“We... are... not...going to swim back to the ships!” Genie gasped. “And I’m certainly not going to strip to my underwear with all these men and my brother standing here!”
“They’re figuring out that we’re not going for a casual dip,” Alex said, wading into the shallows to grasp one of the incoming rowboats. “Get over here, Genie! Do it now, or by God you will be stripped and swimming for it. We’re not going to have any more prisoners for that Templar to play around with and hold hostage over us!”
Fatima and Clarinda grabbed the now-struggling Genevieve under the armpits and brought her quickly to the boat, the trio of women sloshing through the small waves as Alex tried to hold one of the two boats steady.
“Stop it, Genie!” Clarinda roared when Genie made an infantile jerk of her arm. “Look at the shipwreck, you idiot — the soldiers are coming!”
Genie focused on the jetty and saw three Templar knights clambering into a dinghy.
Her eyes widened as she saw more movements along the shoreline streets as members of the garrison warmed into a pursuit of the group on the beach. Some were already on the sand and running toward the party as fast as their weighted chain mail and metal-shod boots would allow.
“They’re...they’re trying to capture us!” the girl exclaimed, and the fight went out of her.
“In the boat, Sister!” Alex grumbled as he easily hefted her, wet dress and all, into the bow of the craft. He directed Fatima and Clarinda into the second boat, and the athletic women were soon sitting on the middle bench.
“Khalil, you should go in this boat, too!” Alex ordered, shouting into the gusting winds.
“I’ll not leave you all to fight for us!” Khalil protested.
“No one’s fighting today,” Alex countered. “Am I right, Sir Guy?”
“Correct, son. They won’t touch us — Evremar’s going to have some explaining to do, but they won’t touch us.”
Khalil hopped into the boat next to his wife and he started pulling oars with three sailors.
“Fatima, Khalil!” Guy shouted. “We’ll stick to the plan that we had, but get word to us about the new developments!”
When Alex was sure that no one was going to be firing arrows, he glanced at the dinghy by the shipwreck and saw that it had obviously sunk because the three Templars who’d tried to use it were floundering in the water and trying to shed their clothes and armor in splashing panic.
“Your work, Pasquale?” Alex asked.
Pasquale took a break from pulling on the oar and followed the line of the hoplitarch’s gaze.
“Que ? Oh, that. Hmmm. Either they don’t make rowboats like they used to, or that shipwreck’s more cursed than we thought.”
“I’ll bet,” Alex said, and moved deftly onto a free bench. He didn’t need to grab an oar.
The winds of the approaching storm filled the sails on the small craft, moving the boats so quickly that nature’s energy quickly drove them toward the waiting Maritina and Calypso.
Clarinda kept her gaze on the shore until she was assured that her boats were beyond bowshot, and then leaned against Fatima.
“Thank you for being here,” she said. “You and Khalil, the Lusignans...you’re all allies, and helping us where I never expected to find anything but grief.”
Fatima clasped her arms around the younger girl’s shoulders. “I can’t explain it, but I’ve got a feeling that the future holds plenty of grief for both of us, but also great hope.” Thunder rolled overhead as drops of rain began to fall on the choppy water of the ancient port. “I, too, am glad that we’ve all met. United, we have a chance. Whatever that Grand Master’s done — or is attempting to do — won’t stand.”
Clarinda said nothing, as her tears began to mix with the rain falling upon them as she remembered Urd’s words in Hagia Sophia.
I must warn you now, though — even if you reach Caesarea, hope not for your father. Live not for him, but for your Fate yet to be. Yggdrassil’s roots run deep, Bambina, and sisters you now have who will help you.
At the time, besides foretelling her father’s death, Clarinda had thought Urd’s words meant only the Norn’s own siblings, Verdandi and Skuld. In taking comfort from Fatima, she realized that Urd might have been referring to a farther-reaching sisterhood than any she could have imagined. Even Genevieve, Clarinda reflected, was a sister of sorts.
Lightning flashed in the sky as the Maritina filled her vision. She stood sure-footedly atop the dinghy’s wild rocking and leapt onto a lowered rope ladder. Ascending as swiftly as she had even when a little girl, Clarinda reached the deck just as the skies unleashed its full torrent.
