Lionheart's Scribe (2 page)

Another king is coming to join King Philip, they say—King Richard of England, the one they call Lionheart because he is so brave in battle. The two kings will meet here and then sail together to the Holy Land. I will find a way to see him, Vulgrin or no Vulgrin. My mother was English and I learned the English language from her. She used to sing to me, and recite long stories that sounded so sweet, they put me to sleep. I do not remember her well, but I remember her voice and those beautiful words.

Vulgrin thinks my enthusiasm for the English king is stupid. He says Richard is a Norman, like my father was. I asked him how, therefore, Richard could be king of England? He boxed my ears and told me not to ask foolish questions. I suppose I will never learn. But I think perhaps he does not know the answer himself.

The fourteenth day of September

Vulgrin has been especially horrible to me lately. I take great pleasure in stealing skins from him and writing words about him that he will never see. It gives me a power I've never had before.

The fifteenth day of September

I roused myself early this morning and was down at the harbor before dawn. The Muslim call to prayer was just dying away and the first rays of the sunwere beginning to show against the dark night sky. It was so quiet. I have never been down there at that time before. Usually there is such a horde of people and such noise and confusion that it makes my head spin. The fishmongers had not yet arrived and there was a fresh, salty smell to the air. I sat on a log near the water and looked at the king of France's war galleys. They are such great ships!

Looking at those vessels, I began to feel a very strange sensation inside me. What would it be like to sail on one of them? To go as far as I can see from here, and then go yet farther, on to new and distant lands?

It was very odd. The feeling inside me became so strong it actually hurt.

Men started moving around within the ships, fires were lit and curses rang out. I stirred myself and had Vulgrin's stall set up with all the writing materials out and ready by the time he arrived. You would think he might have been a little grateful, but no, he just grumbled and pushed me aside.

There was a lot of work to do today. We tallied lists of stores for the masters of the ships and wrote letters without stop. Vulgrin might complain about my writing, but at least I have a good knowledge of languages. My father taught me well. I can speak even more languages than I can write. It seems I have a talent that way. People congregate in Messina from all over, and more tongues are spoken here than anywhere else in the world, I warrant. I hear the words and I can learn the meaning of them almost without trying, it seems.

I consider it a talent. Vulgrin considers anything he cannot do himself a waste of time. Still, on the rare occasion when someone wants something written in English, it is I who must do it. Not that he will admit as much, of course. He just nods at me as if the matter were of too little importance for him to deal with, and says, “The boy will do it.”

My father was a far greater scribe than Vulgrin was. Vulgrin may not think I remember, but I do. My father spent hours with me. He taught me how to write the words and my mother taught me how to make them have a life of their own. And I too will be a better scribe than Vulgrin one day. I
will
!

What a lot I have written tonight. I shall have to steal more skins, but I had better be careful. Vulgrin was counting them today with a frown on his face, even the old and torn ones. I must write as small as I can and get as much as possible on each scrap.

The twentieth day of September

According to the gossip I hear at the harbor, the priests are preaching crusade from every church. They are urging everyone who is fit to take up the cross and join. A fever seems to have taken hold of the city. It has even infected me. I watched the crusading knights at mass this morning. They are so magnificent. Their crosses burn on their breasts with the glory of God. If only I were strong and able-bodied, I would be one of the first to volunteer to join them. What a marvelous thing it would be to march to Jerusalem, to fight God's Holy War! But who would want me, cripple that I am? I would be useless.

The twenty-first day of September

One of the crusaders stopped by our stall today. He wanted a letter written to his lady wife back in the Frankish lands. Of course, Vulgrin would not let me write it, but I stayed within earshot as the knight dictated it. In his letter the knight promised his lady that they would sail to the Holy Land, reconquer Jerusalem and be home by Yuletide. He sounded so proud and confident.

I heard Vulgrin give a snort as he was writing, and when he had finished I summoned up the nerve—or the idiocy—to ask him why. For once he didn't chastise me.

