Lionheart's Scribe (11 page)

“But you should go back to your own camp now,” Rashid said then.

I looked at him, startled. Was he angry after all?

“It is ungracious of me, I know,” he addedquickly, “but for your own safety I must urge you to leave.” He took a fig himself and bit into it, then threw it aside as if it tasted bitter. “It is true that we have visited back and forth between camps often in the past two years,” he said, “but now with the arrival of your English king, things are different. Feelings are running high. I would not be welcome in your camp anymore and, I am afraid, as you have found out, you are not welcome here.”

“You are right,” I said. “I should not have come.”

“But I am glad you did,” Rashid said. He rose to his feet. I rose as well.

We stared at each other for a long, awkward moment. It seemed to me, and to him as well, I think, that there should have been something else to say, but neither of us could imagine what it was. After all, we were supposed to be enemies. We would probably be at war with each other within weeks, possibly days. And yet, as I looked at him, I could not help feeling that if circumstances had been different this boy might have been the first real friend I had ever had in my life.

Finally he spoke.

“I will have my sentry escort you safely to the edge of our camp,” he said.

“Thank you,” I answered.

“Assalamu alaikum,” he added quietly. “The peace be on you.”

“God be with you,” I replied.

There was nothing else to say.

It was almost morning and the first Muslim callto prayer of the day was just breaking the dark stillness of the night when I finally stumbled back here into my tent, my foot throbbing and my head swimming with the pain of my broken nose.

Rashid. “The rightly guided one,” his name means. He is not much older than I, but he is obviously a person of great importance.

And he believes me to be a person of importance too.

The thirteenth day of June

I saw Yusra this morning, but could not speak to her. Queen Joanna keeps her close by and has not called for me again. I wonder how things are faring with her. She does not look happy.

The smell of battle is in the air. Men are nervous and so tightly strung that fights break out over the least disagreement. King Richard's castle, Mategriffon, is being reassembled and will be used as a siege tower when we attack. It is even taller than the city walls and has enormous wheels on it now so that it can be pushed close up to the walls when the time comes. Inside, there is a staircase leading up to the higher levels. There are platforms on every stage from whence our archers and crossbowmen can shoot, and on the top level a drawbridge has been built that can be lowered to span the gap between the castle itself and the wall, over which a storming party can launch an attack. The whole structure is covered with skins of cattle. When the battle starts they will be drenched with water so that the flaming Greek fire the Saracens hurl at us will not set itablaze. If there is not enough water we will soak it in vinegar and urine.

This Greek fire is fearsome. I had never seen it before in Sicily. The Christian armies have discovered the secret of it, and I pestered Rigord until he agreed to allow me to watch as our men loaded one of the catapults with some early this morning before dawn. It looks to be no more than a pottery container filled with some kind of sour juice, but in fact the fluid is made of an oil that bursts into flame easily and burns for a long time. While our soldiers loaded, the Saracens began to bombard us with the same material—and I began to think I had made a mistake in wanting to be there. Flaming balls arced through the sky toward us, trailing burning tails the length of a long sword. They gave such a great light that our whole camp was as bright as day. The noise they made was thunderous, such as I imagine a dragon or some other terrible beast would make flying through the air. When they landed, the containers burst and the flames spread everywhere. The mixture is so powerful that water will not put it out.

I think I have seen enough of it at such close quarters now and will not pester Rigord about it again.

As usual I listen to more than I am supposed to, and I have found out that King Richard intends to start the attack as soon as possible. Other great siege engines are being assembled, but these are mostly stone-throwing mangonels. They bear noble names, and already The Cat, God's Own Sling and The Evil Neighbor (Philip's bestmangonel) are hurling great rocks at the city walls. King Richard is like a man possessed. He walks among the troops, encouraging them and doing everything he can to lift their spirits.

