He told us to camp outside the city walls on God’s own ground, unpolluted by the presence of the Infidel. Again the musicians struck, this time “The Wood of the Cross.” As the voices resounded, the grim king prepared to disembark first.
Loaded like a mule, I staggered in the soft hot sand after Enoch who carried Roderick in his arms. Deo gratias, Sir Gilbert had advised me that he and the Pisanos would serve the king that night. We pitched our tents in a line under the shadow of the high bluff wall of the city, not that we needed shelter for warmth but against the heat and blowing grains of sand that cut us like needles.
I patted the sand into a hummock so that Roderick could rest his back comfortably, then helped Enoch prepare our supper. I shared with Roderick a wooden bossie of porridge mixed with sodden mutton, which was not too bad washed down with methiers of strong ale. Then as a special treat, Enoch gave us salted lamprey which encouraged more drinking, with a dessert of marrow bones, “guid fer healin’ the wound.” Satisfied at last, we lolled on the sand gazing seaward where the sun flopped like an egg over the horizon, leaving us in instant darkness.
“The moon looks big with child,” Enoch observed. “The way she bulges, could be twins.”
Instinctively I touched my twins’ caul where it rested on my right thigh.
“Aye,” Roderick agreed. “From the size of those fat stars, they could be baby moons. At home they’re different, more blue and scattered, like slaeberries.”
“Aye,” we all agreed. “And yet,” I added, “these must be the selfsame stars.”
“Nay, ye’re forgettin’ yer astronomy, bairn. Ye’ve ne’er seen the Southern Cross in Wanthwaite but there it be, Cygnus with Alpha Lyra on the left. We’re on the far side of the glabe.”
“What’s a glabe?” Roderick asked.
“Globe. Enoch means that the world is a round ball and we’ve sailed around a curve so that the sky is different.”
Roderick began to laugh helplessly and begged the Scot to tell further outlandish tales. “It takes my mind off my leg.”
The more Enoch protested that this was a scientific fact learned from a great Arab philosopher, the more gleeful Roderick became. “So are we walking upside down then? Good! I can use my hands instead of my injured leg.” And he beat the sand in his mirth.
Actually I, too, wondered why we were right side up when the globe showed us to be sideways, but Enoch explained that an Arab called Yaqat was working in Palermo to find the reason.
“Be as be may,” I said, suddenly solemn, “I wish I were in England. That was the land of milk and honey if we’d only known.”
“Aye,” they agreed, and were silent.
Then Enoch began a familiar song of the north and Roderick and I joined in, despite our mix of dialects:
“When winter’s breath has ceased to blow
And March’s clouds away do flee,
And wandering worms stir roots below,
Whilst icy weirs go flowing free,
Then cracks the woodruff’s notes,
Then bleats the newborn lamb,
Then swells the threstle’s throat,
Then swonks the maukin’ ram:
Tulay! Tulay! Tulay!
“When every spinney blooms with spring
Hearts’-ease, days’-eyes, red pimpernel;
And April’s dews the combes do bring
Primerole, speeds’-eyes, green moschatel;
Then warms our hearts so gay,
(Our hearts were sore a-cold)
Blood runs in madding May,
(Our blood so winter-palled): Tulay! Tulay! Tulay!
“When summer beats our feet to dance
Mid fruiting blooms of bough and bower;
And long white nights our hearts do trance
In panting love, Nature’s dower;
Then twines each girl and boy
In garlands with a kiss,
And bursts their bounds with joy
To crown their year with bliss:
Tulay! Tulay! Tulay!
Spellbound by our own song, it seemed to me that the spangled curtain of night parted just a crack so that I saw the green upon green of bending trees in the park, the greensward glistening in a rising mist. Then another voice broke my trance. King Richard was approaching. Was he coming to take me to his pavilion? But I couldn’t …
“Excuse me,” I mumbled. “I’ll be right back.”
“Waesucks, bairn, yer eyes be full of stars,” Enoch called after me, meaning that he’d seen my tears. I threw myself into a hollow and let them soak into the greedy sand.
“Don’t let me stop your singing,” I heard the king say. “That was a lilting carol in the English style, I believe, very sweet.”
