ONCE IN A GOLDEN SUNSET

Julie sat across the small table from him, observing him carefully as Robert stared into his tea. She knew most of the stories of the Third Crusade, but the way he spoke was so different from merely reading some historical tome. She loved the bare reality of his words, the way his deep voice phrased them, emphasizing certain ones. It was somehow as though she were hearing them for the first time, as, indeed, some of the more specific details he knew were new to her despite her research for her books.

"Please," she said softly when he'd paused and didn't seem as though he intended to continue.

He looked up at her, puzzled as to her meaning, and she added, "Tell me of Jaffa...and of Beit Nuba."

Closing his eyes, he tried to keep the flowing images away, but they were still as fresh as this morning in his memory. One simply did not live through, did not...endure...such things and forget them, not ever. "The way you tell of them, Robert," she urged, "it would help me with my book. Please?"

He had not spoken of them, not like he did with her. They comprised his dreams, lived on the very insides of his eyelids, but he did not speak of them. Yet she, with her soft, eager interest drew them from him and he found a certain release in the speaking of matters so long kept tightly shielded. Drawing in a long, slow breath, he tipped his chin, eyes going to the low ceiling beams.

"Saladin's tactic was to destroy the towns and cities Richard's army would pass through, to burn the crops, but Jaffa still had fruit, and after the wall was rebuilt and a trench dug, there was room for a man to stretch his legs. The army, after the long march south from Acre, liked it there, was content to stay there as long as possible. But Richard," he smiled, "Richard hated leisure. He never rested unless he were too sick to rise from his bed. He had a javelin wound on his left side from the third day of fighting to take Jaffa, but even that did not stop him. Almost continually he was on the move.

"King Philip had left, taking many of his French knights with him. He had come more as a duty, hoping for a swift, showy campaign, and when too much death, too much weariness set in, he sailed away. About half his nobles were shamed by their king's going and stayed with Richard, which meant he now had to feed them, pay for their care." He smiled wryly. "Richard had known Philip Capet most of his life, but after that, he never spoke to him again. Philip's going cost Richard Jerusalem. He never forgave him. The army simply was not strong enough after that and Richard had not come for the show of the Crusade. He'd come for Jerusalem, come to see the Christian flag flying above its walls, come because that truly meant something to him. He had a simple, uncomplicated but rather vital faith and to wrest the Holy Places from Muslim hands meant the world to him. The army," he shrugged, "had shared much of that in earlier days, but the unbearable heat, the torrents of rain, the sand and the mud, the death and injuries beyond imagining were wearing away at the foundations of that. It was hard, so hard, to keep going on and on and still on some more, and keep alive the songs of the marching south through France."

He paused, looking again at her through half-lowered lashes. "What is it that interests you the most, Julie?"

"Richard," she replied, her lips curving into a smile, "always Richard."

"Of course," he murmured. "Richard. You know the story of the hawking incident?"

"Somewhat, but tell me again."

"Unable to be still, he went out from Jaffa one day with only a small escort to go hawking. Of course, for him there was always the possibility he might just happen upon some group of Saracens on the way. They rode quite far and after a while, dismounted to rest, and he fell asleep, as did his companions. It was then the armed Saracens found them. It all happened very quickly and all he had time to do was gird on his sword and swing into Fauvel's saddle as the attack began. Richard charged directly toward them, swinging his sword, and the Saracens broke and fled, with Richard not knowing the whole thing was a set up to lead him into ambush. The Saracens had Richard, who was always in the lead, surrounded when William of Pratelles, one of Richard's closest friends, shouted in their language, "I am the king!" and the Saracens turned their attention to him. Such was the loyalty the king inspired."

Julie had always loved that story, had spent much time imagining Richard asleep and then suddenly grabbing up his sword and springing into the saddle. Once he had even ridden close enough to Saladin's tent to salute it.

"Then, of course, there was the incident of the foraging party," Robert continued. "The Earl of Leicester and the Count of Saint-Pol had set out with an escort of Templars to see what supplies they might find for the army, but were surprised and completely surrounded by a large body of Turkish cavalry. As was their way, The Templars dismounted and formed a square. The numbers of Turks were such that none of them expected to survive, but they were prepared to fight to the last man.

