‘The Dyer’s Second Tale—A Medieval Heist’: A Poem by Paul A. Freeman

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The Dyer’s Second Tale—A Medieval Heist

Here beginneth the Dyer’s Second Tale

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Part I

The Third Crusade had reached its bloody height,
And all throughout the Holy Land the might
Of European soldiery held sway.
I helped to keep the Saracens at bay
With Richard’s troops, apprenticed as a squire
To Shaun de Burg, a mercenary for hire.
My master proved an evil-hearted brute
(A detail that historians dispute)
Who beat me without mercy should I fail
To put a shine upon his vest of mail.
And if he thought me slow to pitch his tent,
Upon my wretched carcase he would vent
His spleen and leave me battered, cut and bruised,
Whilst he guffawed, sadistically amused.
Though many wicked men had travelled east
To fight God’s fight, none paralleled this beast.

At night he guzzled Spanish wine and ale
And at the slightest goading would assail
Whomever he believed was slow to show
Respect, and with a thump he’d lay them low.

From violent brawls Shaun’s countenance was marred,
With nose askew and features deeply scarred.
His limbs were bowed through breakage, whilst his chest
Bore mended wounds beneath his steely vest;
And when he wasn’t sparring with a foe,
But liquored up, a vulgar wind would blow
This reprobate into the nearest nest
Of harlotry, to snuffle at the breast
Of women skilled at opening up the purse
Of men who had a carnal itch to nurse.
Yet no crusading warrior could wield
A sword or mace upon the ruthless field
Of battle with such deadly force and skill;
For every swing and swipe was sure to kill
Those enemies who ventured in his way,
And boost his grisly body count each day.

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Part II

With trebuchets and towers we laid siege
To Acre for our lion-hearted liege.
This harbour on the Mediterranean shore,
This sheltered port, was where the papal war
Played out for months on end while Christians paid
A bloody price for mounting their blockade.
The walls were thick and strong around the town,
And no amount of pounding brought them down.
Beneath those sturdy ramparts, scalding oil
And red-hot sand, and water on the boil,
Rained down upon our soldiers all the time,
Augmented by a fog of blinding lime,
Whilst rocks and arrows also took their toll,
Preventing us from capturing our goal.
To undermine the battlements, we failed;
With ladders, Acre’s walls remained unscaled.

Yet in the town, unable to import
Necessities, the populace had nought
For nourishment and soon were forced to eat
Whatever creatures scurried round their feet.
The residents of Acre gnawed on rats
And roaches once the harbour’s dogs and cats
(Both feral and domestic) were consumed.

Each day, at dawn, hostilities resumed
Against this sturdy Saracen redoubt,
But still our hardy enemies held out
In spite of their malnourishment and though
The drift of time intensified their woe.

We heard that while the urban dwellers starved
(Until the population almost halved)
The merchants and the traders hid their wealth
And victuals with such craftiness and stealth
That none but they themselves knew where their hoard
Of valuables was secretively stored.

These tales of hidden treasure piqued our greed
And spurred us on to end the siege with speed;
For how could our determination sag
When at the rainbow’s end were piles of swag?

“’Tis well and good,” quod Shaun de Burg, “to slay
The Turks since such encounters wash away
Our sins (or so the papal edict reads);
But for our righteous sacrifice and deeds
Of heroism, I’d prefer to bash
An Arab’s skull if payment came in cash.”

So, day by day we frantically assailed
The buttressed walls of Acre and bewailed
Our army’s lack of progress as we sought
To shatter the defences of the port.

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Part III

But then, one night, whilst out upon patrol
We saw a man emerging from a hole
Set furtively within the desert floor.

Quod Shaun de Burg, “This surreptitious door
Must surely mark a secret tunnel’s end
That starts inside the town. Let’s apprehend
This chap, and once he’s told us all he knows,
We’ll slit his throat and feed him to the crows.”

