Chapter 23
I was lounging on Libby’s sofa under two fleece blankets, with a cup of tea and an ashtray full of roaches and cigarette butts beside me.
Libby sat at the edge of the sofa, stroking my feet every so often.
She offered me a hot water bottle, but I told her not to overdo it.
There was an episode of some girl show on TV—a generic quartet of rebellious, neurotic, ambitious, and sexy young women in a hyper-stylized urban setting.
Libby thought that the best way to lift my spirits would be to plow through all the seasons that I hadn’t gotten around to watching, and in a stupor, I immersed myself in their troubles of love and real estate.
My phone flashed. I had turned off the sound, but not the alerts.
“Don’t look at that,” Libby said. I didn’t. I kept staring at the TV screen. The phone kept flashing. I extracted one arm from beneath the blankets and brought the phone closer.
I had three missed calls from Halimi. Maybe something happened to Lily, I worried suddenly. I called back. He answered immediately.
“Ditush,” Halimi said quietly.
I was quiet before asking, “Is everything all right with Lily?” I knew that it was.
“She’s a little congested,” he said. “But she’s fine, she went to daycare today.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, ready to hang up.
“Diti!” he said urgently. “Don’t you want to see her? When are you coming home?”
“I want to see her,” I said, even though that wasn’t exactly true at that exact moment. I missed Lily, but the thought of seeing her in this new status, with Halimi and I no longer a family, made me want to suffocate myself under the fleece blankets.
“Have you thought about the best way to move forward? The separation of powers?” I asked.
“I was thinking of something, Ditush,” he said, and my diaphragm contracted. “I thought about a lot of things,” he added, “but more than anything, I think we have to talk face-to-face.”
“Let him send you the synopsis,” said Libby, who heard everything.
“I’m really not up for that now, Halimi,” I said. “I’m exhausted.” I hung up and covered my head with the blanket.
I chewed my nails in front of the window. Thibaut had brought Philip again and this time sent him to bring another of his companions (“bring the little Burgundy”), an even younger attendant who looked eager to please.
“Go to the Templar fortress and say that you are bringing a message for the master from the King of Navarre.” Thibaut removed a ring from one of his fingers and placed it in the messenger’s hands.
“When you are brought before him, tell him that, with utmost respect, His Majesty wishes to know if it is possible to allocate a small transit ship for his ward, who urgently needs to reach the Pilgrim Castle with a knight or two for escorts, or perhaps she can join some other trip that is already scheduled to leave today or tomorrow? Do not return without an answer. Do you understand?”
The youth nodded eagerly, bowed, and left. Thibaut’s eyes hung on Philip, who looked vaguely fatigued.
I wondered what his status was. I could not recall his family name or house from when Jean had introduced him before we departed Le Destroit.
From what I knew about the European aristocracy, the personal servant of a king had to be of high status himself.
What depressing humiliation that must be, to be a servant when you are accustomed to being served yourself.
Thibaut invited me to join him in his rooms, chattering lazily on the way.
He told me that he could have demanded to be put up in the king’s palace in the city, but it was too gloomy for his taste.
He had spent a rather dull month there when he had just arrived at Acre.
“By the time we assembled a high-caliber group of cooks, laundresses, heads of hunting, musicians, storytellers, and jugglers, it was already time to move on,” Thibaut explained to me as we climbed the stone steps to his floor.
I wondered how it was possible that this smug and capricious man could possibly have succeeded—or, perhaps more precisely, would go on to succeed—in obtaining the agreement that promised the Kingdom of Jerusalem the most territory since the First Crusade, and almost without warfare.
I liked him even though I was also afraid of him, and I could not wait for Jean to return.
I tried not to think too much about Jean himself, with his wife and children, or of myself entangled in this situation.
What do we even do together? I comforted myself.
We just talk, mostly. I worried that Thibaut’s young man would come back and inform me that I could leave before I had the chance to say goodbye to Jean.
The suite that had been allotted to Thibaut was truly regal.
There were three enormous rooms with high ceilings: In the innermost chamber was a huge four-poster bed; and in the other two rooms, one of which opened onto a beautiful balcony, were broad armchairs with red velvet cushions, upholstered benches embroidered in gold thread, and tapestries in muted colors on the walls.
