Vignette: Maud and Maryam
Lenton Priory Guesthouse, near Nottingham
Tuesday 1 December, 1192 Maud awoke in a cold sweat, the terrified eyes of the young Saracen boy burning into her mind. For a moment she was back on the hot, dusty plain of Ayyadieh. The lad could have been no more than five or six. “May God forgive me,” she murmured as she remembered the moment when she raised her sword and saw the confusion in his face turn to fear. The bell tolled again, wrenching her fully from sleep. The room was pitch black, and quiet apart from the bell and the gentle snoring of Maryam beside her. Matins, she realised. In the walled precinct behind the priory guesthouse the monks of Lenton Priory were rising for the first office of the day. She slipped out of bed as silently as she could, trying to not to wake the older Syrian woman, put on her slippers, pulled her thick woollen cloak over her shoulders and quietly opened the shutters of the room they shared this night. The night was dark, the waning moon already below the horizon, and the stars sparkled in the wintry sky. Behind the dogstar the light dusting of the Via Lactea climbed up from the dark horizon. It was Advent, she realised, and the monks would be singing of the coming of the Lord in preparation for the Christ Mass on the day of the nativity. She heard two sharp scrapes behind her and turned. Either the bell or her own movement had woken Maryam, who was striking flint and steel to light a rush. When the tinder caught and Maryam was able to light the tallow-coated rush, her stocky frame obscured the dim light for a moment until she stood and turned. “We call that one as-shira, the leader,” the chirurgeon said in her thickly accented French, pointing to the bright star due south as she joined the tall young noblewoman at the window. “The Greeks call him Sirius, and they say he is a dog. Why have you woken?” Maud let out a long breath. The flickering rushlight in her hand deepened the lines of concern in Maryam’s broad face as well as the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. “Prior Alexander says my father is dead," Maud said. "A year since, and I didn't know.” “Ana lilah wana alih rajieun. God have mercy on him. You said he was old and you feared this may be the case,” Maryam held the light up to look closely into Maud’s lean face, so much sharper and harder after two years of desert war than the softness of the girl she had first seen in the camp at Acre. Worry furrowed the noblewoman’s brow beneath her loose brown hair. “It is right and proper to grieve, but you look troubled, not sad.” Maud’s frown deepened. “We hold our lands of the crown. Well, of the Peveril honour, actually, but the crown holds that, except that the King gave it to Count John…” she trailed off as she noticed Maryam’s blank expression. “It means my mother is now a ward of Count John. He will make all the decisions as to her welfare and the running of our estates. Me as well, I suppose, once we announce my return. Prior Alexander said John ordered the sheriff to run our lands for him. And the sheriff… The prior says John appointed his butler to be sheriff.” “A trusted servant? That seems wise.” “Oh, no. I remember him from when Father went to swear homage to Count John at the King’s Houses in Clipstone. William de Wendeval. He’s an odious little man. He may know how to keep his master happy, but what would he know of running a county? Or our estate? I fear our arrival may not be what I had promised you.” Maryam reached out and squeezed Maud’s sword-calloused hand. “Tomorrow we will know. No sense in worrying.” She thought for a moment, and asked, "Did you tell the old monk about the King? The shipwreck?” “No. It didn’t seem right to share such bad news when we’re not sure.” “True. Your King may still be alive. But he should have returned before us, no?” “By what Prior Alexander said, the last two years have not been good ones. The King’s justiciar – his regent, I suppose – became a tyrant and upset the nobles, and Count John led a revolt against him.” “An evil vizier and a heroic prince. They tell such stories in Baghdad.” “But then Count John himself offended the nobles. If the king has died, Count John will probably try to take the throne. Richard named their nephew as his heir. He’s just a boy, but if the nobles back him it might mean war. There was a war like that when I was a little girl, when the Young King rebelled against the Old King.” “Ah. Two kings means more war. Not the peace you hoped for.” “Whether the king is alive or dead, the monks will only shelter us for one night. Tomorrow we must travel to our manor at Hodsock through the forests of Sherwood and Hatfield. The prior says they’ve become lawless, what with all the troubles between the justiciar and the nobles. Bandits and ruffians waylay travellers – and the foresters are little better than brigands with badges. I think I should wear my armour for tomorrow’s journey.” Maryam released Maud’s hand to wave a chubby finger at her. “That’s what’s troubling you, isn’t it. You have gone to bed thinking of war and armour. You had the dream again.” “The nightmare! Oh, Maryam, what I did was evil. The Pope said our sins would be forgiven, but I’m not sure I can really believe that.” “My old Muslim neighbours would say God cannot forgive you for that – only that boy, in the afterlife, for it was him you wronged, not God. But our priests say God can forgive all things.” “And what do you say?” Maryam frowned. “I think God cannot forgive you until you forgive yourself.” Maud’s hand ached and realised she had clenched it around the window frame. She forced herself to let go. “And how do I do that?” Maryam sighed. “I healed your body after Jaffa. But I could not save your brother or my husband at Acre, and I cannot save your soul. Only you and God can do that. But I will walk with you while you find your path.” “You don’t have to do that.” Maryam smiled at the younger woman. “Call it redemption for my own sins.” She had tried so hard to save William, Maud’s brother, in the infirmary tent at Acre. She had removed the javelin from his shoulder cleanly, washed the wound with wine and sewn it neatly. Perhaps if she had used a drain, or even spotted the corruption earlier, he might have lived and Maud would never have donned his arms. Would never have been at Ayyadieh. Could this self-imposed penance, this pilgrimage to this cold, wet little island on the edge of the known world, balance out her own guilt? “En Aloho d sobe,” she murmured in her native Aramaic. If God wills.
