Wasting no time with words, Raoul grabbed him by the back of his tunic, dragged him backwards and thrust in his dagger. The man collapsed to the ground, blood spurting between his fingers. Raoul leaped over him and sprang towards Le Gros.
“Not so fast, bastard,” he growled in Breton. He’d pulled the woman round in front of him now and had a knife pressed against her neck. “You take a step closer and I’ll make her face look like yours. Yes, that’s better. You keep your distance. Now then, let your weapon fall – that’s right.”
“What do you intend to do? Stay here all day?” He consciously echoed Taloc’s sneering comment of the previous night. “When you move, I’ll have you.”
“I’ll stay as long as I like. But you go for me and she gets it. Or don’t you care?” He made as if to draw the blade across her throat.
“For God’s sake!” Raoul cried. “Let her go!”
“Quite a tasty little piece this, I reckon. Be a pity to kill her too soon.”
Out of the corner of his eye Raoul noticed that their other victim, the girl’s companion – a servant perhaps? – had come round and was starting to inch his way closer. Hoping Le Gros hadn’t noticed his glance in that direction, he looked at the woman and met her eyes. They were like the little boy’s – huge and brown – but these were filled with anguish, terror and disgust as the Breton’s filthy hand pawed at her, seeking the most tender intimate parts of her body through the torn gown.
Raoul shut his eyes. He couldn’t bear to watch the girl’s utter humiliation. She was young, pretty, possibly unwed. If she escaped with her life, how would she bear the shame?
“What’s the matter, bastard? No taste for wenches, eh? Well, you’d better start watching or I’ll cut her throat first and have her after.” He guffawed as if he’d made a good joke. “Be a waste though, wouldn’t it? I like to feel ‘em squirm. Yeah, you keep your eyes open! Let’s see what she makes of this...”
He was hitching the back of her skirt up around her waist ready to take his pleasure.
“I should think she would almost rather die than be raped by a filthy brute like you!” The words broke from Raoul involuntarily.
As he spoke, the man in white threw himself at Le Gros, catching him off balance. He let go of the girl who fell to her knees, then whirled round, slashing out wildly with the knife. Raoul grabbed his dagger and dived across the intervening space but he wasn’t fast enough. Le Gros had caught his attacker a vicious swipe across the forearm and the young man shrank back with a cry. Raoul lunged with his own blade but surprisingly nimbly for such a big man, the Breton sprang out of the way, turned, and ran off down the alley. For a second Raoul considered pursuit then rejected the idea. These two still needed his help and it could take hours to find Le Gros again in the labyrinth of streets.
Chapter Nineteen
“Here, have this for your arm,” Raoul said in French.
He held out his head-cloth to the young man who took it from him and attempted to staunch his dripping wound. He wasn’t a servant, Raoul decided. Although his once white robe was spattered with blood and covered in dust, its quality was obviously good. Was he her husband? Her lover? Raoul turned from him to the girl. She was still on her knees, crouched down with her head lowered as though in prayer. Raoul pulled off his Byzantine cloak and draped it over her shoulders. As it touched her a shiver seemed to run through her body and she began to weep noisily.
Raoul stepped back. He was afraid to touch her or offer her comfort. He looked helplessly from the prostrate girl to her companion. The young man had tied up his arm and he now he went and knelt beside the girl.
“Kamala, Kamala...” he murmured soothingly, putting a hand on her shoulder.
As he did so she lifted her head to look at him, her eyes drenched with tears. Then she sobbed out something which Raoul was unable to understand before burying her head against the young man’s chest.
“My sister says she owes her life and her honour to you,” he said. His French was good but heavily accented.
“I couldn’t have saved her without your help,” Raoul said. “Will she be all right?”
“I think so, yes. He only scared her – nothing worse.”
“It was bad enough.”
The youth stood and helped the girl to her feet.
“My name is Shahin Miah and my sister is Kamala. We are very much in your debt.”
