Eve listened quietly as his fantastic list grew longer, her heart thudding painfully in her chest.
Dare she ask him?
There was something he could give her that was more precious than gold or silk or the rarest jewels, something they had touched upon only briefly in the past. When Sinjar had told her he wished for them to marry, he said Moslem men were allowed to take Christian women as wives, though he hoped she would one day accept his faith. She had said nothing, and had been grateful when their conversation had drifted to other topics. But now … did she dare?
“Th—there is something, my lord,” she began hesitantly.
“Ask and it is yours, my beloved.”
Eve met his gentle gaze fully, hoping against hope that he would understand and not take offense at her request. “The greatest gift you could offer me is a simple one and costs nothing, my lord, save the generosity of your heart. I … I want to remain a Christian” —she almost faltered as his expression hardened, but rushed on recklessly— “and I want to raise my daughter in the faith of her homeland.”
There, it was said and she didn’t regret it, though from the angry look flaring in his eyes, she feared he would deny her request at once. Yet no words came as his mouth drew into a thin, tight line.
She waited for long moments and Sinjar, now lying on his back and staring blindly at the muted colors on the ceiling, still said nothing. The salon was so quiet she could hear the stream rumbling outside in the courtyard and the haunting trill of a caged nightingale from a distant corner of the harem. When her hope had all but faded, he spoke.
“You have requested a hard thing of me, Eve,” he said, turning his head to look at her. “A very hard thing.”
“I know this, my lord.”
His voice fell to a solemn whisper. “You and I… we shall never be together in Paradise.”
“That only God may judge.”
Again he was silent, and she could sense him wrestling with himself until finally he reached for her hand and gently squeezed her fingers. Her heart began to soar before he even said the words.
“You are fortunate that Islam is tolerant of other faiths, though the same cannot be said for the Christian crusaders who terrorize and rape our land and our cities. To them, we are the infidels, the unfaithful, and no better than dogs.”
Eve did not respond, for she knew he spoke the truth. She kept silent, waiting.
Sinjar sighed heavily, his tone resolute. “If it is your greatest desire,” he began, then paused as he searched her face.
“It is.”
“Very well. Then I must grant it.”
Tears of gratitude sprang to Eve’s eyes and she hugged him, but he did not return her embrace. She remained undaunted, knowing he was hurt, and hugged him more fiercely, as if she would never let him go.
“I will never leave you, my lord, save in death, for today you have truly won my heart. This I promise.”
Sinjar’s arms wrapped around her so suddenly, clasping her tightly against his chest, that they took her breath away. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her sweet perfume and murmuring her name over and over like a fervent prayer. She felt a hot wetness on her neck … his tears.
Eve smiled through her own tears as a strange lightness washed over her, releasing her. It was dizzying and wonderful, and she knew at last that she was free.
Goodbye, William. Sleep in peace, my love.
Chapter 1
Damascus, Syria
Late Summer, 1272
“I shall lead, mistress.”
Leila inclined her head curtly in acquiescence, making no comment as Suhel opened the door and stepped outside. She lifted the opaque veil attached to her long kufiyya and tucked a corner into her headband, covering her face below the eyes, then followed the stout white eunuch into the nearly deserted street.
She hated visiting the governor’s prison, even if it was to assist her father. How she wished Jamal Al-Aziz, her betrothed and Sinjar’s only son by his second wife, was here in Damascus so she wouldn’t have to go. But he had been summoned to Cairo to cure the caliph’s family of smallpox and wouldn’t be home for weeks. As her father’s apprentice, she was the next likeliest choice.
A new case, Sinjar’s cryptic message had read, delivered to her barely ten minutes ago just as she was beginning to relax after a long, wearying day spent caring for patients at the Hospital of Nureddine. Something highly unusual. She was to make all haste. She had to admit her curiosity was aroused, though she wished she was meeting her father anywhere but in that horrid place.
