The Lute Player (41 page)

The emir rode forward presently and asked, ‘Belly full?’

‘Belly full, thank you, and hungry now for battle,’ Richard replied.

The emir, without moving from Richard, blew another blast on his whistle and the Saracens charged down the little slope each taking, so far as was possible to judge, the station where he had been before. And the battle went on. The emir who had sent the figs and the dates and in return had eaten the black pudding succeeded, before the day was over, in slashing Flavel’s neck so that he died and Richard joined the great company of the dismounted.

That is a true story. Many men sing of it, few believe it. But I saw it happen. They say that the Saracen emir was Saladin himself. I have no proof of that. Just as Christians look out for and think they see Satan everywhere, as the Saracens tell tales of Richard’s queer appearances and disappearances, so the crusaders were always seeing Saladin in the old water carrier, the dirty drug pedlar, the one lonely horseman scouting against the sky line.

I have no proof. But I did see Richard sit out between the Christian and Saracen lines, eating a black pudding given him by a Northumbrian and fruit and cakes contributed by the Saracens. I can only tell what I saw.

XIV

Much against Richard’s will we moved from Jaffa, not direct to Jerusalem but by a detour through Ascalon.

The whole story of the crusade is the story of the relationship between Richard and his allies and much is made of the quarrels and jealousies between them. It is only just, therefore, to recount that in this instance he endeavoured to please them. He wanted only to move forward to Jerusalem and after the Battle of Jaffa he was ready to do so. They wanted to take Ascalon and fortify it so that it might stand guardian on their southern flank. I was so often in his tent, practising my left-handed writing; I was so often called to take down note of this or that, that I should be as well informed as any save the participants of the argument, but I must confess that the motive of Leopold of Austria, Hugh of Burgundy, the Grand Masters of the Templars and the Hospitallers eludes me, unless it can be taken for what it seems—an attempt to delay the taking of Jerusalem. Why Ascalon must be taken and fortified—and not Gaza—I never could see and neither could Richard. But they urged it and they were four to one and he gave in. (Conrad of Montferrat had been obliged to go back to Tyre after the Battle of Arsouf. Civil—or should one say internecine?—strife had broken out in that city and since it, with Acre, formed the crusaders link with the West, trouble there could not be ignored. I was present when Richard took leave of him and there was no hint of any ill feeling on either side; and I must admit that often during the later discussions and arguments I, at least, wished that the marquis had been with us. His smooth voice, his good spirits, his cheerful carelessness would have eased many encounters. But he had gone and, as Richard admitted, the rest were four against one.)

So we moved on to Ascalon. The Saracens had abandoned the town just before our arrival but they had destroyed it. The humble clay houses had been left entire but the walls and the towers had been reduced to heaps of rubble. Not a grain of corn, not a mat or a blanket which might have been useful to us was left in the whole town and no living creature moved in it. Men who had been looking forward to loot and rape fell into a mood of disgusted disappointment; and it would have been easy enough for Richard to say, Here is the town which
you
said threatened our southern flank!

But he said nothing. He set to work to make Ascalon what his allies desired it to be, a strong Christian fortress. We camped amidst the ruins and every day small mounted forces of known good fighters set out on raids into the surrounding countryside, charged to bring in horses, donkeys, grain, dried fruit, anything which would be of use; and the rest of the army, even the bladesmiths, blacksmiths, cooks, and storekeepers, were set to work rebuilding the walls, much shortened, and four towers.

Richard, whose nature and talents inclined him to join the raiding parties, every day saw them off and turned back to labour with pick and shovel. Many knights and nobles followed his example, turning the labour into a joke, laughingly comparing the blisters on their hands, the stiffness of their muscles.

‘I reckoned myself a strong man,’ said the old Count of Algenais, ‘but now I know that every grovelling peasant on my demesne is my master.’

But the armed man’s prejudice against menial labour was not to be overcome in a day and, though Richard’s digging and delving inspired those who liked and trusted or even unwillingly admired him, it evoked in others distaste and scorn. The Austrian knights particularly held themselves aloof and sometimes made jeering remarks as they passed. Finally Richard issued an order that every able-bodied man should take turns at the labour. That brought several waverers to stone-laying but the Austrians said, ‘We follow the archduke
on
the field and
off
it.’

