by Jean, Rima
“I need permission to move forward with my plan,” she said quickly, shrugging from her mantle.
“Now?” John frowned. “It has not yet been three months.”
“A knight—one of Gerard de Molay’s, who has since become a Templar—may have recognized me from Montferrand, from Rafaniya,” she said. She hoped he wouldn’t ask her details.
He didn’t. Rather, he nodded and said, “I shall send word to Masyaf. Were you any other Faithful One, I would tell you to go to Solomon’s Temple tonight and end Guy de Molay’s life. But”—he stroked his beard thoughtfully—“Sinan wants you back alive, that much he has made clear. We will have to wait for word from the Headquarters.”
Zayn shook her head. “There is no time for that. I have a plan that should work.” She told him of the Desert Rose. “Guy visits Lubna twice a week, on the same days each time.”
He sucked in his breath slowly. “You have studied him. Good. Then let us prepare you.” He clapped his hands and half turned. “Layla! Suraya!” Two young maids hurried down the hall toward him. He told them, “Take my niece Sara to the baths and dress her.”
Escorted by one of John’s manservants, the maids led Zayn to the bathhouse near the Gate of Jehosaphat. The bathhouse was surrounded by churches and barrel-vaulted shops, all closed at night. In the women’s quarters of the bathhouse, there were few visitors. Zayn promptly stripped and allowed the maids to scrub her raw in hot water, wax her body of hair, and anoint her with various oils and perfumes. She heard the girls whisper about her battle scars and lean muscles, but was not, to her surprise, greatly bothered by it. A survivor, her body said. I am a survivor, and I’ll survive yet. So she let them slide looks at each other as they dressed her in rich red silk, gossamer veils, and golden baubles. Beneath the gaudy clothes, she was toughened, strong. Let it be her little secret.
When the maids began painting Zayn’s face, their gossip became sighs of delight—they were enjoying themselves, making her face up with heavy hands. By the time they were done, she felt as though she were wearing a mask. And indeed she was: the woman in her reflection was a wanton stranger with large, lined eyes, sculpted brows, and thick carmine lips. No one could recognize her, not even Marguerite.
Hiding her appearance in a dark, hooded cloak, Zayn bid the girls good night and headed for the Desert Rose. Inside, the lamps were few, and she blinked to adjust her eyes to the dimness. The air was thick with various perfumes, so cloying as to be nauseating. The same woman from before greeted her with utter indifference. “May I help you?”
Zayn let the hood fall from her head. “I am Jasmine. You were told to expect me.”
The woman nodded, her eyes widening a bit. “Follow me.”
On the second floor, Zayn was met by three women, all painted and perfumed, wearing fine silks, their hair unbound and hanging around their shoulders. They were tawdry, like flowers that had been left in a vase too long, now wilting and smelling of sweet decay. They eyeballed Zayn from head to toe.
The woman who had led Zayn up the stairs said, “Tonight, Jasmine is to have Guy.”
Every time the front door opened, causing the chiffon to rustle and the candles to wave and flicker in the gust of air, Zayn shuddered. She sat with the women in a den above the stairs, trying to lounge casually on cushions and rugs. She tried not to stare, mouth agape, as the prostitutes shared advice with one another on methods to prevent pregnancy, as well as the herbs that rid one of a pregnancy early on. They drank strong Turkish kaffé and nibbled on honey-drizzled pistachio dainties in between clients, their manners casual and flippant.
Then the wan woman who’d greeted Zayn at the door appeared at the top of the stairs and gestured. “Jasmine, he is here.” Zayn stood and followed her back down the stairs, her breath uneven. The Isma’ili knife, poisoned at its tip, was hidden in her sleeve. Another, just in case, was strapped to her calf. He will not have a chance to touch me. Not a chance.
Two men stood at the entrance, cloaked and dressed as simple pilgrims. One was Guy, the other was a redheaded man Zayn recognized instantly, like a blow to the face: You’ll not be able to manage that hellcat alone, Guy, he’d said that night, laughing. Zayn’s face remained composed even as her blood was boiling. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said smoothly.
