Captive Rose

by Miriam Minger

  “Listen to me, Leila,” he interrupted her, his tone so urgent she was compelled to meet his eyes. “I need your help.”

  “My help?” she parroted, the intensity of his gaze sending a jolt right through her.

  “Yes. Tonight I’m going to—”

  “Leila! Stand away from the crusader.”

  Leila whirled at the sound of her father’s stern voice, so startled that she dropped a vial of ointment. The glass shattered on the slab floor. Sinjar was standing next to the captain of the guards, his white robes still rippling from his sudden entrance.

  “Wh-what is the matter?”

  “I have just come from the hospital. Word was brought to me there by one of Governor Mawdud’s high officials.”

  “I know, Fa—” She clamped her mouth shut just in time. “I know, my master,” she began again. “I’ve already told our patient that a second messenger has been sent to Acre—”

  “No, he has returned,” Sinjar said gravely. “Come over here, Leila. Now. There is nothing more to be done here.”

  Bewildered, she glanced over her shoulder at the crusader. His eyes held hers for a fleeting moment, then she quickly moved to her father’s side.

  “The messenger and his Mameluke escort were met on the Damascus road by one of Sultan Baybar’s generals,” Sinjar continued. “When the general heard where they were bound, he commanded them to return to the city.”

  “But why? What of the ransom?”

  “There will be no ransom.”

  “What is this, my esteemed lord?” blurted the captain excitedly, his hand falling to the curved dagger in his belt. “No ransom?”

  Sinjar shook his head slowly, a pitying expression on his face as he regarded the crusader. “The general has brought word that Lord Edward and most of his crusaders sailed from Acre three days ago, though the reason behind their sudden departure has not yet been determined. It is believed, however, that they are returning to their country across the seas. To England.”

  Leila gasped. If this was true, the crusader was a dead man. Sweet Jesu, who could determine kismet?

  “What is it, Leila?” Guy asked, rising slowly to his feet. His expression was hard, and strain showed around his eyes. “What has happened?”

  Leila’s hand was trembling as she touched her father’s arm. “He asks me what has happened. How shall I answer him? “

  “Say nothing. In the morning his fate will become clear to him,” Sinjar replied cryptically. He turned to the captain, his tone commanding as he drew a rolled parchment from his scarlet sash and handed it to him. “This was given to me by Governor Mawdud’s official. Read it if you do not believe me, as I doubt you will. It is our lord governor’s wish that the crusader be well treated this night. Give him good food and drink, wine if you have it. Offer him an opium pipe. It may help him through his final night upon the earth.”

  The captain hastily unrolled the parchment, his shoulders visibly slumping as he read the document. “So it reads,” he muttered. He shot a venomous glance at Guy, who was again surrounded on all sides by flashing swords, the guards preventing him from moving a muscle. “And so, regrettably, I must obey.”

  Leila’s heart thundered in her chest as her father pushed her none-too-gently toward the door.

  “But we should tell him!” she protested. “It would be far more cruel not to. He must have time to prepare, time to pray—”

  Sinjar gave her another shove, more insistent this time. “No, there is great danger here. You will do as I tell you! “

  “Leila!

  She half turned at Guy’s hoarse cry, her breath stopping in her throat at what she knew was to be her last glimpse of him.

  “God in heaven, it’s the ransom, isn’t it?” he shouted, his blue eyes a tempest of fury and disbelief. Thin rivulets of blood trailed down his heaving chest from the razor-sharp swords holding him at bay. “It’s in your face. I can see it in your face! Edward has left for England, hasn’t he?”

  Leila’s head snapped back around as her father seized her arm and yanked her toward the door.

  “Do not answer him!” Sinjar commanded as he propelled her from the cell.

  The captain of the guards hurried after them, followed at once by the guards, who backed out with their swords lowered dangerously. The door was slammed shut and bolted just as the crusader hit it with the full force of his body, pounding with his fists. Banded with wide strips of iron, the thick wooden door hardly budged.