“Scottish, Your Highness,” Enoch corrected him.
“The same thing.” Richard laughed derisively. “But I thought I heard a boy’s treble as well. Was it Alex?”
“Aye,” Enoch replied.
And there was an awkward pause.
“Sir Roderick, how is your leg? Draining well?”
“Yes, Your Highness, thank you. Alex and Enoch are fine at physic.”
“I’ve noted as much myself.” Another pause.
“When I write London, I’ll see that your uncle hears of your courage.” Then the king continued casually. “Where is young Alex?”
“Well, to say sooth, Your Grace, the young scamp war sickened by the sea, sae his cod be slack as a sock. Quhat with the noxious fumes fram his stomach and the bilgewater from his bowels, I sent him into the sand. ‘Any tom-cat would shame you,’ says I, ‘have the decency to bury yer flux in a hole whar it won’t offend honest Crusaders.’”
The king seemed as astounded at this description as I was.
“’Tis hard to believe, when he appeared perfectly well not two hours hence. Have you given him some potion to help?”
“Aye, verjuice mixed with grinded earthworms. ’Twill do the trick in time.”
“I see.” The king hesitated and I feared he was going to wait to check my condition himself. “Well, tell him I asked.”
And with more courtesies on both sides, he strolled away.
“I didn’t know Alex had the gripes,” Roderick said.
“Ye were too drunkalewe to notice. I didna want to shame the lad before the king but, ’tween us, Alex sneaks eels when ye’re not lookin’ and makes himself sick. I’ve told him and I’ll tell ye that ye mun be keerful about eat and drink in this Holy Land. ’Tis said that the flux killed more Crusaders than the Turks did last time round.”
I squirmed in my hollow listening to these outright lies. What possessed the Scot? Why had he painted such a revolting image of me? What would the king think?
Then I had a revelation! Enoch attributed the flux and gripes to me because he smelled my bleeding. Benedicite, I dare not crawl back to my goatskin if that were the case. I dug a hollow in the sand for sleep, wallowed in self-pity, rubbed my eyes with fists and got sand under my lids.
But I forgave the Scot, for whatever his motives, he’d saved me from even greater mortification by protecting me from the king. ’Twas true that Enoch’s nose was as sensitive as a wolf’s, but Richard, too, was exceedingly aware of odors, as Sir Gilbert had warned me often enough.
How would I ever survive this Crusade? What antic god had put me with the king?
WE DRIFTED SLOWLY down the Ladder of Tyre, our oarsmen abetting the dying Arsur wind while most of our fleet still lay becalmed in Tyre’s harbor. Gradually the rocky line of mountains along the shore receded inland and we reached Acre’s plain, close upon the actual city. By late afternoon our year of travel came to an end, for ahead a great stone promontory thrust into the sea like a hand beckoning us to enter its deadly port. High on its ramparts tiny white figures gazed down, the enemy at last.
We turned out to sea to avoid a welcome of Saracen arrows, then inland again just south of the fortress-city where the Christians held the field at the mouth of a river. The Trenchemer listed t
o port as we all crowded the rail to behold the welcoming army, lords and knights who’d been fighting since the pope first issued his call. Swarming like bees atop one another, waving, cheering Crusaders rent the skies in a roar of welcome to the king who was to bring victory at last. Richard stood on the forecastle, a scarlet extension of his scarlet ship, and shouted assurances of what he would do. “We will take Acre in a month! Jerusalem before the rains come! Be home by Christmas!”
No one ashore could hear him, but we did and my own heart bounded in hope at those words home by Christmas. Was it possible? Would I be gathering fir and holly for Wanthwaite’s hall this year? Enoch deflated me.
“’Tis the ferst time I’ve heard the king speak with swich nicetee,” he remarked caustically. “He mun have quaint crekes up his spangled sleeve yif he thinks he can do in four weeks what others couldna in four years.”
“Four years!” I exclaimed. “You must be wrong. I’ve heard two.”
“Acre fell in ’eighty-seven, this be, ’ninety-one. Do ye need my abacus?”
“Why? Are the Crusaders outnumbered?”
