The Book of the Lion (19 page)

Nigel and Rannulf stood beside each other, arms folded, and only moved when the red tide crept too close.

 

 

 

 

It was twilight.

A cool wind from the sea blew among the tents. It fluttered the pennons and standards overhead, a loud, percussive sound.

We could still nose the smell of slaughter, just a few hours ago.

Hubert and I had wandered to the edge of the camp, where the beach was guarded by a few Corsican spear-bearers, small, quick men who called out to each other jokingly, “Who goes there?” “Name yourself!” and many such things in their jaunty tongue.

The sea breeze was delicious. Crusader galleys and sailing ships clawed off, away from the shore, finding new anchorage in the distance. Saracen warships skulked, furtive beetles on the horizon.

“None of this—” Hubert began, and then fell silent.

I waited, feeling incapable of offering him consolation.

“Nothing is what I expected,” said Hubert at last.

One of the Corsican spearmen challenged us, in accent-warped English, mock-English, really, because many of the soldiers found the sound of our language amusing. “Password, if you please.”

Hubert did not seem to hear the little man.

“Password, English,” said the brightly garbed sentries, all red stripes and silk leggings.

Hubert looked at him without much show of interest.

“Identify, squire,” said the Corsican.

Hubert stared, his glance something close to insolence.

The sentry rose to his toes, sticking out his neck, uttering a stream of Corsican curses and challenges.

Hubert put his hands around the sentry's neck, and shook the man's head on its stalk.

Sentries came running, tired of watching the choppy surf, as I stepped between the two.

I gave a little speech, in Frankish, English, and as much Latin as I could squirrel out of my memory. We didn't know the password, I tried to explain, but were pleased that the sentries were taking such strong precautions.

I wished them all well, thanked them for their patience, and kept a strong grip on Hubert's collar all the way back to Sir Nigel's tent.

 

Sir Nigel exploded. “I forbid it!”

“I will return to England,” insisted Hubert. “My father will pay you in gold for my passage.”

“He can pay me in pickled testicles!” said Nigel. “You stay with me.”

Hubert began to say more, but Nigel cut him off with a gesture.

The two were quiet, Hubert steadfastly waiting in the center of the tent, Nigel pacing from one corner to another. The tent was large, shifting subtly with the wind outside. The tent ropes hummed with the breeze, and sand hissed quietly against the canvas. Wenstan polished Sir Nigel's shield, working intently, as though none of us were present.

The candlelight simmered. “Did you think it would be easy?” Nigel said at last. “Did you think it would be a game for boys, wooden swords and warriors stuffed with hay?”

Hubert stood still, and only now did I let myself experience the shame-I had stood by while good men scythed the heathen, and I had done nothing to help. Sir Nigel could indulge himself, believing, apparently, that he should not blacken his sword on a woman. But I had betrayed my king, and, I began to believe, Heaven.

“Do you think I've been joyful every day,” continued Nigel, “in this dry hole? But I have done my duty, Hubert, before God.”

The candles fluttered and nearly went out. The tent flap opened, and Rannulf entered the light.

“Hubert is going home, my lord,” I told Rannulf in a whisper.

“And you, Edmund, have no doubt poured ideas into Hubert's head,” said Nigel.

I kept silent.

“Your Edmund displeases me, Rannulf,” said Nigel. “He needs scoring with an ox whip, or I am a witch.”

Rannulf wore the expression of a man very sorry he had come in out of the night. He began to speak, but did not have the chance to make a sound.

“I am thirty-seven years old,” said Nigel. “And tired in my marrow. Who knows how many more years God will grant me? I am not an abbot or a priest—I've always envied those godly men of books, each morning winning Heaven's ear with a prayer. It's so easy for those gentlefolk. I am an ordinary fighting man, Hubert. A worthless man—and I have been called to wear my shield for the Queen of Heaven.”

Hubert took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

Rannulf was standing the way men do when they are full of news. He had said nothing critical of my refusal to join in the slaughter, but Rannulf was one of those who make others guess his thoughts.