Guy looked at her, scanned her face and body. “Where is Lubna?” he asked.
“I am offering myself in her place,” Zayn said, the sound of her voice, silky and low, catching her by surprise. “If it pleases you.”
He stepped toward her, his dark eyes glinting. “And do you provide the same forms of pleasure as Lubna?”
Zayn’s face remained placid despite the bile that rose in her throat. Lubna had revealed that Guy enjoyed a struggle in the bedroom. This did not surprise Zayn, as much as it disgusted her. “Of course, messire.”
Guy licked his lips. “Then it pleases me. Very much.”
“Follow me,” Zayn said, turning from him. Her emotions at that moment were unexpected—rather than fear and loathing, she felt a dispassion, a cold determination, as though quicksilver flowed through her veins. I am finally here. I will kill Guy de Molay. She led him to the room she’d been lent for the night and pulled aside the crimson curtain. She’d practiced the steps she would take in her head ever since she’d agreed to play the part of a prostitute; now, she unpinned her hair and let it cascade down her back, releasing the scent of jasmine around her. She twirled toward Guy and smiled. He reached for her, licking his lips. She evaded him with a giggle and sank down into the plush pillows piled in a corner of the room.
Guy watched her hungrily. He shed his cloak, leaving it crumpled on the floor where he stood. “God’s teeth, where have you been hiding?” he muttered as he pulled his tunic over his head. “You must be new here at the Desert Rose.”
She did not reply but simply continued to smile, pulling her hair over her shoulder and stroking it with her fingertips. A knot of anxiety formed in her gut as she watched him tug at the strings of his hose, his torso white in contrast with his arms and face, his muscled chest covered in thick black curls. She flexed her arms and legs, reassured by the hard steel that pressed against the strain of her muscles. Her body pulsed with a power that rolled like stormy waves within her. Not much longer now. It had been more than a year since that fateful night in Rafaniya, and now she felt as though she had that moment back, the moment Guy threw her in the hay, intent on taking advantage of her shattered spirit. This time, it would end differently. Zayn’s smile widened as she watched Guy struggle with his hose, baring his teeth back at her. No, this time would be very different…
“Guy,” a gruff voice said, making Zayn jump. It came from behind the flimsy curtain that hung in the doorway. The man may as well have been in the room with them.
“Piss off, Gilbert,” Guy snarled, just freeing himself from his breeches, standing before her stark naked. “It’s a bad time.”
“It’s an emergency,” Gilbert insisted. “Get dressed. Walter has fallen ill, and Brother Jacques commands you take his place at the Double Gate tonight.”
Guy swore violently, his face flushed. “Damn Brother Jacques to hell!” He swept up his clothes from the floor and began struggling back into them. He cast a wretched look in Zayn’s direction. “We will have to finish this another time, love.”
Zayn stood, torn between relief and panic. Another time? But there was no other time. It must happen now. He saw how she wrung her hands, and he smiled arrogantly. Before rushing from the room half-dressed, he stroked her cheek with his forefinger. “Don’t look so sad, my sweet. I will be back for you.”
She considered stabbing him right then, when Gilbert swept aside the curtain and gestured to him. “Get out of here, Guy, before he starts looking for you in the right places.”
Guy rushed out and down the stairs. Zayn moved to follow but was stopped by the tan, freckled arm of the redheaded knight, Gilbert. He looked down at her, smiling from within his thick beard. “Now, now
, no need to worry, little one,” he rumbled, his breath smelling of onion and beer. “You’ll make ends meet tonight.” He fished a gold coin from a leather purse hanging on his belt and held it out to her.
“Don’t you need to go somewhere, messire?” she stammered.
He pulled her back through the curtain, flashing his yellowed teeth. “No, not I. I’m no Templar. Are you shy with me? Don’t be. I’m very approachable.” He opened his mouth and leaned in to her, presumably to kiss her, but she ducked.
Wrenching her arm from his grip, she took the coin and said coolly, “Then we shall do things my way, messire.” She gestured at the pillows. “Undress and make yourself comfortable.”
He grinned. “Very well then, you little minx.” He pulled off his tunic and raised an eyebrow at her. “I intend to get my money’s worth.”
