Lionheart's Scribe (19 page)

As we talked my hand found something smooth in the grass. I rubbed it absentmindedly, thinking it was a stone. Then I took a closer look and realized it was the skull of some animal. I do not know why, but it intrigued me. I began to dig away the earth that partially concealed it. When Arnald saw what I was doing he bent to help me. After a time we unearthed the skull of a horse. But what a huge skull! Our warhorses are of a great size, but this one must have been one of the biggest ever bred. It could not have been a Turkish horse for they are mere ponies and much smaller.

“Do you think this could have been a crusader warhorse?” I asked Arnald.

“Most assuredly it was,” he answered. Then his face grew thoughtful. He hoisted the skull up and stared at it.

“Duke Godfrey's crusaders came by here,” he said. “They came through Ramleh even as we are doing. They had to, to get to Jerusalem. There is a story told in my family about my great-grandfather. He was a young knight then, named Theobald. In the service of the Duke of Bouillon he was, and he had a warhorse of immense size and fame. Even the name of that horse has been passed down in the old stories. It was called Centurion. That destrier was the only horse to survive the long, hard trek from the forests of the Ardennes to the Holy Land, but it did finally die. And it died right here at Ramleh, if my memory serves me rightly.”

I stared at the skull. “Could this be … ?”

Arnald rubbed his hand the length of it with a tenderness I had not expected of him. “It might, lad,” he said. “It might well be.”

The twelfth day of December

The weather continues to be dreadful. It rains and it rains and it rains. It is so cold that we have even had storms of frozen ice pellets. My head and arms are bruised from them. The mud is everywhere. Yesterday the king's groom's horse slipped and broke its leg. It had to be killed. I cannot remember when I last had a hot broth. As we venture further up into the hills the trees become sparse, so we can find littlewood for fire. What we can find is wet and hard to kindle. My clothes are soaking wet and do not dry out overnight as my tent leaks copiously. Even the knights' armor is beginning to rust. I have a cough that gives me no rest and I shiver constantly.

The fifteenth day of December

We have reached a town called Latroun. The king has decreed that we shall stay here to celebrate the Yuletide festivities. In spite of all the discomfort, the soldiers are in a jubilant mood. The priests are also happy because they look forward to celebrating mass in the Holy City within the month. The king promised we would be in Jerusalem twenty days after Yuletide and they are counting on that.

Not everyone is so optimistic, however. I have talked much with Arnald these past few days. He and the other Knights Hospitaler and Templar know this country far better than we do and their outlook is glum.

“If we lay siege to the city the Saracen forces will come up from behind. It will be like Acre all over again, but our access to the sea will be cut off and we will not have ships supplying us and supporting us as we did there. We will be caught between the garrison defending Jerusalem and the army surrounding us,” Arnald explained to me. “And suppose the king does capture Jerusalem,” he went on. “What then? How will he hold it? The pilgrims amongst us will make their vows at the Holy Sepulcher and then, their pilgrimage completed, go home. Many of the soldiers will probably leaveas well. We will be alone, outnumbered and without any means of renewing our supplies.”

The rest of the camp does not want to hear this kind of talk, however, so the knights just mutter amongst themselves.

I think I must have a fever. I burn hot and then succumb to chills that rack my body. I am glad we will be resting here for a while.

The first day of January, the year of our Lord, 1192

A new year. What will it bring? We are are on the march again. I am so ill I can barely stay on my horse. The mud is so thick the poor beast can hardly wade through it. I feel for the pilgrims trying to make their way on foot. The conditions are terrible and there is sickness throughout the party. Many are dying. I fear our way will be marked for future wayfarers by the number of crosses we leave behind us.

The fifth day of January

We have reached Beit Nuba. We are almost within sight of Jerusalem, but the king is in a terrible mood. He has been conferring every night with his nobles and with the Knights Hospitaler and Templar. He has called for a council meeting tonight. I am to attend and record it. I do not know how I will write. My vision blurs and my hand shakes so that I can hardly hold a quill. My head hurts most dreadfully. When I cough the pain in my chest doubles me over. If only I could get dry and warm!

The sixth day of January

The decision has been made. We will not lay siege to Jerusalem. We will retreat. I cannot imagine how the soldiers and the pilgrims will feel about this news. To be so close!

I have been lying in my tent ever since coming back from the council meeting last night. I am trying to write curled up in a pool of freezing mud. The wick is sputtering and about to go out. My whole body feels as if it is on fire. It is almost too painful to breathe. I think if I have one more coughing spell it will kill me. My head is swimming and my eyes struggle to focus. I cannot see to write. I must stop.

I cannot believe this is how our glorious crusade is to end. In misery, mud and despair …

The thirtieth day of March

Over two months since I have written in this journal. Much has happened. First of all, I nearly died.

When I unrolled my parchment this morning after such a long time I could barely remember writing the last entry. I was so overcome with fever, illness and despair that night, all was vague and uncertain. They tell me I was found shaking and witless the next morning. Somehow or other I was bundled up, slung over my faithful horse and brought back to Jaffa. I remember nothing of it. Indeed, I remember nothing until last week when I opened my eyes to find myself in an unfamiliarroom with Yusra, of all people, caring for me. I have been sliding in and out of death's grasp for weeks, it seems. Today I am hungry, so perhaps I will live after all.

I am too weak to write more. I will continue tomorrow.

