LIONHEART

She and Robert settled in comfortable chairs in the parlor, several candles on the windowsill and more on the mantel casting a soft glow through the room, which she liked to keep dimly lit with electricity. As he sipped his tea, she studied him. He'd cut off their dinner conversation rather abruptly and she didn't understand why. Not one to let go of her favorite topic so easily, she sat down her cup and said, "You seem to know a lot about the third crusade."

"More than I care to," he replied, his eyes on his tea.

"I find the whole thing fascinating myself," she persisted, "especially their march across France on the way."

"July 4, 1190," he murmured, "the day we...they...left Vézelay."

"Correct," she smiled, pleased. "I understand it was quite a happy time."

"Happy, yes. I expect you could call it that. A hundred thousand men then, with battle very far away, impossibly far for it to seem real. The villagers would run out as they passed, offering wine and bread or cool water. The men sang, thousands of voices singing crusader songs, a thousand black-robed priests marching with them. An impressive sight."

"And Richard, resplendent and handsome," she added.

"Resplendent? Yes, he was that. Handsome, too, and taller than anybody else at 6'4". He always cut quite a figure. But, then, he knew that."

"With red hair and blue eyes."

"Grey," he corrected. "Richard's eyes were grey."

Julie looked at him curiously, but let it go. "I've heard he inherited his mother's good looks."

Robert nodded. "He did, and his father's temper."

"What do you think of the mounted statue of him outside Parliament?"

 

"A fair likeness, actually. He had long limbs, was very athletic, always carried himself like a king, was always aware he WAS a king." Again the wry smile curved his lips.

"If you had known him, do you think you would have liked him?" she asked.

"If I...?" What questions the woman asked! "He was a brilliant military strategist and fought right along with his men. Very brave. He was very brave."

"That's not quite what I asked."

He studied her a moment. "It is good when a king fights alongside his men. I like that."

"What about Messina?"

"Sicily? It took him a long time to get there. After Genoa he seemed like he was on vacation. Toured Portofino, took his time going down the coast, was in no big hurry. Ten full days in Naples."  He shook his head. "Ten full days. But when he got to Messina and saw the fleet, he changed. Suddenly he was no longer the tourist in Italy. He took on the stance of a conqueror. The fleet," his eyes no longer saw the room, no longer saw her, "...the fleet, all 250 ships
was ordered to wheel together and make for the harbor. He had the men, soldiers, sailors, it didn't matter...if you were on a ship you were supposed to holler and shout. The clarions and trumpets blared. Such a sound." He closed his eyes. "So loud. The white walls of Messina shook with it as though it were one of their earthquakes." Again he looked at her. "When Richard wanted to make an impression on a populace, he knew how. They were simply
terrified by the sight and the sound."  He did not mention that the admiral in charge of the fleet was one Sir Robert Tornham nor that among the shouters stood a certain bowman.

"And Berengaria was there, with his mother."

"Yes, but by the time she and Eleanor got there there wasn't time for a big wedding and he wanted a huge, impressive wedding. He enjoyed himself, though. Adventure followed after him like some pet hound."

"What do you mean?"

"The Messinians had closed their gates, you may recall, and while the English were attacking outside, Richard and two of his soldiers walked around the walls, found an unguarded postern gate and merely hacked it down with a hatchet." He grinned. "It was dark and the three of them crept along the inner curtain wall, reached the main gate and...opened it, so his army could come in."

"I wish I'd known about that," she sighed. "Sounds like a movie."

"It was very real," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Very real."
 

ACRE THE TERRIBLE

The more Julie was with Robert, the more he fascinated her. "You know a lot a details I've never read about," she commented. "I like hearing them."

He took another sip of tea. "Details? Yes, there were many details."

"What about the winter he had to spend in Messina? What do you know about how that went?"

"For him, for the knights, it wasn't so bad. But he'd made a set of 'laws' to entertain himself before he left Chinon and rather enjoyed enforcing them."

"Laws?"

"If, for instance, a sailor murdered another, he would be bound to the dead man and cast into the sea. You've heard of being tarred and feathered? Richard loved that. If a seaman stole anything, his head would be shaved, boiling pitch would be poured over him and chicken feathers shaken over that. A soldier who was found gambling would be whipped naked through the army for three days or thrown into the sea on three mornings.
Richard, you see, enjoyed punishing."

"What about Cyprus then? You really think Richard didn't go there just because of Berengaria?"

