“Come, stubborn child,” He called. “Repent, and be converted.”
After the old priest had finished I moved quickly forward, pushing my way through the crowd of Arabs to his side. He looked up, and farther up, his eyes widening at the huge figure in white who towered over him. I pulled off my head covering and he started violently.
“You are no Arab,” he whispered.
“Nay, father, I am a poor lost sheep of England,” I replied.
“Call me not father,” he said quickly. “There is no father but God. Who are you, my son, and why do you dress like one of these who serve Allah?”
“Min Fadhlak -- Please, good sir, do not ask me these things now,” I begged. “My soul is on fire and you must help me get some peace. I ran from my father, who spoke words much like yours tonight. I ran into the arms of the Church but God was not there. I even tried to sit at the feet of Mohammed. I came here tonight and now I know that it was my father’s teaching that I should have followed all along. Taffadhali – I beg you -- Help me come to Christ before I die.”
And so he did. I did find Christ that night and also rest for my lifetime of turmoil. I wept in the arms of that old man, and we spent the rest of the night poring over the Scriptures. I knew every one he quoted, but truly I had never known them at all. He told me he had never had so eager a pupil, and wondered why I kept saying I knew nothing.
But truly, he understood, for he said it had been the same with him. He had come to the Holy Land on a pilgrimage, looking for the world’s praise and only a little for heaven’s favor. But he had found in that desolate place that Jesus Christ had actually walked the earth and bled and rose and was God indeed. And I had found Him too.
We stayed together some time, the old man and I. He taught me so much. He said I taught him, but I am sure it was only kindness. It was from him that I learned to speak the Scriptures and sing our songs in Arabic. I have tried to note some of them in the pages of my diary. I wanted with all my soul to get back to Sadaquah and the others and tell them of Christ in their own tongue. Surely they could not refuse to listen. God would smite their hearts as He had smitten mine. The old pilgrim agreed to help me speak to them as soon as we found them. But they had moved from our stronghold in En-Gedi and finding them was much harder than I had thought it would be.
Tonight I have returned to the old pilgrim’s camp, and just left him. I write this as I lie down to sleep, and another day has passed without finding Sadaquah. I wish so much to return to my father – to ask his forgiveness and to tell him I have found Christ. Perhaps I should just go. But I must to try to reach Sadaquah. He has been my friend, my brother for so long that I must try. I do not want to leave him in darkness. I want him to be saved. Ayina -- Where – are you, my little brother? Cannot God bring you to me?
I could not make out any more words. I looked up and saw that the cot was almost in darkness. I jumped up, lit a lamp on the table and stirred up a fire in the fireplace. After putting a pot of stew on to simmer I looked out the front door. Sadaquah sat before a campfire not far from the cottage.
“Will you share my food with me?” I asked.
“With a woman and a Christian?” he said scornfully. “Never.”
I came hesitantly out and stood near the fire. “He must not ever have found you,” I ventured.
“What?” Sadaquah snapped. He looked quizzically up at me. “Who never found me?”
“Whoever wrote that book,” I said impatiently. “He said he was going to tell you of Christ, but you do not believe in Him, so he must not have found you. Is he dead? Is that why you have his book? Is it … is it blood on those pages? Is it his blood?”
Sadaquah lurched to his feet and paced rapidly back and forth before the fire. He darted long, searching looks at me. “Do you believe in Christ?” he demanded.
“Of course I do,” I said. “We are all Christians here.”
“La! Nay, that I know is a lie!” Sadaquah said firmly. “There are those who say they are Christians. They are but dogs. Then there are those who know Christ. They are not the same. Lusto adri -- I do not understand it all, but I know that there are different sorts of Christians. I ask again, do you know Christ?”
“ Not – not the way the man in the book describes,” I admitted. “We learn in Church to pray to the saints and the blessed virgin and to tell our beads – we never really hear the words of God. But my uncle, John Cloyes– I believe he knows Christ in that way.”