Kamala had wrapped Raoul’s cloak tightly round her, covering her hair and most of her torn gown. She stood with her head bowed.
“If I helped a little it was my pleasure. Raoul de Metz, at your service.” He bowed.
“You are one of the Frankish Crusaders?”
Raoul hesitated for a moment. There was no point in trying to deny it – they were speaking in French.
“That’s right.”
“And those fellows were Frankish too? I did not recognise their language.”
“It was Breton – from the far North West; the Romans called their country “Armorica”. My family is also from there although I was born in Normandy – in Gaul.”
“You read Latin?” Shahin sounded surprised.
“Some, yes. I preferred Greek.”
“Perhaps not all Crusaders are barbarians after all,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“Sir, if you are feeling strong enough may I suggest that you take your sister home? It seems foolish to remain here – Le Gros might return.”
“You are right, of course.”
He spoke quietly to the girl and putting his arm round her, began to lead her away.
“Don’t forget these!”
Raoul bent over Taloc’s body and pulled the jewellery from his pouch. There were gold bracelets, neck chains and several rings. Each piece was studded with precious stones and the workmanship was intricate – quite the finest he had seen. The Miah family must be rich, he thought. He held them out for Shahin or Kamala to take. The girl glanced at Raoul then said something in a low voice to her brother.
“Kamala says that you must keep them as a reward for your bravery,” Shahin said.
“I couldn’t possibly!”
Raoul thrust them towards her. The young man took them from him and laughed.
“Then you must come with us to my uncle’s house so that he can thank you himself. That much at least you cannot refuse.”
“All right. With pleasure.”
“Come then. It is not very far.”
A short walk through the nearby streets brought them to a door in a high white wall. Shahin pulled a metal ring set in the stone beside it and a bell clanged somewhere. Moments later the door was opened and they stepped inside.
It was extraordinary, breath-taking. Raoul stood transfixed, gazing about him in awe as the door was shut behind them and people flocked round Shahin and his sister.
He was standing in a courtyard like none he had ever seen. In its centre, through an oddly shaped archway, water was springing high into the air and falling back with a melodic tinkling sound into a little pool. Around it there were seats and walls which were not really walls at all – screens of fretted stonework, heavily carved and loaded with bright flowers. The house, beyond, was built on three sides of the enclosure. Arches of the same curious shape ran along the front of it, forming a shady gallery like the cloisters in an abbey. Perched high on the roof, preening themselves in the warm sun, was a flock of pure white doves whose gentle cooing mingled with the splashing of the water. Even the ground beneath his feet was covered by a smooth white substance, decorated with floral patterns in orange, green and blue.
“Sir, please,” Shahin touched his arm.
Raoul looked at him in surprise – he had been utterly lost in admiration at this extraordinary place.
“I’m sorry – you were saying?”
“This is my uncle, Rawnak Kareem,” he told Raoul. He gestured to a bearded man dressed in rich blue robes. “This house is his.”
The man, who was middle aged and rather rotund, placed his ha
nds together and inclined his head. Raoul copied the gesture. It was the same as Armand’s servant had used in Radenoc, he remembered.
“My nephew has told me of your great bravery,” he said warmly.
Raoul shrugged self-deprecatingly.
“I did very little, sir,” he said.
“You are too modest, young man. Please accept the hospitality of my humble abode.”
“Thank you,” If this abode was humble, Raoul thought, what would a palace be like?
He beamed at Raoul then turned and began to make his way through the courtyard where a number of people still clustered, chattering excitedly. Kamala had been whisked away by some of the women, Raoul presumed, as there was now no sign of her. When they reached the colonnade, Kareem and Shahin stopped and removed their shoes; Raoul hastily pulled his boots off before he followed them inside.