"The treasure, Julie, he had loaded her ship with the treasure he intended to use to buy supplies in the Holy Land. When the ship wrecked in the storm, Comnenus got hold of Richard's treasure. He traveled on a separate ship from Berengaria and his sister, Joanne, and during the storm her ship and two more were blown far to the south. He lost 25 other ships in that storm, all without a trace. It was a terrible storm, terrible." A slight shudder took him. "Comnenus was still sending rowboats out to gather more hostages when our...Richard's...fleet appeared on the horizon. He smiled. "I like to imagine what Comnenus thought when he saw that. And Richard, he was among the first to reach the shore. He used an axe that day, not a sword. Swung it like the wrath of God Himself, he did."

"Three days later," he continued, "Guy of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem, arrived with a small fleet from Acre. Guy wanted Richard to leave immediately for the Holy Land but Richard had several matters of import to himself he wished to attend to first. Berengaria's coronation, for one. She was crowned Queen of England there in the castle chapel at Limassol with two kings observing, as well as all Richard's officers of state. Half the nobility of the Holy Land was there, too. He liked that. Then there was the wedding ceremony, long, complex, spectacular. After that he went off to track down Comnenus. King Philip sent envoys to ask him to stop and come help with the siege of Acre. He didn't ask. No, Philip demanded. Richard was not one to have something demanded of him."  Robert grinned. "He was furious, furious. Called them fools and sent them away...then went after Comnenus again. Once Comnenus got close enough to Richard to fire poisoned arrows at him. Didn't hurt him. Bounced off his armor. But when he found out they had been poisoned he dug his spurs into his horse and gave chase. Comnenus, though, was riding Fauvel, the fastest horse in Cyprus. Richard was ill for a while after that with one of the sicknesses that constantly plagued the army, but when he finally caught Comnenus, the man threw himself on his knees and begged that he not be put in iron chains. Richard agreed."

"Oh," Julie spoke up, "I know about that! Richard had chains of silver made for him. He ended up in the dungeon of Margat, a Templar fortress."

"He did, indeed. A few days later, Richard's fleet set sail for Acre at last. June 5, 1191. His reputation preceded him...as it always did. The crusaders already at Acre seemed to think its walls would fall just because of his presence."

"Acre turned out to be a terrible place, though, for both sides."

"It was. More terrible than you can possibly imagine."

"But you can? Imagine it, I mean?"

He didn't answer her directly. "Richard himself was very, very ill through much of his time at Acre. There was once, though, he was simply so very...Richard. The military commander directly under the king, Alberic Clements, had sworn he would enter Acre that day or die in the effort. He took Richard's standard and was using a scaling ladder on the wall when the Saracens pulled him up with a giant grappling hook so they might have the pleasure of killing him. One of the Saracens paraded along the wall, wearing Clements' armor. Richard was sick and lying on a silk mattress, but he picked up a crossbow and shot the man through the heart. He was like that." His mind seemed to drift for a moment on a cloud of memories. "But the siege was long, very long, and everyone was reduced to exhaustion and desperation. The Christians constantly battled on two fronts, hemmed between the hills behind them where Saladin's army waited and the walls of Acre in front of them. It was misery, misery and squalor for them. Grass, bark, leaves, even dirt became food. Boiled leather was a delicacy, a stew of horse entrails a dream. Starvation, sickness. Yes, it was a terrible place." Absently, he rubbed a place on his upper arm.

"Even that wasn't the worst, though, was it? When one thinks of Richard at Acre, one thinks of...."

"The massacre," he finished for her with a deep sigh. "Yes, there is no getting around the fact of that. And Richard carefully arranged it as a showpiece for Saladin. He knew exactly what he was doing. After Saladin seemed to have no intention of keeping the agreement he'd made with Richard, Richard lost all patience. He intended to march next to Jaffa, seventy miles to the south, and couldn't take his 3000 prisoners with him. So on August 20th he placed them on a hill called Ayyadieh in full view of the Muslim army. Men, women...children. Three thousand of them, bound together with ropes. Then the parade of armored knights, infantrymen by the thousands. Richard himself directed it all. The sky was so blue that day, just intensely blue and clear." Robert closed his eyes again. "Swords flashing in the sunlight, lances, axes, bodies falling. All of them. Every one." His hand came up, clamping over his eyes. "Every one. I can still...." 

Abruptly he stood. "I thank you for the dinner, Julianna. It was excellent. I must be going now. Please excuse me." With nothing further, he strode to her door and let himself out. She watched him, her mouth slightly dropped open.

ALONG THE COASTAL ROAD

Julie sat there, stunned, after Robert's sudden departure. What had he said? He'd described the sky the day of the massacre. How could he know what the sky looked like?