She watched Fatima and Khalil clamber aboard less assuredly than she’d done, but welcomed them as warmly as she her darkening mood would allow.
Fatima saw her face and grimaced. “Time enough later for grief, Little Sister,” she said in Arabic.
Clarinda smiled at the term that mirrored her own thoughts.
“Si,” she replied, “but it’s not sadness. I’m not giving up on Padre. I’m angry, Fatima. Besides being the worst dinner of my life, it’s unconscionable how those men behaved back there. I’m thinking that the time for Evremar’s reckoning will be before dawn tomorrow.”
“Our thoughts exactly,” Khalil said, coming forward to wrap a cloak around his wife, “but, this storm might or might not effect the timing of things. I believe that Sir Guy and we had come up with a very good strategy before your ships came along.” He wiped a drenched sleeve futilely across the rain streaming down his face. “Is there a cabin somewhere that we could perhaps tell you our plans and get into some dry clothes?”
Chapter 11
A Doom Delivered
Ríg rigorously washed his hands in the water that flowed from the porcelain ewer held by Jacob.
The bar of lye-and-potash soap did much to remove the blood and grime on the exposed skin of the young man, sluicing the filthy matter into the basin that was becoming a denser red as Ríg continued his cleaning. Neither Ríg nor Jacob spoke. The sounds that filled the silence were the groans and mutterings of wounded and dying men.
Jacob’s thoughts kept returning to the events of the last couple hours. He’d followed Ríg’s command to accompany him, but found only carnage awaiting when they’d entered the medical ward of the Krak des Chevaliers.
There’d been much activity as surgeons and volunteers strove to save the lives of four men who’d been critically wounded in the mission’s return from the east.
The results of their efforts were hit-and-miss at this point. Three of the patients had died from their injuries and the expedition’s leader (and Grand Master Arcadian’s brother) Mercedier, had survived a surgery to his abdomen. It was too early to tell if the man whose hand Ríg had just amputated would live.
That patient’s name was Roberto, a bearded Hospitaller knight in his early twenties, who hadn’t yet regained consciousness. Jacob had fainted shortly after seeing Ríg set to work on Roberto’s destroyed hand, which had been crushed by a horse’s hoof in the ambush two days’ ride from the Krak.
He awakened to Ibn-Khaldun calling his name and the sight of the man holding a vinegar-filled sponge under his nose. He also saw the assistant placing a still glowing flat-iron strip onto a stone shelf to cool. The smell of burning flesh from the cauterization filled the air, and Jacob noticed Ríg moving to the wash area to clean up. The boy had thanked Ibn-Khaldun but, embarrassed that he hadn’t been able to stay conscious and, upon awakening, volunteered to help wash the area.
His face flushed at the memory of the moment when he realized what his new friend intended to do to the injured knight, Roberto.
“Are you all right?” Ríg asked, stepping forward as he saw the glazed look in the boy’s eyes. “You’re not feeling faint again, are you?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I was just remembering the knife and the saw. For some reason, I thought that you’d just chop the hand off with a sword, bind it and move on. When you went mo
re slowly at the beginning, I...I just couldn’t look.”
Ríg nodded in understanding. “You can’t just hack the hand off — that’s why I started slicing higher, on the forearm.” He exchanged a glance with Ibn-Khaldun. “I still don’t know if he’ll make it. Sepsis might’ve set in past the point where we can do anything.”
“It’s cauterized, balmed, and wrapped,” the Muslim scholar said, “we can do nothing now but pray.”
“I think you should go to your mother, Jacob.” Ríg began, then interrupted himself, “Wait, I almost forgot: Marcus.” He looked at Ibn-Khaldun. “We should just duck in and see him. He’s going to be fine, thank God. I only wish the price hadn’t been so high for Roberto here. Jacob, why don’t you come with us before seeing your mother. You can meet Marcus, and say ‘ bonjour.’”
Another youth entered the ward behind Jacob. The boy recognized Pellion.
“Ríg,” Pellion gasped, putting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “Oh, good, you’re still here. You’re really needed in Father Arcadian’s chamber.”
“We’ll be there shortly,” Ibn-Khaldun replied. “Tell them no more than a quarter hour.”
