“Ship rat!”
“Dirty deserter!”
The men swore at him, their thievery justified by his crime.
He heard a distant shout and the sound of feet running as the thieves scattered. They left him holding his side, gasping for breath, a thick wet flow of blood in his hair, on his forehead.
His purse! He reached inside his tunic with a sick sense already that it was gone, his hands finding nothing but the cut cords. His spare clothes, his money, Reb David’s prayer shawl—all gone! With a groan he lay back, closing his eyes. Then up, reaching for the hem of his tunic. He felt the hard circles under the fabric. He still had his emergency coins. Only a few, the amount he always kept sewn into the hem as his father had taught him. Enough to start again, his father’s voice from long ago.
Always his people had to start again. He sat hunched over, covering his eyes with his arm, waiting for the pain of the present and the terror of the past to ease out of him, catching his breath against them both. Thinking of Reb David’s prayer shawl.
He heard footsteps draw near. “Are you hurt?”
He moved his arm, wiping away the blood, and looked up.
“Here, you are bleeding.” The man squatted down, drew back involuntarily on catching sight of Isaac’s scarred face, but recovered quickly. He peered at Isaac’s forehead.
“It is nothing,” Isaac murmured, wiping at the fresh blood.
“You speak French then,” the man sounded relieved. He pulled a piece of cloth from the small pack he carried on his shoulder. “Stay still.” He wound it tightly around Isaac’s head, tying it off. “Can you walk?”
Isaac—Jean—heard an intake of breath as the man noticed his wooden leg. “I can walk,” he said gruffly, making no move to stand.
The man nodded, sat down beside him.
“They took my purse.” He expected the man to leave, there was nothing here for him.
“It is a port town,” the man said, shrugging. Such things happened.
He picked up a bundle he had dropped on the ground when he bent to examine Jean’s wound. “They left your clothes, at least,” he said, depositing a few articles in Jean’s lap: a clean shirt, a spare tunic, a tallit. Jean stared at the prayer shawl, unable to speak for a moment. Then he bundled it and the shirt together inside the tunic, mumbling his thanks as though it were nothing. If he was lucky the stranger would not know the significance of the tassels at the four corners of the shawl. His relief at having it again was greater than his fear of discovery, but he wanted it out of sight as quickly as possible.
“Is it dawn?” Isaac squinted in the dim light.
“The Santa Maria left at first light.” The man smiled. “You are a free man. But it would be better not to be found here. This town is not kind to...”
Isaac waited but the man did not finish. Sailors deserting their ship, or Jews? Either way, he had to move on at once. He had meant to walk all night; instead he had fallen asleep on the shore, left himself open and vulnerable like a fool. He kneeled up, stiff and sore. The man stood quickly and reached to help him to his feet. “I am going north, to France,” he said. “We can travel together.”
Isaac ignored the outstretched hand. He wanted neither help nor companionship from this man. He had already seen too much. A single word of Hebrew in place of French and Jean would be discovered, if he was not already. But the man naturally assumed he was also going to France, anything else would rouse his suspicion. “I will slow you down,” he said.
“I will not leave you here.” The man bent and picked up Isaac’s walking staff. “Two men are safer on the road than one.”
“One and a half.”
The man laughed. “I am Luc de Lyon. I will be glad of even half a man’s protection on these roads. Have you travelled this route before?”
“No.” Would the man never stop asking questions?
“Of course, of course,” Luc chuckled, embarrassed. “You came by ship.”
Isaac hesitated. It made a good cover story. “Are you a seaman?”
“Not at all. Terrified of the water. Never again catch me trusting my life to a flimsy wooden casket on the waves.”
“I thought I could go back to it,” Isaac leaned toward him confidingly. “But you have to have two sea legs to work a ship.” He slapped his left thigh disparagingly.
“You lost it at sea?” Luc’s eyes widened.
“Tangled my leg in the mainsail rope in a storm. Wind pulls the sail hard over the deck...” he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand, clapping it hard against his right palm. “I prefer not to talk about it.”