We could well do without the unwilling Austrian labour but their attitude affected others. Why should any French or Burgundian knight soil his hands building a fortress which would defend the frivolous Austrians as well as the industrious Franks? And the question, once asked, spread in all directions. Why should archers lay down their bows, engineers abandon their arbalests and mangonels if certain knights retained the privileges of their caste?

One evening Richard came in, dirty, sweat-soaked, and exhausted.

‘If Leopold would come down only for an hour, if he would lay a single stone, his men would follow and this ridiculous situation would mend. Hugh of Burgundy called off all his men today and it was as much as I could do to hold my own to work! True, the Austrians will always ride on the raids but the others would like to take their turn at that. And why not?’

He washed his hands and sluiced his face.

‘Blondel, have I a clean shirt? I’m going to make a formal call on Austria. By God’s eyes, I’ll even take him a present. Where is that scimitar I had from the emir who fed me at Jaffa?’

It was the only concrete evidence of his many triumphs in battle, that weapon with the long curved blade so tempered that it would cut through a floating feather. The blade was of finest Damascus steel and the hilt of pale Kubistan gold, curiously and beautifully wrought. Its beauty was wasted on Richard but he cherished it for the sake of the way in which he had won it. After he had eaten in the middle of the Battle of Jaffa he had joined battle with the emir again and they had fought for an hour—wasp and bull.

By the end of that time they had both tried every feint and trick of skill they knew and it was plain that only sheer exhaustion or some chance bit of luck, good or bad, would give either the victory. Richard with his heavy armour and strong right arm and swift eye could always divert the blows of that flashing scimitar; the emir, light and mobile, could never be smashed or run through. The action was as pretty as fighting can ever be—none the less so because both were in deadly earnest; and men on both sides who felt momentarily safe enough to do so watched it as though it were taking place in a tourney. At the end of the hour the emir, wheeling away for the last time, shouted in his faulty Latin, ‘We waste blows which, dealt elsewhere, might decide the day. And your horse is wounded. We will meet again.’

That was Richard’s first intimation that Flavel’s failing paces had been due to anything more than weariness. He dismounted, clumsy in his armour, to investigate the damage, and the emir rode off, twirling his scimitar which suddenly left his hand, shot in a flashing arc through the air and landed almost at Richard’s feet. Accident? Gesture? No one could say.

Richard had cherished that scimitar, practised with it indefatigably, shrewdly assessed its qualities and faults as a fighting weapon.

But he took it out now, breathed on the curved blade, polished it on his sleeve and went off to present it to Leopold of Austria.

He was gone only a short time and he came back with a look on his face which I had never seen there before and never saw again. He was ghastly pale and his prominent blue eyes were large and bright with the threat of tears.

Raife of Clermont was in the tent and so was Hubert Walter who had come in and elected to await his lord’s return. Richard walked in, sat down on the end of his bed and put his face in his hands.

‘I hit him,’ he said. ‘Well may you gape! I have struck the Archduke of Austria as though he were a villein!’

Hubert Walter’s broad red face lost a little of its colour and in the hush that followed Richard’s announcement Raife of Clermont’s harsh intake of breath was audible. But neither spoke immediately. I saw Walter hesitate, reflect and realise that no expression of dismay would be either serviceable or welcome. He said at last, with a kind of ponderous lightness:

‘Only one buffet, sire? Surely he deserved more!’

Without lifting his head Richard said, ‘He leaves tomorrow. And his men with him.’

Hubert Walter sat down a little abruptly on a stool, planted his knees wide and laid his work-blistered hands squarely upon them.

‘My lord,’ he said in a voice that was at once incredulous and reasonable, as though it were Richard himself who planned some unfeasible action, ‘do you mean to say that
now
, with Jerusalem within striking distance, in our very grip, you might almost say, he goes home because of one blow struck in anger?’

Richard raised his haggard face.

