dagger hilt.
The shopkeeper shook his head and peered over his shoulder through the curtain. ‘Peace my lord. There is one man and two women; they are but customers seeking a bolt of cloth.’
Raymond pointed the knife at him. ‘Betray me, and you will be the first to die, on my oath.’
‘Sire I would not do that, for I believe you.’ The draper bowed, and having turned his back, raised his eyes to heaven before returning to his shop.
The customer was a Frankish noble, tall, wide-chested and with ruddy-fair-hair exactly like the snarling lion in the store room, but in contrast, his expression was good-humoured and open. The women were eyeing the merchant’s bolts of silk, and the man was looking on with amused indulgence. Newcomers, the shopkeeper surmised with a view to his profit. The native Franks were never as enthusiastic.
Going decisively to a bolt of cloth, he pulled the end free and shook a generous length across his sales table. The fabric shimmered like the interior of an oyster shell at dawn. ‘Tafeth,’ he said, ‘The white silk of the city of Tyre, woven nowhere else. I can offer you the best price in all of Outremer.’
The women gasped and made sounds of admiration. The man, who was evidently the husband of one woman and the father of the other, ranged his glance across the stacked bolts of cloth. ‘That remains to be seen,’ he said, revealing that even if he was a newcomer, he was shrewd.
‘Indeed, and I shall prove it to you. Search every booth between here and Jerusalem and you will not find better for a fairer sum.’ The draper spread his arms, the epitome of an honest man. Glancing beyond his stall into the street, he observed a man wearing a plain dark robe hesitating in front of his shop. A turban covered his head and scarfed his throat. The man eyed the customers for a moment and then leaned against one of the stall’s posts, faced the street, and watched the passers-by with arms folded.
Suppressing a sigh, Jordan de Beaumont glanced over his shoulder and wondered just how long the draper’s customers were going to be. The dangerousness of the situation prickled his shoulder blades. Anyone could be an enemy. The city guards were on high alert and already premises were being searched. The rumour had spread that Raymond of Poitiers had landed in the port and was intent on making his way to Antioch to marry the heiress of its recently deceased lord and take command of the principality. Many had good reason for Raymond’s suit to fail, and Jordan had been entrusted by King Fulke of Jerusalem with ensuring that Raymond succeeded.
Jordan brushed at a fly that had landed to investigate his full black beard, grown to enhance his native appearance. The women were still busy admiring various bolts of cloth, and the draper was doing nothing to hurry the proceedings along. As Jordan watched, the man pulled out another bolt of red silk, gleaming like the heart of a good ruby. The younger woman smiled. She had caught the sun and her nose and cheeks were flushed. Sensing his scrutiny, she cast a glance in his direction and he immediately returned his attention to the street.
He changed position several times and ate a fistful of dates from his pouch, washing them down with a swallow from his flask. Still the customers lingered and haggled and eventually, Jordan’s patience evaporated. Entering the shop he bowed briefly to the man and women, and then addressed the shop keeper in Arabic.
‘Your pardon, I have little time. My master has sent me to take care of the fabric you have been keeping safely for him. I believe it has been sent especially from Italy, and is bound for Antioch.’
The trader glanced at his customers whose expressions conveyed mild annoyance at the interruption. Jordan met the girl’s eyes again. Closer now, he could see they were tawny, ringed at the pupil with green. She dropped her gaze and so did he. He did not want to be accused of staring, and so many recent arrivals were obsessed by a desire to kill their first infidel. Who knew what the father might do if he thought Jordan was ogling his daughter.
The draper jerked his head toward the curtain. ‘The fabric you seek is in the back. It has been waiting for you since yesterday evening. ‘
Jordan bowed again to the customers and received nods from all three. He made his way to the back of the shop and clacked through the curtain, where he was immediately seized round the throat from behind, a brawny forearm tightening on his wind-pipe. Jordan rammed his elbow into his assailant’s gut but like the forearm, the muscles there were hard and unyielding. Nevertheless, the thrust was sufficient to allow him to break free and spin to face his attacker. Here then truly was Raymond of Poitiers, for it was said he could bend an iron bar in half with his fingers alone.
The dagger glinted in Raymond’s right hand. ‘Come on then infidel, Hell’s waiting for your soul.’
‘Sire, I am no more an infidel than you are,’ Jordan rasped. ‘I have been sent by Fulke King of Jerusalem, who offers you his greeting and protection from here to the walls of Antioch. My name does not matter and better if you do not know it. Call me Safed, and I am your protection.
The dagger withdrew a fraction and Raymond suddenly laughed, displaying square white teeth. ‘Protection! Ha! I haven’t heard such a jest since the Twelfth Night Feast. I could cut your throat here and now. What sort of “protection” is that?
