Lionheart's Scribe (21 page)

I hid myself in the bushes and prepared to wait for as long as necessary, but Yusra slipped out very soon after. She stood outside the pavilion, looking around her, and I whistled softly. I knew that the guard who was supposed to be on duty was in the cook's tent drinking up the last of the evening's mead. I had earlier ascertained this was his habit. The camp as a whole is well guarded and there is no apparent danger of a night attack from Salah-ud-Din's forces, so some of our security measures have become very lax.

Yusra heard my whistle and crept into the bushesbeside me. In the moonlight her dark eyes glittered. It could have been with fear, but I think it was more excitement. I prayed that my plan would not fail. I did not want to think of the consequences for her or for me if we were caught.

I had made a reconnaissance the night before and knew where all the guards were positioned. Again, they were not expecting danger during the night. Besides, they were certainly not on the lookout for anyone trying to sneak
out
of the camp.

“Be as quiet as you can,” I whispered, and took her by the hand. Then I realized she carried nothing with her.

“Do you not have a bundle?” I asked.

“No,” she whispered back. “There is nothing that is mine.”

“But you said the queen gave you clothes, jewels …” I paused, uncertain.

“They were not mine. I would not take them,” she said.

“But the jewels at least!” I urged her. “You could trade them for things that you will need.”

“That would be stealing!” She shook her head with a trace of anger. “I've told you, Matthew, the Muslim people take care of their own.”

Her voice had begun to rise.

“Hush!” I hissed. “Very well. I believe you.” But I could not help thinking that a jewel or two would not have been amiss.

We crept in silence to the perimeter of the camp. I motioned to Yusra to stay where she was for a few moments while I made my way cautiously towardthe guard post. I made certain that we could not be seen from it, then I snuck back to her. Within minutes we were past and had melted into the moonlit shadows of the hill.

There are few trees in this barren land, but bushes grow sparsely here and there. We kept to them as much as possible. I cursed the moonlight for being so bright, but then, as if in answer to my curse, clouds rolled in and hid the moon. Just in time—after we crested the brow of Montjoie and started down the other side there was practically no covering at all.

It took us longer than I had thought to make our way close to the walls of Jerusalem. We were still a fair piece off when Yusra pulled me to a halt.

“You must not go any farther, Matthew,” she said, so quietly I could hardly hear her. “It is almost dawn and you must be back under cover before the sun rises.”

“I cannot leave you here,” I answered.

“You must,” she insisted.

“It would not be safe,” I protested in a whisper.

“It is perfectly safe. There is no one about out here at night,” she said.

“But Yusra …” I stammered.

“You cannot come right up to the walls with me, Matthew. You would be caught for certain. You know that. It is what we decided.” Her voice was firm.

We had planned it all out. She had reassured me over and over that all she had to do was identify herself and she would be let in. She had no doubt at all that she would be taken care of.

“I will say, ‘Ashadu an lailaha illallahu, Muhammadur rasullallah,'” Yusra said. “I bear witness that there is no god but God and Muhammad is his messenger—remember? That is all I need. I will tell them I escaped from your camp and they will welcome me. The Muslim women will accept me as one of their own, as if I were one of their own daughters, returned from being lost. I know this, Matthew.”

It had seemed logical the night before. But now …

“This is—” A mistake, I almost said. This is all a mistake! I will wed you, Yusra, I almost said. I will take care of you. The words were filling my mouth, begging to burst out.

“Matthew,” she said, “you have saved my life twice. Once by rescuing me from the sea and now a second time by giving me this chance to return where I belong. You have been good to me and you have helped me. I can never tell you how grateful I am to you. But I must go on from here by myself.”

The black bulk of Jerusalem's walls loomed behind her. I felt her hand brush my cheek lightly.

“Assalamu alaikum,” she whispered, then disappeared into the darkness.

I wanted to call after her, but knew I could not. I waited until I heard a man's challenge echo across the space between the city walls and myself. Yusra's clear voice answered. There was a clanking and thudding of bars being lifted, a brief flash of torchlight, then the gate swung shut again and there was nothing more but silence.

