Treasure

by K. T. Tomb

Richard rolled his eyes at the very thought. “It seems almost treasonous to consider riding one of their blooded horses in our campaign.”

  “Please forget I suggested it, Sire,” Henri replied, contrite.

  Brooding and highly frustrated because his horse was temporarily lame, Richard walked now with a feverish headache beginning; his soldiers and advisers dismounted and followed at a respectful distance. Henri walked his limping horse behind him. Everyone’s armor and weapons clinked and clanked. Surely, the enemy could hear them coming for many leagues.

  Richard realized that he had the last European horse still under saddle. Perhaps it was time to acquire some blooded Arabians. He thought that would look improper, though, to ride an Arabian into battle.

  Things were not looking optimistic for the English army when the King’s last fine horse was out of service. However, there was only so far that one could possibly walk in armor and chain mail in the hot sun.

  Richard sighed heavily. At least there had been a slight breeze up on the horse. Down here, walking on the road, the stench of blood and filth of his men mixed with the cloying scent of death, which was an odor that always seemed to linger in his nostrils for days after a battle.

  When Richard could walk no further—his fine boots were impractical for walking any real distance—he finally gave up for the day, grunted and called out, “Make camp!”

  The command was echoed back to the ranks with ill-disguised joy. If the King walked, everyone walked…and no one liked the idea of walking to Jerusalem. Not even the pilgrims.

  If they said they enjoyed the journey, well, they were lying, Richard thought, gritting his teeth against the unexpected march over the cobbled road and trying to be patient while his quarters were prepared.

  There seemed to be relief among the men that they were even stopping before starlight. Richard really did not like to make camp. He liked to try to travel as far as possible every day and sometimes they even rode their horses at night if there was a full moon. His troop’s fast progress through the Holy Land was twice the speed of the troops of the other Crusader kings, the loss of horseflesh notwithstanding.

  He kicked a rock and hurt his toe through his boot. This evening, his body ached with exhaustion and his mind was frustrated at how long it was taking to reach Jerusalem, let alone position his men to fight Saladin again. He hoped they wouldn’t all be dead of hunger, heat and thirst before they even engaged in battle. Through the years it seemed they had taken turns chasing each other.

  The truth was that this time, Richard wanted the satisfaction of Saladin’s head on a pike and his body hanging from the reared gibbets that he liked to display in camp just to keep up the men’s enthusiasm and fighting spirits for one bloody battle after another. Richard just needed a healthy horse under him to conquer Jerusalem and take it from his nemesis, Saladin.

  As the camp took shape, his men scurried to and fro. They made his royal quarters rise from the ground as well as other tents, attended to horses and removed armor from each other. Henri got Richard’s horse off his feet to reduce the swelling of his foot injury. He lay down next to the horse on the ground, stroking him and speaking softly in his ear.

  As soon as Richard’s tent was ready, he walked into it and took off his hot helmet and armor with help from his mute valet who disappeared afterward, as he always did. The burly giant, whom Richard called Andre, just because no one else under his command had the name, had escaped from one of Saladin’s slave traders after a battle during which he had been captured.

  Andre had come to Richard with his tongue cut out, unable to even say his own name, let alone write it—he was completely illiterate though strong as an ox and had a willingness to please that won Richard over. Andre could, however, draw very well, and was able to tell his story that way, and relate that Saladin killed some of the captured Crusaders, but always sold the strongest ones as slaves. It was one of the ways in which Saladin kept his empire thriving.

  Richard kicked off his boots but lay down otherwise fully dressed on the cot that was always transported for him in a donkey cart because it was deemed unseemly for the King of England to sleep directly upon the ground.

  Every night that they made camp, Andre would remove the king’s cot and other furnishings from the cart and arrange them in the tent exactly the way that Richard liked. It was a royal luxury to have a furnished tent and he honestly didn’t know how men who slept in the open could bear it.