‘And you would be killed in your turn before you reached the city gates,’ Jordan retorted. ‘Roger of Sicily has his agents out after you. There are Saracen factions who would see you instantly dead, and if Princess Constance’s mother discovers just what is afoot, and what you intend, she too will desire your death.’
Raymond snorted. ‘Just how do you propose to get me out of the gates with my head still attached to my shoulders and my heart still beating in my breast?’
‘Put up your knife and I will tell you sire – if my voice will hold out.’ Jordan rubbed his bruised throat.
Raymond pointed the knife before returning it to its sheath. ‘Make one move out of place and you die. I don’t even know that you truly have come from King Fulke. ‘
Jordan shrugged. ‘It would be unwise to carry proof.’ Hands outspread away from his own belt knife, he sat down cross-legged on the floor with the ease of long familiarity, causing Raymond to put his hand back on his dagger hilt.
As Jordan outlined the plan, Raymond’s eyes widened with indignation. ‘God’s eyes, you go too far!’
‘Only as far as Antioch and your throne,’ Jordan replied equably.
‘I have had a bellyful of skulking and disguise. Dress as your servant? Dye my hair and stain my face? You are mad!’
‘Would you rather be dead? Is that why you have come all this way sire? To die for pride because you refused to apply a moment’s subterfuge?’ Jordan opened a pouch at his waist and brought out a small phial of dark liquid. ‘Walnut juice for your skin and hair. You will look as though you have lived here many years.’
‘If you think for one moment I am going to rub that stuff into my face then you’re…’ Raymond stopped in mid-speech and whipped round, to face a narrow back entrance, the dagger in his hand again. A short, bow-legged man in his middle years stopped on the spot and his gaze flashed to Jordan’s.
‘My lord you must leave here now. There are soldiers searching every shop in the street for a tall Frank with fair hair. You haven’t much time.’
‘Who in God’s name are you?’ Raymond demanded.
‘He’s my man-at-arms Jordan answered and stood up. ‘You do not need to know his name either. ‘Ahab, go into the shop and create a disturbance to hold their attention – anything. You know what to do. There’s a tall newcomer in there – fair-haired. You might be able to divert the soldiers’ attention.’
“Ahab” nodded, but before departing to his task, produced two swords from under his cloak. ‘You might need these,’ he said.
Raymond’s eyes lit up. He took one of the swords, removed it from its sheath and studied the blade.
Jordan took the other sword. He unwound his turban with his free hand and gave it to Raymond. ‘Cover your head. Your hair and your height are beacons to get us both killed.’
Muttering under his breath, Raymond snatched the scarf and doused his hair. Jordan led him under a narrow arch into a back alley. They had reached half way, strolling nonchalantly, when two soldiers shouted at them from behind. Raymond’s hand tensed on his sword hilt. Jordan shook his head and made a flattening motion with his palm. Turning, he faced the approaching men and bowed low. Raymond stood proud and looked down his long nose.
‘You!’ one snapped to Raymond in appalling Arabic that a native-speaker would have been hard-put to understand, ‘We seek a tall Frank with yellow hair. We’ve heard he’s been hiding nearby.’
‘My cousin is deaf effendi, pardon his ignorance,’ Jordan replied. ‘We did see a tall man with fair hair – he was in one of the draper’s shops back there – a newcomer.’
With a sinking sensation, Jordan saw that the soldier who had spoken was eyeing Raymond like a feral cat about to pounce on a plump gerbil.
‘Tell this deaf cousin of yours to take off his turban,’ he said, ‘or I shall tell him myself with this blade.’
‘He has lice sir – plague-carrying lice. They live in his hair. If he removes his turban, they will surely escape and infect us all.’
‘I will take the risk.’
‘He is stupid as well, sir. I cannot make him understand anything,’ Jordan continued, buying time to ready his sword. ‘His charge has fallen to me because his mother is sick and cannot care for him. His sister, may a thousand camels tread on her, thinks he is possessed by a demon and refuses to go near him, and his three brothers say…’
‘Enough of this stupidity!’ The edge of the man’s sword flipped up and swept Raymond’s head-covering from his gilded give-away hair.
Jordan’s sword flashed. He took the soldier in the side and dropped him. Raymond tackled the other man, but played for a moment, showing his skills, loosening cramped muscles. Jordan, lacking the patience for such niceties moved in, kicked the second soldier’s feet from under him and afforded him a swift exit from the world. ‘Quickly!’ he said, to Raymond who was scowling at having his kill denied. ‘Quickly!’
They ran the rest of the way down the alley and emerged onto a wider street, barred with white ribs of sunlight.
‘Where now?’ Raymond’s glance darted up and down the road. The sun glittered on his hair, once more a burning beacon to all who sought him.