Laughter bubbled in her throat. “Oh, sir, you will.” She moved toward him, swaying her hips, feeling more comfortable playing the seductress now. She ran her fingers through the red curls on his chest quickly and stepped away before he could catch her, dancing on her tiptoes. “Your name is Gilbert?” she asked lightly, pretending it didn’t matter.
He was drunk; he did not seem to think that keeping his identity from a prostitute was necessary. He seemed to think it was more important to showcase his prowess, since he answered, “Indeed! I am Gilbert de Bacheur, knight of the Cross, and you will remember me forever once I am done with you, my sweet.”
She smiled broadly, mirthfully, clasping her hands and sighing. “No, sir, I will probably never forget that name.” Rest assured, Gilbert de Bacheur, I will never forget the name of the knight who helped kill my mother, who laughed while she burned alive.
He flopped into the cushions and sighed, grinning widely at her. She smiled at him and twirled her finger. “Roll over, Sir Gilbert. I have something special planned for you.”
He did as he was told, giggling like a boy. “All right, you Syrian vixen. I’ll play along with your games.”
Zayn straddled his back and began to knead his shoulders with her hands. He groaned with pleasure. “Oh, sir, you are so muscular,” she murmured. And freckled, hairy, and smelly. She made a face behind his back, then leaned down and let her hair brush his skin. He muttered blissfully. She slipped her arm around his neck and caressed the skin of his shoulder. He moaned again.
Then her gentleness was gone, and she tightened her grip on his neck with all her might. He stiffened and jerked beneath her, but could make no sound—his throat was clamped shut in the crook of her arm. What felt like an eternity was a mere few seconds, and Gilbert de Bacheur lay still on the silken pillows.
Zayn leaped up and flung on her black cloak, then poked her head out of the curtains and called to Lubna. “Gilbert de Bacheur is dead.” Zayn shrugged innocently. “A weak heart, I suspect. He could not handle the, er, rigorous activity.” She tossed the coin Gilbert had given her at an openmouthed Lubna and hurried back across the room. She slipped from the window and clambered deftly down into the dark alleyway beneath.
Guy would not slip between her fingers tonight.
…
The late-night air was unusually cold, and anyone out of doors could tell that winter had finally come to Outremer. But not Zayn. She burned with power, her skin feverish to the touch. The streets of Jerusalem were nearly deserted, its inhabitants seeking warmth indoors, but Zayn blazed a path through the city, leaving a wisp of smoke in her wake. Not bothering to hold her cloak to her body, she dashed through the empty streets, her footsteps mere whispers against the stones, a blur of light. She ran in the shadows, dodging a group of drunken revelers here, a homeless pilgrim there. They did not see her, did not even sense a human presence, but sighed in the trail of warmth she left behind.
I am nothing but a desert wind.
Time was running out; her opportunities to complete her mission were dwindling rapidly. Maintaining the Assassin secrecy—and her life—were not her concern anymore. Killing Guy de Molay was all that mattered now. Down the Street of Furriers, toward the Double Gate of the Templar headquarters she ran, for that was the gate Gilbert had said Guy was expected to guard. Temple Mount loomed darkly before her, and she stopped at a corner of the great wall, just a turn away from the Double Gate.
Zayn steadied her breath and crouched against the wall. There were towers up above, quiet and gray in the black winter sky. The hour was well before Matins, when the Templars would rise and go to the chapel for prayer. Most would be sleeping now, she assumed, since they needed permission to leave the compound. She smiled to herself: she had studied the Templars’ routine and the layout of their compound well in anticipation of this—a wild, desperate attempt at completing her mission.