  One hand rested on his broadsword, and the other clenched a rosary—though he was too distraught to pray. He held the rosary like a talisman, as if it could protect him in his sleep.

  So far, it had.

  Richard could hear the soft talking of the men and wood snapping as they broke branches of dried thorn bushes and made small fires to prepare tea and keep themselves warm in the clear desert night.

  Richard suddenly shivered, hoping that he wasn’t becoming seriously ill. He drew his smelly cloak to his chin when the orphaned Kurdish boy, a camp follower, came in with strips of dried, salted oryx meat and a measure of wrinkled olives wrapped in a square of cloth. He also brought a steaming cup of what did not even remotely pass for English tea, which was about the only thing that Richard liked about England. Nay, the tea was brewed from a local herb that was so bitter that it almost made him gag, but at least it masked the foul taste of the water decanted from the rancid skins they carried. Tonight, there was honey for the tea. He was thankful for it.

  “Your Majesty, I have brought food,” the boy whispered softly in the French that he’d been learning. He spoke French because Richard did not speak English, even though he was the King of England. Richard certainly didn’t speak any of the Arabic dialects.

  “Good evening, Kako,” Richard said. “How do you fare?”

  “I am well, Sire. I rode for part of the day on Andre’s donkey cart. There was room for me on it today, as the supplies are lessening.”

  “A keen observation,” Richard replied.

  “Thank you. Do you want me to taste your food before I leave it?” Kako lit a candle in the tent.

  “Yes, Kako,” Richard said. “Proceed.”

  The boy sniffed and ate small amounts of the meat and olives and took a sip or two of the tea.

  “How is it?” Richard asked. He knew he should be hungry but he wasn’t.

  “Salty,” the boy said. “It makes me even thirstier. It is good food, though, and I am glad to be your food taster. For weeks, you have kept me from going hungry.”

  “As well, you have kept me alive,” Richard said. “A fair trade, I would say.”

  “Would anyone really poison their own king?” Kako asked.

  “It’s happened many times throughout history that kings and other nobles have been poisoned by their food. Sometimes accidentally, and sometimes, with deadly intent,” Richard said. “It is actually quite common for kings to be poisoned by cowardly usurpers and various enemies.” He paused. “Have a little more food, my dear boy.”

  Kako laughed. “You are making a joke, Majesty?”

  “Yes, I was, but go ahead and eat half of my food. Your ribs look like barrel staves.”

  “Thank you, Majesty. My mother, when she was alive, said she could never fill me up, no matter how hard she tried.”

  “Boys are the same all over the world. Always hungry, always moving, always thinking ahead. Food is our world, until we fall in love with horses, or are crowned the king of a country that we don’t even live in. Whichever of those comes first.”

  Kako did not answer because he was busy chewing and then sipping the tea.

  “Have you thought about what I asked you yesterday, Kako?”

  “You asked if I would come with you after the Crusade and become an educated translator and work for you,” Kako said as he chewed messily.

  “Yes, young linguist. What is your answer?” Richard asked.

  “I know it is a most generous offer and from your heart. I shall never receive another one like it, but my
answer, since you asked me, is no, Your Majesty.”

  Richard was startled. “No? Why wouldn’t you leave this country with a King? As his guest? As his ward?”

  “I am poor here, but I am free in my country. If I go with you, I will become a slave in your country. At the very least, people would not trust me because of my heritage. Here, I am poor, but I am free. There, I would be well-to-do, at least fed and clothed, but bound to serve.”

  Richard thought about his answer for a few moments. “You are wise beyond the years that you are.”

  “I learn things from Knights Templar, Majesty. And from you.”

  Richard sighed wearily. “Eat, Kako. Little wise man.”

  The boy nodded. When he had eaten exactly half of the food, Kako served the rest to Richard and sat on the ground at his feet, next to the cot.

  Suddenly, Kako flicked a scorpion from the king’s cloak with a practiced finger and then smashed it with his sandal.

