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VIII

The maps which Thomas Busshe had studied in the monastery all showed the Holy Land as the centre of the world. But he felt as if his extraordinary journey took him, not to the centre, but to the very edge of reality.

Even to cross the water to France was gruelling for a man who had sailed nothing more ambitious than a leather-stitched rowboat across the Thames. Then came the slog through the splintered kingdoms of France to embark again at Marseilles, and a sea journey ever further eastward across a hot, flat Mediterranean which he knew to be largely a Muslim lake. He followed his maps as he passed along the coastline owned by the East Romans, Christians who did not bow to the Pope, and whose ancient city of Constantinople was now, shamefully, in the hands of the crusaders who had sacked it. But as he ploughed ever further east there was only the huge mass of the Sultanate of Rum to the north, under the Turks who had taken Asia Minor from the East Romans, and the Fatimid Caliphate to the south, where the crescent of Muhammad fluttered over the cities of the Nile. Great sprawls on the map these were, like enormous Muslim hands ready to crush his frail ship like a fly.

In Palestine, true, there was the Outremer, his destination, the remnants of the Christian kingdoms planted bravely by the soldiers of the First Crusade. But these domains were shrunken now, split up and reduced to fragments by the dramatic conquests of Saladin half a century before. Even Jerusalem itself was only nominally in the hands of Christians. Seeing these little islands of the faithful on his maps served only to convince Thomas Busshe that despite the Pope's ardent preaching, echoed in every pulpit in western Christendom, two centuries of crusading had resulted in little solid achievement, indeed perhaps the very opposite.

But that could all change.

Thomas, over fifty years old, was no warrior himself. But he had formulated for himself a mission that he believed might yet reverse the fortunes of Christendom, a mission inspired by a relic of the past that had come swimming fortuitously to him out of the dark, like the finger-bone of a saint emerging from the muck of a drained pond. A gift that, if he used his intellect well, might yet win the epochal war of civilisations for Christ.

And so he drove on, determined, clinging to the ship's rail and trying not to vomit.

The climax of his extraordinary journey was at its very end. He landed at Jaffa, once more a Muslim city, and submitted himself to the ordeal of a trek across the dusty land to Jerusalem. And he met Joan and her son Saladin before the walls of the city itself.

The light was extraordinary in this holy country, thick and dense, crushing. It seemed to oppress the old city with its broken walls and shining domes, rather than illuminate it. Thomas, utterly exhausted, felt close to collapse. But here he was before Jerusalem itself, standing in the footprints of Christ. Overwhelmed, he brushed the dirt from his robes and scraped the sweat from his brow, and dropped to his knees to pray.

He was aware of Joan and Saladin, swathed in their white Saracen-like robes, watching him with some bemusement.

Joan led him into the heart of the city, with a serving boy who spoke not a word of English or Latin following behind with Thomas's pack. Thomas was soon lost in the maze of jumbled streets. There was a feeling of crush, of shabbiness, and Thomas saw that some of the buildings had been assembled from broken and ancient stones. Age lay heavy here.

To get to Joan's home he was led through a narrow alley to an inner court around which tall houses clustered. Joan entertained him in a large open room, with a thick carpet and heavy hangings on the wall. The windows, just slits, were so small that oil lamps burned despite the intensity of the light outside. It was a room that might have graced an English manor, he thought. But this was not England, where you strove to keep in the warm; the room was hot and stuffy, thick with smoke, arid sweat started from his brow. It was an inappropriate, stubborn architecture.

Joan served him watered wine. 'You are an unaccustomed traveller, brother,' she said.

'I'm afraid so. I prefer to journey in the imagination, in the pages of my books, rather than to haul this weary carcass across land and sea.'

'And yet you have come as far as Baldwin, and those who first took the Cross.'

'The crusaders arrived fit to fight. They came to build kingdoms! I scarcely have the energy to make up a bed.'

'Oh, that is done for you,'Joan said. 'And while we don't expect you to conquer the city for us, you must see it. I want Saladin to show you around. No, I insist.'

Saladin nodded, looking surly, reluctant.

Joan's English was stilted, her accent a kind he had never heard the like of before. She was a slim woman, with a pretty, oval face and a pale, very English complexion – unlike her son, who was so dark he was all but invisible in the gloom of this absurd hall. The mother looked out of place here, a northern flower that ought to wilt in the sultry fire of the sun. Yet she was prospering, even though she had lost her husband and father before she was twenty.

This was a complicated place, he reminded himself, the Christian culture of the Outremer an exotic transplantation that had survived in this alien soil for nearly a century and a half. He must keep his wits about him.

'It is good to meet you, at last,' he said. 'I corresponded with your husband, and indeed your father before he passed your affairs on to your husband.'

Joan smiled at her son. 'Thus Brother Thomas has served our family's interests for generations.'

'You make me feel old,' Thomas said. 'But conversely your family's generous bequests have sustained the good work of my house for just as long.'

'Then we both benefit.'

The boy did not seem very interested. 'My mother said you have come to deliver a letter.'

'Among other things.' Thomas reached into his robe, and extracted a wallet of pigskin. He handed this wallet to Joan. 'It is from your cousin in Cordoba, as I indicated. Subh, a matron of that city.'

She drew out a bit of parchment, neatly folded but with a broken seal. She read a single underlined phrase. 'Incendium Dei. I wonder what she means by that.' She held the letter before her small nose. 'I would like to imagine I can smell the oranges of Spain in the ink. Robert the Wolf would say little of his time in Spain, but he spoke of the orange trees. It's the sort of detail that survives in the telling.'

Thomas smiled. 'It probably smells more of the sea by now, madam. I have one other piece of news for you. The Mongols.'

'Their advance into Europe continues, does it?' Joan asked.

Thomas shook his head. 'They turned back at the gates of Vienna.'

'No!'

'It happened just this summer. It was on the death of the great Khan Ogodai. The Mongol generals immediately returned to their capital, for it is their custom to gather there to debate the succession.'

'Well, that's not in old al-Hafredi's foretelling.'

'Truthfully the document is unclear, madam. I may know more later in the year; I intend to meet with the Pope's legate, who was at the Mongol court when the reverse came. We must discuss the implications of this.'

'Of course.'

Saladin looked from one to the other. 'You realise I have no idea what you're talking about. Moorish cousins in Cordoba? The Mongols at Vienna? What does any of this have to do with us, here in Jerusalem?'

'It's a tangled story,' Joan said. 'It all stems from Robert and his strange adventures. You'll learn it all, Saladin.'

'I'd rather not,' the boy said briskly.

Thomas had come across warrior cubs like this before, who put sword-swinging ahead of scholarship. He saw it as part of God's purpose for him to correct such attitudes; he did not believe God wanted ignorant soldiers. And in this case it was essential that Saladin understood. 'It is your duty to hear.'

'Really.' Saladin got up abruptly. 'I've got things to do. Find me when you'd like your tour of the walls, Brother Thomas. Mother.' He nodded to Joan, and walked out.

'I would apologise,' Joan sighed. 'But he's always like this.'

'I sense he has a good heart.'

'And a strong soul,' she said. 'He'll do what's right.' She glanced again at her letter from Cordoba. 'Although I pray we will all find the way to do that.'