by Sarah Hegger
The beast pens dimmed, and English reached to steady himself on an upright. A name he had not heard spoken in many years and a voice that drove lance-like into the raw center of him.
“God’s balls, Henry, are you just going to stand there?”
His mother tongue came unbidden to his lips. “Newt?”
“Who else would it be?” A figure emerged from the shadows. “What other poor sod would think it a fine idea to hide out with these disgusting beasts.”
“Newt?” Dear God, he might unman himself and faint. English dug his fingers into the wooden upright and tried to right the tilting world about him.
“They spit.” Newt scrubbed globs of partial digested cud from his tunic. Three years had changed much about the lad. Taller, broader, his face grown finely hewn. His hair hung longer, possibly concealing those ears that stuck out from his head like jug handles.
“Newt.” English drank in all the details, small and large about the man standing before him. A man he had once called friend, loved as he loved his blood brothers. A strange urge rose within English. Laughter! It came from his throat rusty and disused and he hung on tighter to his support.
“Henry.” Newt beamed at him. He held out his arms and then thrust them back. “It took me long enough to find you.”
“Newt.” It could not be possible to have Newt standing before him. This was a memory from another time come to taunt him, come to break him. English stepped away.
“Aye, that is my name.” Sharp gaze sweeping English from head to toe, Newt frowned. “Are you addled?
How many times in the past had Newt asked him that? Worn that same expression, a small part quizzical for the most part scornful. “It is you.”
“Aye, Henry, it is me.” Newt glanced about them. “Can we find somewhere less open to speak? That big ebony whoreson has eyes in the back on his head.”
“Bahir.” Still not sure his eyes did not deceive him, he led Newt behind the beast pens into his secret place. The same place he used to watch his girl on the wall. Not for much longer.
Newt crowded into the shadows beside him. Now at least as tall as he, their shoulders brushed and fought for space.
The enormity of it hit Henry and he hauled Newt into a rough embrace.
Newt stiffened. It was not his way, but then relaxed into his hold. Fastening an arm around his back, Newt pounded his shoulder blades. “Sweet Jesu, it is good to see you, Harry.”
Henry scrunched his eyes closed. He would not disgrace himself with tears, but they built anyway and he held on to Newt as much to hide his disgrace as to assure himself he had not imagined the man.
After a while Newt disengaged. He stepped back, cleared his throat and straightened his filthy tunic. “I have come to take you home.”
“Home?” He did not even know what home meant. After he heard the news that Frederick’s army had withdrawn, leaving him here, cut off from his home, he had forced that word away. “You have come to take me home?”
“By the rood, Henry. You are addled for certain.” Newt shook his head. “Why else would I be here?”
“I know not.” He might go home. Swift on the heels of the hope came the fear, washing away the hope. He had learned not to hope. Hope brought with it only the pain of being dashed and trampled beneath uncaring feet. “I will never go home.”
Newt gaped at him. “Aye, you will.”
“Nay.”
“Aye.” Newt’s face grew taut. He stepped forward. “You will go home because I am here to fetch you.”
“I cannot.” He could not risk it. This long he had survived on the ruthless annihilation of hope.
“Aye, you will.” Newt shoved him. Hard enough to send him crashing into the wall. “You will go home because I promised Roger I would find you and bring you home.” Another shove sent him back against the wall. “You will go home because Sweet Bea will still be crying for you or I do not know your sister. And you will go home, or I will die getting you there, because we both know I failed you.”
English pressed his bruised back to the wall. He would like to explain but he had not the words. In this land, he had lost himself. In this place of a new god, strange food and customs he had learned at the end of the whip, Henry had become English. He had no more god, no more hope. He was nothing more than a slave. So, he shrugged and said again, “I cannot.”
“By God’s aching blisters, you will go home, Harry.” Newt hawked and spat. “You cower against the wall if you wish, but Newt has a plan. And if Newt must drag your ass all the way across that perishing desert to do it. You. Will. Go. Home.”
