Sirocco Wind from the East
The Keys to the Kingdom Series
By Virginia Ann Work
Published by Virginia Ann Work at Smashwords
Copyright 2008 Virginia Ann
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Book One
A Kingdom Lost
The road goes ever on and on
Down
from the road where it began
And I must follow if I can.
Pursuing
it with eager feet
Until it joins some larger way
Where many
paths and errand meet
And whither then? I cannot say.
J.R.R.
Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
Chapter One
Trees are not known by their leaves, nor even by their blossoms, but by their fruit. Eleanor of Aquitaine
Brittany, February 1194
A troop of armored men and horses perched atop a hill. The men raised their visors as the horses blew and stamped on the rocky ground. A smear of red, low on the horizon, heralded the coming day. Slowly, the light grew into a pale yellow band, spreading upward as the sun climbed the heavens.
The lord had halted on the very edge of the cliff and turned his black eyes to a young knight. “Where did you say he was going, Sir Reynold?”
“I … I think they said north, my lord. He usually rides north. Along the river.” Reynold shifted in the saddle, his mouth a taut line.
“Think!” The baron’s roar startled the horses; some of them reared—all of them jumped. “That is not good enough, Sir Knight! If we miss the prince, you shall pay.” He studied the rolling fields below and gazed at the castle spires on the horizon. “We shall angle north, and intercept his troop on the loop of the river. If he comes not, you shall pay in blood. I vow it upon my sword.”
He kicked his gray roan into a startled leap down the side of the hill. Black was the pennant that flew from his lance—black with a fierce red bull upon it.
***
A boy clattered across the cobblestones of the courtyard of the ducal castle Mordelias, darting like a hare to his saddled and bridled destrier. He was tall for his age, and crowned with yellow hair that fell unhindered to his shoulders.
Grabbing a fistful of long white mane, he planted his left foot on the knee of his stallion, and vaulted into the high-backed saddle. After allowing his squire to place his feet in the stirrups, he took the reins, wondering how many other boys his age could mount alone. His Kazimer, his white Andalusian, had snorted and side-stepped the first time he tried his flying mount, but now he only shook his head, impatient to be off.
“That will be all,” he said to the squire who bowed and backed away. The boy smoothed the bright red saddle blanket that bore a Plantagenet emblem, and pushed back his thick brocaded cape that was lined with white fur.
A low mist, like ghost shrouds, swirled along the river and a cock crowed in the lower bailey. He glanced at the sky. It was the color of robins’ eggs, speckled with the flight of birds near the tree line. Not a cloud in sight; it would be a fine day, for certes.
Thirteen knights stomped from the barracks, leaped to saddle and gathered the reins their squires held without a glance in his direction. Jean, a younger man, nodded to him and smiled. The boy returned the smile, noting that he would favor Jean with a small reward when they returned.
It was an odd hour for a run, but he wanted to go and return before his lady mother discovered his intent, before she sent a command that would halt his expedition. He waited until Lord DeArmond, his teacher and mentor, appeared and mounted. DeArmond did not smile or greet him; he only grunted as he settled himself in the saddle.
The boy, Prince Arthur, son of Lord Geoffrey, lifted his right hand and led the way across the castle drawbridge. He was in a keen mood this new day and his spirited steed knew it. Kazimer raced down a small hill and thundered across a bridge spanning the river. Arthur directed him north, following a well-worn road along the river. He reined to the right, entering a dim path that led east into the forests of Brittany. Kazimer took the hills without pause, his gait never slacking.
The white mane whipping his face, Arthur lifted his free hand and laughed, feeling the surge of power and the sheer pleasure of the ride, his small body as one with the great horse beneath him.
He had planned this ride for months, cajoling DeArmond into secrecy, for he was not allowed to ride far afield. Brittany was not secure, nor were her borders watched that the eight-year-old prince could ride at will in her lands. Indeed, he had never been allowed more than ten furlongs from the castle. That was a pity. What of the wide, wide world out there, waiting to be discovered?
He glanced back and laughed again, for his knights could not keep up. Mother will have a fit of ten wet kittens when she hears I am gone. Ah, well. He would bear her indignation for the joy of the moment. Who would harm him anyway? He could think of no enemy, besides the English. But the English? Was not his uncle Richard the High King of England and half the world? He would not harm a freckle on Arthur’s cheek. The French? The French would not harm him either, for his mother was second cousin to King Philip Augustus.
The morning flew as swiftly as Kazimer’s heels and after a time Arthur tired of the pace and pulled back on the reins. He looked about, realizing he had ridden farther than he thought. Aye, it was strange country. He rode in a wide valley that was ribboned with a slender river—to the right, a fen, its pools of stagnant water glittering seductively in the mud. To the north, the mountains loomed closer, their rocky sides catching the morning sunlight. A desolate country, no sign of road or path or village.
Where were his knights? He slowed to a walk and stopped altogether.
It was dark here under the eaves of giant oaks with the gentle drip, drip, plop of water from the hanging boughs. He sniffed the pungent scents of moss and decaying vegetation and pine. Cocking his ear, he heard no sound of hooves approaching from behind. His neck prickled. It felt as if a wad of cotton was stuffed in his throat as stories of murders, rapes and tortures filled his mind.
“Come, friend, perchance we should go looking for my knights.” He reined Kazimer around and indeed, the horse seemed anxious to depart. He heard a noise, a crackling of a tree bough. What if a band of brigands exploded from those trees just over there? Wait. Was that the trod of a hoof? The jingle of a bridle? He laid a hand on Kazimer’s neck, staring toward the sound, willing it to be his knights.
With a crash, a troop of knights, the leader sitting upon a gray roan, exploded into the clearing, their eyes set upon him in fierce concentration, lances in hand.
