The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  Raoul started back hastily and swung round.

  The speaker was an old man, small and very bent. He had an immensely long beard and an enormous cloth was wrapped in an elaborate coil on his head. He carried a large bag and he peered up at Raoul through strange circles of glass which seemed to magnify the size of his eyes. He looked like no Frenchman Raoul had ever seen.

  “No, I just looked.”

  “That is well, sir. That is well. Now if you will lie down, please?”

  “Are you the doctor?”

  “I have that honour. Nazrat Ali Benmohammed, at your service, sir.”

  “That’s not a French name!”

  “I am an Arab, sir.”

  The doctor placed his hands together and bowed in the same way as Kareem had when Raoul first met him.

  “But you speak my language so well – with no accent at all!”

  “Thank you, sir. I also speak Armenian, Greek, Latin, Hebrew, German and Italian: all, I hope, without an accent.”

  Sensing that he was being laughed at, Raoul hastily sat on the couch. He didn’t want to make any more foolish observations.

  “Can you give me anything to help this wound?” Raoul asked. “I put some salve on it but it’s just got worse.”

  “Lie back, if you please, young sir. First I must look to see what the trouble is. Ah, yes. Not very pleasant, is it?”

  “No.”

  Raoul flinched as the man’s gnarled finger gently touched the cut.

  “And painful too. Shut your eyes, sir, please.”

  Expecting to feel pain, Raoul complied and steeled himself. There was a tiny pin-prick and then the left side of his face went instantly cold. His eyes flew open in alarm. The old man laughed and replaced a phial of something in his bag.

  “Do not worry. The numbness will only last for a little while. I cannot clean this wound properly while there is pain – you would not let me. I think you will agree that as it feels now, although a little odd, it is less troublesome.”

  “Yes,” Raoul agreed. It felt as if half of his face had disappeared.

  “It is possible that you may feel happier keeping your eyes closed while I work. Otherwise you may alarm yourself unnecessarily. It will not hurt you, I promise. And in a few days, apart from a little mark, the skin will be well again.”

  “You have treated other wounds like this?”

  “Many, many, my friend. A dirty blade, some poison, perhaps – and this is the result. Don’t worry. It can be cured. Your life is not in jeopardy – nor is your handsome face.”

  Raoul bit his lip, ashamed of the relief he felt. Vanity was a sin and because of his resemblance to Armand, he’d often cursed the way he looked – until recently.

  The doctor took a length of white cloth from his bag and laid it over Raoul’s chest, tucking it securely round his shoulders and under his chin.

  “Close your eyes, sir. It will soon be done.”

  “Now, you may open them.”

  The doctor was removing the cloth which covered Raoul and repacking his bag.

  “Is it better?” Raoul raised his hand towards his face.

  “Do not touch it, sir! Do you want the infection to return?”

  “No, of course not – I just wondered what...”

  “Tch, tch. You anxious young men!” The old man rummaged in his bag until he found a small looking-glass which he handed to Raoul.

  “No, really, it’s all right.”

  “Please look, sir. You are naturally curious, I know.”

  He knew he was being laughed at again, but he took the glass obediently and held it up.

  “What are those?” he cried in alarm.

  The oozing angry wound was now just a thin red line across his cheek but it was criss-crossed by little black marks which looked a lot like embroidery stitches.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t...is it sewing?”

  The doctor chuckled openly.

  “Have you never seen that before?”

  “On a garment, on a lady’s tambour frame! Not on skin!”

  “And why should one not stitch on skin?”

  “It looks awful!”

  Raoul flung the mirror down. The doctor retrieved it and put it back in his bag with a sigh.

  “My dear young man – the stitches are not there to stay. In a few days I shall remove them – and your wound will be neatly healed.”

  “Oh. Sorry. It’s just I’ve never...”

  “You are a Frank, sir. You cannot help your ignorance.”

  Raoul felt considerably chastened, as the old man bowed, picked up his bag and turned to go.