King Philip is a disaster as a leader. He seems to dislike the whole business of war and so far has done little but sit gloomily in his tent, soaking the atmosphere around him with dejection. His mood has spread to the whole camp, but King Richard is determined to change that.

The Saracens no longer visit us. I wonder where Rashid is and what he is doing.

The fourteenth day of June

King Richard attacked the city at dawn this morning! I was awoken by the sound of trumpets just as the sun was rising. I knew at once what must be happening. I leaped up off my pallet and scrambled outside. There is a small knoll behind my tent and I made for that so as to see what was going on. My heart began to pound as I saw King Richard's and King Philip's armies assembling on the outskirts of the city.

I could hear nothing but men shouting orders, horses bellowing and curses heating up the air as the soldiers jostled for position. To me it seemed like total chaos, but to my amazement the whole mess gradually sorted itself out and the siege engines began to bombard the city with flaming missiles and stones.

Then, as I watched, I saw the parapets of the city walls suddenly come alive with soldiers. At thatexact moment the crusading armies attacked. They thundered toward the walls. Trumpets blared and pennants flew. My heart began to beat so hard I thought it would shake me to pieces. From where I stood I had an excellent view of everything, and for the first time in my life I found myself longing to be in the battle. To be a man, amongst other men, who could fight! I felt stirrings within such as I have never felt before, but there was nothing for me to do but watch. How useless I am!

Then the sky turned black with arrows. They rained down upon our attacking crusaders. I heard screams. Men fell, horses crashed to the ground. I squinted, desperately trying to keep King Richard's banner in sight, and stopped breathing when I saw it plunge to the ground. In a flash it was overtrampled and lost to view. I didn't draw breath again until I saw the king's golden hair flaming in the sunlight. He was at the very forefront of his men, his sword thrusting and cutting so quickly it was just a blur.

I was watching the assault on the city so intently that I was shocked by a sudden clamor of wailing horns and wild war cries. Salah-ud-Din's forces streamed down from the mountains behind us and charged into the rear of our army, turning the battle into churning turmoil. The brilliant colors of the Muslim warriors flashed in and out amongst the shining mail of the crusaders. Swords slashed and clanged. I did not see how anyone could possibly know what was happening. Trumpets rang out again and to my horror I saw our soldiers begin to fall back, still fighting. At the camp's edge, Salah-ud-Din'sarmy pulled up. I saw a richly robed figure on a white stallion at the head of the Saracens and knew this had to be the sultan himself. He sat for a long moment, triumphant, then turned and galloped his army away, back into the hills.

Was Rashid with them? He must have been. He most certainly would not have been as useless as I.

The fifteenth day of June

Now we suffer. Our men lie strewn on the ground between us and the city walls. We cannot go out to them. Anyone who tries is picked off by the arrows of the defenders on the walls. Most of the men out there are dead, but some are still alive. We can hear their cries. I pace up and down along the edge of the campsite. I cannot take my eyes off them. I want to stop my ears against the sound of their calls for help and their moans, but I cannot. I have to listen. To look.

I cannot believe that yesterday I was so carried away with the bloodlust of battle that I wanted to be a part of it. Today all I feel is sick.

The sun is full up now and the heat has brought out the flies. They cluster on the bodies and fill the air around me. I cannot breathe without inhaling the tiny insects. The smell from the battlefield is beginning to waft over us, overpowering all other stinks. The vultures are feasting. It is unbearable.

Our camp is silent. We are prepared for an attack, but the Muslim forces in the hills are silent too. Only the calls to prayer ring out at their regular, appointed times. Our priests cover their ears when they hear them.

The sixteenth day of June

The Muslim army has not attacked. Our camp is still at the ready, but our men are managing to retrieve the bodies of our soldiers. The Muslim bowmen stand on the parapets and watch, but are no longer shooting at them. I do not believe any of the wounded have survived though. It is too late for them.

Late yesterday afternoon I was summoned to King Richard's pavilion. Bertrand, his senior scribe, is ill. The king himself does not look well, but perhaps it is only the aftermath of the battle. In any case he was most brusque with me.

