My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
Psalm 73:26
November 10th, 1177
Sometimes, I fear I will never see him again. And sometimes, I fear that I shall see him again, encased in a glass coffin and surrounded by roses. I do not know which would be worse.
“Keep your eyes open for Saracens.” Matilda whispers to me under her breath. She’s sitting across from me in the wagon, peeking out over the edge, watching the twisted acacia trees as we fly past them.
She fidgets nervously with her skirt, twisting and strangling the fabric it like it’s the neck of a snake. Her eyes dart about like a deer, flitting this way and that.
This is what you get when you isolate a noble child for too long, and by the time she leaves the convent, she can not tell the difference between the sun and the moon, let alone a Saracen and a bush.
I sigh.
The sun is high above our heads, beating down mercilessly. I’ve covered my head in a shawl, cowering in the shadow of the crates of sage and comfrey. I’d rather not spend my day in the broiling heat, scouring aimlessly for men who will attack us whether we spot them first or not.
Besides, the knights of the Order of Lazarus ride alongside the wagon. They will watch out so that I do not have to.
I wonder if the king is travelling in this heat as well. Hopefully not; knowing him he would be fully dressed in armour, riding at the front. Always the first to start and last to stop.
Dear Lord, I pray you do not allow him to kill himself this way.
“Aliénor!” Matilda hisses, “open your eyes, stop dozing off!”
“Leave me in peace.” I mumble in reply, “I’m praying.”
“At least keep your eyes open.”
“Don’t you trust in the Lord to protect us?” That silences her properly, and I am finally left to my thoughts.
*
We encamp along a river that evening. The knights set up canvas tents along the bank, and the horses are tied to the Terebinth trees rooted on the shore. Small fires burn in the twilight with several men gathered around each. Their voices carry in the sullen quietude of the hills; a murmur in the wind.
Matilda and I share a tent with several nuns from our convent, and also from another convent in Acre. Our belongings are few, and our beds consist of a thin wool blanket. Pillows are clothing stuffed into a burlap sack, or in my case, a tattered carpet bag.
That evening, the women sit around a fire. The knights of the Order of Lazarus never come nearer than a few paces to us, having been afflicted with the same curse that rests upon the King. Many fear of spreading it.
They cover their faces with cloth and are reluctant to remove their gloves – I know they are not ashamed of their afflictions; their King is beacon of light to them, and I heard their idle discussion of him as we traveled – but many of the women, like Matilda, are scared to death of the sores and red markings.
Earlier, we saw a young knight without gloves leading the horses to drink at the river, the weeping sores on his skin obvious and glaring.
Matilda’s weakened spirit failed her, and I caught her before she fell screaming to the ground; it was certainly not a pleasant experience for her, I, or the poor man.
The look of utter humiliation that flashed in his eyes was something I’ll never forget, and something I shall have difficulty forgiving Matilda for.
How could she be so cruel?
Suppose that man was her father, or her brother, or the King?
Would she have screamed then?
“Suppose we catch it too.” Matilda mutters between spoonfuls of gruel as she sits next to me at the fire. It appears she has little remorse for the anguish she caused that young man.
She stares blankly at the embers, her eyes far, far away from here. “Suppose we become lepers like them.”
I close my eyes tightly. I’ve thought of it many times. Many times too many.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Suppose if I become a leper, would I be allowed to see the King once more?
Could I embrace him like I used to as a child?
Could I run my fingers over his, or count the freckles on his arm and rejoice because I have more than he?
Could I simply speak to him, and hear his soft voice, without having to stare at a mask?
But that is not the answer she wants.
“It is not as catching as you think.” I say instead, “the King’s tutor and advisors are near him, and they have not caught it.”
“But they are righteous men. I…I am not.”
And the King is not?
I bite down on my tongue lest I say something I don’t mean.
“I meant no offence.” She double backs hastily at my silence, “I did not mean to imply that his majesty…simply, that…”
“That the curse is for the unrighteous. I understand.”
“Yes, but I…” She trails off into silence, “and not even that. Can not a curse from a parent carry on to a child? An unrighteous parent…”
“Will you not?” I cut her off before she continues in her thoughts, “please. Let us converse about something else.”
“Of course, sister Aliénor.”
Fortunately, we end up conversing about nothing at all, as Matilda decides silence is better than a misspoken word. And for that, I am very grateful.
The nuns around us keep us entertained with their light talk of scripture and the exchange of recipes. They talk for hours, until the last embers of the fire begin to fade, and we retire to our tent for the night.
It is a restless night; cold and uncomfortable, the blanket does little to warm me, and the ground is riddled with bumps and stones. No matter how many times I smooth the dirt out beneath me, it is never sufficient to sleep on, and I lay half awake until dawn when the knights rise, and the whinnying of horses carries into the tent.
With tired eyes and a very sore back, I venture out in search of breakfast. Several of the knights have opened a crate and are sharing bread amongst themselves, and so I join them.
