Releasing Henry

by Sarah Hegger

  “I can assure you it was not by choice.” Bahir leaned beside them against the railing. “Go and enjoy your whores, young Newt.”

  Newt stepped closer to Bahir and lowered his voice. “You mean you have never…” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “I have never.” Bahir waggled his eyebrows. “But let me tell you a secret. The loss of balls does not entirely remove the desire, and there are many ways to pleasure a bored and lonely concubine.”

  “What?” Newt reared back. “You mean the non-roosters found a way to raid the henhouse?”

  “Indeed.” Bahir actually smiled.

  Henry knew he stared but couldn’t stop. When he smiled Bahir almost appeared human.

  “Bahir.” Newt clapped Bahir on the shoulder. “I shall mount an extra whore on your behalf.”

  “I am much obliged, Newt.”

  As Newt trotted down the gangplank Henry stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Bahir.

  “He amuses me,” Bahir said.

  “He has a certain charm.” Henry still found it hard to believe that he and Newt had drifted into a friendship. “He will also discover where Alya’s family are to be found.”

  “Ah.” Bahir nodded.

  Henry was not sure why he asked, but he wanted to know. “What will you do when she is safely amongst them?”

  “I will stay in Genoa for a while.” Bahir kept his gaze on the busy dock. “I vowed to make sure she is safe, and I will not leave before I am certain. And then…” Bahir shrugged. “I have been a slave since I was barely a man. For the first time in my life, I will go where it suits me to go.”

  After Bahir strolled away, it occurred to Henry that their conversation had been civil.

  * * * *

  Alya placed her hand upon Henry’s arm. Hewn muscle flexed beneath her fingers as he led her through the port. He and Bahir had come up with the idea that she may as well practice being amongst her father’s kind while they waited for Newt to return.

  Tired of being stuck belowdecks, she readily agreed.

  “Raise your chin,” Henry murmured.

  All very well for him to say. He did not walk with yards of fabric tangled in his feet. “I will fall if I do not watch my skirts.”

  “Then I will catch you.” Henry touched her hand. “You are a lady born and will be expected to carry yourself as such.”

  Behind them, Bahir lurked like a large moving pillar.

  Without her veil, she felt ridiculously exposed. Men looked at her, unabashed in showing their appreciation. Some even went so far as to smile and wink. A permanent flush heated her cheeks, but at the same time she enjoyed it.

  “Some girls are told to keep their eyes downcast,” Henry said. “It is believed to be modest, but my mother never held with that.”

  “What is she like, your mother?” Alya wanted to know more about Henry. He seemed to hold so many secrets.

  “Beautiful.” His voice warmed and he gazed at something only he could see. “Gracious and serene, but with a backbone of steel. My sister Faye is much like her.”

  “Faye.” Alya tried the strange name out.

  Two young girls, dressed much as she was, walked toward them. One of them looked at Henry and whispered to her friend. They both blushed and giggled, peeking at him from beneath lowered lashes.

  Alya wanted to bang their heads together. Henry escorted her and not them.

  Henry did not appear to notice, but looked about them constantly, alert for any danger.

  Henry and Bahir had talked about the danger before undertaking this outing. They spoke with the crew to establish if there had been any whispers to suggest the men from Alexandria had followed. Thus far nothing. Their ship was one in amongst many others moored in the port.

  Tall stone buildings rose on either side of the narrow streets, almost blocking out the clear, blue sky. The heat in Genoa lay over her in a humid blanket. It felt thicker than the dry desert air of Cairo. The smells, too, reminded her how far from home she had traveled. Genoa smelled of horse, leather, and human waste. Occasionally the delicate floral scents from the brightly colored window boxes would provide a reprieve, but otherwise the city stank.

  Like tangled thread, the streets wound up from the port and into the hills beyond. Up there, grand stone edifices peered down their noses at the braying, brawling city below them.

  The greenery amazed her. Growing over walls, trailing down from window boxes, choking up small gardens and squares. The tall, spindle-like trees Henry called cypress trees abounded, wafting their woodsy-herbal scent throughout the city as Henry led her up toward the elegant villas.