At least the walk there would be pleasant, Leila thought, much of her apprehension and weariness fading as she hurried to keep up with Suhel, who despite his bulk was maintaining a vigorous pace. It was such a beautiful summer evening, she could not help but feel exhilarated.
A balmy breeze swirled around her, lifting the embroidered edges of her veil, and she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs. The air was sweet with the scent of flowers; jasmine, oleander and her favorite, damask rose. She wore the barest hint of its fragrance at her wrists and throat, her only truly feminine indulgence when she went about her work.
She glanced up at the sky, a deepening turquoise bowl inverted above the walled city. Here and there, stars were beginning to twinkle, and the bright quarter moon was just rising over the rugged summit of Mount Kassioun. Multicolored pigeons flew high above her in ever-widening circles, searching amid the countless rooftops for a home perch. They were all familiar sights to her, yet somehow new and hauntingly different each time she beheld them.
“How I love this city,” she whispered to herself, listening to the sounds of the night as they headed west along a narrow side street.
A chestnut vendor’s cart rumbled past them, the wooden wheels bumping noisily on the uneven paving stones, and a donkey brayed in the distance. Laughter filtered from the houses, as did the animated drone of conversation, a baby crying, mongrel dogs barking, and everywhere the lush sound of fountains and cascading water; the stirring cacophony of life.
“This way, mistress,” Suhel said over his broad shoulder, his effeminate voice intruding upon her reverie. He gestured with the lantern, the weaving light causing their shadows to bob and sway against the stucco walls. “Since I am with you,” he stated pointedly, “we shall take the main streets which are faster than the rear alleys allowed to women, yes?”
Leila shot him a withering glance as an answer, but the eunuch only chuckled.
She was still piqued at him for betraying her attempt to leave the house without an escort. As long as there was daylight, she was allowed to come and go as she pleased, but since it was so near dusk, he had gone running to tell her mother. Eve, Majida, and Suhel had caught up with her just as she was about to pass through the guarded harem doors. Her mother’s troubling reprimand was still fresh in her mind.
“Leila, you know women are not allowed to walk about unescorted at night,” Eve had chided her. “Why must you be so willful and reckless?”
“It is not yet dark, Mother,” she had objected somewhat lamely, feeling suddenly foolish and much younger than her nineteen years.
Eve waved her small, delicate hand in a dismissive gesture. “Listen well to me, my daughter. As you say, it is not dark. But you cannot expect the trappings and privileges of your profession to protect you when the hour grows late and the streets become empty. These are dangerous times, Leila. You, as a Christian, should know that well. The crusaders swarm over the land again, inciting fierce hatred and a lust for revenge that could mark any Christian as a potential target. You wear the zunnar—”
“I am not the same as them!” Leila blurted indignantly. “Any Damascene citizen would recognize that, Mother” —she tugged on the striped sash around her waist— “whether I wear this or not. The crusaders are barbarians. Wild savages who cross the sea in the name of God and piety, but who truly come to pillage and rape and destroy what they don’t understand. We are civilized, Mother. We live h
ere in peace, while those—those Christians think only of plunder and conquest.”
“You speak of your own blood, Leila. Your heritage …” Eve’s voice trailed off to a whisper, a faraway look haunting her eyes. “Ah, how can you know? I have told you so little. It is another world, another place.”
“Mother,” Leila said gently. Disconcerted by Eve’s pensive, slightly sad expression, she felt her anger quickly fading. “Father will be waiting for me. I must go.”
“Yes, you must,” Eve said, her gaze finding Leila’s once more. “Take Suhel with you.”
Leila nodded, wanting more than anything at that moment to ease her mother’s mind. For weeks Eve had seemed troubled and unusually quiet, so unlike herself, often studying Leila with a strangely wistful expression.
“I’ll take ten slaves with me if it will please you,” she said in an attempt to make Eve smile. She felt a sense of relief when some of the sparkle returned to her mother’s lustrous eyes.
“Suhel is enough,” Eve had said, leaning forward and kissing Leila’s cheek. “He is stout, but he is also very strong. Go now, daughter. Your father is patient, but he will wonder what is keeping you.”
