by DAVID B. COE
Landry drops his gaze, casts a glance at Gawain, who also refuses to look at her. Adelina turns from them back to the strand. Young as she is, she has seen a lot and heard even more. Since her mother’s death, she has lived with her feet in two worlds, that of a child, and that of her merchant father. Following him has exposed her to much that other girls her age might not experience. As much as anything, this explains why she can make the leap she does. This, and the flash of steel she saw in the woman’s hand before she fell.
“She killed herself, then. Self-murder.” The phrase comes to her unbidden, from a memory she cannot quite summon.
Both Landry and Gawain appear surprised. Shocked might be a better word. Their eyes widen and they look at each other again.
“Self-murder is a sin in the eyes of the Lord,” Gawain says. “Our faith teaches this, and yours does as well, I believe.”
“Then why did she do it?”
Landry shifts, winces, and reaches for his shoulder. “She did not wish to be captured by the Saracens.”
“Would they have hurt her?”
“Probably, yes.”
“Because she and her friends helped us.”
“That’s right. They might have forced her to tell them who else was there to aid our escape. And that would have gotten them in trouble as well. So rather than endanger the other villagers, she… she sacrificed herself.”
Godfrey joins them at this end of the ship. He is tall and severe, and he bears bloody wounds from the Templars’ fight on the island. Adelina is a little afraid of him.
“They aren’t following,” he says, eyeing the Saracens.
“No,” Landry says. “They appear more concerned with what the villagers have done.”
“I fear for them.” Godfrey tears his gaze from the isle and kneels beside Landry. “Are you in much pain?”
“No.” Landry winks at Adelina.
She grins.
“We’ll unfurl the sails and get off sweeps. Once we’ve done that, Draper will see to your wound. And yours,” Godfrey added, addressing Gawain. “Tancrede tells me he has purchased healing herbs. From the old woman, as it happens. We have food as well. I would have preferred to remain on the isle, but we’re not as badly off as we were.”
Adelina’s mood lifts at this. She cannot remember the last time her belly was full. Her skin is stretched thin over her ribs now. The clothes she wears, the only ones she has left, no longer fit her as they did when they departed Acre. She is wasting away, as is her father. She has never seen him look so thin. In recent days, it has scared her. No more, though. We have food… In her mind, she pictures a feast.
Several men, her father among them, come onto the deck, unfold the sail, and hoist it into the bright sunlight. Adelina thinks the air feels still, and panic grips her. Hunger is one thing, but if they become becalmed again, she fears she might throw herself over the ship’s rails. She can’t imagine a repeat of that ordeal.
But as the men raise the sail the cloth billows, catching a wind she hasn’t perceived. The ship carves away from the isle, rising and falling on the sea swells. She closes her eyes, relief washing over her.
Her father calls her away from the Templars, chastises her for bothering the men, then folds her into a tight embrace.
“Were you scared, Papa?”
“A little, yes. Were you?”
She nods. “That woman on the island murdered herself.”
He frowns, inhales and exhales. “Yes, I’ve heard. You saw her do this?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for that.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, I mean…” He trails off, shakes his head. “She had her reasons for taking her own life, but it is not something God permits. I want you to remember that.”
“Yes, Papa.”
The knight Draper – her father calls him “the Turcopole” – approaches Landry. She likes Draper. He is not as tall as Godfrey and Gawain, and not as handsome as Landry. But he tells funny stories, and speaks with an accent that she finds intriguing, as if his very words might unlock the secrets of a new world. He holds pouches and strips of cloth. As Adelina watches, he speaks in a low voice to Landry. She cannot make out what he says. But a second later, he grips the arrow by the shaft, his fist close to Landry’s shoulder, and says something else. Landry nods, closes his eyes. The muscles in his jaw tighten.
Adelina’s father averts his eyes rather than watch. She doesn’t. She wants to see, is fascinated by it all. Arrows, swords. Even blood. The act of healing fascinates her as well, the herbs, the poultices and bandages.
Draper pulls the arrow. He doesn’t jerk it, but neither does he ease it out. The motion is both decisive and gentle.
Landry makes a sound deep in his throat, something between a moan and a growl. The sound builds into a wail, and then a violent gasp as the arrow comes free, dripping blood. Crimson blossoms at his shoulder, spreads over his chest.
Working with more urgency now, Draper, with help from Godfrey, strips off Landry’s mail, his jerkin, and his shirt. Landry grimaces as they do this, hissing his breath through gritted teeth when the two Templars move his shoulder to take off the articles of clothing. The shirt and jerkin are stained with blood. His shoulder is a mess.
At the sight of the wound, Adelina does turn away, not because she is horrified, but rather because to stare seems a violation.
Before long, however, she faces the men again. By now, Draper has a poultice in place. Even at some distance, the fresh scent of crushed leaves reaches her. She wants to know the names of those plants, but doesn’t dare ask. Instead, she walks to the men, and picks up the bloody shirt and jerkin. The latter is heavier than she expects, and she has to grip it with both hands.
“What are you doing?” Draper asks.
“These should be cleaned. I can use seawater. If… if you think that would be all right.”
