Roselynde, page 40
“The gate is closed,” the guard snarled through the wicket. “None may enter until morning.”
“I am Sir Simon Lemagne. Open. Now. Or you will break your fast on your own lights and liver.”
Guardsmen do not quarrel with the close companion of the king. The postern opened. The knight led his horse through, remounted, and clattered up the street toward the palace. In the stable he kicked a horseboy awake, dropped his reins into the boy’s hands, and stalked off. His gait was stiff, like that of a man too long in the saddle or holding himself upright and still with conscious effort. The palace guards, Alinor’s men, knew him well and passed him without challenge. Inside, the hard sense of purpose seemed to falter. Simon stood irresolute, as if the dark and silence had brought a realization for the first time of how late the hour was.
He started off again, but uncertainly, as if he had forgotten the way. Then along the corridor came soft hurrying footsteps. Simon stopped and, in a moment, a stripling page ran right into him and bounced off. Simon uttered a short exclamation of pain while the boy gasped, “Who? Who?”
“You are full young to be playing night games in the maids’ quarters,” Simon said dryly, “but you serve my purpose, so I will serve yours. Get you back there. Rouse Lady Alinor’s maid Gertrude and bid her tell her mistress that I await her …” Simon put a hand to his head as if to run his fingers through his hair. The edge of the steel-sewn gauntlet clashed faintly against his helm. He dropped his hand.
“Await her where, my lord? And—and who shall I say waits? I cannot see.”
“Sir Simon waits. Where?” Not the Great Hall. When it was empty sound echoed through that marble vastness. Not the inner court. The night air brought fever. “Where?” Simon repeated stupidly. “Oh, in the outer chamber of the king’s apartment. And bring me some lights.”
The boy ran back the way he had come. Simon followed slowly, dragging his feet a little. To an observer he would have seemed unendurably tired, but when he came to his goal he did not seek out the benches along the wall or the chairs near the table. He stood just inside the door, staring blankly into the darkness so that the page nearly bumped into him again when he came with a lighted taper. The boy drew in his breath sharply, partly with surprise and partly because he saw the stains on the white tabard were neither rust nor dirt but dried blood.
“Shall I light them all, my lord, and set them on the table?”
Simon started as if wakened and turned his head away from the light. “Yes. And wait outside. There may be more messages to carry.”
The boy said nothing as he placed the tapers in holders and lit them, but his face showed disappointment. He had thought he was assisting at a clandestine assignation. The idea was delightful in all its aspects—being privy to a secret, having a really juicy piece of gossip about the queen’s youngest and prettiest lady, perhaps even having a piece of knowledge with which he could extract a coin or two from the great ones, although that was not a safe idea for dealing with Sir Simon. In any case, his guess had been wrong. One does not send messages out of a love nest. He took the chance of running to get his cloak. Love tryst or conference on affairs, both were long and cold for one who had no seat but the marble floor.
Alinor, shaken out of an uneasy sleep by her maid, could scarcely credit her message. Simon, God bless him, was a creature of the utmost propriety. He would be most unlikely to come visiting in the middle of the night unless an unendurable pressure— The thought brought Alinor out of bed in a leap. If it had not been for Gertrude’s restraining hands, she would have run naked down the corridors. No remonstrance could make her take time to dress, however. She pulled on a bedrobe and with her hair flowing unchecked down her back and her feet bare fled in the direction of the king’s apartment. Snatching up a pair of slippers and a taper, Gertrude pursued her mistress. She would be the one to bear the blame if Alinor caught her death of cold or came to some hurt.
“Simon,” Alinor cried, and then as he turned and she saw the condition of his armor and tabard, “Oh God! Are you hurt sore?”
His face was curiously blank. “No. I am a little cut about, but nothing of consequence.”
His voice was curiously blank also. Alinor came up closer, drew him toward the table where the light was better. She reached up and pulled off his helmet, unlaced the throat closure and pushed back his mail hood He stood quietly, docile as a babe being dressed by its mother. The helmet was undented, his hair free of blood. It was no blow to the head that was making him appear dazed.