“Come along, prince,” the large man called in a hoarse voice. “We have you surrounded. Come peacefully and we shall …”
Arthur heard no more. With a savage yell, he dug his spurs into Kazimer’s flanks. The horse leaped to action. From the corner of his eye, he saw more knights erupt from cover. How many? A dozen?
He drew sword, the sword given him by DeArmond just yesterday. Screaming and slashing with all his might, he drove straight into the right flank of the encircling knights. Surprise flitted in their eyes as their mounts gave ground. An opening appeared where one horse stumbled and kicking Kazimer, Arthur broke through the circle and thundered down the lane.
He was not free of them. They came in a close pack and there were more than he thought. He glanced back. Two dozen? His only chance was to throw them off. He reined sharply to the left, leaped a creek and mounted a bank. Under the low-hung limbs of old oaks and young maples, he rode like one possessed.
Yet it was not good enough. He tried doubling back on his tracks, he tried speed, he tried agility, he tried riding on solid rocks, to no avail. He burst finally into a small meadow where a dolmen protruded from the rich, black soil, and an ancient oak spread its thick limbs. He turned and drew sword as his pursuers surrounded him.
Hoof beats sounded on the path. He lifted his head. To his relief, DeArmond and his familiar bay charged into the meadow, breaking through the line of enemy knights with a yell. Behind him, his knights skidded to a halt.
Prince Arthur swung his horse closer to DeArmond. “Where did you … ?”
“They decoyed us. We did not know where you were.” DeArmond’s face was pale and wet with sweat.
The strange riders drew the circle tighter and lowered their lances.
Arthur lifted his chin, forcing himself to stare at them fiercely regardless of his heart’s pounding. He was dismayed that his voice sounded high and boyish, yet he spoke with the voice of command that no man could ignore. “Who are you and what do you want? I do not recognize the red bull and the black banner. Are you so cowardly that you do not show your faces? Come now, speak out, if you are men.”
There was no response, only guttural laughter and lifting of lances in derision.
Across the clearing Arthur noted a young knight who held himself straight and rode a fine, black horse. His pale gray eyes bored into Arthur’s with hatred—a hatred that seethed with the fires of hell. He held Arthur’s gaze; their eyes locked.
The prince tried to break away but found himself captive. It was as if a branding iron had touched his soul. Who is he? Why should he hate me so? He did not recognize the face. The knight dropped his visor.
An emotion Arthur seldom felt clutched at his stomach; bile crawled up his throat. He swallowed. It was like the time a bear charged him from the forest when he picnicked with his mother. But this was worse—far worse. He scorned it, tried to push it aside, told himself he must be brave. Yet his hands shook and his stomach twisted. The sun disappeared under a bank of dark clouds—where had they come from?
The horses were restive, pawing the ground, tossing their manes, mawing their bits. What was once a quiet meadow now crackled with high tension as if lightning was about to strike. A crow gave voice from the boughs of the old oak. The sun broke through a rift in the clouds and Arthur lifted a hand to shield his eyes.
“Take the boy and the old man. Kill the others.” The hoarse voice of the leader rang out to the accompaniment of visors being lowered, lances readied, horses snorting and swords screaming from their scabbards.
DeArmond grasped Arthur’s elbow, his voice grave. “Flee, my lord! We shall cover your retreat.”
“Nay!” Arthur held his sword with white-knuckled fingers, fighting the sick feeling in his gut, praying he would not do anything stupid, hoping he had the courage of his father and Uncle Richard.
The strange knights kicked their chargers.
Adrenaline pulsed through Arthur’s veins and time stood still. The beauty of the meadow smote his senses—cheery-faced daisies bobbed in the lush grass, dappled white bark of alders gleamed against dark green firs, a brook rattled over small stones in its bed. He smelled damp moss and oak and horse and mint.
‘Tis a good place to die.
He shook his head. His mouth formed a thin line. He would not die today.
DeArmond grabbed for Arthur’s reins in a futile attempt to steer him from the path of the oncoming horses but Arthur pulled away. He raked his spurs against his mount’s sides and with a yell, entered the fight.
The quiet air exploded into a blur of slashing, whirling, yelling, the shriek of steel on steel, the screams of horses, dust and desperate fury. Arthur defended himself as blows fell upon him like rain, but was at a disadvantage with his height and weight and lack of armor. Blood flowed from his wounds, but he scarcely felt them and fought on. Time and again, when a sword descended, Kazimer reared or dodged sideways or lunged forward, and the blow missed by a breath.
From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw men crashing to the ground. Was that Rene? Oh, God! Blood spurted from wounds; bodies lay like sacks of grain. The knight with the pale, soulless eyes attacked, his monster of a horse shouldering into Kazimer and forcing him, pace by pace, plunging and skidding, toward a ditch.
Arthur’s sword arm wearied, yet he parried the blows and managed to stay in the saddle. His enemy’s horse tripped and sent the knight reeling. Arthur followed closely, aiming for the opening of the mail in the armpit. He sank in his blade; the young knight shrieked but then he turned, his attack doubled, his eyes blazing with hatred and purpose. Arthur saw his own death in those eyes and in the sword aimed for his heart.
He could have turned, could have fled. But he yelled and, Kazimer, sensing his intent, lunged forward. Arthur ducked, felt the sword brush his hair. The two horses met with bone-shattering force, yet the knight held his seat and, with a roar, swung back his arm to deliver another stroke.
Arthur parried, feeling his arm would break, yet he hung on, his sword engaged, deadlocked, face to face with his enemy, dragging air into starved lungs in a grin of effort. The swords broke free, and the black knight swerved away, parrying an attack from the other side. Then, sinking his spurs into the flanks of the black, he rode out of the circle of warfare into the forest.
Arthur followed, filled with blood lust, an unholy fervor, a boiling rage. Dodging low limbs that threatened to unseat him, he clung to the saddle, having no need to direct Kazimer, for the horse was as fully engaged in the battle as he.
