by K. M. Grant
“Why do we have to go to Marissa’s convent, though?” Elric muttered furiously. He couldn’t bear the thought of her triumph when she knew the trouble he had caused. He pressed Ellie’s necklace into his palms. “She’ll just shout.”
“If Will and Ellie are dead, she has to know, and it’s our duty to tell her,” Hal retorted. “And if, as you believe, Will and Ellie are alive, then perhaps we’ll learn something that might be helpful. Why did the ransom seem to go south, for instance, when we know Richard is at Speyer? I don’t know anything anymore, nor do you. We need to talk to other people, preferably people whose language we can understand.”
Their arrival at Arnhem was not a happy one. Marissa, pale and very thin under her ugly habit of undyed wool and with her short hair still shocking, was astonished, then devastated to see them. As Hal told his tale she would not look at Elric, which crushed and humiliated the boy more than any shouting. She spoke exclusively to Hal, begging for every detail, gazing at Ellie’s necklace with dread. She did not wait until Hal had finished before jumping up, her distress making her mind very clear. “The nuns will give us horses. If Will is dead, we must get to Richard—or at least you and I must, Hal—” She glared dismissively at Elric. “We can’t tell what’s happened to the ransom but suppose it’s been stolen?” Hal gave a small exclamation. It was possible, of course, but stolen by the imperial soldiers? It made no sense. Marissa did not stop, however. “Richard and the emperor must know that Will had nothing to do with it,” she said, pacing up and down. She couldn’t bear the idea of Will’s name being dragged through the mud any more than she could bear the thought that despite the fact that she had remained in the convent, God had sent down this appalling punishment. “And then we’ve got to look for Hosanna and not give up, ever, until we find him. Never, you understand? Never.”
She ran to the prioress but though she begged and pleaded the prioress would not allow her to leave. The refusal was calm and measured and she looked to Hal to uphold her against Marissa’s hysterical rage. No nun from St. Martin’s could go rampaging around the country when there were two perfectly good men to perform such a duty. At this Hal looked very uncomfortable and Elric sat up a little straighter. It was enough. Marissa turned on the boy with the full force of her scalding grief and frustration. She hated him. He was wicked and dangerous. What was more—she chose her insults with cruel care—he lacked all the qualities necessary to be a knight like Will. Even Kamil, a foreigner, had been a better friend to Hartslove. Will had taken Elric in because he felt sorry for him and had been repaid with mayhem and death. Marissa spared Elric nothing and the boy’s ears were still ringing with venom when he mounted the horse the nuns lent him. The horse was not as fine as Dargent, but for once Elric made no comment. Indeed, it was only by chattering hard to Hal as they left Arnhem headed for Speyer that he could drown out Marissa’s words and carry on clinging to the certainties he prayed were embedded in the green jasper necklace that he had tucked into his shirt.
After they had gone, the prioress sat with Marissa for a long time. The girl was silent now; then abruptly she got up and ran into the abbey church. She knelt right at the front as she railed against God. The wise prioress watched her from the back, frowning slightly, and when, three days later, she found Marissa, her belongings, and the laundry pony gone, she did not become agitated or send out a search party as Agnes and the other nuns expected. Instead, she sat in the abbey church herself, praying that God would look after this troubled child and do with her as he, not the prioress, thought best.
14
An hour after the Old Man’s arrival, he sat dressed in the finest gold and silver samite under a jewel-encrusted canopy held by four shivering slaves. Four more slaves, equally chilled, held flaming torches aloft. Darkness fell quickly and the ship was swallowed into the black with nothing to reveal its presence save occasional tiny pinpricks from lanterns and the surge of voices carrying clearly across the still waters. Under the flares, a feast of exotic splendor had been laid out. The Old Man was not eating. Instead, he had swapped his juggling oranges for walnuts, which he cracked between his thumbs, a favorite trick and one he had learned from a slave who had afterward been put to death so that he could teach nobody else. Amal had been summoned to sit at his side and the place opposite was empty until Kamil was brought from the tent in which he had been confined. The Old Man gave Kamil a long, hard look, then broke into a beaming smile. His whole face danced though his eyes were glacial. “Sit, sit.” He nodded. Crack, crack, crack went his thumbs. “You must be tired from all the traveling. Sit. Eat.”