Tuesday 1 December, 1192 Maud awoke in a cold sweat, the terrified eyes of the young Saracen boy burning into her mind. For a moment she was back on the hot, dusty plain of Ayyadieh. The lad could have been no more than five or six. “May God forgive me,” she murmured as she remembered the moment when she raised her sword and saw the confusion in his face turn to fear. The bell tolled again, wrenching her fully from sleep. The room was pitch black, and quiet apart from the bell and the gentle snoring of Maryam beside her. Matins, she realised. In the walled precinct behind the priory guesthouse the monks of Lenton Priory were rising for the first office of the day. She slipped out of bed as silently as she could, trying to not to wake the older Syrian woman, put on her slippers, pulled her thick woollen cloak over her shoulders and quietly opened the shutters of the room they shared this night. The night was dark, the waning moon already below the horizon, and the stars sparkled in the wintry sky. Behind the dogstar the light dusting of the Via Lactea climbed up from the dark horizon. It was Advent, she realised, and the monks would be singing of the coming of the Lord in preparation for the Christ Mass on the day of the nativity. She heard two sharp scrapes behind her and turned. Either the bell or her own movement had woken Maryam, who was striking flint and steel to light a rush. When the tinder caught and Maryam was able to light the tallow-coated rush, her stocky frame obscured the dim light for a moment until she stood and turned. “We call that one as-shira, the leader,” the chirurgeon said in her thickly accented French, pointing to the bright star due south as she joined the tall young noblewoman at the window. “The Greeks call him Sirius, and they say he is a dog. Why have you woken?” Maud let out a long breath. The flickering rushlight in her hand deepened the lines of concern in Maryam’s broad face as well as the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. “Prior Alexander says my father is dead," Maud said. "A year since, and I didn't know.” “Ana lilah wana alih rajieun. God have mercy on him. You said he was old and you feared this may be the case,” Maryam held the light up to look closely into Maud’s lean face, so much sharper and harder after two years of desert war than the softness of the girl she had first seen in the camp at Acre. Worry furrowed the noblewoman’s brow beneath her loose brown hair. “It is right and proper to grieve, but you look troubled, not sad.” Maud’s frown deepened. “We hold our lands of the crown. Well, of the Peveril honour, actually, but the crown holds that, except that the King gave it to Count John…” she trailed off as she noticed Maryam’s blank expression. “It means my mother is now a ward of Count John. He will make all the decisions as to her welfare and the running of our estates. Me as well, I suppose, once we announce my return. Prior Alexander said John ordered the sheriff to run our lands for him. And the sheriff… The prior says John appointed his butler to be sheriff.” “A trusted servant? That seems wise.” “Oh, no. I remember him from when Father went to swear homage to Count John at the King’s Houses in Clipstone. William de Wendeval. He’s an odious little man. He may know how to keep his master happy, but what would he know of running a county? Or our estate? I fear our arrival may not be what I had promised you.” Maryam reached out and squeezed Maud’s sword-calloused hand. “Tomorrow we will know. No sense in worrying.” She thought for a moment, and asked, "Did you tell the old monk about the King? The shipwreck?” “No. It didn’t seem right to share such bad news when we’re not sure.” “True. Your King may still be alive. But he should have returned before us, no?” “By what Prior Alexander said, the last two years have not been good ones. The King’s justiciar – his regent, I suppose – became a tyrant and upset the nobles, and Count John led a revolt against him.” “An evil vizier and a heroic prince. They tell such stories in Baghdad.” “But then Count John himself offended the nobles. If the king has died, Count John will probably try to take the throne. Richard named their nephew as his heir. He’s just a boy, but if the nobles back him it might mean war. There was a war like that when I was a little girl, when the Young King rebelled against the Old King.” “Ah. Two kings means more war. Not the peace you hoped for.” “Whether the king is alive or dead, the monks will only shelter us for one night. Tomorrow we must travel to our manor at Hodsock through the forests of Sherwood and Hatfield. The prior says they’ve become lawless, what with all the troubles between the justiciar and the nobles. Bandits and ruffians waylay travellers – and the foresters are little better than brigands with badges. I think I should wear my armour for tomorrow’s journey.” Maryam released Maud’s hand to wave a chubby finger at her. “That’s what’s troubling you, isn’t it. You have gone to bed thinking of war and armour. You had the dream again.” “The nightmare! Oh, Maryam, what I did was evil. The Pope said our sins would be forgiven, but I’m not sure I can really believe that.” “My old Muslim neighbours would say God cannot forgive you for that – only that boy, in the afterlife, for it was him you wronged, not God. But our priests say God can forgive all things.” “And what do you say?” Maryam frowned. “I think God cannot forgive you until you forgive yourself.” Maud’s hand ached and realised she had clenched it around the window frame. She forced herself to let go. “And how do I do that?” Maryam sighed. “I healed your body after Jaffa. But I could not save your brother or my husband at Acre, and I cannot save your soul. Only you and God can do that. But I will walk with you while you find your path.” “You don’t have to do that.” Maryam smiled at the younger woman. “Call it redemption for my own sins.” She had tried so hard to save William, Maud’s brother, in the infirmary tent at Acre. She had removed the javelin from his shoulder cleanly, washed the wound with wine and sewn it neatly. Perhaps if she had used a drain, or even spotted the corruption earlier, he might have lived and Maud would never have donned his arms. Would never have been at Ayyadieh. Could this self-imposed penance, this pilgrimage to this cold, wet little island on the edge of the known world, balance out her own guilt? “En Aloho d sobe,” she murmured in her native Aramaic. If God wills.
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