They do not flinch as I step through them to take a slice of bread from the crate, nor when I bid them good morning.
The knights are not ill-versed in the knowledge of leprosy, nor do they fear spreading it. They simply fear women like Matilda and her screams.
“Aliénor of Acre, is that right?” The tallest of the knights addresses me. He is leaning against the side of the wagon, wearing only a half suit of armour; I should imagine a full set must be exhausting to carry around all day. And from his hands and his face and the many patches of redness scattered across his cheeks and neck; this man is not a newcomer to the Order.
“I am she.” I smile softly, “forgive me, but I do not know your name.”
“Jean.” He pauses to reach to his belt and retrieves a parchment envelope, handing it to me. “I was instructed to give this to a very beautiful young woman by your same name.”
I turn the envelope over and find the lead seal of Baudouin IV on the other side. It depicts a king on a throne; in one hand he holds a sceptre, in the other a staff with a cross. A Latin text encircles the king, but for all my Latin lessons with him as a child, I can barely remember their meaning.
“Thank you.” I murmur, “did…did his majesty give this to you?”
“The archbishop.” Jean says with a small laugh, “but your description was from the king. And he did not lie.”
A smile spreads onto my lips, but I quickly force it back and excuse myself to the privacy of the riverbank.
With trembling fingers, I carefully pry the seal off the parchment, and unravel the folded letter.
Dearest Aliénor,
I pray that this letter reaches you safely, and that you are well. I am sorry I have not been keeping up with my end of our bargain; I have been very ill as of recently. My physicians tell me I have become afflicted with malaria due to my weakened state, but do not fear, I have also been told it is in recession. In addition to this, tensions with Salahuddin and our own nobles have been increasing. This is no excuse on my behalf, absolutely not. I simply hope you can understand and have mercy within your soul to forgive me.
I have missed you so terribly. Your letters are of deep consolation to me, and I find nothing sweeter than to read your words and imagine you were sitting next to me in the garden. I hope in due time we will meet again; even if it is not in this life.
Alas, Christ our Lord must be quite bored of me at times; not a day has passed when I have not remembered you in my prayers. It is nearing a ritual at this point, that I should plead with Him to protect you from the evil and danger that I see so often in our kingdom. For while I may fail, I know He shall not. As it is written:
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
Psalm 73:26
And for this very reason I write to you. I know your spirit, Aliénor. Do not follow your brothers to battle, nor Robert, nor your father, not even I.
My flesh will fail me; I have little hope that I should escape this war intact, but He will not fail you. If I should perish, I would not have you witness it, nor perish yourself.
I pray that you will remain at the convent of Saint Mary and intercede for us in your own prayers. For the prayers of many have power, and together with the armies of God we will triumph and defend the Kingdom of our Lord against those who seek to destroy it.
Always remember, my heart embraces you when my arms can not.
Your brother in Christ,
Baudouin
My hand sinks to my lap, folding the letter tighter and tighter as I stare blankly and teary eyed at the gurgling waters of the river.
‘My heart embraces you when my arms can not.’
Does he know I miss him just as terribly?
I blink my tears away as footsteps sound behind me, and a familiar voice pierces my ears.
“Lady Aliénor, is that a letter from the king?” Matilda asks eagerly. She is used to hearing my exchanges with him over letter when I was at the convent. Normally, it feels as if William has read Baudouin’s letter over and scratched out anything that could be seen as emotional. Occasionally, a sentence or two would escape and his affections would bleed through a little. But this…this is different. He has never written so lovingly to me before.
“It is indeed a letter from the king.” Hurriedly, I fold it and stuff it back into the envelope.
“May I hear it? Please?”
“No.” I snap a little too harshly, and wince. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, Tilly.”
“It’s alright.” She steps back as I crawl to my feet. “Was it bad?”
“Yes, and no. It’s… a complicated matter.”
“He’s not marrying you off to some old man, is he?”
“No.” I chuckle, “no, he is not. Have you had something to eat?”
She shakes her head and casts a nervous glance at the knights, still gathered around the wagon of bread.
“Here.” I hand her the half piece of bread I had taken earlier. “I’ll get you some more. Wait for me by the tent, alright?”
“Lady Aliénor.” Jean calls out to me as I join the collection of men at the wagon, “good news or bad?”
“Both.” I shrug, pocketing several pieces of bread for Matilda and the other women, who I know will also be wary of approaching. “Do you know where the king is currently?”
“En route to Montgisard.” Says another knight, “we’re heading there today.”
“I thought we were traveling to Ascalon?”
“Change of plans.” Jean nods, “the Saracens are trying to sneak past our armies, but we will cut them off at Montgisard. Tell the ladies to hurry, will you Lady Aliénor? We should get there as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir.” I stuff a few more slices of bread into my pockets and rush back the tent where the nuns are packing their things together.
“Change of plans.” I say as I pull the entrance curtain back, “we’ll be at the king’s camp by nightfall if we hurry. So, pack quickly and let’s go!”