You are my hiding place;

you will protect me from trouble

and surround me with songs of deliverance.

Psalm 32:7

June 17th, 1170

The sandy shores of the Jordan sparkled in the morning light, and the crystalline waters reflected the faces of three children as they leaned over the bank.

“I don’t see any fish.” Said Aliénor.

“I saw a Barbel yesterday,” protested Robert, “I did! It slipped right through my hands; but today it shall not. Baudouin, where’s the net?”

“Here.” The prince held up a net they had borrowed from one of the servants, “but a Barbel is too strong for you to handle. I should be the fisherman today.”

“Too strong for me?” Exclaimed Robert, “I could toss you into the river easily. Give the net here and I’ll show you how to fish properly!”

“Be careful, children.” The archbishop called from behind them. He and the governess were sitting in the grass a few feet back, basking in the sunlight and watching the youths closely.

Aliénor rolled her eyes, “we’re always careful.”

“Absolument.” Said the two boys in unison. “Always.”

With the net in hand, Robert stood up to full height on the bank, and threw it as far as he could into the river. Holding on to the other end of the net, he began to pull it in slowly, grunting and muttering curses under his breath.

“Is it too heavy for you?” The prince whispered tauntingly, “I thought you were strong.”

“It’s just all the debris!” Robert snapped, “all these sticks, and roots and river plants getting caught. It’s like trying to uproot a tree.”

Indeed, he seemed to be telling the truth. When the net was brought back to the shore, sticks and leaves made up the contents, and the children had to pick it all out before Robert could throw it again.

After several hours of this, and much complaining from Baudouin that it was his turn to cast the net (and after much refusal from Robert to give up his passion) – the net finally ensnared something other than sticks.

“A fish! It’s a bream! And it’s giant!”

Aliénor and Baudouin were sitting lazily a few feet away from Robert, and his excited cries caused them to leap up in surprise.

“A fish?” At once they were both next to him as he untangled the mess of net and revealed a rounded and fat fish the length of his arm.

“My first catch!” Shrieked Robert in delight.

“It’s slimy.” Said the prince.

Aliénor knelt down next to it, poking the fish gently. The scales shimmered like coins in the sun, and she was enamoured, “look at its eyes! Isn’t it pretty?”

“It looks like a fish.” Said Baudouin cooly, with an edge of distaste, “dégoûtant.”

“But look at it! Isn’t it adorable?” Aliénor’s brow furrowed, “it’s gasping for air. We should put it back.”

“Non! I shall eat it for dinner!” Robert cried, “with pepper, and cumin, and paprika sauce!”

“Eat it? But we have plenty of fish at the palace already!”

“But it is mine.” Robert sniffed proudly, “mine. And I will eat it, and you shall not touch it, Aliénor. Comprendre ?”

“You can not eat it.” Aliénor’s eyes began to water. The fish looked so pathetic, flailing about desperately on the ground, eyes wide. Its mouth hung open, begging for air. She could not simply let that beast Robert strike it against a stone and eat it.

In a split second, she lunged forward, grabbed the clammy fish around the middle, and threw it. The fish crashed into the river with a satisfying plop and was lost in the waves.

A piercing howl erupted from behind her. “Chienne! You horrid girl!”

She turned. Robert, eyes narrowed in fury, and mouth contorted in anguish, stood over her.

Before she could apologise, his hands were on the collar of her dress, and he shoved her roughly to the side. Her feet slid on the mucky grass, and she tripped. There was a moment of surprise, a cry of terror; then her shoes slid off the edge of the bank and she toppled back. Over the bank she fell and into the raging waters.

Splash!

Aliénor was gone. Swallowed whole in the torrent of waves. She had no bearing, no notion of up or down.

The sharpness of the cold hit her by surprise, and she opened her mouth to scream. Swallowing water instead of air, her eyes shot open.

There was nothing but swirling colours of muck twisting above her head. Her fingers reached helplessly and could not feel the bank. Her legs kicked violently against the stream, and for a moment she breached above the waters. Yelling from the shore pierced her ears, and then was lost as her heavy skirts tugged her down again.

Something hit her in the head. A fish, or a branch, she did not know, but she sputtered the last of the air in her lungs and swallowed more water in return.

