Lionheart's Scribe (13 page)

On the one hand I worried that he was overtaxing himself and doing himself harm, but on the other I figured that if he could still summon the strength to get angry and swear, he could not be too near death.

He gave me a few small tasks to do, then dismissed me. I determined to go straight to Queen Joanna and speak to her about Yusra, but that was not so easily done. It took me an hour to persuade her lady-in-waiting to let me see her. Truly that woman—Margaret her name is—is a dragon.

“My lady is resting,” she said at first.

“She will want to see me,” I replied. “She has asked me to help her with the Muslim child.”

“Did she send for you?” Margaret asked, looking down her nose at me as if I were scum from the latrine ditch.

“No,” I was forced to admit, “but …”

“If she wishes to see you,” she answered, her face clearly showing how unlikely she thought this to be, “she will send for you. Besides,” she added, “Her Grace has given up on that stubborn child. She is to be sent as a slave to Syria with some of the other prisoners.”

My heart took a plunge. Then I had an idea.

“I have a way to make the child obey. The queen will want to know before she sends her away. I am certain of it.”

We were arguing outside the doorflap of the queen's tent. I had been speaking more and more loudly, hoping that the queen would hear me. Surely, if she knew I was there she would see me. My ploy worked. A maid suddenly poked her head out of the opening.

“Is that the boy, Matthew?” she asked.

“Yes,” I shot back before the dragon had a chance to open her mouth. “I would see the queen about the Muslim girl.”

The maid's head disappeared for a moment, then reappeared. “Send him in,” she said. “Her Grace would speak with him.”

Margaret turned a most interesting shade of purple, but I darted past her into the tent.

The queen was resting on pillows at the back of the tent. There was no sign of Yusra. Nor, to my great relief, was Father Aimar there.

“Matthew,” Queen Joanna said. “I am surprised to see you. What do you wish?”

“I've come about the Muslim girl, Your Grace,” I replied, kneeling.

She frowned. “Truth to tell, my lad, I've given up on that child. She mopes and sulks and will not respond to any kindness shown her. Yesterday she even bit my maid when she tried to wash the girl. I fear there is no reasoning with her.”

“Begging your permission, Your Grace,” I said as humbly as I could, “I believe I have thought of something that might make things easier with her.”

“I'm not certain I even want to try anymore, Matthew,” the queen answered. “I've already decided to send her away.”

“Has she left yet?” I asked. To my surprise I felt a sudden shaft of pain that took away my breath. I had not realized the girl was so important to me. Perhaps it was because I had rescued Yusra, truth to tell I do not know, but in that moment I realized I wanted desperately to save her.

“No, not yet,” Queen Joanna replied.

I breathed again. “She is Muslim, Your Grace,” I began, choosing my words with care.

“Yes, what of it?” the queen answered. Her frown deepened. “She would not even listen to Father Aimar when he tried to question her about her faith. He has a few words of Arabic and I'm certain sheunderstood, but she pretended not to. I fear she is too obdurate to be reasoned with.”

“She must pray. Five times a day. It is necessary for her.”

“She could pray with Father Aimar whenever she wanted,” the queen replied.

I took a deep breath. I was very frightened of what I was about to say next. It would have been much more prudent of me not to say it, but I am not always prudent.

“She must pray in her own way.” The words came out in a rush. “It is to the same God, but she is Muslim. She must pray in the Muslim way.”

“The same God!” The queen glanced quickly around. “What blasphemy are you speaking, Matthew? Be glad Father Aimar is not here to hear you!”

“But it's true, Your Grace. I have spoken with a Muslim boy. He told me. They share the old prophets with us. They believe that the archangel Gabriel is the messenger of God, as we do …” I stopped. The queen looked horrified. It would undoubtedly have been better if I had had the sense to stay stopped but, as I have already noted, I do not always do the prudent or sensible thing.

