Alys Clare - The Paths of the Air
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- Название:The Paths of the Air
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She made herself wait until after tierce before going to the infirmary. She knew that Sister Euphemia would have sent for her had either of the Hospitallers been ready to speak, but nevertheless she burned with impatience to go and see for herself. She offered up the suppression of her intense desire as penance for her earlier fault.
The morning sun was shining on the frosty ground as she walked to the infirmary. Sister Euphemia came to greet her. ‘The older monk is stirring,’ she said. ‘He has slept well and his colour is a little better. I am going to try to get him to drink, perhaps even to accept a mouthful of broth if his throat can take it. Then I think that if he is agreeable you may speak to him. Should I, my lady, send word down to the Vale to summon Sir Josse and the sheriff?’
‘Yes, Sister,’ Helewise said. ‘They should be here if poor Thibault can manage a few words.’
Sister Euphemia nodded and, catching the eye of one of her young nursing novices, whispered to the girl and sent her off. Then the infirmarer disappeared inside the recess where the two monks lay, Sister Caliste following her and bearing a laden tray.
Helewise stood quite still and waited.
A few moments after Josse and Gervase had arrived in the infirmary, Sister Caliste put her head around the curtain and beckoned all three of them over.
‘Can they talk?’ Josse hissed urgently.
‘One can,’ Sister Caliste replied. ‘The senior monk has been asking repeatedly to speak to you. Sister Euphemia is occupied with her duties and she has left the care of both monks in my charge. My lady, Sir Josse, my lord sheriff, please come in.’ Bowing, she held the curtain back.
Helewise stared at the two monks. The younger one still lay motionless beneath the crisp sheet, its slow and steady rise and fall the only sign that he was still alive. Thibault, however, was propped up on pillows and his eyes glittered with pain and anxiety in his burned face.
It was Josse who spoke first. ‘We are here to help,’ he said. ‘Abbess Helewise, Gervase de Gifford and I will do whatever we can.’
Helewise, watching closely, saw the monk’s eyes go first to Josse, then to Gervase and finally to her. The antipathy — even the disapproval — that she had sensed at their earlier meeting seemed to have vanished. Now he looked like a man who was suffering deeply and who despaired because he could not continue his appointed task.
To her faint surprise, he first addressed her. ‘My lady, you see me here punished for my arrogance in my treatment of you and your community,’ he said. ‘I thought to hunt for that which I seek within the walls of this Abbey; yet I skulked like a thief instead of coming openly to you and asking for your help. Well, I have been set low for my sins, and I beg you to forgive me and to listen to what I must tell you.’
‘Of course I forgive you,’ she said, ‘although I do not fully understand what there is to forgive.’ Nor, she thought, how anything could be so bad that the loving God I worship would punish a man so dreadfully. Thibault might have been under the influence of one of Sister Euphemia’s analgesic concoctions but it was plain to see that even so he was in severe pain. With burns like those, Helewise thought, her eyes moving involuntarily over the extensive red and blistered patches on the monk’s face, chest and upper arms, how could he not be?
‘You are charitable, my lady, and I am unworthy,’ murmured Thibault. ‘I must ask your indulgence, for still I am not able to — well, never mind.’ He frowned, as if he were having difficulty arranging his thoughts.
‘Tell us about the fire,’ Gervase said gently. ‘Can you remember anything?’
Thibault turned his pain-darkened eyes to the sheriff. ‘Oh, yes,’ he whispered.
There was a pause. Sister Caliste helped the monk to take a few sips from a cup she held to his lips. He thanked her and after a few moments the taut lines in his face relaxed a little.
Then he began to speak.
‘My tale does not start with the fire,’ he said. ‘It begins a long time before that and in another land.’ He coughed and Sister Caliste gave him another sip of the drink. ‘Originally I was based at our Order’s great fortress of Crac des Chevaliers, in Syria. I had served there for many years, a member of the garrison which held out against the great advance of the enemy following the defeat of the Frankish armies at the Battle of Hattin, in the summer of’86.’ His eyes met Josse’s. ‘Hattin broke the spirit of many who had seen themselves as invincible,’ he went on. ‘Groups of knights and their attendants who had come out to Outremer with such confidence and high hopes watched their dreams trickle away into the sand with the blood of the dead and the wounded. The Western forces gravely underestimated Saladin. It became evident very quickly that we just did not have sufficient manpower.’ He sighed. ‘After the defeat, most men with interests in Outremer scurried away to protect their own borders, and I suppose one cannot blame them. But the result was that our side was pushed back to the coast. Even northern states such as Antioch and Tripoli, which were well away from Saladin’s main thrust, lost lands on their eastern borders.’
‘Saladin took the Holy City,’ Josse said glumly. ‘And that led to the launch of King Richard’s crusade to recover it.’
Thibault grimaced, an expression which, Helewise thought, stemmed more from remembering that disastrous episode than from any sudden stab of pain. ‘Indeed it did,’ he agreed. ‘For those of us still battling with the Saracens, it was a grim time. Although help came from an unexpected source.’
‘Which was?’ Gervase prompted.
Thibault turned his eyes to the sheriff. ‘I said just now that most of the nobles fled to defend their own estates. However, many of those who fought under them felt a more pressing obligation to the greater cause. Having no property or possessions of their own out in Outremer meant, I suppose, that they did not have to judge between the conflicting needs of God and their own interests.’ There was, Helewise thought, a very faint suggestion of condemnation in the words. ‘Anyway, be that as it may, after Hattin both we and the Knights Templar found that many young knights and soldiers came to us wanting to continue the fight. Some were freshly arrived out in the Holy Land and eager to make a name for themselves. I cannot speak for the Templars but, as for us, we were delighted to receive them.’
‘You mean they joined your Order?’ Josse asked.
‘No, not permanently, although they lived and fought alongside us and were subject to the same routine and regulations.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Even the Saracens respect the warrior monks, for the majority of our soldiers are not only vastly experienced and knowledgeable in how to pursue the fight against the enemy but also, because we are avowed monks and must obey, we are considerably better disciplined than most of the crusading troops.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I am sorry; I am proud and boastful and that is not seemly.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Josse said, ‘but a little pride is deserved, Thibault, for your Order’s reputation is a fine one.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, you were based at Crac des Chevaliers and your numbers were swelled by more soldiers after the defeat at Hattin,’ Gervase said. Helewise detected impatience in his tone.
‘Yes,’ Thibault agreed. ‘Then two years on our King Richard and Philip of France arrived and they regained Acre and consolidated the other possessions held by the Franks along the coast. It was success, I suppose, of a sort; although the great prize remained in Muslim hands. Both we and the Knights Templar counselled against an attack upon the Holy City, but kings are kings and they do not necessarily welcome good advice. Eventually King Richard and Saladin agreed to a truce and for the most part the fighting came to an end.’
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