by K. T. Tomb
The priest had lost track of Richard’s body count long ago. Suffice it to say, he rarely took a prisoner. It was as if he didn’t know what to do once he seized a city, other than to annihilate the people therein.
“Do you want to give me some Hail Marys or something?”
“No. As I said, my daily presence in your life is your penance, Richard. Just think of me as your…handmaiden.”
“Gustave, don’t mock my sorrow over harming you.” Richard looked upset about more than this. Something else was bothering him.
“Mea culpa,” he said in Latin, to apologize.
Gustave unclenched his hands, his one-and-a-half hands, as he himself so often had said. He let out a whoosh of air that had been trapped inside of him. The priest’s shoulders drooped a little, and what ire had been in him just moments ago, disappeared.
His energy was sapped by both the desert winds and his own lack of will to accept his maiming as an act of God, even though that was how he had professed it to Richard. It was a carefully practiced speech and he knew just when to pull it out of his pocket. Now that he had done so, a bitter relief washed over him.
“You are my prayer warrior,” Richard said. “I cannot fight the good fight without you by my side. When I use my sword, sometimes, I think of your hand upon it as well, guiding it.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I always wanted to fight for God and country. Now, my prayer is answered. Thanks be to God, our strongest weapons against the enemies; the spirit and the flesh.”
He tried not to let his words sound bitter and carefully composed his face. He and Richard warred like this… with their words. It was a bad habit after all of these years but neither of them could cease pricking at the other.
At one time, Gustave had been hailed as the next great warrior of England, but now, he could not even stomach the thought of holding a sword; his left hand was clumsy and weak and the very positioning would put him at a fighting disadvantage.
Richard swallowed and looked at his armory.
“I have my weapons, and you have yours.”
To the priest’s left was Richard’s small armory, really only a pile of weapons, but of finer quality; fit for a king. There were three fine swords in their gold and jeweled scabbards, a crossbow that was unlike any other in the world and a blood-stained mace on an iron chain at the end of a club that had been specially carved to fit Richard’s large hand.
Oh, to have a full right hand again.
It had been many, many years since Gustave had gripped the hilt of any sword. It was a feeling he remembered as being so natural, an extension of his own hand and arm, in fact. Now, he had no desire to even cast his gaze upon the weaponry for longer than a moment. It was a painful reminder of what had been accidentally taken from him, by his king.
The tent flapped open by a gust of hot wind, as if a spirit had left the room, or perhaps, entered.
“Am I here for a specific reason, Your Majesty?” he finally asked. Gustave knew that if Richard were fraught with worry over the coming battle with Saladin, he would have had de Sable in there, listening to the old warrior’s advice.
Instead, he had called for his priest.
The anticipated taunting ridicule never came from the king, ridicule that Gustave had endured over the last twenty years while serving as the king’s trusted spiritual adviser. A joke that only King Richard enjoyed was often passed between the two men, of Gustave’s lack of fighting ability. Instead, the king was now visibly upset, shaking.
“I had a dream, Father. A very real dream. Can you help me, my friend?”
Gustave was momentarily taken aback by Richard’s humble plea for help.
“Gustave, my lifelong friend, I think I may die,” said Richard the Lionheart, King of England, leader of the Third Crusade.
Richard’s words echoed in Gustave’s head.
Richard had never uttered such defeated words. Gustave wanted to grin but refrained. The fearful words were appealing. In those words that brought the king down to the level of the worries of an ordinary man, Gustave found freedom, relief from a prison term as the king’s unwilling court jester, and relief from the constant pain of humiliation at his utter whim.
Gustave looked up, meeting Richard’s haggard eyes. He kept his voice calm.
“Perhaps you should tell me your dream. In detail.”
Chapter Three
“In my dream, it’s as if I am outside of myself, looking onto a battle scene.”
“Ah, so you were dead then? A spirit? In the dream?”
