Bertrand followed his lead. The press of pilgrims eased as the road stretched toward Bethlehem, but they were still numerous enough to provide a sort of cover. Better yet, the road’s verge was not entirely deserted. Twice couriers overtook him, swift riders wearing the badge of the king. More than once he passed riders who had set a slower pace than his own, though still swifter than the trudge-and-pray of the pilgrims.
If Kutub recognized the one who followed him, he betrayed no sign of it, nor made any move to elude pursuit. Bertrand considered overtaking and capturing him; but if the man was indeed bearing messages from Helena to Richildis and back again, then he might be bound to refuse aid to Bertrand. Else why had he not come to Bertrand himself, and brought word from Helena?
Or perhaps, Bertrand thought blackly, the message had not been for Richildis. Maybe it had been for another man, some lord or knight who had captured Helena’s fancy. Or Richildis herself was using Helena’s man for some intrigue of her own. Or—
He was thinking like a fool. There was no escaping the fact that Helena was not in Jerusalem – Bertrand had gone to her house, had found it shut up, empty but for the porter, who would not tell him where the lady had gone. Kutub must be on his way to her, wherever she had gone. There were castles in plenty along this road, demesnes of this baron or that, towns and villages in which a man could entertain a woman away from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the city.
As the pursuit lengthened, he began to wonder if he had been mad to begin it. Food he had, provisions for a day, thanks to the diligence of his servants. There was even a bag of barley for Malik, and a waterskin that Bertrand filled at the pilgrims’ wells while Malik drank his fill. There were hostels, monasteries, caravanserais, all dedicated to the succor of pilgrims. He could go on, if he must, all the way to Elin on the Red Sea, though that would tax his resources to the utmost.
Then if it had been a trick, or if Kutub did not lead him to Helena – what then? No one knew where he was. He had said no word to anyone. The last that was known of him, he had ridden away like a man possessed, blind to everything but his sudden quarry.
If that was God’s will, then God willed it.
There was a dizzy freedom in it, a headlong recklessness that he had not known since he fled La Forêt with his father’s curses on his head. He had taken more with him then, had gathered his belongings, his warhorse and his palfrey and his armor and such of his inheritance as he reckoned was due him, even a scared yet eager servant who had died of fever after they took ship for Outremer.
That had been a greater anger, a wilder escape. This was temper purely, and outraged pride, and – God help him – love that had been wounded to the heart. His squire, wicked little pullani that he was, would find another knight if Bertrand failed to come back. That was Messire Gabriel’s great charm: like a cat, he always landed on his feet. As for Richildis…
Richildis could look after herself. Bertrand hardened heart and mind against her.
He was, perhaps, a little out of his head. He should be in Jerusalem being a Baron of the High Court, joining in the festivities for Easter, waiting about for Princess Melisende to produce the child that, she was convinced, was the prince-heir of the kingdom. Not riding out headlong after a courtesan’s infidel servant, in hope and fear that the man would lead him to her hiding place.
If she hid – if she cared as much as that.
The road wound away under Malik’s hoofs. The sun reached its summit and began to fall. Just before they came to Bethlehem, Kutub left the pilgrims’ road and turned toward the hills.
Bertrand’s heart thudded. The Turk had seen him – would elude him.
And if he had not been seen, how could he avoid it, now that there were no throngs of pilgrims to hide in?
A hunter knew the ways of that. Bertrand had intended a hunt today, though never so far from the city. There were not, unfortunately, any servants to tend his horse while he forayed on afoot, but neither did Kutub abandon his pony.
The way that he took, while twisting and patently deserted, seemed well enough traveled: it was wider than a foot-track, grooved with the wheels of carts. Bertrand, keeping out of sight if not of earshot, saw the prints of hoofs: small narrow donkey-hoofs, and the larger marks of a mule, and several that belonged to ponies or small horses. Turkish ponies, perhaps, like the one that Kutub rode.
Surely, thought Bertrand: surely Helena was somewhere near, if her Turks were hereabout. But where…?
