The two men looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
“Do you comprehend the maiden’s words?” Velvet Cloak asked. He returned to his position, guitar or whatever it was in hand. He was still looking at me pointedly—I couldn’t determine whether his look was one of lust or suspicion. Probably both.
“I believe so,” Half-ponytail said. “She wishes to share our bread. In all likelihood, she is indeed a pilgrim.” He pulled his hoodie up.
“A pilgrim wench,” Velvet Cloak snorted, strumming on his musical instrument. “Her hair exposed like that of a whore …”
“Your Royal Highness!” Half-ponytail admonished.
“If so, methinks she is a fairy,” Velvet Cloak said, as if reconciling himself to the situation. Startled, I realized these two lunatics were speaking Old French.
“Your Royal Highness, you think that any beautiful woman who is not your wife is a fairy,” Half-ponytail said. Velvet Cloak chortled and shot me another look. Half-ponytail took out a large knife from a scabbard on his belt and sliced the bread. “If you please, my lady.”
I giggled and took a chunk of bread. It tasted extraordinary, like biting into congealed porridge.
“Begging your pardon, did she not materialize at our feet from the void? Are her eyes not green like the eyes of Lilith?” Velvet Cloak sang, strumming all the while to accompany his words.Twang, twang.
“Excuse my lack of manners, but who are you?” I asked. “French tourists?”
Half-ponytail passed a hand through his handsome beard and said, “I beg your pardon! What did you say? That we hail from France?”
I scrutinized him carefully. He was slender, with long, elegant fingers. His dark hair fell in bangs on the sides of his face. The hoodie he was wearing partially obscured him, but I saw his face was finely chiseled and swarthier than that of his friend, with inquisitive, amber-colored eyes.
“Allow us to introduce ourselves,” Half-ponytail said, throwing a glance at Velvet Cloak. “The noble lord to my right is Thibaut IV, Count of Champagne.” Velvet Cloak cleared his throat theatrically, and Half-ponytail quickly corrected himself with a smile, “I beg your pardon, Thibaut I, King of Navarre.” Thibaut nodded his head slowly as he listened, his chin rising slightly.
“Please meet the good knight Jean Foggia,” Thibaut addressed me but did not take his eyes off his companion. The good knight released a snort of laughter, and Thibaut added with emphasis, “That is to say, Jean d’Ibelin, Count of Arsur.” A look passed between the two men; I didn’t even try to decipher it. Then, they turned toward me expectantly.
I decided to go with the flow. “I’m Idit Rozhevsky-Halimi, Countess of Atlit,” I said with a flourish. The “king” put down his guitar and looked at me with interest. By his side was a long sheath bound with leather straps, which likely contained a sword. I could see only the tip of it, studded with precious jewels. Lying close to the “knight” was another sheath, out of which poked a more modest handle, but no less threatening in size; he reached for it with one hand. These guys were real pros.
“Édith?” asked Jean, if that was even his real name. “Countess of which district?”
“What?” I said. I couldn’t figure out whether they were high or simply didn’t get my accent.
“Excuse me?” Jean repeated.
The three of us burst out laughing. The dogs barked again, but not as wildly as before. Thibaut resumed strumming.
I polished off the chunk of bread. The crust was extremely hard and cut the palate of my mouth a little. Shyly, I offered the crust to the dogs. The brown one approached me cautiously, sniffed my hand and the crust of bread, and finally took it with utmost delicacy between her teeth.
“Gorgeous dog!” I exclaimed. I kept my hand outstretched, and after the dog had swallowed the crust of bread, she sniffed my hand and tilted her head toward me. She came closer and thrust her snout into my shoulder.
“Upon my life,” said Jean, “never have I seen that hound go from suspicion to friendliness so swiftly.”
I wondered how long it would take Halimi to get here and hoped he was still enjoying beautiful visuals with his eyes shut under the tree.
“Okay, can I have a go with your hookah now?” I asked, my eyes on the clay pot. Velvet Cloak, aka Thibaut of Champagne, seemed perplexed at my words, but Jean, who was much mellower, got my drift perfectly. I took out my water bottle.
“What is that?” Thibaut asked, still strumming.
“It’s a water bottle,” I said slowly.
I drank half the bottle and held it out to them. Jean handed me the clay bowl and began examining the bottle.
He tapped on the plastic with a fingernail, sniffed the nozzle, and cautiously swallowed some water. The black dog gave a loud yelp. I handed the cap to Jean, and he examined it thoroughly, placing the cap back on the bottle without screwing it in place. I took the bottle and screwed the cap on myself. Jean’s mouth hung open slightly.He’s wasted, I thought to myself, my brain humming like crazy from the mushrooms.
Jean clicked his tongue when he saw that the clay pot was no longer burning. He removed a strange, curved metal object, rubbed it againstwhat looked like a piece of stone, and then brought the whole thing to a bunch of dry weeds, which were kindled by the ensuing spark. A small flame spread through the dry weeds, and Jean took a piece of hash, warmed it in the flame, and dropped it in the pot, using a pair of small tongs. He took a hit and passed it over to me.
“You know your stuff, huh?” I remarked. “Is it some kind of professional cosplay?” Thibaut stopped strumming and frowned. While I took deep hits from the little hookah, he and Jean whispered together; I heard the wordSaracenseveral times.