Richard nodded. “I believe so. So, there it was as I looked upon myself in the dream: King Richard the Lionheart slew ten thousand Muslims for no good reason, stunning his enemies and his allies alike.”
“That wasn’t a dream. You did slay them, though I was unaware that it was that many.”
“I know I had slain them, but when it was happening, it was as if I was in a dream, perhaps during an ague spell, but now, in my dream, it felt so real and inescapable.”
“You are exhausted to the bone, Richard. You do not even know which is the sleep world and which is the awake world. You must be more aware in order to make good decisions in battle. I think you need more rest before each one.”
“I do. I barely sleep and when I do, I am either chilled and shaking from ague or hot and shaking from scurvy. Anyway, in the dream, in my spirit body, I looked at myself. I looked at Richard the Lionheart, and I saw myself as a man who was wicked… and proud of it.
“I was so bloodthirsty and with such a lust for murder that I delighted in lining up and beheading the enemy, thousands of them. I stood in their warm blood that rushed like a river over my legs and into the desert, only to sink in the glittering sand.”
“You were a victor in that battle,” Gustave said. “I see no shame in that. Ten thousand was a little ambitious, though, with the number of troops you had. I would have once thought it highly unlikely that thousands of men would even allow themselves to be executed. We were only inexperienced Crusaders then, just establishing our power. I guess they were already tired of all this when we got here—their countries flooded by waves of Crusaders—and wanted to be martyred to escape our numbers.”
“I know you are at least half right. I was shocked at how quietly they went. Their numbers far exceeded ours.”
“What happened then in the dream?” Gustave asked.
“After I saw that I murdered so many, or had them slain, God was very upset with me. Thunder, lightning, shouting and more.”
“Shouting?” Gustave fingered his crucifix. “Do you know what He was upset about?”
“He spoke to me, Gustave. God said that because of my wicked and murderous heart that He would not hand over Jerusalem to me or let me even fight Saladin there.”
“God said that?”
“I swear on my queen’s life that he did.”
“Don’t swear on a life. And you don’t even like your queen that much anyway. You were married for a day or so and fled to the Third Crusade.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Gustave. You know that when I saved her and my sister, Joan, from Comnenus, Berengaria was already betrothed to be my wife. We were married right after I rescued her. It was perfectly heroic, like a fairy tale. It is true, though, what God said to me in the dream.”
“Was there any way to atone? What did God say about that? He must have made a provision for your redemption,” Gustave said.
“Yes, he did. This is shocking, but God told me that I must save Saladin, my sworn enemy.”
“Save him, how? Did God mean just do not go to Jerusalem and fight him?”
“Oh, it is more than that. Much more than forgoing a battle.”
“How much more?”
“Saladin is old and growing weak. In the dream, he was even dying.”
“Of a battle wound?”
“Nay. Weakness, due to age and poor food and water. Some malady. I don’t know what it was in the dream.”
“How does God w
ant you to save Saladin?” Gustave asked, groaning. “You are no physician.”
“He wants me to find the Holy Grail and then…use it to save Saladin.”
Gustave’s mouth dropped open. “Preposterous! Blasphemous, even!”
“You’re supposed to be a priest. It can’t be that unusual that God asks a king to perform a difficult task to atone for grave sins. My own grave sins.”
“Fine, fine. Where did God tell you to find the Grail?”
“Mount Ararat.”
“Mount Ararat? The Turks would kill us there, not to mention, it is very far away!”
“I was hoping you would come with me, Gustave.”
Gustave shook his head slowly. “I am your spiritual adviser, but I would not survive a journey like that. I am no mountain goat.”
“You would not climb the mountain with me? Not even for the Holy Grail?” Richard was appalled.
“Let me understand this. God told you in the dream that the Holy Grail is at Mount Ararat?”
“That’s right. My punishment is that journey and my reward is that I will find the Grail and use it to help my sworn enemy, Saladin, recover from illness and infirmity.”