Robert closed the door firmly behind him and strode rapidly toward his own house. It was dark now, though a full moon easily lit his way. As he crossed his lawn he paused, tipping his head back, looking up at the moon. Then with a quiet moan he threw himself down on the grass, lying on his back, arms folded across his face. The screams were still there, would always be there. Mothers twisting their bodies, trying vainly to protect their children from the falling swords. Thank goodness for the Saracen blade that had sliced through his right bicep the week before. Weak with fever, he had been unable to participate in the massacre, but he had seen the whole thing, had heard the cries of the helpless. He had hated Richard in that moment. But he was an Englishman and though Richard had no loyalty to England, as an Englishman, he himself was loyal to his king.

Richard had been Duke of Aquitaine, his mother's lands in France, since he was fifteen and it was there his affection lay. When his father, Henry II, died at Chinon, Richard acquired England. England was for Richard nothing more than booty, nothing more than a source to loot to raise money for the crusade he'd set his heart on. News of the disaster that had befallen the Christian army at Hattin had stirred something in him, some mercy and sympathy grounded in absolute determination. With England now his, he could empty it of revenue and fighting men, of horses and shipwrights. He went, then, to England to be crowned at Westminster and the English mistakenly thought their new king had come to stay. He stayed four months, four months during which he raged through the country like a giant predator, one thing alone on his mind. To the highest bidder went all the offices, all the titles. Every sheriff in the land was removed from his position and under the threat of imprisonment, had to buy his sheriffdom back from the crown. Once someone pointed out to him his flagrant use of England and Richard simply replied, "I would sell London if I could."

Lying there on the ground, Robert murmured aloud, "I would sell London if I could." He shuddered. Still, Richard had been his king and he was among those who left England to follow him on crusade. The man was a magnificent, magnetic presence and thousands upon thousands rallied to his call. But there on the hill of Ayyadieh on August 20th, he had hated his king.

For four days after Ayyadieh, Richard had let his army rest. At dawn on the 24th, the king led his army out of Acre along the coast, heading south to Jaffa. Richard's fleet sailed just off the shore, paralleling the army. Saladin, in the hills with his own army, paralleled them to their left. Robert lay there under the moon, the sight of it just as clear in his mind as though he were encamped after a day's march.

Nearly 85,000 men were in Richard's army, one of the most powerful ever put in the field by the Crusaders. Well-equipped, well-armed, well-organized and under the command of a single well-wrought military mind. Richard knew Saladin's equally-sized army marched just to his left, out of sight in the hills. He knew Saladin would try and cut his army by the sea into sections, making it easier to destroy. Richard gave considerable thought and planning into the order of march so that no part would be weaker than any other part. Near the sea, he placed the pack animals and the humans who carried huge weights of goods on their backs. He never had enough animals to carry all he needed transported. The cavalry he placed in the center of the three columns, with the infantry on the outside. Templars formed the advance guard, Hospitallers the rear. Richard himself rode constantly up and down the lines. His mount was Fauvel, the bay horse he'd taken from Comnenus.

Robert's fever had not yet broken and his arm ached nearly beyond endurance. Nearly. He had to endure it. There was no choice. The wagons with the wounded were one of the Saracen's favorite targets. No, he would march with his fellows. The first few days passed for him in pretty much of a fog, just one foot in front of the other. Several times he fell, but his friend Geoffrey always hauled him back to his feet.

Saladin's light cavalry made almost constant hit and run attacks on Richard's lines. On the fourth day, a Saracen arrow had pierced Geoffrey through the neck. After that, there was no one interested in hauling Robert to his feet. He marched in absolute bone crushing fatigue. But he marched. Thank God Richard had decided they should march only for the first three hours of the day. It took 19 days to reach Jaffa. Richard was in no hurry. He
studied the lay of the land, the available maps, talked with those who had been there before, and decided where it was that Saladin would stage his main assault. He was exactly right.

A millennium before, the Romans had built a paved road along this route, a great highway so their chariots and carts could drive quickly along it. Lost now under the burning white sands, only traces of it remained. Thorny bushes now grew along much of the way, and the foot soldiers were torn by their thorns, or their faces cut by the reed forests that grew so thickly along the shore. Sometimes the sand was so soft they sank up to their knees. And it was hot, blisteringly hot. When they camped, fatigued beyond belief, the tarantulas would come out, stinging the men who were trying to rest, causing painful swelling. Only the knights could afford the balms and oils that helped. The foot soldiers relied on something else they had discovered. Tarantulas detest loud noises. So all night long the soldiers banged drums, beat on basins or helmets. No one slept on the nights the tarantulas came. Like the screams, like Geoffrey's gurgle as the arrow took him down, the sound of the banging in the night remained in Robert's ears.

