A Memory of Love

by Bertrice Small

  What would happen if the infidels discovered she was a woman? She shuddered to even contemplate. Rhonwyn felt tears welling up behind her closed eyelids, and she struggled to force them back. If she allowed herself to give in to her fears, she could not think, and she had to think if she were to come up with a plan of escape. Sir Fulk was a good fighter, but he had no skill for tactics. Then to her surprise she actually dozed, but for how long she didn't know. Fulk was shaking her awake.

  "We are moving on, lady," he said softly.

  "It is night," she whispered back.

  "There is a moon, and it is cooler to travel at night," he replied. "One of them speaks the Norman tongue. Get on your horse before any of them gets too close to you."

  "We must escape," she said desperately.

  "How?" His tone was bleak.

  Rhonwyn mounted her horse, sitting despairingly as her wrists, still covered by her gauntlets, were lashed together to her saddle's pommel. She glanced over to Sir Fulk to find he had also been bound in the same manner. They rode on through the night, stopping only when the sun was high in the heavens. Again they were fed flat bread and a cup of water between them and told to sit beneath a rock overhang that sheltered them from the burning sun. Below them Rhonwyn could see the plain and the sea, but nowhere did she glimpse the city of Carthage or the crusaders' encampment.

  "What will happen to us?" Rhonwyn murmured low to Sir Fulk.

  "The one who speaks our tongue says knights are frequently ransomed, lady," he replied. "They are impressed with your fighting skills and say they are taking you to their leader in hopes he may convert you to Islam and to their side. They say you are too great a warrior, and none could pay the price of your ransom."

  "Jesu!" Rhonwyn swore softly. She didn't dare ask what would happen if, or when, they learned she was a woman.

  Sir Fulk knew what she was thinking, but there was nothing he could say that would be of comfort to her. If he had known this was going to happen, he would have killed her himself rather than let her end up in some infidel's harem, which was where she was certain to be taken. He had heard enough talk around the camp to know that fair-haired women were considered a great prize among the infidels. "We had best rest, lady," he said low. "We are sure to ride again once night falls and the moon rises."

  Rhonwyn nodded. If she could retain the secret of her identity, there was just the slightest chance she might be returned to where she belonged, and Sir Fulk, too. She glanced a moment at her companion. He was just twenty, a stocky man of medium height with sandy hair and warm brown eyes. His family lived across the Severn from Haven. Edward had known Sir Fulk his whole life. He had been very brave to follow after her, but perhaps it might have been better if he had returned to the camp to raise the alarm that she had been captured. Sir Fulk had followed his instincts and not his head, but then so, too, had she, Rhonwyn thought ruefully.

  They rode the nights through, resting in the daytime. The infidels gave her and Fulk water only once during their travel. At the end of their day she got more water, but even so she did not get enough to satisfy her thirst. Her thoughts were constantly of Edward. Was he all right? Would he ever forgive her this folly?

  At the completion of their fourth night of travel they came through a narrow pass with sheer rock-lined walls to a green and verdant valley. Before them was a blue lake, and at the far end of the lake lay a small and gleaming white city. The infidel who spoke their tongue was riding next to them.

  "Cinnebar," he said, and nothing more.

  They rode onward, conscious now of other paths all leading to a single wide paved road. They passed a heavily ladened camel caravan as they went. A farmer and his son drove a large herd of goats ahead of them. A smaller caravan came behind them, the sweet-smelling spices it carried perfuming the air. It was all so fascinating that for a brief time her fears left Rhonwyn, and she looked about her with interest. She would have quite a tale to tell Edward and the children they would have one day.

  The traffic into Cinnebar now waited patiently at the city's gates for the portals to be opened this morning. As the sun rose over the eastern hills a great creaking and groaning was heard as the ironbound double doors were slowly pulled open to admit the travelers and commerce that stood outside. Identities were carefully checked, but their armed and mounted party was quickly waved through. The city's streets were narrow and twisting. They appeared to be riding upward, and at last they came out into a wide square before a great marble palace. Again their identities were perused at the entry, and then they were motioned inside. They rode into a small courtyard. The ground beneath their horses' hooves were of perfectly matched squares of black and white marble. The captives were aided in dismounting, their bonds slashed free.