“They're fools. All of them. Jerusalem was conquered by the Saracens almost a hundred years ago. If retaking the city were so easy, someone would have done so long ago,” he growled.

I decided to press my luck. “Has anyone tried?” I asked.

“They haven't stopped trying, you ninny. And nobody's been able to do it,” he replied.

I was shocked to hear him speak so. No one else in the city does. It must be that he is old and angry and bitter about everything. Sometimes I know how that feels. Not about being old, I mean, but certainly about being angry and bitter.

I look at those great ships and see King Philip's huge army camped out on the fields outside the walls of the city. How could the crusade not be successful? And there is still Richard Lionheart of England to come with his army as well.

Of course they will be victorious.

The twenty-second day of September

He arrived today: Richard, king of England. I knew immediately when I saw him why men call him Lionheart. He is as glorious as the sun itself. I don't think I have ever felt such a stirring within me as I did when I first laid eyes on him. Vulgrin can snort all he wants, but this is a king worthy of the name.

My quill is dashing ahead too quickly. I will collect myself and record everything as it happened. This has been such a day. I must write down every single detail of it. This journal will be something to read and relive when the crusaders have all gone and I have returned to my usual boring life.

When I awoke this morning the rumors were already knifing around the town.

“A fleet is sailing toward our harbor!” I heard a man cry.

“An immense fleet!” shouted another. “The sky is billowing with sails!”

I was up and out of my hut in a trice. I knew it must be the king of England.

I hobbled as quickly as I could down to the harbor. It seemed as if the whole town was on its way there too. I was jostled and bumped and almost trodden upon. My foot began to pain me even more than usual, and I cursed it with each step for slowing me down. Twice, slipping in the filth that ran beneath my feet, I fell, but that only made me hurry more. I was afraid there would be such a crowd lining the shore by the time I got there that I wouldn't see a thing.

I needn't have worried. King Richard did not sail quietly in the way King Philip did.

As I feared, a swarm of people already lined the harborside when I finally got there. But because I am small for my fifteen years and agile, despite my foot, I slipped between them like an eel and forced my way through to the very front. Being spindle-shanked has its advantages. My elbows are sharp and bony enough to jab most effectively at ribs and fat bellies.

And what a sight I saw. On the horizon was a fleet of ships, so many that when I tried to count them, I had to give up. Sails filled the entrance to our harbor. Then I heard from over the water the shrill bugling of trumpets. The sound sent a shiver down my spine. I don't know when I have ever been so excited. I stood planted to the spot and didn't give way to anybody, no matter how hard they pushed.

As the fleet came nearer I could see that most of the vessels were warships painted in every possible color. Even their sails were brilliantly hued and shone against the blue sky. The railings of the ships seemed to be ringed with glittering fire. At first I couldn't imagine what was aflame, but then I realized that the crusaders had hung their shields all around and they were reflecting back the sun.

The sea boiled as the oarsmen drove the ships on. Then I saw what I had come to see.

The leading ship was a galley painted a crimson as red as blood. It flew King Richard's pennant, three golden lions on a scarlet background. In the prow stood the king himself. He wore a cloak of gold that streamed back from his shoulders in the wind and his hair was just as golden. He seemed tobe standing on a raised platform—perhaps so that everyone could see him? His legs were planted wide apart and he stood firmly, confident and steady in spite of the tossing deck beneath his feet.

I drank in the sight. Never have I seen anything more splendid. This is how a king should look. In that moment I felt such a longing surge up in me. It was stronger even than the strange feeling I had the other night when I sat by the harbor and watched the king of France's ships rocking at their moorings. Perhaps it is all the talk of crusade, perhaps it is the sight and smell of these foreign ships, but I long to be on one of them. To be one of the men I see here every day who are going to sail far away to new countries, new adventures. To do my part to regain Jerusalem. To do God's will.

But what nonsense I am writing. It is impossible and I know it.

