The Lost Garden (The Lost Garden Trilogy Book 1) Page 12

  He knows I do not want to be here, thought Gustave. He is taunting me, trying to raise me to anger, or at least provoking me as a child would to get a rise out of another. I will not be his entertainment today, not in this godforsaken land, be it holy or not. And godforsaken it is; this Holy Land is completely overrun by the Muslims.

  “It is adequate, Sire,” Gustave replied. “We are in the Holy Land to free the birthplace of our Lord from the heathen barbarians. If Christ made do with his head on a stone pillow under the stars, surely I can make do with a footstool in the fine battle tent of a king.”

  “Spoken like a true fighting man, Gustave.”

  The priest clenched his jaw. Self-consciously, he ran his thumb over the smooth slope that had once been his ring finger and pinky. “I am no fighting man, my lord.” Chagrined at his response to Richard, Gustave found himself staring down at the elaborate Persian rug that lit up the tent with bright color. You’ve said too much, he thought bitterly. Even that is enough for him to use to bait you.

  In a fluid motion that revealed the king’s remarkable athleticism, even after this tiresome journey, in two quick strides, he was at Gustave’s side. “You were once a fighting man, Father. A good one. One who had an unfortunate accident.”

  The priest found himself clenching his left hand, a hand that had now taken over most of the functions that had normally been reserved for his maimed right hand. Perhaps this will be the time I do not hold back, thought Gustave. Perhaps this is the time I use all the strength in what is left of my right hand to strangle the king. Gustave thought it was only fitting that he would someday use his right hand to choke the life out of the king. But not tonight.

  “Yes, Sire. It was a very painful accident.” When he and Richard were but carefree young men engaging in sword practice, someone had called Gustave’s name and he had turned his head away for an instant. The young king had used the opportunity to playfully lunge at Gustave. Richard’s sabre had struck low enough to cleanly slice two fingers from Gustave’s right hand. And so, in a moment, Gustave had gone from fighter to priest, for, what was left for a man who could not fight or work in any trade or even labor or drive horses? In that instant, his entire dream to be the best swordsman in the world—indeed, he had already been better than Richard—had been painfully lost.

  “You’ve never given me absolution for that accident,” Richard said softly. “I feel it to my very soul.”

  “You’ve never formally confessed the sin, therefore, how could I issue penance?”

  “And if I did confess, what would be my penance, Father Gustave?”

  “After all of these years, do you not know?” Gustave paused. “Your penance is to have me in your constant company.”

  “I don’t understand,” Richard said.

  “Penance, Richard, is to see, daily, what you have wrought and to accept it. And even, to thank God for it. Only then will you begin to approach absolution.”

  For an instant, Gustave saw him flinch. So, Richard still had a conscience. Lately, Gustave had wondered about that. But Richard had failed again to express his true regret for the harm he had caused. Instead, he diverted blame, as he often did.

  “I have often thought that you could cover the hand with a glove,” Richard said, swallowing hard. “I would have it specially made for you, with stuffed fingers, so that no one would know.”

  “No, Sire. I was left with three fingers on my right hand and there was a specific and divine purpose for that.”

  “There was? What was that purpose, Gustave?”

  “To make the sign of the cross, of course. At the very moment of the loss of my fingers, my higher calling emerged. I had three fingers with which to make the sign of the Trinity and that would be their task for the rest of my life. If just one more finger had been cut off, I could not have become a priest, for I would not have been able to make the sign of the Trinity with my right hand, and of course, the left hand would not be suitable for making the sign of the cross. Nay, I am saved for the priesthood, by you. You had a hand, shall we say, in my destiny.”

  Richard sighed heavily. Gustave’s bitter wit had struck him again. Gustave was the only one who could throw such barbs at the king and get away with it, and he knew it.

  “If I could undo that moment in time, Gustave, you know I would not have struck you when you were not looking. It was, at best, unsporting of me. At worst, it caused the ruin of a man’s right hand and his fighting career.”

  Gentler, Gustave said, “Do not regret my maiming too much, Sire. You were merely God’s instrument for our intertwined destiny.”

  “You truly believe that?” Richard said.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I do. And now, with this same maimed hand, I shall bless your health and safety in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  He held up his right hand and made the sign of the cross over Richard and uttered a simple blessing.