“No, no.” Luc nodded quickly. “I would imagine not. Well, you tried to go back to your trade. No man can ask more of you.” He clapped Isaac on the shoulder. “Your name, good fellow?”
“Jean.” Isaac turned and began walking toward the road leading north. Luc fell into step beside him.
“Well, Jean, we will walk together this day.”
Isaac glanced sideways. “Can you fight?”
“I am no coward.”
Isaac stifled a sigh. No, then. He wondered briefly about this man he had agreed to walk with. Not a boy, but not yet thirty, he judged. Perhaps six or ten years younger than him. What kind of life had he lived to make him so friendly to strangers? Isaac kept his questions to himself. Asking questions would invite questions being asked, and no doubt this man would share more than Isaac wanted to know anyway.
“My father is a wool merchant. He made me go to sea this spring, accompanying a shipment of our woolen goods, the finest hose and tunics and woven cloth for ladies’ kirtles, dyed in the newest colors. I nearly lost my life in the storm that took our merchandise. And now I must travel home with no goods, no fortune, not even the clothes I brought to wear, and face my father’s wrath. I did not sink the ship! Can I command the winds?”
No doubt at all.
Chapter Fifteen: The Crusaders
Luc de Lyon may not have been a fighter but he was a stalwart traveler. He set a brisk pace and kept to it with few breaks. Isaac’s pride forced him to match the other man’s pace, asking for no concessions. He suspected that Luc had already shortened his regular stride. By the time they stopped for the night at an inn in Vibo Valentia, every bone in his body ached. He was sure the thieves had cracked one of his ribs, and his head pounded all across his skull from the blow above his right eye, and reached a tentacle of fire down the tight pucker of his scar. His stump was so painful he winced taking off his wooden leg. The thick padding he placed on top of the wood was so moist with sweat he had to peel it away from his stump, which continued to throb, sending waves of pain up his leg. It had not been sore like this since he first strapped on the wooden leg; but then, he had not walked all day on it before either. God willing the pain would abate before morning when he must strap the wooden torture on again.
He would not be able to walk the same distance the following day. He would tell Luc to go on without him. He was far enough from the port of Messina that none would think him a seaman deserting his ship, especially not with a wooden leg. He could afford to travel more slowly. His brother, if the boy—man, now—was still alive, would either be found or not, wherever he might be. Somewhere in France was hardly a direction.
And yet it was. It pulled at him, had done so even when he lived in Acre. He ached for France. There was nothing for him there now but still it called to him, mocking him with the false promise of home when there was no home for him there. The heart wants what it wants.
Luc had asked where he was bound as they walked. Not wanting to mention a brother he might no longer have, Isaac had mumbled the name of a town that came to his head, Saint-Gilles. He was not sure exactly where it was, but it was French and had a clean, bright feel of the sea about it, although not the feel of home. He had probably passed through it some time.
Luc had recognized the name. “Not far from Marseilles,” he had said. The man was annoying in his persistent clarity no matter how vague Isaa
c tried to be. Isaac had said nothing more and Luc had not pressed him. He had needed all his strength to match the man’s pace, never mind conversation.
Leaving his wooden leg on the blanket the innkeeper had offered him in return for a coin, Isaac hobbled to the table with the help of his staff and sank onto the bench. The innkeeper’s wife had set out a simple meal of bread and stew. He was too tired to feel hungry, but Luc had paid both their night’s lodging and it included a meal.
The inn door opened behind Isaac. He heard a man’s voice talking to the innkeeper, but resisted the urge to turn and look. He should have sat facing the door, but it would have meant hobbling around the table. He had nothing to fear anyway, no need to act like he did. The man was only asking for a night’s lodging, and he was speaking French; no one on Isaac’s ship had spoken French. He forced himself to relax.
Nevertheless he tensed when the man sat down on the bench beside him, and a second man beside the first. He glanced sideways and was further taken aback to see they both wore the white tunics and red crosses of crusaders.
