Lionheart's Scribe (10 page)

And there are horses, goats, cows and other strange animals called camels. These are gawky, awkward, mean-spirited beasts that spit and bite, but they are invaluable in this arid land, I am told. They can carry enormous packs and go for days without water.

To add to all the confusion siege engines are being constructed in every available space. Piles of baggage and supplies are lying around and more tents have sprung up than I have ever seen before in one place. The noise and smell beggar description. I have to step very carefully for every piece of land is covered with garbage or filth. Flies are everywhere. And it is hot! I am used to heat, but this is beyond anything I have ever felt. The sea breeze does not reach into the camp itself, and the air hangs heavy and fetid over everyone and everything. My hands are so wet with sweat at this very moment that I can hardly write, and the tunic I wear is soaked and sticking to my back. My hair drips into my eyes.

King Richard was right about the fraternization between the two camps. I saw many Saracens wandering freely about. In one tent at the edge of the camp I even saw a Christian knight and a Muslim warrior, both armed to the teeth with swords and daggers, sitting opposite each other, laughing and playing chess!

It was as I was watching them that my adventure happened.

I was loitering by the tent, trying to fathom how the game was played, when I suddenly heard a shout. At the same time I saw a horse bearing downupon me. It was a magnificent black stallion, but it was being ridden mercilessly. The animal's eyes were rolled back in its head as if it were trying to see what manner of demon was on its back. Its teeth were bared and its head was forced back by the hands yanking on the reins. Foam flecked its mouth, and the beast neighed in terror as it galloped toward me.

“Stop him!” The shout was in Arabic and came from somewhere behind me. “Stop that thief! That's my horse!”

I didn't have time to think. As the horse thundered toward me, instead of leaping aside I stepped deliberately into its path. I do not know what possessed me to do that. By all rights I should have been mown down and killed instantly. Instead, the stallion braced its forelegs in mid-stride and came to a jarring halt barely a cart's length away from me. The rider, taken by surprise, sailed over the animal's head and landed in a heap, but he was on his feet in an instant and ran off. I grabbed the dangling bridle of the horse and tried to calm the animal. Again, I should have been kicked to death by the flying hooves, but instead the beast gave an enormous shudder and let me bring it under control.

At that moment a Muslim warrior raced up. He tore the bridle out of my hands, leaped up on the horse's back and, before I could say anything, spurred the animal off in pursuit of the thief. I was left standing there empty-handed and dumbfounded.

Now that I write this account, it doesn't seem like such an adventure. In fact, I am beginning to getangry. Not one word of thanks did I get for risking my life. Barely a glance did the warrior give me. I might have been the lowliest of slaves for all the notice he took of me.

Still, the incident has given me an idea. If Muslim nobles and warriors can make so free with our camp, why should I not visit theirs? King Richard is so set on war, this peaceful state of commingling might not last much longer. I should go now or I might lose my chance altogether.

And perhaps I might see that warrior again. I wouldn't mind letting him know what I think of him.

The horse was a splendid animal though. I am pleased that I saved him from that thief.

The eleventh day of June

By noon today the king had finished with me and let me go.

“I will not need you again today, boy,” he said.

I left his tent and headed back to my own. There I stashed my quills and inkhorn and ate a quick meal of bread and cheese. I quaffed a horn of ale too, not so much from thirst as from a need for courage. For I had decided to steal out to see the Muslim camp for myself. In spite of my brave words yesterday, I was afraid this was not a wise decision. In fact, I knew for certain it was not a wise decision, but I had made up my mind to do it and do it I would.

I had to be a little devious however. The crusaders are beginning to prepare for war and I was not entirely certain that I would be allowed to leave. Tobe safe, I made my way through the bushes until I was out of sight of the soldiers who guard the perimeters of the camp.

