“Are you going to that meeting with the Hospitallers?”
“Yes,” Ríg said, “obviously we’ll leave now as soon as they’re done with their game.” He paused and gave a brief look at Jacob’s sword. “You might want to slip that under Marcus’s bed. He’s quite the swordsman, and if he gets a peep at that fine blade, he’ll want to fence.”
“Really? He’s good with a sword?” Jacob asked, surprised.
“Very good,” Ríg affirmed, “and it’s the one thing where he surpasses many of the knights in the castle who are twice his age.”
Jacob politely said nothing, not quite able to bring himself to believe that the strange boy in his curious condition could be that good with a blade. He unhooked his scabbard and handed the sword surreptitiously to Ríg, who promptly slid it under Marcus’s bed.
“One other thing, Ríg,” Jacob said. “Why does Marcus call you Ori?”
“Oh, that. Ríg’s my nickname, but when we first met at Mecina I used my full name, ‘Oriabiaus.’ Marcus could never get his tongue around that, so he settled for ‘Ori,’ even when we tried to switch him to calling me Ríg.”
“Ah,” Jacob said. “Oriabiaus, eh? What background is that?”
“Old Frankish,” Ríg said dismissively, and then changed the subject as he observed that the game was ending. “He beat you again, did he, Khajen?”
“Even after being gone six months,” Ibn-Khaldun murmured, “he’s just got a wondrous way with rolling those dice....”
“Play again?” Marcus asked, his voice eager as he started placing the jettons back in their spaces.
“No, Son, not right now,” Ibn-Khaldun replied, rising slowly and achingly to his feet. “I’ve got to go to a meeting, but I’ll be back later this evening.”
“I’d like to play a game,” Jacob offered as he stepped forward. “Will you play with me?”
Marcus ducked his head shyly and looked away from Jacob; all three visitors noticed, however, that a slight smile appeared on the patient’s face and he was looking side-eyed at Jacob.
“Go on,” Ríg whispered, “sit next to him and roll the dice. Once the game starts, it’ll all go normally.”
Jacob needed no further prompting. He grabbed the cup and rolled the dice with a vigorous shake. When the bone cubes clattered onto the board, Marcus’s head snapped fully in Jacob’s direction, reading the pips to see what the boy’s numbers were.
“My turn,” Marcus said, reaching for the cup as Jacob dropped the dice back inside it.
“You’ve got to beat seven,” Jacob said.
“Watch this,” Marcus said, and rolled. A five and a four was cast onto the cherry wood surface.
“Hey!” Jacob exclaimed.
Ibn-Khaldun and Ríg left the room, looking backwards only once before softly closing the door as the boys both started to laugh at something.
Ríg clasped a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “It looks as if Marcus has found a new friend.”
“I think we all have,” Ibn-Khaldun replied. “He’s a good boy.”
“He is, indeed,” Ríg agreed. “Come, let’s take the back stair — it’s quicker.”
“Now, Boy,” Ibn-Khaldun said as they walked, “do you want me to ask?”
“You don’t have to,” Ríg said, his voice heavy with emotion. “I went to Jerusalem for supplies last week, and Perdieu assigned Marcus to the expeditio while I was gone.” He paused. “I haven’t been that angry since...well, it’s been a long time, Khajen. I’m sorry. I should have taken Marcus with me where I could keep an eye on him. The last thing that I expected was that anyone would assign him to an official scouting party!”
“Nor I,” Ibn-Khaldun agreed.
“I was going to follow, but Arcadian said that that breach of etiquette couldn’t be covered. He said that since Roberto was with the group and Mercedier was in charge, all should be well since it was a simple diplomatic mission.” Ríg shook his head as they reached the end of the corridor and started climbing the stairwell. “We see how well that idea proved. I’m sorry, Khajen.”
“Well, Arcadian’s and your judgment proved out — Marcus got back with minor hurts, and — for the moment, at least — Roberto’s still alive, as is Mercedier. Given what you’ve just said, I think it went better than could’ve been expected.”
“You mean because the expeditio would have been attacked anyway?”
“Oui. Perhaps Marcus’s presence even saved more lives than were lost as it was. How many were there?”
“At least thirty.”
