John rode beside Yusuf and Turan, their horses’ hooves kicking up dust from the dry road. Behind them trailed two dozen mounted mamluks, Qaraqush at their head. They rode alongside the Orontes River, which marked the boundary between the Frankish kingdom of Jerusalem and Nur ad-Din’s lands. On the eastern side were the Muslim strongholds of Shaizar, Hama and Homs. Some way off, on the opposite side of the river, stood the crusader castles of Montferrand and Krak des Chevaliers. In between was a no-man’s-land roamed only by the Bedouin, who knew no lords, neither Frankish nor Muslim. Across the river and near the horizon, John spied a group of Bedouin on foot, driving a flock of sheep towards the water. He pointed to them. ‘Perhaps they will know something.’
‘Perhaps,’ Yusuf agreed. After nearly three months of riding up and down the border from Shaizar to as far south as Banyas, they had still found no sign of Frankish troops or raiders. Yusuf looked to Turan. ‘Wait here with the men. John and I will speak with the Bedouin.’
Turan frowned. ‘I should come with you, not the ifranji.’ Yusuf’s jaw set. He locked eyes with his brother, and eventually Turan lowered his gaze. ‘Let it be as you say, Brother,’ he murmured. John could hardly believe his ears.
Yusuf turned to John. ‘Come.’ He turned into the river, and John followed, his horse’s hooves kicking up a spray that sparkled in the bright sunlight. The river was deep here, and soon their horses were swimming, the cold water coming up to John’s waist. They crossed to the far side without incident, and their mounts climbed up the bank, water streaming off them. Yusuf looked over to John and grinned. ‘I’ll race you,’ he said and kicked at his horse’s sides, sending it galloping over the hard-baked earth towards the Bedouin.
John spurred after him, standing in the saddle and leaning forward, his head low against his horse’s neck. He came up alongside Yusuf, grinned at him, and then shot past. He pulled up in a cloud of dust upon reaching the shepherds. Yusuf joined him a moment later. The Bedouin’s sheikh – a wrinkled old man with a shepherd’s crook in his hand – stepped forward and stared at them impassively. Behind him, several of the shepherds had taken bows from their backs and were stringing them. John blinked in surprise. He had seen the sheikh before.
‘Sabir ibn Taqqi!’ Yusuf exclaimed. It was the same sheikh who had given them food and water years ago during their harrowing trip to Tell Bashir. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum.’
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Yusuf son of Ayub,’ Sabir replied. ‘When I saw you last, I did not number your days long in this world. And now I find you again in great danger. There is a Frankish fortress not far from here.’ He pointed towards the horizon. ‘Qal’at al-Hisn – Krak des Chevaliers, the Franks call it. We passed through its shadow yesterday.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual? More men? Preparations for war?’
‘We kept our distance. I saw nothing.’
‘Have you heard of Frankish raids against the Bedouin?’
The sheikh shook his head. ‘I hear little. We have been travelling the desert from oasis to oasis. We have not visited a town in months.’
‘Thank you for your help, sheikh.’ Yusuf untied his purse from his belt and tossed it to Sabir. The Bedouin sheikh looked inside and whistled in appreciation.
‘What is this for?’
‘You saved my life. It is yours.’
Sabir shook his head. ‘I only gave you hospitality as our laws dictate.’ He pocketed a silver dirham and tossed the pouch back to Yusuf.
‘You will always be welcome at my home,’ Yusuf told the man.
Sabir nodded, then turned back towards the other Bedouin and made a clicking noise. The tribe moved on, herding their sheep past John and Yusuf.
Yusuf shook his head. ‘We are wasting our time out here,’ he muttered.
‘We could find out more in the Frankish towns,’ John suggested.
‘I cannot enter uninvited. It would violate the treaty.’
John smiled. ‘You cannot, but I can.’