  “I will send His Excellency’s servant to take you to rest before dinner,” he said from the doorway. “And I will see you in four or five days. If the wound gives you trouble, please send someone and I will return before then.”

  “Thank you,” Raoul said, getting up hastily. “I really appreciate what...”

  But the old man had gone. Raoul sank back onto the couch to wait for the servant.

  “If you please, Master Raoul, sir, Master Shahin and Master Rawnak are waiting for you below.”

  The young slightly sing-song voice woke Raoul from a light doze.

  “Who’s there?”

  He was lying on a low curtain-less divan in the room to which Abdul had shown him. He had only intended to close his eyes for a moment but he must have slept for more than an hour. The bright sunlight had faded. It was nearly dark in the room now and the window was a luminous square of turquoise in which the silver points of stars were just starting to show.

  “Shall I light the lamp, Master Raoul? It’s Bhavesh, sir. I am to be your servant.”

  “Please do, Bhavesh... That’s better.”

  A golden glow had risen from the bowl set on a tall stand by the door. Bhavesh, who was a slight youth a few years Raoul’s junior, bowed deeply to his new master.

  “Are you ready now, sir? You wish to wash?”

  “No. I’m fine. Thanks.” After today he wouldn’t need to wash again for a year! And his face barely hurt at all although the numbness had worn off.

  “Come with me, then, sir.”

  The room to which he was led was similar to the spacious chamber where he’d sat with Kareem. It was not a Hall as Raoul knew it. It was not all that large though it was extremely richly furnished. This could not be the whole household although it was quite possibly the whole family. There were perhaps thirty people reclining on cushions on the floor and a long low table which ran down the centre of the room. On it, at intervals, were lamps, brightly illuminating the colourful scene. Musicians played on a gallery at the far end and there was a hum of cheerful chatter from the assembled company.

  At his entrance, several people rose and came forward to greet him. Kareem clasped his hand warmly and began to introduce the men and women around them. They were all dark haired and richly dressed. The ladies wore gauzy head-veils of the same colour as their gowns and also a great deal of elaborate gold jewellery. The men were almost all bearded and bore a strong resemblance to Rawnak Kareem. Raoul bowed politely in the eastern fashion and tried to store away the unfamiliar names.

  “This is my sister Samina, Kamala’s mother,” Kareem told him at length, presenting a stout matron.

  “I am very pleased to meet you, madam.”

  The woman, who was dressed in deep crimson, inclined her veiled head graciously.

  “How is your daughter, madam?”

  “As well as one might expect after her ordeal. Nazrat Ali has given her a draft to make her sleep.”

  “Come, sit down now and eat, young man.” Kareem took his arm and led him to a vacant place next to Shahin. “You must be hungry.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I am.”

  Raoul felt humbled by the fact that all these people spoke excellent French while he knew not a word of their language.

  When the meal was over, he and Shahin took small cups of a different dark, steaming, but aromatic
liquid, and went out into the courtyard by the fountain. Little lamps on the screens and the archways had been lit, casting tiny winking pools of light. Raoul thought it was enchanting.

  “You are not cold?” Shahin asked solicitously.

  “No, no.”

  The air was pleasantly cool. His new clothes were warm and comfortable. The meal he had just eaten – despite the strange unfamiliar foods – had been the best he had ever tasted.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping the hot drinks.

  “Leave the last part in the bottom of the cup,” Shahin warned after a while. “It is a sediment – quite unpleasant in the mouth.”

  “Thanks.” Raoul set down his cup then hesitated for a moment. He didn’t wish to be impolite. “Your uncle told me he was a merchant but the doctor called him “His Excellency”. I don’t mean to pry, but is he an important man in Byzantium?”

  Shahin shrugged.

  “He is quite important, I suppose. He is one of the council of ministers and Emperor Manuel sometimes heeds his advice. Kamala is to marry a distant cousin of the Emperor. My mother and I are here for the wedding.”