The room beyond was even more splendid than the courtyard – if such a thing was possible. There were many windows and the high ceiling was decorated with colourful tiles, making the chamber immensely light and airy. On the polished floor lay huge squares of deep-piled fabric, patterned in dark reds, greens and blues. There were low tables, fat cushions in jewel-like colours and lamps on tall wrought iron stands.
Trying to stop himself from gazing open-mouthed like a fool, Raoul was guided by his hosts into a smaller alcove. It was divided from the rest of the room with fretted wooden screens in the distinctive arched shape which seemed to be everywhere.
“Be seated, young sir.”
As Kareem had lowered himself onto one of the colourful cushions, Raoul did the same.
“You will excuse me for a few minutes, please?” Shahin gestured ruefully to his soiled clothing. “I must clean myself.”
“Of course.”
“So you like my little house?” Kareem said, smiling at the way Raoul was still gazing in fascination at his surroundings.
“I think it is...unbelievable!” he said.
“You have seen nothing like this before?”
“Only once, sir. In the rooms of a man who had – em -travelled in these parts.”
In Raoul’s opinion these exotic furnishings suited this house much better than they had the cramped dark rooms at Radenoc.
“And you are one of the Frankish knights, Lord de Metz, I understand.”
Raoul winced at the unwarranted title.
“I am just a soldier, sir, not a lord or a knight. My given name is Raoul – please call me that.”
“Which contingent are you with? Who is your commander?”
Puzzled, Raoul told him.
When he had finished, the man nodded, apparently satisfied, and then clapped his hands. Barely a second later a young servant ran in and bowed deeply to his master. Kareem spoke rapidly to him in a language which Raoul didn’t understand. Once he heard his own name mentioned and also something that sounded like Tréguier, though that seemed unlikely.
“Now, while we wait for our refreshment, tell me about your family, Raoul.”
“There’s little to tell, sir. I knew neither of my parents – they were killed when I was a baby so I was brought up by my grandmother.”
“She must be proud of you.”
“Not exactly, sir.” Raoul sighed. Who knew what Eleanor thought of him – or even if she was still alive? “Your own family must be...” He broke off, not wishing to insult his host with a vulgar comment about how rich they were.
Kareem seemed to know what he had been going to say.
“Prosperous?” he laughed. “Yes, we have done quite well. My family have been merchants for many generations and we have gained – some wealth. But recently these wars have spoiled things – disrupted the traditional routes from the east. When I was your age, trade was very much better – before the barbarian hordes poured down on us from the west.”
“Barbarian hordes?” Raoul echoed in surprise. Surely he couldn’t mean the first Crusaders?
“Shahin’s father in Antioch even turned Christian in order to prosper under Frankish rule.”
“But does that mean that you are...” Raoul stopped, appalled at himself. He had been about to say “Infidel”.
Again Kareem seemed to read his thought.
“An Infidel? A heathen?” He smiled and shook his head. “What do these names mean? We are all God’s children and we all live on God’s good earth, enjoying its plenty. Some call Him Jehovah and his prophet Jesus Christ – though not all agree on that! Some call him Allah and believe Mohammed was his prophet – in the lands far away they use other names again, as did the Romans and before them the Greeks. What does it matter?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Raoul met Kareem’s eyes with difficulty. “You must think me very rude.”
The other man chuckled.
“Young men are always quick to judge – it’s in their nature. We older men are content to sit back and watch a while before we speak. Shahin now...”
“What about me?”
The young man was approaching them. He wore a light green robe in the same style as his uncle’s and his injured arm had been bandaged. He sat down on a cushion near Raoul.
“I was about to say that you consider all the Franks to be ignorant savages.”
Shahin blushed and glanced at Raoul.
“Not all, uncle. Our guest here is an exception.”
“There may well be others too, my boy! You never know!” Kareem seemed to enjoy his nephew’s embarrassment.
At that moment a servant’s appearance provided a timely distraction. The boy placed a loaded tray onto the low table in front of them. Raoul was handed a delicate translucent cup of steaming golden liquid. He took it gingerly, afraid to grip too tightly in case it broke, and raised it to his lips. The drink was aromatic and refreshing.
