by K. T. Tomb
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.
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 birthplace 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 the king. Gustave thought it was only fitting that he would someday use his right hand to choke the life out of the king. But not 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 sabre had struck low enough to cleanly slice two fingers from 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’v
e 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.
“Penance, Richard, 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.”
For an instant, Gustave saw him flinch. So, 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 he 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, unsporting of me. 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. Gustave had lost track of Richard’s body count long ago. Suffice it to say, he rarely took a prisoner. It was as if he didn’t know what to do once he seized a city, other than to annihilate the people therein.
“Do you want to give me some Hail Marys or something?”
“No. As I said, my daily presence in your life is your penance, Richard. Just think of me as your…handmaiden.”
“Gustave, don’t mock my sorrow over harming you.” Richard looked upset about more than this. Something else was bothering him.
“Mea culpa,” he said in Latin, to apologize. Gustave unclenched his hands, his one-and-a-half hands, as he himself so often had said. He let out a whoosh of air that had been trapped inside of him. The priest’s shoulders drooped a little, and what ire had been in him just moments ago, disappeared. His energy was sapped by both the desert winds and his own lack of will to accept his maiming as an act of God, even though that was how he had professed it to Richard. It was a carefully practiced speech and he knew just when to pull it out of his pocket. Now that he had done so, a bitter relief washed over him.
“You are my prayer warrior,” Richard said. “I cannot fight the good fight without you by my side. When I use my sword, sometimes, I think of your hand upon it as well, guiding it.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I always wanted to fight for God and country. Now, my prayer is answered. Thanks be to God, our strongest weapon against the enemies, spiritual and flesh.” He tried not to let his words sound bitter and carefully composed his face. He and Richard warred like this, with words. It was a bad habit after all of these years and neither of them could cease pricking at each other.
At one time, Gustave had been hailed as the next great warrior of England, but now, he could not even stomach the thought of holding a sword; his left hand was clumsy and weak and the very positioning would put him at a fighting disadvantage.
Richard swallowed and looked at his armory. “I have my weapons, and you have yours.”
To the priest’s left was Richard’s small armory, really only a pile of weapons, but of finer quality, fit for a king. There were three fine swords in their gold and jeweled scabbards, a crossbow that was unlike any other in the world and a blood-stained mace on an iron chain at the end of a club that had been specially carved to fit Richard’s large hand.
Oh, to have a full right hand again. It had been many, many years since Gustave had gripped the hilt of any sword. It was a feeling he remembered as being so natural, an extension of his own hand and arm, in fact. Now, he had no desire to even cast his gaze upon the weaponry for longer than a moment. It was a painful reminder of what had been accidentally taken from him, by his king.
The tent flapped open by a gust of hot wind, as if a spirit had left the room, or perhaps, entered.
“Am I here for a specific reason, Your Majesty?” he finally asked. Gustave knew that if Richard were fraught with worry over the coming battle with Saladin, he would have had de Sable in here, listening to the old warrior’s advice. Instead, he had called for his priest.
The anticipated taunting ridicule never came from the king, ridicule that Gustave had endured over the last twenty years while serving as the king’s trusted spiritual advisor. A joke that only King Richard enjoyed was often passed between the two men, of Gustave’s lack of fighting ability. Instead, the king was now visibly upset, shaking.
“I had a dream, Father. A very real dream. Can you help me, my friend?”
Gustave was momentarily taken aback by Richard’s humble plea for help.
“Gustave, my lifelong friend, I think I may die,” said Richard the Lionheart, King of England, leader of the Third Crusade.
Richard’s words echoed in Gustave’s head. Richard had never uttered such defeated words. Gustave wanted to grin, but refrained. The fearful words were appealing. In those words that brought the king down to the level of the worries of an ordinary man, Gustave found freedom, relief from a prison term as the king’s unwilling court jester, and relief from the constant pain of humiliation at his utter whim.
Gustave looked up, meeting Richard’s haggard eyes. He kept his voice calm. “Perhaps you should tell me your dream. In detail.”
The Last Crusade
is available at:
Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback
About the author:
K.T. Tomb enjoys traveling the world when not writing adventure thrillers. She lives in Portland, OR. Please find her at:
Please visit her at www.kttomb.com.
Add her on Facebook.
Add her on Twitter.
re-buttons">share