“If you could let her pray, Your Grace, in her own way, at her own times, perhaps she would be more content with us. The Muslims in Sicily, Your Grace, they prayed side by side with the Christians. It did no harm …”

“Did no harm? Matthew! I can only surmise that you are so young and have received so littleeducation that you do not know what you are saying. The Muslims are infidels, and the Kingdom of Heaven is denied to them. Are we to encourage this young child in her heresy? We should, rather, be doing all in our power to help her learn the true way, that her soul may be saved.”

I stood mute before her. Of course all that she said was true. What answer could I possibly make?

So why now do I feel so miserable? Why can I not sleep? Why do I feel so guilty?

The twenty-third day of June

I could not help myself. I went again to the queen's pavilion this morning. The dragon, thanks be to God, was not there. The queen did not smile when she received me this time. I knelt before her and could not look anywhere else but at the ground.

“Please, Your Grace,” I said. “Please do not send Yusra into slavery in Syria.” My voice wobbled and came out so weakly that at first I was afraid she had not heard me. Then on a last, desperate impulse I forced myself to look up straight into her eyes.

“If we keep her with us, if we keep trying, perhaps we can teach her the true faith. Perhaps we can save her,” I pleaded.

The queen looked back at me and I felt as if she were reading the thoughts in my brain as easily as she would the words on a parchment scroll.

“I would like to believe you mean that, Matthew,” she said quietly.

“I do, Your Grace. I do!” I said fervently.

But do I? Or was I just saying what I had to inorder to save Yusra? I do not even know myself. But the words worked. Yusra will not be sent away. And I am to speak to her tomorrow and explain things to her. The most I can hope for is that I can persuade her not to bite.

Why
am
I so concerned with this child?

The twenty-fourth day of June

A difficult interview. That girl is indeed stubborn. But so am I. Luckily the queen allowed me to speak to her alone.

“If you continue to be so obstinate you will be sent away as a slave,” I said to her.

“Then a slave I will be,” she retorted. She no longer cries but is as angry as a wasp.

“It will go much worse for you as a slave than as a maidservant to Queen Joanna,” I insisted.

“That priest, he wants me to embrace your Christian religion. I cannot do that.”

“You would not even be given the choice as a slave,” I answered. I was beginning to get annoyed in spite of myself. “You would be worked to death. You would be raped. Your life would be a misery. You would probably be dead within the year.” The words were harsh, I knew, but I had to make her understand.

She flinched, then glared at me. “I would rather be dead. If it is God's will that this is what I must endure, then I will endure it.”

“There might be a way,” I said. The words pushed themselves out even as I was telling myself not to say them. “If you behave,” I said slowly, “if you at leastpretend to go along with the queen's wishes, perhaps I could do something sometime …”

She leaped on my words like a dog on a bone. “You could get me back to my own people?” Her face suddenly came alive.

“I can't promise you that.” The light went out of her eyes. I could not bear it. “But you would have a chance …” I was almost begging. Again I wondered, why was I doing this? The girl meant nothing to me. Then I pushed the thought aside. Lately I do not understand anything, least of all myself.

“Promise me then that you will at least try to help me,” she said. “If I could have some hope … Promise me that and I will promise you to do my best here.”

I squirmed. This was not what I had had in mind. I only wanted her to do what was necessary to make life easier for herself. Yusra, however, does not seem too concerned with that. With her staring at me in such a manner, with such hope in her eyes, what could I do? I gave up.

“I will try,” I said.

“Promise?” She was relentless.

I gave up completely. “I promise,” I said.

She smiled. “And I promise I won't bite the maid again. As long as she doesn't try to wash me. I will wash myself. Besides, these Christians are filthy. They do not wash before praying, they do not even wash after relieving themselves. I would not let one of them touch me. Tell them that.”

God's legs, I thought, what have I got myself intonow? But I was right. She is very pretty when she smiles.

The twenty-fifth day of June

I was summoned to the queen's pavilion early this morning, before the breaking of the fast.

