Lionheart's Scribe by Karleen Bradford Page A

himself.”
    â€œShe is a queen?” The girl wiped quickly at her eyes with the back of one hand. “Ask her, then … Ask her to let me see my father.”
    â€œYour father …” I stumbled over the words, then summoned up the courage to speak them. Truly, I dreaded the effect they would have on this small creature. “Your father is dead. I’m sorry.” I reached out a hand to her, but she shrank back.
    â€œDead? That cannot be!” she gasped.
    â€œIt is true. I’m sorry,” I stammered again. What else could I say?
    â€œIt’s not true,” she cried. “It’s not true!” Her face suddenly paled. “And my mother?” Her voice was so low now I could hardly hear her.
    â€œYour mother? She was on the ship as well?” Myheart took a leaden plunge downward.
    She nodded. She was holding herself as still as if she had turned to stone. “My father always took us on his voyages.”
    I looked to the queen. “Her mother, Your Grace. Her mother was on board as well.”
    â€œThere was no other woman among the survivors.” The queen shook her head slowly. “The poor creature has lost both her father and her mother and now she’s alone amongst strangers. I know something of what that feels like—I must do what I can for her.” She looked toward Father Aimar as if seeking help, but he was staring at Yusra, face grim.
    Yusra knew by the tone of the queen’s voice what she had said. She collapsed, her face buried in the pillows.
    I stood there, feeling as awkward and as sorry for anyone as I have ever felt in my life. There was a long moment of silence, and then the queen spoke.
    â€œGo, Matthew. I thank you for helping me with her, but I think you have done all you can now.” She reached out a hand to stroke the girl’s head, but Yusra flinched away from her touch. The queen dropped her hand and sighed. “I will call for you again, Matthew. I think we will have need of you to help with this poor child. But go now,” she repeated.
    I made my obeisance and backed away.
    I cannot put the remembrance of that small, huddled figure out of my mind. What is to become of her? I cannot imagine.
    Later again …
    We sailed into the harbor at Acre late this afternoon. It is a well-protected harbor, close up against the walls of the city. We dropped sails and the oarsmen took us in. The sea was calm, but small waves raced along the base of the walls like fingers of foam determined to find their way in. We could see figures moving around the ramparts. They seemed to have no fear of being fired upon, which I found strange. They were Saracens, after all, and the Christian army surrounds the city.
    As I drank in the sights and the salty, kelpy smell of the sea, I heard the Muslim call to prayer begin. I have heard this many times in Sicily and never, truth to tell, paid much attention to it, but somehow here, on the shores of this strange land, it sounded new and different to me. Oddly compelling. The call seemed to have the same effect on everyone aboard the ship. Gradually a strange silence fell. I could hear naught but the creaking and plashing of oars. Then, from the hills far inland, an answering echo to the prayer song rang out. I turned to face the shore itself. The Christian army was camped around the walls of the city for as far as I could see. Figures bustled about there as well. Behind our army the ground swelled into high hills and peaks. It was there, I heard, that the camp of Salah-ud-Din lay, and it was from there that the echoing call to prayer came. I stared at those hills, imagining the size and force of that army. For the first time I truly realized the plight of the Christian crusaders. We, the besiegers of Acre, are besiegedourselves and surrounded at every point except for the coast.
    As the last notes of the Muslim call to prayer were dying, a huge commotion broke out on shore. Suddenly there was