“There be six thousand Saracens in Acre, a hundred thousand Crusaders with more coming all the time. No, the king may think the battle’s safe in a poke, but ’tis the world that will pipe. Besides, ’tis a bad omen to crack boast.”
Just then there was a rustling on the shore to make way for a mounted party and King Philip arrived. All our faces turned to King Richard: his eyes narrowed, his lips twisted, but he waved and simulated a broad smile. King Philip flourished his banner in reply, his white face a blur. Then the two kings were lost as Richard descended to his bark and the crowd took over. The waves were alive with swimming Crusaders who threatened to pull the king to the bottom of the sea in their enthusiasm. Music struck from various parts of the shore in a competition of sounds, clerics waved holy banners and held silver chalices high, many knelt and wept, others waved jugs and staggered in joy as the whole world went mad! Now Richard was held aloft, laughing, touching, making the sign of the Cross, then was lowered onto his courser, the great stallion Fauvel, captured from Isaac Comnenus.
He leaned forward to kiss King Philip. The horses turned and they walked slowly toward Toron Hill where the kings were camped.
Meanwhile, I was arrested by the unexpected presence of women on the shore. Dressed in noble tatters of silks and satins, ermines, sporting gold brooches and jewels, they also carried bows on their shoulders and walked on bare feet. Their unkempt hair floated free in every shade of yellow, brown and red indicating that they were Europeans, and their shameful cleavage showed skin that had once been pale but was now brown as leather. Several carried falcons, and hounds swarmed at their feet.
“Who are all those women?” I asked Enoch.
“By my skull, Alex, ye have a keen eye. They mun be refugees from the fall of Acre, but take care. Aye, I’ve noted the glintin’ in yer gray eye and know ye mun have nightspills, but watch yerself here, boy, and stay chaste. Venery in these parts and ye may wish yerself a lipper.”
By the time Enoch and I joined the royal train, the kings were far ahead and most of the crowd with them. Roderick attached himself to a knight with Lord Mortimer’s army and we lost sight of him. Well, finally we were in the Holy Land—treading its “streets” paved with cracked earth, breathing its sullen haze with the malodor of rotten eggs.
From the empty slope of the beach we climbed to a haphazard improvised city built in the style of an ant colony. Hundreds of artisans plied their trades in clay holes: iron-mongers, hammering carpenters, doctors and women in hospitals, shepherds guarding sheep in pens. It took so long to wend our way through this labyrinth that the sulfurous sky had darkened to brown by the time we emerged on the other side.
There we found Roderick leaning wanly against a pile of earth, his face twisted in pain.
“Here, lad, ye’ve attempted too much,” Enoch said. “Alex, take my wrist, there, and the other one as well. Cum, Roderick, we’ll carry ye.”
With faint protest, the poor knight had to accept our hammock seat as we struggled up the rise to Toron Hill. E’en though Enoch took almost all the weight, I staggered and we were slowed to a crawl. I became aware of rats scurrying in dry palm fronds, occasional sharp cracks around us. We could now look downward on a hollow area dotted with bonfires, torches and tapers, each surrounded by a cinnamon glow cut by long shadows of skeletal Crusaders dancing deliriously to syncopated drums and fife. From somewhere ahead rose the solemn swell of “The Crusaders Hymn”:
“Hear us, O Christ our King,
Hear us, O Thou Who art Lord of Kings,
And show us the way.
Have pity upon us,
And show us the way.”
Enoch tugged on my arm and we pulled Roderick with us into the dark, for the Scot had seen someone he knew from Paris. Soon we stood behind King Richards pavilion where another Scot told Enoch in broad dialect how we should protect ourselves in this wilderness. Enoch translated: we were to keep a fire going night and day in the center of a ring of sharp stones, for the swamp below was infested with poisonous vipers which might crawl into our mouths by night; however, our stone islands would attract scorpions and we were never to thrust our hands into shadow or walk with bare feet. For water, dig about a foot down almost anywhere, but never drink anyone else’s water for all was contaminated. Don’t bathe in the river which is full of crocodiles (two-and-a-half Crusaders were devoured last week). Sleep with a dagger at hand lest the enemy try to kidnap you in the night. Watch food and drink, for both are oft poisoned. (His own face gave truth to his list of horrors, for the famine fever had taken all his teeth, his breath would make a camel blanch, and his sunburned eyes peered from dark shriveled sockets.) He also gave us the shocking news that both Ranulf de Glanville and the Archbishop of Canterbury had died of fevers because they’d not followed the rules. As for the battle, the chivalrous Saladin had held back this day because of King Richard’s arrival, but wait till the morrow.
