Lionheart's Scribe (18 page)

Later …

I am tempted not to continue with this account. It is almost as if by not writing down what happened, I can deny that it did. But I will go on. I have stopped weeping and my hand, strangely enough, does not shake anymore. It is as steady as a dead man's. Perhaps I am a dead man—inside.

I saw and heard the Frankish knights charging on their huge warhorses, spears leveled. The pounding of the horses' hooves was so great it drowned out all else. Such a charge is an awesome sight. No matter how often I watched it in practice, it never ceased to astound me. I cannot imagine what it would be like to have such a wall of enormous, powerful beasts thundering toward me, with knights riding shield to shield, their lances lowered.

King Richard rode at their head, brandishing hissword high. I saw the flicker of his blade cut in every direction. He tore into the Turkish soldiers like a man possessed by the devil. Everywhere around him I saw men fall. He carved a path through that army like a reaper mowing hay with his sickle.

The Turkish lines broke. Then they reformed, and the world around me turned into a screaming inferno.

I have no memory of drawing my sword, but I found myself swinging it wildly as a Turkish soldier galloped past me. Then I swung again as yet another man came at me from the side. I think I might have struck him, I do not know. In my terror I struck out blindly. I felt a sudden stinging in my shoulder and was amazed to see blood flowing from it. I had not even seen my attacker. I swung again and again. My horse was neighing with fear under me. The poor mare is not a warhorse and was as panicked as I. Time seemed to stretch out. I felt as if I had been in the midst of that noise and insanity for most of my life. I fought with an intensity and desperation that I didn't know I possessed. I think I wounded several men. I may have killed some—I will never know.

A Turkish noble, turbaned and robed in flowing, flaming scarlet, stormed straight at me. His sword was raised high. I swung to meet his charge and then my eyes met his. It was Rashid! I choked back a cry as I saw what was in those eyes. It was pure hatred. Rashid had not forgiven me.

My sword arm dropped. I could not move. As if in a trance I watched him come at me and I knew hewould kill me. Knew he had to kill me. How else could he purge his shame? The blade of his sword flashed once in the sun. It began to sweep down. It seemed to move with a swimming slowness.

Another blade streaked across. It knocked Rashid's weapon aside and then buried itself in his chest. I had only time enough to see the look in his eyes change—almost, it seemed, to relief—and then he fell.

Beside me Mercadier wrenched his blade out of Rashid's body even as he hauled his horse around to parry yet another blow.

I must have continued fighting—I did survive—but I have no memory of the battle from the time I saw Rashid fall until later when it was all over. I returned to my senses to find Mercadier himself binding my wound. I shook him off and staggered back to my tent. I sat outside it for a long while. The moon rose and bathed the field in a silver brilliance. I could see the bodies strewn across the plain. The priests had said mass over the Christians and given last rites wherever possible. The vultures had come. It had been a great victory for us, Mercadier had said, exulting.

Already many of our soldiers were scavenging among the dead, seeking plunder and souvenirs. I got to my feet and limped out. I searched for most of the night, but I could not find Rashid's body. He is dead though. I know it.

How would I have felt if it had been Rashid who had urged me to flee and I who had escaped the massacre of my comrades? Guilty, I am certain. And I would have blamed Rashid too for being the cause of it. Perhaps that is not sensible, but it is the way men feel. Would I have blamed him enough, hated him enough to kill him? I do not suppose I will ever know. But I do know that I mourn his loss. The one person in all my life whom I could have called friend. And now he is gone.

The eighth day of September

The king called me to his pavilion early this morning.

“You were in the thick of it, Matthew my lad,” he said. “Good boy! And I hear you acquitted yourself well for a scribe. I'm pleased with you.” He held out a ring to me—a golden ring with a dark red stone that glistened with a fire of its own.

I stood stupidly, looking at it.

“Take it, my lad. You've earned it,” the king urged.

I did not want it, but no one refuses a king's gift. I reached for it. He dropped it into my palm. It burned. I felt as if it were searing deep into my flesh.

