Free Eagle by Jack Hight Page A

men to defend the walls, and which would split our army in order to attack a defensive position. If the Franks learned of our men leaving by the east gate, then they would attack and the city might well be lost.’ Turan blushed. Unur turned his penetrating gaze upon Yusuf. ‘What of you, young man? What would you do?’
    Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘So long as the Franks hold the orchards, we are weak. They have food and water enough to last for months, while our supplies will grow smaller every day. We must drive them from the orchards at any cost.’
    ‘Agreed, but how? As I told your brother, we cannot send enough men to drive them out without leaving our walls vulnerable.’
    Yusuf’s forehead creased as he considered the problem. ‘Perhaps there is another way.’
    ‘Indeed?’
    Yusuf lowered his eyes. ‘But there is no honour in it. It is best forgotten.’
    ‘Speak, young Yusuf,’ Unur insisted. ‘I wish to hear this idea of yours.’
    Yusuf looked past Unur to his father, who nodded. ‘If the Franks cannot be driven out, then perhaps they can be lured,’ Yusuf suggested. ‘Aleppo is a better military target than Damascus. The Franks must have come here because they seek riches. If gold is what they have come for, then give it to them. Pay them to leave the orchards.’
    ‘That is a coward’s answer,’ Turan muttered. Several of the men in the room nodded their agreement.
    ‘Forgive me.’ Yusuf hung his head. ‘I should not have spoken.’
    ‘No, it was a wise answer,’ Unur said. He turned towards Yusuf’s father. ‘You have raised clever sons, Ayub. They do you great honour.’ Ayub inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. ‘Now I must bid you and your sons goodnight so that I may speak with my generals. We have much to discuss.’
    The Frankish camp was set up at the edge of the orchard, near the river. John’s troop erected their tents in a clearing and dined on dark brown pods that they shook from the trees. The flesh was chewy but filling, with an earthy taste not unlike the black bread that John had grown up eating. His belly full, he removed his chainmail and crawled into his tent, where he collapsed into an exhausted sleep.
    He dreamt of his home in Northumbria, of a crisp autumn day, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. He was walking through a green field of knee-high oats, their stalks rippling in a gentle breeze. He crossed the field towards his family manor, a rectangular building of grey stone, surrounded by a broad moat. His father stood in the doorway, waving to him. But something was wrong. As John approached, his father fell to his knees, blood running from his mouth. Behind him, John’s brother appeared. Loud screams echoed from within the manor.
    John awoke with a start, but the screaming did not stop. Cries of agony came from outside his tent, joined now by shouts of alarm. John sat up just as a spear ripped through the side of his tent, plunging into the ground where he had lain only a moment before. He grabbed his sword and rushed outside, wearing only his linen tunic. The camp was overrun with ghostly figures, barely visible in the darkness – Saracens in dark armour, stabbing at the tents with their spears. One of the attackers sawJohn. With a cry, the Saracen charged, his spear pointed at John’s chest.
    John sidestepped the spear, knocking the point aside with his sword, and then stuck out his foot, tripping the Saracen as he charged past. He hacked down, finishing the man, then looked up just in time to twist out of the way of another spear thrust, which ripped through his tunic. John grabbed the shaft and pulled his attacker to him, impaling the Saracen on his sword. As he pulled his blade free, John looked about for another foe, but he saw only other Christians, some in armour, some still in their tunics. The Saracens were fleeing as quickly as they had come, disappearing back into the dark trees.
    ‘Come on!’ John shouted and charged into the trees,