The sun was past its zenith and the Muslim afternoon call to prayer was just beginning as I set my feet on the path that led into the hills. It took me much longer than I thought to reach the Muslim camp. The path became steeper and steeper, and I labored to catch my breath. I had to stop more and more often to rest and relieve the ache in my foot. I began to think the whole venture a huge mistake, but my curiosity has always led me around by the nose and this time was no exception.

I thought it prudent to exercise the same caution entering the Muslim camp as I had leaving the Christian camp, so when I saw the fires of their guards, I avoided them. Then I made my way closer and closer to the tents and pavilions themselves. They seemed much more grand than our own—even grander than the king's. They shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight as if made of silk, and pennants and streamers flew from every one. I could see women tending fires around them. They all wore scarves covering their heads, as did the Muslim women of Sicily. Children ran around like chickens. The air was fresher here in the hills, and I noticed far fewer insects. Salah-ud-Din certainly had by far the better campsite.

There was the same bustle and flurry of activity in this camp as in my own, but I was becoming uncomfortably aware that I could see no other Christians. A few people cast suspicious looks toward me. I wasbeginning to feel ill at ease and very much afraid that I had made a foolhardy decision in going there when a voice suddenly hissed in my ear.

“What are you doing here, Christian boy? The time for friendliness between our camps is past, now that your English king is come and preaching war. Are you spying on us?”

I felt a hand grab my arm, then my other arm was seized as well. Before I realized what was happening, I found myself being dragged through the bushes into a small clearing.

I collected my wits and began to protest, but my words were cut off by a blow to my back that knocked all the breath out of my body. I fell face forward in the dust and then a vicious kick in the ribs knocked the breath out of me again. In spite of myself I cried out in pain. I scrambled to my knees and knelt there, trying to breathe, but another kick, this time to my face, sent me rolling. I ended up on my back with my eyes tight shut and my arms crossed in front of my face for protection. God in heaven, I remember thinking, what have I got myself into? What have I done?

The blows ceased for a moment and I fought for the strength to speak, to explain myself before they began again.

“I just wanted to visit … to see your camp …” My lungs burned with the effort. “I am no spy!”

“A Christian who speaks Arabic that well—you must be one!” said the voice.

I saw then that there were two assailants. One of them drew back his arm, ready to strike me again.

“I swear I am not,” I cried.

Then the other laughed. “How could he be?” he sneered. “Look at his foot. He is just a helpless cripple.”

“He was skulking around our camp,” the first one said. He drew a dagger from his belt and stepped forward. I felt a cold chill catch hold of my heart as he pressed the tip of it to my throat. I stopped breathing. “Spy or not, he has no business here now. Should we kill him ourselves or take him to the guards?”

“Why bother the guards with such an insignificant nuisance?” the other answered.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Surely they were just trying to frighten me. I held myself as still as if I had been turned to stone and prayed harder than I have ever prayed in my life.

Just then a voice rang out. “Leave him!” Another figure stepped into the clearing. The glint of a scimitar reflected the sun's last rays. My tormentors stared for a moment. Then one whispered something I could not hear to the other and, to my surprise and immense relief, they ran off like a pair of frightened hounds.

The figure strode into full view and stood before me. His eyes widened.

“You!” he said. “You are the boy who rescued my beloved Muharib for me.”

“Muharib?” I stuttered. My head was swimming.

“My horse. You stopped that thief from taking off with him.”

In that instant I recognized him. He was not agrown man as I had thought. In fact, he was probably not much older than I. I struggled to gather my wits about me. There was much I wanted to say to him.

“I was going to go back to your camp to search for you and apologize. I treated you badly—I am sorry. I was in such haste to capture that wretch who had dared to steal Muharib that I did not thank you. Or reward you.”

My ears pricked up at the mention of reward, and my resentment toward him began to lessen. After all, he had probably just saved my life.

“Those knaves will be caught and punished,” he said. “You may be certain of it. When I heard them in here I knew they were up to no good—they have caused trouble in the camp before. But that they should attack you … you who showed such bravery yesterday … I must apologize.”

