Adam of Albion (14 page)

Adam
hurried nervously past the fierce-looking sentries on the great walls of
Jerusalem—although they not only didn’t challenge him, they nodded greetings or
raised hands in salute, now that he was on a mission for the Sultan.

Mustafa
was waiting outside the gate, along with the two guards to escort them, Hassan
and Sayeed. The cargo they were taking with them—the gift for King Richard—was
on a wooden cart hitched to a pack pony. Adam couldn’t see what it was because
it was covered with piles of straw that were thoroughly soaked with water.

That
seemed a little strange. What kind of gift did you have to keep wetted
down—like, if it got too hot, it was going to explode?

Was
this a
bomb?
Was that the real reason Saladin was sending a naïve boy,
who’d go up in smoke and never be missed? Adam gave his head a little shake, as
if to dislodge a gnat from his brain. He trusted the Sultan’s word. He had to
in order to carry this off.

He
focused on the task at hand. There were four fine Arabian warhorses along with
the cart, mounts for the men and boys—and he realized with joy that one of them
was Saladin’s chestnut mare, Zuleika! She’d been beautifully groomed, her coat
gleaming in the early morning sunlight—it was like seeing a friend you could
count on. He hurried to her and hugged her neck, while she snorted
affectionately and shoved her muzzle against him.

But
he was outright astounded when Hassan, who seemed to be in charge, called over
to him.

“Take
the reins, Adam—the Sultan wishes you to ride Zuleika today. It’s a very rare
honor. He says you handle her well.”

Mustafa
chortled with glee, and even Orpheus gave his spine an approving little butt.

The
four of them swung themselves up into the saddles, the guards in front of the
cart and the boys flanking it.

Then
they started the dusty ride, through the quickly rising heat of the day, to the
Crusader camp.

They
moved along at a fast walk, with the pace set by the pack pony pulling its
burden. The distance of a few miles should take them about an hour. Once they’d
settled into a steady pace, he felt another thump between his shoulder blades.

“I
don’t mind watching your back, but it would help if I could see what’s going on
in the rest of the world,” Orpheus hissed.

“Okay,
but keep it quiet.” Adam slung the hemp sack around under his arm so Orpheus
could peer out through the mesh.

The
sandy plain was deserted except for occasional distant figures of local people
going about their business, and the ride was uneventful. But as they neared the
tent encampment, Adam’s anxiety was in high gear again. He remembered reading
that Richard the Lionheart was famous for his hot temper—and when he got mad,
he tended to haul out his sword or battleaxe and clobber whoever had made him
that way. Plus there was the power-mad Templar, Gerard de Chavirage, who was
determined to wreck the truce, and who just might point Richard’s anger toward
someone else.

Like,
say, a boy who was bringing the King a gift from the enemy.

There
were soldiers moving around the camp, same as yesterday, although it didn’t
seem crowded—it actually had kind of a sleepy appearance. During the ride,
Mustafa had told him that this was only part of the Crusader army, a contingent
that had traveled with Richard. A lot more of them were stationed at cities
like Acre and Ascalon along the coast, but close enough to arrive quickly if a
serious battle broke out.

And
now Adam started to get a sense of what those battles really meant.

The
first hint was smell—putrid, like the rotting meat of gut piles left behind by
hunters, and growing stronger with every step they took. It was coming from a
large long tent that looked rough and plain, set apart from the main
encampment.

When
they were close enough to see into it, Adam realized that this was a hospital.
The rotting meat was human flesh—and the men were still alive. They lay in rows
on crude cots, covered with sweat, some twisting and moaning in pain and others
looking already dead. A few monks moved among the rows, tending to them.