There was something almost magical about Richard's way of arriving on the scene when his men were most in peril. He came upon the scene just as the attack was beginning. His small escort begged him to keep away, saying that he would surely be killed, but Richard drew his sword and replied, 'I sent these men here. If they die without me, may I never be called king again!' And he spurred Fauvel and charged the mass of men who were attacking his knights. The mere sight of his coming, the sunlight gleaming on his golden crown, his sword flashing, sent the Turks into panic and they scattered away." Robert thought silently a moment. "Alone among all the kings of all the Crusades, Richard followed heroic words with heroic acts."

Julie sighed contentedly, picturing the scene Robert described. "How magnificent," she murmured.

"He was that," Robert nodded, "quite possibly the most magnificent king ever to bestride this world. He earned in deed every tale that has ever been told of him, every one."

"I hear even Saladin held him in great admiration."

"This is true. And Richard returned the sentiment, finding Saladin the most worthy opponent he'd ever faced."

"And Beit Nuba? What do you know of that, Robert?"

Robert knew too much of that, far too much. "A mere 12 miles from Jerusalem. That's how close Richard's army came. Twelve miles. So very, very far and then so close. But Richard had sent out scouts, spies, and had he attacked, his diminished army would have been caught between two armies of the Saracens. There was no way, simply no way it could be done, or, if somehow done, no way to hold the city after." He shook his head. "No way. And it rained. Always it rained. How maddening it was to have come so far across burning deserts only to have his army sunk into the mud of the ceaseless rains.

"It was nothing less than the death of all his personal dreams. To walk the streets of Jerusalem, to BE there within its walls, meant more than life to him, but not more than the life of his army. So Richard never got to Jerusalem, not ever."

"But he saw it, didn't he? I've read that he saw it."

"That he did. He'd been out with a small escort, as he so often did, hunting boar and Saracen patrols, and Fauvel had gotten him ahead of the rest. Saladin knew the way of this and was always setting traps for him, had offered a reward for any man who could capture Richard alive. But Richard still rode out on the fastest horse in the army, that roan gelding from Cyprus. He was chasing one particular Saracen when the going got too rough for Fauvel, so he dismounted and continued up the slope afoot. At the top of the ledge he found the man waiting behind some rocks and when he had dispatched him, he was tired from the climb and the battle and simply stood there, leaning on his sword a while. When he looked up, the bare plain spread before him, then more hills, and in the far distance, he saw Jerusalem. The sun was setting behind him and the whole plain, the city itself, were lit by it with a golden glow. It moved him to the greatest depth of feeling he'd ever known and in that moment he knew he'd never take the city, never walk its streets with his own feet, so he raised his shield to block the view of it and turned away."

She, too, was moved by the thought of that moment, of what it must have meant to Richard, and by the fact of the reality that such a moment had had its existence as a present 'now' in time.

"The next day he came down with fever again. He was very, very ill. So many were ill. The sick and wounded were sent from Beit Nuba back to Jaffa, but most of them were massacred on the way, in the mud and the rain that came again. Massacre was the way of things there. Richard was not alone in what he did at Acre. Christians, too, were constantly massacred. Richard, though, was always haunted by Acre, by Acre and Jerusalem, though in different ways, and his heart bled for them both the remainder of his life."

"I've heard Richard almost died from the fever this time."

"Richard had always wished that he might meet Saladin  and Saladin wished the same. While Richard was so ill, Saladin had peaches sent to him and sorbet made from mountain snows. There was even a strange man who came, swathed in robes and headgear so full that none could see his face. It was said that Saladin, concerned for Richard...yes, actually concerned...had sent his own healer. The man made a potion for Richard to drink, and though his attendants were fearful it might be poison, Richard drank it. Within hours his fever began to break and the man simply disappeared. The rumor among the army was that it had been Saladin himself. No one will ever know the truth of the matter."

"How wonderful if we could know."

"So much of history is lost, Julie, even in the best-recorded times, so much of it is lost. But Richard was no myth. He was as splendid in the reality of himself as he is in all the books and stories. Possibly more."