“Simon, what ails you? Are you taken with a weakness from the heat again?”
“No.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. Even in the poor light Alinor could see that he had paled and was fighting nausea.
He has taken the king’s sickness, she thought. Her hand flew to his face, but it was cold, not hot. He swallowed again, more easily.
“I have brought the letter you desired from the king to comfort the queen.”
“The king has not taken any hurt, has he? He is not sick again?”
“No, no. He is very well. Better than— Oh, God!”
He pulled free of her, staggered to the side of the room and retched wrenchingly, supporting himself against the wall. Nothing much came. There was nothing left. Alinor took a deep breath, choked down panic, and went to the door, thanking God that Simon had had enough sense to come to her when he was sick.
“You,” she said to the page, “get some straw and water and clean up that mess.” She turned to Gertrude. “I want water for washing and drinking, and wine, and cloth for bandages, and a needle and silk for sewing flesh. Quick now.”
Gertrude thrust the slippers into Alinor’s hand and, after staring at them as if she had no idea what they were, Alinor bent and put them on. Simon was back near the table when Alinor came into the room. She fetched a stool from the corner.
“Sit. You are too tall for me to unarm you standing.”
“I must go back,” Simon said.
“Not tonight,” Alinor replied. “At least not until I have washed you and seen to your hurts. Not even if I must crown you with this stool to make you lie still.”
A little light came into Simon’s eyes, a smile that did not quite succeed pulled at his mouth. For the first time since Alinor had entered the room, Simon did not look like a walking dead man.
“When did this sickness come upon you?” Alinor asked.
“Sickness? Oh, that,” he gestured to where the page was wiping up the floor. “That is not a sickness of the body but of the spirit.”
His eyes went blank again. For once Alinor did not suspect Simon of concealing a physical weakness to spare her anxiety. This hurt she believed was not of the body. She said nothing, merely pulled off his gauntlets and began to unlace the side of his tabard. It would be best if he could tell it in his own way. She had removed the tabard, seated him on the stool and drawn off the hauberk before he spoke again. When she came back from laying the armor aside and began lo unlace his shirt, he suddenly leaned forward, resting his head against her and gripping her tight in his arms.
“Alinor, I cannot bear this place. I cannot bear the heaps of pears and plums and figs, all soft and sickly sweet, that Saladin sends to the king. I cannot bear the richness of the floors and walls, the soft rugs, the silken hangings. There is too much of everything. Even hostages. Whoever heard of three thousand hostages? Only, there are no hostages anymore.”
He stopped to breathe harshly and Alinor stroked his hair, puzzled. She knew Simon was offended by the lush luxury of these eastern lands. He had said so before, but Simon was no religious fanatic like an anchorite who could be driven hysterical by luxury. And if the hostages had been returned … But if the hostages had been returned, why should Simon be all bloody?
“Beloved—” she began.
His arms tightened and he nuzzled his face against her as if he wanted to bury his head or hide it. “I am hardened in war, Alinor. I have taken keeps and put the defenders to the sword. I have raped and looted. I have myself hung hostages as a lessoning to those who break treaty, but—but three thousand? Three thousand, chained, slaughtered like a herd of pigs? It was rightly done and fairly. We could not leave them behind. So many were dangerous. And it soon became plain that Saladin had no intention of fulfilling the terms he had made. He was using the hostages to delay us from beginning an attack on his other strongholds. But three thousand? The men—our men—were wetted with blood to the middle of their calves.”
Alinor bent and kissed Simon’s hair and his temple. If the king had put Simon to such work, she would never forgive him. He should have known that this man was not a butcher. What now to do or say to comfort him? She could think of nothing except to keep him talking.
“My heart, light of my eyes, how did you come to be all bloodied?”
“They fell upon us when the men began their work.”
“Who?”