“Greetings, friends!” Luc said heartily across the table from Isaac. “You have come from the Holy Land, I assume. By your language I am guessing you fought with King Phillip of France?”
“We did,” the man beside Isaac answered, tearing off a chunk of bread and using it to scoop up a generous mouthful of the stew. “I sailed with him from Marseille and helped him capture Acre.”
Isaac’s hand froze above the stew pot. The shouts and laughter of the crusaders storming into the synagogue came back to him, along with the screams of the devout being slaughtered. Had this man been one of those? Slowly he drew his hand back. He would not dip his bread into the stew to share a meal with these men.
“You were there for the siege of Acre? What was it like?”
Luc and his damned curiosity. And now Isaac must sit and listen to them boast of their killing. He could hardly leave in the middle of their recounting of the siege and battle for Acre, nor could he for a moment show his disgust. The crusader talked only of the battles between soldiers, as though he had not done worse.
Isaac stopped eating as the story progressed. The man’s words brought it to life. Isaac felt the heat, the sting of the sword, the ache in his shield arm. He heard the swish of arrows overhead, the cries of the wounded, the screams of horses. He saw the dirt running red with blood, men falling dead, their bodies trampled under the horses’ hooves...
He sat cold and motionless on the bench as the story unfolded around him through the words of the crusader, as though he was there and it was happening right now.
“That was three years ago, was it not?”
Isaac blinked. Luc’s question was meant for the crusader but his eyes were searching Isaac’s face. What had he seen? Isaac took a breath, then raised his bread and bit into it. It was dry and flavorless in his mouth but he forced himself to eat it.
“Yes. We stayed on with our lord to assist King Richard de l’Anglais in binding Acre to Christian rule.”
Isaac coughed. The crusader turned to study him. Isaac took a drink of his ale.
“You are well-met, brave fellows.” Luc gave Isaac a nervous glance before smiling broadly at the crusader. “I am Luc de Lyon, a merchant traveling home. This is my friend Jean, who is going to Saint-Gilles.”
“I am Philippe de Marseille.” The crusader reached out to grasp Luc’s hand, then turned to Isaac, his hand extended. Isaac raised his hand and allowed it to be pawed by the man. “My comrade and I,” he pointed to the second crusader who had not spoken a word, “are taking my liege lord, Raimond de Marseille’s body home for burial. He took a fall from his horse and died three days ago.”
“And you, my friend?” Luc nodded at the silent crusader, letting the slight rise in his voice ask his question.
“He does not talk. He was captured by the Saracens before Acre fell. They cut out his tongue because he would tell them nothing of our army. We freed him after we took the city but his comrades must have all died in the battle for no one recognized him. We named him Tomas. He is French—it is the language he understands, although he cannot speak now. Right Tomas?”
The silent man stopped eating to nod. He dipped his head briefly in the direction of Luc and Isaac in greeting.
“Time for bed,” Isaac grunted. He had stayed long enough for the sake of courtesy.
“Lay out your blankets beside ours,” Luc offered.
Many of the lodgers had already stretched out on the straw-covered floor, pulling their blankets over them. There was little space left and Isaac could not object to the crusaders sleeping beside Luc, nor move his own blanket after laying it down. He grasped his staff and pulled himself to standing as Philippe and Tomas rose. Pretending not to see the arm Tomas held out, he hobbled over to his blanket and lowered himself down onto it.
The innkeeper had been generous with the straw that covered the wooden floor of the inn. It was soft under Isaac as he stretched out. He pulled the blanket over himself. Under its protection he reached inside his tunic and touched Reb David’s tallit tucked against his heart. He sighed and let his tensed muscles relax into the deep straw. The two wall lamps sputtered out, leaving the large room lit only by the fire dying in the hearth. Voices stilled and breathing deepened. Isaac lay in the dark willing himself to sleep, to leave behind, if only temporarily, the stabbing pain in his rib that accentuated every breath he took, the burning stump of his leg, the throbbing headache that had been growing all day, the ache in his heart that had been with him since he buried Reb David.