There were prayers, too. Sometimes the nights were so filled with those, sleep could not come even for the most weary. One of the king's heralds would come among the tents, crying out, "Sanctum Sepulchrum, adjuva!" The whole army would take up the cry, responding in turn to the herald's three cries. Thousands upon thousands of voices, calling it in the night. In the times of gravest danger, prayers and cries could be heard the entire night. Robert could hear those, too. "Sanctum Sepulchrum, adjuva!" he whispered there on the grass.

At Arsuf, about halfway to Jaffa, the woods came all the way down to sea. It was here Richard expected Saladin to attack in force. That morning, indeed, he even issued a proclamation through the encamped army that he expected to do battle that day. For some time now Arsuf had been the place he knew he would have to stand and fight. His spirits were good that morning as he looked forward to battle. Robert ate his ration, checked his quiver, his spirits somewhat less buoyant than his king's. His right arm was still stiff, still sore, the deep wound having been roughly, quickly stitched with no medication. It was healing, but very slowly. Pulling on his bowstring was nearly impossible and he'd taken possession of Geoffrey's crossbow.

Robert took his position with the Anglo-Normans in the center where the cart with the royal standard was. He was tense and though it was yet morning, sweat rolled down his brow and he wiped it away repeatedly with the arm of his jerkin. He tried to watch Henry of Champagne, who rode near the hills, charged with signaling the army when the Saracens would emerge. At 9, with the blasting sound of horns, trumpets, clarions, gongs, cymbals and high-pitched yells, they came out of the woods. It reminded Robert of the fleet's approach to Messina...only louder, more fearsome. Richard's whole army felt the weight of the attack, though the main charge was directed at the Hospitallers in the rear guard. Saladin had been joined by Nubians, Bedouins, and javelins as well as arrows rained down on the first line of infantry. An arrow tore through the shoulder cloth of Robert's jerkin, but didn't touch his skin. Desperately he got off bolt after bolt, ignoring his throbbing arm, trying to do his duty to protect the calvary behind him. Wave after wave of the enemy army poured out of the woods until it seemed there was no room for all of them to stand. For two miles not an inch of empty ground could be seen.

Richard, determined to keep his army all in once piece, to keep them, too, from being pushed into the sea, continued the forward march during the battle, so his men fought as they marched. The crossbowmen in the rear guard actually fought while marching backwards. The sound of battle filled the air like the battering of countless hammers upon blacksmith's anvils. For Robert, almost more than anything else, it was the sounds of the crusade that filled his being.

Horses screaming. There was that, too. The Saracens tried to kill as many of the horses as possible so Richard's knights could not charge. The Hospitallers, in the rear, and more exposed, were losing way too many of their mounts. Desperate, they sent messages to Richard, begging him to let them charge while they still could, but he refused, wanting to hold all his cavalry until he would let them loose at once.

Robert dropped his arms to his side, looking up at the silver-limned treetops, moving slightly in the gentlest night breeze. How could the heat of the day at Arsuf still be so real even now? The skies had been unremittingly blue, not a cloud anywhere, the morning sun blazing furnace-like on him as he used his last bolt and tried to gather more from fallen comrades. Richard pounded past him on Fauvel, heading to join the Hospitallers. He threw himself with absolute recklessness into the thick of battle and with the extraordinary reach of his long arms, cleared a wide path for himself, his sword swinging in enormous arcs. For a moment, Robert watched him, magnificent, fierce, and a gladness that this was his commander, his king, swelled in him again. Richard not only did not ever ask his men to do something he himself would not do, he did more than they did...or could do. If only, he sighed, the King of England loved England.

Seven thousand Saracen died that day. Richard lost perhaps a thousand men. As he watched the Saracen flee back into the woods, Robert sank to his knees, exhausted, his arm screaming with pain. Some of the crossbowmen were ordered to follow the enemy, many of which had hidden in the branches of the trees. Robert tried to rise to his feet, but could not manage the task. All his bolts were gone anyway. A priest, traveling with the army, got him up, got him to a cart where he lay back, letting it carry him to the small seacoast village of Arsuf. Richard gave them the next day to rest before continuing on to Jaffa.

Robert, on the lawn, closed his eyes, suddenly very tired, and drifted off to sleep.

