by Judith Tarr
As men from the cooks’ tents hauled the fallen horse off to the stewpots, a different disturbance caught Richard’s attention. “See what it is,” he said at random, waving off the clerk and the winnings of his wager. Several of the knights and squires nearby sprang up to obey, but Blondel was quickest on his feet.
Richard’s eyes followed him as he ran. Whatever his sins of jealousy and spite, he had the grace of a gazelle.
He came back so swiftly that he seemed to fly, and with such an expression on his face that Richard rose in alarm, half-drawing his sword. “Sire,” he said. “My lord, come. Please come.”
Richard only paused to order his attendants to stay where they were. They did not like the order, but they obeyed it. With Blondel for guide and escort, Richard strode toward the camp’s edge.
One of his scouting parties had come in with a captive: a slender man in the robes of the desert, with the headcloth drawn over his face. He seemed not to care where he was or who had caught him. He sat on the rocky ground, cross-legged in the infidel fashion; his head was bent, his shoulders bowed.
“He was headed here, sire,” the sergeant said. “He didn’t resist at all, except to stick a knife in Bernard when he tried to pull off the face veil.”
Bernard nursed a bandaged hand, but Richard could see that he would live. Of the infidel, Richard was not so sure. He reached out; his men tensed, on the alert, but the infidel made no move to attack.
He drew the veil aside from a face he knew very well indeed. He heard the hiss of Blondel’s breath, but the singer knew better than to say a word.
“Mustafa,” Richard said. His heart overflowed with joy and deep relief. “Thank God—Mustafa.”
At the sound of his name, Mustafa stiffened slightly. His skin had the waxy look of a man who has taxed his strength to the utmost. His eyes were blank, blind. He was not truly conscious; all that held him up was the warrior’s training that let him sleep upright wherever he happened to find himself.
Richard called for his men to fetch a litter. While they did that, he sent Blondel to fetch Master Judah. “Tell him to attend me in my tent. And tell him why.”
Blondel flinched as if Richard had struck him. For a moment Richard wondered if he would offer defiance, but instead he bowed and spun and ran.
This time Richard did not pause to watch him. The litter was taking too cursed long. Richard lifted Mustafa in his arms and carried him back through the camp. People stared, but Richard paid them no attention. Let them gape and wonder. It would keep them occupied.
Master Judah was waiting in Richard’s tent. Even as quickly as Richard had come there, the master already had a bed made and a bath waiting and all made ready for the care of a wounded man.
That at least was not Mustafa’s trouble—not more recently than his encounter with the Duke of Burgundy. Those hurts were healing well, with fewer scars than Richard might have expected.
As Master Judah examined him, Mustafa began to struggle, as if swimming upward through deep water. This time when his eyes opened, they saw Richard. They saw precious little else, but they fixed on his face with feverish clarity. “Malik Ric,” he said. “My lord king. My . . . lord king. It was a choice, you see. I made it. It may kill me, but I couldn’t make any other. In the end. When—”
“There,” said Richard, gentling him as if he had been a panicked horse. “There. You’re safe here. You have my word. No one under my command will lay a hand on you again.”
Mustafa did not hear him. “Sire,” he said. “The sultan is dead.”
How peculiar, Richard thought with the cool remoteness of shock. It never occurred to him to doubt the truth of it, if Mustafa said it. Mustafa never lied.
The one rumor everyone had discounted, and it was true. “Assassins?”
Mustafa nodded.
Richard drew a breath, then let it out. The Seal was heavy and cold against his breast. He sat beside the bed, leaning toward Mustafa.
The boy groped for his hand and clutched it with strength enough to bruise. With that for a lifeline, he said, “Sire, I need your forgiveness.”
“You need my—” Richard broke off. “What on earth for?”