“What is it, Rannulf? What has our wise lord king decided now?” barked Nigel. “Maybe there is a girl's choir he would like us to carve into chops.”

Rannulf took his time, now that he had Nigel's ear. He found his cup, sipped carefully through his scarred lips, and said, “We are breaking camp.”

“You are not funny, Rannulf,” said Nigel, kicking a wrinkle in the carpet.

“The order has already been given,” said Rannulf. “All women are to leave the camp immediately”

Nigel gave a silent laugh, a throaty sound, shaking his head in disbelief. “We're taking to sea,” he said. “We're following the Frankish king, like cowards. Like Hubert here. Retreating to our ships. Am I right?”

Rannulf gave us all a smile with his eyes. “We will march south, along the coast, and seek battle with Saladin's army.” He relished his tidings, draining the last of his wine.

“Unless, of course,” Rannulf added, “you prefer to stay here.”

 

No one slept that night.

Looking like rabble, we worked, knight and man. The king's guard struck his tents and set up a spear wall around the royal baggage. Nigel ordered the ostlers to gird and saddle our horses.

Before dawn the carts were greased and loaded, horses pressed into service under bundles of tents and cords of tent pegs. Bowmen paced ahead to protect the landward flank of an army that already stretched south down the beach.

Donkeys were now a part of our army, odd, stumpy-legged animals. These beasts made wheezing, laughing complaints as the men packed them. As the entire army creaked south it looked like a crawling miracle. So much that had been inert and fetid was now on the move.

But so much was left behind, axles and crates, worn leather buckets and fittings, huge bonfires streaking flames and black smoke. Our siege engines had been broken into parts, and only some of the dismantled sections were loaded onto gray horses. Much was fed to the fires, including Sir Skin on his wooden frame.

The treasure had been broken up, stones pried from their settings, silver mauled and melted into bricks. Richard had given the orders that no pleasure women were to follow, and vicious arguments among the women greeted this news, women refusing to listen, spitting, cursing, and following the army in disregard to the king. Even the washerwomen were to be left behind, in theory. Rannulf said they would smell us in Jerusalem days before they saw us. The Burgundians said that they would slit their own throats rather than ride in squalor.

The king relented; washerwomen rejoiced. Pagan scouts rode under light guard, spearmen shielding them from revenge, and from any impulse to return to their brethren. The army made a churning chorus of groans and gristle, leg joints and phlegmy lungs of man and beast, making an impressive noise even from well ahead of the army, where Hubert and I rode the leading edge. He carried one of Nigel's battle lances, a fluttering scarlet pennon at the point.

Soon
, the wind sang.

Soon Saladin's army would move to stop our progress, and there would be the great, open battle we had all dreamed about.

I was convinced that I longed for pitched battle as well as any man. Caught up in the hubbub of the march, I felt no fear.

Winter Star capered beneath me, kicking like a goat, my hammer sleeping heavily in its leather boot. Hubert's horse Shadow caught the mood, jigging and snorting, Hubert unable to keep from smiling at his steed's eagerness. But soon all the horses were shaking their manes, rolling eyes, even Sir Nigel having trouble gripping the bridle. Hubert and I steadied our horses while the knights and squires caught up with us. Sir Guy de Renne reined in his horse until the beast foamed at the bit.

“There's something troubling them,” said Rannulf, a note of compassion in his voice.

“They act like they smell bear,” said Nigel.

“Or lion,” said Rannulf.

He took it upon himself to ride east, pausing for me to follow.

 

 

 

 

The air was perfumed with spice, the sort sold to the richest ladies, pinch by pinch, on the spicer's scale.

“We march south, with the Infidel ships on our seaward side, the Saracen army between us and Jerusalem,” said Rannulf. “How long do you think we will keep from starving?”

Late morning sun filled the grass, each shaft glittering. The dew was long since gone. We rested our horses under the tall, plumed date palms, big fronds like huge brittle feathers under the horse's hooves.