Chapter 3
Henry followed Bahir into the main hall, the one they kept for formal occasions. He couldn’t say he was overly surprised to see Newt there. Polished up and clean, Newt looked older than his years as he faced the master.
“Is this the man?” The master gestured to Henry.
“Aye, that’s him.” Neither did it surprise him that Newt had learned to speak Arabic. The boy had an uncanny knack for languages.
“Come closer.” The master turned his gaze on Henry.
Bahir shoved him forward. “Move, English.”
Henry. He was a man and his name was Henry. Just once, Henry would like to match the sod with steel and pay Bahir back in kind. Keeping any emotion from his face, he bowed his head before the master.
“This man…er…Newt is here to purchase your freedom.” Master hefted a clinking bag in his palm. “He tells me you are of noble blood.”
So softly only Henry heard it, Bahir snorted.
“I am.” Henry straightened his shoulders. Yester eve Newt had ripped open the wound and now the memories refused to be suppressed. Henry rose up from within English and demanded his rightful place.
“He offers quite a tidy sum for your freedom.”
“Which according to the holy Qur’an, you are obliged to accept.” Newt oozed affability. “For by freeing the slave, you become a companion of the Right.”
The master’s eye flashed. “Do you presume to quote the holy law to me?”
“Nay.” Newt bowed. “Forgive my eagerness, but Sir Henry has a family who long for him. I am under a sacred blood vow to return him to them.”
The master rested his chin on his palm. “Tell me of this family, this Anglesea.”
“Sir Arthur, Sir Henry’s father, is the greatest knight in all the kingdom. Nay.” Newt struck a pose, chin angled up, one leg before the other. “The greatest warrior in the Christian world.”
Spreading it a trifle thick there and Henry threw him a sardonic glance.
As if he drew his words from the sky, Newt raised his hand. “He has amassed for his family great wealth. He holds the ear of King Henry.”
Henry stifled a snort. Held the king’s ear, his ass. A king hadn’t set foot in Anglesea Castle since Father had joined the Army of God against King John. Had matters changed? Undoubtedly. When he left, Father had been whoring William out to the highest bidder. William could be married by now, perhaps even with a babe or two. The weight of his longing hit him broadside, and it was all he could do to stay standing. Damn Newt for opening the hidden chest within him, because now all the faces flooded out. William, Roger, Faye, Bea, Mathew, even bloody Garrett. His father, and his beautiful mother. Nurse. So close he could almost believe he would see them again they hovered before him.
The master rubbed his mouth. “Yet, all this time he said nothing?”
Bahir poked him in the back. He half turned to punch the piss out of the bastard before he collected himself.
Eyes glittering a challenge, Bahir smirked.
“The army had retreated.” Henry found his voice. “I was felled in battle, an old couple found me and nursed me back to health. I hit my head and it took me a while to recollect who I was. They kept me to work off my debt to them, and then sold me when they needed the money. By the time I reached the market in Cairo, my people were gone.”
The master nodde
d, a look in his eyes that told Henry he understood something of being alone in a land not your own. He straightened and turned to Newt. “Your visit is rather timely, as I have a delicate problem of my own.”
“If it is within my power to help you.” Newt laid a hand over his heart. “Perhaps we can help each other to a mutually agreeable outcome.”
“Indeed.” The master’s lips quirked into a smile. He tossed the bag of gold back at Newt. “What I require of you is not money. I will take my payment in kind.”
Newt snatched the bag out of the air and tucked it away. “Indeed?”
“My daughter needs to travel back to Genoa, to my family.” Behind Henry, Bahir shifted. “I am sending Bahir along with her, but she is a stranger to my native land. She has been raised here.”
“Ah.” Newt nodded. “You fear for her safety.”
The master scowled. “What do you know of this?”
“I have ears.” Newt shrugged. “I keep them low to the ground.”
