As if she hadn’t heard him, she came closer, her gown shimmering in the light as she moved – threads of silver were mixed with the blue, he noticed. When she was less than an arm’s length away she stopped and looked up at him. He could smell her perfume – a flowery scent mingling with something more exotic.
“Your face is well now?” She put up her hand and touched his cheek with her fingertips then taking his face in both her hands, she drew it down level with hers. Before he knew what she was going to do, she had put her lips against the scar in a gentle kiss.
“It is quite well – and if it were not, your sweet touch would have cured it.” He put his hands on her shoulders, marvelling at the delicacy of her slender frame under the robe of thin silk. “But you must go now, Kamala. It was kind of you to come and see me, but your mother would be angry if she knew you’d been here.”
He kissed her cheek then released her, expecting her to say goodbye and leave.
“Do you think that I have – some beauty?” Her huge dark eyes looked appealingly up at him.
Startled by the question, he hesitated. What should he say? She was exquisite – that heart-shaped face, her finely-moulded features and tempting soft mouth – not to mention eyes that you could drown in.
“You have much beauty.” He recollected what Nazrat Ali had said. “And I’m sure your husband will treasure it as you deserve.”
To Raoul’s surprise and dismay, her eyes filled with tears.
“The man I am to marry is a man of words, a man of learning – patient and wise,” she said. “I do not think he is like you.” Her last words were just a whisper.
Raoul was uncertain what she meant – as a Frankish soldier he would, of course, be very different from a scholarly Byzantine.
“Your parents will have chosen well. I’m sure he loves you.”
“He loves my father’s gold.”
“Why are you saying this, Kamala?”
“If you find me acceptable I will give myself to you.”
As she spoke, she was untying the sash which fastened her robe. Moments later she let it fall from her shoulders, to lie in a heap of shimmering silvery-blue. Only her unbound hair partially covered her nakedness. As if realising this, she gathered its soft length up in her hands and held it coiled in the nape of her neck. She then stood quite still, head bent, eyes modestly lowered – it was as if she was offering herself for his inspection.
Awe-struck, Raoul stared at her. The lamp-light touched her body’s curves and contours so that she looked like a statue carved from gold, perfect and flawless. She was more like a goddess than a woman of flesh and blood. Raoul swallowed, his body responding irrepressibly.
She glanced up from under her lashes and met his avid gaze. Then, releasing her hair which cascaded round her, she stepped forward and pressed herself against him. He could feel her naked breasts through the thin cloth of his tunic. Instinctively his arms went round her.
“Do you want me?”
“Kamala, this is wrong. You mustn’t do this,” he said gruffly. His nostrils were full of the sweet scent of her. He could feel the satin smoothness of her skin under his hands.
“You want to love me. I can feel it.” She touched him gently.
“Stop it!”
“But I have been told to...”
“Kamala, you must not!”
He stepped back and held her hands in his.
“What is wrong?”
What indeed? Raoul felt as if a demon was sitting on his shoulder laughing, jeering at him. Was he stupid? An idiot? Here was this utterly beautiful girl asking him to make love to her and he was trying to reject her! Why? Why would the kinsman of Armand de Metz refuse a beautiful, willing girl? Determinedly trying to ignore the demon’s taunts, he moved away from her and picked up the fallen gown.
“You must put on your robe and go.”
He stood turned away from her, the flimsy garment of silver-blue silk clutched in his hands.
“Perhaps you think that I am a...that I have lain with other men? That is not so. My mother and the other women are teaching me about men’s desires – to be ready for my husband. But I am virgin still.”
“You must give your virginity to your husband, not to me.”
“But after you saved me it is your ‘guerdon’ – your prize – you see I know your word. I have heard Frankish knights in Antioch speak of this. Please, Raoul, will you not take me?”
“Go on,” said the demon, “why not? Look at her! She certainly is a prize!”
Raoul turned. She was smiling, holding out her hand to him. His gaze travelled slowly over her, taking in the small pointed breasts, narrow waist, curving hips. Unlike any woman he had seen before, her body was completely smooth and hairless, even her pubic hair had either never grown or it had been plucked away. It gave her a look of childish innocence and for some reason Catherine, the girl in Radenoc, came into his mind.
“Go on! What are you waiting for?” The demon’s cackling jeer seemed to be getting louder.
He dropped her gown, stepped forward and reached out his arms. She gave a little whimper then ran into his embrace where, clinging to him, she lifted her lips to his. They were warm and tasted like the sweet cakes he had eaten. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to sensation, revelling in the feel of her body and the touch of her hands.
“After all,” the demon insisted, “if you hadn’t rescued her Mathieu Le Gros would have had the prize instead of you! And brutally as well.”
A picture of Le Gros grinning in triumph and forcibly penetrating Kamala’s tender body now flashed into Raoul’s head – except instead of Mathieu’s coarse features, the face was Raoul’s own. If he took her now, even at her own request, was he any better than the villain he had saved her from – any better than the Germans who had raped the virtuous women of the town? No. He would be as bad as they were.
With a supreme effort, he broke free and turned away from her. He stood for a moment, fists clenched, trying to master himself, then he retrieved her gown from the floor and thrust it at her. She gazed at him, wide-eyed in puzzled confusion.
“Kamala, I am not going to make love to you.” His voice sounded over-loud, harsh and grating.
She gave a dismayed cry.
“It’s not that I don’t want you or don’t think you beautiful. But it would be wrong. I’d be as bad as the brute who tried to hurt you before. Now put on your gown and go.”
“But...please.”
“Just do as I said! Do you think this is easy for me?” The demon shrieked with laughter. “For the love of Heaven, get dressed and go!”