They came to another small meadow where the knight waited, sword aloft. Arthur noted again the cold rage in the man’s eyes and fear swallowed him whole. He had difficulty breathing, his hands shook, his stomach heaved. Yet he shouldered it aside, shoved it down, blinked and brought himself back to the fight. The heavy sword fell; he parried and was caught again in a dance of death.
Arthur held on with both hands, but sweat blinded him, caused his fingers to slip. His sword slipped off his opponent’s—with a grunt, he fell forward. Kazimer reared, his forelegs pawing toward the black, his teeth gashing the glossy neck. The horse screamed and reared; the knight was thrown off balance, yet he recovered in an instant and, with a bellow of hate, lifted his sword.
Aided by Kazimer’s quick forward lunge, Arthur dodged under the deadly sword but the knight wielded it again, this time a stab, and this time it found its mark—Arthur’s side. The blade bit deep, a serious wound, yet Arthur did not drop his eyes. He raised his sword to parry again.
The knight drew back his sword. Motions and sounds slowed to a crawl. There was sweat on the man’s brow, a rent in his armor, rust on his helmet just below the visor; a fly buzzed his head.
Arthur tried to raise his sword, but his arm was heavy … too heavy. He screamed, yet his voice was a wavering wail. Mist drifted into his vision, the world seemed to spin in a lazy circle. He strove to bring himself back, knew his enemy’s weapon cut the air, this time on target, saw himself lying on the turf, dead.
It seemed a strange thing to die. Sadness swept through his soul. He mourned the boy who lay bloodied and dead. His thoughts flicked to his mother, saw her crushed, heard her keening cries, knew she would perish in her lamentations. The two of them would find their way to heaven or hell, he knew not which. For himself, he would go into the pit of hell, for certes, for he had not confessed to the priest for many weeks.
A man’s shout brought him back. A bay jostled against the black, a jolt against his leg. He clung to the saddle with all his strength and knew vaguely that someone fought for him. He heard the clash of steel on steel, lifted his eyes in time to see his enemy’s weapon struck from his hand, a sword pierce his shoulder.
Dimly, as if from a far distance, a man’s voice cried, “Frederick!”
The clearing was silent, save for labored breath. Arthur looked down at his side where he clutched his wound. Blood gushed around his hand.
“M’lord! You are wounded!” DeArmond’s voice seemed far away as Arthur swayed in the saddle. Hands pulled him from his horse and laid him on the ground. Pain ricocheted through his body as someone tore his clothes. They bound up his wounds and carried him, lifted him to saddle. Someone mounted behind, arms wrapped around him, holding him erect.
After a time, he awoke. It was dark. He lay on a cot, a small lamp fluttered above his head, the walls were wattle and daub. He moaned, tried to move.
A woman’s voice, sharp and clear, said, “Here! Let me treat the prince, you great oaf!”
He knew no more.
***
DeArmond entered the Great Hall and glanced toward a knot of people, at whose center stood the queen. He was on familiar ground here. He did not need to look at the walls to see the faded tapestries, or the brass cressets that held the torches, or the queen’s grand throne—a throne gilded with gold and padded with velvet. What arrogance the woman possessed. She was no queen at all, only a duchess. Yet he owed his allegiance to her.
He met the queen’s eyes, saw her lips press into a white line, her small hands clutch her staff. His heart sank. She knew. With a wave of her hand she dismissed the courtiers and strode down the hall.
He dropped to his knees. “My lady, we were on a morning run, an exercise, and went too far. The prince would not heed my calls. He rode furiously, as he is wont to do, and we were diverted from his side by strange knights. They carried a black pennant with an emblem of a bull. I know not who it was, my lady. When we got free of them, we rode like hellfire and found the prince in a meadow. They had us surrounded. There were many of them, my queen, maybe thirty or forty. I urged the prince to flee, but he disobeyed me. He was wounded. I am sorry, I could not—”
“I do not want to hear your excuses, you … you dolt! You lackwit! I shall have you whipped within an inch of your life.”
He bowed his head, but had no serious qualms concerning her threats. She would not horsewhip him.
She lifted her arms heavenward. “Alas! Am I to be bereft of my son? Oh, my God and sweet Virgin Mother!” She dropped her arms and turned to him, boring him through with her blue-eyed stare. “My son is without fault, DeArmond. Your task is to protect him and you failed. Do you hear me? Failed! Who were these knights who desired to kidnap my son for a ransom?”
“As I said, I do not know. One seemed familiar but I cannot lay a name to him. They came upon us—”
“Be still! I should have you beheaded. Iwill have no one touch my son for harm. He is all I have … and now, he may die … and I ...” She raised her head. “How many did we lose?”
One. Dominque, my favorite. It is a miracle that any survived. All have serious wounds.” He lumbered to his feet, his face drawn and weary. “May I go?”
She rose and faced him with a mad glare in her eyes. “Yea. Go. I would not see thy face for a time. Mayhap you shall find favor with me again, but now, get out of my sight!”
***
Arthur recovered with the speed of youth, and it was not long before he missed his mentor and teacher, Lord DeArmond. So it was that in a short time, DeArmond again resided at Mordelias and was seen in the company of the queen’s knights.
The people of Brittany, from the villein in the field to the lord of the manor, called the incident in the clearing the Battle of Bille, for the village of Bille was where Arthur had been taken after his injury. The story had been told and retold, sung about, laughed about, and exaggerated to such an extent that he was almost ashamed to show his face in the countryside.
Two months later a ceremony graced the lawns of the castle. The night before, Arthur kept a vigil in the chapel, purifying his soul in prayers. Actually, he dozed more than he prayed, but no one minded that from a boy of eight. As the morning light glazed the colored glass windows, a priest celebrated mass.