  “Did Master Kareem – or is it “Lord Kareem”...?”

  “”Master” will do,” Shahin said with an amused smile.

  “Did he say your father is in Antioch?”

  “That’s right, yes. But as Antioch is now under the rule of Nur Ed-Din, rather than your people, he was not given permission to travel: he’s a Christian convert, you see.”

  “Who is that? Nur...whoever you said. I thought Zengi was the leader of the…er...the Muslims.”

  “Quite recently Zengi was foully murdered by his own personal guard. Nur Ed-Din is his son and a great warrior. You will find him a formidable enemy.”

  “You sound as if you admire him.”

  “I do.”

  “What happened here in Byzantium? Why is your uncle so sure that Emperor Manuel will not aid King Louis?”

  Shahin sighed.

  “Uncle Rawnak knows more than me. My sister and I arrived here last week so I only know what I have been told. The German King – Conrad, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Conrad and his army reached Byzantium a few weeks ago. The Emperor made them welcome and housed them in the city. Then the trouble started. There was drunken brawling; in the Phanar Quarter buildings were set alight and many died – innocent citizens, old people and tiny children. Manuel had to send in his soldiers to put out the flames. But that wasn’t the worst of it: not content with whores, the German soldiers raped virtuous local women and murdered the men who tried to save them.”

  “Like today.”

  “That is correct. Like today.”

  “But if you knew what happened then why in God’s name did you and your sister go out into the city without armed guards?”

  Shahin shook his head.

  “Kamala likes to be independent. She wanted us to go on our own and choose the silk for her wedding gown. And she wanted to surprise her mother – servants always chatter, she says. I hadn’t heard about the trouble then – though I knew enough about western soldiers from living in Antioch – and the Germans had long gone. Anyway, I understood that Manuel had forbidden the Frankish Crusaders from entering the city.”

  “He had. But some soldiers will always disobey orders, whatever they may be.”

  “I’m very pleased that you did, at any rate. You must not think I count you with those...animals.”

  He reached across and clasped Raoul’s hand.

  “I don’t know,” Raoul said with a sigh. “I am starting to realise how very ignorant I am!”

  “If you have a good heart and an open mind – as I believe you have, Raoul de Metz, despite the unfortunate country of your origin – it is never too late to learn.”

  Shahin’s grin robbed his words of insult.

  “I’m not sure what I should say to that,” Raoul said with a laugh. “But you mentioned books earlier...”

  “Come. I will show you my uncle’s library.”

  The next few days flew past. Raoul enjoyed several hours of each browsing through the astounding array of books and scrolls owned by Rawnak Kareem. There were texts dealing with history, poetry, philosophy and religion. Many were in Greek or Latin but some were in other scripts, full of curlicues and flourishes, which Raoul was unable to read – though Shahin translated some of their contents to him. He learned to say a few simple words in Arabic, their principal language, which Raoul wrote down in order to remember them more easily. Everyone was surprised and delighted when he gained the confidence to use them.

  To his astonishment Raoul discovered from Bhavesh that he was expected to visit the bath-house every day. But he soon found himself enjoying the ministrations of the servants and the chance to chat with the men of Kareem’s family. He didn’t see the women there – apparently they bathed at a different time of day.

  Kamala re-joined the household for meals on his second day. Raoul was able to speak to her briefly although her French was limited. She was very quiet and subdued and seemed frequently close to tears. When it was suggested that the wedding be deferred – it was to be held in two weeks’ time – she roused herself sufficiently to protest. Raoul wished he could have seen her before the ugly incident took place. Even now she was beautiful but wan and pale, as if she’d lost some spark of inner life. Shahin and his mother were clearly worried about her.

  On the fifth day Bhavesh took him back to the Infirmary for Nazrat Ali to remove the stitches from Raoul’s face. This he did swiftly and with delicate precision. When it was done, Raoul thanked him warmly and asked how much he must pay.