  “Leila, answer me!” he roared. “Leila? Leila!” Then came the sound of splintering wood as the cots were violently hurled against the cell walls.

  “Come, my daughter,” Sinjar said, noting the unshed tears swimming in Leila’s eyes. “It is a harsh thing to hear when a prisoner realizes his life has become forfeit.”

  Leila’s hands were shaking so much she could not lift her face veil. She was stunned by the depth of her emotion, and couldn’t understand why she felt like weeping. Guy de Warenne’s unfortunate fate was certainly none of her doing.

  She jumped as a loud crash came from the cell. The crusader was beating wildly upon the door with what was left of his bed.

  “By God, Leila, at least tell me what’s going on! Leila! “

  “So I’m to treat this raving lunatic like a prince,” she heard the captain mutter sarcastically. “We’ll be lucky if we can push some food through the peephole without being spit upon by that raging beast.”

  “He is a human being,” she said almost to herself, tears running slowly down her cheeks. “Not an animal.”

  “Come, Leila,” Sinjar insisted. “Our work here is finished.”

  Leila walked shakily with her father from the cavernous room, the crusader’s desperate cries ringing in her ears.

  Chapter 5

  Seated on the hard slab floor, Guy shoved the tarnished brass tray of food with his foot. He had no appetite. He took another draft from the half-empty wine bottle, but the tangy red liquid was no balm for his burgeoning frustration. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

  If what Al-Aziz, and since then the highly amused guards, had said was true, then Edward and his fleet of ships were well across the Mediterranean Sea by now, returning home to England.

  Without him.

  In the long, mind-numbing hours since his outburst of rage, the guards had cracked the peephole to keep a cautious eye on him and then had left it open. Guy had never heard such animated conversation from them, and he understood just enough Arabic to make sense of what they were saying. The guards had talked of nothing else, repeating themselves so often he knew exactly what was to happen to him.

  Shortly after sunrise, he was to be taken from the cell and executed before Governor Mawdud and his high officials in the prison courtyard. If he was lucky, the invincible Sultan Baybars, who was apparently in Damascus, might also be present to watch him die. What a bloody spectacle it would be.

  He had heard enough gruesome stories about his father’s experiences while crusading in Egypt to know that decapitation was the Arab’s preferred method of execution. He imagined he could already feel the hard paving stones as he was forced to his knees. Blindfolded, his hands tied so tightly behind his back that they were numb, he could hear the executioner’s sharp intake of breath as the curved scimitar was swung back, then the clean, whistling sound of steel cutting through the air

  Cursing vehemently, Guy lifted his arm and was about to dash the empty wine bottle against the opposite wall when the door suddenly creaked open and two guards entered the cell. Although both men held their swords at the ready, one also carried a lantern and the other a long, baked clay waterpipe.

  What the hell was the guard doing with a hookah? He had seen such devices in Acre’s brothels, though he had never tried one. He had lustily sampled the women, but smoking opium was one vice he had chosen to do without, despite the glowing praise bestowed upon the seductive practice by other crusaders.

  “For me?” Guy queried sarcastic
ally, deriving some pleasure from the guards’ inability to understand him. “First food and wine—good wine at that—and now another gift. Is your great and mighty Governor Mawdud trying to ease his blasted conscience?”

  The nearest guard merely grunted in response and thrust the waterpipe in his face.

  Guy’s first impulse was to knock the pipe aside, but a wild and desperate idea suddenly struck him. He took the pipe and dangled it between his raised knees, gesturing to the empty silver bowl set atop the airtight vessel which was partially filled with water. “Bastards. I can’t smoke it if it’s empty.”

  The same guard tossed him a square, lacquered box. Guy opened it, revealing a substance that looked like black putty and smelled of ambergris and musk. The other guard placed the lantern and some thin, wooden sticks on the floor beside him and then quickly backed away. When Guy eagerly began to pack the bowl with opium, the guards laughed scornfully and left the cell.