‘No, Walter. The blow is the excuse, not the reason; the last twist on the pulley that sets the stone flying. He goes home because men get wounded—they do, you know, in battle! And they got fever and sores and water in the bowel. And he goes home because Philip of France went long since and because Conrad of Montferrat had business in Tyre and has not returned. Also, there is sometimes a shortage of food and eke of water. And why? These things happen, Walter, because I am not fit to lead an army. Nobody has confidence in me any more. I am mad; I have not even a horse; I work with my hands like a serf. How can any man trust me? Oh, it all came out. He has a thousand reasons and he gave me them down to the last one. Most generously he forgave me the buffet! That in itself, he said, was a sign that I was overwrought and beside myself.’ He brought out the final words with fine irony but I saw his great shoulders shake and he lifted his hands and pushed back his hair with a gesture which, if not distracted, approached that state. ‘Am I mad, Walter, Raife, Blondel? You are near me; you should know! Am I overwrought, beside myself and incapable of leading an army?’

‘Sire,’ Walter said, ‘go out and ask that question of your English archers! For myself I am a plain man and can only say that, churchman though I be, you are the leader whom I would follow to the gate of hell and beyond! Because, lacking a horse, you pressed on; because, lacking labour, you toiled like a serf for the liberation of the holy places. And, my lord, God Almighty, if He is worth His salt, looks on you as I do.’

Hubert Walter, Bishop of Salisbury, was a man of level mind, of integrity of spirit and in control of his tongue. From him such impassioned speech was a tribute indeed.

Richard said almost apologetically, ‘He provoked me, you know. I went and suggested civilly—I swear by Holy Cross, civilly—that he should pretend, only—
pretend
, to take turn at the work so that his lily-handed knights should pretend, too, and the malcontent Burgundians have their answer. And do you know what he said to me? With a jibing grin on his face he said it: “I am not the son of a mason or carpenter.” As though I were! And you and Algenais, all the true men who have sweated. Before I could think or had time to swallow my gorge my hand went out and I struck him.’ He moved his right hand and looked at it and then dropped it with the other between his knees and they hung there, lookng oddly clumsy, helpless and pathetic. ‘I’m not clever enough with words,’ he said. ‘There are many things I could have said, sharp, punishing things more hurtful than any blow. But I haven’t the skill. Leopold and Philip could always taunt me; they’ve made me writhe many a time. Tonight I struck back—a clumsy riposte—with the only means I had and tomorrow he goes home with the best of excuses.’

‘Tomorrow he may repent his decision,’ Hubert Walter said but there was no conviction in his voice.

‘It was not a decision,’ Richard said. ‘He seized an excuse. In the last issue men do what they want to do. Philip wanted to go home, his illness excused him; Conrad wanted to go home, business called him to Tyre and kept him there, mark you. Leopold wants to go home but he needed an excuse acceptable to Christendom and now he has it. He will go.’

‘When Christendom knows the truth, my lord—’

‘How can it?’ Richard interrupted. ‘How can anyone who stayed at home understand? Leopold will go back and ask, How can anyone work with a crazy man who demands that nobles dig and delve and strikes them when they demur? Christendom will side with him to a man.’

It was not the first time that I had been struck by the acute awareness of Christendom which Richard Plantagenet suffered. In many ways the least imaginative, certainly the least self-critical, of men, he had always a nagging sense of being watched, judged, praised or blamed by a vast vague mass of opinion. This flaw in his otherwise impenetrable self-assurance interested me; it hinted at the need which every human being feels for some standard of judgement overruling his own. We say of a brave man, “He fears neither God nor man,” and so far as that can be true of any, I judge it to be true of Richard; but he did fear the adverse opinion of Christendom—a body made up of many members, any one of whom, as an individual, he heartily despised. I have noticed several similar cases of men appointing their own arbiters, stout fierce fellows who live by the light of some woman’s judgment—wife, mother, mistress—not merely by reason of love but because they respect her opinion and fear her censure. And such wear a yoke heavier, I think, than do men who defer to God or Holy Church whose rules of conduct are laid down clearly and whose judgement is given in advance.

When Richard said, “Christendom will side with him to a man,” although he exaggerated a little, he showed great prescience. Leopold did go home and did give his reason almost in the very words Richard had used. And his letter of explanation to the Pope—of which I have seen an accurate fair copy—reads like the letter of a man who has by good luck escaped from a Gadara where the most raving lunatic of all had been put in charge.