“Bertrand cannot work,” he said. “You will take over his duties until he is fit again.”

Before I had time to realize just what he meant, he threw a parchment to me and motioned me over to Bertrand's table.

“I will dictate to you. You will write an account of the battle. It is imperative everything that happens here be written down. There must be a record kept of it. A truthful account.” He broke off as if a thought had just occurred to him, and stared at me.

“Where were you, boy, during the battle?”

I flushed so deeply my skin burned.

“I watched, Sire. From a hill.” My shame at uttering these words was so great that they came out almost in a whisper. I braced myself to hear words of contempt, but to my surprise the king nodded as if satisfied.

“Good. Then you will be able to write as well of what the battle looked like to an observer. Whenone is in the midst of the fighting, one cannot always tell what is going on. Your own account will be most useful. Add it to mine.”

In shock I scrambled to get my writing implements in order.

“God's legs, boy, are you not ready yet?” the king growled.

“I am, Sire,” I replied, although I wasn't quite. He began to dictate and I raced to keep up with his words. Then, when he was finished, he stood over me while I added the account of the battle as I had seen it. When I had finished he grunted.

“You write well, boy,” he said.

I flushed again, but he nodded to the tent door. “Out with you now,” he ordered.

I am sitting here, scribbling in my own journal, but my mind is stirring with new thoughts. Could it be that I am useful after all? I am the only scribe in King Richard's camp now. If I do not record the account of what happens, it will not be written down—at least not by us. I suppose there is a scribe recording it all in King Philip's camp. I wonder how he views what has happened. Does he write as glowingly of his king as I do of mine? If he does, I do not believe it would be the truth, as I feel King Philip is cowardly and evasive. And yet King Philip's scribe might believe him to be as valiant as I believe my king to be. His scribe might believe my king to be the weaker and write that.

Yet another thought. What will the Saracen account of the battle be? Different again, I would wager. Three accounts of the same battle. All mustbe different and yet each of us would believe our own account to be the true one and those who read our accounts will believe that too.

But do I really believe mine to be absolutely true? In my account I did not include seeing Salah-ud-Din sitting triumphantly on his horse, gloating over the scene of battle—I did not wish to offend my king. But by leaving this out, was I not altering the account of what happened just as surely as if I had lied?

The seventeenth day of June

I have been burning with curiosity to know how my little maid from the sea has been faring and today, finally, I was summoned to Queen Joanna's pavilion. The king would not give me leave to go until I had finished my work with him, however. Bertrand is even more ill and the king's doctors hold out little hope for him. King Richard himself is pale and sweating. I fear he also has the fever. This heat is agony to all of us, but especially so to him. It was so hot inside his pavilion that I almost swooned myself. My head was aching and swimming by the time I left. Outside it is a little better, but the flies are a torment from hell. The smell of the camp is indescribable.

As soon as I had finished and the king had dismissed me I made my way to Queen Joanna's tent. When I reached it I was shown in immediately. The queen was pacing back and forth. Yusra huddled on a pillow, shoulders hunched and arms wrapped tightly around herself as if for safety. Hereyes were fixed on the ground. Her hair fell down around her face, half obscuring it.

“I can do nothing with this child, Matthew, and I am losing patience,” the queen said. She sounded exasperated. “She does not weep anymore, but she will not respond to me, no matter how kindly I treat her. Will you try again?”

I dropped to one knee and made obeisance to her awkwardly. As usual, my foot got in the way.

“I will, Your Grace,” I answered. Then I knelt down completely so that I would be at the girl's level.

“Yusra,” I said in my best goat-calming voice, “the queen is trying to help you. We know how you must feel. We are truly sorry for you. What can we do?”

“Nothing.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the rug beneath her feet. “My parents are dead. I am a prisoner. There is nothing you can do.”

“You are not a prisoner,” I said.