As for the boy, the villagers’ suspicions at this own idiot child’s ways were quickly renounced in favour of martyrdom which had not been the Bishop’s and priest’s intentions either.
In time the hubbub waned, as much as did the priest’s ambition. He would soon find entry into the hearts of these ignorants, offering a new wisdom, hard-won and inspiring.
Gamel Warriner had a great relief at the demise of his youngest son, at least following the business of his interment at the Cathedral, a somewhat overwhelming event for a peasant. He had fewer mouths to feed and no longer felt the weight of the view the world had of his awkward family. He sensed no loss in his wife, even though he knew he wasn’t always able to see these things anyway. Of course, he knew that the passing of two young boys was a loss to the world and provided a reason for people about to make note of their going, but it didn’t seep a lot further into him than that.
He expected his three sons to work their share and make their mother’s life not too hard. He cared enough that there was some kind of respect paid her, and he knew that was odd enough among men too, but it was his way.
Alice sat with her hands inside a ferret’s guts, the slurp and suck of it engaging her skilled fingers, and her cold-numbed feet absently brushed aside a collection of pebbles askew in the wet mud beneath her. She looked alike to any other peasant at work in the small circle of her dimmed livelihood. A man and three tattered boys squabbled behind the wall where she sat, and a yelp escaped through the open door so that she knew one had been kicked or lobbed at by another for some doing, who knows if in silliness or wrath.
The skies were darkening and heavy with rain and the potential for thunderclaps. The respite of coolness was not relished for long, as the ground turned dark with the onset of so much wet. There was never a good weather one way or the other, and now the cold demanded more food for all men and beasts.
Alice cared less for it all and kept her prayers briefer, and her soul was not so hungry. The darkness did not encase her though; she just was.
18
Ismat ad-Dīn Khātūn, known as Asimat, was a wife of kings. Her first husband, Nur ad-Din, had been king of all Syria, uniting its many domains into one great sultanate. He had died from a poisoning as he plotted the defeat of his own protégé, Saladin. Saladin was Ismat’s second husband, and he had taken her as his wife after defeating Nur ad-Din’s thirteen-year-old son and successor and uniting Egypt and Syria.
Asimat was not Saladin’s only wife, and she would not bear him any children now, as indeed she had not for Nur ad-Din, despite the twenty-seven years she had been married to him. She was though Saladin’s favourite. She was two years older than him, and at forty-nine she was no longer young, but she knew how to please him, and she could speak with him about his battle strategies as none of his generals could, and certainly none of his other wives. Asimat had travelled with her first husband through the second Crusade, and she had proved a valuable confidante to Saladin throughout his many military successes.
The night before, Saladin had talked again of his most fervent wish to free Jerusalem from its Christian King and to create a universal city of peace for Jews, Christians and Muslims. The Jerusalem kings had been many, with much infighting and intrigue, and had little concern for their station as rulers. The old King Baldwin had recently died, a crippled old leper, although a worthy opponent despite that on many occasions. But he’d left a five-year-old in charge of his kingdom with various notables squabbling for the regency.
Saladin and Asimat had talked about whether the city could be ruled by all three religions, segmented into thirds. A challenge though was the proximity of some of the different Faiths’ holy sites to each other, so it would not be an easy truce. Saladin was determined though, as he talked of the beauty of Abraham’s children, Christ’s followers, and the Prophet, and his hopes that they could live together in peace.
Asimat believed Saladin to be the greatest of leaders, with a powerful vision for the world. The nine years she had been with him were the happiest of her life, and her fervent desire was to see his wish of a unified Holy City come true. But more and more now she was afraid she would not; the pain she felt in her abdomen was so great some days that she could hardly walk or even breathe. She had kept her illness hidden from her husband so as not to distract him from his mission, and she would send a messenger to him to encourage him to take another wife on the days and evenings that she was ill. She hated to do so, but he took this action on her part as a sign of her generous spirit, and it only served to make him think more highly of her. When Saladin came to her, she would use every ounce of her loving encouragement to support his plans, persuading him to discuss in ever closer detail how he would take the City. She had heard that the English–French king, Henry, was not enamoured of his duty to fortify the Crusaders’ strength in the Holy Land, which could only serve Saladin’s interests further; but that Henry’s son, who they called the Lionhearted, was a worthy and, some said, greater opponent than his father.
Thoughts and plans of battle excited Saladin, and in turn Asimat, and their lovemaking was as explosive as their talk once they had finished picturing each victory in stupendous detail. Asimat knew Saladin’s younger wives had firmer bodies than hers, and breasts that were full and pointed skyward, and that by comparison her own body had long since begun to soften and sag. But she knew also that it was she Saladin most wanted. Sometimes when he had had too much wine, he would indiscreetly tell her how they did not compare to her and that his liaisons with them had few of the pleasures Asimat herself offered. This pleased her and made it easier for her to tolerate their presence. She was pleased that most of them feared her.