On seeing us, the startled refugee
Turned on his heels, cried out and tried to flee.
But mounted on our steeds we overtook
The escapee and revelled in the look
Of terror etched across his podgy face.
In playful mood my master raised his mace
And as, upon his horse, Shaun made a pass,
He struck the fleeing fellow’s ample arse.
The man fell to his knees, and to his back
We saw that there was strapped a burlap sack
To carry off what riches he possessed—
Or so my avaricious master guessed.

Shaun tugged upon the reins to stay his nag.
“Who are you, and what’s hidden in your bag?”
Quod he unto the prisoner. “Should you give
A true account, I promise you shall live.”

Relieved, the trembling man got to his feet.
In finest court attire he stood, replete
In curly Turkish shoes and robes of silk,
And on his head a turban white as milk,
Unsullied by the desert filth and dust.

We judged he wasn’t lacking for a crust,
Since portly was his stature, whilst his jowls
Hung loose—as we detected did his bowels.

“I am the Sultan’s vizier,” he whined.
“And ’mongst my scant possessions you will find
An ingot made of gold with which to pay
Your noble selves to let me slip away.”

And sure enough, a search revealed amid
His things a weighty golden bar was hid.
It glittered in the moonlight like a seed
That Satan sowed to stimulate our greed.

Shaun handed me the glistening brick to pack
Away inside the plundered canvas sack,
Then turning to the vizier, he said,
“To guarantee I will not strike you dead,
Enlighten us about this bar of gold.
It seems ’tis cast not from an authorised mould
Which tells me that you stole it from a hoard
Before you chose to scurry forth abroad.”

Intimidated by my master’s stance,
The vizier endeavoured to enhance
His chances of survival, so he told
His captors how he came to have the gold.

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Part IV

“Some months ago, a Russian vessel docked
At Acre, filled with wheat with which we stocked
Our granaries before your troops arrived
From Christendom and violently contrived
To breach our walls in hopes that you could root
About the rubble, rummaging for loot.
And from that Slavic ship there disembarked
A fellow whose bizarre appearance sparked
Much talk amongst our folk because his hair
Was like the flowing mane upon a mare,
And round his neck were strings of coloured beads.
His gangly frame was draped in humble weeds
Of flowery design, besmirched with grime,
Whilst on his face he wore a smile sublime
Which we assumed was more than partly due
To weird, narcotic leaves he’d often chew.

“In Acre’s poorest quarter (where he dwelt),
In potions, charms and amulets he dealt;
He also studied palms and threw the bones.
In payment he took only precious stones
For practicing these supernatural arts
He’d learned—he claimed—in Oriental parts.
But soon his trusting customers grew irked,
For not one herbal preparation worked.
His talismans proved ineffectual, too;
And neither did his readings turn out true.

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Part V

“This foreigner was captured and accused
Of fraudulence, and when our Sultan mused
Upon the case he opted to condemn
The man to death once every ill-gained gem
Was in the royal coffers which was kept
Inside the palace chambers where he slept;
For as the Sultan went to pains to say,
‘’Tis better prudent leaders hide away
The valuables of folk so clearly daft
They place their trust in superstitious craft.’

“But ere the executioner could lift
His axe, the Stranger said, ‘I have a gift
Of unimagined wealth that I’ll bestow
Upon your ruler, if he lets me go.’

“Reluctantly, our potentate was called,
And learned the fatal sentence had been stalled.
His anger though, abated once he heard
The reason why the axing was deferred.

“‘Although your people clamour for my head,’
The Stranger quod, ‘How useful am I dead?
A room piled high with bullion I’ll give
To you if you see fit to let me live.
I can’t deny, your citizens I’ve fooled.
But think on this. In China I was schooled
In alchemy—in changing what is base
Into an ore which makes our pulses race.
’Tis why for gems my services are sold;
For why should I remain in awe of gold
When I can manufacture by the tonne
This much belovéd mineral for fun?
Alas though, I must tell you I’m the last
Survivor of this alchemistic caste;
Of witchery the others were accused,
Their carcases dismembered and abused.
So, when I die, I’ll carry to the grave
The trick to forge this metal all men crave.’