When I finally lay down to sleep later in our own sharp circle, I was stiff as a plank and gazed with wild fear at the fuzzy burr-stars floating above Acre’s pall, listened to slitherings in the dark. Since I was bleeding, I trembled with dread. Would serpents be attracted to my menstrual flux as those red-bellied lizards had been? Then there was panic in the horse quarters—doubtless a Saracen had sneaked by. Blood puddled between my legs but nothing would make me venture into that darkness. I wondered how long I could live without sleep.
Or just how long I could live.
I MUST HAVE SLEPT, FOR I WOKE WITH A START. THE stench of nightearth had sent me into a fit of coughing and I sat upright to get my breath, thereby releasing the flood again. Objects were barely visible in this predawn hour and nobody stirred. Cautiously I moved a few feet from our tent to take care of myself.
I’d barely finished when the sun hurtled like God’s thunderbolt across the sky and exploded at the foot of our hill.
“Judgment Day!” I howled.
Wild with terror, I leaped on top of the sleeping Scot.
“Wake and ask to be forgiven!” I screamed. “We’re going to Hell!”
A second sun with a tail of foul gas shrieked through the air. Shadowy forms rushed by, a steady pounding began, shouts, drums rolling, somewhere the skirl of a bagpipe, everywhere a chaos of din and disaster.
“Greek fire,” said Enoch, pushing me aside. “Best eat a farl and drink a little sour wine. Micht be yer last chancit.”
“You mean we’re going to die?” I cried, grabbing him again.
“I mean we’re about to crusade and, aye, ’tis a risky business.”
He forced Roderick and me to swallow his cakes, whereupon the knight saw one of Mortimer’s men in the distance and bid us a hasty farewell. By now Enoch was strapping his wooden shields fore and aft.
“You’re not going to fight!”
“I’m going to study the situation. Ye stay put till I cum back.”
&nb
sp; “When?” I yelled into the mists as he ran away.
Suddenly he turned, grabbed my cheeks in his greasy hands and kissed me on the forehead. “By my faye, Alex, betimes I’d rather have a schitten kite fer a brother than ye, boot we’re stuck twaye and twaye. And I do love thee.”
Again he was gone. Nothing he’d done since I’d known him had ever so alarmed me. Never would he have shown affection if he e’er expected to see me alive again. I sat paralyzed by the ramifications, then was knocked out of my sorrow when a leather bucket dropped into my lap. I looked up at Sir Gilbert.
“Collect piss and bring it back to soak hides,” he said. “King’s orders.”
“Collect piss? How? Where will I find it?”
He smiled malevolently. “You milk a man as you would a cow. As to where, in the battlefield below. The trenches are filled with bladders just waiting for you. Hurry now, for the king has already assembled his war tower, Mategriffon, and wants it covered with piss-soaked leather by day’s end. ’Tis the only way to guard it against fire.”
As he left, I saw that he, too, carried a pail. What a woodly assignment, necessary of course but hardly heroic. Still, if the king had said I must …
I gripped my leather bucket uncertainly, disoriented by the noise and bursts of light above, unable to make out forms in the dust clouds below. Finally I retraced our route of the previous night and when I reached the point where Roderick had been lying against the mound, I saw a path twisting into the battlefield. Foot after foot trotted past me, quivers filled with arrows, crude wooden shields in place. I edged to the top and stared downward. Benedicite, a field potted and trenched as if a thousand moles dug there, filled with dusty heaps and mounds that at first I couldn’t identify, then saw they were corpses. Aye, fat bloated horses, men in all stages of decay, smelling of glue and rancid butter and burnt sugar combined. I held my breath and slipped into line.
Immediately I was hit from the rear and fell in a frightened heap atop a knight whose eyes and tongue were gone, his body streaked with kite-shit that made him look like a marble idol.
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