***
“You will have to go on without me today. I cannot keep to your pace and do not wish to slow you down.” Much as he wanted to be free of Luc and his persistent questions, Isaac hated the sound of the words as they left his mouth—the words of a man who went easy on himself. He would have less trouble saying them if they were not true, if he was just pretending as an excuse to have Luc leave him. But his rib ached more today, not less, and he would have to grit his teeth when he strapped his wooden leg in place.
Luc hesitated, obviously weighing his desire to get home quickly against some misguided feeling of responsibility for the lame man whose life he had saved.
I will be alright, you owe me nothing, Isaac wanted to say, but a man like Luc would interpret that as self-effacing humility in Isaac, and feel even more beholden.
“Are your horses being saddled?”
Isaac started. He had thought the two crusaders had already left, but apparently they had only been putting their horses in harness.
“We have no horses,” Luc said. “Nor money to buy them. I lost my wealth and my father’s goodwill in a shipwreck, and this man was beset by thieves yesterday.”
“You mean to walk to France?”
“It seems we will have to,” Luc smiled and shrugged.
“We cannot leave countrymen this way. Join us, if you will. Four men will be more of a deterrent to thieves than two, and we will enjoy your company. You are welcome to ride on our wagon if you do not mind sharing the ride with a corpse.” Philippe grinned broadly.
Isaac opened his mouth but before he could think of a way to refuse Luc chimed in: “But that is perfect! I must get home as soon as I can to assure my mother that I am unharmed and explain the loss to my father, and Jean here cannot walk far with his leg. You solve both our problems!”
“I am pleased to do so. But the sun is nearly up, we leave at once. Are you ready?”
“Indeed we are! Is this not the best of luck, friend Jean?” Luc laughed and clapped Isaac on the back. And Isaac, with his staff in his right hand and his left arm pressed against his aching rib, could only nod mutely and accept the company of the men who had more than likely killed those he had loved in Acre.
If he did not already regret travelling with them, he would soon. The corpse would begin to smell, even wrapped in linen inside a nailed coffin. In another day or two sitting beside the corpse would be nearly as unpleasant as walk
ing to France on his wooden leg.
Tomas helped him into the wagon. He allowed the indignity because he could neither hoist himself over the back nor scramble up on the spoke of a wheel. What made him think a brother would welcome him, broken and useless as he was now? He should have died of the wound that left him crippled. Reb David had refused to hear such talk, but he was dead now. His kindness and encouragement could no longer block out the truth: what good was a man who could not even climb into a wagon by himself?
Tomas patted his good leg. Isaac looked up to catch an expression of sympathy and understanding on the mute man’s face. He turned his head away. Tomas had an able body. He could work, could pull his own weight wherever he went. No one minded a man who did not talk—better than one who talked too much. No one questioned Tomas or asked about his past. He was left alone with his thoughts.
Isaac winced. That could be its own kind of hell. He looked back, but Tomas was no longer there, was already climbing onto the seat of the wagon, ready to slap the reins and begin their day’s journey. Luc climbed up beside Tomas and tossed his pack in the back of the wagon.
“What a fine day!” Luc waved his arm expansively to indicate the clear sunrise lighting up the sky.
Neither Isaac nor Tomas affected to hear him.
Chapter Sixteen: The Corpse
Tomas was restful to be around. Whether or not he had been a loquacious man before he lost his tongue, he seemed resigned to listening without comment now. His placid lack of response eventually even quietened Luc.
Isaac lay back in the wagon bed. The rough dirt road was full of holes and bumps which jarred his rib, but his headache had eased and his leg no longer hurt. It did not make up for having to travel with crusaders. He closed his eyes and thought of Reb David’s prayer shawl bundled against his heart. He had missed morning and evening prayers for two days now. If he was not with these men he would have been able to don the tallit and pray in solitude.
The Lode Stone Page 13