“The Saracens had gathered in the hills above to laugh at us for being dupes, for performing our part of the bargain twice and thrice over while they had no intent to satisfy us.” He pulled a little away from Alinor to look up at her, his eyes angry instead of dead. “As I said, they hoped to delay and delay, keeping us at the place of meeting while they built up their forces. When they saw that we would hold the hostages no longer, no matter what excuses and fine gifts were sent, they purposed to win their pledge free from us by battle—another violation of the truce. Well, I do not blame them altogether for that. However wrong they were in failing to keep their pact, it is not so easy to sit and see your countrymen butchered.”
“You fought the attackers?”
“The king and the mounted knights—yes.” Then he realized what Alinor was asking, without wishing really to ask. “The common soldiers did the—the other work. They sang and laughed at it. Perhaps we nobles live soft and listen to too many tales of high chivalry. He grinned wryly. “I was not the only one who emptied his belly all over the field.” Then he rubbed his face against Alinor again. “But God is good to me. I have the cure of all my ills right here.”
“Not if you do not let me take off this shirt and clean you,” Alinor said tartly. She was relieved when Simon’s arms dropped and he smiled almost normally.
However, he was not completely cured and might never be until they left this overripe land. At first, wherever Alinor led the talk as she treated his wounds, he kept returning to the sea of blood. It was not the thing itself that disturbed him, Alinor was pleased to discover. To be soft-hearted is all very good, but a man so soft-hearted that he lost sight of the purpose of a hostage or the danger of a large mass of prisoners left behind in hostile territory was soft-headed too. Quite literally the quantity, the too-muchness, of dead people and spilled blood had overset him.
Even her questions regarding how he had convinced the king to write kindly to Berengaria led back to the sea of blood.
“I? I did nothing,” Simon said. “I think if any man had said that poor lady’s name this past week it would have been his death. It was after we had—had finished. We returned to the encampment and it was as if the king had thrown off a great weight. He began at once to plan our march south to Jaffa, whence he hopes to strike east to Jerusalem. Then suddenly he turned to me and asked if I would ride a message for him. I was a little surprised. There are messengers in plenty. But when he said to ride here with a letter to the queen, I saw he meant kindly to me. He wished to give me a time with you. We will leave tomorrow or the next day.”
Perhaps that was part of it, Alinor thought cynically. Richard was not unkind when he noticed and the kindness did not interfere with what he desired. This time it certainly did not. Simon would have what he craved, and Richard would have freedom to do what he liked in his own bed. She did not say that. She no longer cared what the king was or did. It was enough that he had sent Simon to her. Richard should have his night free of interference.
It was not unlikely that Simon had similar thoughts. He made a token protest when Alinor bade him stay the night. However, when she pointed out that the army would not move far that first day, if it moved at all, Simon did not argue that the king might need him. He simply turned in and went to sleep in the king’s bed. As it turned out, it was just as well that he stayed. The army did not move until August 22.
The march was most curious. Richard had arranged for supply ships to parallel their course down the coast, and Saladin’s army also followed them some miles inland. The heat was killing. Many were stricken as Simon had been, some so much worse that they died. And, despite the supply ships, there was never enough meat. Nonetheless, Simon’s letters to Alinor were cheerful. Sooner or later, he wrote, Saladin must come to grips with them. He could not, for shame, allow them to proceed indefinitely or the heart would go out of his men and his allies would begin to doubt him.
The day before they reached the city of Arsuf, Richard’s foreriders brought the news that Saladin’s army had formed to block their further passage. How greatly they were outnumbered Richard did not know, but he was sure that to permit his men to charge into the Saracen forces would mean that they could be broken into small parties and massacred. The baggage train went down to the coast with a small detachment of footmen to guard it. Forward of this anchor line, the heavy-armed, mounted knights took their stand. The foremost line were the archers behind a wall of shields. They were to stand and receive, Richard ordered, fighting only to defend themselves. Let the infidels break themselves and reduce their numbers on the wall of men.
It was a wise plan, but very hard to sustain, Simon thought. One wave of attackers had been beaten back, but it was no source of joy. They came down the hillside like ants, thousands, tens of thousands, apparently inexhaustible. Twice the line of footmen had been breached in many places and the knights rode forth to beat back the attackers so that the wall could be closed again, but they were forbidden to pursue. A few raw men had fled screaming before a blow had been struck, panicked by the sight of so multitudinous an enemy. Simon killed two of those himself in full sight of the men who held the shield wall. They were only boys and Simon was sorry for them, but it must be clear that the only chance for life any man had was to stand and fight.
