The King's Witch (35 page)

In Jaffa, Johanna could not leave the palace without meeting a crowd that jeered her and cursed Richard; she went by ship back to Acre, there being now a busy stream of ships up and down the coast, and in Acre it was the same. The great city was full of brawling men, drunks, cripples, beggars and whores, Crusaders trying to get back to the west, and local people selling them whatever they wanted at ridiculous prices. She traveled through the streets in a litter, to avoid these howling mobs, but when they got to the church her guard had to form a circle around her to force a way through the press of bodies.

In French, in Syrian, the people screamed curses on Richard, on the Crusade, on her.

“Frankish dog!”

On the porch of the church, she left the litter and went quickly in the front door. There were pages, squires, all around, lining her way. Then in the dark aisle, while she was in the midst of her own court, someone brushed against her and thrust a flat stick into her hand.

She clutched it, knowing what it was without looking. In the dark she had seen nothing of whoever had given it to her. The pages around her herded her up three steps into the royal cabinet, and she sat rigid through a pious sermon about enduring trials.

It was not Richard’s fault they had failed. She burned with this. She had talked to Humphrey, to Rouquin, to other lords, and she knew what had happened. She thought of ordering a charge of her knights into the crowd, to teach them how to see this, and at once knew she could not. Someone might be hurt, some innocent.

The reed had a star on it, steps, and three wavy lines. She showed it to Edythe, back at the palace.

“He will meet me at the sea gate, there by the steps, at Vespers.”

Edythe said, “Yes, he’s very clever.”

“He will require something of me—what am I to do? Ah, God, I hate him. I wish—I wish I could get rid of him—”

Edythe said, “For the love of God, do not meet him. The King knows, Johanna. That’s what my lord Rouquin meant, that time. The King knows everything.”

Not everything. Edythe did not know everything, so how could Richard? Johanna lay awake, unable to sleep, remembering her mother’s letters. He could build a castle of false meaning on those letters. By dawn she had decided not to meet de Sablé. Edythe was right about that. But she would send for Humphrey, who had long before offered to help her with this, and who had just come back to Acre.

Humphrey said, “ I know a few . . . useful men. They would cast some fear into him. Let him know you are not to be trifled with. But they will need to be paid.”

“Oh, money,” she said. “The bane of the Plantagenets. Would there were Jews here, I would pawn my gold chains.”

JAFFA

Edythe knew where Rouquin kept his horses, in a long stable against the city wall, and as soon as she came into Jaffa she went there and found him hitching his roan stallion to a ring in one corner.

“ I have heard you are going to Jerusalem,” she said. “ Take me with you.”

Rouquin hung the bridle on the wall. “What are you doing down here? You’re all supposed to be in Acre. What are you talking about?”

“Ayberk brought me. I told Johanna that Besac needed me at the hospital.” She shrugged that off. “ I’ ll dress like a man. A squire, I’ve seen enough of them. I can get the clothes. I’ll work. I’ll keep up.” She watched his eyes. “ I’ve done a lot for you, and for Richard. He won’t let me, but he doesn’t have to know. I realize it will be hard. I was in the camp at Acre. Can it be worse than that?” She said, carefully, “ I’ll do anything you want.”

The gray eyes narrowed. In the spiky red beard his wide mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “Anything I want, huh? He’s got me riding rear guard. All right. I’ ll take you. If you mean it. Come with me, right now, and prove it.”

She swallowed, unnerved. Her legs quivered. She had not meant this to happen so suddenly, but she had promised. She followed him around the end of the stable and out to the yard.

It was broad, paved in old bricks, with an orange tree growing in one corner, and a fountain. On three sides were the low stone houses where his men were quartered. He said, “ I’m surprised Johanna let you go.” It was the heat of the day and except for three boys brushing down horses, and Mercadier lounging under the orange tree, no one was there.

She did not say,
Johanna has another plot. She wants me out of the way
. She said, “She knows how important the hospital is. Richard must think I’m still in Acre, though.” Another boy rolled a barrow full of horseshit and straw out of the stable and around a corner. Rouquin took her into the middle building.

They went through a long hall, dark, smelling of dirty clothes and stale chamber pots, littered with blankets, to the south end, where there was a door, which opened on a narrow closet. This was his room, she saw, his helmet on the crossbar, his mail, his shield against the wall.

“Sit.” He put a stool down in the middle of the room.

She had no idea what was going to happen. She swallowed, and rubbed her palms on her skirt, and sat. He pulled off her coif, and her hair came down over her shoulders and back.

She saw then he had the shears in his hand, and she cried out, but before she could defend her hair he took the whole long swag, rolled it over his hand, and in one chop cut it off.

She gasped. She put her hands to her head, the short hair bristling, scratching her neck; she had never cut her hair. He pushed her hands aside and began to crop away even the rest, as close as he could, down to her scalp, like his.

