Angels in the Architecture (39 page)

‘Oh
, rubbish, Nigel. Get out. Saladin would not do such a thing. It would not be any kind of victory for him. Get out! You! Englander! Stay here in case we need your translation, but stay over there where I don’t have to smell you.’

Richard fell back on
to his bed, coughing, exhausted from his outburst. Saladin’s physician stood by patiently until his fit had ended and then knelt before him.

‘Your master is most kind,’ Richard said wearily.

The Englishman translated quietly, and the physician smiled and nodded to his patient, replying with the strange guttural sounds Richard had come to recognise but knew none of.

‘He says his master is a great man
, and it is his pleasure to now serve two great kings in his life,’ said the translator.

‘H
a, another arse-licker. Don’t translate that!’

The Arab
put his ear down to Richard’s chest and then rose and tapped on the back of his hand which sat spider-like upon his chest.

‘What the devil
... ?’ Richard rolled his eyes.

The Arab
spoke again.

‘He says the drumming on your chest makes different sounds where there is congestion, and so he can hear how severe your illness is.’

‘Is that so?’

The Arab
continued to speak.

‘He says you’ll live.’

Richard laughed out loud, and so brought on another coughing fit, which once contained gave him enough pause to laugh again and bring on yet another fit.

‘
Dammit,’ he said, flopping on to his back again, smiling.

He looked up at the physician, who continu
ed to kneel looking at the prince and smiling also.

‘Hmm, not such an
arse-licker then, eh? Ha ha. And what do you prescribe then?’

Richard looked into the man’s eyes as he spoke, seeing a pride that was strange to the king in one who was a servant.

‘Rest. A lot of water. Fruit, fresh or dried. Nuts. No wine and no bread. You will be better in three days,’ came back the translation.

The Arab
stood, bowed, and then stayed before the prince.

‘Thank you,’
said Richard, unused to thanking servants.

‘Thank you,’ said the physician in
perfect English, with a nod of his head. ‘My master sends his very best wishes for your recovery, Your Highness.’

‘
By God, you prickly old bastard!’ Richard grinned. ‘You’ve understood every word.’

‘I apologise if I have offended you, my lord.’

‘Not at all. Tell your master he has my greatest regards and my undying respect.’

‘I
will, Highness.’ The Arab bowed again and reversed to the tent opening, whereupon he turned and walked away.

The translator stood
open-mouthed at the departed physician.

‘You see, you are a useless cunt after all. Get out!’ Richard yelled.

‘Tell me again, my love.’

Asimat sat at the edge of her sleeping mat. She was in pain but had not been able to refuse her husband’s enthusiasm as he burst into her tent to regale her with the story of his own physician’s visit
to Prince Richard.

Saladin sat
cross-legged and turbaned, dressed all in white with a short sword at his side and light sandals on his feet.

‘Imad is
a Sufi also, and most adept, very wise. I’m sure it’s what makes him such an excellent physician. He can read his patients. He sees exactly what ails them.’ Saladin stroked his chin, visualising the meeting with his great foe, and nodded.

‘He
said Richard has the finest humour and suffers no fool.’ He looked up at his wife. ‘But I would have imagined that to be so, wouldn’t you, my love?’

‘Of course.’ Asimat felt she may not be able to hide her suffering much longer.

‘He sent me his regards and his respect.’ Saladin feigned a boastfulness and smiled.

Asimat made herself
smile back at her husband.

‘I will beat him though. He has one great weakness. He fights first and wishes for the esteem of
his Faith second. Make no mistake he is the finest I’ve seen in battle, but it is to win that he fights, and for himself and for his England, and a little less for God.’

‘And so
to Tiberius then.’

‘Yes, yes. Guy
and Raymond can’t decide how to fight me. They argue among themselves as to who is Lord and King. It will be their undoing, despite the Lionheart, and then we shall have our victory. I hear their whole army will be lined up for us, so it will be all the more pleasurable.’

‘You must go and prepare then. There is much to do.’

‘Yes, of course. I wanted to tell you of Imad’s meeting with Richard. And his good humour. It will be a shame to defeat him. But I will not kill him. I refuse to, even should the opportunity come. I would let him escape, for assuredly I will then have the chance to face him again one day. He will want to return, I’ve no doubt.’

Saladin rose, kissed his wife
, and departed.

Asimat fell back on her mat in a faint
.

Eleanor
of Aquitaine was a wife of kings. She had married her first husband, Louis VII of France, when she was fifteen. Louis was pious but weak, and at age thirty, Eleanor divorced him. Very soon after she married nineteen-year-old Henry, Duke of the Normans, who two years later became Henry II, King of England. Eleanor had borne six sons and five daughters; the two eldest daughters to Louis, the rest to Henry. Two sons died in infancy, and tragically the younger Henry had also died a few years since. Of the others her favourite was Richard, now nearly thirty and Henry’s heir after the death of his elder brother. They called her son
Coeur de Lion
, the Lionhearted.

Eleanor had travelled to
the Holy Land with her first husband, Louis, during the Second Crusade, and now her beloved Richard dwelt there in the desert with his opponent, the Muslim king, Saladin, not far away.