Kamil sat but even had he been starving he would not have taken food from the Old Man’s table. The Old Man threw down the nuts and reached for some figs. “You will have missed all our lovely fruit,” he said as if Kamil was a young relation who had been away on a holiday, “and we have missed you, Kamil.” He chewed slowly, over and over, and occasionally his teeth snapped together. A long silence followed. From the beach in front Kamil could hear the murmur of soldiers gathering driftwood and from the caves behind he could hear horses stamp and sneeze at the swish of grain pouring onto the floor for their evening feed. All the time he felt the Old Man’s eyes on him, and eventually, in his own time, met his gaze. He wanted to look fearless but it was hard to stop his cheeks from quivering.
The Old Man paused and licked the sticky fig syrup from his fingers, each in turn. “Well, Kamil, this is a strange place to meet,” he said, darting his tongue in and out of his mouth like a lizard. “Our last conversation took place in the mountains and here we are at the sea.” He bared teeth stained yellow with saffron. Amal shifted his bones. “At the sea,” the Old Man repeated softly and picked up more walnuts. He splintered one shell effortlessly, then threw the kernel away. “Do you know,” he said, “had I really set my mind to it, I could have had you killed anytime over the past two years? Several times I nearly gave the order to find you, but then it occurred to me that you should be given a chance. After all”—his currant eyes were wide with false tenderness—“at the time we last met, you were only young, only a boy. So I said to myself, let’s see what kind of a man Kamil turns out to be. Let’s see if he is worthy of his father and his ancestors. Let’s see how he develops as a warrior. Let’s see exactly what he is made of.” He popped another fig neatly into his mouth but it was large and some of the purple juice ran down his chin and into his beard. The tongue emerged again and only after it had finished its business did the Old Man continue. “The thing is, Kamil, I still don’t know how you have turned out, so I hope you’ll forgive me but I’ve taken the liberty of devising a little game to test you.” He gestured around. “Here we are in this delightfully secluded spot and, do you know, I find myself longing to see a tournament. Your new friends, the Christians, are keen on tournaments, are they not? I know you have seen a good few at Hartslove.” He paused and his tongue slid about. Amal could not take his eyes off it.
“We also have the perfect ingredients,” the Old Man said when his tongue had retreated once again. “Two knights, one Christian and one Saracen. What could be better? You see my game? There will be a contest between yourself and the Earl of Ravensgarth, and the prize”—his eyes were like fireworks—“will of course be the king’s ransom.” He rubbed his hands together. “But we must make it more interesting than that, must we not? So I suggest that if the earl kills you, the ransom should be returned to the imperial court. If you kill the earl, the ransom will go not to me—why would you fight for that?—but, and here is such a clever twist, it will go to those for whom it was intended when you stole it. What could be fairer? Each man fighting not just for his life but for his cause?” He waited for Amal’s ecstatic praise to die away before turning back to Kamil. “And just in case either of you decides not to fight, I better say that if that happens, I will keep the ransom myself, as I shall, of course, if you both die.” He sighed at the thought, then cracked three walnuts in quick succession.
Kamil had to
speak now. “And Ellie?” He could hardly breathe. Immediately he knew he had made a mistake.
“The girl?” The Old Man held his hands in the air.
Kamil could only nod.
“Oh, I didn’t realize she mattered!” The Old Man looked craftily from under his eyelashes and considered. Then his face cleared. “I know! We’ll make her part of the prize. She can’t be left out, can she? Let’s see. If you kill the earl, you can have her to do what you like with. But”—he plumped himself back into his cushions—“if the earl kills you, I think perhaps I should take her back to Syria with me. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. I’m sure I can find a use for her.” He smirked. “And what about the horses? Now what have we got? Those two chestnuts and the silver?” He pondered, then chuckled. “Whichever one of you is dead won’t need one, of course.” He pondered some more. “I think the horses should be my prize. I particularly liked the look of the one you were riding when I first met you. Hosanna, isn’t it? I’ll take him. My men can draw lots for the others. Or perhaps I should give that silver mare to Amal? He really has earned something nice.” He turned and his arm, cobralike, wound around Amal’s waist.