MUFFINS IN THE MORNING DEW

Early the next morning Julie sat sipping her tea, staring out the window as the sun peeked through the low branches of the trees. For a good part of the night she'd lain awake, thinking about Robert, about how he described the events of the crusade. He'd have made a fantastic history teacher. But there was more to it somehow than that. She wanted to call him, to ask him to come back or if she could come to his house, but she had no phone number for him. Well, there was no help for it! She needed to see him. She'd just take herself over to his house, maybe bring some muffins as an excuse. She'd been up before the crack of dawn and had made banana walnut ones. Yes, that would do.

Quickly she popped about six muffins in a napkin-lined basket, stopped by the hall mirror to brush a stray lock into place, and with a slightly nervous smile, went out her front door. His house wasn't far, so she soon rounded the last clump of trees and stepped out on his lawn. Instantly her eyes were drawn to a form lying on the grass. It was Robert! Good Lord, had he fallen on his way home last night? The muffin basket slipped from her fingers as she ran to him, flinging herself to her knees on the dew-wet lawn. She didn't know why she didn't call his name; she just didn't. He lay quietly, his hands at his sides, his face tipped a bit toward her. He was breathing. The even rise and fall of his chest beneath the burgundy shirt was proof of that. Had he hit his head? There was nothing, though, where he lay but smooth lawn, nothing to trip over, nothing to hurt one in a fall.

Sitting back on her heels, she studied him. It looked like he was sleeping. Why in heaven's name would he be asleep on his lawn? That made no sense, none at all.
Perhaps he'd had some sort of attack, had passed out? She couldn't hold back any longer. Placing a palm on his chest, she leaned over. "Robert? Are you all right, Robert?"

His eyes flew open. "Geoffrey!" he called, still lost in some confusion of time and place.

"It's me, Robert...Julie. What happened?"

He looked straight up into her eyes. "Happened? I...I was walking home last night...from your house." He let his lids close again. The coastal road. He'd lain down, reliving the days along the road between Acre and Jaffa. "I must have fallen asleep."

"But on the lawn, Robert? Why would you sleep on the lawn?"

"I needed to think. I looked at the moon, then I just lay on the grass." His eyes met hers. "I needed to think."

"You're not hurt? You didn't fall?"

"I'm fine. A bit damp from the dew, but otherwise fine. Why are you here?"

"I brought you muffins, I...oh, dear...the muffins!" She looked back, seeing them scattered on the grass. "I dropped them."

"Why would you bring me muffins, Julie?"

"I...I just...I wanted to see you."

Her hair was hanging forward, brushing his cheeks, her eyes large, very close. My God, she was beautiful! One of his hands came up, sliding behind
her head, pressing her gently the rest of the way down so his lips could find hers. She needed to be kissed. He needed to kiss her.

Julie was surprised by his sudden smooth movement, but when his mouth closed around hers, she forgot the surprise of it, forgot the dew, forgot the muffins. Her breasts pressed against his chest and she yielded herself completely to his kiss. What if there were no poppies in the lawn? Muffins would
serve just fine. So taken up in his kiss was she that she even forgot to write the scene of it.

He kissed her for a long time and very thoroughly, then taking her by her upper arms, held her where he could look at her eyes. She seemed slightly dazed and he smiled. "You, Julianna, are a woman who should be kissed often...and well."

"Ok," she murmured, tipping her face toward his again despite his hold on her arms.

He chuckled and kissed her again before holding her up once more, needing to read what lay in her eyes. Had he said too much at dinner? Never...not ever...had he spoken so much to anyone about such matters. Her own enthusiasm for the time had drawn it out of him, made it all too easy. He was usually on his guard more than that. But Julie, she affected him differently.

Aware that he was studying her, she asked, "What? What are you looking for, Robert?"

"No matter," he breathed, and kissed her again.

The door had a curved top and was set in a wide framing of ridges and leaves. The top panel of the door itself had a scene carved on the
entire thing, horses in a meadow, evergreens behind, and more of the leaves that matched those on the framing. She allowed a single fingertip
to trace the outline of the closest horse. "It's just beautiful, Robert. Just beautiful."

Then her eye was drawn to a nearby door with a single golden eagle on it, perched on a branch, looking intently at something in the distance.

 

She turned, discovering bowls, birdhouses, archways, chairs and small tables. "All this, Robert? You have done all this?" She picked up a bowl,
polished to a gleaming finish, smooth and masterfully done to showcase the grain of the wood.

 

"Maple," he said softly, "a central slab of maple."

"I hadn't...expected. Is...is this your...profession?"

"No," he smiled. "I do it because I love it, I love wood, the feel of it in my hands. It is why," he looked briefly out the open doors, "I now live
in a forest. I am, shall we say, at home here."