The twenty-third day of September

I could not write anymore last night. My fingers were cramped and my quill too dull. I have sharpened it today though, and I must continue. I know full well that I will never see such a sight again and I do not want to forget any of it.

Forty-six oars drove King Richard's warship on. I counted. It sailed smoothly into the harbor. As it approached the pier, the great square sail suddenly went limp. One last sweep of the ship's oars brought the great vessel alongside, and then the oars were raised skyward, all together. A command rang out and they lapped down, one by one, to lie in rowsalong the inside of the ship. It was so neatly done. During the whole time King Richard stood with his cloak billowing around him.

A great cheer went up from every person on the shore.

“He has a great enthusiasm for war, does England's Richard,” I heard a man behind me say. I can well imagine that to be true.

As soon as his ship was tied up the king leaped ashore without waiting for assistance of any kind. That seemed to upset the nobles and the other important men standing there waiting to receive him. They probably had a whole ceremony planned, but this king is obviously a man who does things his own way. Trumpets and clarions sounded, a little raggedly, as if they had been taken by surprise. Then King Philip strode forward out of the crowd. The two kings embraced and I was finally able to get a look at the king of France. He is as tall as King Richard, but I thought he had a sly look about him. I would not trust him if I were the king of England.

More cheers rang out. I found I was cheering as loudly as everyone else. I shouted until my voice turned hoarse. In my fervor I threw my cap in the air. That was a mistake, for when it came down, some other hands grabbed it and I never saw it again. It was my only head covering and my ears will suffer for it when the weather turns cold.

I made my way back to Vulgrin's stall, but couldn't keep my mind on my work. I made stupid mistakes and blotted two skins. I think Vulgrin tiredhimself out beating me. But I could not think of anything other than the sight of Richard Lionheart, king of England, sailing into our harbor.

The thirtieth day of September

I thought that King Richard would lodge in a palace in the city, as does King Philip of France, but instead he has settled his army outside the city walls. It is a huge encampment. They say he has five thousand men with him.

I could not wait to finish my work with Vulgrin today so that I could go to see for myself. In my haste I ruined another skin and received another good beating for it. In a way that was a blessing though, as Vulgrin was beside himself with anger. He stormed away after he had beaten me and shouted for me to get out of his sight, so I was able to get away early. I managed to steal the skin I ruined too. Now that I have so many interesting things to write about, I do not intend to stop.

I stuffed the skin down the front of my tunic and made my way to one of the city gates where I could look down on the camp. There are pavilions and tents spread out as far as a man can see. Soldiers mill around everywhere. On the fields beyond the camp I saw a troop of knights mounted on enormous horses charging at each other with spears lowered. I suppose they were only practicing, but it looked like a real battle to me and I caught my breath as they knocked each other off their horses at a great rate.

On top of one big pavilion, off to the far side, flewa royal streamer with three golden lions roaring on it. I realized that had to be the tent of King Richard himself. I watched it for as long as I could, hoping I might catch a glimpse of the king, but to no avail. Then a city guard came and chased me away.

I'm going to go back though. As soon as I can.

The second day of October

King Philip tried to sail today, but the weather was foul. The storms and the wind were too much for him, and after but a few hours his ships came limping back, sails hanging torn and bedraggled. I was there to watch as they straggled into the harbor. I heard one man laugh when he saw them.

“The king of France gets seasick,” he said. “I imagine he's puking his innards out right now.”

Not very heroic, that. I'll wager the king of England doesn't get seasick.

The third day of October

The talk amongst the crusaders who frequent the quayside is that the armies in the Holy Land have been hemmed in at Acre by Salah-ud-Din, the Muslim leader whom many Christians call Saladin. They are desperate for the arrival of King Richard and King Philip, I hear, and the crusaders are desperate to go, but winter is almost upon us and it seems now they might have to wait for spring. It is probably unchristian of me to say so, but I hope they do. I want to see more of them. I do not want them to leave.