Eleanor
adored Henry, her second husband. He was the great-grandson of William the Conqueror, fiercely intelligent, a brilliant leader, an unwearying sportsman and athlete, and the most generous of philanthropists. He was a match for Eleanor in every way, including, sadly, in temper. Once, their fighting had been a precursor to their ferocious passion; but this turbulence eventually established itself as such an enmity that, after more than twenty years of marriage, in return for supporting her sons’ rebellion against their father, Henry had taken Eleanor to England and imprisoned her for ten years. She had been somewhat freed in recent years, more so as Henry could ensure Eleanor’s wealth and lands were not denied her by some usurper or other. She travelled with him again now, overseeing his English estates and other affairs, although Henry ensured some protector, as he liked to call it, was always at her side. Henry had pressured Eleanor to annul their marriage for a time in part, as he hoped to marry his mistress, but more to secure Eleanor’s lands. The mistress died, some say poisoned at Eleanor’s hands, although such was court gossip, and Eleanor had never relented in her marriage to Henry. Now past sixty, she could still tempt her husband, and did so on occasion.

Through their many inheritances, intrigues and
power, Eleanor and Henry had controlled or influenced much of the Western world, and while it remained the power and intrigue that inspired them still, both were still able to be persuaded by an appeal to righteousness and what was holy.

Such
was Eleanor’s consideration now for the most unusual of letters she had received. She knew of her correspondent of course, as she realised she herself was known. It would have been impossible for two queens in the extraordinary context of the Kingdom of Jerusalem and the crusades not to have known of each other, particularly these two who had vicariously entered battle against each other with their four kings. But they had never met.

Ma Chere Soeur
the letter had begun, in a perfect script. Had she narrated this to someone with the capability of both languages? It was difficult to believe otherwise, although she had heard of the woman’s learning and reputation.

Only now, as I face my last days, do I see the futility of what has engaged us all for so many years. It is the pursuit of power and territory, ostensibly for peace, that alone undermines the reality of any such outcome. Oddly, it is my second husband who has been both the greater in battle, and yet the greater also in his vision of a kingdom where all live according to their duty to Allah, to God; to, I believe, the One God who is both yours and mine.

My husband seeks this day to secure
the Holy City of Jerusalem for all people, Muslim, Christian, and Jew, and I believe he will achieve this. I beg of you, Great Lady, as the temples and tombs of both our Prophets are put within reach of all, that you will incline your heart to this vision of unity and seek among the Kings of Europe no further overlordship of the Arab people and their world.

For nigh a hundred years of war, it is time surely for peace.

May Allah bless you all your days, beloved Queen.

Your Sister
,

Asimat

The letter arrived with the news of the death of its author, and the fall of
the Kingdom of Jerusalem to Saladin. Eleanor was surprised that it was the former who consumed her heart and mind the more.

In her life, battle was battle, very occasionally for its own sake, often by way of projecting one’s lordship, but mostly in either the defense of one’s land or the pursuit of another’s. One’s right of rule was mostly determined by one’s birth and inheritance, but simultaneously by might. Little, if anything, affected any obligation
not
to rule, excepting as it may be in one’s strategic interests. The idea that one might consider any values or faith of the ordinary people under one’s rule was not only absurd, it was virtually without meaning. And yet Eleanor
did
consider it. Peace was, without doubt, of value; certainly the cost of war had depleted more than one king’s reserves before now. And the deaths of too many left the countryside without sufficient labour, which only depleted resources further and could give way to unnecessary civil unrest.

Eleanor grieved the loss of an extraordinary counterpart, this sister queen
, and felt it appropriate to her memory that she, her only equal, give a respectful regard to the views she had written from her deathbed. She determined she would discuss them further with her son when he returned from his defeat, since he would surely want to reclaim what was now lost.

We have inscribed a new memory ...

a
memory of love that lays down its life for a friend,

even
a friend whose name it never knew.

President George W. Bush, 11 December 2001

Tim knelt in front
of Little St Hugh’s shrine, his head resting atop it, staring along the horizontal line of the small black box. It felt soft and warm despite its stoniness. The stone was smooth and glowed a little from its hundreds of years of wear.

Behind him, his parents, hand in hand, looked at the mason’s practise wall. Alicia touched a
fleur-de-lis square with her other hand.

‘Some are more worn than others, aren’t they? See this one’s quite defined, quite sharp. Do you think it’s newer maybe?’

‘I think it’s different stone. I guess some wear better than others. Or maybe it’s different styles, different tools they used.’

‘I can see now why you like being here
. It is amazing.’ Alicia smiled at Pete.

‘And now you want to leave it all behind.’

‘Was that a question?’

‘Not sure. It’s quite a change of plans
– a
major
change.’

A woman’s voice was heard via a sound system in the background.
A warm welcome to our visitors to the Cathedral today
...

‘It’s just an idea. But it’s one that’s seriously stuck in my head right now.’

‘Explain it to me again.’

‘I’m not sure I can. I just need to change
. I want
us
to change, our life to change. It’s not working for me here. And you know there’s no challenge for me professionally.’

...
we ask for God’s blessings today for those who are sick, for those who may be alone
...

‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against it. In fact I really like the idea. I just think we need to be clear why.’

‘It’s a feeling, a strong feeling.’

‘I’m good with that.’