Lionheart's Scribe Read Free Page A

on the camp. There are pavilions and tents spread out as far as a man can see. Soldiers mill around everywhere. On the fields beyond the camp I saw a troop of knights mounted on enormous horses charging at each other with spears lowered. I suppose they were only practicing, but it looked like a real battle to me and I caught my breath as they knocked each other off their horses at a great rate.
    On top of one big pavilion, off to the far side, flewa royal streamer with three golden lions roaring on it. I realized that had to be the tent of King Richard himself. I watched it for as long as I could, hoping I might catch a glimpse of the king, but to no avail. Then a city guard came and chased me away.
    I’m going to go back though. As soon as I can.
    The second day of October
    King Philip tried to sail today, but the weather was foul. The storms and the wind were too much for him, and after but a few hours his ships came limping back, sails hanging torn and bedraggled. I was there to watch as they straggled into the harbor. I heard one man laugh when he saw them.
    â€œThe king of France gets seasick,” he said. “I imagine he’s puking his innards out right now.”
    Not very heroic, that. I’ll wager the king of England doesn’t get seasick.
    The third day of October
    The talk amongst the crusaders who frequent the quayside is that the armies in the Holy Land have been hemmed in at Acre by Salah-ud-Din, the Muslim leader whom many Christians call Saladin. They are desperate for the arrival of King Richard and King Philip, I hear, and the crusaders are desperate to go, but winter is almost upon us and it seems now they might have to wait for spring. It is probably unchristian of me to say so, but I hope they do. I want to see more of them. I do not want them to leave.
    The fifth day of October
    I got into the camp today! And by a very clever ruse. There is a persistent nanny goat that noses around my hut constantly and has been no end of a nuisance to me. She seems to have no owner and is determined to eat what little roof I have left. Early this morning I was awakened by a tremendous commotion over my head and a cloud of dirt and dust falling upon me. I knew it must be the goat. There are a few leaves still on some of the branches that I have patched the holes with, and she has had her eye on them. At first I just lay there and cursed at her. Then I had an idea.
    I leaped out of bed and dashed outside, just as she jumped down and tried to escape. I was too quick for her, however. I grabbed her horns and tied her to a spindly tree in front of my hut. She objected mightily, but when I found a handful of straw for her to munch on, she settled down. Then, just at the break of day, I led her out of the city.
    â€œWhere are you going, brat?” the guard at the gate demanded when he saw me.
    â€œI have been commissioned to supply someone in the camp with a good milking goat,” I answered as boldly as I could.
    â€œThere are goats all over this cursed island,” he said. “Why would anyone want another one?”
    Truth, it was a good question and for a moment I was at a loss for words, so I just stood there and looked foolish. Sometimes that is not difficult. The guard glowered at me, but when I still could not come up with an answer, he muttered somethingabout the stupidity of foreigners and the dim-wittedness of boys and waved me through.
    As I drew near to the camp I was almost overcome by the noise and by the smells. The city is bad enough, of course, and I am used to it, but this place was worse. Men shouted, women yelled, children screamed. This is an army that travels with a multitude of pilgrims as well as knights and soldiers, and it makes for a mighty disorder. I saw food cooking, but any good smells from the pots were overpowered by the stink of the trenches dug around the camp to serve as latrines. They were already overflowing. A dog snapped at the heels of my little goat