Kamil kept his voice low. “I abhor the rules of your game,” he said. “Whatever you say or promise, I know you will do exactly as you please.”
The Old Man pulled Amal closer to him. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,” he said, his lips like razors, “but not knowing quite what I will do is all part of your punishment.” His eyes were opaque. “You cannot see into my heart, Kamil. If you could, you might find things that surprised you.” He waited for a second, then let go of Amal and clapped his hands together. He was suddenly tired and being tired made him petulant. “Prepare my bed,” he ordered his servants. Then he dismissed Kamil. “Go away now. We will finish our discussion in the morning. The contest will be in the afternoon and by dusk the winners, whoever they are, will have claimed victory.”
Kamil got to his feet. The Old Man held up his hand for he had one last thing to say. “Now, Kamil, I put no guard on you but if you leave this camp, within five minutes the blood of all those you care about will flow freely into the sand.” He waved as Kamil walked off. The young man was almost at the caves when he heard his name called once again. “Kamil,” shouted the Old Man, full of joy because his bath was steaming, “may your dreams be sweet!” Then he cackled.
Kamil began to run but the entrance to the caves was barred by two brawny soldiers. “Out of my way,” Kamil ordered. They did not budge. Amal slunk from the shadows. “There is to be no conversation between you and the earl,” he said staring at his feet.
“What has Will been told?”
Amal shrank away. “He has been told nothing. The Old Man is going to speak to him in the morning, but alone.”
“So I will not know what’s said?”
Amal shook his head. “You will never know,” he said, “just as the Old Man never knew why you would not be a son to him.”
“May I speak to Ellie?”
“She does not wish to speak to you.”
“Will you tell her of the Old Man’s game?”
Amal looked terrified. “No,” he whispered, “of course not. I can do nothing I am not told to do. My family …”
Kamil turned away, then turned back. “Will your family be proud of your part in this?” he asked.
“They will be alive,” was all Amal could say, and Kamil, shaking his head, left him.
The night deepened. Had Kamil not been pacing about, the scene could not have been more peaceful. Well-fed soldiers snored by fires while those on watch wrapped themselves in blankets, thankful that tomorrow this charade would come to an end. Even those guarding the silver-stuffed wagons were dozy as they trod slowly back and forth across the cave entrance. Some quietly told stories. There was, for this moment, no fear in the air, for the servants of the Old Man of the Mountain were frightened of nobody except their master and he was asleep.
Will and Ellie sat close together, their backs to the wall. They had recognized the Old Man because his reputation as a treacherous Assassin, an implacable enemy to all rulers in the Christian West and a rival to many in the Muslim East, was well known even in England. But why Kamil should have agreed to deliver the silver to him was a mystery. Kamil was not just a traitor, Ellie declared, but a wretch, his allegiance not to the Muslim people but to a common criminal. Will let her rail on. It seemed better that way for at least Ellie still seemed to believe that once the ship was loaded Kamil would keep his word and let them go.
But Will was full of trepidation. It did not seem possible to him that Kamil, having been so loyal to Saladin and the Saracen cause, had stolen the ransom silver for the Old Man. The more he thought, the clearer it became that Kamil himself had been tricked and that he was no longer in command. Will leaned hard against the wall and his head pulsed. If Kamil was no longer in command, he and Ellie were unlikely to be freed. He jumped as a guard kicked more driftwood onto a dying fire. In the dancing light, Will saw images of Ellie and the Old Man, vile images that dried his mouth and sickened his stomach. At dawn he began to pray. Was God not supposed to help those who believed in him? But though he listened hard for God’s answer, Will heard nothing at all.