The
smell was sickening enough—the two boys were practically gagging, and even
Saladin’s guards, veteran warriors who were obviously used to this sort of
thing, looked uncomfortable—but Adam’s imagination lit up with horrifying thoughts
of what it would be like to get hacked and bludgeoned with sword, battleaxe,
mace, your flesh ripped and bones smashed, then to lie helpless for weeks or
months in the scorching desert heat. Not much could be done but bandaging
wounds and sawing off gangrened limbs; there were no pills or injections to
dull the agony, no antibiotics against infection, not even anything like
television or books to help pass the endless hours. Many more died than lived,
and those who did live went back to war to face more of the same, as soon as
they were able. It wasn’t exactly what you saw on the big screen at the
Cineplex.

As
they approached, a tall, spare man who looked about forty stepped out to meet
them. He was dressed like the soldiers with dusty boots and leggings, plus a
black tunic with a splayed white cross on the front. He also had a long,
well-used broadsword hanging from his belt of corded rope. His face was craggy,
even harsh, although not in a hostile way—it was more like a road map of a
really hard life. He didn’t seem even slightly fazed by the awful smell. He
probably spent a lot of time around it.

“A
Knight Hospitaller,” Orpheus whispered. “They guard pilgrims and tend to the
wounded. They’re also warriors like the Templars and fight alongside them, but
they don’t like each other.”

Hassan
and Sayeed seemed to know him, and to respect him—they raised their hands in
salute and called out greetings in Arabic, which he returned. Then his gaze
shifted to Adam, and turned appraising.

“If
the Sultan sends his favorite horse, this must be a special occasion,” he said.
“What do you bring us?”

Hassan
turned back in his saddle and motioned with his head for Adam to answer.

His
heart was hammering harder. It was time for him to prove that he was worthy of
Saladin’s trust. He slid off Zuleika’s back, thinking it would be more polite
to approach on foot, and led her forward.

“A
gift from the Sultan to King Richard, sir,” Adam said, and then, remembering
what Saladin had said, he added, “I speak English.”

The
tall man’s eyebrows rose.

“Indeed?”
he said—also in English, although with an accent that might have been French or
German. “I think the king will be as curious as I am. Who shall I tell him is
calling on him—and riding Zuleika, no less?”

“My
name’s Adam, sir.”

“Very
well, Adam. Come along, I’ll take you to him.”

But
by now, others had noticed their presence. As they started walking, two
Templars on horseback came riding toward them. There was no polite dismounting
here—they stayed in their saddles, looking belligerent and blocking the way.

Although
Adam noticed that they didn’t get too close to the tall man, who seemed as
unfazed by this as by everything else.

“You
overstep yourself, Cristof!” one of them called out. “The cart must be examined
before it’s taken to the King.”

Cristof!
Adam registered. This was the knight who Saladin had
said he could trust.

“The
King’s body may be ailing, but as his physician, I assure you that his mind is
in excellent condition,” Cristof answered, walking calmly onward. “He’s entirely
capable of deciding for himself—and I suspect he’d be rather annoyed if you
suggest otherwise.”

The
Templars glowered angrily, but they reined their horses aside to let the group
pass.

As
they moved farther into the camp, the sickly smell gave way to the still strong
but more wholesome odors of cook fires, dust, horses, and men who sweated a lot
but rarely bathed. They headed toward a tent which, for a tent, looked fairly
luxurious—carefully set up, spacious, and flying white pennants emblazoned with
red crosses.

The
emblem of King Richard the Lionheart.

Orpheus
gave him a thump, as if to drive the point home. The Templars were still
hovering around, fingering their sword hilts menacingly. Adam tried to follow
as close behind the Hospitaller as he could without looking weird.

Cristof
signaled him to wait and walked to the tent, parting the flaps and disappearing
inside. After a minute or two, he stepped back out.

“The
King wishes to see his gift—in privacy,” he called to the Templars. Scowling,
they backed away.

Hassan
nodded at Mustafa, who burrowed into the pile of wet straw and uncovered two
ornate bronze chests the size of old-fashioned steamer trunks. Both were damp
from the straw—but one seemed strangely more so, as if from condensation.

“This
is for you, revered doctor,” Hassan said, pointing to the drier chest. “The
Sultan sends it with his compliments—it contains herbs and other healing
substances that he hopes will be useful to you.”