“You will attend morning mass with Father Aimar here in my tent from now on,” she informed me sternly. I think, after our conversation the other day, she is worried about my soul.

Besides Father Aimar, all the queen's ladies and maidservants were there. Queen Berengaria attended as well, not looking any happier than she had the last time I saw her. The gossip in the camp is that the king rarely bothers himself with her. I suppose matters of war take precedence, but it must be hard for her.

Yusra was sitting beside the queen. She knelt with the rest of us as Father Aimar began the prayers, but I saw that while we faced the priest, she knelt sideways to him. Facing south, toward Mecca. No one else noticed, but it seems Yusra has found a way to pray her own way.

When Father Aimar finished saying the mass I started to leave. I knew the king would be expecting me. He is getting better day by day and I have begun my regular work again. The priest stopped me, however.

“Wait, Matthew,” he said. “I would speak with you.”

The queen and her ladies left, taking Yusra with them. The girl cast a glance at me, obviously curiousas to what business I had with the priest and probably wondering if it had aught to do with her. In a way, it did.

“Her Grace has informed me that you have been talking with a Muslim boy,” Father Aimar began.

I cleared my throat before answering. I must admit, I was more than a little frightened of him. I had never spoken to him before.

“I have, Father,” I answered. I wondered what was coming next. Surely it was no sin to converse with a Muslim. It had been happening in the camp for the last two years. What had the queen told him? I tried desperately to remember exactly what I had said. I have heard tales of those who have been punished for blaspheming—unpleasant tales. My mouth was suddenly dry.

“Her Grace says you are confused about their religion,” he went on.

“I … I was surprised to learn they revere the same prophets we do, Father,” I managed to get out. “And the archangel Gabriel.”

He stared down at me. I had thought the queen's gaze was piercing, but it was nothing compared to his. I knew beyond a doubt that I would never be able to keep any thought from this holy man. To lie to him would be inconceivable.

“They do,” he said.

I was surprised. I had expected him to deny it.

“The people of Islam are a cultured people, Matthew,” he said. “They study and write most wonderfully. They have a rich history. But they are a people who have lost their way. They deny thatour Lord Jesus Christ is the Son of God. They hold him to be nothing more than one of the prophets.” To my intense discomfort he reached out and put a hand on my shoulder.

“They are misguided, Matthew. They are blasphemous heathens. Do not forget that.” He gave me a little push. “Now, go to the king. Do your duties and while you do, give thanks to God, the only true God, that you walk in the path of truth and will be saved.”

I wrote lists and letters for King Richard and tallied supplies and worked all day, but my mind did not cease whirling around like a spinning top.

The Jews worship one God. The Muslims worship one God. We worship one God. Could it not be, as Rashid said, the same God? And if it is, then which of us have blasphemed and lost our way and which of us have found the truth? Or could it be that none of us have blasphemed? Could it be that we have each found the truth in our own way?

I have lost some of my fear of Father Aimar. Indeed, I think I will enjoy hearing mass from him each morning. But somehow I do not think I will dare to ask him these questions.

The twenty-sixth day of June

King Richard had himself carried in a litter around the battle lines today. He is still weak and pale almost to death, but he did not let that stop him from cheering the men on and exhorting them to greater and greater efforts. I limped along behind him and I could see how his words filled the menwith courage. They cheered him back with loud huzzahs. When we approached the soldiers they looked bowed and dispirited, but as the king passed I could see backs straighten and faces lighten. Truly, this king's men love him dearly. As do I.

The twenty-seventh day of June

The work of undermining the walls of Acre is going on at a great pace now that the king is well again. Our siege engines and mangonels keep up a steady barrage by day, and by night men dig under the walls and set fires within them. The Saracens repair the damage as much as they can, but I can see that they are falling behind. Slowly the walls are coming down, and every time a section of wall collapses our forces follow up with an attack. The defenders then beat drums as a signal and Salah-ud-Din's army streams down upon us from behind. We are still forced to fight on two fronts, but the defenders are becoming weaker and weaker.