“I left you,” Mustafa said. “I was angry. I was hurt; I wanted to hurt in return. I went to Jerusalem. The lord Saphadin took me in as a guest. I thought I could serve him; he’s an honorable man, and he was kind to me. But when my anger went away, I couldn’t do it. My loyalty is given, and can’t be taken away.” He sucked in a breath, shuddering. “I saw it,” he said. “I saw the sultan die. I was going to leave sooner, but the lord Saphadin asked me to stay through the day of prayer. He took me with him to the Father Mosque, where his brother was leading the prayer. In the midst of it, as we all performed the prostrations toward Mecca, two of the sultan’s mamluks, the most trusted of his servants, whom he had loved like sons, rose up and killed him.
“I was there beside him, my lord,” Mustafa said. “I killed one of the Assassins. Another mamluk killed the other.”
That did not surprise Richard. Mustafa never boasted of his prowess in war, but he was as sublime a predator as any cat. He killed fast and clean, and altogether without compunction.
“So you avenged the sultan,” Richard said. “You weren’t paid well for the service, from the look of you.”
Mustafa shook his head. “I didn’t give anyone time to be grateful. The city was in terrible disorder. The lord Saphadin was doing what he could, but it was like a madness. People were running wild, shrieking and striking at one another—crying out that every man was an Assassin. They set fire to a street of houses near the Wailing Wall, and tried to loot the storehouses, but the garrisons were able to stop that. I escaped when the messengers went out to summon the sultan’s emirs and his brothers and his sons—all but the eldest, who was there already. I came to you as fast as I could. I would have been faster, but my horse was shot from under me, and it took a while to steal another.”
Mustafa fell silent, as if he had run out of strength. Master Judah’s glare promised dire things if Richard pressed him much harder.
Richard rubbed an old scar that ran along his jaw under his beard, letting that narrow dark face fill his vision while the tale filled his mind.
Blondel had crept into the tent while Mustafa spoke—not excessively wise of him, but he never had been able to keep his curiosity in check. His round blue eyes were narrow, his full mouth tight, as they always were when he saw Richard with Mustafa. It was a pity, Richard thought, that two of the people he trusted most in the world were so confirmed in enmity.
“Blondel,” he said in a tone that he knew would catch and hold the singer’s attention. “Go to Hubert Walter. Tell him what you’ve heard here. Have him call the war council, and quickly. There’s no time to waste.”
Now that errand Blondel was by no means unwilling to run. He nodded, bowed just a little too low, and ran once again to do his king’s bidding.
The Archbishop of Canterbury had called the council in the pavilion that they used for such things. It had housed a prince’s harem once; the scent of perfume clung to it, almost overwhelming the homely stink of men in a war camp.
They knew the cause of the council as soon as they saw Richard’s face. “So it’s true,” Henry said. “Saladin is dead.”
“Dead as Moses,” Richard said. Grins flashed around the circle; even the most self-consciously dignified could not suppress the surge of joy. He turned his eye on the Duke of Burgundy. “So, my lord: what will you do? If you turn your back on this and take your loot and march to the sea, I won’t stop you. As for me, I’m marching to Jerusalem.”
Duke Hugh loathed the ground Richard stood on, but two things could supersede that loathing: a sufficient quantity of gold, and his oath of Crusade. “I’m marching to Jerusalem,” he said. “I swore my life to defend the Holy Sepulcher. By God and Saint Denis, I’ll keep that vow.”
“Amen!” It was ragged, but it was a chorus. All the French were with him. The
English and Normans and Angevins . . .
Richard willed them not to shame him. Hubert Walter, that good and loyal man, raked them with a glare more suited to a sergeant than an archbishop, and said firmly, “We’ll follow you, sire, to the gates of hell—and beyond, if that’s your command.”
Not all of them agreed, but it was more than any man’s pride was worth to say so. Richard took note of who frowned and who would not meet his eye, and considered which of them he could put in the front of the fight. They would earn their right to the cross of Crusade.
“Sire,” said, of all people, the Grand Master of the Temple. “Not to deter or dissuade you, but have you recollected that there’s no water between here and the city? The sultan broke all the cisterns and poisoned the wells. It’s the driest of dry land—and my knights remember Hattin, where a king insisted on a march without water, and lost his kingdom for it.”