Arthur was stiff from the kneeling position he had maintained most of the night and he was ravenously hungry. He joined his mother, his stepfather Lord Ranulf, Lord DeArmond, his sister Eleanor and others of the family in the Great Hall, where he broke his fast on a meal of roasted duck, strips of venison, boiled eggs, cheese, fresh bread, pears and apple fritters.
Afterward, he was bathed and dressed in clothes made especially for the occasion—a white silk robe, a white surcoat, and a pure white ermine robe. The silk material felt good against his skin as it slid down over his shoulders and reached his feet, and he stroked the ermine fur, pleasuring in its softness. Over all, he wore a red cape on which was embroidered the crest of the house of Plantagenet—two black lions facing each other, rearing in fierce combat.
A platform had been constructed in the open square before the castle, and around it stood minstrels and trumpeters. The knights of Brittany stood to attention, their eyes smiling, their armor shining in the blinding glare of the sun. When Arthur stepped from the castle gate, the trumpeters sounded a blast that set his ears ringing and the crowd broke forth in applause and cheers.
“Kneel!” Lord Ranulf said, raising a sword close to Arthur’s head.
A bandage encased his side, and Arthur’s wound still pained him at times, but he knelt without hesitation before his stepfather, bending his head and receiving the colee, or buffet. It was not a gentle tap, but a strong whack! on his shoulder that sent him sprawling amid laughter and cheers. It hurt. It hurt like the dickens, but he did not wince. He regained his position on the stool and listened as Lord Ranulf intoned the oath.
“I dub thee Sir Arthur of the House of Plantagenet; Knight of the Realm of Brittany; Lord of the lands of Lord Geoffrey, son of King Henry II; Vassal of King Richard, the Lionhearted, King of England. Be thou a true knight and courageous in the face of your enemies. Be thou brave and upright, that God may love thee, and remember that thou springest from a race that can never be false.” Lord Ranulf paused. “Do you pledge your life, your honor, and your loyalty to His Royal Highness, King Richard?”
“I do.” Arthur did not know where the words came from; his throat was so dry.
“Rise, Sir Arthur, Knight of the Realm!”
Scenes burned themselves on his mind—his new armor, his knights bending before him to help him into it, Lord Ranulf and DeArmond strapping on the sword of his father, a sword gloriously wrought with silver and gold. He kissed the hilt in which, it was rumored, contained a bone shard of the Apostle John.
Yet, Arthur’s lady mother, Queen Constance, stood at the center of everything. In that first moment of being knighted, he looked up into her eyes. The blue of them today was not muted sea-green, but dark, almost black, sparkling with unshed tears, gleaming with fierce pride. She nodded and smiled.
Kazimer, his white coat gleaming with an ethereal light, was brought to him, dressed in ornaments of gold. Arthur took the reins and, because of his armor, was aided in mounting. Once on his destrier, he lifted his shield.
On it he had taken the emblems of the lion, the unicorn, and the griffin, emblems of King Arthur of Camelot, after whom he was named and to whom he was distantly related. Indeed, it was rumored among the common folk that he was the great king returned in the flesh.
The men roared, banging their swords on their shields, and the crowd picked up the cheer, raising another great shout. It seemed that Prince Arthur was now their king and would soon take his rightful place on the throne of England.
***
Yes, indeed, King of England, Duchess Constance thought as she watched her son with a smile on her delicate lips. He was tall for his years and possessed clear blue eyes, a strong nose and golden hair—the heritage of the Plantagenets—that flowed to his shoulders. Every move he made, every word of his mouth, every thought in his head she had planted there.
Tears stung her eyes when a loud shout from the throats of thousands was raised. She laughed and clapped her hands, tears coursing down her cheeks unheeded. Oh, sweet Virgin Mother, if only Geoffrey could see him now. She lifted a black lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud and her dark eyes slid sideways to her would-be husband, the detestable Norman that her father-in-law, King Henry II, had chosen for her. Lord Ranulf did not join in the jubilation, for he was Prince John’s man. She knew of the messages he sent to John; she knew he spied into the matters of the land of Brittany, that he harbored no love for Bretons, nor for Arthur, least of all for herself.
She swung her head to watch the progress of the newly knighted prince as he rode jauntily through his men, smiling and waving at their cheers, as he led the way to the tables loaded with food and wine. Arthur deserved this triumph. He was proven in battle, a true son of kings, a sweet and courageous young prince. Why should they not rejoice?
She lifted her scarlet mantle over her head, swirled her black silk skirts and made her way back to her apartment in the castle where servants brought mulled wine, cold chicken and a wheaten roll. While she ate, she allowed her mind to wander down paths well trodden, taking her to the court of King Henry II and his beautiful wife, Eleanor.
Eleanor! She laid her food aside and paced to the window to look unseeingly down upon the festivities. Eleanor possessed everything Constance had always wanted: beauty, wealth and power. On the few occasions when Constance found herself in the presence of the Queen Eleanor, she fought against the urge to reach for a knife and plunge it into that handsome breast.
Constance returned to her chair and sighed. If only Geoffrey had been king. When she first wed Prince Geoffrey, she thought she was a step away from the highest throne in the world. True, Geoffrey was younger than Richard, but accidents happened and people died.
When Little King Henry, the eldest of Henry’s brood, died at an early age, her hopes rose again. But Richard stood forever in Geoffrey’s way, and Geoffrey lacked the ambition to contest his older brother for the throne, despite her urgings, despite the animosity she instilled in her husband against his family. Yet, Richard remained childless, so Geoffrey had hopes for his own children.
Their first child was a girl he named Eleanor to please his mother—certainly not to please Constance. Then she was with child a second time, but before she gave birth, Geoffrey was killed in a tournament. With his death, her hopes died, too.
There had been no question as to who would rule the kingdom when Henry died. No one seriously considered John, who had thoroughly botched the job of ruling Ireland. No, the golden boy, Richard, was chosen. Richard the Lionhearted. Richard the heirless.