“That man – the man who wrote the book – “ Sadaquah took a deep breath. He looked uneasily around the clearing. I wondered if he expected his mysterious friend to pop out of the woods at any moment and I laughed.
“Why do you laugh?” Sadaquah demanded.
“Are you looking for him to come here, now?” I asked, still smiling.
“Ith’hab! Go away,” Sadaquah snapped. “Whenever I let myself talk to you I am sorry. I do not understand why my brother delights in your company so much.”
“Sir Chris? I do not think he likes me at all,” I said uneasily. “He would be glad to be free of helping me with my troubles, I am sure.”
“You are stupid even for a woman. Can you not see how he looks at you? I do not understand what the English like in a woman. He looks and looks at you when he thinks you do not know it. He sat in the woods and watched for you to come out of the inn. When we camped last night I think he spent his whole watch just looking at you.”
I blushed scarlet. “But he is old enough to be my father,” I said uneasily. “It cannot be ... Perhaps … perhaps he looks to see if I am like my mother. She was … she is … very beautiful. But I am not like her.”
“He does not look to see if you are like your mother,” Sadaquah snorted. We both started as Sir Chris stepped out of the woods and came up to Sadaquah’s fire.
“Lady Hope, why are you out here in the dark?” Sir Chris demanded sharply. “Sadaquah, why do you let her bide here in the open? Go inside the cottage, my lady. There is no safety out here.”
I stared up at him and saw a dark, angry look on his face. I saw no interest in looking at me at all. I glanced at Sadaquah, then turned and marched off to the cottage. “Come and eat, Sir Chris, if you have a mind to,” I called over my shoulder. “Your friend does not want to defile himself with my company or my food.”
Angrily I pulled my boiling pot of stew off the fire and slapped two plates onto the table. I poured two mugs of water and sat down. I was very surprised when Sir Chris opened the door and came in. I had expected him to eat with Sadaquah, especially considering his vow not to be under any roof before his father’s, but he seated himself heavily across from me. I saw how weary he looked and read the clear signs of his constant pain etched in a face that might once have been handsome. My anger melted and I remembered again that he suffered for me. I dished stew into his plate and bowed my head as I waited for him to lead us in prayer. He remained silent. I looked up and saw that he stared at the bed, where the book I had been reading lay in plain view.
“Oh!” I said. “That is something Sadaquah gave me to read. It is very interesting.”
“Is it?” Sir Chris asked. “Have you read much of it?”
“It is hard going,” I admitted. “Some in English, some in Latin, some in ... Marry, I know not what tongue some of it is in. Have you seen it?”
“I have …I have glanced over it a time or two. Let us pray, my lady. I do not want to keep you from your meal.”
He spoke the words of a prayer but I could tell that his mind was elsewhere. “You must not mind Sadaquah. His Muslim code is very strict, and he follows it with all his heart. No alcohol, no pork – I cannot think why he came here with me, when every day he suffers some new test of his resolve. England is not a place where a follower of Islam can be comfortable.”
“He calls you brother and fixes you healing tea and covers you at night,” I said with a smile. “Why he stays with you is an easy riddle to read. He loves you.”
“He does.�
�� Sir Chris smiled back. “I have brought him nothing but trouble. He cut himself off from his own people to stay with me, put up with my groanings, and left warmth and home to follow me here. I have not deserved such love.”
“God was good to give him to you,” I said fervently. “I have never had anyone love me so except my family.”
“What of the young earl, then? He is a fellow capable of great passion.”
“Oh, Robert,” I said. “He loves me, but I fear he is in love with himself, too.”
“Is that how he is?” Sir Chris smirked. “It is a bad thing to direct one’s energies that way. Why waste your time with such a fellow?”
“Should I choose you instead?” I laughed. Then I remembered Sadaquah’s words and I blushed. Sir Chris’s expression did not change. He looked at me steadily, curiously. His hand toyed almost unconsciously with the little wooden lion that lay between us on the table.