I turned and made my way back to the camp.

Soon after I arrived I heard the Muslim call to prayer begin. When it died away the first rays of sun began to lighten the sky.

The fourth day of July

We began our withdrawal today. I rode to the top of Montjoie with the early morning light and looked toward Jerusalem for the last time. Then I took my place beside the king.

The second day of September

It is over. We have spent the summer fighting fiercely for Jaffa. If that city had fallen our remaining kingdom in the Holy Land would have been cut in two, and it could never have survived. The king fought like a giant, as usual, but after our victory he fell ill. I think the heart had almost gone out of him.

But the Saracen forces too are worn out and dispirited. The country throughout the Holy Land has been ruined, trampled underfoot by battle. There is little forage for any army's horses, and we know from our scouts and spies that Salah-ud-Din's forces are beaten down and sick. Jerusalem is suffering too. All its supplies have to come from Egypt and our armies have been successful in cutting off much of that route. The caravans bearing supplies are now forced to face the murderous perils of the desert and many do not arrive. Christians and Muslims alike, we have ground each other down to despair. I have not even had the heart to write in myjournal, but now I must record this ending of our great and glorious crusade.

One morning last week a Saracen band rode into Jaffa under a flag of truce. It bore word from Salah-ud-Din saying that he would negotiate. King Richard invited the sultan to come to Jaffa to talk with him. Salah-ud-Din accepted.

“I am weary, Matthew,” the king said to me as we waited in his pavilion for the Turkish delegation. “It is time to make peace and go home.”

I looked at him in astonishment. This was not the radiant king who had sailed so triumphantly into Messina's harbor so long ago. He put a hand on my shoulder, almost as if for support, and then stood to receive the sultan.

It was the first time I had seen Salah-ud-Din at such close quarters. He is as imposing a figure as I had imagined. Richly robed and turbaned, he strode into King Richard's tent as forcefully as the wind sweeps across the hills of Judea. He is not tall, but seems so. He is blind in one eye, but the other flashes with a brilliant intelligence.

The courtesies were observed, then all sat down. Food and drink were served. It was hours later when the two rulers began to hammer out their truce. I filled parchment after parchment.

It is to be a three-year truce. From Tyre to Jaffa the coast is to remain in Christian hands. Jerusalem is to be kept by the Muslims, but Christian pilgrims will be free to visit the city. King Richard will not do so. Neither will I.

It is late now and as I write this I am looking at the small blue bottle I rescued from the sands of Caesarea. It sits on a box in front of me, gleaming in the light of my candle. Such a fragile object to have survived for so many hundreds of years. Cities have fallen, men have died, but it endures. Will King Richard's truce endure so well, I wonder?

Most of the crusaders feel it is a defeat. I know the king does. But I do not. We have saved our kingdom in the Holy Land, even if it is much reduced. Our pilgrims will have access to the Holy City. And the bloodshed will cease. Muslims and Christians will live side by side in peace. I cannot believe this is failure.

King Richard will return to England now and I shall go with him.

With me goes the true account of this crusade. And the small blue bottle.

I would like to thank the Canada Council for the grant that enabled me to research and write this novel.

I also wish to thank Rukhsana Khan for her invaluable help and advice.

Excerpt from
O Jerusalem
by Jane Yolen, copyright © 1996 by Jane Yolen. Reprinted by permission of Scholastic Inc.

LIONHEART'S SCRIBE:
THE THIRD BOOK OF THE CRUSADES
Copyright © 1999 by Karleen Bradford.

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EPub Edition © NOVEMBER 2010 ISBN: 978-1-443-40144-9

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First HarperCollins trade paper ed. ISBN 0-00-648116-7
First HarperCollins mass market ed. ISBN 0-00-648511-1

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

Bradford, Karleen
Lionheart's scribe

ISBN 0-00-648511-1

I. Title.

PS
8553.
R
217l56 2000    jc813'.54    C99-930460-7
PZ
7.b72Li 2000

OPM
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