  The Norman-speaking infidel came to their side. "This is the palace of Rashid al Ahmet, the mighty caliph of Cinnebar, may Allah bless the names of his antecedents and his descendants in equal measure. Your fate is in his hands, but he will be eager to learn of the great Christian warrior, the slayer of his brother, who was considered the finest man-at-arms in all of Cinnebar. Come! Follow me!"

  Rhonwyn had blanched at the infidel's words, and Sir Fulk's mouth fell open in surprise. They looked at each other in desperation, and then followed their guide into the palace. Once inside, they were brought into a small, attractive chamber. Water was brought so they might wash the dust of the road from their face and their hands. Plates of newly baked flat bread, sliced fruits, and a hot clear beverage smelling of mint were carried in to them, and then they were left alone for the first time since their capture.

  "Do not eat," Sir Fulk advised her. "It could be poisoned."

  Rhonwyn picked up a curved slice of melon and began to chew it eagerly. "If it is, I will die a quicker death than the one I face for having slain the brother of this caliph. We might as well eat, Fulk. Besides, I don't believe the food is tainted. They have not kept us alive this long to poison us now." She picked up a piece of flat bread and began to chew it. It was warm from the ovens and delicious. The beverage, too, was excellent, sweet and aromatic. She had never had anything like it before.

  Her companion considered her words, and then began to eat as well. When they had finished, they washed their hands and face in the silver basin again, and then seated themselves to wait. The chamber was very quiet. Fulk considered how he was going to protect Rhonwyn. When it was discovered that she was a female, and she most certainly would be exposed very soon, he truly feared what was going to happen to her. And without a weapon he was utterly helpless to aid her. Had he a weapon, he should slay her so that she would not have to suffer the indignity of being ravaged by her captors. Perhaps, however, they would be so outraged at a woman having killed the caliph's brother, they would simply and quickly behead her. He prayed silently for such a merciful outcome.

  The door to their chamber opened without warning, and the Norman-speaking infidel was there. "Come," he said. "The caliph is giving his weekly morning audience."

  They arose and followed after him through the cool marble corridors of the palace. Two ebony-faced guards stood on either side of a pair of tall, wide bronze doors. They wore cloth-of-gold balloon pants, gold medallions shaped like hunting leopards hung from gold chains around their necks and onto their chests, and silver tipped spears carved from pure onyx were clasped in their hands. Without a word they swung open the doors, and the trio walked through into the caliph's audience chamber.

  The room was square. The pillars that rimmed it were of green and white marble decorated at the bottom and top with carved gold bands. The floors were white marble covered in thick blue carpets. Tall censers shaped like lilies burned aloes, and polished wood torches burned fragrant oil. At the far end of the room Rhonwyn saw a low carpeted dais upon which a man sat cross-legged. She could tell he was tall and slender with a long face and nose. He wore a short, well-barbered black beard about his mouth and chin. His beringed hands, which he seemed to use to punctuate his speech, were elegant
and slim. He was dressed in a simple white robe, and upon his head was a small turban.

  The room was filled with men. The caliph was obviously hearing grievances and mediating disputes of one kind or another. The captives remained at the rear of the audience chamber for some time and then finally were beckoned forward. The Norman-speaking infidel brought them to stand before the caliph's throne.

  "Kneel, dogs," he hissed at them, shoving at Fulk.

  "We kneel only to God and our king," Rhonwyn said defiantly.

  The Norman-speaking infidel merely glanced to the side, and at once there were guards forcing them to their knees before the caliph.

  Their captor began speaking, but almost at once the caliph help up his hand. "Speak in their Frankish tongue so they may understand what it is you say, Farouk, and defend themselves, if indeed they can."

  "Yes, my lord" came the reply.

  "Which one of them killed Prince Abdallah?" the caliph demanded.

  "That one," Farouk said, pointing to Rhonwyn, who knelt, her head bowed, as she strove to conceal her identity.

  The caliph arose quickly and descended the dais. He stood before the kneeling knights. Suddenly his nostrils twitched quite visibly. He looked hard at the two kneeling figures. He sniffed softly once, twice. Then with a swift motion he reached out and pulled Rhonwyn's mail coif from her head. Yanking her to her feet, he stared in surprise a moment before he burst out laughing, even as her long gilt hair tumbled from the top of her head and spilled down her back. "A woman!" He roared with laughter. "A woman has killed that arrogant braggart who was my half brother? This is the fiercest knight in all of Christendom, Farouk? You make a jest, do you not?" His admiring gaze took in her fair beauty.