It was Saladin’s regard for Asimat that had led him to appoint her as patron of a new university and of many other religious and civil buildings in Damascus. Asimat knew she represented her husband with great honour and pride in such matters, and she would affect her most upright and noble bearing whenever she was in public on some engagement or other. She would give speeches in his honour, and for Syria, and she had come to be known as a woman of wisdom and courage.
And now this morning she had kissed Saladin as he left her bed and went to meet with his generals to lay out the plans they had conceived that night. He was energised and vital after a sound sleep and his lengthy morning prayers. Asimat prayed for him. She would accompany him into battle for yet another day.
‘I’m not well, Nigel,’ the prince moaned to his page behind his inner tent curtain. ‘This damned heat …’
‘There is a man arrived from Saladin, Highness,’ the servant replied in Richard’s native French. ‘The English translator says he claims he is Saladin’s physician and he is sent to offer his assistance to you. But the English has said not to trust him, Sire.’
‘It’s that damned English I wouldn’t trust as far as I could kick!’ Although his father was the King of England, Richard had virtually never set foot in the Kingdom and spoke no English. ‘Send this gift from my noble Saladin to me. Bring the bloody English to translate, but he’s only to translate. He can keep his opinions to himself!’
‘As you wish, Sire.’
‘Yes, I damned well wish, sycophants and arse-lickers all of you. Christ,’ Richard muttered to himself as Nigel backed out of the tent.
Richard, known as the Lionhearted, had taken up the Church’s call where his father Henry would not. Richard loved to fight; he lived for it. And he’d had no nobler opponent than Saladin. He’d heard much of the Sultan’s prowess before reaching the Eastern Mediterranean and he had determined not to underestimate him, but he had to admit now that even despite this he had not reckoned on such a masterful general as Saladin. It would take all his resources and intellect to devise a plan that would succeed in defending the Holy City.
When they had battled, he had seen Saladin at a great distance, and he focused all his thoughts on the man’s mind, attempting to know the secrets of his soul, just as he knew – indeed, he felt – S
aladin was also doing. By God, he was brilliant. Not for the first time, he wished he could send all the generals and soldiers away and meet Saladin alone in the desert for an hour. He thought they would have a fine time. What a brilliant ally the man would make!
‘Sire, here is the man.’ Nigel returned with an older, bearded and turbaned man who bowed low to the prince lying on his sickbed before him.
‘Let him in. Let him close here,’ Richard beckoned to the Arab to come closer.
‘His robes were checked for hidden weapons, Sire.’
‘Oh, rubbish, Nigel. Get out. Saladin would not do such a thing. It would not be any kind of victory for him. Get out! You! Englander! Stay here in case we need your translation, but stay over there where I don’t have to smell you.’
Richard fell back on to his bed, coughing, exhausted from his outburst. Saladin’s physician stood by patiently until his fit had ended and then knelt before him.
‘Your master is most kind,’ Richard said wearily.
The Englishman translated quietly, and the physician smiled and nodded to his patient, replying with the strange guttural sounds Richard had come to recognise but knew none of.
‘He says his master is a great man, and it is his pleasure to now serve two great kings in his life,’ said the translator.
‘Ha, another arse-licker. Don’t translate that!’
The Arab put his ear down to Richard’s chest and then rose and tapped on the back of his hand which sat spider-like upon his chest.
‘What the devil … ?’ Richard rolled his eyes.
The Arab spoke again.
‘He says the drumming on your chest makes different sounds where there is congestion, and so he can hear how severe your illness is.’
‘Is that so?’
The Arab continued to speak.
‘He says you’ll live.’
Richard laughed out loud, and so brought on another coughing fit, which once contained gave him enough pause to laugh again and bring on yet another fit.
‘Dammit,’ he said, flopping on to his back again, smiling.
He looked up at the physician, who continued to kneel looking at the prince and smiling also.
‘Hmm, not such an arse-licker then, eh? Ha ha. And what do you prescribe then?’
Richard looked into the man’s eyes as he spoke, seeing a pride that was strange to the king in one who was a servant.
‘Rest. A lot of water. Fruit, fresh or dried. Nuts. No wine and no bread. You will be better in three days,’ came back the translation.
The Arab stood, bowed, and then stayed before the prince.
‘Thank you,’ said Richard, unused to thanking servants.
‘Thank you,’ said the physician in perfect English, with a nod of his head. ‘My master sends his very best wishes for your recovery, Your Highness.’
‘By God, you prickly old bastard!’ Richard grinned. ‘You’ve understood every word.’
‘I apologise if I have offended you, my lord.’
‘Not at all. Tell your master he has my greatest regards and my undying respect.’
‘I will, Highness.’ The Arab bowed again and reversed to the tent opening, whereupon he turned and walked away.
The translator stood open-mouthed at the departed physician.
‘You see, you are a useless cunt after all. Get out!’ Richard yelled.
‘Tell me again, my love.’
Asimat sat at the edge of her sleeping mat. She was in pain but had not been able to refuse her husband’s enthusiasm as he burst into her tent to regale her with the story of his own physician’s visit to Prince Richard.