“There you go — as I said,” Ibn-Khaldun confirmed, proud that the lad’s skill with a sword had saved the lives of himself and others.
“It’s still unconscionable as far as Perdieu’s concerned,” Ríg countered.
“Marcus doesn’t fit Perdieu’s vision of the Kingdom of Heaven,” Ibn-Khaldun replied. “As far as he’s concerned, God only has eyes for those who are pale-faced, sound of mind, and of Norman blood.”
Ríg chuckled. “He’d be surprised at how sound Marcus’s mind is, if he ever bothered to speak with him. In any event, I’ve never seen Arcadian so furious. I think that our Grand Master’s reached the limit of tolerance with Perdieu — the baron’s wealth can only buy so much forbearance.”
“You’re in for some disappointment if you truly believe that, Ríg,” Ibn-Khaldun said as they reached the corridor where Arcadian’s suites were situated.
Pellion stood in front of the door, a nervous look on his flushed face.
“Bonjour, encore, gars, ” he said with downcast expression. “Arcadian and Damian are in there with Mercedier and the rest of them,” the boy said, “and Brother Perdieu is furious that I didn’t come back with you both. He just threw me out...again.” Pellion looked glumly at Ibn-Khaldun. “It looks like my guard-duty’s extended to New Year’s, and I’ve now lost market-day privileges through the end of this month.”
Ibn-Khaldun put a reassuring hand on Pellion’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about any of that, Lad. Perdieu’s going to be hard put to explain how he let Marcus go on that expeditio, let alone having it turn into the disaster it did. Am I right that he countermanded Mercedier on almost every point?”
Pellion nodded, relief on his face now, and his normal humor returning.
“Every point, and then some, Master. Arcadian’s upset that so many knights were hurt, and outraged that Perdieu ordered Marcus to come.”
Ríg nodded, “Well, Marcus will be fine, and I’d just as soon keep him in bed during this siege. The last thing we need is him scaling down the battlements to go looking for enemies to fight.”
“Dieu, he’s good at that. Did you hear about the actual battle with the marauders?” The boy’s eyes shone with admiration as he turned to Ríg, who’d trained Marcus to use a sword. “Everyone’s talking about it in the scriptorium and the yards!”
“Enough of that, Pellion,” Ibn-Khaldun said, his eyebrow arched. “Remember, I’m still angry that Marcus was there to begin with.”
“Oh, right.”
“Bien. Now, back to the pastimes I’d prefer him to be doing the next few days. You’ll be pleased to know that you’ve got another Gluckhaus player in the castle. That boy, Jacob? He’s playing with Marcus now, and he looks like he knows what he’s doing.”
Pellion’s face lit up. “Really? Does he know how to play tables? Or draughts?”
“I’d imagine all boys your age know backgammon and checkers,” Ibn-Khaldun said, “but enough time for games later, Pellion. They’ll probably still be there playing when your done here.” He grasped the handle of the door. “Make sure that we’re not disturbed, and then report to Jeremiah in the scriptorium in the morning. This is your last day under Perdieu’s watch.”
Pellion smiled broadly and nodded, then waited until Ibn-Khaldun and Ríg stepped inside before resuming his sentry position.
Seven men were inside the spacious antechamber that was currently serving as a recovery room for the Gra
nd Master’s injured brother, who lay propped upon a pile of pillows on the bed in the corner. Ríg and Ibn-Khaldun had heard the murmured sounds of voices at the door, but at their entry, the talking ceased. He noted immediately where Brother Perdieu was and made his way to a middle point in the room, so that he was still closer to Ibn-Khaldun, but properly respectful of the knight to whom he was squired.
“Brother Mercedier,” Ibn-Khaldun said as he greeted the middle-aged man on the bed. A gauze bandage had been wrapped around Mercedier’s head, and the man looked at Ibn-Khaldun and Ríg with bloodshot eyes. The Muslim scholar continued, “Things got rough on the way back home, eh?”
Mercedier grunted and nodded slightly. “How are they?”
“We lost Landri, Helgot, and Milon. David and Giuseppe should be in decent shape within a fortnight — if they don’t get infections — and it’s still unknown about Roberto.” Ibn-Khaldun nodded toward Ríg. “Ríg amputated his hand while I was busy with you and Milon, but now it’s in God’s hands. No one ever knows with one of those cases.”