Her legs entangled in her skirts, and she kicked even more – to no avail. Her arms tried to crawl through the water, but her skirts were so, so heavy and the burning in her lungs too much, and she could not make it.

Lord, if I must die, let it not be here. Let it not be here, Lord. Not by his hand.

Someone grabbed her; two arms around her waist, tugging her up. It was not enough. Her skirts were too heavy, and the water too deep. And then a second pair of hands seized her arms, strong, rough hands, and she burst through the water into the sunlight, with two people hugging her tightly, and pulling her to the bank.

“Aliénor, Aliénor, are you alright?” Archbishop William’s bellowing voice surrounded her as she crawled, sputtering and retching onto the sand.

“Robert tried to kill her!” Cried Baudouin, and she felt his hands in her hair, pulling it away from her face as she coughed up water.

Aliénor collapsed in the sand, sobbing, and did not answer either of them. The dripping archbishop tried several times to reach her, to thump her on the back so she would spit up more water, but Baudouin was embracing her too tightly and that proved impossible.

“Where are the guards?” The prince yelled, “where is that devil Robert? Have him put in the dungeon!”

“Aliénor! Aliénor!” Distressed cries sounded from across the water, and having finally regained some of her breath, Aliénor peered over Baudouin’s shoulder to see Robert and the governess on the opposite bank.

“Is she alright?!” It was Robert. Even from the distance she could see his tear-stained cheeks.

“Va au diabl-!”

Archbishop William silenced the prince with a shake of his head before he could finish, and Baudouin lapsed into fuming silence. He hugged Aliénor tightly to his chest as she wept against his tunic.

“He will not escape from this.” Baudouin hissed through his teeth, “I shall never allow it.”

“It was an accident.” Aliénor sniffled, “an accident.”

Robert and the governess stood nervously on the opposite bank, still waiting for a response, “is Aliénor alright?”

“Lâche! You coward!” The prince yelled before the archbishop could stop him, “you did not even dive in after her!”

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“Robert can’t swim.” Aliénor muttered into his shoulder.

“Neither can I.”

“Come, children. We should return to the palace before you catch cold.” Archbishop William stood and extended his hand.

Reluctantly, the prince took it, and with a shaking Aliénor between the two of them, they began the long walk back to Jerusalem.

***

November 18th, 1177

Perhaps I am insane. Perhaps I am stupid. Or, perhaps, I am just Aliénor.

If the King discovers I have joined the Order of Lazarus, I know he shall have me sent back to the convent at once. His conscience will not allow me near the battlefield. He would keep me locked up until I am eighty if he thinks it will protect me.

Baudouin, my dearest friend, my self-declared guardian, and my only hinderance.

If I am caught at Montgisard by his men, I have a good mind to tell him that he does not trust enough in the Lord to protect me.

A man of such faith, and yet his friendship towards me interferes. Or perhaps he shall excuse it away, saying that the Lord protects me through him.

And so, I have determined, that the only way to escape separation from my King, is that he is not aware of my presence. I hope it shall not be too difficult. He has not seen me in years; childhood Aliénor is far different than me now.

“Sister, do you see it? There, on the horizon! A flag. It has the cross of Jerusalem.”

Matilda’s words snap my attention to the hills ahead of us. The morning light casts a glow on the horizon. A single rider on a white horse waits for us, the blue and gold flag of Jerusalem waving in his hand.

And beyond that, shimmering behind him like a halo, are the white walls and turrets of Montgisard. It is a behemoth, gleaming in the sunlight like mother of pearl, with an inner wall snaking around the centre fortress and towering over an outer wall.

“Oh, it’s glorious.” Whispers Matilda, “glorious, beyond what I imagined.”

If she believes Montgisard is beautiful, she shall surely weep in awe when she sees Jerusalem.

The knight on the hill turns as if to lead us, and our wagons follow shortly behind. Wheels grinding against the uneven stones, we ascend the narrow road to the iron gates of Montgisard.

“The Order of Lazarus has arrived.” Shouts echo from the wall, and a thunderous clanking follows.

The gates begin to raise, slowly, gratingly. Beyond them is a bustling market of merchants, peasants, and armed men. Luxurious scents of frankincense and cardamom waft through the air, and with it, the melodic strings of a duduk and the warbling voice of a woman.

Colourful cloths line the stalls I can see, Egyptian tapestries, Arabian patterns, silk from the east, indigo, rouge, lapis lazuli. Too lovely for a wretch like me to wear.

