He approached at a full gallop as if he expected Kenneth to put his own horse to the gallop to encounter him. But Kenneth was well acquainted by this time with the wiles of these Saracen warriors, and had no intention of exhausting his good horse unnecessarily. He made a dead halt, confident that should the Saracen advance to the actual shock, his weight and that of his horse would give him the advantage.
Apparently the approaching Arab thought the same thing; when he had approached within two spear lengths, he wheeled his horse nimbly to the left and rode twice around the knight while Kenneth, wheeling, but presenting always his face to him, prevented any attack at an unguarded point. At last, reining in his horse, the Arab retreated to a distance of a hundred yards.
A second time he swooped down upon Kenneth, and a second time thought the better of a close struggle, and retreated to a distance.
Kenneth could see that this elusive warfare might serve in time to wear him out or at least make him careless and when the Arab approached the third time, Kenneth seized the mace hanging at his saddlebow and hurled it against the head of his enemy.
The Saracen, who had the look of a man of rank, saw the danger almost too late and although he raised his light buckler to the defense, it did not prevent a grazing blow on his turban, which brought him off his horse.
Kenneth had little opportunity to take the advantage, however, for before he could have even dismounted the Saracen had called his horse to his side and leapt astride him again, without even using the stirrups.
On the other hand, Kenneth had recovered his mace and the Arab, remembering how he had used it, was cautious to stay out of reach of that weapon and some distance from the knight.
Now the Arab produced a short bow and, once more galloping in a circle around the knight, shot several arrows at him that, had it not been for his heavy armor, would have produced as many wounds.
Kenneth perceived that something must be done to change the nature of the contest. Grasping his side where an arrow had struck, he fell from his horse. Instantly his enemy was at his side, bending over him.
His wound had been only a ruse, however, and now Kenneth seized the Saracen for close combat. But the Arab was saved by his quickness and his presence of mind. Unable to rise swiftly, Kenneth had seized him by the sword belt, thinking to hold him while he rose; but the Saracen unloosed the belt and was gone again. His faithful charger seemed to watch his master’s movements with keen intelligence and understand all that transpired, and again he was there at the Saracen’s side, and again the Saracen mounted and rode off.
But this time he suffered a disadvantage because he was without his sword and his quiver of arrows, which had been attached to the girdle he had been obliged to abandon. This disadvantage—or the stalemate they had reached—seemed to give the Saracen thought. He approached again, but this time slowly and with his right hand extended in what Kenneth recognized as a gesture of peace.
“There is a truce between our two countries,” he said, using the lingua franca which was commonly used between the crusaders. “Therefore, why should we be at war? Why should there not be peace between us?”
“I have no objections to a peace,” Kenneth said. “But what security do you offer that you will observe the truce between us?”
“The word of a follower of the Prophet is never broken,” he said. “It is from you, brave Nazarene, that I would demand security, but for one thing. I know that treason is seldom combined in the same breast with such courage as you have displayed.”
His words made Kenneth rather ashamed of his own doubts, for what he had said was undoubtedly true. Kenneth put his hand to his weapon, but this time not threateningly.
“By the cross of my sword,” he said, “and by the cross that I follow, I will be a true companion, Saracen, while we are in company together.”
“By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the Prophet, there is no treachery in my heart toward you. And now let us travel to yonder fountain. The hour of rest is at hand and the stream had barely cooled my lips when I was called to battle by your approach.”
Kenneth yielded a ready and courteous assent, and at the side of his erstwhile foe, without any angry look or a gesture of doubt on either side, rode toward the little cluster of palm trees.
CHAPTER FIVE
’tis true that we are in great danger....
—King Henry V
“How on earth far is this dreadful place?” Berengaria made a disgusted face across at Joan.
“Another day’s travel, they say,” Joan replied, brushing a hand wearily across her brow. They were riding pillion behind two serving men; another time the queen would have ridden in a litter, but that would have made her identity too conspicuous for this journey. Behind them came the queen’s ladies, Clorise, Callista and Amy, each riding the pillion seat behind a servant on horseback. Two knights and a bowman rode in front of them, and another such group behind them. The late afternoon sun glinted on the exposed metal of the knights’ armor, hurting Joan’s eyes.
It was late in the afternoon when they stopped to pitch camp. The servants set about putting up the tents for the ladies and building fires to cook supper, while the knights took up positions in a ring around the camp.
“What an awful place,” Berengaria complained, her pretty lips forming a pout while she surveyed the rugged terrain. “I’m sorry we came. Why couldn’t that holy man have come to see us? After all, I am the queen of England, am I not? Shouldn’t that carry some weight?”
“Perhaps not with a man who has withdrawn from the world,” Joan said patiently. “And the good bishop has said many times there is a special blessing upon those who make a holy pilgrimage.”
“Well, the good bishop never had to spend days on end journeying through this godforsaken land.”
Joan let her gaze go to the mountains rising up before them. The sun had turned the rocks into precious metals and gems; that outcropping there was gold, surely, and that ridge there burning crimson was carnelian, was it not? The heat had burned the blue of the sky to an almost white tint with no trace of a cloud. Here and there on the hills could be seen the green of grass and shrub, thickening as the terrain mounted higher. Not a dozen feet from where they stood, a snake slithered behind a rock with a faint, rustling sound.
It was a savage place, true, but she was willing to concede it a wild beauty that could not but stir something within her. Perhaps it was the lion’s blood that ran in her kinsman’s veins, and in some diluted part in hers as well. How tame, how simple and rustic, would England look after these dramatic vistas.
“If,” she told herself, “I ever see England again.”
For she had begun to consider what she would never have voiced to her companions; the possibility that they—that all of their vast entourage—might perish here in this desert. It was common talk outside of the royal tents that supplies were running perilously low, and soon they must either push forward to some place where they could seize new ones or retreat. If Richard were well, perhaps they would be able to push on; but without him she had begun to wonder if they would even be able to effect a safe retreat.
Once, as a girl, she had made her way down to the kitchens of her father’s castle. In the kitchen yard she had watched the cook slaying fowl for their dinner. Cook began by severing their heads, then releasing the headless bodies. The poor creatures ran about the yard as if unaware their heads were gone, flapping their wings, their steps growing weaker; gradually they sank to the ground, making little kicking motions, and at last they were still.
Illness had removed the head of their army; if he did not recover, it would be permanent. In the meantime they were like the bodies of those poor fowl; for a time they continued in motion, as if alive. But gradually their efforts grew weaker, their lifeblood spilling from them,