"Where you always a woodworker?" she asked, unable to resist sliding her hand across the smooth surface of the bowl.

"No," he replied. "I was not always a woodworker." He took her free hand and she set the bowl down, moving past a mantel with oak leaves
carved down its front, and back outside. He led her to his back yard where an array of furniture sat on the grass.

"These, too? I've always loved this sort of lawn furniture."

"Then you must pick one and I shall carry it for you to your house."

She walked slowly among the chairs, deciding on one not just because she was enthralled with its graceful lines, but because it sat two.
"Would...would that one be all right? You really wouldn't mind?"

 

"I do not make them for financial reasons, Julie," he replied, "but simply for the love of the making. Yes, I would like very much for you to
have this one. If we go in for a moment, we could have tea and after I shower, I will carry it to your house."

Had he just invited her...inside? He was getting lax here, way, way too lax.

"I'd love that. I'm sorry about the muffins, though."

As they walked back around the house, numbers of birds were already happily eating the muffins. "We shall make do," he said. "There are
bound to be things other than...muffins."

BLACK SWORDS AND MISTY SHAFTS OF LIGHT

He'd met her, what, just yesterday? Was that...all? And here he was, escorting her right inside his house, and that after having shown her his woodshop. Funny, he didn't feel delirious. He knew what that was like, knew it well from Acre. No, he wasn't fevered, not right now. Or was he? Did this woman have some power that robbed him of all good sense, all caution?

There was a dim quietness to his house, Julie mused, as though shadows of thoughts, of times and places hung about it in every corner. His woodshop had been a delight, his craftsmanship and artistry an amazing surprise. He led her to a seat in what looked like a small library, dark shelves lined with leather-bound books, even some scrolls.

"Perhaps, being a writer of books, you might find this the most appropriate place to wait while I shower?"

"I think I shall be most content," she smiled, trying to distract herself quickly by letting her eyes roam down the nearest shelf rather than giving her mind free rein to write another shower scenario.

Then he was gone and she was alone, alone in a place that was nigh overwhelming with his presence despite his having gone. How did he do that? How was his presence that intense? Other than the bookshelves, there was only a desk in the room and a single chair, upholstered in chocolate brown leather. On the desk lay, yes, it was...a sword and its scabbard...as though he had been examining the blade and left it abruptly when called away.

 

Both hilt and scabbard were black with silver-colored furnishings intricately worked. She let her fingers run down the scabbard. Having no personal knowledge of such things, she had no idea if it were a reproduction or authentic. With Robert's taste, it was most likely authentic.

Above the desk hung an oil painting of huge old beech trees, the violet shadows and the smooth grey green of their trunks blending so that one was not quite sure if there were a man somewhere there or not. She studied it for a while, lost in its quality of stillness. It seemed to her it must be an English forest for she had often noted such huge beeches along the roads. She liked it, felt drawn into it, as though if she but spread her arms, one of the misty shafts of light in the painting might surround her and lift her into the trees. So taken was she by the experience of that she lost her hold on passing minutes and was startled when his voice came from the doorway.

"You find the painting interesting?"

"Very much so," she breathed, turning to where he stood in a somewhat lighter green shirt and brown slacks.

"Shall we make tea and see what might be found as muffin-replacements?"

His kitchen was smaller than hers and, again, not so well-lit. The ceiling was low, darkly beamed, and the half-timbered walls gave onto a matching dining area. "Orange and spice?" he asked, not in the mood this morning for Earl Grey. She nodded and he put a kettle on to boil, then set honey on the table. With a large knife he cut thick slices of crusty bread and set them out for her, along with fresh peaches and grapes.

He searched out a cup for her with an intricately-worked, rather Arabic pattern around it and out of habit set out the cup he always used for himself.  At the moment he didn't even think about it.

 

"What an interesting cup," she commented as he sat down.

"This? Oh, you mean the Robin Hood scene on it. Yes, I'm quite, um, a fan of the old legend."

"I almost thought I saw someone in that painting in your den." She smiled. "It could even have been Robin Hood."

"So it could. Would you like butter?"

"Do you think, Robert, there might have been a real Robin?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I just prefer to think there was. It's much more romantic that way."

"Being outlawed by your King, having to live in the forest...." His voice trailed away.

"Errol Flynn," she grinned, "all bright and green and swinging down on some vine."

"Sherwood vines are seldom so strong."

"You've been in Sherwood?"

"Not for some time."

"Did you like it there?"

"Did I like...? I am not sure 'like' is a word that springs to mind."