Mercadier had come into the open doorway and was leaning his shoulder on the jamb, his eyes quizzical. He made a gesture with his hands.

Rouquin said, “She’s going with us. Keep it tight.”

“ With us.” The Brabanter’s round face creased in a smile. “A pretty knight she’ll make. In a dress?”

“She’ll need a jerkin. Our colors. Shirt, hose, boots, small clothes.”

She said, “ I have my own . . . ,” and blushed, clamping her lips shut.

“She can wear her own small clothes.” Rouquin ran his hand over her cropped head. Her scalp felt cold. She was bald. She looked up at him, and he smiled at her, pleased with himself.

“You still don’t look like a boy.”

“ I’ ll grow a moustache,” she said, and Mercadier laughed.

She had expected a different demand of him. He had felt her hand tremble in his grasp. When she had gone, he stood under the orange tree in the dusk, thinking about that. He could have had her, right there. She would have let him.

It would have been the price she paid for going with him. An obligation, a trade. He wanted something else. He wanted her free, willing, eager, coming to him joyously. He remembered kissing her, how she had lifted her face to him, her eyes closed, trusting in his arms. She would give herself utterly to him, freely, for his own sake, when it happened. He could wait. There would be no chances on the march, but maybe in Jerusalem.

Richard had chosen his army carefully: the remainder of his Poitevins, Rouquin and his men, several local barons and their companies, who knew the ground well. The Templars and Hospitallers, Guy and his men, Henry of Champagne, and the last of the French. They had brought a supply train of six wagons. Leaving Jaffa, Edythe rode on one of the wagons, dressed in a dark jerkin and hose and old shoes too big for her, a long cap. Under the shirt she wore a band of cloth bound tight across her breasts, to hold her flat. Richard led the army; the wagons traveled well behind him, and Rouquin behind them. The army stretched out along miles of the road.

The first day went along easily enough. The sky was bright blue, a single bird floating in high circles overhead. It was dull sitting on the jouncing wagon seat; the driver snored. She noticed the other pages and squires of Rouquin’s company picking up wood as they went and stowing it in the wagons, and she got down and ran around gathering with them. It was easier moving in the jerkin than in a long dress. The wood was sparse, thorny, low to the ground. She came into camp at sundown worn to exhaustion. She slept on the ground by the fire, Rouquin on one side of her, Mercadier on the other.

The next night as they made camp, she watched Mercadier chop kindling so fast she couldn’t see precisely what he was doing. The others moved around her, bringing wood, dumping their saddles and other gear on the ground around the fire to mark their spaces. When they met, they banged their hands together and said, “Jerusalem.”

She helped the cook spit mutton. The chatter around her was full of laughter. Richard rode by and they all cheered him. She stacked wood, hauled water, part of this. She felt suddenly warmer. Someone began to sing a marching song, and the others picked it up. The tuneless growl of voices spread from campfire to campfire. She turned the meat and greased it and the fire crackled; she backed quickly away. She began to pick up the words of the refrain. Settling by the fire to keep the spit turning, she began to sing along. She was one of them, going to Jerusalem. Nobody cared about anything else.

The next day, as they moved up into the first low hills, suddenly a shower of arrows came pelting down from the slope beside the road.

Edythe was out looking for wood; she heard someone yell, and turned back to see the front wagon abruptly stop, its lead team slumping down in the harness. The wagons coming along the road after ran up on one another, the drivers cursing and ducking the arrows, crawling under their seats and jumping to the ground. Another horse was down, kicking. Another reared in the harness and fell sideways. She started toward them and a second shower of arrows pelted into the wagons, each arrow carrying a little cuff of fire.

She stopped. A yell went up from the rear guard. The pounding hooves warned her, and she flung herself under the wagon; all she could see was a wall of horses’ forelegs driving toward her. They divided smoothly around the wagon and crossed the road on either side. She crawled out and stood up.

The mass of horsemen was charging up the hill toward the unseen bowmen, and from the vanguard another stream of horses came galloping after them. She lowered her hand. Now she saw that the wagon she had just hid under was burning.

That was their food, those barrels and bales. She scrambled up the wheel to the driver’s seat; two other squires were climbing on, and another ran to the horses. The two boys on the wagon were crawling across the covered top toward the burning arrows.

She shouted, “ Be careful—” The whole load of the wagon was covered with this sheet of canvas, and so far only that was burning. She cried, “Help me get this off.” She pulled her belt knife and slashed the cords holding the canvas down.

The boys bounded around and together they threw off the burning cover. The third squire had freed the living horses trapped with the dead ones, and they pulled the wagon out of line. Behind them the next wagon burned, past saving. Three squires were trying to loose the pitching, screaming team.