Chapter 4
In the name of the Holy Mother!” I heard a shocked voice say in oddly accented French. I opened my eyes and saw the two men leaning over me, the velvet-cloaked one with suspicious eyes and the half-ponytailed one looking concerned. The dogs barked wildly. They were no longer translucent.
“A pilgrim maid, clearly parched,” Half-ponytail said in a voice full of compassion. “Do you not see she holds a palm branch?” There was a very strange gap between what I heard, a kind of garbled French with a rolling r, and the fact that my brain interpreted everything and understood. I sat up.
“What in the name of all saints is she clothed in?” mumbled Velvet Cloak, surveying me as if trying to work out whether I was dangerous or not.
Half-ponytail continued to stare at me and said, “I know not. Perchance she has arrived from a foreign land. Silence, Brunette! Cedrique!” The two sight hounds gave one final yelp and settled down.
“Is all well, sirs?” a worried shout carried over the tree’s canopy, from the direction of Le Destroit. “Indeed,” Half-ponytail shouted back. “Resume your duties.”
“Sorry, guys,” I said in French, expressing myself with as much clarity as my pounding temples would allow. “I did ’shrooms, and they must have been really powerful. I thought I might smoke some hash with you guys, you know, to chill out.”
A tablecloth was spread out on the ground.
On it was a bottle of wine, half a loaf of bread, and a hunk of cheese.
To one side was a round clay dish with a silver spout, issuing smoke.
The dogs gave me a warning glance; they looked as though they were about to pounce.
“Perhaps a crust of bread, too, if that’s okay with you.
That will make me feel better,” I said, trying not to stare at the dogs.
The two men looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
“Do you comprehend the maiden’s words?” Velvet Cloak asked. He returned to his position, guitar or whatever it was in hand. He was still looking at me pointedly—I couldn’t determine whether his look was one of lust or suspicion. Probably both.
“I believe so,” Half-ponytail said. “She wishes to share our bread. In all likelihood, she is indeed a pilgrim.” He pulled his hoodie up.
“A pilgrim wench,” Velvet Cloak snorted, strumming on his musical instrument. “Her hair exposed like that of a whore …”
“Your Royal Highness!” Half-ponytail admonished.
“If so, methinks she is a fairy,” Velvet Cloak said, as if reconciling himself to the situation. Startled, I realized these two lunatics were speaking Old French.
“Your Royal Highness, you think that any beautiful woman who is not your wife is a fairy,” Half-ponytail said. Velvet Cloak chortled and shot me another look. Half-ponytail took out a large knife from a scabbard on his belt and sliced the bread. “If you please, my lady.”
I giggled and took a chunk of bread. It tasted extraordinary, like biting into congealed porridge.
“Begging your pardon, did she not materialize at our feet from the void? Are her eyes not green like the eyes of Lilith?” Velvet Cloak sang, strumming all the while to accompany his words. Twang, twang.
“Excuse my lack of manners, but who are you?” I asked. “French tourists?”
Half-ponytail passed a hand through his handsome beard and said, “I beg your pardon! What did you say? That we hail from France?”
I scrutinized him carefully. He was slender, with long, elegant fingers. His dark hair fell in bangs on the sides of his face. The hoodie he was wearing partially obscured him, but I saw his face was finely chiseled and swarthier than that of his friend, with inquisitive, amber-colored eyes.
“Allow us to introduce ourselves,” Half-ponytail said, throwing a glance at Velvet Cloak.
“The noble lord to my right is Thibaut IV, Count of Champagne.” Velvet Cloak cleared his throat theatrically, and Half-ponytail quickly corrected himself with a smile, “I beg your pardon, Thibaut I, King of Navarre.” Thibaut nodded his head slowly as he listened, his chin rising slightly.
“Please meet the good knight Jean Foggia,” Thibaut addressed me but did not take his eyes off his companion.
The good knight released a snort of laughter, and Thibaut added with emphasis, “That is to say, Jean d’Ibelin, Count of Arsur.
” A look passed between the two men; I didn’t even try to decipher it.
Then, they turned toward me expectantly.
I decided to go with the flow. “I’m Idit Rozhevsky-Halimi, Countess of Atlit,” I said with a flourish.
The “king” put down his guitar and looked at me with interest. By his side was a long sheath bound with leather straps, which likely contained a sword.
I could see only the tip of it, studded with precious jewels.