“That will be fine,” the Turcopole says. “Thank you, child.”
She carries the jerkin and shirt to the ship’s stern, where she had been standing, and reaches for a bucket. Her father stops her, takes the bucket from her, and fills it himself. He hands it back to her and briefly cups her cheek in his hand. Adelina sees pride in his brown eyes. Her cheeks flush.
But she says nothing, and instead fixes her attention on the work she has offered to do. The stains prove stubborn, particularly at their center, where the blood has lingered longest.
She eyes the knights, wondering if they can see how she struggles with what should be a simple task. None of them watch her. Draper has set to work on Gawain’s leg. She isn’t yet certain what she thinks of the wounded knight. He almost never smiles and he rarely speaks to her. But neither does he seem cross or cruel. And he isn’t as formidable as Godfrey.
Gawain regards the Turcopole as he works on the wound, but the men do not speak to each other. Adelina concentrates again on Landry’s shirt and jerkin.
Though she scrubs the cloth until her hands are raw, and must ask her father for a second and then a third bucketful, she is unable to remove the blood entirely.
Still, when at last she surrenders, the shirt and jerkin both look better than they did. She wishes she had needle and thread to mend the holes in the material.
She takes them back to Landry, but the knight is sleeping, his breathing deep, late afternoon sun lighting his face. She sets the clothes beside him, spreading them so they will dry. Then she starts away, trying to keep her steps light.
“Thank you.”
She halts, turns. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.”
“But—”
“I was resting, deep in prayer and contemplation.” He tips his head in the direction of the clothes. “I’m grateful to you for cleaning these.”
“It was my pleasure, sir. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better with them.”
“You did very well.”
She looks away, to Gawain, who has his eyes closed. She w
onders if he is asleep, or also in prayer.
“Where will we go now?” she asks.
Landry shakes his head. “I cannot say. But Godfrey will know what to do. He’s very wise. He won’t let any of you come to harm.”
“You came to harm. So did Gawain.”
“We are knights,” Gawain says, his eyes still closed.
These Templars are difficult to judge. One can never even tell when they are sleeping and when they’re awake. She thinks there might be a lesson there.
“We fight to keep others from harm,” Gawain goes on. He opens his eyes, which are a cool blue, the color of the western sky. His hair is long, his face young and also handsome, though not as much so as Landry’s. “But Landry is right. Godfrey will see you and your father and the rest to safety. All of us will.”
“Thank you,” she says, because that strikes her as the proper response.
Before any of them can say more, Tancrede approaches, a large bundle in his arms.
“Is anyone here hungry?” he asks, eyes on her.
Adelina struggles to contain herself. “Very!”
“I don’t doubt it.” He pulls from his bundle a small piece of rinded cheese, a hunk of bread, an apricot, and a morsel of smoked meat. He hands these to her. “There you go. For you and your father.”
For several moments, she cannot move or speak. This is all? The fighting, the woman’s death, Landry’s blood? And this is all they get? Tancrede found food. That is what they have been told, and she had assumed this meant enough to make up for days of privation. But this… For both of them?
Her heart labors. She can barely swallow past her disappointment and rage. “Thank you,” she whispers, blinking back tears.
Despite her frustration, she does not wish to seem ungrateful. Tancrede, though, is clever.
“We’re all hungry, Adelina. But we need to make this last. If I could have gotten more – if there had been more time – I would have.”
She is behaving like a small child, younger than her years. Pride makes her meet his gaze.
“I understand. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Tancrede says.
She starts to go, then stops, realizing her error. “We cannot have the meat and the cheese,” she says. “Our faith—”
Tancrede’s eyes widen slightly. “Of course. Forgive me.” He hesitates before exchanging the morsel of meat for an extra bite of cheese. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She hurries away from them all and back to her father. He greets her with a broad smile and generous words about the meal they are about to share. He says to her all the things she should have said to the Templar.
Her shame deepens as they eat, because she grows full so quickly. She has to force herself to choke down her half of the apricot. Notwithstanding her earlier ingratitude, she has been hungry too long. She can no longer gorge herself as once she did. She scans the ship’s deck, searching for Tancrede. She should apologize. But she spots him sitting with the other Templars, deep in conversation with Landry, Gawain, and Draper. She leaves them alone, concentrates on trying to take pleasure in the sensation of not being hungry anymore.
The feeling, though, doesn’t last long. As night falls, and Godfrey lights the torches mounted on the ship’s mast, her hunger returns with a vengeance. Adelina finds it hard to believe she has eaten at all. She is certain she isn’t the only one aboard the ship who feels this way.
* * *
The pain in Gawain’s leg had not abated. He should have known better than to expect improvement so soon. A poultice of crushed leaves and root could not undo weeks of agony, not immediately. Faith and prayer and the mercy of God would bring healing. Draper’s ministrations would help. But the Turcopole could not perform miracles; Gawain told himself as much, again and again.
And this served to make Landry’s recovery all the more galling.
It had been mere hours. Not even a full night had passed. Yet already Gawain saw improvement in his fellow knight, who rested beside him. Landry breathed easier. He could move his arm, flex his shoulder. Not a lot, and not without apparent discomfort. But this limited progress outstripped what Gawain had achieved in all the days since the last battle at Acre. Where was the justice in that?