She bit down on the crusty roll, her teeth crushing, destroying. She must bide her time. No one would deny her son’s right to the throne when Richard was dead. And through her son, she would rule the greatest kingdom in the world.
Chapter Two
You ought to go quietly, and you ought to go soon. J.R.R. Tolkien, Fellowship of the Ring
Troyes, France, May 1194
“Judith, bring me my reading stone, please.” Moshe ben Itzchaki unrolled a scroll as he sat in a swing that was shaded by a giant date palm. “Be careful, child.”
“Yea, Gran-abba.” Small feet pattered away.
A few moments later he heard the soft slap of sandals on the sandstone pavement and raised his eyes. She carried the precious stone with both hands and laid it on his knee. Smiling, he covered her tiny hands with his large ones. Reading stones had been around since the days of Nineveh, but this particular one had been created in Venice. Moshe’s son, Elias, purchased it from one of the great caravans that traveled the Salt Trail and came at last to France. It was a treasure, to be sure, but nothing compared to the child who stood before him.
“I was careful.” She climbed up on the swing, adjusted her green gown, and looked up at him with dark brown eyes that sparkled like jewels. “Please, will you read me, Gran-abba?”
He chuckled and rested a hand on her glossy black hair. Ah, what a child. Was there ever one like her? It was past time for her parents to begin marriage pledges, but they delayed. No one in the household could bear the thought of losing her.
“See my flowers?” She touched the ring of bluebells and lilies of the field that crowned her head. “Aren’t they pretty? Anna holped me.”
“I see. They are very nice. Would you like to read? The scroll is open to Isaias.”
Her bright face was full of innocent joy and smudged with a bit of dirt. “Nay, I love hearing you read.” She settled herself and folded her hands in her lap.
He smiled at her intent expression. Even though she was only six years old, he taught her to read Hebrew, count her numbers and study the names, and forms of the stars. He noted that often she lingered in his library, her face glowing as she gently touched the scrolls and books lining the walls.
He cleared his throat. “’The Spirit of Yahweh is upon me, because Yahweh has anointed me to bring good tidings to the afflicted; He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to captives, and freedom—”
“Oh, Gran-abba!” She tugged at his sleeve. “Read about the Messias who comes from Bozrah with glowing robes! Please, oh joy of my heart!”
He laughed. “Where did you get that? Ah, yes. I remember. Your aunt called you that the other day, didn’t she? Well, let me see … ” He unrolled the scroll.
“’Who is this who comes from Edom, with garments of flowing colors from Bozrah, this One who is majestic in His apparel, marching in the greatness of His strength? “It is I who speak in righteousness, mighty to save. Why is Your apparel red, and Your garments like the one who treads in the winepress? “I have trodden the wine trough alone, and from the peoples there was no man with Me. I also trod them in My anger, and trampled them in My wrath, and … ”
***
“So, this is where you have gotten to.”
Judith opened her eyes, lifted her head from Gran-abba’s shoulder, and smiled up at her mother, Sarah. Amma stood with her hands on her hips, a frown puckering her brow. “We were reading from the prophet Isaias,” Judith said. “It was about when the Messias comes, right, Gran-abba?” She reached up and combed her fingers through his long white beard.
“Many apologies for disturbing you, Abba,”Sarah said with a slight bow, her breath thin and gasping. “I looked everywhere for the child and could not find her. I was so afraid that … that she had wandered off, or that … Did you not hear the gong for dinner?”
Judith heard the sharp tone in mother’s voice and scrambled down from the swing, catching her dress on the corner. It ripped. “Oh! I am sorry, Amma!” She glanced up, saw her mother’s frown, and tried to press the gown together between her fingers. Tears stung her eyes. “I will fix it, truly I will!”
Sarah smiled and patted Judith’s hand. “Oh, child! Whatever shall I do with you? Hannah will fix your gown, dear. Come along now.”
Grandfather lumbered to his feet. “I must have nodded off, too. Is Elias home?”
“Elias sent word he would be late, that we should begin without him. He will join us soon.” Sarah led the way to the dining room where a whole wall was taken with large windows revealing as a view of the busy city below and farther out, the green, rolling hills of France.
Judith folded her legs and sat upon a cushion at the low table while Amma lit two candles in silver holders. She must not pick up the clear glass plate that had come all the way from a country called Cathay, but she leaned over and looked at her reflection in it. Her big, round eyes stared back at her, and above them, her braided hair held the ring of posies, now a little askew and wilted.
Amma set a bouquet of roses and lilies in the center of the table and sat down.
Gran-abba entered the room and lowered himself to sit on the cushion, moaning a little as he folded his legs. Just as he was about to say the blessing, Abba entered the room. He wore a white tunic and a blue robe, edged with gold trim. His dark eyes lit when he looked at Sarah.
Judith rose to her feet and bowed. “Good even, Abba.”
He smiled, warmth creeping into the worried lines of his face. “Good even, child.” He sat at the table next to Grandfather.
Sarah did not trust his service to Hannah or to Nero, their elderly black servant. She leaped gracefully to her feet, her green silk robe whispering on the tiles, and brought the laver of warm water and towels to him. It was only after he had washed and she poured his wine that she sat again.
After Gran-abba prayed, Hannah brought in roasted lamb, rice and lentils, and a dish of stewed figs. Nero served a platter of two fish that swam in a sauce of wine.
Judith nibbled at her food and gazed through the candlelight at her mother. She noticed how her hair shone, how her eyes glowed, how she laughed at Abba’s story of a man and his wife who came to look at the jewelry he sold in his stall in the marketplace. The woman, he said, was fatter than any cow he had ever seen, and she leaned so far forward to look that she rolled into the street. His tale of the ensuing uproar brought laughter to everyone—even to Gran-abba’s stern face.