“The Sultan’s mind was clearly plagued by doubt,
Yet in the end his greediness won out.

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Part VI

“A deal betwixt the two of them was struck.
Inside a dungeon cell the guards would tuck
The Alchemist away to work his craft
In secrecy, until the charge of graft
Was ancient news, demoted by events
Once Richard’s troops arrived and pitched their tents.
And in the meantime, tasked with making gold
(As much as his confining cell could hold),
The Stranger laboured lest he be refused
A pardon, and to have his crimes excused.

“His foremost need was bricks of moulded lead
And bags of auric powder which he said
Incite metallic elements to change.
The other gear required seemed somewhat strange;
An iron cauldron, wooden vats and casks
Of chemicals, and copper coils and flasks.
Yet weirder still, he built a steely net
And hung it from the highest minaret.
Atop the mesh he raised a metal rod
Which stood so straight and tall it seemed to prod
The belly of the broiling summer sky
And pierce the fleecy clouds that scudded by.
Beneath this apparatus he made fast
A line of joined up metal pipes, the last
Of which traversed the window of his cell.

“’Twas seemingly impossible to tell
The purpose of this odd equipment till
One day the air grew humid, hot and still,
Presaging the arrival of a gale.
By evening we were lashed by wind and hail
And to a vat the alchemist attached
The pipes (joined to the mesh and rod) which snatched
The forces in the ether in the form
Of lightning from a thunderous, raging storm.

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Part VII

“Inquisitive to learn a little more,
I watched him through a peephole in his door.
He filled the vat with chemicals and thrust
Into the cloudy fluid auric dust.
It bubbled, hissed, and then a bar of lead
He lowered in, which turned the liquid red.
His lips moved in endeavours to incite
The auras through some Oriental rite,
To harness every lightning bolt that struck,
Creating precious minerals from muck;
For when the leaden ingots were immersed,
The power of each night-eclipsing burst
Transmuted their dull hue until they turned
Into the ore for which all humans yearned.

“That night the lightning struck the rod on six
Occasions, and each time into the mix
Of fluids in the vat the Stranger placed
A single bar, which magically embraced
The change from dun, grey lead to yellow gold.
A half a dozen shiny bricks all told,
By morning, in the corner, in a pile
Were stacked, which made our wily Sultan smile
From ear to ear and wring his hands with glee.

“But will our tyrant leader ever free
The Alchemist? I fear he’ll ne’er cut loose
Such treasure as this captive golden goose.

“And thus it’s proved. For when fierce Nature sows
Her thunderstorms, the heap of ingots grows.
Yet still the jailed magician sees no end
In sight for the envisaged months he’ll spend
Of languishing, incarcerated in
The squalid dungeons situate within
The palace of this Sultan whom I serve.

“And me? As Richard’s siege progressed my verve
Grew less with every deprivation, till
The bitter nag of hunger broke my will.
So from those palace suites where I reside,
I took this secret route which leads outside,
But only after topping up my pay
By pinching one gold bar to smooth my way.”

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Part VIII

The Sultan’s foolish Vizier had blabbed
The data we desired, so I grabbed
His arms whist Shaun adroitly cut his throat,
Like slaughtering a sacrificial goat.

Unto the other soldiers in our squad
My master spoke persuadingly and quod,
“There’s nine of us this night upon patrol.
I’m senior, and therefore in control;
And I say let’s make money while we can,
That each can die an independent man
Once freed from Richard’s ill-conceived campaign.
What else from this debacle might we gain?
The Vizier has told us where they hold
The Alchemist and where to find the gold.
He’s also told us where this tunnel ends,
That to the Sultan’s residence it wends.
Who’s with me, then? Who’s willing to placate
His famished purse and put his trust in Fate?”