"But it's beautiful, isn't it? It...is...beautiful?"

"In it's way, yes." He looked into his tea. "And much preferable to the desert."

She sighed. "I do think about the good Englishmen following Richard on Crusade, you know, what it must have been like for them to leave all their native greenness and make their way through the heat of the desert on the way to Jerusalem."

"It was cold, too," he whispered, "in December when Richard turned what was left of his army inland from Jaffa. And wet."

"I've heard how it rained on them, yes."

"Almost without stopping. Buckets, torrents of cold rain, mixed with sleet and hail."

She studied his face. He'd gone away somewhere again. Perhaps he got into books very much like she did, so much that they became utterly real to him?

Robert was looking into his tea, not seeing it, only aware of the puddles under his weary feet, of how he sank in mud now, not sand, mud up to his knees. "So cold," he murmured, "so very, very tired and cold." 

 

ONCE IN A GOLDEN SUNSET

Julie sat across the small table from him, observing him carefully as Robert stared into his tea. She knew most of the stories of the Third Crusade, but the way he spoke was so different from merely reading some historical tome. She loved the bare reality of his words, the way his deep voice phrased them, emphasizing certain ones. It was somehow as though she were hearing them for the first time, as, indeed, some of the more specific details he knew were new to her despite her research for her books.

"Please," she said softly when he'd paused and didn't seem as though he intended to continue.

He looked up at her, puzzled as to her meaning, and she added, "Tell me of Jaffa...and of Beit Nuba."

Closing his eyes, he tried to keep the flowing images away, but they were still as fresh as this morning in his memory. One simply did not live through, did not...endure...such things and forget them, not ever. "The way you tell of them, Robert," she urged, "it would help me with my book. Please?"

He had not spoken of them, not like he did with her. They comprised his dreams, lived on the very insides of his eyelids, but he did not speak of them. Yet she, with her soft, eager interest drew them from him and he found a certain release in the speaking of matters so long kept tightly shielded. Drawing in a long, slow breath, he tipped his chin, eyes going to the low ceiling beams.

"Saladin's tactic was to destroy the towns and cities Richard's army would pass through, to burn the crops, but Jaffa still had fruit, and after the wall was rebuilt and a trench dug, there was room for a man to stretch his legs. The army, after the long march south from Acre, liked it there, was content to stay there as long as possible. But Richard," he smiled, "Richard hated leisure. He never rested unless he were too sick to rise from his bed. He had a javelin wound on his left side from the third day of fighting to take Jaffa, but even that did not stop him. Almost continually he was on the move.

"King Philip had left, taking many of his French knights with him. He had come more as a duty, hoping for a swift, showy campaign, and when too much death, too much weariness set in, he sailed away. About half his nobles were shamed by their king's going and stayed with Richard, which meant he now had to feed them, pay for their care." He smiled wryly. "Richard had known Philip Capet most of his life, but after that, he never spoke to him again. Philip's going cost Richard Jerusalem. He never forgave him. The army simply was not strong enough after that and Richard had not come for the show of the Crusade. He'd come for Jerusalem, come to see the Christian flag flying above its walls, come because that truly meant something to him. He had a simple, uncomplicated but rather vital faith and to wrest the Holy Places from Muslim hands meant the world to him. The army," he shrugged, "had shared much of that in earlier days, but the unbearable heat, the torrents of rain, the sand and the mud, the death and injuries beyond imagining were wearing away at the foundations of that. It was hard, so hard, to keep going on and on and still on some more, and keep alive the songs of the marching south through France."

He paused, looking again at her through half-lowered lashes. "What is it that interests you the most, Julie?"

"Richard," she replied, her lips curving into a smile, "always Richard."

"Of course," he murmured. "Richard. You know the story of the hawking incident?"

"Somewhat, but tell me again."

"Unable to be still, he went out from Jaffa one day with only a small escort to go hawking. Of course, for him there was always the possibility he might just happen upon some group of Saracens on the way. They rode quite far and after a while, dismounted to rest, and he fell asleep, as did his companions. It was then the armed Saracens found them. It all happened very quickly and all he had time to do was gird on his sword and swing into Fauvel's saddle as the attack began. Richard charged directly toward them, swinging his sword, and the Saracens broke and fled, with Richard not knowing the whole thing was a set up to lead him into ambush. The Saracens had Richard, who was always in the lead, surrounded when William of Pratelles, one of Richard's closest friends, shouted in their language, "I am the king!" and the Saracens turned their attention to him. Such was the loyalty the king inspired."