  The streets grew quieter the higher they went. The flood of people slowed to a trickle of elegantly dressed men and women strolling in clusters of two or three. Liveried, another new word, servants bowed their heads in passing and carried on about their business. Henry told her they wore the colors of their masters.

  In his new tunic, Henry looked very fine this morning. Fine, but different and as much as she admired his broad shoulders and trim waist, his new clothes marked him as separate from her. Not the man who used to stare up at her in the courtyard at twilight. She did not think he knew she had seen him there in the shadows, always watching her with stark hunger on his face. A sharp pang shot through her middle. She missed that man and their secret connection. Now he spoke a different tongue, dressed as another, and even carried himself like another man.

  “In your tongue, how would I greet you?”

  He smiled at her, his golden hair framing his head. “You would say, ‘good morrow’ if it was morning. Or you could say ‘good day.’ If we were particular friends, you could say ‘hello.’”

  Her breath caught when he smiled at her. Like a stray beam of sunlight wandered into her day. “Are we particular friends?”

  He laughed. “Hello, Lady Alya.”

  Shyness beset her but she tried anyway. “Hello, Henry.”

  “Perfect.” He tightened his grip about her fingers. Bahir did not like that Henry touched her to lead her through the city, but this was how they did it here. Even Bahir must see she was not the only lady walking about with her hand resting atop her escort’s.

  She looked over her shoulder at Bahir. “Hello, Bahir.”

  Bahir tried to frown, but ended up grinning instead. “Hello, Alya.”

  “Lady Alya,” Henry said. “Only her family or her husband may address her simply as Alya.”

  Bahir tensed and glared at Henry.

  Henry sneered back.

  These two would come to blows any moment and today they irked her. She did not want their constant enmity to ruin her day. “Bahir is my family,” she said. “So, he may call me Alya. He is all that I have.”

  Clearing his throat, Bahir stared above her head. “We should walk.”

  “How do you say that in English?” She turned back to Henry.

  English turned out to be a funny language, full of new sounds and ways to contort her mouth. For the first time since leaving Cairo, Alya felt light and happy. The weight of her father and her journey lifted long enough for the girl she used to be to come out and play.

  Bells pealed the hour as noon, and the heat drove them back to their boat. Voices rising and falling in prayer, a solemn procession of monks crossed their path. Alya stood beside Henry and waited for the men to pass. Sunlight bounced off the gleaming pates of their tonsures, the heavy incense lingered in their path. She had followed her father’s faith since birth, and this was the first time Alya had heard the mass sung. She wanted to follow the monks to the tall, forbidding church at the end of the square, but Bahir shifted beside her. Soon she would not have to conceal her faith from those about her.

  The activity on the docks receded as the devout went to prayer. Their ship bobbed at anchor in its place amongst all the other tall masts.

  Newt lounged on the deck looking rumpled and smug. As they climbed aboard he rose. “Did you have a good walk?”

/>   “We did.” Alya answered before Henry or Bahir. Her head buzzed with all the things she had seen. Later, when the heat of the day drove her to rest, she would unpack all the sights in her head and examine them.

  Henry approached Newt, his shoulders tense. “Did you find what we were looking for?”

  “Aye.” Newt straightened his tunic. “Alya’s family has a villa in the city. They are at home.”

  Chapter 9

  Today Henry would lose his girl on the wall. Belowdecks, Bahir took her morning bathing water and saw her dressed as he and Newt waited to escort her. The dull blade in his chest twisted again, widening the aching cavern. In his years in Cairo, she had stood as his beacon of hope. A beautiful star in his dark firmament. Those twilight moments a bittersweet reminder that he yet lived.

  He would return her to her family and safety so that after today she would no longer stand alone in a hostile world. The rightness of it did not alleviate his ache over her loss.

  Newt strode toward him, a bundle and dark cloth tucked beneath his arm. He surveyed Henry from boot to crown, and nodded. “You look more like the Sir Henry who used to box my ears.”