“You will write an account of our victory,” the king said. “Spare no details. You were there yourself, so you will be able to describe how valiantly we fought, how glorious was our victory. This is a tale that will be told over and over, Matthew. Write it with every bit of skill you possess.”

“Everything, Sire?” I asked.

“Of course. Everything.”

“Even the looting of the dead by our soldiers?”

For a second the king's brows furrowed. Helooked at me as if puzzled. “If you wish, my lad. But that's not important. It is but a normal part of war.”

We struck camp soon after and have been marching southward all day. There has been no sign of Salah-ud-Din's army. Our victory has been complete indeed. I have written faithfully of the battle and spared no words in describing the bravery of the king and his knights.

I wrote as well of the bodies that we left behind, Muslim and Christian, sprawled out together in death. Those who read my story will read of that as well.

I hid the ring in the bottom of my pouch. I do not wish to look at it.

The tenth day of September

We have reached the port of Jaffa. From here we must turn inland to follow the road to Jerusalem.

As we drew near to the city we could see that the walls lay in ruins. At first there was general jubilation at the sight, but it quickly turned to dismay. There are no Turkish forces left in Jaffa and Salah-ud-Din made certain to destroy it to such an extent that we will not be able to lodge within the town. We are camped instead just outside the walls. The general feeling in the camp is that we should press on and march directly to Jerusalem, but the king has determined that our army must rest first. I can see the wisdom of his decision, but I know also, from listening in to the council meeting last night, that King Richard is worried about leaving the coast. We will no longer have the support andprotection of our ships. If Salah-ud-Din managed to cut off our supply line from the coast entirely as we marched inland we would be in trouble.

I find that I cannot bring myself to worry, like the king, or to rejoice, like the rest of our crusaders. It is as if a hand has reached inside me and turned off all feeling.

The twentieth day of September

We are rebuilding Jaffa. I report to the king each morning and do what is required of me, then I wander. Most of my wanderings take me along the shore. It is, I suppose, a beautiful place, but I can no longer see beauty.

The thirtieth day of September

Now that the city is somewhat restored, the king has brought Queen Berengaria and Queen Joanna down. Yusra is probably with them. I wonder how she fares. I should ask after her, but even thinking of her brings the memory of Rashid rushing back so forcefully that I cannot bear it.

The first day of October

“With God's grace we hope to recover the city of Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulcher by twenty days after Christmas and then return to our own dominions.”

So wrote King Richard to the Pope last night. It sounds so simple and so hopeful. So why do the lines in his face deepen by the day and his eyes grow harder?

The tenth day of October

Today King Richard sent a missive to Salah-ud-Din. I wrote it. After all the usual salutations and compliments, it read as follows.

“The Muslims and the Franks are bleeding to death, the country is utterly ruined, and goods and lives have been sacrificed on both sides. The time has come to stop this. Jerusalem is for us an object of worship that we could not give up even if there were only one of us left.”

He went on to demand the surrender of Jerusalem to our forces and the return of the True Cross. We await Salah-ud-Din's reply.

The thirteenth day of October

Salah-ud-Din has sent his reply under a flag of truce with his brother, al-Adil Saif-ud-Din. King Richard seems to like this man very much, and he is indeed impressive. He has about him an air of quiet concentration. The answer he bore, however, was not to our king's liking.

“Jerusalem is as much ours as yours,” Salah-ud-Din wrote in his reply. “Indeed, it is even more sacred to us than it is to you, for it is the place from which our Prophet Muhammad, God's peace and blessing be upon him, made his ascent into heaven and the place where our community will gather on the day of Judgement. Do not imagine that we can renounce it.” He also refused to return the True Cross, saying that it will be useful for further bartering.

The furrows in my king's brow grow deeper.

The fifteenth day of October

As I write this I can still hear Queen Joanna berating King Richard at the top of her lungs. How can a king be so brave and noble and yet at the same time so witless?