“I am sure you do.” Snorting, the master shifted in his seat. “Your Sir Henry could be of service to me. To my daughter. He could provide her an introduction to my family and more importantly, teach her much on the voyage to Genoa.”
The question escaped Henry before he it had truly formed in his mind. “Teach her what?”
“How to go about in Genoa. Customs.” The master shrugged. “Manners. All those things you were raised knowing.”
His girl on the wall placed within his grasp by her father. Henry’s pulse quickened.
“When you say voyage?” Newt cocked his head. “Are we to infer that travel arrangements have been made?”
“You are.” The Master rose. “My fastest ship awaits Bahir and my daughter in Alexandria. It would be a simple matter to have them sail you home once they are done.”
“Not to doubt your word.” Newt spread his hands wide. “But how are we to know you will not simply strand us in Genoa.”
Bahir grumbled.
The master’s face reddened. “I hand my daughter into your care. I have nothing more binding to offer as my bond.”
“I will protect her.” Henry stepped forward. The knight he had once been rose hot in his blood. “I vow this to you, or I will die trying.”
* * * *
Alya pressed her palms into her eyes to stem the flow of tears. It did no good because the more she tried to stop crying, the harder she cried. Her father decreed she would leave Cairo and journey to Genoa. Father assured her his brother would welcome her, love her as he did, but she did not know these people.
Since her mother’s death it had been only her and Father. Unlike other girls who were sheltered and separated from the larger world, Father treated her as a son. He taught her to read and write, he showed her mathematics and made sure she knew it well. He had Bahir teach her the stars and how to navigate by them. More than his daughter, she was his helpmate and his confidant. Now, in one staggering blow, he had made this decision without her. Made a decision about her future without consulting her and none of her cajoling, wheedling and begging made one ounce of difference.
All through her long, sleepless night she had waited for him to come to her, and tell her of his change of heart.
With the first touch of dawn, the camels stood ready in the courtyard. Bahir shouted orders to the hired guards who would travel with them. Her stomach churned as they loaded her litter on the largest camel.
She was leaving. Leaving Cairo. Leaving her father. Who would make sure the cook made Father’s favorite sweet treats, or prepared his mint tea for him after his meal? When he looked to speak of his life before he came here, who would wonder at his stories of strange customs and foods?
Camels brayed from the courtyard as the sky lightened. A lone cockerel announced dawn to the city. Beyond the walls, a sleepy peddler pushed his barrow of wares down the road.
Her life was here, and when she left, her heart would remain.
“It is time.” His face tired and drawn as if he too had spent a bad night, Father stood in her doorway.
She left the tears trickling down her cheeks. Maybe if he saw how he broke her heart, Father would relent. He never could bear her tears. “Please.”
“Alya. My heart.” Father held his arms out. “I would not do this if I did not think there was no other way. You cannot stay here. I cannot keep you safe.”
“But who will keep you safe?”
Sad eyes gouging her heart, Father dropped his arms. “I will be careful.”
“Why can I not stay and also be careful?” She refused the traveling robe Nasira held out to her.
Nasira sniffed and wiped her eyes. She had been crying most of the night with Alya.
Father dropped his head. He took a deep breath and looked up again, straightening his shoulders. “It is decided,” he said. “Bahir will travel with you. When you arrive in Genoa you can decide to send him home or keep him with you.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you will keep him with you. You will find no greater champion than Bahir.”
As Nasira tugged the traveling robe about her, Alya stood rigid. She refused to participate in this.
“I am also sending the English with you.”
The news shook her out of her black mood for a moment. “Why?”
“His people have come to buy his freedom. It seems he is an important lord in his country. He will teach you how to go on amongst our kind.”
“They are not my kind.”
“They are.” Father strode toward her. “You must work hard to become who you are. Listen to the English, mind what he tells you, and you will make it easier for yourself.”