  Guy’s hand shook as he lit the waterpipe with a flaming stick. He was overwhelmed by the daring escape plan taking shape in his mind. Maybe … just maybe it would work.

  As he put the glazed mouthpiece between his lips and drew on the long smoking tube, the soft whoosh of bubbling water filled the cell. He waited the barest moment until he tasted the pungent smoke, then he quickly removed the mouthpiece and quietly exhaled what little he had taken into his mouth. The smoke continued to curl from the tube and drift harmlessly into the air. From where Guy sat against the wall, he knew the guards could not see that he wasn’t inhaling.

  He glanced at the cell window and was grateful it was open to the breeze. There was a chance he might be affected by the intoxicating haze, but he hoped the effect would only be slight.

  Guy purposely made a lot of noise as he fumbled with the lacquered opium box and the lantern, packing and relighting the waterpipe several times. Finally the cell became so clouded with white smoke that the guards swore and slammed the peephole shut.

  Guy smiled grimly at their coarse, knowing laughter and set the pipe aside, yet close enough so that he could easily grab the long clay neck. It was obvious he had convinced them he would be no more trouble tonight. Blessed fools. Soon it would be dark outside. When the guards came in again to check on him, which they no doubt would if he remained very, very quiet, he would make his move …

  ***

  “You are home early,” Eve said, smoothing an errant tendril loosed from Leila’s braid as she sat on the marble couch beside her. “You told me this morning you had so many patients to see at the hospital that you didn’t expect to return until long after dark. Here it is barely dusk.”

  “Father sent me home,” Leila replied moodily. She continued to stare at the little stream rumbling not far from her sandaled feet. “He was displeased with me.”

  “That is, indeed, a rare occurrence for a favored daughter. What could you have possibly done to displease him?”

  Leila shrugged. “I’d rather not talk about it, Mother.”

  Indeed she did not, Leila thought as Eve sighed softly. How could she explain something that she didn’t understand herself? She would never have guessed the episode with the crusader would so affect her. She had seen his face in every patient she encountered, causing her hands to tremble whenever she performed even the simplest treatment.

  Eve’s voice nudged her back from her unsettling reverie. “Surely it was not that serious—”

  “No, though my patients might disagree. I was clumsy, ‘tis all, but it’s hardly worth discussing. Father will have enough to say to me when he comes home.”

  “As you wish.” Silence settled between them for a while, then Eve patted her hand. “How is the crusader faring today? Has any word come about his ransom?”

  Leila glanced at her mother in surprise. It was the first time Eve had mentioned the crusader since the night on the roof terrace. How uncanny that she should think of him now. Could Eve read her mind? “Kismet has not favored him, Mother. There will be no ransom paid for his release. “

  Eve’s eyes grew dark with disbelief. “What do you mean, no ransom?”

  “The English prince, Lord Edward, sailed from Acre three days ago. It seems he has left his crusader knight to die. “

  “No, this cannot be,” Eve whispered, horrified. “I knew Edward as a child. He was a good boy and of a just temperament, like his father, King Henry. If Edward was aware that one of his knights languished in prison, surely he would never desert him.”

  Stunned by what her mother had just shared with her, Leila did not reply. Eve had never told her that she knew Lord Edward and the king of England.

  “But what of the letter of ransom, Leila? The messenger left Damascus well over a week ago. Surely Edward would have received it—”

  “The messenger was killed,” Leila said, and quickly explained that morning’s unsettling events at the prison. Eve listened in silence until Leila finished, her face deathly white. “Edward never received that letter of ransom. I am certain of it,” she said softly, staring unseeing at the gurgling stream. “Perhaps he believes the crusader and his companions are still in Anatolia or on their way back to Acre. He cannot know the ill fortune that he has befallen—”

  “Mother,” Leila interrupted gently, “it no longer matters what Lord Edward knows or doesn’t know. He has sailed home to England without his knight. Lord de Warenne’s fate is sealed. He will be executed in the morning.”

