Lionheart's Scribe (12 page)

At that she looked up. “I'm not?”

“No, of course not,” I repeated. “The king of England does not take children prisoner.”

She straightened. “Then tell him to let me go. Tell him to send me back to my own people.”

I looked at the queen. “She wishes to be returned to her own people,” I said.

The queen spread her hands helplessly. “Impossible. We are at war now. She must stay with us, but we will treat her well. Tell her that.”

I translated as best I could. Yusra's face hardened and her mouth set into a stubborn line.

“I will never be happy here. I will die first.”

I looked at the queen. She had not understood the words, but she seemed to understand Yusra's tone all too well. She shook her head in annoyance and motioned me to leave.

There must be some way to get through to that girl. I am going to keep on trying if the queen will let me. I feel she is my responsibility. After all, it was I who rescued her.

She is just a child, I know, but she would probably be quite a pretty one if she ever smiled.

The nineteenth day of June

Bertrand has died. The king is now deathly ill as well. What will happen to us if King Richard dies?

The twentieth day of June

A most amazing occurrence, and one that will take some time telling. Shortly after the Muslim call to prayer this morning and after our own priests had said mass, horns sounded at the outskirts of our camp. Everyone was immediately galvanized. Was this the attack by Salah-ud-Din's forces that we had been waiting for? While the soldiers rallied, the ordinary people who have come on crusade with us began to pour out of their tents, screaming and running in all directions. Thanks be it wasn't an assault or they would have been easily massacred. It sometimes seems to me that people have less sense than goats.

In any case it was a small party of Muslim warriors under a flag of truce. Truly they were brave men, forthey rode confidently and without hesitation into our camp. They were of obvious importance. They were richly robed and carried themselves with the bearing of kings. No fewer than four horsemen held their brightly colored standards.

From the vantage point of my tent I watched them approach. After the initial shock, once they realized there was no danger, people began filtering back. The first, of course, were the children. Ragamuffins of all sizes were soon parading alongside the Muslim party. They hooted and called out, but the warriors paid them no attention. One small urchin even went so far as to throw a stone, but an older child scolded him and called out an apology.

It was then I saw Rashid riding behind and to the right of the leader. He was mounted on his horse, Muharib, and sat straight and tall in his saddle, his eyes focused straight ahead. He was garbed in the vibrant colors of a Muslim warrior and wore a scarlet turban on his head. If he was aware of the child rabble running alongside them he gave no indication. I was astonished. I had not really expected to see him again, certainly not in this guise.

The party approached the tent. Rigord stepped forward and challenged them.

“What wish you, my lords?” he asked, but his tone was respectful.

“We bear gifts from Salah-ud-Din to your king. Our sultan has heard that your leader is ill. We bring ice from the mountains to help cool his fever, and fruits to fortify him against the illness.”

I could not believe my ears. We were at war!

Salah-ud-Din had just defeated us in a terrible battle. Now he was sending succor to our king? I had to know more of this. And Rashid, what was he doing with this party? Who was he? I slipped from my tent and fell in behind the Muslim warriors. I hung back until Rigord had secured permission for them to enter, then, as they were dismounting, I followed. Rigord started to restrain me, but I spoke sharply to him.

“The king will have need of me,” I said in the best semblance of the king's own tone that I could manage. Luckily Rigord couldn't see the shaking that was going on inside me. He hesitated, then stood back to let me pass.

It was a delicious moment. For the first time in my life I gave an order. And it was obeyed! This business of being the only scribe is beginning to suit me.

I followed the Muslim warriors into the pavilion. The smell of sickness hit us as soon as the tent flap closed behind us. I had been in there this morning, asking futilely if the king had need of my services. It had been bad then, but was worse now. I had even heard that Richard's hair and nails had begun to fall out.