He had saved the man’s life. Landry himself acknowledged as much. Did heroism and sacrifice count for nothing in the eyes of the Lord? Or was he being punished for some sin he had committed at Acre or before? He could think of no such crime against faith and grace. He attempted always to acquit himself with honor, with piety, to protect the weak and the innocent, to uphold the principles guiding Templar life.
What have I done, Lord? Tell me and I shall atone. But I beg you, grant me the strength I once had so that I might continue to serve you.
Draper approached the two of them, bearing fresh bandages and the pouches of herbs Tancrede had secured. “I would check your dressings once more before I retire,” he said. “If I may.”
“Of course,” Landry answered. Even his voice sounded stronger.
Gawain merely nodded.
Draper knelt beside Landry and began to remove the poultice. “How does it feel?” he asked as he worked.
“Better. You work wonders, my friend.”
The Turcopole returned Landry’s smile. Once he had pulled the dressing away, he examined Landry’s wound, squinting in the torchlight. He probed the skin around it with his fingers. For the most part, Landry offered little response, though at one point he did draw a sharp breath.
“I’m sorry,” Draper said. “Is that the only place where it still pains you?”
“It all remains a bit tender, but that’s the worst.”
“Remarkable. You were fortunate.”
That prompted another smile. “Perhaps. I still credit you.”
Gawain looked away, his gaze straying to the crescent moon that hung low in the west. Draper worked in silence for a few minutes, no doubt placing a fresh poultice on Landry’s wound.
When he finished, he stood, walked to where Gawain sat, and knelt again, this time next to Gawain’s injured knee.
“How does your leg feel?”
Gawain glanced at Landry.
“Perhaps I’ll stretch my legs,” Landry said, climbing to his feet. His movements were stiff, but as he walked off he showed little effect from the day’s battle.
Gawain ached everywhere. His back and shoulders, both legs, his neck. Disadvantaged as he was by his wound, every thrust of his sword had felt unnatural, every parry of a Saracen’s blade had strained his muscles. He had been fighting himself as much as the enemy, and now he suffered for the struggle.
“Gawain?” Draper prompted. “Your leg?”
“It feels no different,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
“I’m sorry for that.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I know that. What I meant—”
“I know what you meant, Draper.” He eyed the moon again, blew out a breath. “I had hoped that Tancrede’s herbs would prove as curative for my wound as they have for Landry’s.”
“They might still. We cannot judge their efficacy after only a few hours. You must give them time.”
“Landry’s wound is healing already.”
“His wound was nothing compared to yours, and he sustained his today. If we’d had these herbs the day we sailed from Acre, if I had been able to treat you then as I’ve been able to treat Landry today…” His shrug was eloquent. “May I see the wound?”
“Of course.”
He unfastened the bandage on Gawain’s leg, his touch deft. He bent low to inspect the injury.
“It may not feel better,” he said after some time, “but it looks much improved. The swelling has gone down, and with it the redness.” He prodded the flesh above and below Gawain’s knee, much as he had done with Landry’s shoulder. Pain flared with every touch. Gawain clenched his jaw, resisting the need to give voice to his anguish.
“Forgive me,” Draper said.
Gawain nodded, his eyes closed, waiting for the agony to subside. When he opened his eyes again, Draper had already set a fresh poultice over the wound and was tying it in place.
“It will never heal, will it?” Gawain asked.
Draper kept his eyes on his task. “It is still too soon to say.”
Gawain didn’t respond. He watched the Turcopole, waiting until at last the man finished and sat back on his knees. Their eyes met.
“It’s not going to heal,” Gawain said again.
“It will heal, as nearly all wounds do if they don’t kill.”
“But?”
Draper frowned. He stared off to the side, his round face kind, even in profile. After a breath, he dragged his gaze back to Gawain’s. “I fear you will always struggle with it. I no longer fear for the leg itself. You will keep it, and you will have use of it. But I believe you will walk with a limp for the rest of your days.”
“You’re saying I’m going to be a cripple.”
Draper straightened. “You are going to be a Templar. But you will be burdened with this injury. Whether you are a cripple or a man with a limp…” He opened his hands. “That is entirely up to you. Rest well, Gawain.”
Draper stood, and walked off.
“You, too,” Gawain called after him.
He sat for a long time, Draper’s words repeating themselves in his mind. At length, he fought to his feet and hobbled across the deck to the starboard rail. He leaned on the wood and tracked the moon’s descent toward the horizon.
“You can’t sleep?” Godfrey joined him, and leaned on the wood as well.
“Haven’t really tried.”
“Draper tells me your leg is improving.”
He huffed a sharp breath, hands gripping the rail. “What else did he tell you?”
“Nothing that I haven’t observed on my own.”
“Am I that obvious, then?”
“It isn’t a matter of being obvious. You’re human, a man driven by pride and a fierce desire to serve God as one of His chosen knights. To be honest, I would be more concerned for you if you just blithely accepted your fate.”
Gawain scowled at that and shot a quick glance at the commander. “My fate, is it?”