I finally collected myself enough to speak, but he forestalled me.

“And to make such improper remarks about your affliction. That is against the teaching of Islam. It is unforgivable,” he said.

I made an effort to stand. A sudden pain knifed through my head and I staggered. The Muslim boy caught me.

“But you are hurt,” he said. “Come with me. My tent is nearby. I will have your wounds tended to. My name is Rashid,” he added.

“I am Matthew,” I managed to say in return. I clutched onto him for support. Only then did I realize blood was flowing down my face from my nose.

(It is broken, by the way, and is paining me beyond belief as I write this. It will most certainly heal crooked. Perhaps that is not such a bad thing though. Perhaps it will give me a more dangerous look.)

The words blur before my eyes. I must sleep. I will try to finish my story tomorrow. There is still much to tell, but I cannot write more now.

The twelfth day of June

As I wrote this date down on my parchment I remembered that today is the day of my birth. I have lived in this world for sixteen years. I suppose I am a man now. But a very sore and wounded man. I swear there is not a bone in my body that does not ache. My nose is swollen to the size of a turnip. It took the greatest of efforts to report to the king's tent for my work this morning. Luckily he is preoccupied these days and after one quick question about my face he did not mention it further.

“I took a fall, Sire,” I said. A feeble explanation, but he was not in the mood to concern himself with it. It has been an arduous day and I wish for nothing more than to sink into sleep, but I will finish my tale first. It is truly amazing how important the writing of this journal has become to me.

I allowed Rashid to lead me through the trees to a large tent. There were sentries posted outside it, but he spoke a few words to them and they drew back to let us enter. As he held open the flap and motioned me to go in, I could not help but draw in my breath with amazement.

The interior was lit by bowls of aromatic oils withburning wicks floating in them. The walls were covered with shimmering silken hangings in the richest colors. The earthen floor was soft with deep, lush carpets. Near the back pillows lay in inviting mounds.

“Sit,” Rashid commanded.

I did as I was bade. Rashid clapped his hands and one of the sentries appeared. He gave an order, then a maid arrived with a basin of water. She must have been a slave, as she wore no head covering. She would have bathed my face, but her ministrations made me feel awkward and uncomfortable. “I would do it myself,” I said, hoping I did not sound ungracious.

“As you wish,” Rashid answered. He motioned to the girl to leave.

Thanks be to God, the bleeding from my nose stopped. I washed and tidied myself as best as I could, desperately trying not to soil the pillows or rugs upon which I sat. How different this tent was from my own rough shelter!

How different, indeed. As I composed myself and looked around I was astonished to see a chest with fine parchment scrolls and even books lying on it. In our camp only the king and the priests have such things.

“Now,” Rashid said, “something to give you back your strength.” He held out a bowl of fruit to me. I took a fig.

“Thank you,” I said. I peeled the skin back and bit into the flesh. It was cool and sweet and washed the taste of blood away.

“It is I who should thank you,” Rashid answered. “I could not have borne it if I had lost Muharib.”

“You have more than repaid me,” I said. “If you had not appeared when you did tonight, I do not think I would have left here alive.”

Perhaps I should not have been so gracious as there was then no more talk of reward.

“What were you doing here?” he asked.

“I just wanted to see your camp. I was not spying,” I added quickly.

“I do not think you were,” he said. “But you are not a warrior?”

“No,” I answered. “I am a scribe. I am scribe to King Richard himself.” I knew that he had meant no insult, but he had glanced at my foot in spite of himself when he had asked that question and my pride was pricked.

“A scribe!” he cried, and sat bolt upright. “Truly, I knew you were a man of importance! That is the most honorable of professions. We hold scribes in the highest regard.”

I cannot quite describe the feeling that came over me then. It was the first time in my life that anyone had ever suggested I was a person of any worth. I almost felt as if my soul were growing larger within my body. I know I sat taller. I am still sitting taller, even though at this moment I am racked with pain and exhaustion.