“Oh, indeed,” purred a baron whose fief had been great once, but who owned nothing now but his armor, his destrier, and an abiding thirst for revenge on the infidels who had robbed him of his domains. “And who incited the king to make that march instead of staying where there was water and a chance of fighting off the infidels? I seem to recall a circle of long wagging beards and blood-red crosses.”
The Grand Master’s cheeks were flushed above his uncut beard. He traced the sign of the cross over the red cross on his breast, and opened his mouth, no doubt to thunder denunciations.
“My lords,” Richard said, cutting him off. “Will you quarrel among yourselves when Jerusalem is ripe for the taking? We’ll move toward evening, my lords, and take with us as much water as our camels can carry. We’ll march by night—in the cool and the dark, we won’t need to drink as much. With luck and God’s goodwill, we’ll break down the gates of Jerusalem before dawn.”
“Jerusalem,” sighed Hubert Walter. “Is it true? Will we see it at last?”
“God willing, when next any of us sleeps in a bed, he’ll sleep in Jerusalem,” Richard said.
“It’s real,” Henry said in wonder. “It’s happening. After all, and after so long.”
Richard watched the wonder touch the rest of them, even the most jaded—even the Duke of Burgundy. Hugh might loathe Richard, but he had a certain liking for Henry. As he swayed, so did they all, even the most determined of the naysayers.
“Jerusalem,” the archbishop said again. “Holy, high Jerusalem.” He swept his glance across them all. “Well, my lords? Shall we capture ourselves a city?”
The roar of assent was not confined to the pavilion. The servants, the squires, the men hanging about and craning to hear, joined in it, a long rolling wave that swept through the camp and rang to the sky. God help the infidels who heard it, for surely their blood ran cold.
Richard’s own blood was up. At last—the battle he had been waiting for since first he heard of this Crusade. At last, he would look on Jerusalem.
CHAPTER FORTY
In the heat of the afternoon, when everything was ready but the mounting and riding, Richard retreated to his tent. He would not linger there for long; it was hot and close, and the air was slightly sweeter outside under his canopy. But if he would rest—and truly he should, for God and Saint Morpheus knew when he would sleep again—then he must do it out of sight of his army.
A page wielded a fan, which helped somewhat with the heat. Richard stripped and lay naked on his cot. The breeze from the fan cooled the sweat on his skin. A curtain of gauze kept out the myriad stinging flies and some of the dust. It was almost pleasant, and surprisingly restful.
As he lay there with his arm over his eyes, he heard a soft footstep and an even softer shuffle, then a swift scamper as the page took advantage of the reprieve. Richard lay motionless, barely breathing. He had recognized the step; now he caught a hint of musk, which Blondel the singer was girlishly fond of.
Blondel plied the fan for a little while, nearly long enough for Richard to fall asleep. Then, softly, he began to stroke Richard’s hair.
Richard sighed and lowered his arm, turning to fix the singer with a hard stare. “Trying to worm your way back into favor, then?” he said.
Blondel flushed, then paled. “Will you ever forgive me?”
“If you ever honestly repent,” Richard said, “I might.”
“I do repent,” said Blondel. “Before God, sire, that is the truth.”
“Ah,” Richard said, “but what is it that you’re sorry for? You’d as soon cut my Saracen’s throat as look at him. Jealousy is flattering, boy, but a little of it goes a very long way.”
Blondel’s face was a tumult of emotions: anger, grief, guilt, fear. “I can’t help it, my lord,” he said. “I love you too much.”
“Yes,” said Richard. “You do.”
Blondel gasped. Richard felt no pity for him. It was only just. Jealousy had nearly cost him a loyal and useful servant. Blondel would not indulge in it again, if he hoped to remain in Richard’s favor.
Slowly Blondel drew back. Just as he would have moved out of reach, Richard caught his hand. He froze. Richard drew him in.