As she puzzled over what could be distressing her mother, Leila’s thoughts were nudged back to the present when Suhel suddenly dropped back beside her, his plump hand straying to the long, jeweled dagger hidden beneath his sleeveless coat. She followed his watchful eyes to the three Bedouin merchants approaching them on the other side of the main street, each leading a lumbering camel.
Leila bowed her head modestly until the men had passed, very much aware that they studied her curiously, their dark eyes glinting in the golden lamplight. She did not feel threatened, but in that fleeting instant she was reluctantly grateful for Suhel’s company.
With the eunuch taking the lead again they walked on, passing the Great Mosque with its three graceful minarets; one of them, the Minaret of the Bride, was the oldest in Islam. At the northwest corner of the mosque stood the tomb of Saladin, the most powerful sultan of the Ayubite dynasty, who had won back Jerusalem almost a hundred years ago from the crusaders led by Richard the Lion-Hearted.
“Crusaders,” Leila muttered in disgust, again recalling her mother’s anxious voice. “Vile barbarians, every one.”
It shamed her to think she was bred from such a treacherous and unscrupulous race. Though Eve had taught her the crusaders’ language as a little girl, Leila rarely used it now, preferring to speak Arabic. Nor had her mother ever insisted she speak the foreign tongue, even when they were alone.
Eve had told her practically nothing about her true father or the strange, distant land called England. It was almost as if Eve was loath to dredge up old, probably painful memories. Which was fine with Leila. Such knowledge was of no consequence to her. Her home was here in Damascus.
All she knew of the crusaders was that every time their ships landed upon the shores of the Arab Empire, they brought discord and brutal destruction to a society of refinement, culture, and unsurpassed learning. It was enough to make her hate them all.
“We are … almost there, mistress,” Suhel said raggedly, beginning to wheeze from exertion. The climb up the crooked street to the citadel, the fortress overlooking the city, was steep. The governor’s prison was just outside the citadel’s thick, honey-colored walls.
Leila’s stomach knotted as they neared the forbidding flat-roofed building in anticipation of what she would find inside. She remembered the stench. The tortured screaming. The rats.
She shuddered. Yes, the rats were the worst part, but she had no choice. Her father needed her assistance.
“Thank you, Suhel,” Leila said, overtaking the eunuch easily. “You may go home now. I can manage the rest of the way myself.”
“I will see you there, esteemed mistress,” he replied obstinately, wiping his thick neck with a sodden handkerchief. “Your beloved mother would be most displeased if I did not, yes?”
Leila clamped her mouth shut, knowing any protest would be useless. She waited until he had caught up to her, then they walked the last few paces together, stopping just outside the huge, arched entrance to the prison.
A dozen fierce-looking guards stared back at them with little expression, but when Leila introduced herself they quickly parted ranks and allowed her to pass through the tall iron gates. They knew she was the daughter and apprentice of Sinjar Al-Aziz, the private physician of Mawdud, the governor of Damascus, and of Sultan Baybars himself, whenever that great man journeyed to Damascus from the imperial city of Cairo.
Wide-eyed and nervous again, Leila glanced over her shoulder just before she was swallowed up by a dark, inner hallway. She saw Suhel already trudging back down the hill, the lantern swaying in front of him. A silent guard steered her by the elbow into a well-lit chamber, where with a surge of relief she spied her father. His presence was so commanding, so authoritative, she could not help but be calmed by it.
“There you are, my daughter,” Sinjar exclaimed, his robes swirling as he strode over to her with a grave look on his handsome face. “I have only just arrived myself from the hospital.” Before she could catch her breath enough to respond, he took her arm and guided her through another set of iron gates. “Come. We must hurry.”
Leila flinched when the heavy gates clanked shut behind them. She was thankful for the reassuring pressure of her father’s hand on her arm and for the two well-armed guards leading the way.