  Eve’s gaze grew wide as she searched Leila’s face. “Did you say de Warenne?”

  “Yes.” Leila suddenly realized she had never told her mother the crusader’s name, and judging from Eve’s startled expression, neither had her father. “Guy de Warenne. Why?”

  “The de Warennes are a very well-known family in England, at least they were when William and I …” Eve’s voice trailed off and she sighed, her private thoughts clearly miles away.

  “Mother …”

  Eve started as if she had forgotten they were sitting together on the couch. “Yes … the de Warennes were great and loyal servants of the king. Our nearest neighbors in Wales were of that family. They had a son named Guy, about the same age as my Roger. The boys were good friends.”

  Leila drew in her breath, for she had rarely heard her mother mention the son born to her when she was a child-bride of fifteen.

  Leila could recall asking Eve once as a little girl how she could leave her young son behind in England. Her mother had answered that it had been her duty and desire to journey with her husband to the Holy Land and that it had been best to leave Roger with a family friend. Then she had changed the subject. Leila could count on one hand the times she had heard Eve say her brother’s name since then.

  “How old is this crusader?” Eve asked urgently, clutching Leila’s arm.

  “I don’t know. Twenty-seven, eight. Maybe thirty.”

  “Roger would be twenty-eight now, if he still lives,” Eve said, growing more agitated. “Yes, this prisoner could be my son’s boyhood friend.”

  Her mother rose so suddenly, pacing in front of the couch, that Leila became alarmed. “Mother … what is wrong?”

  Eve didn’t seem to hear her. “I must intercede for him,” she said distractedly, heading toward her apartments. “I must help him.”

  Leila jumped to her feet and hurried after her, her heart racing. What had come over her mother? Leila had never seen her like this before.

  “Help the crusader? Mother, you can’t be serious. Who will listen to you? You’ve told me many times how deeply runs the hatred between the Christian crusaders and our people—”

  “Our people?” Eve blurted, rounding on Leila. “You do not even know your own people! The crusader is one of your own blood, your own faith, and you have shown no more compassion for his plight than if he were your sworn enemy. All you have cared about was ensuring Governor Mawdud’s ransom, not the precious life you saved! And now that there will be no ransom, you care naught about the terrible fate Lord de Warenne will suffer—” />
  “I do care!” Leila blurted before she even realized what she was saying, her shrill voice an echo in the darkening courtyard. She shrugged, trying to cover up what she had just revealed. “He … he may be a barbarian, but he is not an animal to be led to the slaughter.”

  Eve sighed heavily. “Ah, my dearest daughter, forgive me. I cannot blame you for what your eyes will not see and what your heart cannot feel. This is the only world you have ever known.” She shook her head sadly. “No, it is my fault. I have shared so little with you about your homeland, your true people. There never seemed to be any point to it …”

  Perplexed by Eve’s last words, Leila reached out for her hand, but her mother turned away and walked to the archway, where she stopped and looked back to where Leila was standing.

  “I will leave within the hour. If you see your father before I return, tell him I have gone to Governor Mawdud’s palace . . . and tell him why. I think he will understand.”

  As Eve disappeared into her apartments to change into her finest garments, Leila could not help thinking that her mother’s quest, although noble, was hopelessly futile.

  Sultan Baybars, Supreme Lord of all the Arab Empire, was in Damascus, having arrived earlier that afternoon from Cairo. If Eve was fortunate enough to receive an audience with Governor Mawdud, she would no doubt also encounter the sultan, and then her plea would surely fall on deaf ears. Sultan Baybars had sworn publicly that he would not rest until every crusader was put to the sword or driven from the land. Now that there would be no ransom, nothing would save Guy de Warenne.

  Chapter 6

  Guy lay very still upon the floor when he heard the cell door scrape open, a mere half hour since he had last lit the waterpipe. He reminded himself to breathe quietly and evenly, as if asleep, which he certainly would have been if he had actually smoked the amount of opium the guards had left him.