Julie had always loved that story, had spent much time imagining Richard asleep and then suddenly grabbing up his sword and springing into the saddle. Once he had even ridden close enough to Saladin's tent to salute it.

"Then, of course, there was the incident of the foraging party," Robert continued. "The Earl of Leicester and the Count of Saint-Pol had set out with an escort of Templars to see what supplies they might find for the army, but were surprised and completely surrounded by a large body of Turkish cavalry. As was their way, The Templars dismounted and formed a square. The numbers of Turks were such that none of them expected to survive, but they were prepared to fight to the last man.

There was something almost magical about Richard's way of arriving on the scene when his men were most in peril. He came upon the scene just as the attack was beginning. His small escort begged him to keep away, saying that he would surely be killed, but Richard drew his sword and replied, 'I sent these men here. If they die without me, may I never be called king again!' And he spurred Fauvel and charged the mass of men who were attacking his knights. The mere sight of his coming, the sunlight gleaming on his golden crown, his sword flashing, sent the Turks into panic and they scattered away." Robert thought silently a moment. "Alone among all the kings of all the Crusades, Richard followed heroic words with heroic acts."

Julie sighed contentedly, picturing the scene Robert described. "How magnificent," she murmured.

"He was that," Robert nodded, "quite possibly the most magnificent king ever to bestride this world. He earned in deed every tale that has ever been told of him, every one."

"I hear even Saladin held him in great admiration."

"This is true. And Richard returned the sentiment, finding Saladin the most worthy opponent he'd ever faced."

"And Beit Nuba? What do you know of that, Robert?"

Robert knew too much of that, far too much. "A mere 12 miles from Jerusalem. That's how close Richard's army came. Twelve miles. So very, very far and then so close. But Richard had sent out scouts, spies, and had he attacked, his diminished army would have been caught between two armies of the Saracens. There was no way, simply no way it could be done, or, if somehow done, no way to hold the city after." He shook his head. "No way. And it rained. Always it rained. How maddening it was to have come so far across burning deserts only to have his army sunk into the mud of the ceaseless rains.

"It was nothing less than the death of all his personal dreams. To walk the streets of Jerusalem, to BE there within its walls, meant more than life to him, but not more than the life of his army. So Richard never got to Jerusalem, not ever."

"But he saw it, didn't he? I've read that he saw it."

"That he did. He'd been out with a small escort, as he so often did, hunting boar and Saracen patrols, and Fauvel had gotten him ahead of the rest. Saladin knew the way of this and was always setting traps for him, had offered a reward for any man who could capture Richard alive. But Richard still rode out on the fastest horse in the army, that roan gelding from Cyprus. He was chasing one particular Saracen when the going got too rough for Fauvel, so he dismounted and continued up the slope afoot. At the top of the ledge he found the man waiting behind some rocks and when he had dispatched him, he was tired from the climb and the battle and simply stood there, leaning on his sword a while. When he looked up, the bare plain spread before him, then more hills, and in the far distance, he saw Jerusalem. The sun was setting behind him and the whole plain, the city itself, were lit by it with a golden glow. It moved him to the greatest depth of feeling he'd ever known and in that moment he knew he'd never take the city, never walk its streets with his own feet, so he raised his shield to block the view of it and turned away."

She, too, was moved by the thought of that moment, of what it must have meant to Richard, and by the fact of the reality that such a moment had had its existence as a present 'now' in time.

"The next day he came down with fever again. He was very, very ill. So many were ill. The sick and wounded were sent from Beit Nuba back to Jaffa, but most of them were massacred on the way, in the mud and the rain that came again. Massacre was the way of things there. Richard was not alone in what he did at Acre. Christians, too, were constantly massacred. Richard, though, was always haunted by Acre, by Acre and Jerusalem, though in different ways, and his heart bled for them both the remainder of his life."

"I've heard Richard almost died from the fever this time."

"Richard had always wished that he might meet Saladin  and Saladin wished the same. While Richard was so ill, Saladin had peaches sent to him and sorbet made from mountain snows. There was even a strange man who came, swathed in robes and headgear so full that none could see his face. It was said that Saladin, concerned for Richard...yes, actually concerned...had sent his own healer. The man made a potion for Richard to drink, and though his attendants were fearful it might be poison, Richard drank it. Within hours his fever began to break and the man simply disappeared. The rumor among the army was that it had been Saladin himself. No one will ever know the truth of the matter."

"How wonderful if we could know."

"So much of history is lost, Julie, even in the best-recorded times, so much of it is lost. But Richard was no myth. He was as splendid in the reality of himself as he is in all the books and stories. Possibly more."