by K. M. Grant
The terror on Amal’s face was almost comic. In different circumstances, even Kamil might have laughed. “L-like you, Excellency?” Amal stammered. “I am a servant. It is not a word I know.” He could not hide his dismay.
“You see?” The Old Man blinked. “It is a great burden.”
“I will go and see that the horses are made ready,” Kamil said shortly. He could bear sitting here no longer.
At once the Old Man was sharp again. “You will not. When it is time, your horse will be brought to you. Until then you will sit here, beside me, and as we sit I can imagine to myself how well we would have got on together had you chosen a different path.” Kamil had no choice but to obey.
The day dragged by. The only time Kamil was alone was when the Old Man went to speak to Will and Ellie. He had them brought out of the cave and showed them the preparations under way. Kamil could not see their faces but he could hear as the Old Man, most politely and in perfect Norman French, told Will that in the interests of fair play, he was to be allowed a chance to kill Kamil and regain Richard’s ransom.
“Why?” asked Will at once. “You hate my king and you want all the silver. Why should you give it back to me?”
“Indeed,” said the Old Man, and his smile was brilliant, “but you see I don’t expect you to win. Kamil and I came up with this idea because Kamil tells me that he wants to bring that red horse back to Arabia and that he cannot do that if you are alive. He has some honor left, you know. So he will be fighting to the death. Not only that”—he glanced lasciviously at Ellie—“but our little tournament will sort out the fate of this delightful girl. You, madam, are to form part of Kamil’s prize. He seems to like that idea very much. Now”—he turned back to Will—“it only remains for you to accept the challenge.”
Ellie was too shocked to move but her voice did not desert her. “We were promised our freedom once Kamil had delivered our silver. Is it not honorable, even for a Saracen, to keep promises?”
“Oh! Is that what he told you?” The Old Man seemed full of remorse. “I am sorry he deceived you. But,” he added more cheerfully, “we will have a splendid time.”
Ellie began again. The Old Man listened for a moment, then grew bored and tapped his fingers together. Ellie’s voice trailed off. “So will you fight, Earl?” the Old Man inquired, “for this girl, for your horse, and for your king’s ransom?”
There was only one answer Will could make. “I will fight as a Christian knight against a foreign traitor,” he said coldly. “I do not know what treachery has brought us here or where the treachery begins or ends. But I know one thing: that you are an evil man, perhaps the most evil of all men. Come, Ellie, we will not listen any longer.”
When the Old Man returned to Kamil, all pretence at benevolence had vanished. Sniping at his servants, he juggled his oranges high and with venom. When the time came for Kamil to prepare himself, the Old Man let him go without a word.
An hour before dusk the bugler raised his instrument and blew one long, strong note. The scene could hardly have been more picturesque. The tournament list was ready on the beach and, midway between the cliffs and the sea, two makeshift thrones had been set on a dais, their yellow silken canopies billowing gently in the breeze. On the larger throne sat the Old Man and on the smaller sat Ellie. On each side, and forming a semicircular human fence reaching down to the water’s edge, the Old Man’s followers were crowded together, all pushing to the front so that nobody should miss out on the spectacle. Quite a distance behind, outside the mouth of the cave, the packhorses and riding horses were tethered, with Sacramenta among them. At the bugler’s note, Shihab and Hosanna emerged, Shihab decked out in silver and Hosanna in gold. Sacramenta threw up her head and whinnied at them but neither horse replied. The unfamiliar hands that held them made them uneasy and Shihab, particularly, was very agitated. Her skin quivered as if a thousand tiny insects were biting it and she barged about, pushing against Hosanna and nearly knocking her handler over. Hosanna was calmer but held his head high so that the grooms struggled to settle the headpiece of his bridle in place.
Will had been given back his armor, cleaned and oiled, and had been helped to put it on by two servants who treated him as if he were an honored guest rather than a prisoner. Will knew why. Knights going to their death had an aura about them that all civilized people respected. These men, though followers of the Old Man, were not savages. They spoke courteously and were at pains to ensure that Will was physically comfortable. It was almost enough to make him smile. But he could not smile, not with Ellie sitting so close to the Old Man that she was reflected in the jewels of his turban; not with the Old Man playing nonchalantly with his dagger. Then there was Amal, folding his hands over and over, obviously wanting to say something to him that Will did not care to hear. Amal was a villain. Taking his helmet, Will turned on his heel.
