The Dragon and the Witch
Page 10
Gentler, Gustave said, “Do not regret my maiming too much, Sire. You were merely God’s instrument for our intertwined destiny.”
“You truly believe that?” Richard said.
“Yes, Your Majesty, I do. And now, with this same maimed hand, I shall bless your health and safety in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
He held up his right hand and made the sign of the cross over Richard and uttered a simple blessing.
Richard bowed his head and looked away with a murmured thanks that was unusually subdued.
Gustave could see that old guilt rise up like a serpent, waiting to strike at the opportune moment. And strike it had. At least the king had lasting regret over maiming him, which was more than Gustave could say for Richard’s otherwise unrepentant, murderous nature. Gustave had lost track of Richard’s body count long ago. Suffice it to say, he rarely took a prisoner. It was as if he didn’t know what to do once he seized a city, other than to annihilate the people therein.
“Do you want to give me some Hail Marys or something?”
“No. As I said, my daily presence in your life is your penance, Richard. Just think of me as your…handmaiden.”
“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.”
The Last Crusade
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K.T. Tomb enjoys traveling the world when not writing adventure thrillers. She lives in Portland, OR. Please find her at:
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