  Richard bowed his head and looked away with a murmured thanks that was unusually subdued.

  Gustave could see that old guilt rise up like a serpent, waiting to strike at the opportune moment. And strike it had. At least the king had lasting regret over maiming him, which was more than Gustave could say for Richard’s otherwise unrepentant, murderous nature. Gustave had lost track of Richard’s body count long ago. Suffice it to say, he rarely took a prisoner. It was as if he didn’t know what to do once he seized a city, other than to annihilate the people therein.

  “Do you want to give me some Hail Marys or something?”

  “No. As I said, my daily presence in your life is your penance, Richard. Just think of me as your…handmaiden.”

  “Gustave, don’t mock my sorrow over harming you.” Richard looked upset about more than this. Something else was bothering him.

  “Mea culpa,” he said in Latin, to apologize. Gustave unclenched his hands, his one-and-a-half hands, as he himself so often had said. He let out a whoosh of air that had been trapped inside of him. The priest’s shoulders drooped a little, and what ire had been in him just moments ago, disappeared. His energy was sapped by both the desert winds and his own lack of will to accept his maiming as an act of God, even though that was how he had professed it to Richard. It was a carefully practiced speech and he knew just when to pull it out of his pocket. Now that he had done so, a bitter relief washed over him.

  “You are my prayer warrior,” Richard said. “I cannot fight the good fight without you by my side. When I use my sword, sometimes, I think of your hand upon it as well, guiding it.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. I always wanted to fight for God and country. Now, my prayer is answered. Thanks be to God, our strongest weapon against the enemies, spiritual and flesh.” He tried not to let his words sound bitter and carefully composed his face. He and Richard warred like this, with words. It was a bad habit after all of these years and neither of them could cease pricking at each other.

  At one time, Gustave had been hailed as the next great warrior of England, but now, he could not even stomach the thought of holding a sword; his left hand was clumsy and weak and the very positioning would put him at a fighting disadvantage.

  Richard swallowed and looked at his armory. “I have my weapons, and you have yours.”

  To the priest’s left was Richard’s small armory, really only a pile of weapons, but of finer quality, fit for a king. There were three fine swords in their gold and jeweled scabbards, a crossbow that was unlike any other in the world and a blood-stained mace on an iron chain at the end of a club that had been specially carved to fit Richard’s large hand.

  Oh, to have a full right hand again. It had been many, many years since Gustave had gripped the hilt of any sword. It was a feeling he remembered as being so natural, an extension of his own hand and arm, in fact. Now, he had no desire to even cast his gaze upon the weaponry for longer than a moment. It was a painful reminder of what had been accidentally taken from him, by his king.

  The tent flapped open by a gust of hot wind, as if
a spirit had left the room, or perhaps, entered.

  “Am I here for a specific reason, Your Majesty?” he finally asked. Gustave knew that if Richard were fraught with worry over the coming battle with Saladin, he would have had de Sable in here, listening to the old warrior’s advice. Instead, he had called for his priest.

  The anticipated taunting ridicule never came from the king, ridicule that Gustave had endured over the last twenty years while serving as the king’s trusted spiritual advisor. A joke that only King Richard enjoyed was often passed between the two men, of Gustave’s lack of fighting ability. Instead, the king was now visibly upset, shaking.

  “I had a dream, Father. A very real dream. Can you help me, my friend?”

  Gustave was momentarily taken aback by Richard’s humble plea for help.

  “Gustave, my lifelong friend, I think I may die,” said Richard the Lionheart, King of England, leader of the Third Crusade.

  Richard’s words echoed in Gustave’s head. Richard had never uttered such defeated words. Gustave wanted to grin, but refrained. The fearful words were appealing. In those words that brought the king down to the level of the worries of an ordinary man, Gustave found freedom, relief from a prison term as the king’s unwilling court jester, and relief from the constant pain of humiliation at his utter whim.

  Gustave looked up, meeting Richard’s haggard eyes. He kept his voice calm. “Perhaps you should tell me your dream. In detail.”

  The Last Crusade

  is available at:

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  About the author:

  K.T. Tomb enjoys traveling the world when not writing adventure thrillers. She lives in Portland, OR. Please find her at:

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