“His hand — Dieu.” Mercedier averted his gaze. “We didn’t have time to do anything, they caught us so unawares. Marcus killed the two men who were trying to unseat him, but then the horse bucked and Roberto dove right into the thick of it when the rest of the marauders came into the defile. He and Marcus were fighting back to back when we got to them, but it was heavy fighting. Heavy fighting. Damn!” He was silent for a moment, then, in a flat tone asked, “I saw Milon before I passed out back there, but Landri and Helgot?”
“They never woke up,” Ibn-Khaldun said quietly.
“Khajen,” Mercedier said quietly, “Je suis désolé que Marcus était là. He should never have come. By the time I realized he was in the expedition, we were too far from the Krak for any thought of returning. I assigned Roberto to him so that the best man was protecting, but….”
“I gathered that,” Ibn-Khaldun replied, and turned to look at the three other men who were standing by one of the open windows across the room, “but my thoughts are that I should be discussing such matters with you, Brother Perdieu.”
“I stand by my decision, Master Khaldun,” the broad-chested, black-bearded, and muscled knight said gruffly. “We can discuss any disagreements later, when the novices and apprentices aren’t about.” He glared at Ríg. “Boy, come here.”
Ríg moved quickly to stand in front of the man who was much shorter than him. He knelt and rose to stand with hands clasped behind his back.
“I’ve heard that you did well playing doctor in the hospital,” Perdieu commented, “so I commend you, but you still need to see me before making such decisions. The arrangements we have between the scriptorium and the yards are very precise.”
“Oui. May I speak, Sir?”
“Proceed.”
“In my opinion, there was no time to consult you, Master. When the expeditio arrived, everything happened very fast and we all tried to save as many knights as possible.”
“I understand, and we’ll speak of this later —”
“Quite right,” one of the seated men’s voices interrupted. It was Arcadian, the Grand Master of the Hospitaller Order for this territory. “You’ll discuss this later. We simply don’t have time for this, Perdieu. We’ll also be discussing how Marcus even got assigned to an expeditio. Right now, though, we’ve got two armies outside and we need to get facts.”
Perdieu straightened to attention. “Of course, Grand Master. Just trying to keep some semblance of a chain of command here — as for Marcus, I thought that his skill with a sword would be an asset for the expedition.”
“His skill with a sword doesn’t compensate for his different shortcomings and needs that have to be tended to!” The other elderly man who was sitting in a chair exclaimed. This was Brother Damian, the second-in-command of the Krak and one of Arcadian’s oldest friends.
Ibn-Khaldun raised a hand. “My friends, please. Your words tell me it is as I thought. We’ll discuss this later, if there is a later.” He turned to Perdieu. “We don’t always agree, Brother Perdieu, but there’s one thing that we’ll henceforth be in concord about: where Marcus is concerned, you’ll never again give him — or anyone in charge of him — an order. Is that clear?”
The flush to Perdieu’s face was apparent even behind the heavy beard.
“Is that clear, Perdieu?” Arcadian’s voice whipped.
“It’s clear, Master Arcadian.” Perdieu choked in rage.
“I’m not the one asking, Bernard,” Arcadian said coldly.
The heavyset knight took a deep breath and stared into Ibn-Khaldun’s eyes. “It’s clear, Master Khaldun. Furthermore, I apologize for any inconvenience or...heartache that my decision might have caused you.”
“Shukran,” Ibn-Khaldun said, and continued for a moment in Arabic before turning away from Perdieu.
The words he’d spoken generated grim nods from Arcadian and Mercedier, but Perdieu looked confused and, if possible, even more frustrated than before.
Ríg tried not to smile as he returned attention to the Grand Master and his recovering brother. He knew that Ibn-Khaldun’s use of Arabic to thank Perdieu — and adding, “I’ll kill you if you get near my son again” — was the final goad that the Burgundian needed to reach the heights of outrage.