I strain my eyes against the sunlight, hoping for a glance at the king should he be walking in the market by chance. It is futile, and a silly thought; of course. The king would not be out in this heat; not with his condition. And yet I still wait eagerly, my eyes lingering on the face of every person I can see, searching for his likeness.

“I’m scared.” Matilda scurries over to my side in the wagon, “Aliénor, there are so many foreigners. How do we know Saracens do not lurk among them?”

“Not all Saracens are bent on killing us.” I mutter, and wrap my arm around her shoulder, “besides, we are young. I find it unlikely we have fulfilled our God-given commissions at this age, so I should not fear; the Lord will protect us.”

“Yes, but Job suffered egregiously, did he not?”

“He did. But sadly, I believe our king is the Job of our generation. Not you, Tilly.”

“Thank the Lord. I hope he can be the Job for all of us. At least he can bear it.” She whispers under her breath, and I have to bite back the irritated thoughts pulsing in my mind.

She is young, and naïve. She is younger than me by a year and a half – I was equally foolish at sixteen. She does not understand how she sounds; nor mean the implications behind her words.

Matilda has a good heart.

The wagon jerks forward, and we roll through the gates, into the noisy marketplace. The knights of the Order ride next to the wagon, glistening like pillars of silver as we move deeper into the heart of Montgisard.

“Will you meet with the king, Sister Aliénor?” Matilda asks quietly, “do you suppose he remembers your face?”

“I shall not meet him.”

“Why not? Does he not write you letters? Is he not courting you?”

“He is not courting me, Tilly.” I wince, “he is a leper.”

“Oh, right.” She mumbles without much remorse. “It escaped my memory.”

“We have been friends for many years.” I continue, “but I doubt he will wish to see me in a time like this; he is occupied with more important matters.”

“You are important.” She squeezes my hand, “perhaps you could visit him after.”

After. After the battle.

I do not expect to last until after the battle. Me, a medic? While the king, in a weaker state than me, rides into battle wielding a sword? I think not. He has defended me my entire life, perhaps it is time to return the favour.

“Yes, Tilly.” I muse, “perhaps I shall see him after the battle.”

In paradise, probably, by the look of things.

“I’m sure he would love to see you again.” She casts a pointed look at the tip of the envelope sticking out from the bust of my dress. I quickly shove it back into place.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me what it says? You always share.”

I have no answer to give. If I tell her, she is obliged to inform the archbishop of my presence, and then I shall be brought before the king and promptly returned to the convent. I remain silent.

“Is it a confession of love?” Matilda teases, “is it?”

“No. It is not. Leave it at rest.”

“Is it an invitation to a secret dinner?” She presses on, “a secret meeting? “

I close my eyes, dear Lord, give me patience not to throw this girl into the path of the wagon wheels.

“Is it-”

The wagon draws to a sudden stop, and a knight appears at the end of the wagon, “my ladies, we have reached the camp.”

Relief at last.

I hop out of the wagon, throwing my carpet bag over my shoulder. “Come along, Tilly. We have work to do.”

She hands me a basket of bandages and takes one to carry herself.

The knights point us towards the medical tents set against the wall; beige, rounded canvas tents with spires. Women in aprons rush to and fro between them, carrying medical instruments.

The groaning of men, the shuffling of shoes in the dust, and distant whinnying of horses courses through the air; the nervous melody before a battle.

“That way, ladies.” One of the knights gestures at the largest tent, and Tilly and I, carrying our baskets, march towards it.

Beige curtains billow in the wind as we pass through them. All around us are cots with men laying on them in blood-soaked bandages. The stench of rotting flesh fills my nostrils and I choke back the bile in my throat.

Matilda is frozen beside me; her eyes locked on a young boy a few feet away. He sits upright, with a sling on his left arm, and a bloody bandages wrapped around his head and a patch of gauze over his right eye.

“Sisters!” Calls a voice from the opposite end of the tent, and a middle-aged woman with a red stained apron rushes towards us. Her eyes are dark, her cheeks hollow, like she hasn’t slept in days. She has a lithe form, whether it is from running about the tents all day or lack of food, I can not tell. “Sisters, thank you so much for coming. Follow me.”

Gripping Matilda by the hand, I pull her after me as I hurry behind the woman.