Sacks and trunks that had been unloaded from the mules the night before filled the corners.
Thibaut’s knights sat around and spoke among themselves.
Thibaut disappeared into the bedroom and returned a few minutes later, dressed in his blue-and-silver velvet attire, his coronet placed firmly on his head.
He sat down on one of the benches and took up his lute, and his knights gathered around him. Cedrique rose from his bed by the window and sat at Thibaut’s feet.
One of his companions held a flute, and another a kind of small tambourine. They joined Thibaut in playing and singing.
“Mercy, my lady,” Thibaut began to sing and smiled at me, accompanying himself on the lute.
His deep, resonant voice echoed through the large, high-ceilinged stone room, and suddenly I recognized the song from my YouTube expeditions.
It was the song that I had felt compelled to send Jean a little while back.
Mercy, my lady, grant me reply,
By holy God, I beg you, say:
When death takes you—and sooner I—
What shall of Love become that day?
Your grace and wisdom shine so bright,
I love you more than words confess.
Without our hearts to give her light,
I fear that Love will perish, yes.
One of Thibaut’s youngest accompanists stood beside him and, to the laughter of the rest of the men, broke into a voice that was meant to sound like a woman:
By God, Thibaut, Love will not fade,
Not for your death, nor yet for mine.
You mean, perchance, to jest with me,
For plump you seem, in health and fine.
Though death will come, as come it must,
Love does not vanish, nor decay.
It mourns when lovers turn to dust,
Yet keeps its throne in hearts alway.
The knight sang well in a high, feminine voice, and they continued their melodic, philosophical conversation for several more verses.
The knights chuckled and elbowed each other at the start, laughing out loud when the singing knight mentioned Thibaut’s plump figure.
By the end of the song, some shed a tear, clapped their hands, and stomped their feet.
Thibaut and his entourage went on singing—of setting off on the crusade, of brave knights now singing with the angels after dying bravely in battle, of heartless and beautiful ladies, of seductive shepherd girls.
I sank into a dreamy daze, enveloped in their singing voices.
I woke up from my half-sleep, and only now did my mind make sense of the words that I had been hearing over and over for some time. “Bless Jean d’Ibelin, the daring Count Arsur,” Thibaut’s voice sang as he strummed a doleful melody on the lute.
The youngest son of Beirut’s lord,
A knight of valor, well adored.
He bent before his cousin fair,
Enchanted from the otherworld.
Thibaut’s companions accompanied him on drums and flute, adding a rhythmic and humorous touch to Thibaut’s gentle strumming.
I sat up straight in my chair, embarrassed, and looked around.
Thibaut continued his narrative description of Jean, and I realized that he was making up the words in real time, and that he did so with considerable talent.
His eyes were fixed affectionately on the other side of the room, and when I looked over, I saw Jean in the threshold, long-limbed and relaxed and smiling at Thibaut.
Beside him, stiff as a broomstick, stood Hugh.
When Thibaut strummed the final chord, everybody clapped, myself included.
“You show me great kindness, your Majesty,” said Jean. “There is no greater honor than to serve as a subject for your singing.” He sounded like a little brother acknowledging the elder’s authority, and Thibaut growled with satisfaction.
Cedrique barked as if to confirm, and everyone burst out laughing. Thibaut patted the handsome dog on the head with pride. Jean bade good morning to each of Thibaut’s knights and then sat down beside me. Hugh joined the others.
“How did you pass the night, my lady?” Jean asked quietly. He moved his hand closer to mine, as if wanting to hold it, and then lightly shook his head and placed both his hands on his knees.
“I slept like a log,” I said. “But I woke up very early and was unable to fall back asleep,” I added, mostly to explain how it happened that I was dozing off in a room full of people. I wanted to tell him about the dream of the little green car, but the moment was not right.
“How did you sleep, my lord?” I asked instead of telling him about the dream.
“I did not sleep much,” said Jean. When he saw the embarrassment on my face, he hurried to add, “I had a great deal of work to attend to.”
I began to say something and then realized that it was not appropriate, and I tried to say something else, but this was not suitable either. I was disheartened by the formality between us.
Thibaut continued to strum and sing, and his people continued to sing and play along. Every now and then came an outburst of laughter.