The king sat propped up on pillows. His face was deathly white and dripping with sweat. His glorious golden hair hung in limp, dark strands around his shoulders. Behind him stood his most trusted lieutenant, Mercadier, and two servants. Mercadier's hand was upon his dagger as he frowned at the Muslim party. King Richard's arm shook as heraised it in greeting. He was deathly ill. But there was still about him an air of majesty that lesser men such as King Philip could never achieve. He saw me and motioned me closer. I could feel myself swelling almost to the bursting point with importance. I hoped Rigord was watching.

“You will translate for me, Matthew,” he said. The effort of speaking seemed to exhaust him, but he rallied and turned toward the Muslim delegation.

“You are well come, my lords,” he said. I translated the words.

The leader returned the greeting.

“Peace be with you,” he said. “The blessings of God be upon you. The great sultan, Al-Malik al-Nasir Salah-ud-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyud, has sent these gifts with the hope they might help you.” He motioned a man forward. The man crouched before the king, bearing a straw-covered bundle that was dripping water. I stared at Rashid, but he seemed not to notice I was there.

“Ice, Your Majesty, to soothe your fever,” the Muslim leader went on. He motioned another man forward. This one bore a large basket. “And the freshest fruits from our orchards. You westerners do not eat sufficiently of this bounty. Their goodness drives away all sickness.”

I was translating as fast as I could.

“I thank you,” King Richard replied. He sank back onto his cushions. “I would rise to give you proper homage but I cannot …”

I was so surprised that for a moment I was at aloss for words. King Richard, apologizing to a Muslim! He waved an impatient hand at me and I made haste to convey his words.

At that point the leader of the Muslim party interrupted me.

“I speak French, my lord,” he said. “We can converse in that language if you wish, without need of a translator.”

The king looked relieved. I was annoyed.

“Pray be seated then,” King Richard said, indicating the pillows strewn around his tent. “I would converse with you. You may go, Matthew,” he added.

“God's legs,” I muttered resentfully as I took myself out. “Just when things were getting interesting.” Again I tried to catch Rashid's eye, but he would not look at me.

Rigord smirked as I limped away. I didn't feel quite so important anymore.

Later …

I had to stop writing because the king sent for me. Late though it is he decided he had to dictate a reply thanking the sultan for his gifts. He seemed somewhat refreshed and less feverish, so the ice and fruit must have done him good. It is almost time for the Muslim morning call to prayer, but I will write until I finish this, even if I do not sleep at all. I am in such a state that I probably will not, in any case.

I had hardly taken more than a few steps away from the king's tent, still resentful at being dismissed, before I heard someone on the path behind me. I swung around, on the alert.

“Stay,” a low voice said in Arabic. “It is I, Rashid. I wanted to speak further with you. I begged leave of my uncle to follow you.”

I collected my wits as quickly as I could. “Your uncle?”

“My uncle is the one who speaks with your king now. He is one of our great sultan's most trusted advisors.”

No wonder those rogues had been afraid of Rashid. He comes from a powerful family.

“How fares your nose?” Rashid asked.

I laughed. “A little crooked, as you can see, and still mightily swollen, but it pains me less now. It was kind of your sultan to send such gifts to my king,” I added. “Usually men at war do not treat each other with such consideration.”

“Our sultan is a courteous man of infinite mercy and compassion. He would not let a fellow man suffer needlessly,” he said.

I could not hold my tongue at that, no matter how grateful I was to Rashid for saving me.

“Your sultan has the reputation of being among the fiercest of warriors. What I have seen here bears that reputation out.”

“And so he is. In war you must kill or be killed.” He stopped and looked at me. His eyes narrowed. “You must know, my friend, that our sultan is only defending land that is rightfully ours. Why should you come from the west and try to take it from us? Why should any of you be here at all? This is not your land.”

“Your sultan took Jerusalem from us.” I was becoming angry in spite of myself. “It was a Christian city. A holy city!”