  “They were an easy target.” Henry hid beneath carefree grin. When Newt came to him as a lad on the cusp of manhood, those ears had stood out and begged to be cuffed.

  Newt chuckled and held his parcel out to Henry. “I found this the day you were taken. It got trampled beneath hooves, but I had it repaired. It is time for you to don it again.”

  Henry took the surcoat from him. It shook in his hands and he held it open before him. Dragon head proper upon argent. The colors of Sir Arthur of Anglesea. His colors. The ones he had worn so proudly on his chest as he rode to join the pilgrimage. Colors he had seen so stained with blood and corruption they made him feel sullied. He shoved them at Newt’s chest. “I will not wear this.”

  Newt squared off. “It is time, Sir Henry.” He labored the “sir” and pushed the surcoat back.

  How to explain that it would never be time to wear these? That man had died long before he’d been pulled from his horse in battle. The Henry who wore these colors had ridden out, despite his family’s vehement protests, so sure he understood the rights and wrongs of the world. Wrapped in more than a silk surcoat. Enshrouded in his sense of righteousness and holy fire. One by one his dreams of glory had drowned in a wave of vice and cruelty. The man he had become blazoned no colors, held no faith, and had no right to those things anymore. He shoved the surcoat into Newt’s chest. “Nay.”

  “Aye.” Newt pushed him back a step. “This is who you are. Son of Sir Arthur of Anglesea, knight of the realm, and the man who taught me how to hold my head up.”

  “Sir Henry?” Alya took his breath away in the red silk. Her sooty hair lay in a gleaming sable cascade down her back.

  Newt punched his shoulder. “A lady such as that deserves a knight by her side.”

  Henry donned the surcoat. It had grown snug across the chest and shoulders. Bloody thing near strangled him, and he tugged at the neckline.

  Alya touched the dragon’s head. “What is this you wear?”

  “They are my father’s colors.” Her fingers burned through the layers over his chest.

  Stepping back, she tilted her head and studied him. “You look very fine, Henry.”

  “Sir Henry.” Bahir came to stand behind her. “You must call him Sir Henry now.”

  “Sir Henry.” Her full mouth formed the words like a caress.

  “My lady.” He bowed over her hand. Stupid sod that he was, but the action came naturally to him. One he had performed many times in his past.

  * * * *

  Dwarfed by the honey-hued stone wall, Alya stood in the shadow and felt no bigger than an ant. Massive arched wooden doors guarded the manor house. At the apex of the arch a large, ornate coat of arms stared down at all those who dared seek entry.

  Henry pounded on the door. He stood back, hand over his sword pommel and his shoulders straight and proud.

  She wished she could wipe her sweaty hands on her skirts, but she would stain the silk, so she wound them in the stifling drape of her cloak.

  A small door opened within the large door and a swarthy face appeared.

  “We seek Ugo D’Onofrio.” Henry spoke in French.

  The face peered at them, eyes narrowed. “Who seeks him?”

  Henry’s shoulders rose on a deep breath. “Sir Henry of Anglesea, and Ugo’s niece, the Lady Alya.”

  “That should light a fire under his ass.” Sweating in his mail and surcoat, Newt stood behind her. Beyond Newt, Bahir carried a chest filled with gifts her father had sent to ease her welcome. Gifts? More like bribes to accept the interloper.

  The little door slammed shut and running footsteps grew fainter on the far side of the wood.

  With a reassuring smile, Henry turned to her. “You look beautiful.”

  “They will be proud to welcome you,” Bahir said.

  He insisted he remain a few steps behind her. It was better that he appeared her servant, he had said. Henry had agreed with him, but had taken no pleasure in his agreement. Perhaps one day they might—what was she thinking? After today they would all part ways.

  A grinding noise sounded from the door, and then it swung open on a loud, pained creak.

  Sir Henry offered her his arm.

  Alya’s fingers shook as she placed her fingers on his wrist. She drew comfort and courage from the power of the arm she held.

  “Chin up,” he murmured. “You are a lady born.”

  Raising her chin, Alya stepped through the doors.