‘The harbour, and cover your hair!’
Raymond sighed, but wrapped the scarf back around his head at a skewed angle. Jordan started to walk down the street, his attitude that of a merchant about his business, bustling but not too hasty. Raymond, strode out and Jordan cursed to himself, thinking that the next time King Fulke asked him to undertake a dangerous mission, he would go into voluntary exile. Taking charge of Raymond of Poitiers was like building his own gibbet.
He turned down another alley way. The tang of the sea was stronger here, the ground underfoot gritty with sand and salt, and a vague aroma of fish. He stopped at a door, rotten with age. When he knocked on it, sawdust puffed out of the woodwork.
‘This hovel?’ Raymond said in disbelief.
‘What did you expect my lord, a royal palace?’
‘You are insolent.’
Jordan bit his tongue and refrained from piling on yet more insolence. The door opened a crack and an old man peered out, then exclaimed with relief and stepped back, allowing them to shoulder inside. ‘I was starting to worry, sire.’
‘You might worry some more yet,’ Jordan growled. ‘We’ve encountered trouble and we need to be gone.’ He looked at Raymond. ‘The sooner we change your appearance the better.
Raymond gave a resigned grudging nod. ‘If I must.’
Jordan turned to the old man. ‘Thierry, some food and drink would not go amiss to our guest in the meantime.’
‘I have a flagon of Ksara wine and some bread and dates.’
‘Admirable.’ Jordan watched him limp away on his errand. Thierrry was one of the King’s former serjeants, invalided out of active service by a leg wound, but of sharp wits and still useful. He turned to Raymond. ‘Now, about your hair.’
‘I am not riding a donkey!’ Raymond glowered at Jordan. His face and hands were walnut-dyed to tan-brown, his hair was as dark as old oak, but it served to make his eyes a brighter blue, as he glared at the fuzzy grey beast waiting patiently for him to straddle the saddle-pack.
‘It was good enough for our lord Jesus Christ when he entered Jerusalem,’ Jordan pointed out. ‘The goal is to leave here in one piece. You will be riding fine horseflesh soon enough. No one will be looking for the lord of Poitiers straddling a donkey and garbed as a servant.’
Curling his lip in displeasure, Raymond acquainted himself with his mount, muttering under his breath. His feet almost touched the ground.
Riding out of the city gates, fellow travellers bumped and jostled them on all sides. Raymond and his mount were almost squashed against a wall by a grumpy camel and Jordan concealed a grin.
‘I do not wonder that you keep your true identity unknown, for by God, if I ever find out, I swear I will pay you back in full,’ Raymond hissed.
‘Thank you sire, for you owe me your life,’ Jordan replied, causing Raymond to narrow his eyes, although they held a glint of grudging amusement.
Raymond’s donkey took a dislike to a horse riding up alongside and lashed out, with a kick and a loud bray.
‘Infidel scum, I’ll have your wretched beast’s hide for a saddle cloth!’ cried the rider, who wore the garb of a Frankish man-at-arms. His boiled complexion revealed that he was a recent arrival in the Land of Christ.
‘Mind your words you baseborn whoreson!’ Raymond yelled back. ‘I will flay your own hide and nail it to the gates of Jerusalem!’
Jordan closed his eyes, for the lord of Poitiers had just proclaimed himself to all and sundry. The soldier on the horse looked briefly taken aback, and then reached for his sword.
‘FitzWalter!’ A nobleman pushed his grey palfrey through the stream and confronted the man-at-arms. ‘Get back into line and leave this to me. I desire to leave this benighted town without any more trouble.’
‘But my lord I…’ The soldier subsided under his master’s glare and puffing out his scarlet cheeks, did as he was bidden.
The noble laid a steadying hand on the grey’s neck and turned his attention to Raymond and Jordan. His right eye was swollen and puffed from the skirmish where a madman had set upon him in a draper’s shop and tried to claim that he was Raymond of Poitiers. The knight knew Raymond of Poitiers from a brief exchange of courtesies at the court of King Henry of England in Winchester, and well recognised him now despite the disguise, although he suspected the lord of Poitiers had no such recall of their meeting. He also recognised Raymond’s companion as the man who had entered the shop and interrupted his wife and daughter’s perusal of the fabrics.
‘My apologies effendi,’ Jordan said in heavily accented French. ‘My servant forgets his manners. I assure you he will be soundly flogged.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ the knight said neutrally. ‘I am sure he has much to accomplish when he reaches his destination.’
Jordan gave him a sharp look. The knight met his gaze, inclined his head and reined around.
Exhaling in relief, Jordan made a sign of slitting his throat to Raymond, who pressed his lips together and reassumed his role of disgruntled servant.