“It is also a holy city to all of Islam. You Christians took it first from us. And when
you
took Jerusalem your Christian crusaders massacred every Muslim man, woman and child in the city. Not in the heat of battle, but after you had won. You even massacred the Jews, people of the Book such as you are yourselves. When our sultan retook the city he spared every Christian in it. He did not kill one. The Christians live there even now in peace and harmony with Jews and Muslims alike. Salah-ud-Din is a merciful conqueror.”

I stared at him. This was not the history I had heard.

Rashid shook his head. He seemed to make an effort to control himself. Then he went on in a calmer voice.

“We should not be enemies, the people of Islam and yourselves. You are people of the Book, you and the Jews as well. The Book that tells of the old prophets we all share, Muslims, Jews and Christians alike. It is unfortunate that you blaspheme and have gone astray, but we worship the same God. I enjoyed conversing with your priests in the days before your English king came.”

“The Book?” I managed to get out. In truth, I was so confounded by what he had said that I could not make sense of it. I remembered the books andscrolls I had seen in his tent. “You have read our Bible?” No one I knew had read this most holy of Christian books, only the priests. I doubted that even the king owned such a thing.

“No, I have not read your Bible. I read the Qur'an, the divine revelation given to our prophet, Muhammad, God's peace and blessing be on him, but it tells of the history that we have in common. It was the angel Gabriel who gave God's holy revelation to our prophet, Muhammad, God's peace and blessing be on him. The same angel who brought God's message to you Christians.”

At that moment a voice rang out. “Rashid! Come!”

“My uncle calls. I must go,” Rashid said. “We should talk more, Matthew. Perhaps some day we will be able to. Perhaps …”

His uncle called again. He held out his hand.

“Assalamu alaikum,” he said. “My friend?”

I looked at his outstretched hand. I almost reached to take it. But then the memory of our dying men lying outside the walls of Acre suddenly flooded through my mind. I stared at the scimitar sheathed at his waist. How many of them had he killed?

I could not answer him. I could not move.

He flushed, a deep, dark crimson, and dropped his hand. Then he whirled away from me and disappeared into the shadows.

As I write this now I am more troubled in my mind than I have ever been in my life. Did Rashid speak the truth about Jerusalem? In all the songs and stories I have heard about that glorious conquest of our old crusaders almost a hundred years ago, never a word was mentioned of the massacre of innocents. Did the song-makers and scribes, then, do as I did when writing of our battle? Did they leave things out? Did they make the story the way they wanted it to be? The way their lords and masters wanted it to be?

And what did Rashid mean when he said that we shared the old prophets? That we believe in the same God? How could this be?

The questions hammer at me and will not leave me in peace.

The twenty-first day of June

As I listened to the Muslim call to prayer this morning I was still mulling over Rashid's words. I had never thought of Jerusalem as being other than a Christian city, never thought about its being holy to the Muslims as well.

I'm certain our priests would condemn these thoughts as blasphemy. Are they? And do we really share the old prophets with the Muslims? I know we do with the Jews, for the Old Testament of the Bible is as much their history as ours—until the birth of Christ, of course. This much our priests have taught us. This must be what Rashid meant when he said the Christians and the Jews were people of the Book. But the Muslims too?

Then, as these new notions chased themselves around and around in my mind and the call to prayer rang on, another thought struck me. Yusra. She is Muslim. She must need to pray in the Muslim way, but how can she in Queen Joanna's tent? Father Aimar would never permit it. More than that, he is probably insisting she take part in the Christian services. I have the greatest respect for our priests and am truly grateful for their prayers, but I know how diligently they seek to convert those whom they label heathen, and Father Aimar is foremost among them. Yusra is frail and frightened enough. Father Aimar is so stern and forbidding, he could not help but terrify her further. I must seek an audience with the queen and discuss this with her.

Another thought. Do the priests know we share the prophets with the Muslims?

The twenty-second day of June

The king continues to recover. I attended him this morning and he was in a rage because King Philip had made an assault on the city without consulting him. It failed, of course.

“God's legs,” he growled, “does Philip think I am dead already that he need not advise me of his doings?”