Judith watched the lamplight reflect from Amma’s beautiful eyes, how her laughter brought up the dimples in her cheeks. If only she could be like Amma someday. Amma could do so many things like arrange flowers, create lovely rugs and blankets on her loom, sing, and dance. Judith remembered times when Hannah played a lute and Joseph, her son, strummed a tambourine. Amma danced in the soft light of the setting sun, her thin voice singing a song of David. Judith kept time, clapping to the music until the song ended and Amma collapsed on a cushion nearby, drawing Judith into her arms.
“I canna sing, and can barely dance,” Amma had said, between panting breaths, “but it was a good effort, na?” They laughed until they cried, and even Hannah joined in the laughter.
Judith brought her mind back to the conversation, for Abba’s tone was grave.
“They burned everything, and killed the men and raped the women and spitted the child … ” He glanced at Judith, choked on his food and took a sip of wine.
Judith knew he spoke of the Christian knights from the north, knights who marched across the German Empire and then south, raiding cities on their way to Palestine. She heard whispers from the servants, bloodcurdling stories of atrocities the knights committed in other places. But she knew nothing of the stark terror that rode with the armored knights, of horrors that made grown men kill themselves, of rape and blood and violence in the streets.
Sarah cleared her throat. “Judith, dear, when you are finished, you may play with Hiram for a while before your bedtime. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Amma.” Judith pushed away her plate, her appetite gone. She pulled on Grandfather’s sleeve. “Gran-abba, will the horrid knights come here?”
“Na, child.” He patted her arm and leaned closer. “Our king will not allow them to come here. We are safe. But you must pray for others who are not so blessed as we. Will you pray, child?”
“Yea, sir.” She rose, for she had heard enough. The fear she tried to keep at bay loomed large and terrible in her mind. Her knees shook with the strength of it. “Thank you, Amma, for the meal. Good even, Abba.”
“Good even, dear,” he said. “I shall see you before your bedtime.”
She ran to the soft evening sunlight filtering through the palm branches in the courtyard and played with little Hiram, Hannah’s grandchild. For a few precious moments she forgot the nameless fear that stalked her days and nights, reassured that Amma and Abba and Gran-abba seemed at peace.
***
Elias rose and paced to the window.
Sarah followed him. “Are you sure we will be spared?”
He gazed unseeingly upon the city below. What would they do if Frankish armies entered that gate over there? He gazed at Sarah. How he loved the slender lines of her body, the soft shine of her eyes, the tender touch of her hands, the sweet smell of her luxuriant hair. Who could ever replace her? How would he manage without her? What if she was like those women who … he stopped. He could not envision Sarah brutalized, murdered.
He turned to the window, tears stinging his eyes. “Who can tell what will happen?” His words were sharper than he intended; he modulated his tone. “Jews in other places have lost their homes, their wealth, and even their lives. I hope King Philip will protect us, that our barons and lords will buy our peace. Perchance the Franks will not come here. Troyes is a small plum compared to Lyon or Marseilles.” He turned to cast a troubled glance at his father.
The old man nodded. “I believe the king will stand with us against the Franks. If not, we must flee.” His words brought a deathly hush to the room.
“Flee?” Sarah stared at him, her face blanching. “Where shall we go? This … this is the only home I know. My family is here. How can we flee?”
Elias touched her shoulder. “Sarah, listen to me. We may have to leave Troyes. Many Jews are going to other places. Our business is such that we may pick it up in a satchel and be gone in the morning, if need be. But we will not leave until we are forced to. I know you love it here, that your family is here.” He sighed and shook his head. “Please, go to bed now. You are tired. I will join you in a little while, but Father and I must discuss this thing.”
Eyes downcast, Sarah nodded. After apologizing to Moshe, she slipped from the room.
“Let us go down to the courtyard,” Moshe said, struggling to his feet. Elias hurried to help him stand. “I always think better under the date palm and the stars.”
Moshe picked up a warm woolen cover and allowed Elias to help him down the steps to the courtyard where they sat near the fountain. Elias tucked the robe around his father’s knees. They sat in silence while mourning doves cooed and the day faded away in soft colors of pink and purple over the mountains to the west.
Finally Elias glanced at his father. “There is snow still on the mountains. We shall have a late spring.”
“Aye. But early or late, our fortunes may be turning.”
Elias chuckled. “That sounds grim, Abba. What shall we do?”
“When luck enters, give him a seat, it is said. We shall give good luck a seat.”
“We are leaving, then. You have decided.”
The old man stroked his beard. “What are the options, my son? There is talk of another crusade. The armies may be on the march again and this time they may go through Troyes. Who knows?”
Elias sighed. Silence descended and fear was palatable, a millstone on his chest.
Moshe continued in a low voice. “We have other options—yes. We could appeal to the baron for help. But one must ask oneself, is he dependable?”
Elias turned away as nightmare scenes filled his mind—Jewish men, women and children slaughtered like animals in Mainz, in Italy, England, Palestine—wherever the crusaders took their holy war. When they conquered Jerusalem in 1099 it was said the blood ran in the streets up to the stirrups of the riders, and nearly every Jew in the city was massacred, most of them butchered in the Temple. No wonder the Jews preferred Muslim rule.
“He may protect us,” Elias said, shifting to pull his robe closer. “Or he may betray us like Bishop Rothard did in Mainz. It is the always the same. Whatever amount the Jews may raise for protection, the Christians will offer more. When money speaks the truth keeps silent, it is said. And even though our king hates them, he loves gold more. No, I do not trust him.”
“Nor do I.”
Elias noted that the moon was new, that Mars was unusually bright. “When are we going?”
“The question is where. The Caliph in Tunis has offered refuge for the Jews. He likes the trade they bring. He has even declared he would provide land and housing. It is a fair offer. What do you think?”
