by K. T. Tomb
“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 weapon against the enemies, spiritual and flesh.” He tried not to let his words sound bitter and carefully composed his face. He and Richard warred like this, with words. It was a bad habit after all of these years and neither of them could cease pricking at each 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 here, 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 advisor. 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, you were dead then. A spirit. In the dream.”
Richard nodded. “I believe so. So, here it is as I looked upon myself in the dream: King Richard the Lionheart slayed 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 slayed 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 slayed, 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. You were married for a day or so and fled to the Third Crusade.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Gustave. You know I saved her and my mother and took Berengaria as a wife. 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 older 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 want you to save Saladin?” Gustave asked, groaning. “You are no physician.”
“He wants me to go with Saladin and find the Holy Grail and then…use it to save Saladin.”
Gustave’s mouth dropped open. “Preposterous! Even blasphemous!”
“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 grave sins.”
“Fine, fine. Where did God tell you to take Saladin to find the Grail?”
“Mount Ararat.”
“Mount Ararat? The Turks would kill us there, not to mention, it is very far!”
“I was hoping you would
come with me, Gustave.”
Gustave shook his head slowly. “I am your spiritual advisor, but I would not survive a journey like that. I am no mountain goat.”
“You would not even climb the mountain 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.”
“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! 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 across the Holy Land.”
“No. You will come with me,” Richard said. “I cannot bear to be without my friend, my advisor, 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 said, 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 to 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 in age, so that should protect me. Is that correct, Your Majesty?”
“A slip of a boy, but a brilliant mind. Yes. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Sire.”
Richard gave his horse a clap on the rump. The 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! You are 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 venture with me to Mount Ararat to view the legendary Holy Grail together. We will go as men, as generals. And hopefully, we may become allies.”
“Allies?” Saladin laughed. “Listen to me. The Grail? That is an old legend. Why do you pursue 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 done with only a handful of soldiers from each side. Those are my conditions before I sign the treaty.”
“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 am the one who knows that 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 rapid-fire, guttural Arabic language.
Saladin, closing his eyes and thinking, knew and felt the maneuvering and will of Allah. Saladin, receptive to the ways of his own God, recognized that it was in his destiny to secretly venture with the king of England into the heart of the Turkish empire to seek the Holy Grail, but more importantly, to seek his own healing. And to fulfill the will of Allah, always that. Since his youth he had been curious about the legend of the Holy Grail. It is not always so clear, thought the great Saladin, that the will of Allah is expressed. But in this case, Saladin felt that it was necessary to venture forth up Mount Ararat, as a sick and dying man, to be healed at the Holy Grail, with his sworn enemy as his companion. 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.
Richard looked at him expectantly. “Well, Saladin? What say you?”
Much to Richard’s shock, Saladin answered in fluent Norman French:
“We must make ready for the quest for the Holy Grail. We shall seek it…together.”
Chapter Five
Within a week, the two set off under the deep cover of night, each with the proper supplies and a handful of their greatest, most trusted soldiers. Kako, the boy betrayer, was left behind with distant relatives and wept fiercely as Richard snubbed the little traitor and left him in the dust.
A few days later, Kako, who had run away from his annoyed caretakers, showed up at camp on a purloined camel and was then allowed by Saladin to accompany them.
Saladin, an excellent horseman astride a beautiful Arab stallion, used all of his remaining strength to travel across the rugged and harsh land. They encountered few people, and the few they did meet seemed to have been placed there strategically by Allah, by God. They offered the travelers warm food and shelter, and even information about wells and oases.
However, as the days wore on, the hospitality of kindhearted folks became fewer and farther between as they traversed a vast wilderness. The Crusaders lost more horses and Saladin introduced some of them to camels, which he bought along the way. The wagons, oxcarts, and trebuchets were left behind when the trip became too arduous for pulling anything across the rough land that was absent of roads and byways.
After weeks of travel, their group began to take on the look of a casual traders’ caravan and once, as the peak of the distant Mount Ararat rose over the plain, they were even ambushed by a small group of thieves. The Knights Templar, along with Saladin’s best, left no survivors, and, in fact, seized a rather sizable fortune of gold, which was split evenly between the two groups. Winter was setting in and the soldiers were bitterly cold, but they continued on, secure in the knowledge that they were serving their leaders wholeheartedly, though not the least of them understood each leader, and even a few suspected that both might be on the brink of thirst madness.
Days later, the small but lethal group arrived at the base of the legendary mountain. By this time, they had passed many tribes of nomads who gave them a wide berth, as if they knew that two murderous kings led their party. Saladin’s right-hand man was a soldier of these people and spoke their local dialect, of which there were many. He was able to find them comfortable lodging in a small village that was nearly hidden at the base of Ararat.
Richard vehemently warned his men not to cause any trouble with the locals. Saladin had no such warnings for his men. It was their country.