Ríg took in Arcadian and Damian, who were both sitting near Mercedier. Like himself, they were clad in the black robes of the order, armed with swords, and seemed caught between relief at Mercedier’s personal survival — Arcadian’s hand hadn’t yet unclasped from his brother’s since Ríg had entered the room — and tense anticipation of the news that the leader of the expeditio was about to give them.
Ríg also acknowledged, however, that this afternoon — with balding head reflecting the lamplight, prominent hook-nose, and black robe splayed upon the floor beneath him — Arcadian reminded Ríg of a vulture that would sweep instantly upon whatever scraps Mercedier might bring to aid in the defense of his castle.
As he had for two decades, Damian sat by Arcadian, his bearded features unreadable in the dim light.
“Mercedier,” Arcadian said, “now tell us what happened? From the report I heard, we have an army approaching from the east, and there’s word that another is coming from the south. Your trip was just an exploratory mission to Baghdad. What did you do, kill the caliph?”
“The mission was successful,” Mercedier grimaced. “We were bringing a gift for you from the caliph, and were probably more relaxed than we should’ve been. I don’t know where this eastern army came from, but we ran into one of their scouting parties. Even though we caught it by surprise, they still managed to beat us back and send us running for home.”
The injured man went on to give a full account of his expedition and the attack on it by members of a mysterious eastern army.
“This army, Mercedier,” Ibn-Khaldun asked, “exactly where did you become aware of it – or, rather, when did you run into its advance troops?”
“Just to the west of the crossing at the Euphrates, about four days ago.”
“You were returning via the Baghdad Road?” Ibn-Khaldun pursued.
“Why not? We had a writ from the caliph himself. I didn’t feel it necessary to be subtle.”
“Were you in uniform?”
“Yes. Once past the Euphrates, we were close enough to our own territories to travel without disguise.” He looked questioningly at Ibn-Khaldun. “Where’s all this leading?”
Ibn-Khaldun released a long breath and raised his eyebrows as he placed a hand deliberately on each knee.
“I think that the army from the east was coming here anyway, and that your uniforms made the advance party intent on ensuring that you didn’t survive to warn the castle of its coming.”
“What do you mean, Khajen?” Ríg asked. “If they’re Mongols, or any other force from the land of Cathay, I don’t think that they’d distinguish between the Levant’s religious orders.”
“They’d recognize
a Hospitaller uniform if its colors and emblem had been described to them.”
“True,” Ríg agreed, “but why discriminate? Every Mongol invasion shows a total lack of concern for whomever they conquer. They might’ve chased Mercedier and his party to waylay or kill them, but not simply because they’re Hospitallers.”
“The scouting party would discriminate because I think they’d been told to look for a particular Hospitaller. Believe me, those warriors have enough incentive to pursue anyone wearing your order’s uniform.” Ibn-Khaldun hesitated. “Indeed, I’m impressed that any of your expeditio made it back to the Krak in one piece, Mercedier.”
“This entire army is looking for a single knight, Master?” Ríg interrupted. “Forgive me, but that seems hard to believe.”
Ibn-Khaldun started to reply, then reached instead into one of the saddlebags that he’d dropped upon the floor before sitting down. He fumbled briefly at the clasp and withdrew an enormous book. It was black, leather-bound, with thousands of yellowing pages pressed tightly between the covers of its spine. He hefted the book with two hands and handed the tome to Ríg.
“This is the Codex Lacrimae, Ríg,” Ibn Khaldun said, watching carefully as the Hospitaller shifted the book into a comfortable position in his hands. “Have you heard of it?”
“The Book of Tears?” Ríg translated as he scanned the exterior of the book with a practiced eye. He paused, then opened the cover, looking up at Ibn Khaldun. “It looks ancient, but, no, I haven’t heard of this work.”
“Neither had I, until six months ago,” Ibn Khaldun said. “I’m glad to hear you say this, my friend, for it would’ve been difficult to have borne this here knowing that you’d hidden such a thing from me.”
“Excuse me,” Damian said, “but what does this book have to do with the Hospitaller that you say the eastern army is after?”
“The army is after the member of your order who owns the Codex; or, at least, whom they and I assume owns it.”
“Jesu,” Ríg whispered. He’d opened the cover of the black book, and was reading something in the frontispiece.
“My family name’s in here, Khajen!”
The Codex Lacrimae Page 16