“Imagine.” Nasira gave a choked titter. “An English lord sweeping our courtyard, minding our goats.” Nasira attempted to lighten the air, but Alya refused to be cajoled like a sulky child. Like a discarded fruit rind her father tossed her away.
Father took her by the shoulder. “Come. I would have you out of the city before the sun rises.”
This was happening. He was sending her away. Alya’s tears welled again. “Do not do this, Father. Please, I am begging you.”
“I must.” He turned and stalked for the door. “If you are not down in a few moments, I will send Bahir to fetch you. He will tie you to your camel if he must, but you will go to Genoa.”
* * * *
Henry ducked his head and hid his smile. The look on Newt’s face was beyond price.
Newt grimaced. “I am not riding that.”
“Then you walk.” Bahir checked the straps on the litter one by one.
Even if he did want to run the bastard through, Henry admired his thoroughness. It galled him they would share this journey. Even more so knowing they shared a mutual goal. They had both pledged their lives to protect his girl on the wall.
Alya. He whispered her name, trying it out on his tongue. It meant heaven, divinity and so she had become to him. The lofty deity he scrabbled beneath. Dear God, Roger would kick his ass for that one. His breath hitched. His oldest brother, Roger, whom he had thought never to see again.
“Why can I not ride a horse?” Newt followed Bahir around the camel. “You have horses here. Not terrible stock either.”
Drawing himself up, Bahir glowered at Newt. “We have the finest horses of anywhere. Bred light of foot, soft of mouth and faster than the wind.”
Snorting, Newt crossed his arms. “Aye, but how good are they at stamping a foot soldier into the ground. Or biting a sword arm off?”
“You English.” Bahir shuddered. “Savages.”
“Savages who don’t ride camels.” Newt smirked.
“Then you are destined to be a footsore thirsty savage.” Bahir smirked back.
Dear God, they would still be arguing when the sun set. “They are not that bad to ride,” Henry said. “They sway a bit, and smell, but they don’t need to stop for water nearly as often as we do.”
“Aye, but I—”
“Get
on the bedamned camel, Newt.”
Hidden by her hijab Alya stood in the doorway. Shoulders slumped, she dragged her feet to the litter.
Her nurse kept an arm about her shoulders. “All will be well, habibti. You will see. Your new family will love you just as we do.”
The master entered the courtyard, his expression an open wound as he stared at his daughter. They might never meet again. Henry understood some of his pain.
“Will you not say goodbye to your father, habibti?” They stood less than two feet away from him. Closer than Henry had ever been to the girl on the wall. Subtle notes of night-flowering jasmine twined around his senses.
“He sends me away.” Her niqab muffled her sniffles. “I have nothing to say to him.”
The slave wanted to bow to her pain, let her feel his silent support. However, Henry understood only too well what she risked by not making her parting sweet.
He slipped around the camel to stand beside her.
Bahir stiffened. “Get away from her.”
“Wish your father God be with him,” Henry said.
Her gaze flew to his face. Eyes like the dappled shade of the woodland, part green, parts golden stared at him.
He shook off Bahir’s grip on his shoulder. “You cannot know what the future holds, or if you might get this chance again. Tell him now that you love him. Carry that memory with you.”
Chapter 4
Newt’s face amused Henry endlessly. His kaffiyeh hid the smile that came more easily as the distance between them and Cairo widened.
“What manner of beast is this?” Newt pushed the kaffiyeh away from his mouth. Sitting stick straight in the saddle, his legs cinched the camel’s sides in a death grip. “And why can I not control it?”
“She follows the lead camel.” He pointed to Bahir’s back. “Sit back.” He tapped the backrest behind him. “See how Bahir hooks his legs up? Do the same, you will be more comfortable.”
“Is this English you speak?” Bahir turned his head to speak over his shoulder. “You are an interesting man, Henry.” The way the big sod said his name dragged it out ceaselessly into Hen-er-ree. “You speak your mother tongue, French and, apparently, Arabic.”