“I fear I have already tainted my miserable soul by my contact with you. Let us tarry awhile before proceeding to further sins,” he finally said.
I sat down on the blanket Jean had spread out by the spring and helped myself to a couple of dates. The dress and the head covering forced my body, particularly my neck, into positions I was unfamiliar with, and now I really felt like the lady Jean took me for. Meanwhile, Jean leaned against the tree, his legs stretched out, one crossed over the other.
“So, where are we off to today?” I finally ventured.
“I know not why, but I long to bring you to my estate, Arsur. Would you care to visit there?”
“Arsur?” I asked, startled. “Is it close by? I thought it was the estate of your forefathers in France or somewhere.” Jean looked askance.
“And I thought, my good lady, that you were from these parts. Arsur is situated on the southern coast, only two or three hours away by boat, a pleasant cruise. It was my good mother’s estate, may she rest in peace.”
Finally, I understood. “Do you mean Arsuf?” I asked.
Jean’s eyebrows rose. “The Saracens and the Greek peasants call it by that name, yes.”
Jean, Lord of Arsuf. I visited the National Park of Apollonia once, the archeological site of Arsuf. We went there one Saturday with Halimi’s sister and her family, and I dawdled by a large arched window that overlooked the sea, where the Crusader ruins stood. A soft breeze whispered in my ears. I broke out in goose bumps.
“Is Arsuf your estate?” I gasped. “So, why don’t you live there? And why did you travel to Acre to see your wife?”
“I inherited the estate just four years ago, when my father passed away.” He was clearly amused by my avalanche of questions. “For years, the castle stood neglected. My mother left only a skeleton staff there after marrying my father and moving to Beirut. The town thrives, but the fortress is unfit to lodge lords, and it lacks the splendor and comfort that my wife is accustomed to.” He paused.
I smiled at him encouragingly, and he continued.
“She loves Acre, where she was raised, and feels at home among the bustle and commotion of the town.” I nodded. He became more animated. “I am strengthening the fortifications and repairing the castle at Arsur, in order that in the coming year, we will be able to live there as befits us, lord and lady of the castle. There have not been such goings-on at the castle since the Coeur de Lion took it back from the Saracens.”
“The Lionheart? Richard?” I asked and couldn’t help but remember the lion in the animated version ofRobin Hood.
“Is there another Lionheart?” Jean asked with a smile.
“Not that I know of,” I said as I popped another date into my mouth.
“The weather is clement, the wind is with us, and I must meet with my seneschal. Would you care to sail there with me, Lady Édith?”
“I think so, yes,” I said, turning over his words in my mind. Three hours’ sailing there, and three hours back, assuming the wind was with us, as Jean put it.
“What’s a seneschal?” I asked.
“My steward,” Jean explained. “He is responsible for the upkeep of my estate. He represents me and takes care of all financial and legal issues in my absence.” He gathered some herbs and twigs and took out his curved flint and metal contraption.
“Wait,” I said triumphantly. “Let me show you what a modern-day fire striker looks like.” I rummaged around in my bag and took out a lighter. To my chagrin, there was a cartoon of naked boobs embossed on the side of the lighter, alongside a lewd caption. I hoped Jean wouldn’t notice.
“What day is this you mention?” Jean asked.
“Never mind,” I said, waving the lighter in front of him. I slowly moved the lighter toward the pile of herbs, to increase the drama. The herbs caught fire as soon as I rolled the metal spark wheel down, igniting the flame. I turned back around, smiling, and saw Jean bending down beside me, his face pale. His eyes were wide, and he looked as if he were about to faint. Brunette scampered around him, yelping.
“May the Lord have mercy upon me,” Jean mumbled, making the sign of the cross. I felt somehow abashed and closed my fist over the lighter.
“Give it to me this instant,” Jean commanded, his teeth clenched together.
“Good God,” I mumbled to myself in Hebrew as I handed over the lighter.
Jean raised his eyes swiftly.
“In what strange tongue do you sometimes speak to yourself?” he asked, staring at me with cold suspicion.
“Hebrew,” I whispered, swallowing.
“The tongue in which the Jews pray?” he asked, his head moving faintly from side to side in disbelief.