Cristof
nodded with appreciation. “Please return my thanks to him—he may be sure I’ll
put it to good use.”

“The
other is for the King. It’s heavy—shall we bring it inside?”

Cristof
gripped one of the handles and hefted it, lifting the end up off the cart.

“I
think Adam and I can manage.”

Adam
was startled, but he quickly took his cue and grabbed hold of the other handle,
tensing his shoulder muscles as he took on the weight. It wasn’t so bad, about
like a bale of wet hay. He followed Cristof into the tent, clinging to the
handle like it was his last hold on life. They set the chest down, and Cristof
stepped off to the side.

Adam
was left standing there alone—face to face with King Richard the Lionheart.

Richard
was wearing only a long plain tunic and sitting in a large chair made of
wicker, probably because it was comparatively cool. He did look sick—although
it was still early morning, his tunic was soaked with sweat, and his hair and
beard were damp matted strands. But the knotty muscles in his bare calves were
like footballs, and his hands could have snapped a steer’s leg. His famous
battleaxe, its wicked double blades scarred from cleaving skulls, leaned
against the chair within easy reach.

And
his bold, commanding gaze was undimmed. In a way, it was like Saladin’s,
although while the Sultan’s pierced, Richard’s bludgeoned.

Right
now, it was hammering full blast at Adam.

“Open
the chest, lad,” he growled. “But I promise you—if it’s another of those damned
snakes like yesterday, you’ll go home inside there with it.”

Oh,
no!
Adam had been so relieved to convince himself it wasn’t a bomb, he hadn’t even
thought about something like a snake. He remembered the airborne serpent at the
skirmish, hissing and striking with vicious speed—remembered one time on the
ranch when he’d disturbed a nest of rattlers that came boiling out like
writhing furies, bent on killing the little boy running frantically away.

Trying
to keep his hands from trembling, he knelt beside the chest and unsnapped the
lid—then inhaled a quick deep breath and swung it open.

Richard’s
glowering stare shifted to the chest’s contents and stayed there for several
seconds, with his eyes widening in disbelief.

The
chest was filled with a single large block of clear ice, sculpted into a
perfect cube, its surface just starting to slicken from the heat.

Richard
threw back his head and barked out a laugh. “Do my eyes deceive me, Cristof?”

“I
think not, my lord,” the doctor said, with a craggy grin. “But let’s put it to
the test.” He unsheathed his sword halfway and tapped a corner of the ice block
with the hilt, breaking off a small chunk. He smelled it, rubbed it between his
fingers, and tasted the moisture.

“From
what I can tell, it’s as pure as Our Lady’s heart,” he said, handing the chunk
to the King. Richard swathed it across his sweating forehead, then popped it
gleefully into his mouth.

Adam
sidled off to the side, lightheaded with relief. Whoever would have dreamed
that ice would be such a big deal? In Montana, it was a nuisance you spent half
the year fighting. But here, it would be much more rare than gold and jewels,
and those wouldn’t keep you cool.

“Where
do you suppose he got it?” Richard demanded, crunching the ice between his
teeth. “There can’t be any of this stuff for hundreds of miles.”

“I’ll
ask.” Cristof stepped outside the tent briefly, talking with Hassan and Sayeed,
then came back in. “The mountains of Lebanon. When he heard of your illness, he
sent a team of his swiftest horsemen. They rode hard day and night, and only
just returned. It’s a measure of his esteem for you.”

“Hah!
A measure of how badly he wants me to get out of his land, more likely,”
Richard declared—but jovially.

“That,
too,” Cristof agreed.

“If
only my friends had a thousandth part the grace of this enemy! I’d throw my
arms around the old rogue if he was here. But I’ll throw them around his gift,
you may be sure. Have my tub filled, will you, Cristof? Hack me off a few
chunks to throw in, and take the rest for your wounded—it will ease their day a
little.”