“Well...they’ve had me running all over. Arcadian’s in his quarters and the rest of the knights are assembled. Brother Mercedier is starting to wake up, and Brother Perdieu is very upset that they’re waiting for his squire to arrive. He didn’t like it when I told him you were helping in surgery — I think his exact words were, ‘I don’t want him using any blade but a sword, and I don’t want him cutting anything except Saracen necks!’ They all want to hear what news you’ve brought from the East, Master Khaldun.”
“Confound you Pellion, Son of Gaidon!” Ibn-Khaldun exclaimed, “What did I just say? Who do you fear more, Boy? Perdieu or me?”
Pellion paled, and Ríg looked curiously at the old man. “You sir — but you, I respect. I’m sorry.”
Ibn-Khaldun put a couple fingers to his forehead, then murmured. “No, Lad, I should apologize to you.” He took a deep breath. “Just go tell them, will you?”
“Yes, Master. I’ll go tell them.” Pellion bowed quickly and turned to go, muttering as he passed Jacob, “You see how everybody yells at me? For this I want to be a monk? I can get this kind of treatment at a Templar house in Jerusalem if…” The rest of his words were lost as he dashed out the door and disappeared.
Jacob followed Ibn-Khaldun and Ríg through one of the doors at the end of the hall and into a clean chamber, well-lit from the sunlight streaming through a broad stone window.
Marcus lay abed, propped on pillows. Jacob judged the brown-haired adolescent boy to be somewhere between his own thirteen years and Ríg’s eighteen.
Marcus’s left arm was wrapped in a sling, and he was rolling bone dice onto a broad slat of wood resting on his lap. On top of the panel was another board, this one made of polished light rosewood with deeply inscribed lines in a double-cross array that Jacob immediately recognized as a Gluckhaus board
The boy was playing his own game, though, and not following any of the rules that Jacob knew backwards and forwards. In the first place, while one needed only two dice to play the game, Marcus kept throwing about ten dice onto the board, creating a loud clatter. For another, hundreds of jettons (leather-stamped tokens) were lying messily on the coverlet. None of the tokens were in the spaces that they were supposed to be when playing the game. Lastly, the injured youth was giggling as he kept scooping the dice into a large leather cup, and made strange throaty noises that expressed some kind of pleasure in the repetitive activity.
Marcus looked up at his visitors and found his words, shifting from the gurgling sounds he’d been making to language.
“Khajen-Père! Ori!” He exclaimed, and tried to get out of bed. “Khajen-Père! Ori!”
The two men rushed forward, both saying variations on “no,” “stay put,” and “please rest” in different languages.
But they were too late to prevent the board, jettons, and dice from getting cast in all directions around the room. As Marcus tried to rise, he was slowed, however, because his left leg was wrapped in bandages and gauze by the upper thigh. The boy grimaced and fell back onto the pillows, saying repeatedly, “Hurt, hurt, stop the hurt!”
“Marcus, please don’t move!” Ibn-Khaldun said, expressing the urgency he felt by a firm hand on the boy’s collarbone as he pushed him gently against the pillows. “It’s good to see you, Son, but you can’t get up right now. Maybe tomorrow, all right?”
“Easy, big fellow,” Ríg said, as he motioned to Jacob to help clean up the mess and restore the board and game pieces. “We came to see you, Marcus, so there’s no need to get up.” His voice softened. “Look who’s back, Marcus.”
“Father! Khajen-Père ibn-Khaldun!” Marcus cried, taking time on the last syllables to make them into an exclamation of joy so that it he made the name a drawn-out “Kal-doooon.”
Jacob looked in confusion at Ríg, but the young knight didn’t seem to notice, moving to the other side of Marcus’s bed and throwing the blanket over him. He leaned over and gave the patient a hug, and then tousled his hair.
“You’re funny,” Ríg said affectionately.
“No, you’re funny,” Marcus said with a laugh.
“No, you are,” Ríg replied. “I see that they’ve brought your Gluckhaus board and some dice — are you having fun?”
“Fun, yes,” Marcus said, his face beaming as he looked adoringly at Ríg. “Bonjour, Ori! Bonjour, Ori! Bonjour, Ori!”
“Bonjour, Marcus,” Ríg replied, “bonjour. How are you feeling?”
“Hurt, hurt, stop the hurt!”