Unto the man our colleagues volunteered—
By Shaun de Burg their fortunes would be steered.
But ere we sought the metal all men craved,
And ere the Sultan’s soldiery we braved,
We dug an excavation to conceal
The gold our luckless victim chose to steal;
And then we tossed his body from a cliff
Before the corpses arms and legs grew stiff
And left him for nocturnal beasts to eat.

Quod Shaun, “Ere dawn’s arrival let’s be fleet.
Your saddlebags! Remove them from your mounts
To stow our swag. Be quick! Each moment counts.
Secure your horses, tie them to these shrubs
And arm yourselves with maces, swords and clubs.
Let’s brave the portal hidden in the sand
And take this chance to loot the Hallowed land.”

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Part IX

With torches held aloft, in single file,
We set upon our mission to defile
The Sultan’s palace, trusting guile and stealth
Would guarantee our quest for ill-got wealth.

The subterranean passage headed west.
Along the route lay booby traps to test
The cunning of intruders who might hope
To satisfy their heathen-loathing Pope
By putting Acre’s people to the sword,
The victims of our fierce, crusading horde.

Yet through these snares we deftly picked our way,
Until an oblong—bounded by a grey
And feeble, filtered light—came into view.
“A door!” quod Shaun. “Let’s take by force our due.”
We gathered round the entrance, found the latch
And in a trice were swarming through the hatch.

Surprise was on our side as we dispersed
To take up our positions as rehearsed.
Myself and Shaun made swiftly for the place
The Alchemist was held, and with his mace
My master felled those sentries who aspired
To keep him from the fortune he desired.

The thought passed through my head to plunge my knife
Into my patron’s neck; to end his life
For all the cruel indignities I’d borne,
Inflicted by a soulless Devil’s spawn.
But greed and dreams of wealth betrayed my hand;
For I held all our saddlebags and planned
That Shaun should help to carry them when filled,
Assisted by those comrades not yet killed.
I thus resigned to sound Shaun’s mortal knell,
In future, while we sought the Stranger’s cell.

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Part X

The dungeon’s largest chamber housed our prey,
The Alchemist, a long-haired bloke in gay,
Flamboyant dress; with furrowed brow he toiled
O’er vats in which his weird concoctions boiled.

We found the key, unlocked the oaken door,
And gaped at bars piled neatly on the floor
That twinkled in the torchlight with a keen
And avarice-inducing yellow sheen.

The Stranger quod, “Behold, Aladdin’s Cave!
I guess you’re here for ingots and to save
My carcase from the Sultan’s harsh employ.
He’s fed and clothed me well, but like a toy
He plays with me to satiate his greed
And blatantly forgets what we’ve agreed.
At first, he said, ‘Fill up this cell with gold,
And then I shall release you from my hold.’
But now he says, ‘I’ll have you sorely racked,
Unless with bricks of gold this dungeon’s stacked.’
So, lead me from this bondage and I’ll earn
My freedom making that for which you yearn.”

The Alchemist thought rescue from his bind
Was near, but Shaun had something else in mind.
My master quod, “To have complete control
Of your rare gift is every tyrant’s goal.
But he who keeps your key awakes each day
Afraid a foe might bundle you away
To tap those mystic powers that you hold
And leave him for the maggots, dead and cold.
Yet this is just one reason one should tread
With care when one’s transforming dismal lead.”
Shaun paused and drew his dagger from his belt
Before a piece of fateful news he dealt.
“’Tis basic economics! If alive
Your talent at transmuting gold will drive
The value of this precious metal down.
With gold abundant, who will want a crown
That from a common mineral is wrought?
Your alchemistic craft will count for naught.
Alas, for you, this heap of gold’s enough
To keep me safe through easy times and tough.
So, make your peace with God before you die,
By break of dawn within your grave you’ll lie.”

A moment later, knife in hand, Shaun lunged.
His blade flashed in the torchlight, then it plunged
Unto the hilt inside the Stranger’s chest.