“You are betrothed, lady,” he said at last. “You must obey the wishes of your mother and John Cloyes.”
“My cousin Richard must be dead after all these years,” I protested. “And I heard that he left with a vow never to return. He has cut himself off from my family. Robert has done everything he possibly can to make himself acceptable to them.”
Sir Chris scraped up the last of his stew. I hastened to offer him more but he shook his head. “Well, lady, for the food and the conversation I thank you. If it does not displease you I will go and bear Sadaquah company without. Rest and do not worry yourself.”
“Have you learned anything that would help us find my mother and my uncle?” I asked.
“I think I am on the verge of doing it,” he replied. “Hugo Brun has been made a kind of sheriff in Chelmsford and he does his job with cruel zeal. Many thrive under his reign, however, and they may be able to tell me of others inside the castle that serve him. It is clear at least that he looks not to get at the truth of what happened at Colchester. I am sorry it goes so slow, but we must be careful.”
“I understand. Good night, Sir Chris. Thank you for everything you have done.”
“Laileh sa’eeda tisbah’ala khair,” he said. “Good night, lady.”
“When I first heard you speak the Arab language, I thought it was a terrible noise,” I smiled. “Now I see that it is like music.”
He smiled, nodded and went out. I cleared the table and washed the few dishes. Then I lay down on the bed and took up the book again. Once more I found that I could not make out the place where I had left off. I read a snatch here and there and saw some vivid descriptions of Holy Land places the writer had seen, beautiful and rugged, dangerous and peaceful. Nothing truly gripped my attention until I came upon a passage near where the writing ended that stopped me cold.
Chapter Eight: A Singing Slave, A Friend Refound, A Captive Freed
Jesus, the very thought of Thee
With sweetness fills the breast;
But sweeter far Thy face to see,
And in Thy presence rest.
O hope of every contrite heart,
O joy of all the meek,
To those who fall, how kind Thou art!
How good to those who seek!
Jesus, our only joy be Thou,
As Thou our prize will be;
Jesus be Thou our glory now,
And through eternity.
The hole was too small to stand or lie in. An iron grate, blistering in the desert sun, covered the top. There was scarcely room to move if I had wished to and if I did the salt-encrusted walls bit into my wounded back. I barely stirred while the heat radiated off the grille and the sides of the sandy pit. Filthy liquid splashed down into the hole. At one time I would have been foolish enough to think it was water.
Voices above me spoke in a tongue I had come to know well. No longer could I care about what they were saying. Groans and cries reached my ears as well. At one time I had cared about those too. But I was too tired. We all worked the salt mine until we dropped or rebelled or tried to escape and then we went into the pits. Some pits were for burial.
Some were for stubborn fellows like me who would rather be flogged or bastinadoed and clapped into a sand-walled oven. These ovens baked Christian flesh and sometimes I wondered why I kept choosing to spend my time here instead of just dying with a pick or a salt basket in my hands. I certainly had enough opportunities to watch other fellows work themselves to death. I could not watch anything from the hole except the progress of scorpions across my knees.
At last I sensed dimly that evening had come. A respite from the broiling sun revived my spirits. I shifted my position an inch or two. Summoning a little moisture, I oiled the works of my parched throat and mouth. The sounds I made were weak and hoarse. I gathered strength and determination, and my song floated over the Arab prison camp.
Jesus, the very thought of Thee
With sweetness fills my breast;
But sweeter far Thy face to see
And in Thy presence rest.
Angry shouts. Running feet. I did not care about them, either.
“O hope of every contrite heart,
O joy of all the meek,
To those who fall how kind Thou art!
How good to those who seek.”
Lance-butts prodded me. Very little pain to bear after living in almost continual pain. I did not even pause.
“Jesus our only joy be Thou,
As Thou our prize wilt be;
Jesus, be thou our glory now
And through eternity.”