“I do not know, Father. Either way seems fraught with difficulties. I hate the thought of wrenching Sarah from her family, yet we cannot take them all.” He paced to the fountain, then back. “Tell me what is on your mind. Do not play games as if I were a child.”
Moshe straightened. “I was born here in Troyes. We are a noble family, having descended from the great Rashi.”
Elias sighed and closed his eyes, for he knew the family lines better than his father. Yet he allowed the old man to continue as if he were a stranger.
“We raised our families, lived in peace, and prospered. We have been given respect and honor in the eyes of the heathen, and I have sat in counsel with the great ¬¬Caliph Salah uh Din Ayyubi when I traveled to Alexandria last year.”
Elias sat down beside him. “I know.”
“But that does not mean our good life here will continue.” Moshe sighed heavily. “It is a violent world, and all hearts seemed turned against God’s people. We are beset on every hand, driven from our homes, our properties and wealth stolen, our women violated in the streets.” He snatched a moth from the air, considered it for a few seconds, then opened his hand and released it.
He looked up and a light sparkled in his solemn eyes. “What shall we do, then? I will tell you. We shall go to our Holy Land.” He held up a hand and smiled when Elias gasped. “Yet in stages, my son. First we will travel south to Dijon. I hear it is a lovely city and we can participate in the fair held this spring. From there we can travel on to Lyon, and then perhaps to Marseille.”
“Then to Jerusalem?”
He shook his head. “Nay, not Jerusalem. Where does your uncle live, son? In Antioch of Asia Minor. There is much commerce in that city. We would have a fine business there from the caravans that travel from the East. The Caliph who rules it alongside the Frankish king is disposed toward our people.”
“Antioch.” Elias rolled the name of the city on his tongue and smiled at Moshe. “You have spoken of Antioch ever since I can remember. It is like the Golden Horn to you, is it not? The land of riches and fortune, where the streets are paved with gold?”
Moshe laughed, hefting himself up. “I care not for fortunes, only for Yahweh’s will. We should try to be ready to move in a few weeks. Do you like my idea of Dijon?”
Elias nodded and allowed the old man to grasp his elbow. He looked up at the stars that twinkled like diamonds in the black sky. The breeze that was so gentle and warm during the day had now turned chilly, bringing with it the scent of the mountains and freshly fallen snow. “Aye, Abba. Dijon it will be, but it will be hard for Sarah.”
Moshe nodded. “Aye, I know. We have grown like … like our date palm.” He glanced overhead where the palm bent to the wind. “We are well established here, but it could be swept away in a moment. We will find friends and beauty wherever we go. You must tell Sarah.”
“Yes, Abba. Sarah will do whatever we say, but it will be hard. It will be very hard.”
Chapter Three
Grief teaches the steadiest minds to waver. Soplocles Antigone (495-406 B.C.)
St. Jacques, Brittany, June 1194
Brother Louis stooped over his writing, quill in hand, a parchment spread before him on a crude wooden desk. Sweat beaded his clean brow and his shaven head like droplets of blood. He wished he was one of the village children he could hear splashing in the mill pond just beyond the walls of the monastery.
He lifted his head. The light patter of sandaled feet on the stone floor of the scriptorium heralded the arrival of a young novice, Samson John, as unlike the Samson of the Bible as anyone could possibly be.
Louis smiled at the wide, blue eyes and rosy cheeks of the boy who stood and waited to be recognized. “Yes, Samson John? You want me for something?”
The boy nodded.
“Something urgent?”
The boy motioned to the open courtyard. He strutted across the hall with head held high, then knelt, then stood again and swung a sword toward a point below his waist. These motions he accompanied with a leap in the air and frantic waving of his arms.
Louis set down his pen and rose. “I know. Give me a few moments. I will meet you at the gate.”
The boy leaped and dashed from the room.
Louis smiled again and set aside the illustration he was drawing, wrapping the parchment in thin vellum sheets and storing it in a box by the side of the desk. Poor Samson John, deaf from birth. Yet he could read lips, if one spoke slowly and distinctly, and he seemed happy inside the walls of the monastery. Outside them, Louis shuddered to think what his fate would be.
He rose, paced down the hall to his cell and refreshed himself with a drink from the pitcher that sat on the stand, the only piece of furniture in the room besides the cot by the wall.
Slowly he made his way to the gate where he motioned to Samson John and three other boys. Together they walked two miles to the castle at Mordelias, arriving just in time to hear a clash of cymbals and a blast of trumpets. The boys were soon lost in the crowd, squirming their way to the front, but Louis found a vantage point on a large rock. He clambered to the top of it and stood, waiting.
It was much as he expected. The prince looked pale and drawn, yet showed no signs of pain when he received the buffet. Surely that hurt. Louis had treated the prince when he arrived in Mordelias after the incident at Bille, and so he knew the wound could not be healed yet.
Ah, well. The prince was making a good show. Louis joined the crowd in the applause and cheers, then gathered his little troop and walked back to the monastery, listening to the chatter of the boys, warning them of the dangers of pride, wealth and power. Yet his warnings fell upon deaf ears. He smiled, seeing himself as a young lad, fourteen summers ago.
He must have been around six when Father was brought into their little wattle and daub cottage, gravely injured. Someone whispered that he had been gored by a bull. They laid Papa on his bed and heaped over him a mound of coverlets. His face was the color of gray mud, his hair disheveled. That evening, Louis went with Mama to St. Jacques to pray for Papa, but it did no good.
He died in the night while Louis slept.
The next night, sleep would not come. He tossed on his bed, terrors filling his childish mind, terrors of hell and damnation, of demons and evil spirits, of a fearful, vengeful God.
He heard a muffled choking sound, almost like an animal snuffling in the darkness, and realized it was his little sister, Bethy. Creeping on silent feet, he padded across the floor and found her trundle bed. Bethy was only three, but she knew, she sensed, she grieved. Lifting the thin coverlet, he crawled into her bed and wrapped his arms around her, smoothed her tangled blonde hair from his mouth, whispered in her ear.