  "My lord! Surely this is sorcery! It was a mounted and fierce knight who killed your brother and whom we took captive. I swear it to you, my lord caliph! I swear it!" Farouk's face was filled with fear.

  "Take your hands off me, infidel!" Rhonwyn snapped, pulling away from the caliph. "Your cowering dog does not lie. I killed your brother. He was a careless swordsman and deserved to die for being so reckless in the heat of battle."

  "Ah," the caliph breathed slowly, "you are right, woman. Abdallah was a feckless warrior. So much so that he could be killed by a mere female. Are you as ferocious in your lord's arms as you are on the battlefield? We shall see, you and I." He prowled about her, reaching out to take a handful of her hair in his fist, raising it to his nostrils. "This is what I smelled. Your hair is perfumed, woman. The fragrance suits you. I have never smelled anything like it before." Releasing his hold on her hair, he caught her face with his thumb and his forefinger, holding it in an iron grip. "You have skin the unsullied white of the moon, and your hair is like pure golden gilt. You are beautiful, but then you must know it. The emeralds you have for eyes are fiery with your anger, I can see. I shall call you Noor, which means light. I am Rashid al Ahmet, the caliph of Cinnebar, and you shall be the jewel of my harem, Noor." He turned from her and spoke to a tall, distinguished black man. "Take her to the women's quarters, Baba Haroun. See she is properly bathed and well rested. Then bring her to me at moonrise. Find someone within the harem to act as her translator until she can learn our language."

  "Wait, my lord," Rhonwyn said. "What is to happen to my companion?"

  "Is he your lover?" the caliph asked her.

  "Of course not!" she replied indignantly. "He is one of my husband's knights. His name is Sir Fulk Anthony."

  "Since he is not your lover I will be merciful and not kill him. I shall ransom him, or if I cannot, then I shall sell him into slavery," the caliph responded. He was disappointed she was not a virgin, but then he hadn't really expected someone as beautiful as Noor would be. Still, these Frankish women were usually backward in the arts of love. He would enjoy teaching her, and there would be no difficulty with virginal fears, only her Christian virtue, which he would eventually overcome.

  The tall black man, Baba Haroun, came to fetch her. "Fulk, go with God," she cried out to him.

  "And you also, my lady Rhonwyn!" he called as he was taken away in the opposite direction by two guards.

  Rhonwyn shook the man's hand off her arm and glared at him indignantly. "I will follow you," she said. "You do not have to drag me like some shivering creature."

  Baba Haroun stared at her angrily, but then the caliph spoke to him, and he chortled, nodding.

  "He does not speak your Frankish tongue, Noor. I have told him you are to be respected and treated gently," Rashid al Ahmet explained. "He is not used to women disobeying him." The caliph smiled, then turned away to conduct the next business on his daily calendar.

  She was dismissed, and so having no other choice, she turned and followed the tall man from the audience chamber. He led her across an open courtyard into another section of the palace. The guards at the entry stiffened to attention as they passed. Down a dimly lit and scented corridor she followed until finally they came through a gilded archway into a large room with a bubbling fountain. The room was filled with chattering women of all hues. Seeing Baba Haroun, they grew quickly silent. He smiled a superior smile at Rhonwyn as if to say, you see, I am a person of some importance.

  "Where is the woman Nilak?" he demanded loudly in Arabic.

  A small dignified female came from a corner where she had been seated. "Yes, my lord Haroun'? How may I serve you?"

  "Do you still have command of your Frankish tongue?" he demanded roughly of her.

  "I do," Nilak said politely.

  "Then this woman is now in your charge by order of our most worthy master, the caliph Rashid al Ahmet, may his name be blessed. She is to be bathed and well rested, for he desires her presence at moonrise. Tell her, and also inform her that bad behavior and disobedience will be punished by a beating on the soles of her feet until she cannot walk, but must crawl." He then shoved Rhonwyn toward Nilak.

  The older woman caught the girl and said quickly in Norman, "Do not retaliate, child. The caliph's chief eunuch is a man who holds grudges. If you shame him before the other women, he will never forgive you, and no one, not even the caliph, will be able to protect you from his vengeance."