In the early hours of the morning, Kamil walked along the bottom of the cliff. It rose, sheer, above him, a wall of blotched white grooved by shadows. Outside the furthest reaches of the camp, about half a mile away, the shingle grew rougher and Kamil slithered over the stones as the ground dipped, worn down by a small stream flowing bumpily toward the shoreline. Without thinking, Kamil began to follow the stream upward to where it disappeared darkly into the rock. The rock looked completely solid from below but at close quarters it was evident that it had cracked, forced open thousands of years before when the stream was a torrent driving its way to the sea. Now that the water was just a gentle trickle, its steep descending path would be possible for a man, or even a horse if it was brave, to climb up. Kamil’s heart beat hard. Had he been on his own, his escape route was right here in front of him. He could vanish in a trice. But he never even thought of it. Will and Ellie might hate him, they might never trust him again, but he would not desert them to save his own skin. He retraced his steps and went back to the caves to find Hosanna. He did not know where else to go.
The horse was half dozing, his head between his knees, and Shihab had lain down beside him. When he heard Kamil, Hosanna blinked and roused himself, shifting so that the young man could put his arms around his neck and rub his face against the horse’s mane. What shall I do, Hosanna? Kamil begged silently. Help me. Hosanna stood for a while, providing a rock to lean on, until eventually Kamil left him.
15
As Hal and Elric woke to continue their journey to Richard at the imperial court, so the camp on the beach began to stir, although quietly so as not to disturb the Old Man. Only when his personal servants emerged from his tent, rushing to satisfy their waking master’s ever-changing demands, did they dare to raise their voices. When the Old Man at last appeared, dressed this morning all in crimson, there was a shiver of expectation. It was the Old Man’s boast that if his crimson tunic was laid in water, the blood of thousands would seep from it. He wore it jauntily. It suited him.
Men were at once put to work to create a jousting arena. It was to be situated some way away from the caves, on the sand near the water’s edge. The Old Man, juggling oranges again, was scrupulous in asking Kamil about the rules. Was there a special way the jousting list should be set up? How many lances should each knight have? How far apart should Kamil and Will be when mounted? If they did not kill each other with the lance, the Old Man had a fancy for swords. Was that in keeping with the spirit of the game? And then, was it customary for competitors to bow to the audience? He had heard that a lady’s favor was often sought. Was that right? Kamil would not answer but with each refusal the Old Man’s smile grew tighter and Amal’s face grew paler. “Oh well,” the Old Man said eventually, with studied car
elessness, “bring out the girl. We’ll see if you remember the rules better when she is here to remind you.” Amal gave a strangled cough. The Old Man inspected him and, with new malice in his voice, asked if his faithful servant was unwell. He was in a peppery mood.
Kamil intervened. “There is no need to bring Ellie out,” he said, and at the sound of his voice the Old Man metamorphosed at once into a kindly grandfather listening to advice from a grandson. “You may institute any rules you wish,” Kamil told him, sounding as sarcastic as he dared. “Will and I should be at least twelve ships’ lengths apart. Before we begin, we will bow to the audience and Ellie should give a token to whichever one of us she wishes. Then we will take our places and when the trumpet sounds we will advance. When one of us lies dead, the winner will take off his helmet to receive his applause.”
“Applause!” Now the Old Man looked genuinely delighted. He dropped his oranges and began at once to clap. A dozen servants rushed toward him. He looked at them with some amusement. “No, no”—he flapped his wrists—“I don’t want anything. I’m just practicing. These Christian tournaments are full of fun. We have a rare treat in store.” The servants, not sure how to respond, fell to their knees. The Old Man looked sorrowfully at them. “They never laugh unless I tell them to,” he complained. “I wish I had people about me who were less servile.” He leaned forward and pinched Kamil’s arm conspiratorially before turning to Amal. “How many years have you served me, Amal?” he asked.
“All my life, Excellency,” Amal answered.
“And do you like me?”