He should not have let himself think. He should have kept his eyes on the track and his ears on the man ahead of him. Well after he should have noticed that the sound of hoofs had stopped, he came round a steep and narrow corner into a little bowl of a valley. On the other side of it, perched on a hilltop, stood a shape of walls and one low dome crowned with a cross – church or monastery, and no doubt of it.
And there in front of him on the path, with cliff-wall on one side and sheer drop on the other, bow strung and bent and arrow aimed straight between his eyes, stood Kutub. His pony had gone on down the track: Bertrand saw it with the clarity of one who looks death in the face, grazing amid a startling patch of green.
“Lord Frank,” Kutub said in the Frankish that he occasionally admitted to speaking. Bertrand bridled. That was an insult. He spoke Arabic better than Kutub spoke Frankish, and Kutub knew that very well.
Still, he thought. If the Turk was minded to talk, he might not be minded quite yet to shoot. In Frankish himself, Bertrand said, “Messire Turk.”
“You followed me,” Kutub said.
Since that was glaringly obvious, Bertrand forbore to respond.
Kutub looked him over without visible evidence of anger. “I am ashamed,” he said. “Bitterly, bitterly ashamed. We were a full league out of Jerusalem before I knew that I had a companion on the road.”
“Yet,” said Bertrand, “you led me onward.”
Kutub shrugged expressively. The arrow never wavered from its target. Bertrand knew how much effort it took to bend the Turkish horseman’s bow. He would not show it, but he was impressed. For so little and wiry a man, Kutub was remarkably strong. “I was undecided,” Kutub said, and now he spoke in Arabic. “I could lose you, I could lead you astray, I could kill you. Or I could pretend that I had never seen you. It is difficult, sometimes, to know what one must do and remain loyal.”
“So she is hiding something,” Bertrand said, but not in Arabic; let the other wonder if he understood the meaning of the shift.
A thought struck him, perfect in its horror. “That’s a convent yonder – my sister said – it’s not—” He paused to breathe. “She’s not ill. She hasn’t succumbed to—”
Kutub’s teeth flashed. They were as whitely sharp as a wolf’s, and as long in the fangs. “No, she’s not become a leper. From that at least, God has preserved her.”
“Thank God.” Bertrand crossed himself with heartfelt relief. “Then why is she hiding? She wouldn’t take the veil, not Helena. Take me to her!”
“She said,” said Kutub, “that you above all were not to be admitted into her presence.”
Bertrand flung up his head, heedless of the arrow that hovered so close. With all the arrogance of his birth and race and breeding, he commanded, “Take me to your mistress.”
The arrow hung unwavering a moment longer. Then it dropped. The bow unbent. Kutub slipped arrow back into quiver, unstrung and slung the bow, never taking his eyes from Bertrand’s face. Bertrand could not read the thoughts that flickered there.
Kutub held out both hands, startling him almost into drawing sword. “You should take me prisoner,” he said. “Bind me. Beat me a little. Overpower me.”
“She’ll never believe it,” Bertrand said at once, and no need to think about it, either.
“What, and I a little bowlegged bandit of a Turk, and you a great tall broad-shouldered knight?” Kutub laughed as his kind did, almost without sound: as a hunter would, or a tribesman on a raid. He crossed his wrists and held them under Ber
trand’s nose. “Where’s your arrogance, sir Frank? Take me captive. Make me lead you to my lady.”
By God, Bertrand thought. The Turk was on his side. Astonishing.
Unless of course it was a trap.
No Frank ever did himself any good gnawing and fretting at if-it-weres. Bertrand plucked a spare strap from his saddlebag and bound Kutub with it, not so tight as to endanger the flesh nor so loose as to threaten the deception. The Turk grinned at him over the bound hands, looking for once like his accustomed self: lighthearted and a bit wicked, with a fine eye for absurdity.
It was perfectly absurd to mount Malik and capture the grazing pony and herd it and its master along the track to what was, indeed, a convent of nuns. From the look of the place they were Greek rite and not Latin, but in this circumstance it mattered little. Bertrand in his mail and weapons and on his big half-Frankish horse was little enough to frighten the doughty woman who peered from the shutter in the gate, but his captive widened her eyes.