Then came the mounted Turks. It was bitter to see them charge and swirl away, laughing at the men who held their ground at their master’s order. They came again, and again, and were beaten off each time, but the dead they left behind were not all their own. The Hospitalers on the flanks were most heavily engaged. They sent to beg Richard to give them freedom to ride out after their tormentors. He forbade it. Simon cursed under his breath. Again they were attacked and again defended themselves and again begged the king to free their bonds.
Pride is a sin. Very nearly, had Richard not been a genius in tactics, it would have been physically as well as morally a deadly sin and would have killed the Crusade that day. The Marshal of the Hospitalers and one other, tried beyond endurance, broke ranks. Burning themselves and seeing those two ride forth, the knights cheered and rode after. For one freezing instant, Simon feared the king would fall into a rage. Then they would all die. Richard screamed what was no battle cry and also not suitable language for a man engaged in holy work, but he did not hesitate.
The die was cast. Wrong as it was thrown, the king would make his point. He spurred forward, Simon to the left, Leicester to the right and, on either side of them, Gurney, Borritz, Ferrars. Tooney, d’Avennes, Druell, and the Bishop of Beauvais followed. Miraculously Richard brought order out of chaos. The sound of his voice summoned his men together so that, one by one, they would not be swept away. The line began to form with Richard at its center point. The first man the king struck he clove in two. Simon had one moment to marvel before his sword wrought similar havoc. The Saracens were apparently not mail clad. They were quick to attack, quicker to flee away, but ill able to withstand heavy combat hand to hand.
It seemed to Simon that every blow he struck killed a man, so close were they pressed with enemies. But, though those he struck fell away, more came. Simon’s breath tore at his chest, his helmet bound temples that otherwise, he thought, might have burst. A mist began to becloud his eyes. The heat scorched him; it seemed a far deadlier weapon than any of the light swords or lances the infidels wielded.
Then, suddenly, they were gone. Simon barely checked a sword stroke that threatened Gurney, gasped an apology. He could scarcely see. Hurriedly he fumbled behind his saddle, drew out a chunk of salted meat. How he would choke it down in a mouth as dry as dust he did not know, but moisture came as he chewed. And then, as the pounding in his head subsided and his vision did not clear, he laughed. It was dust, not weakness that had dimmed his sight. The battle had churned the earth of the plain into a cloud.
That laugh was the last Simon uttered for some lime. Barely had Richard reformed his men when the Saracens flooded over them again. It did not seem possible that there should be more enemies than before—hundreds, perhaps thousands, had been killed. The line of mounted men did not break; the footmen performed prodigies of valor. Nonetheless they were forced back by the weight of numbers.
“Simon!”
Above the din, Richard’s clear bellow was like a trumpet. Simon knocked his opponent aside with a thrust of his shield. To respond was more important than to kill.
“Take ten mounted men and follow me.” The king struck down two more but found breath to call similar orders to Leicester and others.
It was easier said than done. To draw men from a fight without causing a panic is difficult. There is little time or quiet for explanations while blows are being exchanged. Nonetheless, it was done, and a small band of panting men surrounded the king a little apart from the screaming, clashing battle.
“Follow!” Richard cried.
There was no banner; that remained with the Bishop of Beauvais who held the center of the main force. The men thanked God that Richard was a giant. They would be able to see him when they fought again. It never occurred even once to a single man that the king, seeing the tide of battle had turned, was fleeing to save himself. Riding hard to the right beyond the battle front, Simon again had cause to bless Lord Rannulf’s gray stallions as one of the men’s horses foundered. His breath began to ease, the pain under his ribs lessening. The blessed interval did not last long. Simon tightened his grip on his sword again and drew a deeper breath when he saw where Richard was heading. The few were going to attack the whole Saracen army from the right rear.