  “His Excellency has seen to that, young man. Do not give it a thought.”

  “Sir, will Lady Kamala be all right, do you think? You are attending her, aren’t you?”

  The doctor frowned.

  “It is hard to say. She is very young. The grosser side of man’s nature frightens her, I think. She fears to disappoint her husband.”

  “What is he like?”

  “A gentle soul – a scholar and a poet. He will be patient with her, I am sure.”

  “I hope so. I wish I could have...But there was nothing more I could have done.”

  “Had you been a little later – or Master Miah less quick and brave – she would not be alive at all. We must be thankful for that.”

  That evening at dinner Kareem complimented Raoul on the improvement to his face.

  “You will be breaking the ladies’ hearts again any day now,” he said with a chuckle. “Is that not right, Shahin?”

  “Absolutely, uncle!”

  Across the table Kamala met his eye and gave a shy smile.

  “Unfortunately, Raoul, you will have little time to use your charms here in Byzantium.”

  “You mean I must return to the French camp, sir? Of course. Whenever you say. I would hate to abuse your kind hospitality.” Raoul felt stricken at the thought that perhaps he had stayed with them longer than he should.

  “You misunderstand me, boy,” Kareem said kindly. “You must regard this as your home for as long as King Louis remains here.”

  “But surely he will stay in Byzantium for the winter, travelling on to Palestine in the spring – at least I thought that would be his plan.”

  “The French army will march out at the end of this week. The Emperor has made a decision and King Louis will be told of it in the morning. It means that you can only be with us for two more days.”

  “I shall be most sorry to leave, sir,” Raoul said inclining his head politely.

  Later, savouring the rich, spicy food and looking round the exquisite room at the faces of his new friends, he found that he truly meant it.

  Chapter Twenty

  He was to leave them tomorrow. Raoul put down the book which he had been attempting to read by the flickering light of a small lamp, and then sighed heavily. He couldn’t sleep. A breeze stirred the flimsy drapes which hung over the open
window, sending the shadows dancing crazily. He stood up and crossed the room, and, leaning his elbows on the window-sill, gazed out into the dark, fragrant night. Perhaps he could he stay here, abandoning the Crusade. Surely if he asked him, Rawnak Kareem would permit him to remain, would even find him some occupation. But no, he couldn’t do it. He had sworn to carry out his Christian duty and he must see it through. The trouble was, if all Eastern households were gracious, educated and civilised like this, he would rather belong to one than destroy it! He gave a bitter laugh. Why was nothing ever straightforward?

  His thoughts turned to Radenoc. Maybe Armand had thought like that too. He had returned there with an Arab servant, had filled his rooms with the rich furnishings of an Arab house, and even sometimes wore Arab dress, if he had interpreted Anne Le Hir’s description correctly. How many Infidels had Armand slaughtered? Raoul suspected, rather, he had traded with them and learned their ways. That was something else they appeared to have in common. Lust, ambition and now this. Where would it end? He turned away from the window. He must try to sleep now – or at least enjoy the luxury of his last night in a bed. He took a step then paused. What was that?

  “Bhavesh? Is that you?”

  There was no reply but undoubtedly someone was there, just outside the curtained archway which led into his room. On silent bare feet he moved away from the window and picked up his dagger from the table. Perhaps he should speak in Arabic.

  “Min hinaek?” he demanded.

  “It’s me – Kamala,” said a female voice in French, and she slipped in through the curtains.

  Raoul hastily put down the weapon.

  “What are you doing, Kamala? You shouldn’t be here.”

  She said nothing but crossed purposefully to his lamp, lit a taper from it then lit the larger lamp by the door. As the light grew, she took off the filmy silver veil which had covered her hair – it was unbraided tonight and hung like a skein of black silk – then she approached him with a shy smile.

  “I could not permit that you leave without I say thank you,” she murmured.

  “There is nothing you need to say to me, Kamala. Anything I did was an honour and a privilege.”