  The gate boomed shut behind them.

  They walked through a short, dark passage that smelled of mildew before it opened into a courtyard beyond.

  Arched balconies stared down on them from all sides as Henry led her across a bright courtyard full of lush greenery. A fountain gurgled and splashed in the middle, sunlight catching on the water.

  Their footsteps sounded loud against the flags.

  A serving man waited in a doorway at the far end of the courtyard. He peered down his nose at her, and motioned them to follow.

  The cool of the manor provided a blessed reprieve from the hot day without. Large tapestries awash with vivid color hung from the walls. Beneath her slippers, mosaics created bright splashes of color against the stone floor.

  The servant motioned them through yet another set of doors. How many could they need? A man sat at the far end on a carved wooden chair. As they approached, he rose.

  Stamped across the hawkish bones of his face, the resemblance to her father was unmistakable. This man stood taller than her father, and slimmer beneath his scarlet tunic.

  “Sir Henry.” The man spoke in a melodious voice. “I welcome you.”

  Henry bowed with his fist to his chest. He moved his arm in a smooth arc to indicate her. “I present to you the Lady Alya, daughter of your brother Pietro D’Onofrio, formerly of Cairo.”

  The man stiffened. A hard stare raked her from top to toes. “Is this her?”

  “Indeed.” Henry’s tone grew cold. “The Lady Alya speaks French.”

  Alya curtsied as Henry had taught her. She rose again, relieved not to have caught her foot in her hem. “Good day, Uncle.”

  The man flinched. “You do not look like Pietro.”

  “Nay.” She forced a smile to her frozen face. “I believe I look most like my mother.”

  “An infidel?” Ugo sneered.

  His rudeness left her momentarily speechless. She glanced at Bahir.

  He gave her a tiny nod.

  Alya took a bracing breath. “My mother was not of your faith.”

  “And you?” Ugo stepped nearer to her, his arms behind his back, a nasty sneer twisting his face.

  “I am of the one true faith,” she said. “My father insisted on it.”

  Ugo grunted. “I take it my brother is dead.”

  Said so abrupt
ly, the words stabbed at Alya. Her gaze found Henry and the comfort she sought. “That is what we believe.”

  Ugo walked around her in a slow circle.

  Alya forced herself to stand still beneath the scrutiny. Chin high, shoulders back, just as Henry had shown her.

  Bahir coughed and jerked his head at the chest in his arms.

  Her throat felt too tight to manage any words. Her heart beat unsteadily and robbed her breath.

  “We are not sure of your brother’s fate.” Henry stepped smoothly into the building silence. “We believe he met with a foul end after we fled Cairo.”

  Ugo stopped barely two feet in front of her and scowled. “He sent her to me?”

  “Aye.” Henry gestured Bahir. “Along with a large portion of his wealth. This is but a small sampling.”

  Bahir bowed low and laid the chest beside Ugo. He flipped open the catches and let the lid drop open.

  Ugo gasped.

  “We bring you gold.” Bahir dribbled the coins through his fingers. He brought forth a glass vial and unstopped it. Jasmine oil twined in the air. “Rare oils and spices from the east.”

  Staring at the chest, Ugo licked his lips. “There is more?”

  “On the boat that brought us here.” Bahir drew forth a drape of silk so fine, his hand could be seen through it. “My master wanted to be sure his child would place no burden on your household.”

  “My brother was a fool.” Ugo spun about and threw himself into his chair. “The family did not support his decision to leave Genoa.”

  Alya wanted to defend her father. He was a good man. One of the most respected and wealthiest in Cairo. She dug her nails into her palm to stop herself.

  Ugo clicked his fingers and four guards appeared. One of them strode forward and gathered the chest in his arms.

  Hand going to his pommel, Henry stiffened.

  “Do not be stupid, Sir Henry.” Ugo smirked. “I can call more guards in a moment.” He draped his leg over the arm of the chair and sneered at her. “My brother was twice the fool to think I would welcome you here. You are a dirty heathen. I would no more take you into my home than I would take a pig. Get out.”