by K. T. Tomb
“Our Holy Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa is dead. He and his horse drowned in a river.”
Richard’s heart sank. He took a deep breath of the hot desert wind and let it out again. “What of the German campaign?”
“It is ending. After the Emperor’s death, the Turks hit us hard. King Philip or King Leopold may take up Barbarossa’s campaign, but most of us, barely a thousand who are left, are going home to Germany.”
“As bad as that?” Richard asked, shocked that their numbers were so decimated.
“Worse, Majesty. There is plague breaking out among the troops on the road closer to Jerusalem. I was sent to warn you before you got close to the city.”
“Are you sure it is plague?” Richard asked, shocked even more. “Not siege sickness?”
“It is plague, Sire. I have seen the dead with their underarms burst open.”
“That is a sure sign of it. Well, this is unexpected, on all counts,” Richard murmured in chagrin. He had no immediate supply provisions to take the German campaign under his wing, even if he could stop them from fleeing. Nor did he wish to bring plague into his own troops.
“Unexpected, indeed, Majesty. Our hearts are broken from the loss of our leader, and our troops are withdrawing before more of us succumb to plague. I am ordered to officially announce that Jerusalem is yours, should you choose to take it without us, against Saladin. I know there were plans that we might again fight alongside you, but now, we cannot. It is a fearsome time for all Christians to head into Jerusalem.”
“Thank you for the news and the warning. Please relate my sorrow at the loss of Barbarossa to your countrymen.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I shall do so. Is there a return message about the English campaign?”
“We shall proceed onward toward Jerusalem, as planned,” Richard said firmly.
The blond man nodded, his face stoic. “Very well, Sire.”
Richard paused. “Will you join us, Wolfgang?”
“With respect, I cannot, Your Majesty. I am charged with my final duty of warning all those on this road of the growing plague in Jerusalem, and of Saladin’s men punishing the Christian pilgrims in heinous ways. Then I go to my ship bound for home. I have paid for my passage. If I fail to board the ship, word will be sent to my family that I am dead.”
“Carry out your duty, then. And Godspeed,” Richard said.
“Godspeed to you and your men as well.” Wolfgang galloped past them on his sweat-streaked horse.
Richard waved his hand and his army, once again, rode behind him toward Jerusalem. The men were quiet—no one dared to ask him anything. They rode in silence for quite some time as King Richard grew to feel more and more unwell. Blasted ague, he thought, shivering, even in the merciless heat.
Bearing the news of Barbarossa’s death and the subsequent loss of even fringe support from Germany, Richard the Lionheart didn’t know if it was his spirit or his body that suffered more. One thing he did know was that his enthusiasm for the Third Crusade seemed to wane like the high, thin clouds that promised rain but never delivered it. News of plague in Jerusalem was even more disturbing. And now with the German Emperor dead, Leopold and Philip would squabble for position and surely, at home, Richard’s brother, John, would make even more trouble than he already had. But it would not do to turn back. The King of England did not retreat. Ever.
He was, however, tired of this arduous journey, and yet, there was still Jerusalem to conquer. He was set on taking the Holy City from Saladin and wanted it so badly that he could taste it. However, the scurvy and ague were definitely getting to him, as well as to the other men. When they had gone to Acre and fought Saladin, he and his men had feasted on quinces. That seemed like a long time ago. But then, everything in the desert seemed ancient and unchanging, except for the sky. It was sometimes difficult to keep track of the days, the weeks, the months.
Suddenly, his horse stumbled and went down on his knees. Nearly unseated because his legs weren’t in the stirrups, Richard leapt from the quivering horse that squealed in pain, his knees scraped from the rocks.
“Henri!” Richard called out sharply. “Right front foot. Perhaps a thorn.” He handed the reins to his personal groom, who hurried close, got the horse up and examined his feet and knees.
There was a cut on the front right hoof and Henri pulled a long thorn from it as the horse shuddered. He cleaned the wound with water, spread unguent and packed it with herbs. Then he tied a clean cloth over it to hold in the herbs. He let the horse’s leg down again and patted him.
“He didn’t break his knees, I hope?” Richard asked.
“Let me walk him and see the damage.” The groom walked the horse in a tight circle or two, concern creasing his face. “Your Majesty, his knees are only bruised and scraped, but his foot should rest tonight. If he is not galloped for a few days, he will recover.”
“I hope so. I am fond of him and I should hate to think of eating another horse gone lame.”
The groom looked horrified. “No, Majesty.” He paused. “My deepest apologies, but I have no fresh horse for you. The only horses left are broken-down nags seized from our slaughtered enemies, packhorses and those otherwise under harness, plus a few small donkeys that are not fit for a king.”
“It simply would not do for me to arrive in Jerusalem on the back of a donkey,” Richard said. “Some pilgrims might think I was mocking our Lord.”
The groom half smiled. “No one would dare think that of you, Your Majesty. But our horses do suffer so in this harsh climate and under these road conditions. Perhaps we can obtain you a fine Arabian?”
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 advisors 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. Up on the horse, at least there had been a slight breeze. 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 undisguised joy. If the King walked, everyone walked…and no one liked 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 get 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 even get to Jerusalem, let alone get positioned to fight Saladin again. He hoped they wouldn’t all be dead of hunger, heat and thir
st before they even got to do battle there. One thing was for certain. 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. They took turns chasing each other.
As the camp took shape, his men scurried to and fro, making his royal quarters rise from the ground, attending to horses and removing armor. 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 for his tent and arrange them in exactly the way that Richard liked. It was a royal luxury to have a furnished tent and he honestly didn’t know how the 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 growing clear desert night.
Richard suddenly shivered, hoping that he wasn’t becoming 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 get another one like it, but my answer, since you asked me, is no, Your Majesty.”
Richard was startled. “No? Why wouldn’t you leave the 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 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 get away from 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 advisors and they could pore over the maps. Never too proud to take advice from his more experienced advisors, he always listened intently to the war council, and in particular, 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.