  “Pardon, Majesty, for touching the person of the king without permission.”

  “Pardon is always granted for scorpion killing. My gratitude, Kako.”

  The boy nodded, his dark eyes round with not a little fear. “It was one of the small ones,” Kako said. “Deadly poison.”

  “I am not dead yet,” Richard said.

  “I am not dead yet, either, Sire. The food must be safe.”

  Richard realized that he was too tired to eat it. And suddenly, he was too ill to sit up. It felt like the ague again. “I’ll eat it later. Leave me, Kako,” Richard said. “Blow out the tallow candle on your way out.”

  The light disappeared and the padding of his small feet retreated as Richard let the darkness become his blanket.

  On the cusp of a dream, King Richard the Lionheart writhed on the cot, sweating but also chilled, with his legs and arms twitching from scurvy as his exhaustion, hunger and thirst pulled him into the sharp tang of a disturbing dream.

  At Acre, the blood of three thousand Muslims—emirs, soldiers and even women and children—cascaded in scarlet rivulets that clawed and rushed down the steep, rocky crags and puddled at the bottom of the sand before dissipating into it, leaving nothing but flies that became writhing maggots before his eyes…

  Horror after horror tormented him in the vivid dream—he tried but could not escape the carnage…and, from the thundering voice of God.

  In the middle of the night, Richard woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, “Save Saladin!”

  Panting in fear, he immediately summoned his priest.

  Chapter Two

  The dusty-robed man strode past the guards and stepped through the tent flap into the presence of the King of England. The tent was spacious and cooler than he’d expected.

  Abandoning the cot where he’d had the horrific dream, Richard sat with crossed legs at the back corner of the flapping tent. The remains of a meal were beside him. All that was left were a few dozen olive pits and an empty cup with bits of dried oryx meat that must have been too gristly for him to chew. One of the archers had shot it on the dunes and they had been eating oryx for weeks. Gustave always soaked his dried meat in water before he ate it because his teeth were loose from scurvy and he didn’t want to break off any more of them.

  “I am sorry for summoning you at such an indecent hour,” Richard said.

  “That is what I am here for, and anyway, back in the monastery, I would be obediently praying at this hour with everyone else. Now, your Majesty, you sent for me, so please tell me…what has happened?” asked the robed man who fiddled with his crucifix.

  “I will, Father. Do you have more than a few moments for me?”

  “Of course, Majesty. Always,” he said respectfully.

  Richard rose and motioned toward the far end of his tent. A council table, surrounded by four wooden stools, was set up by his valet every time they made camp, and before and after every battle, so that Richard could talk to his most trusted advisers and they could pore over the maps.

  Never too proud to take advice from his more experienced advisers, he always listened intently to the war council and, in particular, to de Sable, the Master of the Knights Templar and his most trusted, fearless warrior.

  Of course, there was the map maker, de Mandeville, a quiet fellow who was superb at map making, but perhaps not so superb at swordplay. He tended to be a little envious of de Sable, but mostly, he kept to himself and attended to making his fine maps.

  Richard raised a calloused palm and gestured toward the table. “Won’t you have a seat, old friend? It’s hardly the comfort provided at home, but at least it provides some semblance of civilization.”

  Richard smiled from out of the shadows as they approached the table.

  He knows I do not want to be here, thought Gustave. He is taunting me, trying to raise me to anger, or at least provoking me as a child would to get a rise out of another. I will not be his entertainment today, not in this godforsaken land, be it holy or not. And godforsaken it is; this Holy Land is completely overrun by the Muslims.

  “It is adequate, Sire,” Gustave replied. “We are in the Holy Land to free the land of our Lord from the heathen barbarians. If Christ made do with his head on a stone pillow under the stars, surely I can make do with a footstool in the fine battle tent of a king.”

  “Spoken like a true fighting man, Gustave.”

