At Har Megiddo...
“Karl, my son?” Frederick, strong Frederick, coughed weakly through the blood seeping from his mouth. His black beard was crimson.
I wanted to run and hide my shame. I wanted to find a deep hole and pull the earth on top of me, to hide from the humiliating glare of the cruel sun. I could not prevent the horrific scimitar blow that had laid my lord and adopted father to the ground. This was my reasoning. I flinched at my shame and then stirred toward him, a bloody sword dangling from my weakened hand. He whispered my name again. I ducked down to his side to hear his words.
“Karl.” He lifted himself slightly up on one elbow and clamped his huge right gauntlet to my shoulder.
I felt a deep gnawing fear grab at my stomach. I was afraid that I was witnessing his last moments on earth. I felt anxious that I was loosing his guidance that had firmly led me through this terrible life. I wanted to jump up and shout out in anger, but I only knelt and stayed mute, for I feared his pain and mine. He took in a rattling sigh and then softly coughed. Scarlet spittle ran from his lips.
“Karl?” He asked. He could not see me, for blood also washed from his brow and into his eyes.
“Yes, my lord.” I answered. “I am here.” He seemed rational, but I was losing all sense of reason.
“Good,” he replied. “My sword, Karl.” I wiped his eyes with my hand. “My sword?”
I saw that it lay underneath his left thigh. I gently pulled it free. He winced, but stayed silent.
“It is here, my Lord.” I wiped the browning stains of Mohammedan blood from that noble instrument of death and raised it high to his sight. The harsh sunlight reflected a shard of brilliant sparks all around.
He nodded and closed his eyes. He lay his body back to the rocky ground and his breathing became shallower. I sat down, crossing my legs, waiting for his last words or the last breath of my master. I felt the tears welling in my eyes.
His eyes gently opened. He turned his head to me and smiled.
“You did well, my son.” He closed his eyes again.
I desired to jump up and shake myself in fury. I wanted to deny his words with vehement shouts of outrage. I wished us to be elsewhere; yet I just sat, feeling the warm tears running down my cheeks.
The battle again rushed, as a wind, through my mind.
The final assault upon the strong walls of Jerusalem had ended in disaster. The Saracens, led by Saladin, had routed our forces. News had reached our rear positions that King Guy had surrendered. My lord was engaged in battle with a handful of Muslim knights. I, as his squire, was facing away and had readied myself for the onslaught of a single warrior coming from behind.
I saw my lord in defensive posture, as two Mohammedans were assailing him with jabs from a spear and wide arcing cuts of a sword. Three retreating figures ran through the waves of heat. His steed was running from the field, impaled in the rump with a feathered arrow. I listened to the grunts and yells of anger coming from my lord and I heard his dismay as the steel of a curved scimitar breached his defenses. I smelled the sudden sweat imbuing the air with a miasma of killing lust. I was a little off to his side engaged in battle with a huge armored Saracen. I was using my broad sword as a shield, for I knew that I could not penetrate his guard without risking my advantage with the larger sword. I held it high in the mode taught me by my master, as I glimpsed him clinging to his side with one arm, still engaged in combat. One man was down; I could not see the other.
My man thrust for my neck. I spun to my right in a block, cursing my lapse of attention. I turned and got low, but he stumbled. Then I, sword in full swing, caught him across his backbone. As he fell, the world filled with his screaming. I immediately turned to the battle of my master and his enemy. I saw him upon the ground, as his man was fleeing. I did not give chase. I only stood there on that horrific battleground watching my friend, mentor and father lying so very still. I had been turned into a stone shell of a man frozen into immobility. I do not remember feeling fear for myself. I do not recall what I may have been thinking, either. I had felt that I had neither feelings nor thoughts at all. I had felt inert and dead. The bodies had been stinking and strewn like driftwood. Vultures had soared above the carnage and a few of the brave or hungry were feasting of ripped flesh upon the torn ground. In the distance, inside Jerusalem, smoke had billowed, but the walls had still held. Flying insects had crawled through my sweat, yet I had felt nothing.
“Karl?” He had choked.
“Yes, my lord.” I said.
“Hand me my sword.”
I had done as he commanded, as I always did.
“Get onto your knees, my son.” I had done so, as I watched him struggle upward. I had sought to aid him, but he had thrust me away with a warding hand.
“I must do this myself,” He had coughed.
He had used his sword as a crutch and struggled mightily to his feet. Tears had run down my cheeks and into my beard leaving grimy, crusty runnels. He had towered over me and had lifted the sword high. I had my head bowed.
I had felt the flat of the blade gently touch my shoulders on both sides of my neck.
“I dub thee knight.” He then had fallen to the ground. His body stilled; his sword had fallen from his hand.
After my lord’s declaration, I had sat upon my haunches, his sword astride my thighs, and waited for his final words to come. He had stirred and re-opened his eyes.
“I am no longer your lord, my son.” Words that I never wished to hear. My mind went away to elsewhen.
© 2008 C. M. Baker III