“God certainly has a lot of faith in you, that you can accomplish this with a few soldiers and your blind faith, which I might add, has been rather absent lately. Not to mention, it is highly unlikely the Muslim will drink from the Cup of Christ; even if it were a lifesaving venture.”
“Now you are mocking me, Gustave. I must do this mission of faith and obedience or God will judge my heart. As it currently stands, I am not forgiven. I am risking eternal damnation.”
“Be serious. Everyone is forgiven. It is the tenet of who we are as Christians.”
“No! That is not what I have seen. Apparently, I am too wicked. Because I am a king, I am held to a higher standard, according to God. And, I should have known better and not slaughtered so many, and with such malicious glee. I must make things right with God.”
“Is this all so that God will grant you Jerusalem?”
“Forget about Jerusalem for a minute, Gustave. This is my very soul that needs redemption. If I don’t do this for God, I’m going to hell. Sooner than later. Do you understand that?”
“Very well, Richard, I will support you publicly in this folly, but I will wait in a nice cozy town with decent food, water, shade, and hopefully, mineral baths to soothe my sore bottom from riding in an oxcart all the way across the Holy Land.”
“No. You will come with me,” Richard said. “I cannot bear to be without my friend, my adviser, my confidante. My priest!”
Gustave sighed.
“I really, really hate snow. You do know that, despite summer, Mount Ararat is frozen at the top! You’re going to be slogging through it going uphill, with the wind ripping at your skin with daggers of ice.”
Suddenly, there came a knock on the tent pole.
“Who is it?” Richard asked, impatiently throwing up his hands. “I am in counsel with my priest.”
“Your Majesty, ‘tis a courier with an urgent message for you,” said the voice outside the tent.
“What is so urgent that I must stop preparing for battle and abandon my spiritual confession?” Richard asked.
“Pardon, Majesty, the message is from Saladin’s personal courier. He wishes to set up a meeting to discuss a treaty.”
Richard gasped softly.
Gustave disrespectfully pointed his index finger at the king and wagged it, saying, “And so, apparently, God’s true mission begins for the mighty King of England.”
Chapter Four
“Kako, do you understand what you are supposed to do?” Richard asked weeks later as he looked at the small boy perched on his own half-lame royal mount, his legs much too short to even reach the stirrups.
The boy looked at him with excitement in his eyes.
“Yes, Your Majesty. I am to read them the speech you wrote for me but in our language. In your name, I will arrange your meeting with Saladin to discuss the truce.”
“Good boy. Do you remember how it begins?”
“I know it all by heart, in two languages.”
“Tell me the first of it,” Richard said.
Kako cleared his throat dramatically.
“I come in the name of Richard the Lionheart, King of England. He says that God, who is also Allah, has charged him with a duty that goes beyond making war,” Kako said.
“That’s good so far. Just read it and make sure that you especially read the part where I tell Saladin that I agree to meet him to discuss his truce terms. Not to blindly agree with them before we have spoken at length.”
“Yes, Majesty. I will do exactly as you ask.” Kako sighed. “Do you think Saladin will kill me?”
“No, that would be quite cowardly,” Richard said, sure that he knew the boy was safe.
Kako nodded. “It would be cowardly and Saladin is no coward. I am but eight summers of age, so that should protect me. Is that correct, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, just a slip of a boy; but a brilliant mind. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Sire.”
Richard gave Kako’s horse a clap on the rump.
Shortly after, a small boy on a large horse approached Saladin’s men across the dune and loudly proclaimed Richard’s request for a meeting between the two leaders.
Soon afterward, Richard met with Saladin and discovered his old adversary was harshly stricken with a serious malady.
After hours of discussion, with Kako translating most of it, it came down to this request by Saladin: “The truce is this: I will grant you the cities of Daron and Jaffa if you spare me Jerusalem without a fight. By the way, I am also taking Kako. He is my nephew.”
