when they return that the spell was a brief one and that His Majesty is feeling better already,” he said.
“Perhaps he is well enough to see me,” Conrad said. Although he looked calm and unperturbed, he was seething inwardly at Joan’s rejection of his advances and at de Multon’s interruption.
“I think not now,” Sir Thomas said. “He is in need of rest.”
“Ah, I see the nature of his exhaustion,” Conrad said as Berengaria and Clorise left the king’s chamber.
“Joan, he has agreed to our little journey,” the queen said gaily, coming to take Joan’s hand. “We can leave in three days’ time.”
Conrad looked surprised and said, “What, are we to be deprived of the only solace this spot affords, the loveliest ladies of England?”
“We’re going on a pilgrimage,” Berengaria told him, “to a holy man at Engaddi, to pray for the king’s recovery.”
Joan frowned and added quickly, “The trip is to be unannounced, to minimize the danger. I trust you will keep this news to yourself, my lord.”
“Indeed,” he said smoothly. “I would be flattered to attend you on your pilgrimage if affairs of the council did not keep me here.”
“His Majesty has promised us an escort of the bravest knights,” Berengaria said.
Joan would have liked to suggest that the escort include the Scottish knight known throughout the camp as the Falcon, for the emblem he wore on his shield. But the queen had already remarked on her admiration of the knight, and she did not want to call any further attention to him.
Instead she said, “Perhaps, my lady, we should return to our tent and plan what we shall wear.”
“An excellent idea. Aren’t you glad I thought of this?” Joan did not reply and Clorise looked terrified at the prospect of the trip that awaited them, but the queen never noticed. She was chatting gaily of their journey as they left the tent, bidding good day to the marquis.
De Multon had returned to the king, leaving Conrad alone in the anteroom for a moment. He stared after the departing ladies, wondering how best he could use this news. That it would be of interest to the Saracens was of little doubt; those two ladies would be a prize to catch, worthy of a great ransom.
Informing the Saracens of the news would present no difficulty, as he was already secretly in communication with the enemy for purposes of his own. In fact he had written Saladin without the knowledge of the council, offering to help him retake the city of Acre, in return for certain favors. He had no interest in recapturing the holy city for Christianity; he was concerned with what he could capture for his own profit.
“And, my little rose,” he murmured, thinking again of Lady Joan, “you shall be glad one day to have me pluck your blossom.”
CHAPTER THREE
There never was a time on the March parts yet
When Scottish with English met,
But it was a marvel if the red blood ran not
As the rain does in the street.
—Battle of Otterbourn
A large band of Scottish warriors had joined the crusaders and had placed themselves under the command of the English monarch. To some this seemed odd as there had been of late—indeed, always—some friction between the Scottish and the English; but they were all of Saxon and Norman descent, speaking a common language, and some of them were allied by blood and intermarriage as well.
Moreover they were now engaged in a common war, dear to them all because of their religion, and in this crusade Scots and Englishmen had fought side by side, their rivalry only serving to make both groups fight more bravely and more fiercely, each trying to outdo the other.
Richard was a rough but open commander who made no real distinction between his own subjects and those of William the Lion of Scotland, and this made it easier for the knights to work and fight together.
When the body is under the influence of illness, however, old wounds may break out anew. In just this manner, when Richard took ill and the circumstances of the crusaders became more critical, old frictions began to appear between the various bands of crusaders.
Both Scottish and English were jealous and high spirited, and the Scottish were quicker to take offense because they were the poorer and the weaker nation. The Scots would admit to no superiority over them and the English would admit no equality. As the truce forbade the warriors to wreak their vengeance upon the Saracens, they who had been good comrades in victory now turned on one another.
One of the Scottish knights, Sir Kenneth as he was called, was known also as the Falcon because on his surcoat and on his shield he wore the emblem of a sleek hawk, poised for flight, and beneath it the motto Swift and Terrible. Those who had seen him fight said that the emblem and the motto were fitting, for he fought with a savage intensity and a swiftness that belied his heavy armor.
Sir Kenneth had joined the crusade impulsively and for motives of his own, and being impetuous he had come ill supplied except for a few loyal followers. The wars and their deprivation, and their vow to give their lives in the crusade—a promise many of them had kept—had reduced his little band so that he now had for company only one old servant, and his dog Krouba, a magnificent deerhound, as fine a specimen of the breed as could be found.
Just now these two, Sir Kenneth and Krouba, were returning from the hunt. It had been necessary for the knight to find in nature the food he needed to keep himself and his little band alive and, as the animal life on this vast desert was limited, this had proven an increasingly difficult task. On this day he had found only a small bag full of rock partridges. The hills nearby sometimes supplied deer or wild pig, but he had not been lucky this time.
It was late afternoon and he was on his way back to the camp now. Beyond the crusaders’ camp and in his path as he rode was a second camp, of the so-called “followers”; this was the camp of that second army of people who followed behind the knights and the royal court, depending mostly upon them for sustenance in one fashion or another. Here there were service people—tailors, tinkers, smiths and other diverse craftsmen; here too were people who made their living entertaining others—actors, jugglers, acrobats, dancers and troubadours. And of course there were the women—painted lovelies who strolled through the crusaders’ camp at night plying their wares among the lonely knights.
It was a colorful little city, this second camp, made up as it was of various “colonies”—the area given over to the Jews, for instance, and another to the gypsies, while still another was filled with English freedmen. Like an Oriental city, one rode through it to a cacophony of sounds and impressions; music, from the plaintive wail of the Jew to the jingling tambourine of the gypsy; myriad languages; scents of varying cooking styles and methods, and the colorful costumes of the exotic inhabitants. There were even some Saracens in the camp, for the camp followers are mostly a nation unto themselves, owing loyalty first of all to the army they are following, at least until it is defeated, when they at once attach themselves to the victor.
As he rode now through this camp, Sir Kenneth was enjoying the varied sights and sounds, his quick eye everywhere, his ear picking up snatches of conversation in half a dozen different languages. Someone was roasting a pig and the delicious odor made his mouth water; he hadn’t eaten since downing some moldy bread and some ale at daybreak, when he set