The grating came off as I finished the verse. Hands dragged me out of the hole and across the still-burning sand. “The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance ....
“Of Him…through Him ... to Him, are all things: to Whom be glory forever.” I always threw in a verse in Arabic now and then, in case my captors happened to be listening. They screeched curses and threats at me. I was past fearing, past caring. “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every Word of God.” As I passed other grates, voices called weakly out to me.
“God bless you, brother!”
“Jesus defend you!”
“God give you mercy!”
“God reward you!” Those I treasured up.
“And He showed me a pure river of crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.” I had found strength enough for singing and Scriptures but a man kept in the holes got no food or drinkable water and I had lost track of how many days I had been in there. There seemed nothing in me that could be called physical resistance. I was tied onto something made of poles and rough cloth and dragged, probably behind a camel, for many miles. After one lives in the desert for a time one sometimes acquires the ability to smell water, so I knew when my captors dropped me suddenly that we had come near an oasis. I looked up. The milling Arabs parted and a man stood over me. I saw light hair and European features.
“We shall put a stop to you, Englishman,” he said in venom-filled French. “No more shall the Christian dog who sings and spouts Scriptures comfort the hearts of his camarades.”
At first I was too stiff to struggle. They kicked me over onto my back. Ropes were tied roughly, tightly, to my wrists and ankles. Not until I heard horses approach did I at last perceive what was coming. Striking at men in all directions, I actually began to move away. The Arabs clung like rat terriers on a draft horse’s heels. But a crushing blow landed on my head and I collapsed.
Something woke me from the blackness before long. An insistent tugging, it seemed at first. I tried to ignore it, but it grew stronger. The ground thudded against my naked back; then I ceased to feel it. The flesh tore from my ankles and wrists. A wrenching, jerking, and jarring dragged from all four points of the compass. I had learned scores of Scriptures and hymns. I could think of nothing but pain. My fellow prisoners had called upon God to have mercy on me. This was strange mercy indeed. Yet if it took me out of the Muslims’ reach, I would accept it as such.
But it went on and on. The horses screamed and lunged. The ropes went slack and taut. The pain ebbed and flowed and grew and grew. At first I could keep from screaming. After a time I could no longer scream. A chorus of shouts echoed around me, faraway and unimportant. Finally it all went away.
But it was not an angel’s voice which spoke urgently to me. It was a woman’s, sweet and gentle and full of kindness. Something was forced down my throat. It made me feel heavy and stupid. That unbearable pain marched a little way off. “Good Christian knight,” the hushed voice urged in Arabic, “Min fadhlak, make no noise, as you would live and be free. Value the lives of those who would give you aid. Keep still.”
But it was impossible to be silent as I felt my body begin to be moved. A groan tore out of me. I had been sure my throat was so raw I could make no sound. A soft, small hand clapped over my mouth.
“Taffadhali – Do not cry out.” I forced my eyes to open and saw a swath of dark fabric surrounding two large, liquid golden brown eyes. The woman’s hand pressed desperately against my lips. Other hands groped under my body and lifted me into the air. It had not seemed possible that there could be more pain. I was placed on a litter and bound in place. Then came the jerk and drag. Memory of the horror of what I had gone through struck as forcibly as a blow. I had little power for the mindless struggle fear drove me to make. The small, fragile-looking woman had sufficient strength to steady me. I felt a warm wetness on my neck and face. Her tears falling on me made me cease to fight. I looked into the eyes so close to mine and wondered.
I am sure they tried to be as gentle as they could. I fainted and woke throughout the night’s jarring. Only when the painkilling drug or a swallow of water were forced upon me was I fully conscious.
“Come, come, Christian dog. I have sworn by Allah and the Prophet that you shall not die.”
The hand that lifted my head was rough-skinned and scarcely gentle. I cried aloud and got a laugh of derision in response. It appeared to be daylight outside the tent in which I lay.
Hope and the Knight of the Black Lion Page 8