Saladin sat cross-legged and turbaned, dressed all in white with a short sword at his side and light sandals on his feet.
‘Imad is a Sufi also, and most adept, very wise. I’m sure it’s what makes him such an excellent physician. He can read his patients. He sees exactly what ails them.’ Saladin stroked his chin, visualising the meeting with his great foe, and nodded.
‘He said Richard has the finest humour and suffers no fool.’ He looked up at his wife. ‘But I would have imagined that to be so, wouldn’t you, my love?’
‘Of course.’ Asimat felt she may not be able to hide her suffering much longer.
‘He sent me his regards and his respect.’ Saladin feigned a boastfulness and smiled.
Asimat made herself smile back at her husband.
‘I will beat him though. He has one great weakness. He fights first and wishes for the esteem of his Faith second. Make no mistake he is the finest I’ve seen in battle, but it is to win that he fights, and for himself and for his England, and a little less for God.’
‘And so to Tiberius then.’
‘Yes, yes. Guy and Raymond can’t decide how to fight me. They argue among themselves as to who is Lord and King. It will be their undoing, despite the Lionheart, and then we shall have our victory. I hear their whole army will be lined up for us, so it will be all the more pleasurable.’
‘You must go and prepare then. There is much to do.’
‘Yes, of course. I wanted to tell you of Imad’s meeting with Richard. And his good humour. It will be a shame to defeat him. But I will not kill him. I refuse to, even should the opportunity come. I would let him escape, for assuredly I will then have the chance to face him again one day. He will want to return, I’ve no doubt.’
Saladin rose, kissed his wife, and departed.
Asimat fell back on her mat in a faint.
Eleanor of Aquitaine was a wife of kings. She had married her first husband, Louis VII of France, when she was fifteen. Louis was pious but weak, and at age thirty, Eleanor divorced him. Very soon after she married nineteen-year-old Henry, Duke of the Normans, who two years later became Henry II, King of England. Eleanor had borne six sons and five daughters; the two eldest daughters to Louis, the rest to Henry. Two sons died in infancy, and tragically the younger Henry had also died a few years since. Of the others her favourite was Richard, now nearly thirty and Henry’s heir after the death of his elder brother. They called her son Coeur de Lion, the Lionhearted.
Eleanor had travelled to the Holy Land with her first husband, Louis, during the Second Crusade, and now her beloved Richard dwelt there in the desert with his opponent, the Muslim king, Saladin, not far away.
Eleanor adored Henry, her second husband. He was the great-grandson of William the Conqueror, fiercely intelligent, a brilliant leader, an unwearying sportsman and athlete, and the most generous of philanthropists. He was a match for Eleanor in every way, including, sadly, in temper. Once, their fighting had been a precursor to their ferocious passion; but this turbulence eventually established itself as such an enmity that, after more than twenty years of marriage, in return for supporting her sons’ rebellion against their father, Henry had taken Eleanor to England and imprisoned her for ten years. She had been somewhat freed in recent years, more so as Henry could ensure Eleanor’s wealth and lands were not denied her by some usurper or other. She travelled with him again now, overseeing his English estates and other affairs, although Henry ensured some protector, as he liked to call it, was always at her side. Henry had pressured Eleanor to annul their marriage for a time in part, as he hoped to marry his mistress, but more to secure Eleanor’s lands. The mistress died, some say poisoned at Eleanor’s hands, although such was court gossip, and Eleanor had never relented in her marriage to Henry. Now past sixty, she could still tempt her husband, and did so on occasion.
Through their many inheritances, intrigues and power, Eleanor and Henry had controlled or influenced much of the Western world, and while it remained the power and intrigue that inspired them still, both were still able to be persuaded by an appeal to righteousness and what was holy.
Such was Eleanor’s consideration now for the most unusual of letters she had received. She knew of her correspondent of course, as she realised she herself was known. It would have been impossible for two queens in the extraordinary context of the Kingdom of Jerusalem a
nd the crusades not to have known of each other, particularly these two who had vicariously entered battle against each other with their four kings. But they had never met.
Ma Chere Soeur the letter had begun, in a perfect script. Had she narrated this to someone with the capability of both languages? It was difficult to believe otherwise, although she had heard of the woman’s learning and reputation.
Only now, as I face my last days, do I see the futility of what has engaged us all for so many years. It is the pursuit of power and territory, ostensibly for peace, that alone undermines the reality of any such outcome. Oddly, it is my second husband who has been both the greater in battle, and yet the greater also in his vision of a kingdom where all live according to their duty to Allah, to God; to, I believe, the One God who is both yours and mine.
My husband seeks this day to secure the Holy City of Jerusalem for all people, Muslim, Christian, and Jew, and I believe he will achieve this. I beg of you, Great Lady, as the temples and tombs of both our Prophets are put within reach of all, that you will incline your heart to this vision of unity and seek among the Kings of Europe no further overlordship of the Arab people and their world.
For nigh a hundred years of war, it is time surely for peace.
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