Another bugle blast bounced off the cliffs and as it drifted out to sea, Will was invited to step forward. He did so at once, for he did not want to appear reluctant. He heard Sacramenta whinny again and bid her a silent farewell. Ellie heard her too, and, much as she tried not to, she could not stop herself echoing the mare: “Will! Will!”
Now Will was torn. He and Ellie had not said a proper good-bye in the cave. Yet he did not want to look at her, even though not looking at her was worse. In the end, he could not help himself.
Ellie had risen to her feet, her arms slightly raised, and the expression on her face rocked his heart. She glowered, half defiant, half pleading, at the Old Man, and when she got no response except a slight quickening of the plump fingers running over the dagger blade, she took a hesitant step forward. There was no reaction so she ran, stumbling down the steps of the dais and across the sand, her feet sinking and her dress dragging behind her. Will caught her in his arms. It was difficult to hold her without hurting her, for his mail surcoat kept him locked inside its steel webbing, but his soul could not be locked away and neither could hers. “I’m ready, Ellie,” Will whispered, although he had never felt less ready in his life, “I’m really ready.” Ellie, determined not to sob, just held him tight.
As she returned to the dais, she saw Kamil waiting, armed just like Will. With her head held rigid, she walked past him with queenly disdain. Kamil’s eyes sought hers but she would not notice. Whatever had happened, whatever Kamil’s story, whatever the crippling pull of divided loyalties, it was an outrage of Kamil’s making that Will should end his life here, in this mock tournament on a wintry beach in a hostile country. This was what he had done. Ellie knew Kamil wanted to speak to her and she knew too that Will would not have thought ill of her had she been willing to listen. But she would not. She could not. To address Kamil at all, she felt, would kill her. So she walked blindly on and resumed her place next to the Old Man. His fingers slowed on the blade, now stroking it like a cat.
The trappings of the horses and the armor of the two knights sent lightning flashes across the bay and the Old Man moved his head so that his own baubles added their glitter. His crimson robes rippled and his men, who had been murmuring, fell silent. Even the sea seemed to hold its breath as the Old Man raised a hand. At once the horses were brought forward, Shihab nervy and unwilling, Hosanna obedient but his flanks trembling. The jingle of their trappings seemed unnaturally loud and made Shihab jump. Having never taken part in a tournament before, she was thoroughly alarmed. Hosanna, on the other hand, knew at once the exertions that were to be demanded of him and prepared himself. Under his mane, he felt the tiny triangular wound still pricking. He twitched his head just once, then, as he had been trained to do, he fixed his attention entirely on the task ahead.
It was time to mount. At the signal, Kamil and Will walked out and handed over their helmets, each to his designated groom. Two wooden mounting blocks were brought forward and both men climbed up. Once settled on Hosanna, Will somehow felt better. Even through the thick saddle, he could feel the horse warm and supple underneath him. Hosanna took one step back to balance himself, then lower
ed his head briefly into his chest as if chasing the reins. The familiar movements were very dear to Will at this moment. Once the horse was satisfied, his ears flicked back in a salute, waiting for his master’s instructions.
Kamil settled himself too, even though Shihab was determined not to help. Jostling and jibbing, her eyes full of peevish anxiety and her back unused to the full weight of an armored man, she chewed her bit until her mouth was a mass of froth. Kamil tried to reassure her, both in Arabic and in Norman French, but she would not listen. Her ears were flat back, deliberately deaf.
Once more the bugle. Hosanna jogged to the end of the list, where the man in charge of Will’s lances was waiting. Will made to put his helmet on but before he did so an order came from Kamil. “We must bow to our patron,” he called out, “and take our favor from the lady present.”
“Why?” Will’s voice was loud and angry. “Let’s just start quickly, before the sun vanishes.”