“Kako! Are you a spy? A little spy? For Saladin?!” Richard was aghast.
Kako shrugged.
“I did tell Uncle Yusuf not to kill you, and that you were very kind to me.”
Richard was furious at the betrayal by a child. A child! How could he have been taken in by those sad brown eyes and that unoriginal story about being a hungry orphan? Troubled, his mind racing, Richard knew that this was the moment of truth for him—he could almost feel the eyes of God watching him, studying his every move, noting the nature of his heart and measuring his intent to do good, or wickedness.
Richard verbally agreed to the terms under one condition: “Saladin, before I sign the treaty, you must do one thing for me; not as my adversary, not as a Muslim, but as my ally.”
“What would that be Richard?” Saladin asked, curious what kind of request the Christian king could possibly have that required him to set aside his holy beliefs.
“Venture with me to Mount Ararat; it is my belief that is the place where I would find the legendary Holy Grail. We will go as men, as generals. And hopefully, through it all, we may become allies.”
“Allies? Who said anything about wanting to be your ally?” Saladin laughed. “I see now why you asked to forget Islam for a moment while I considered your request. Listen to me. The Grail is a blasphemous old legend. Why do you pursue it? Why do you think I would care about it? Are you trying to distract me from warring with you so that you can build your Crusader army even larger?” Saladin asked through Kako.
“No, I vow that I am not trying to distract you from warring with me. There, on Ararat,” Richard said, “God, who is also Allah, will heal you of your infirmities when we find the Grail. The mission must be secret and performed with only a handful of soldiers from each side. Those are my conditions before I sign the treaty.”
“You forget, Richard the Lionheart, I am the one who called for the truce,” Saladin said. “Therefore, I will state the conditions.”
Kako translated this last bit to King Richard with more than a little glee.
“Kako, stop gloating and tell him that I know this truce is about more than a holy war. It is about…understanding each other’s worlds, king to king. Do you agree, Saladin?”
Kako relayed the message in a ra
pid-fire, guttural Arabic language.
Saladin, closing his eyes and thinking, knew and felt the maneuvering of the will of Allah. Saladin, receptive to the ways of his own God, recognized that it was in his destiny to make peace with Richard so that they could both be saved.
He was unsure, however, if that meant also secretly venturing with the king of England into the heart of the Turkish empire in search of the Holy Grail. His heart was conflicted, but his mind and his spirit moved in tandem to reassure him in seeking his own healing; which clearly was the will of Allah. And to fulfill the will of Allah, was always the King’s duty.
Since his youth, he had been curious about the legend of the Holy Grail, but it had brought too many zealous invaders to his country over the years. He was well read on all the old Briton tales of King Arthur and his court as a result of his intense study of the Historia Brittonum. As a young aspiring warrior, Saladin found it necessary to know his enemy well.
“I assume then that you are not among those who believe that Yusuf al Arithmea took the cup to England? And that the river there now runs red from this blood?” Saladin asked. Kako translated the Sultan’s words carefully as Saladin sported a sarcastic smile. Richard was shocked. “Or that the Knights Templar found it at the Temple Mound and have already had it hidden away for many years now?”
“Saladin, do not mock me,” Richard said, sitting up straighter on the cushion he occupied. “God has shown me all of this in a dream and though it may sound foolish, you must know I believe it with all my heart if I sit here before you confessing it.”
Allah's will is so rarely expressed so clearly the great Saladin thought.
But in this case, Saladin felt that it was important for him to venture forth up Mount Ararat, as a sick and dying man, to seek the healing Allah intended for him. If that meant a blasphemous search in hostile territory for a Christian relic that might not exist, with his sworn enemy as his companion, then so be it.
It would be a true test of his own tolerance and faith, and, he was sure, the faith of King Richard as well. The man was pure evil and sorely needed a soul washing. Perhaps this was Allah attempting to open the Lionheart’s eyes.