“Have one of these.” Shahin held out a dainty platter.
Raoul carefully set the cup down and took one of the little squares. Was it some sort of cake, perhaps? He popped it in his mouth. The taste and texture were like nothing he had previously experienced – crunchy and yet light, sweet yet quite different from honey.
“You like it?” Kareem was watching him in amusement.
“It’s – wonderful!”
Until he started eating, Raoul had almost forgotten about the wound on his cheek. He flinched now as the pain began to nag at him again.
“But Shahin, my boy,” Kareem leaned forward and peered at Raoul with narrowed eyes, “our guest must think us most remiss. You have had your hurt dressed and have changed your clothes but Raoul is in discomfort still.”
“It’s an old injury, sir. I didn’t get this today.”
“Nevertheless, it must be looked at.”
Kareem clapped his hands again and another servant, a thin elderly man this time, ran to him. He was rapidly given some instructions and the man then turned to Raoul and bowed.
“Go with Abdul,” Kareem said. “He will take you to bathe and find fresh clothes for you. Once that is done the doctor will have arrived to tend your face. It troubles you sorely, does it not?”
“It’s annoying, yes. But I should be returning to the camp, sir. I have stayed too long here as it is.”
“Nonsense! Nonsense, young man. You must spend a few days with us.”
“Truly, sir, I can’t. I have duties to attend to and I must make a report of what has happened.”
“That is taken care of. A message has been sent to your Count and his permission asked for you to stay here as our guest.”
“Sir, I feel I am imposing on you.”
“Are you really so keen to sleep in a muddy field? And as to imposing, you yourself have noticed that we are not exactly paupers. It would be our pleasure, Raoul.”
“Thank you, sir. I would be glad to accept.” He gave a lop-sided smile. “I don’t imagine the army plans to stay in its muddy field for very long, though.”
“Whether they plan to or not, they will have no choice. The Emperor will not invite them into the city, of that you can be
certain. Not after the German debacle.”
“I’m even more grateful for your hospitality, then,” Raoul said with a polite bow, wondering what Kareem meant.
“You will dine with us later, Raoul,” Shahin said. “And if you care for reading, we have one or two books that may interest you.”
“Thank you.”
“Go with Abdul now,” said Kareem with another amused glance at his nephew.
Raoul nodded to the servant who bowed then led him away.
He had never felt so clean in his entire life. Every inch of Raoul’s body had been scoured with soft sand; he had been steamed, scrubbed, doused in hot water and plunged into cold. He had just been rubbed with fragrant oil by one manservant and now another was holding out a clean tunic for him to put on. He slipped it over his head and revelled in the feel of its soft warmth against his newly sensitised skin. A robe like those worn by Shahin and his uncle, but this one of amber coloured wool, was then put on him, fastened by a soft belt of tooled leather. There were even matching slippers with no backs and strange pointed toes. Raoul felt odd, exotic, unlike himself. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and gave an astounded grin. Then he winced as pain shot across his injured cheek.
The elderly servant who had brought him to the bath-house now appeared in the doorway and indicated that Raoul should follow him again. He led the way through several rooms until they reached a high-ceilinged chamber whose walls were painted a dazzling white. A fire had been lit on a hearth against one wall and above it was a steaming cauldron. It, or perhaps the fire, was producing a strange herbal fragrance which hung in the air. The only furniture was a low couch spread with a white sheet which stood in the centre of the room.
In response to a gesture from the servant, Raoul sat on the couch. The man bowed and left him. Raoul stayed there for a few minutes then, filled with nervous curiosity, went across to the fireplace and looked into the pot. It seemed to be full of knives. He bent closer in amazement: there were tongs, spikes and other peculiar shaped implements.
“You have touched nothing, I hope,” a voice said in perfect French.
The Rightful Heir Page 30