“I know you’re hurt,” Ibn-Khaldun interrupted, a slight sternness in his voice, “but you wouldn’t have been hurt if you’d stayed here in the scriptorium where you belonged.”
“Hurt, hurt, stop the hurt!”
“It will stop,” Ibn-Khaldun promised. “They tell me that you’d gotten bruised in the thigh by the same horse that fell on Robert. You also got a cut on your shoulder that got stitched. You need to thank Robert when he wakes up, okay?”
“Hurt, hurt,” Marcus repeated, fear entering his voice for the first time. “Poor Robert hurt!”
“Yes,” Ríg agreed, “Robert’s hurt, but he just got fixed. He’s going to be better now.”
“The horse fell. Robert and Marcus both hurt,” Marcus said, his voice quieting down as Ibn-Khaldun sat on the bed next to him and held the boy’s free hand. “We fought with swords!”
“That’s correct,” the scholar said, “and you’re both getting better.” He leaned forward and gave a long hug to the youth. “It’s good to see you, Marcus. I missed you.”
The boy returned the affectionate gaze and clasp of his adoptive father, then released the man’s grip when Ríg returned the dice cup with all its contents restored. He smiled suddenly as he looked at both visitors. “Khajen-Père and Ori! Ori! Ori!”
“Yes, I’m here, and so is your father. Here you go, Marcus,” Ríg said as he put the Gluckhaus board back on the teen’s lap.
Ibn-Khaldun looked at his son. “Marcus, listen to me: Khalil, Fatima, and Thaqib send their regards. They want you to know that they’re well, and looking forward to the next time we visit.”
“Fatima, Fatima. Fatima and Khalil,” Marcus repeated.
“Yes, and Thaqib wanted to come with me when I said that I was coming here.” Ibn-Khaldun gently touched Marcus’s forehead. “They all miss you.”
“I miss you,” Marcus said.
“No, you miss them,” Ibn-Khaldun corrected. “You miss us all.”
“I miss them,” Marcus mirrored. “I miss you all. Fatima and Khalil!”
“Now, Marcus, look.” Ríg turned slightly and motioned for Jacob to step forward.
“I want you to meet someone, his name’s Jacob.”
Marcus glanced at Jacob, and said the boy’s name when prompted by the two men. He then started paying exclusive attention to Ibn-Khal
dun as the elderly man bent forward and said some quiet words to him.
Ríg put a hand on Jacob’s shoulder and indicated that they should move to the corner of the room out of Marcus’s direct line of sight.
“Ibn-Khaldun found Marcus after the Battle of Mecina, and he and his wife, Sara, adopted him shortly afterwards,” Ríg said in a low voice. “We think he was born this way, but it’s possible that he could’ve been injured somehow during that siege. Whatever the source, he’s made great gains during the last five years we’ve been working with him.”
“Oh, I see,” Jacob said, watching as Ibn-Khaldun arranged the Gluckhaus board properly.
The old man gave the boy two dice to put in the cup, and then placed jettons properly in the numbered squares. Jacob’s eyebrows raised a bit at the speed with which each player made their moves. “Hey, he knows how to play the game. He’s good.”
“You play?” Ríg asked, an idea forming in his mind as he looked from Jacob to his closest friend.
“I used to play Gluckhaus and chess all the time in the yards by our stall,” Jacob said.
“Look, would you like to play a game or two with Marcus?” Ríg wondered. “Usually someone’s willing to play with him, but with everyone at the battle-ready for the siege, he’s going to be hard put in finding an opponent....”
After his experience in the hospital, Jacob looked forward to any chance to relax, so nodded vigorously. “I’ll do it, gladly. I haven’t played in over a year, though.”
“Très bon,” Ríg said, grinning broadly, a relief he’d kept hidden breaking to the surface. “Thanks, Jacob. It’ll be fun for both of you. If he’s too quiet, try talking about birds, trees, squirrels — they’re all sure to get a good laugh from him and make him start talking about different things.”
“Does he always repeat himself?” Jacob asked.
“Yes, and we’re not quite sure why. He’s very intelligent, but the repeated words seem to…center him. At any rate, it seems to make him comfortable and keeps him in a good mood.”
The Codex Lacrimae Page 15