“O mortal wound! This world’s a viper’s nest!”
The Alchemist cried out ere lurking Death
With swinging scythe closed in and stilled his breath.
Yet on the dead man’s lips remained a smile
So smug it spoke of craftiness, of guile,
As if he were a naughty boy who’d made
A fool of those on whom a prank he’d played.

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Part XI

Alerted by the Stranger’s sudden yell
The Sultan’s guards descended on his cell.
We’d hoped that surreptitiousness might keep
Us unobserved, at liberty to creep
About the dungeon, plundering the stacks
Of golden bars—not fending off attacks;
But inconsistent fatefulness decreed
Our self-enriching plans would not succeed.

The Sultan’s men swarmed in and with his mace
Shaun swung and struck one squarely in the face.
He fought with desperation, at the fore,
And soon was steeped in blood and brains and gore.
Yet strength was in the numbers of our foes
Whose weapons landed several telling blows.
Before Shaun weakened, bludgeoned, pierced and slashed
A hundred times by those with whom he clashed,
Besieged myself, by Turkish-men, I fell
Against a pile of gold and ’cross the cell
The ingots scattered, scoring their veneers.

The clang of metal echoed in our ears.
’Twas then, with incredulity, Shaun dropped
His guard, and all about him combat stopped.
For ’neath their bright facades the bars were dull—
Not gold at all, which caused the sudden lull
In fighting—and the Sultan’s men regrouped.
My master, meantime, knowing we’d been duped
Stood motionless and speechless with dismay,
For how could solid gold be coloured grey?

’Twas this brief pause our adversaries picked
To rush the stunned crusader and inflict
Those mortal wounds that brought him to his knees—
That slayed him like a woodsman felling trees.

Once Shaun de Burg had been consigned to Hell,
I realised, looking round the cluttered cell,
The gold-transmuting tools were just for show,
Designed to cause the seeds of greed to grow
Within the hearts and minds of those who longed
For wealth, not caring who got hurt or wronged.
The Alchemist used scientific tricks
To coat with gold some worthless, leaden bricks:
Some chemicals and auric dust he’d mixed;
Then, using lightning’s energy he fixed
A subtle coat of ore on every mould
To give the bars the semblance of gold.

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Part XII

The Sultan threw a tantrum when he learned
That avarice had got his fingers burned;
And though he’d been bamboozled and betrayed,
The Alchemist and Vizier had paid
The highest price betrayal could exact.
The port’s enraged dictator therefore lacked
A victim to assuage his great desire
For vengeance to alleviate his ire—
Except for me! For I was drawing breath
Whilst all my scheming comrades were with Death.

The epilogue to this ill-omened tale
Played out once I was languishing in jail.
Whilst I lay horizontal on my back,
Tied hand and foot and stretched upon the rack,
A legend was evolving ’bout a raid
On Acre, led by Shaun de Berg who’d laid
His life down fighting off a brutal horde
Of heathens, in the name of Christ our Lord.

The foolish Sultan, meantime, used his clout
To stop the shameful truth from coming out
That he who ruled so cautiously and donned
The royal robes got so absurdly conned.
And even when our lion-hearted liege
Had brought to its conclusion Acre’s siege,
No soldier, nor camp follower would hear
A word ’gainst Shaun, a hero held so dear.

Unto this day the wandering minstrels sing
Of gallant Shaun, who died to serve his king.
Which brings me to a proverb that to me,
Sums up this yarn I’ve told you to a ‘T’:
‘When gripped by greed for wealthiness untold,
A man can oft mistake a turd for gold.’

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Here endeth the Dyer’s Second Tale

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Paul A. Freeman is the author of Rumours of Ophir, a crime novel which was taught in Zimbabwean high schools and has been translated into German. In addition to having two novels, a children’s book and an 18,000-word narrative poem (Robin Hood and Friar Tuck: Zombie Killers!) commercially published, Paul is the author of hundreds of published short stories, poems and articles.