The first day of April

I was unable to write yesterday. Today I feel a little stronger. I must continue with my journal now that I have taken it up again. It is the only way I can bring some kind of sense and order to what has happened.

As I have recorded I have no remembrance of the retreat from Jerusalem back to Jaffa. When I came to myself a few days ago I opened my eyes to see a whitewashed room filled with sunlight. It was so bright, in fact, that I had to close my eyes again immediately against the pain of it. I think I probably lapsed back into unconsciousness then. The next time I awoke it was evening and the light was softer. A breeze wafted in through a window on one side of me, bringing with it the sweet scent of flowers and oranges, and I could hear the murmur of the ocean.

The first thing that impressed itself upon me was the deep, delicious comfort of the bed on which I lay. It was piled with pillows. I could feel the softness of silk against my cheek. There was a smell of incense in the room. For a moment I was back in Rashid's tent, but with that memory came a stab of pain and I thrust it away quickly.

“Are you awake, Matthew?”

The voice seemed to come out of thin air. Then I turned my head and to my amazement saw Yusra kneeling on the carpet beside my bed. She was dressed in a soft, light-colored shift and her head was covered with a scarf. She looked different. Older.

I tried to sit up, but fell back as the room swirled and dipped around me.

“Lie still, Matthew,” Yusra said. “You are too weak to get up.” There was an authority in her voice that I had not heard before.

“Where am I?” I managed to ask.

“In Jaffa. In Queen Joanna's house. When they brought you back the king ordered that you be brought here and cared for by his own healer. It seems he thinks highly of you.”

“And you … ?”

She sensed what I was trying to ask.

“I serve the queen. As always. She asked me to oversee your recovery. I have learned a few words in her language and I am more obedient now, so she rewards me with fine clothes and even a few jewels.”

Her voice was flat, her face carefully expressionless. I stared at her. This was not the Yusra I remembered. It was not just that she seemed older—there was something else hiding behind her eyes.

“Are you happy now?” I asked. It was a stupid question, but I make the excuse that I was not yet thinking properly.

She smiled, a small rueful smile that ended with a downward twist to her mouth.

“I have brought you fruit, Matthew. Eat what you can. You must regain your strength,” she said.

She served me and would not look at me again, nor answer any more questions.

She has come to sit with me every day since then. When I asked for my quills and writing materials to be brought to me she was eager to do so.

“It is good, Matthew, that you write again. A scribe is an honored person. You should be working,” she told me.

Her words were so like Rashid's that again his memory flooded my mind with pain.

Whenever I ask Yusra about herself, however, she turns from me and avoids the question.

The third day of April

To my surprise Queen Joanna came in to see me this morning. She said the king had sent to know how I was faring and she wanted to see for herself. I tried to get up when she entered the room, but between my weakness and my cursed foot I fell flat on my face. Then, of course, all was concern and commiseration as the servants helped me back onto the bed. I felt like a fool.

I was burning to know what had happened during all the long weeks that I was ill, however, and after I had reassured Her Grace ten times that I was feeling strong enough, she gave me the latest tidings. At first she did not want to talk overmuch so as not to tire me, but when she saw that I was becoming feverish again with the frustration of not knowing, she humored me.

King Richard is away, she told me, rebuilding the fortress city of Ascalon. That city stands on the caravan route between Egypt and Syria and is an important stronghold. Negotiations with Salah-ud-Din are still going on. Rumors abound as to what the king's plans are, but no one here seems to know for certain. The council has now overturned the king's earlier decision and declared Conrad of Montferrat king of Jerusalem, but in the light of our failure that announcement seems laughable to me. King Conrad is urging another march on the Holy City and the majority of the crusaders back him, so the gossip goes.

The sixteenth day of April

I am on the mend with a vengeance now. The king is due back next week and I intend to greet him on my feet and ready in all ways to get back to work.

Yusra brings me everything that I need and is often at my bedside when I wake. I find her quiet presence comforting, but I sense that she is hiding some trouble. She is not happy, not content, but she will not tell me what is wrong. I am determined to break through to her and find out.

The twentieth day of April

Finally I have been able to talk with Yusra, but now I am more worried than ever. She came in with Queen Joanna early this morning. It pleased me to see that I am strong enough now to make a proper obeisance to Her Grace. King Richard will be returning soon, she said, and my heart leaped withgladness when she added that he hoped I would be well enough to resume my duties with him then. I most certainly will.

When the queen left, Yusra stayed behind to collect some dishes. Her eyes were red and it looked as if she had been weeping.

“Is aught wrong?” I asked, but she just shook her head.

“You've been weeping,” I persisted.

“I have not,” she replied.

“You have,” I insisted.

When she made as if to leave the room I took a step forward and grasped her by the arm.

“I saved your life, Yusra,” I said as gently as I could. “I am responsible for you, remember? Surely, you can talk with me?”

At that, to my horror, she covered her face with her hands and broke into sobs. I looked around quickly, but the queen was well away and no servants were within earshot. I pulled Yusra toward a low couch in the corner of the room and sat down with her. I patted her back awkwardly. I made small noises intended to be comforting, but I think I sounded more like a goat in distress. Finally she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, hiccuped once or twice and then looked at me.

“What is it?” I asked. “Do they not treat you well here?”

“They treat me exceedingly well,” she answered, her voice trembling and the words so muffled I could barely understand her. “The queen is kindness itself now that I have agreed to obey her every wish.”

“Then what is amiss?” I persisted, confused.