“I know nothing of such strategy,” I said at last.

Rannulf shook his head. “Counterfeit meekness, Edmund,” he said. “Every man with a belly can think.”

“I hope there will be a battle soon,” I said.

“Do you?”

It was true enough, and I wanted to say so, but he stood tall in his stirrups, searching the ground, leaning against his hunting lance. He said, “If we found the track of a lion, and reported it, the king would be greatly pleased. It would help you win back his favor.”

“Have I so badly lost our lord king's favor?” I heard myself ask.

“And counterfeit ignorance. Your prove a smooth liar, squire,” he said, with something like gentleness. “You did not join in the general slaughter.” He said this as easily as though he discussed a horse race.

“Many fighting men did not.”

“And many did.” To my surprise Rannulf shrugged. “Sometimes the sword will not leave the sheath.”

“A squire lives for his master, and his master's lord,” I responded, wondering if I should have assisted Rannulf in butchering the prisoners.

Rannulf said, “If we found a big cat's spoor and brought back its skin, the king would never forgive either of us.”

Our own army trailed forever, and to the east a haze of white dust shadowed our forces. Saladin's men were not slow to parallel our path, his terraces of tents already vanished, the beautiful yellows and blues rolled up and gone.

“But think how every man and woman would admire us,” I said.

The wind kicked up a flurry of empty dust. Far away, the troop of washerwomen trailed our army. I kept finding them with my eyes.

“We crave the admiration of women,” Rannulf agreed, almost sadly. “Heaven makes them so alluring so we do not see their true nature.”

“Is a woman's nature very different from a man's?”

“As unlike a man's as a leper is unlike Achilles. Why do you think King Richard prefers the company of young men?”

“I am so ignorant,” I offered. So painfully unknowing, so forcibly chaste, I meant. So virginal, despite my longing.

“You are spared sorrow,” said Rannulf. “The female soul is dwarfed and hideous, Edmund. If we could see through a woman's beautiful form, and see her inward nature, we would cringe with disgust. Praise Heaven that you have been spared a woman's touch.”

Many Christian men felt as Rannulf did, but I certainly did not. I found myself with the ever-fresh memory of Elviva, her hand out to mine as I reached down to touch her in farewell.

Outriders approached, a thudding, shuffling gallop.

Winter Star shuddered, and I leaned forward, gripping his mane. Rannulf had trouble with his own mount.

Winter Star kicked sideways, trying to turn back.

“Camels,” said Rannulf.

I had heard of the camel-leopard, a beast with spots and a huge body, who could call out with the voice of a beautiful woman. The firmament overlooked many such wonders: the griffin, half lion, half eagle, that guarded buried treasure; the harpy, half woman, half bird, who tormented travelers.

These loping, lurching steeds frightened me, even as a nervous laugh escaped my lips. The riders beat at the sides of these swollen creatures, and each camel stretched out its neck, opened a lipless mouth and gave a terrible bleat. Much slashing was required to motivate these camels toward us, heavy, pillowy hooves flopping on the hard ground as they came on.

Winter Star began to steady his nerve just as I was sure I had lost mine.

“Do camels eat human flesh?” I asked, trying to sound more courageous than I felt.

Rannulf took the question seriously, or pretended to. “I think they do not,” he said.

“This is good news,” I responded shakily.

Rannulf leveled his hunting lance, and nudged his mount forward a pace or two, as I followed.

The camel-riders yanked and sawed at the long necks of their monsters. They took a position a long bowshot from us, the camels bawling in complaint.

Squire duty required me to say, “My lord—you should take up your shield.” It was held by its trappings to the saddle.

The outriders sang out a high, ululating cry.

Rannulf gave a toss of his lance, like a man distracted by children: What are you
waiting for?

The camelmen showed their teeth, commenting among themselves, greatly amused. A rider with flowing sulfur-yellow sleeves pointed and his companions urged their bawling camels into new positions. The riders flicked their swords, brilliant crescents, and the leader gave a short challenge in a high, tenor voice.