“The Order of Lazarus has brought supplies.” I say, “we have a few bandages here, and the knights are bringing the rest.”

“We will need every bit of it.” The woman pushes aside another set of curtains, and we enter into a room of crates and supplies. “My name is Sarwin; you are?”

“Aliénor. And this is Matilda. The rest are elsewhere but should be here soon.”

“Good.” Sarwin gestures for us to put the baskets down against the wall, “are you a nun? Healer? Servant?”

“Nun.” I say, “we both know a little of healing, and we can learn.”

Sarwin’s gaze drifts to Matilda uncertainly, “and her?”

Matilda’s mind is far away. She’s staring blankly at the nearest crate, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“She has a distaste for blood.” I say quickly, “she would be better suited hauling water or performing menial tasks.”

Sarwin hesitates, “we are in need of water. The well inside the city has been poisoned. There is one outside the walls-”

Outside the walls.

A chill sweeps up my spine. Tilly should not be going outside the walls. Suppose the Saracens arrive?

“I can do that.” I cut in hastily, “I can haul water from outside. Tilly has a weak back, especially for long distances.”

Dear Lord, forgive me for lying.

“Very well.” Sarwin nods at Matilda, “you can help the cooks peel potatoes. And you,”

She turns back to me, “Aliénor, you can join Clara and Donna to carry water.”

*

The day is still young when we set out from Montgisard. Green hills, marked by trees stretch far into the distance; a stark contrast to the azure sky, splattered with occasional puffs of clouds.

Clara and Donna are women of similar age, sisters, I presume, by their fiery hair and sharp accents.

“Where’re you from?” Clara, the taller one, asks. Her voice is unusually deep for a woman, and her arms unusually muscled. She carries two empty buckets in each hand as we ascend another hill.

“Acre. And you?” I huff, struggling after her. I only carry two buckets, and yet look at me! Beads of sweat trickle down my neck as the sun beats down mercilessly, and the well is still not in sight.

“Danmark.” Donna answers me, “we married knights and came here.”

“It must have been a difficult journey.”

“It was. But well worth it.” Clara smiles at the thought, and we pause to catch a breath at the top of the hill.

One can see for miles around; orange fields, lines of trees separating them, the brown cobweb network of dirt paths all leading to the fortress.

And in the distance, against the horizon, black specks like pin pricks against the pomelo orange of the fields.

“Saracens.” Says Donna with a tremble in her voice, “they will be here in a few days.”

“There must be hundreds.” I breathe, “thousands even.”

“Tens of thousands.” Clara whispers.

Good Lord.

“Let’s get to the well before midday.”

We continue our journey along the ridges of wheat fields, until we reach the well in the valley. It’s small, made out of bricks, with wooden poles above and a hook for a bucket attached to it.

I sit on the edge of the well as Clara begins to let down her bucket.

“Sarwin said the other well was poisoned.” I mutter.

“Yes. It was an…unpleasant situation.” Clara turns to Donna hesitantly, “an ill man fell into the well a few days ago and drowned. Anyone who drinks that water becomes as ill as he.”

“We have at least ten soldiers in our care now because of it, and countless women and children.”

An illness that spreads through water?

“What sort of sickness?” I ask, “cholera?”

Donna shakes her head, “no.”

“Dysentery?”

“No. It’s something new. We aren’t sure.” Clara pulls up the last of her bucket of water and moves aside for Donna.

My eyes narrow in thought, “what are the symptoms?”

I doubt I shall have the answer as to what disease plagues them; but curiosity has seized my heart and will hold me ransom until it is appeased.

“Fever.” Clara says hesitantly, “a rash. Boils, and disfigurement of the fingers and face.”

“Leprosy?” I exclaim, “but it can not be gained so quickly!”

“And seizures.” She adds finally, “many seizures. None of the patients have died yet, except for the man in the well – they weren’t able to get him out and he’s been there several days.”

“It does not sound like leprosy to me.” Says Donna as she hauls up her bucket of water from the well. “But we ought to be cautious, nonetheless. Sarwin said it’s best to wear gloves and face coverings around them.”

“Yes, now enough talk.” Clara gestures for me to take my turn at the well, and the rest is done in tense silence. The looming notion of disease sits uneasily in my spirit, and I hope it is nothing more than a flu.