Then Richard also froze. Something had changed: a dimming of the sunlight that slanted through the open tent flap, a shift in the currents of the air. Blondel’s musk was strong in his nostrils, but another scent crept through it, a scent as familiar as his own skin. Attar of roses.
Wherever his mother went, that fragrance followed her. A priest had told him once when he was very young, that the odor of sanctity was the scent of roses. He had asked, not entirely innocently, “Does that mean my mother is a saint?” The priest had sputtered and gobbled most satisfactorily.
A shadow came in with the scent, drifting through the flap and the veil. It was a shape of darkness, barely substantial, perhaps not really there at all; but his mother’s presence imbued it with a certain shiver of terror.
The shadow halted just out of reach. It had no face, only darkness, but the tilt of its head was unmistakably Eleanor’s. So too the voice, although it seemed dim and faint, as if it came from very far away. “Tell your boy to leave,” it said. “This is between the two of us.”
Richard bent his head toward Blondel, who crouched staring like a rabbit in a noose. The singer needed no further encouragement. He dropped the fan and fled.
The queen’s shadow sat on the stool that he had vacated. It was eerie to watch it move as she moved: her gestures, her peculiarities of gait and posture. Richard kept it in the corner of his eye: it was less disconcerting. “I suppose you’re here to help me conquer Jerusalem,” he said.
“I have helped you,” his mother said. “The sultan is dead. Now I would thank you to give me the thing you wear about your neck.”
“No,” said Richard. “It was given to me on condition that I keep it and give it to no one.”
The shadow stiffened. “You have no faintest conception of what it is or how to wield it.”
That was true, but he was not about to admit it. “I know enough to understand that it should stay where it was given. The former owner might come calling for it.”
“Yes,” said his mother, “and he’ll blast you where you stand. I have the means to resist him.”
“Do you? You’re that strong, are you? Or have you had help? Have you made another of your bargains with the Devil, Mother?”
The shadow did not stir, not even a fraction, but Richard fought an almost uncontrollable impulse to dive for shelter. Much was bruited about of the black temper of Anjou, but the white-hot passion of Aquitaine was no less potent.
It could not sway him to her will—not now, not with the Seal of Solomon about his neck. Nor did her words, though they were cruel enough to cut. “You stubborn child! You’ll destroy us all with your foolishness.”
“I come by it honestly,” he said.
“Give me the Seal,” said Eleanor.
“No,” said Richard.
Her shadow contorted with frustration, twisting and deforming like a column of smoke in a sudden wind
. Richard watched, fascinated. He knew little of magic and would have been glad to know less, but this much he knew: things of power came with strictures, rules that could not be violated except at great cost. If she had been able simply to take this thing, she would have.
It was an unusual sensation, to hold power over his mother. He found that he enjoyed it a great deal. “I’ll make you a promise,” he said. “When I’m done with this thing, when I’m free to give it as a gift, you’ll have it. It won’t be long now. We’re on our way to Jerusalem.”
“You’ll lose the Seal,” she said. “You’ll lose everything.”
“Maybe,” said Richard. “Maybe not. However that may be, I’m not giving the Seal to you until the war is over.” He rose. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a battle to fight.”
He discovered that he was holding his breath. It was never the wisest choice to defy his mother, and yet it griped his belly to think of giving the Seal to her. Maybe he could not use its power, but some deep part of him did not want his mother to wield it, either. Even to take Jerusalem. Even to destroy the Old Man of the Mountain.
In her own person she might have been able to overwhelm him. In that form, her only power over him was in his memory of old fear. He was a man now, a warrior and a king. He faced his fear; he fell upon it and conquered it.
She gave way. This was not the end of it, he knew very well. But if she let him be until he took Jerusalem, he would be reasonably content.
For a long while after her shadow faded into the hot and dusty air, he sat on his bed and tried not to shake. For all his bold pretenses, he was still to a degree the small and headstrong boy who had looked on his mother in absolute adoration. She was all that was wonderful and powerful and terrible, and his place in the world was to bow at her feet.