“I would speak,” said Bertrand in Greek, “with the Lady Helena.”
The nun did not try to deny that such a person resided here. Nor did she admit it, or him. “Wait here,” she said, and went away. He heard the slide and boom of a bar.
Kutub, who was a man of sense, sat on his haunches in the shade of Bertrand’s horse, rested bound hands on knees and to all appearances went to sleep. Bertrand would have liked to follow suit, but he had not the gift. He left horse and pony nibbling together at a bit of dry grass near the gate, and wore a circle in the dust, pacing and peering up at the blank unwelcoming walls. There was not even a banner hung from a turret, only the windowless stone and the dome of what must have been the chapel. The cross on the summit was dark and dull. If it had ever been gilded, wind and dust and sun had long since worn the gilding away.
How odd to feel gilded himself in sensible leather over mail, with his horse-trappings that were as plain as a knight could properly allow. They were all very fine for their plainness, handsome and nearly new. In such a place as this, that was luxury, and no doubt faintly sinful.
A house of holy women that admitted Helena and her outlandish servants might not be as troubled as some by worldly vanity.
While he consoled himself with such thoughts, the wait stretched long, and the shadows with them. He would have to spend the night in or near this place. In it, he hoped, if there was a guesthouse hidden away somewhere.
When at last the shutter opened again, Bertrand was caught by surprise. He had wandered down the path, kicking stones to make them fall in companies. He had to scramble ungracefully back to the gate, too well aware of the amusement in the round black eyes. “She will see you,” the nun said. The voice through the shutter betrayed no expression. “You cannot come in here. Go round the hill to the gate there. Someone will let you in.”
Bertrand’s heart leaped as it had when he saw Kutub in a court of the king’s palace. The same wildness possessed him, the same headlong impulse. He would have taken no thought for horses or captive, if Kutub had not thrust out a foot to trip him.
He fell hard and rolled. As he fetched up winded against a rock, Kutub’s booted foot came down lightly on his throat. A firm thrust could have crushed it; but he looked up without fear and in a great deal of temper.
Kutub grinned at him. “Shame,” he said, “to be so unwary. Come, sir Frank. Get up. Drag me cruelly to my lady and fling me at her feet.”
A bark of laughter escaped before Bertrand could stop it. He caught the boot that rested on his throat, thrust up and back. Kutub toppled. Bertrand surged up after him, grasped the end of the strap that bound his wrists, pulled him up and shoved him forward. It was by no means all feigned. He was no more delighted than any other man, to be made a fool of.
Fourteen
The track on which Bertrand had been set was narrower than the one that led to the gate, little more than a footpath against the wall. For a man leading a captive and two horses it was adventurous, particularly where the hill fell away and dropped sheer into the valley.
Fortunately horse and pony were surefooted and Kutub offered no further ambushes. They came unscathed to the postern gate, for so it must be: small, narrow, looking down on emptiness. It opened as Bertrand approached. Another nun stood in it, a little round dumpling of a woman in a faded black habit, veiled to the eyes. She said nothing, only held the gate as Bertrand led horses and prisoner in, then shut and barred it firmly and led him across what in France would have been called a cloister garth: a tiny garden tucked into a fold of wall, with trees trained flat against the stone like images of the crucified Christ.
There was indeed a cloister past that, a shaded colonnade, dim this late in the day and remarkably cool. Yet another small round nun relieved Bertrand of the horses there but left him his captive, with a glance that seemed to approve the infidel’s condition. Kutub showed her his teeth, and not amiably, either.
The colonnade opened on a court and what must be a guesthouse: a stone building set apart, built into the outer wall. Bertrand, observing it with an eye accustomed to measuring fields for battle, took note that it opened on another way, one that surely must lead to the greater gate. But that way was the dome of the chapel, and no doubt the good sisters of the convent, who must not be tainted by the sight of a man within their walls. The portresses and the nun who had taken charge of the horses must have a dispensation; must be required to confess each time they suffered the world to touch them.