Lying close to the “knight” was another sheath, out of which poked a more modest handle, but no less threatening in size; he reached for it with one hand. These guys were real pros.
“édith?” asked Jean, if that was even his real name. “Countess of which district?”
“What?” I said. I couldn’t figure out whether they were high or simply didn’t get my accent.
“Excuse me?” Jean repeated.
The three of us burst out laughing. The dogs barked again, but not as wildly as before. Thibaut resumed strumming.
I polished off the chunk of bread. The crust was extremely hard and cut the palate of my mouth a little. Shyly, I offered the crust to the dogs. The brown one approached me cautiously, sniffed my hand and the crust of bread, and finally took it with utmost delicacy between her teeth.
“Gorgeous dog!” I exclaimed. I kept my hand outstretched, and after the dog had swallowed the crust of bread, she sniffed my hand and tilted her head toward me. She came closer and thrust her snout into my shoulder.
“Upon my life,” said Jean, “never have I seen that hound go from suspicion to friendliness so swiftly.”
I wondered how long it would take Halimi to get here and hoped he was still enjoying beautiful visuals with his eyes shut under the tree.
“Okay, can I have a go with your hookah now?” I asked, my eyes on the clay pot. Velvet Cloak, aka Thibaut of Champagne, seemed perplexed at my words, but Jean, who was much mellower, got my drift perfectly. I took out my water bottle.
“What is that?” Thibaut asked, still strumming.
“It’s a water bottle,” I said slowly.
I drank half the bottle and held it out to them. Jean handed me the clay bowl and began examining the bottle.
He tapped on the plastic with a fingernail, sniffed the nozzle, and cautiously swallowed some water.
The black dog gave a loud yelp. I handed the cap to Jean, and he examined it thoroughly, placing the cap back on the bottle without screwing it in place.
I took the bottle and screwed the cap on myself.
Jean’s mouth hung open slightly. He’s wasted, I thought to myself, my brain humming like crazy from the mushrooms.
Jean clicked his tongue when he saw that the clay pot was no longer burning.
He removed a strange, curved metal object, rubbed it against what looked like a piece of stone, and then brought the whole thing to a bunch of dry weeds, which were kindled by the ensuing spark.
A small flame spread through the dry weeds, and Jean took a piece of hash, warmed it in the flame, and dropped it in the pot, using a pair of small tongs. He took a hit and passed it over to me.
“You know your stuff, huh?” I remarked. “Is it some kind of professional cosplay?” Thibaut stopped strumming and frowned. While I took deep hits from the little hookah, he and Jean whispered together; I heard the word Saracen several times.
When we moved to Atlit, I’d done a quick background check on its history.
I was amazed to discover that the fortress had been one of the Crusaders’ most powerful strongholds in the Holy Land.
In fact, it was the final bastion from which they sailed their last remaining ships.
And I knew that Saracen was an ancient European term for a person of Muslim origin.
Simone had told us about the period, sharing anecdotes with us from her new research.
Groups of tourists came to Atlit occasionally.
They covered all the historic and prehistoric sites and received a crash history course from their tour guides, so it was not out of the ordinary to bump into passersby overflowing with knowledge of the place.
That said, I’d never come across such loony tourists, much less ones who acted more at home here than me, looking as though they’d just escaped a period drama.
“How did you get here?” Thibaut asked in a sober tone. “Where are your companions and servants?” His black dog stood at attention beside him, growling.
I encouraged myself not to get spooked. Although Thibaut spoke in a somber tone, when I glanced at Jean, he seemed relaxed, and I could have sworn he was suppressing some kind of private joke. I decided to go with the flow.
“My servant is resting a short way from here,” I said.
“He was most fatigued by our journey, and I permitted him to sleep under a tree while I wandered around a little,” I added, eying Thibaut defiantly.
I wondered what Halimi would think of these two.
He’d probably want to interview them for the radio show he’d been hosting.
“Night is falling fast, my lady. Where do you intend to lodge?” Jean asked.
“We live around here,” I replied. Jean said nothing, but his eyes narrowed with suspicion for the first time since we’d met.
It was a cautionary, even cruel look. I felt a sudden need to apologize, to explain that I wasn’t really from these parts at all, but from somewhere much farther away.
I panicked. The dog lifted her head from my lap and went to sit beside her master.
A spasm in my throat brought up the rich, brown, earthy taste of the mushrooms, and I calmed down.
I put a hand to my heart and took deep breaths.