He has put forward the most startling of peace proposals. It is this: that if Salah-ud-Din would grant Palestine to his brother al-Adil Saif-ud-Din, then he, Richard of England, would arrange for al-Adil Saif-ud-Din to marry Queen Joanna. As a dowry he would give her the coastal cities from Acre to Ascalon. They could live at Jerusalem and all Christians would be given free access to the city.

I myself wrote up this proposal. The most surprising news is that Salah-ud-Din has accepted it! Perhaps he thinks King Richard is joking.

Queen Joanna most certainly does not, however. She is in a towering rage and I believe she even threw things at the king when he told her of the plan. Obviously, this is not the solution.

The thirty-first day of October

We are on the march, heading for Jerusalem. The soldiers sing and cheer and are in the best of spirits. The pilgrims pray and weep with joy. Everyone thinks that Jerusalem will be ours within the month. The temperature is cooler and walking is easier.

I did not see Yusra before we left. She and the two queens stayed behind in Jaffa. I wish now I had.

The fifth day of November

Our advance has slowed. The road begins to riseand the path is more difficult, but it is not just the journey that impedes us. Salah-ud-Din has destroyed all before us and the king is determined to rebuild as much as we can along the way. This is a Christian pilgrims' route and he has resolved to restore the castles. The Saracens harass us but only lightly, usually by sending out patrols to raid our lines of communication and to attack any foraging parties that are not well guarded. Salah-ud-Din is biding his time and waiting for us.

This king of ours is indeed brave and a man of honor. The count of St. Pol was leading one such party and yesterday we received a desperate message from him saying he was outnumbered and surrounded by the Turkish forces. The king immediately sent the earl of Leicester to reinforce the count's band and then determined to follow them himself. Calling me to him he set off at a gallop with Mercadier and a band of his most trusted soldiers. I galloped behind, hanging grimly onto the saddle. My horsemanship has improved immensely, but I part company more often than not with my horse at anything more than a trot.

We arrived at a place where we could see what was happening. The Frankish soldiers, the earl of Leicester and his men included, were totally surrounded. The Turks were circling them and firing arrows into their midst with deadly accuracy. The Christians were greatly outnumbered. Even as we watched two horses fell and their riders tumbled motionless to the ground. The king made as if to spur his horse forward, but Mercadier was quick to lay a hand on his arm.

“You will not succeed in rescuing them, Sire. It is better that they die alone than that you risk death in this attack and so endanger the whole crusade.”

The king turned to face him, his face frightening in its anger.

“I sent those men there. If they die without me, may I never again be called king!” he shouted.

With a quick gesture to his men, a curt command to me to hold my place and a wild war cry he charged forward, sword flashing in the sun.

The intensity and unexpectedness of his charge turned the battle and in a few moments it was over. Those Turks who were not cut down turned and ran. In celebration King Richard's men carried on their spear-points the heads of those slain back to our crusaders. The victory was a great boost to the morale of all the army.

But was Mercadier the wiser? What if the king had been slain? He is the only real leader here. What would have happened to the crusade then? King Richard is undoubtedly a soldier courageous beyond words, but does he have the right to take such risks?

The twenty-second day of November

We are deep inland now. The green of the coastal trees and shrubs is giving way to reddish-colored earth and stone-covered hills. The horses' hooves slip on the rocks and the men on foot curse the treacherousness of the path. It has been rainingsteadily for the past two days and is growing colder.

Today we reached a small town called Ramleh. There had been a Christian church here, but the Turks burned it down many years ago during the time of the great Duke Godfrey of Bouillon's crusade, one of the Knights Hospitaler told me. I stumbled onto the ruins during one of my wanderings, last night at dusk. I did not explore very much as the place seemed full of ghosts. It is a sad town.

This knight is different from most of them. His name is Arnald and he is friendly to me. It was he whom I saw sitting and watching the Saracen camp the night before our battle. This morning as I was resting under a large tree, sheltering from the rain, he came to sit beside me and began talking. He was born in Jerusalem and is descended from a knight who rode with Godfrey of Bouillon and then settled in Jerusalem after the city was retaken. Stories of that crusade have been passed down in his family and he recounted some of them to me.