However that might have been, he had seen no random passerby, nor did he think that he would. His guide led him to the guesthouse and through yet another small and unobtrusive door.
The house was small and very plain. The room into which he was led had no more furnishings than a bench and a table, no carpets or ornaments, nothing that would comfort the eye or the heart. There was an icon on the wall, some great-eyed dark-faced eastern saint. A curtain covered a doorway. There would be another room beyond, and perhaps a stair.
In that bare and comfortless place, Bertrand was left alone with Kutub. He could hear nothing but the stifling silence of the cloister. No bells for this was between the hours, no clear voices singing, not even the call of a bird. Wherever the Turks were, whatever had been done with their horses, no sound came as far as this room.
He opened his mouth to demand an explanation of Kutub, but, thinking better of it, forbore. Kutub squatted on the floor at Bertrand’s feet, in apparent comfort. The glances he shot Bertrand were full of wicked mirth.
The light died while Bertrand sat there. No one came to light the clay lamp that rested in a niche below the icon. While he could still see, he took out flint and steel from his purse and performed the office for himself. The lamp was filled with oil, faintly and sweetly scented. Its light traveled not much farther than the icon’s painted face; but it was better than sitting in the dark.
Before the last of the light was gone, the bell rang in the chapel. A little later Bertrand heard voices, the faint sweet chanting that he had been listening and straining for, all unaware, since he passed the outer gate. It sounded soft, almost too soft to hear, and unreachably remote.
He began to think that he had been left here to cool his heels till morning. No food, no water had been offered him. Nothing but this place to sit and wait and, no doubt, pray. But he had no prayer in him. What was he supposed to ask for? That Helena should not have taken the veil? The longer he waited, the more it seemed he was too late.
Still, said the reason that was left to him: would she have kept her Turks if she had vowed herself to God? The God who cherished these nuns would hardly be pleased to entertain a pack of infidels.
The chanting dimmed and faded and died. The bell rang again. With full dark the lamp seemed to gain power and presence. It illumined the room surprisingly well. Bertrand could see the icon’s face clearly, the lines of it limned in gold. Its eyes seemed to come alive, to fix on him in supernal disapproval.
He had, like a fool, left his saddlebags on hi
s saddle, with their stock of provisions. The purse at his belt held a few dried dates wrapped in a withered leaf. He offered half of them to Kutub. The Turk declined politely. Bertrand wrapped them frugally and laid them away again.
Patience stretched thin and snapped. Just as he rose to explore the rest of the house, to venture forth if need be and demand water, food, an explanation, he heard the sound of a door opening, and booted feet on the bare stone floor. The curtain swayed; a brown hand lifted it.
Another of Helena’s Turks stared down the length of Bertrand’s sword. His narrow black eyes were as fearless as Kutub’s. “Come,” he said as if a sharp steel point did not menace his windpipe.
Bertrand hauled Kutub roughly to his feet – to no visible response from Kutub’s countryman – and followed yet another damnably silent guide.
Perhaps this was not a guesthouse after all. Perhaps it was a place of detention for unwelcome visitors. It looked out on a stone-paved court and another house like it but larger, and with the light of life in it.
There were Helena’s Turks, the whole lot of them, regarding Kutub with lifted brows and glances that understood too well. They had settled well and comfortably into the lower portion of this second house, with all their gear scattered about, and carpets on the floor, and sleeping-mats spread and mostly occupied. Three of the six were playing at knucklebones under a hanging lamp. The one who was not either captive or guide, lounged indolently by the wall, propped up on a saddle, mending a bit of bridle.
Ayyub the guide led Bertrand through them. They greeted him in their fashion, bowing where they sat or lay, evincing no surprise, nor any dismay at Kutub’s captivity. A stair led out of their guardroom into a darker, dimmer space, rooms divided by walls and a passage and lit by another of the clay lamps. The rooms were empty, all but the one at the end, which was a little larger and rather brighter. A pair of lamps burned in it, casting a yellow light on a bed as narrow and no doubt as hard as a nun’s, a low stool on which sat a woman in a black habit, the inevitable icon.
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