But Kamil was insistent. “It’s the custom,” he said. “We must perform all the customs. It is the Old Man’s particular wish and you must obey him since he is our master of ceremonies.”
Will flushed at the humiliation and turned back. He would stand in front of the Old Man but he would never bow. Without protest, Hosanna retraced his steps. Kamil was already waiting, his helmet tucked under his arm. Shihab, relieved to see Hosanna, shoved her head against him and flecks of spit speckled his neck. Kamil’s left knee brushed against Will’s right.
The Old Man was happy as a boy with a new toy. “This Christian chivalry really is full of formality,” he crowed, “just as I have always been told. Do we stand up for this honor? Do I give you my blessing?”
“Ellie must stand up,” said Kamil clearly. “She must come down and give a token to me.”
Ellie started. “I will not,” she declared in ringing tones. “I would rather give a token to this old man than to you.” Her knuckles were white against her dress.
The Old Man arched his eyebrows. “That would be an honor indeed,” he said softly. Ellie shrank back into her seat.
Kamil’s knee brushed against Will’s again, and through the armor, Will could feel an insistent pressure although Kamil never looked his way. “Come down, Ellie,” Kamil repeated. “Come down and give me a token.” Kamil would not allow Shihab to move from Hosanna although the mare snorted and banged a front hoof on the ground.
Every nerve in Will’s body began to tingle. Through the corner of his eye, he saw Kamil’s lips twitch nervously. But though Kamil ordered Ellie again and again, she continued to refuse to come down and the Old Man grew impatient. Only then did Kamil look Will full in the face. “Perhaps she would prefer to give a token to you,” he said, his eyes boring into Will’s. “One of us must have one. We cannot leave this spot empty-handed.”
Without taking his eyes from Kamil’s, Will slowly inclined his head. “No,” he said hesitantly, trusting where there should have been no trust. “Ellie, come and give a token to me.”
“These are just games,” cried Ellie wildly. “Why are you playing their games, Will?”
“We must play this game, Ellie,” Will said, slightly raising his voice. “It may be our last. Let’s play it properly—you know, like we used to play in the meadow at Hartslove when we were small. Do it, Ellie.”
For one moment, Will thought that Ellie was not listening. She was crammed far back in her seat and was shaking her head from side to side. He almost gave up. But the pressure on his knee from Kamil was intense. The Old Man began to complain. Fed up with the delay, he stamped his foot. This made Ellie jump and Will opened his eyes so wide at her that she stopped shaking her head and was entirely still. Then, just as the Old Man reached boiling point, she rose.
“Yes,” Ellie said, though her voice was cautious, “like when we were small. I remember.” Kamil’s knee jerked. Ellie looked at him for the first time. “I need a token,” she said, then she turned around and snatched the Old Man’s knife. The Old Man gasped but Ellie took no notice. With a small flourish, she simply cut off the tail of her belt and tossed the dagger back. The Old Man caught it and looked at Ellie with new respect. What curious people these enemies were turning out to be! This was going to be some show.
Ellie walked down the dais steps. Will’s breath was coming quicker now and he was already drawing off his right gauntlet, following Kamil, who had drawn off his left. The horses parted and Ellie found a path opening up for her. With the end of her belt clutched against her breast she found herself forced to go down the middle. For courage she brushed Hosanna’s star lightly with her fingers as she passed. Shihab would allow no contact but blew out, scattering foam, her ears still flat back. But at least she was obedient now and when she felt pressure on her left rein, asking her to turn her head to form an arc around Ellie, she did as she was told. Ellie held up her arm, not sure what she was expected to do next.
Kamil moved with lightning rapidity. Dropping both gauntlet and helmet, he seized Ellie around the waist and swung her up behind him. There was no time for her even to cry out, for at once Will crowded in and both he and Kamil drew the swords with which they were supposed to kill each other. Just once, they clashed, with a sharp, metallic slice, then raising the swords high above their heads, both men galloped straight for the wall of spectators.