As their silent group ventured deeper into the prison, they were assailed at every turn by putrid odors and pitiful moaning, like Leila’s worst nightmare come to life. She could swear she heard rats squeaking and skittering in the dark, musty corners. She looked neither right nor left, hoping to spare herself any horrible images she would have a difficult time forgetting, but tormented shrieks or unintelligible gibberish occasionally drew her gaze to the prison’s unfortunate inmates.
Near-skeletal figures draped in dirty rags peered from cagelike cells, hopeless, macabre shadows of what had once been strong fighting men. Leila knew that many of them were prisoners of war, but some were debtors or criminals.
Whatever their crime, most would never again see the light of day. The governor’s prison was renowned for the cruelty and torture inflicted within its walls. It was a rare and fortunate man who ever walked out alive.
Tarnished brass lamps lit the high-ceilinged interior of the next cavernous room they entered. It was much cleaner than the area they had just passed through, with freshly swept floors and a few small square windows opened to the evening breeze. She knew this part of the building was where the privileged prisoners were kept.
Arched wooden doors fitted with hinged peepholes lined both sides of the room, opening into small, individual cells. All appeared empty, save for the last one on the left. Two guards flanked the yawning door, from which a swath of yellow light cut across the floor.
“He’s in there,” Sinjar said, releasing her arm and hurrying to the cell.
“Who?” Leila asked, following him.
“Our patient.” Sinjar ducked his head and went inside, his resonant voice carrying out to her. “Good, the guards already carried in my bags. Everything we need is here. Leila, are you coming?”
She drew a deep breath as she unfastened her face veil. “Yes, father.”
Please may there not be rats, she prayed.
She stepped inside, her eyes adjusting to the cell’s brightness. There were at least fifteen lanterns placed around the stone walls, filling the cramped interior with light. In a far comer hot coals glowed inside a large copper brazier.
At first Leila could not see the patient for the four Mameluke soldiers flanking the foot of a wooden cot placed in the center of the cell. They were members of the governor’s elite fighting corps, and their forbidding presence told her one thing. The patient was more than likely a prisoner of war.
She began to walk around the soldiers, and almost tripped over a pile of interlocking iron rings heaped on the
floor. She had never seen anything like them before. She tried to pick up one end of what appeared to be a long-sleeved shirt, but the rings were so heavy she could not lift them. She drew her hand away, inhaling sharply when she saw that her fingers were covered in blood.
She thought she had cut herself, but when she wiped her hand on her qumbaz the blood was transferred to the linen garment and the pads of her fingers remained unmarred.
“My daughter, I have need of your assistance!” Sinjar snapped, startling her.
Embarrassed to have been caught dawdling, Leila rushed around the soldiers to her father’s side where she stopped short, staring in openmouthed astonishment at the strapping blond giant lying unconscious upon the cot. He was so tall and huge that his heavily muscled limbs dangled off the sides.
Instinctively she noted that he was drenched in sweat, his magnificently built body wracked by tremors. Yet despite his condition, a raw power emanated from him, a vibrant life force which seemed to fill the small cell. She could almost feel his great strength in the simple rise and fall of his massive chest, and it overwhelmed her completely.
“Wh-who is he, Father?” she stammered, her gaze coming to rest upon the man’s ashen face.
“A crusader knight,” Sinjar said, cursing as he cut away a sweat- and blood-soaked padded vest to reveal a vicious shoulder wound. Bright red blood flowed in a steady trickle from the ugly gash, which judging from its shape and depth had been inflicted by a curved scimitar. “And soon to be a dead man, Leila, if you do not cease your gaping and help me stop this bleeding. We will have to cauterize. Prepare the irons. Now!”
Shocked into action by Sinjar’s sharp command, Leila found several iron rods of various sizes in one of his bags and rushed over to place them on the glowing coals in the brazier. She watched as the long, sharpened tips grew red, then drew a protective glove over her hand and seized the first rod that was ready. She hastened back to her father’s side.
Captive Rose Page 2