She closed her eyes and saw the layout of the Templar base in her mind. The Dome of the Rock was just on the other side of the wall, and she wagered that Guy was guarding its gates. As a child, she’d often heard fellow villagers rage at how the Templars had set a cross on Al-Aqsa Mosque, stored their arms in it, and turned a Muslim holy place into a stable for their horses. On the other hand, she had heard Christians argue that the Muslims had built their mosque atop the ruins of Solomon’s Temple, itself a sacred Christian site. Zayn shook her head—that people would kill for a single, rubble-filled spot…
Adjacent to the mosque—or temple, depending on one’s religious inclinations—were the Templar’s Hall, cloister, chapel, refectories, and cellars. Three hundred knights lived in the compound, so Zayn’s preference was not to get caught. The wind made her eyes tear, and she closed them for a moment. I may not make it out alive, but I have to try. She stood and began splitting her red skirt into wide strips, tearing the fine silk easily and binding it around her legs. She’d made breeches for herself. She wrapped the cloak around her body, tied it around her waist, and fastened the hood low over her face with a hairpin. She had no grappling hook to aid her, no swift horse to whisk her away when it was over, but she was determined to do this thing, her supernatural strength her only tool.
She crept along the wall, her eyes on possible footholds in the stones. They were scant, but she was strong. By sheer force of will she managed to scale the wall, her body trembling from the effort of holding itself up. Once at the top, she lay flat and waited, listening. Her fingers bled and legs shook. She could see the towers, the guards upon them, the golden and silver domes within the compound, washed to a dull gray in the night. She heard voices from above and below, casual conversation between sentries. Zayn crawled, her eyes on the Double Gate’s tower ahead. The Double Gate was the Templars’ gate, the one that granted them direct access to their headquarters from outside the city wall itself. Into the lion’s den. Zayn smiled wryly to herself.
Having reached the tower, she pressed herself against its outer wall and listened. He must be here somewhere. She heard heavy footsteps, the clatter of metal against stone. Two voices, both of men. She rose slowly and gazed up the bulwark; she would have to scale it in order to get inside the tower. Once again, she managed to scramble up the stone by holding on to mere notches and dents in the stones, her hands and feet cramping at the effort. I am a spider. She refused to let herself think otherwise.
The wind whipped at her, stinging her face. She flattened herself and peered down into the tower, holding her cloak against her face to shield her eyes from the gusts of winter air. Two men stood not far below wearing the Templar mantles. One wore his mail coif over his head; the other did not. The bare-headed Templar was Guy—he was still dressing himself, buckling his sword-belt around his waist. His black curls were disheveled, and he breathed heavily, as though he’d been running. She saw him smile mischievously at the other knight and heard him say, “That was a close call, I must admit. But my luck continues to hold, by the grace of God!”
“Your luck,” the other knight replied drily, “and your father’s money. I doubt God has anything to do with it.” He leaned casually against the bulwark, his forearms resting on the parapet, his head turne
d out to look upon the rugged hills of Judea.
“Bah!” Guy uttered. “You’re just jealous that I taste the forbidden fruit while you must find contentment in your fist.” He laughed. “Besides, what I do is not a fraction so bad as what we all know Geoffrey and Bertrand are up to. I may lose my coat and have to grovel for a while before I am forgiven, but they would face expulsion from the Order.”
The other knight straightened and sighed. “Perhaps. Still, you play a dangerous game. Let your white habit remind you of your vow. You swore to God and St. Mary to live in complete chastity, my friend. You wear that cord around your waist as a symbol of that chastity.”
Zayn stopped breathing. I know that voice.
“Come now, admit you find it absurd,” Guy said, his voice low. “We are men, not eunuchs.”
The knight shrugged, turning in Zayn’s direction so that she could see his face—the face of none other than Earic Goodwin. “Yes, I know. But what is it that Brother Jacques says about women?” He smiled at Guy. “Something about the company of women being dangerous, because it leads you from the straight path to Paradise?”
“I only use women to satisfy my lust,” Guy said, dismissing Earic with a wave of his hand. “They have no power over me. Least of all the infidel women. Besides, you are one to talk. I’ve noticed all the time you’ve spent with Lady Marguerite recently.”
Earic turned away. “I was never interested in Marguerite romantically. Nor was she interested in me.”
“Good. I never understood how you could be friends with her, in any case.” Guy grinned, folding his arms across his chest. “Let her find a stupid man to marry her for her wealth, and let him be the victim of her sharp tongue. No lordship is worth the misery of marriage.”