The Old Man leaped as if he had been stung, biting his tongue and stabbing himself in the palm of his hand. The unexpected pain and the sight of his own blood seemed momentarily to mesmerize him, but then he was shouting and screaming like a banshee. The devils! The devils! He rushed down the steps. Nobody must break ranks. If the human fence remained intact, the horses would stop and Will and Kamil would be trapped. “The man who moves even one muscle is a dead man!” he howled, “and his flesh will be meat for the vultures.” But seeing Hosanna and Shihab wildly spurred on by their riders, the spectators began to shift, then waver, until, at the last possible moment, they cracked and splintered. The horses never hesitated but plunged straight through them, Kamil and Will using their swords like scythes, mercilessly sweeping away those who remained in their way until the sand around them was red and the Old Man’s roaring was drowned out by the wails of the wounded.
The Old Man cared nothing for his injured men. His howling became more and more savage. “Stand firm, you dogs! If these people escape, I’ll cut off your useless arms and roast your children.” But it was no good. With sword thrusts raining from above, blinded by sand and blood, crushed against each other and under the weight of those thrust backward, the Old Man’s followers could hardly hear him. Still howling, their master tore off his turban and stamped it into the dirt.
Ellie had to cling to Kamil to prevent herself from falling off and Kamil could feel Shihab scrabbling to keep her feet. By a miracle she kept going, pushed on by Hosanna, but Kamil knew that she could not carry two people at speed for long. The second they broke through the crowd, he veered her toward the caves and sliced through the rope that kept the packhorses tethered together. Most of the animals fled at once but Sacramenta, already excited by the noise and the thundering hooves, hardly needed to hear Kamil shout her name to follow him instead. Within seconds, she was thundering behind as Kamil turned again and set off along the bottom of the cliff face.
Close on her tail, Will bellowed his delight. Oh, clever Kamil! Yet even as he punched the air, his heart was sinking. On their left was the sea and on their right, a stern, unyielding wall of limestone. Though they could gallop to where the cove rounded off into a sharp promontory, after that there was nowhere to go except into the waves. He told himself that at least dying all together would be better than dying apart. But very quickly he began to fear that even that would be denied them. They could not keep up this pace. The sand sucked each hoof down and only reluctantly let it go. It became a fight to keep up any speed at all. Shihab was already sweating and even Hosanna began to flag. The shingle might save them. But it was deceptive. Even as they heard its welcome crunch, they found themse
lves slipping about like drunken skaters, every moment in danger of tearing precious ligaments and tendons. “Kamil,” Will cried, “we can’t go on! The horses’ legs will be wrecked. They will fall!” Kamil said nothing, only gritted his teeth. It seemed an age, far farther than he thought, until he heard the splash of the stream and turned sharply to the right. Will, in an agony of apprehension, turned, too. But now they were just heading straight at the rock. “God help us all,” he whispered to Hosanna as the horse stumbled over the deadly terrain. “May he have mercy on our souls.”
Once under the cliff’s lee, Will could barely see Shihab’s tail. Then both she and Sacramenta disappeared and, a moment later, Will too found himself no longer under the shadow of the rock, but inside it. His shock, then shocked delight, was short-lived. Within seconds, the light had vanished and the air hung thick and slimy. The narrow streambed was even more treacherous than the shingle, for the stones were unstable and the gradient became steeper with every step. The riders’ legs scraped along the jagged rocks that enclosed them like a tomb and the horses’ pace slowed to a clamber. The water, though not deep, sounded like a torrent in the compressed space. Occasionally, a foothold would completely give way and Shihab, losing courage in the lead, began to slide backward, threatening to push them all down again. Only Hosanna, a solid bulwark at the back, kept them from disaster.
Squashed within the fissure, it was impossible to see what might be going on behind but the fugitives could imagine it all too clearly. By now, mounted men with lowered lances would be pushing up the opening. Soon they would be in full cry, using flaming torches to flush out their quarry. Kamil did not even have the comfort of knowing what lay in wait for them all at the top of the streambed, if they ever made it that far. Nevertheless, there was nowhere to go but on. They all tried to help the horses as best they could, but it was impossible to prevent their joints and bones being banged and raked while the stream tumbled and burbled, mocking and uncaring.