Shadows on a Sword (22 page)

“God’s will has been done. We gather here victorious in His sight.” The priest’s words rolled out around the gathering. There was no wild exultation, however, only a heavy silence. The heads of all in the congregation bowed as the priest blessed them. From outside, the sound of the streets being cleared filtered into the silent assembly. Huge pyres of bodies were being piled up in every vacant lot and set on fire. An oath rang out, shocking the silence with its vulgarity. Theo moved slightly, then flinched. His back felt as if it were being torn apart. The wound inflicted by Guy’s sword was superficial and would heal well, the healer had said. But inside Theo, as the smell of the burning bodies seeped into the church, a far deeper wound festered.

Theo sat in the garden of a small house on the outskirts of Jerusalem. It was a house he had purchased from a Christian of the city who had wanted to journey to Antioch. He knew very well that Emma would not live in any dwelling where blood might have been spilled. He and Emma had gone to the count after the service in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. They had confessed their deception to him and received his forgiveness and blessing. They had been wed not long afterward.

This day, Emma was digging in a small plot of earth outside the front door. She was planting vegetables. A scarf covered her hair, and she reached up now and then to push a stray lock out of her eyes.

Theo had just returned from the morning council. Jerusalem had been restored to order, but there was still much to do. He had been given the task of clearing the sand-filled wells outside the city. It was hard, hot, tedious labor, and his wound still gave him trouble, but the work suited him well. He toiled beside the men assigned to help him from sun-up to sundown, grateful for the opportunity to tire himself to the point where he could not think. There were many things he did not want to think about. After the battle, he and Emma had turned to each other in desperation. Neither of them could sleep. Nor could they talk; there were no words for the guilt and horror that haunted them. Each night, they had held each other wordlessly during the long black hours until the dawn.

At first, Emma had dug in the garden soil with a kind of frenzied fury. Gradually, however, as she created order and beauty out of the wild bramble that had been there before, she calmed. Her hands shaped the earth with more tenderness. Theo brought water every evening and they rationed it out carefully onto the long, straight rows she had created, nourishing the life that lay hidden in the buried seeds. Finally, she and Theo could sleep. They found words to say to each other. They could comfort each other with their love. As the days went by, life slowly became bearable again.

Now, as he watched her, Theo felt a hollowness within him being filled. Flowers bloomed in their garden, as if in defiance of the red-earthed desolation of the hills around them. Thick-leaved trees gave shade. In one of them, the song of a solitary bird trilled out clear and pure. Emma looked up just then and met his gaze. She smiled—a small, tentative smile. Theo’s heart leaped. It was the first time she had smiled since the taking of Jerusalem.

A hail from the gate startled them. Amalric leaped over the low stone wall and loped over to sit beside Theo.

“Good morrow, Emma,” he called. “Your garden does marvelously well.”

Emma straightened up and brushed off her skirt.

“And a good morrow to you, Amalric,” she called back. She disappeared into the house, but reappeared almost immediately carrying a bowl of oranges the color of sunshine itself and a flagon of wine. She brought them over and placed them on a low table beside Theo and Amalric, then seated herself.

“You heard, Theo, this morning—Duke Godfrey steadfastly refuses to allow himself to be crowned king of Jerusalem,” Amalric said, picking up one of the golden fruits and tossing it from hand to hand. “He will allow himself only the title “Defender of the Holy Sepulchre.’”

“Duke Godfrey is an honorable man,” Theo replied. “He is as honorable in peace as he was in war.”

“Was
in war?” Amalric exclaimed. “So you believe our fighting days are over now?”

“We have won Jerusalem,” Emma said. “We have given the Holy Lands back to the Church. What more is there to do?”

“What more, indeed?” Amalric asked. “So we will grow old and fat in peaceful governing of this land and city?”

Theo looked at him. “What more do you want, my friend?” he asked.

Amalric jumped to his feet. “Something! I know not what, but something!” He began to stride back and forth across the narrow garden. “This suits you, Theo, I can see that. You are growing brown and contented. I am pleased for you. But this peace that you enjoy so much is suffocating me. I am dying here!”

“Peace bores you?” Emma asked.

“It does. I need the excitement of battle, the sound of trumpets to send the blood coursing through my veins.”

“And the killing? It bothers you not?” Emma asked.

“Killing is part of war. I accept it.”

“Perhaps you need it.”

Amalric looked at Theo sharply. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded, his voice suddenly harsh.

“Nothing. I am sorry. Please, forget my words, I spoke nonsense.” Theo rose and placed his hand on Amalric’s arm.

“What will you do?” Emma asked.

Amalric turned to her, and his eyes brightened again. “I have asked my lord Godfrey if I can return to Bouillon. There are still battles to be fought. I could be useful there.”

“You would leave us? You would leave Jerusalem?” Theo stared at him.

“I would, my friend. And I would tempt you to come with me if I could, but I fear that would be impossible.” He looked over at Emma and laughed, then tossed her the orange.

She caught it and held it carefully, as if it were something very precious.

“Would you go with him?” Emma asked that night as they lay entwined on their cot, the room lit only by the lambent glow of the last embers of their fire. “If it were not for me, would you go with him?”

“No,” Theo answered, “I would not. I will miss Amalric when he goes. He has been my constant companion and true friend for the last three years. We have fought together and saved each other’s life more times than I can count, but I would not go with him.”

“Why not?”

The clash of weapons echoed in Theo’s memory. The noises and the smells of war. The eyes of every man he had ever killed. He held Emma even more tightly.

“I could not,” he said. “I am not like Amalric. If that means I am less of a man, then so be it. But I, too, have had my war. All I pray for now is that this peace that torments Amalric so should continue. I want not my children to know war.”

He looked beyond Emma to where his sword stood propped in the shadows. The iron blade was twisted and notched. He had not yet asked the blacksmith to repair it.

He knew then he never would.

Karleen Bradford is the acclaimed author of 19 children’s and young adult books.
Lionheart’s Scribe,
which was nominated for a Silver Birch Award, completed her bestselling trilogy of the Crusades, which also included
There Will Be Wolves
(winner of the 1993 CLA Young Adult Book Award) and
Shadows on a Sword.
Karleen Bradford lives in Owen Sound, Ontario. Visit her on the Web at www.karleenbradford.com. To receive updates on author events and new books by Karleen Bradford, sign up at www.authortracker.ca.

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