“Sh! Don’t cry, Bethy. Papa’s in heaven, they say. He’s not hurting anymore, Bethy. Sh!” Slowly the sobs that shook the little girl’s body stopped. Warmth enveloped him. He slept.
The work was too much for Mama. Her slight frame dwindled as day by day she rose at sunrise, went to do the work required by the baron, and then returned home, staggering to the croft to tend their cow and chickens. Louis learned how to take care of the animals and the garden, to prepare the meals and to watch Thomas and Bethy.
The summer he was ten, things began to improve. Mama’s smile came more often. There was real meat on the table now and then, and they wore clothes made by the seamster. Mama whistled about the house and paid her rent and her due to the Baron. Indeed, she told Louis once that she was excused from work, for she paid to be let off.
He never asked where she got the money. And then, she was gone. He stopped in the road as the boys ran ahead. He did not know how Mama died.
He remembered the day he was taken to St. Jacques’ monastery along with his brother and sister, how he hushed Bethy and held Thomas’ hand while they sat on a hard wooden bench and waited for a monk to take them to their rooms. How his breath came in gasps and his hands were cold and yet sweaty, how he wondered what would happen to them.
Bethy and Thomas were soon taken in by two separate families in the parish, yet Louis stayed on at St. Jacques.
He lifted his head, for the boys were belting down the lane, far in advance of Louis’ more sedate pace. “Hey, Elton! Guilliame! Walter! Wait up!”
The boys glanced back and slackened their pace, but Samson John disappeared around bend in the road, not hearing his call.
How did she die? Somehow the question took on mammoth proportions. He must know, yet he had no answer. Had she taken ill? He knew she was often sick with a cough. But, no. It was not illness.
The grey stone monastery came into view. He nodded to the three boys and they dashed ahead, entered the gate, and were promptly lost to sight. Louis sat on a bench in the herb garden where he grew plants to ease the pains and wounds of those he treated.
From the depths of his soul, pain shot across his consciousness with the intensity of a sword thrust, rocking him to his core. It was familiar, something he struggled with almost daily, but he now knew its face and could name it. Guilt. Guilt associated with Mama’s death. He groaned and cradled his head in his hands. Why did he feel this way? Had he poisoned her unintentionally?
He shook himself and straightened. Slowly, he stood and pulled desultorily at a weed. Why did it matter if he knew why she died? What was this evil spirit that troubled him?
He thought back over the long days and nights since her death. Even though it had been difficult at first, he loved the monastery, for it was an ordered life, a secure life. His days were filled from the dark of early morning to the last lingering rays of sunset with services in the chapel, prayers (both private and collective) and his studies. He learned to read Latin, Greek, and English and he learned to write. His only textbook was the Bible. Gradually, he advanced in the order and became a monk himself. He was free to travel about the countryside, to help the sick and bring comfort to the dying.
Now, shaking off his torment, he filled a leather purse with herbs and salves and started out on one of his walks. In the village of Guichen he paused to help an old basket-weaver whose eyes were infected and runny. After examining them, he straightened and saw a book that was almost covered amid a pile of rubble on a crude wooden shelf. He picked it up and wiped the dust from the cracked leather cover. “Where did you get this?”
“I dunno, Brother Louis.” The old man peered up at him. “I cannot see it, and even if I cud, I cannot read.” He chuckled at his joke.
Louis smiled and was about to replace it on the shelf, when he stopped. There, in Latin, were the words, “By Fulk of Chartres, Historian, Year of Our Lord, 1099.” It was the great historian who traveled to the Holy Lands and wrote of the early Crusades! His pulses quickening, he opened it slowly, but the great age of the parchment caused it to crack. “I cannot pay you money for this, but may I borrow it?”
The man shrugged. “Give me someit for my old eyes and you cun keep it, Brother.”
Eagerly, Louis reached into his pouch and drew out a salve. “This will help you. It is all I have at the present but I will bring you more. Spread it on your eyes twice a day, sir. It will bring relief and I hope better sight.”
Back at the monastery, Louis chaffed for the first time in his life during evening vespers, joining his voice in the songs with the other brothers of his order, praying, standing, sitting and listening. Time moved slowly. He found himself itching to be in his room, reading his precious book. Where had the old man acquired such a treasure?
Finally, the last prayer was chanted and the last song died on the cool evening air. Quietly the monks filed from the vast room with its domed ceiling so far overhead that it could scarcely be seen. Curbing his steps, Louis paced slowly to his room and opened the door. He pulled the book from the large pocket inside his black woolen cloak, laid it on the table and lit the lamp. He had little time to read, for his lamp oil was doled out in small amounts and was expected to last a long time. This night he would read until the oil was low indeed.
The ancient pages crackled under his careful fingers as he turned the pages. He gloried in the rich texture of the parchment, the age of the document and the flowing Latin words. His trembling fingers traced them and his lips moved silently. It was a story beyond calculation, beyond imagination, beyond belief. It captured his heart and soul.
It told of bloodshed, bravery, death and great deeds of honor and courage. When darkness forbade him read any longer, he crawled onto his humble cot and wept for the joy of it. The next morning he rose long before dawn and leaned so close his nose touched the parchment and his eyes ached as he read on.
The bell in the chapel sounded for prime, the hour of morning prayers, but his head was full of battles. Only when the bell sounded the second time did he rouse himself and hustle to the cathedral, to be last in line as the brothers filed in. He caught the eye of Father Adolph, whose look included reproof and surprise. Usually he was the first in line.
He often wondered later why he did not share his wonderful treasure with the other monks. Perhaps it was because for the first time in his life he had something that was his, his alone. It was something he did not want to share, something that so inflamed his mind and soul that he could think of little else. It was as if he had fallen in love.