  The priest clenched his jaw. Self-consciously, he ran his thumb over the smooth slope that had once been his ring finger and pinky. “I am no fighting man, my lord.” Chagrined at his response to Richard, Gustave found himself staring down at the elaborate Persian rug that lit up the tent with bright color.

  You’ve said too much, he thought bitterly. Even that is enough for him to use to bait you.

  In a fluid motion that revealed the king’s remarkable athleticism, even after this tiresome journey, in two quick strides, he was at Gustave’s side.

  “You were once a fighting man, Father. A good one. One who had an unfortunate accident.”

  The priest found himself clenching his left hand, a hand that had now taken over most of the functions that had normally been reserved for his maimed right hand.

  Perhaps this will be the time I do not hold back, thought Gustave. Perhaps this is the time I use all the strength in what is left of my right hand to strangle this king.

  Gustave thought it was only fitting that he would someday use his right hand to choke the life out of the king. But it wouldn’t be tonight.

  “Yes, Sire. It was a very painful accident.”

  When he and Richard were but carefree young men engaging in sword practice, someone had called Gustave’s name and he had turned his head away for an instant. The young king had used the opportunity to playfully lunge at Gustave. Richard’s saber had struck low enough to cleanly slice two fingers off of Gustave’s right hand.

  And so, in a moment, Gustave had gone from fighter to priest, for, what was left for a man who could not fight or work in any trade or even labor or drive horses? In that instant, his entire dream to be the best swordsman in the world—indeed, he had already been better than Richard—had been painfully lost.

  “You’ve never given me absolution for that accident,” Richard said softly. “I feel it to my very soul.”

  “You’ve never formally confessed the sin, therefore, how could I issue penance?”

  “And if I did confess, what would be my penance, Father Gustave?”

  “After all of these years, do you not know?” Gustave paused. “Your penance is to have me in your constant company.”

  “I don’t understand,” Richard said.

  “Richard, penance is to see, daily, what you have wrought and to accept it. And even, to thank God for it. Only then will you begin to approach absolution.”

  Gustave saw the king flinch at his words. It seemed Richard still had a conscience.

  Lately, Gustave had wondered about that. But Richard had failed again to express his true regret for the harm he had caused. Instead, he diverted
blame, as he often did.

  “I have often thought that you could cover the hand with a glove,” Richard said, swallowing hard. “I would have it specially made for you, with stuffed fingers, so that no one would know.”

  “No, Sire. I was left with three fingers on my right hand and there was a specific and divine purpose for that.”

  “There was? What was that purpose, Gustave?”

  “To make the sign of the cross, of course. At the very moment of the loss of my fingers, my higher calling emerged. I had three fingers with which to make the sign of the Trinity and that would be their task for the rest of my life. If just one more finger had been cut off, I could not have become a priest, for I would not have been able to make the sign of the Trinity with my right hand, and of course, the left hand would not be suitable for making the sign of the cross. Nay, I am saved for the priesthood, by you. You had a hand, shall we say, in my destiny.”

  Richard sighed heavily. Gustave’s bitter wit had struck him again. Gustave was the only one who could throw such barbs at the king and get away with it, and the priest knew it.

  “If I could undo that moment in time, Gustave, you know I would not have struck you when you were not looking. It was, at best, bad sportsmanship on my part. At worst, it caused the ruin of a man’s right hand and his fighting career.”

  Gentler, Gustave said, “Do not regret my maiming too much, Sire. You were merely God’s instrument for our intertwined destiny.”

  “You truly believe that?” Richard said.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I do. And now, with this same maimed hand, I shall bless your health and safety in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  He held up his right hand and made the sign of the cross over Richard and uttered a simple blessing.

  Richard bowed his head and looked away with a murmured thanks that was unusually subdued.

  Gustave could see that old guilt rise up like a serpent, waiting to strike at the opportune moment. And strike it had. At least the king had lasting regret over maiming him, which was more than Gustave could say for Richard’s otherwise unrepentant, murderous nature.