  Rhonwyn swallowed down her anger and nodded at Nilak.

  "Good," Nilak said softly. "Now, come with me and we will talk. You will tell me who you are, and I will answer all the questions I see bubbling upon your lips." She took the younger woman by the hand and led her off into a quiet corner, speaking a few quick words to a passing slave girl as they went. "I have told her to bring us mint tea and gazelle-horn pastries," she explained to Rhonwyn. "Sit, child."

  "Who are you," Rhonwyn asked her, "and how do you know the tongue of the Normans?"

  "I am called Nilak. It means Lilacflower in the Arabic tongue. My history is a simple one. My father was a merchant in Provence. The Moors raided the town in which I lived, and I was captured and sold into slavery. I was twelve then. I have now seen forty-two springs. I was brought to Cinnebar with a princess who was given to this caliph's father as a gift. She died giving birth to a daughter, the caliph's hall sister. I raised the child until she was given in marriage. I am too old now to sell off, and so I am allowed to remain, being useful where I can be. Baba Haroun is glad to have me as a translator when girls speaking the Frankish tongue are brought here, as they occasionally are. Now tell me, child, who are you, and how came you here?"

  Rhonwyn explained her adventures to the open-mouthed woman.

  "You killed Prince Abdallah?" Nilak said, awed.

  "I did not know who he was," Rhonwyn replied. "He was just an enemy in battle." She shrugged, then asked, "Tell me about this Baba Haroun? Who is he?"

  "The chief eunuch of the caliph's harem, child," Nilak responded.

  "I don't know what a eunuch is, nor a harem," Rhonwyn said.

  "A harem is where the caliph's women-his wives, his concubines, his sisters, and other assorted female relations-live. No real man but the caliph is allowed in the women's quarters. A eunuch is
a male who has been castrated so he may not function as a real man would," Nilak explained. "Castration is usually done when young. All men within these quarters-the servants, the slaves, the guards-are eunuchs."

  "And this Baba Haroun is in charge of the caliph's harem?"

  "Yes, my child, he is," Nilak answered her. "Obey him, give him public respect and esteem, and you can make him your friend. If you are to succeed here, you will need his good will. Without it you are doomed to obscurity, and obscurity is a lonely place."

  "I do not intend to remain here," Rhonwyn said. "I shall escape and return to the coast where the crusaders are preparing to move on to Acre. My husband must be very worried and very angry by now."

  Nilak's face became sympathetic. It was frequently this way with captives. They always wanted to flee, and that, of course, was not possible. "You cannot escape, my child," she began patiently. "It is very unlikely that you will ever again see the world outside this place except when you are taken for your burial. Besides, would your husband now receive you back into his heart, his house, and his good graces after you have been captured by the infidels? You are so fortunate, my child. You might have been raped and killed, but instead you have been brought into paradise on earth, for that is what Cinnebar is. The caliph is a strong ruler and a good man. If you can win his favor, if you bear him a son, your fortune is made. What better fate is there for a woman in this world?"

  "But I have a husband," Rhonwyn repeated. For the first time in her life she was beginning to be frightened. Why had Fulk prevented her from escaping when they had the chance? All they had had to do was get back to the coastline and follow it to Carthage. She had seen the walls surrounding this palace. They were high and thick, and now she was trapped behind them. Forever, according to Nilak. It was a terrifying thought, and Rhonwyn began to shake with sudden fear.

  Seeing it, Nilak put her arms about the girl. "There, child, it is all right. You will not be harmed, I promise you. Here, drink this," she said, offering Rhonwyn a small cup of the steaming fragrant beverage she had earlier imbibed. "Mint tea is very good for the nerves." She held the cup to Rhonwyn's lips, coaxing her gently. Then she turned to the slave girl who had brought the tea. "Go to Baba Haroun and tell him the girl is succumbing to shock. I will need a sleeping draught immediately if she is to be prevented from hysterics. And ask him if they have named her yet." Nilak turned back to Rhonwyn, who was now even paler. "Try one of these little gazelle-horn pastries," she said, offering it. "They are made with honey, raisins, and chopped almonds. I love them!" She picked up another and began to eat it. "Ummm, delicious!"