With fumbling haste Kamala wrapped the robe round her, flung the veil over her head and fled.
Raoul sank onto the bed with a groan. Probably she was crying. Probably she would hate him for ever. He put his head in his hands.
“You are an utter fool, Raoul de Metz,” he told himself.
“On the contrary.” Shahin Miah stepped through the curtained archway. “I would call you an honourable man.”
“How long have you been there?” Raoul glanced up at him.
“Long enough to know that you have considerable powers of self-control.”
“Hah!”
“I am not sure I should have been as strong in your situation.”
“And if I had not been? I was tempted, my friend, I can tell you.”
“If you had lain with her I would have killed you.”
“And Kamala?”
Shahin shrugged.
“Who is to say? You did not. She is still pure. And the wedding is next Sunday.”
“Will you say anything about tonight to your mother?”
“There is no need. You will say nothing, I am quite sure.”
Raoul grinned ruefully.
“Quite right – it hardly enhances my reputation as ravaging barbarian!”
“Not that, Raoul! Never that.” He crossed to Raoul and offered him his hand in a friendly clasp.
“H
ow did you know she was here?”
“One of my servants has been watching her – in case she did anything desperate: she has been unlike herself since the attack. He followed her here then came to tell me.”
“And you can trust him not to speak?”
“Oh yes.”
Raoul got up, poured a cup of water and walked over to the window.
“I suppose I should try to sleep,” he said gloomily. “I re-join King Louis’s army in the morning.”
“I know. If perhaps you will find it hard to rest – after what happened – I could send someone to ease you.”
“A doctor with a sleeping draft, you mean?”
Shahin laughed.
“That wasn’t what I meant, no. I was thinking of a girl to provide the pleasure which you made yourself forgo.”
“If it’s a Byzantine whore, no thanks. I’ve seen some of them and I’d rather not bother.”
“Now you are being a fool. Trust me. If she’s unacceptable you may send her away again.”
“All right.” Raoul gave a sheepish grin. “Thanks.”
By the time Raoul set off for the camp next morning it was long after the bells of Saint Sophia had rung out for morning prayers. Today he had been extremely glad of the attentions of the manservant at the bath-house. The girl sent by Shahin had been lovely, curvaceous and so extremely willing that Raoul had not really had any sleep that night at all. Massage and a soak in the hot pool had soothed his weary limbs. The cold plunge had woken and refreshed him. His own clothes, washed and skilfully repaired, had been returned to him when he was finished there.
After that he had eaten an enormous breakfast – much to Shahin’s amusement – and the family – except for Kamala – had gathered in the courtyard to bid him farewell. They insisted that he keep the Arab clothes he had worn and pressed various other gifts on him – spiced oil, some scented tapers to burn, a phial of salve for wounds, a box of sweetmeats and one of exotic spices, and a bottle of a potent restorative cordial.
“Perhaps you should drink that now,” Kareem suggested. “Shahin says that Razia has exhausted you.”
“Satisfied, sir – not exhausted,” Raoul laughingly insisted. “I have no complaints.”
“Visit my father’s house when you reach Antioch, Raoul,” Shahin told him, putting an arm round his shoulders. “Our girls there are even better than those of my uncle’s house!”
Raoul laughed and returned his embrace.
“It may not be possible – but I will try.”
“I should be happy if we could renew our acquaintance.”
“So should I. And, please, wish your sister, from me, every happiness in her future life.”
“I will do so.”
“Tell her...but no, there’s nothing I can say.”
“It is all right. She will understand. Go in peace.”
“Ma’as salaema,” Raoul repeated the Arabic phrase as correctly as he could and bowed in the eastern way.
Kareem beamed at him and some of the others clapped their hands. Each in turn then wished him well and bowed ceremoniously. Finally, with a heavy heart he made his way out through the doorway accompanied only by Bhavesh who Kareem had insisted must carry his belongings as far as the city walls.
“Thank you, Bhavesh. I’ll take those now.”
They had reached the final narrow street, in sight of the massive gates. These today were quite obviously being guarded by a number of soldiers in what Raoul assumed to be the Imperial livery.
“Goodbye, Master Raoul. If you return to Byzantium you come to Master Rawnak’s house. I take good care of you again.”
“Who knows, Bhavesh? It may be possible. Thanks.”
He clasped the boy’s hand and watched him as he disappeared into the crowd. Then he squared his shoulders, went out through the gates and set off towards the army camp.
The first thing he had noticed was the stench. Even in a few days, his nose seemed to have grown used to smelling nothing but delicate perfumes and fragrant aromas. Here, everything stank. The men’s clothes were filthy, the bodies beneath them were filthier still and the foul pits where they relieved themselves were an abomination. The camp kitchens reeked of smoke and putrefying flesh. Raoul felt sick. Barbarians – no wonder they called them that.
He hastily picked his way through the men and debris of the first few contingents, heading for Tréguier’s pennant which fluttered above his distant tent. Their encampment, when he reached it and set down his bundle, was neither better nor worse than any of the others.
“Well, well, who have we here? A most fragrant young sprig, upon my life!” Gustave was gazing at him in amazement. “What d’you reckon, Pierre? Is he too dainty now for the likes of us, d’you think?”
“He smells divine!” Pierre prowled round Raoul sniffing delicately. “A tempting fragrance from Babylon itself, I would say. How was the great whore, Raoul?”
“Shut up, you idiots.” Raoul clasped first Pierre and then Gustave in a warm embrace. “It would take more than a few baths to make me forget my friends!”
“A few baths!?”
“Did you have more than ONE? You’re lucky not to have caught your death of cold!”
“It’s quite good, actually. I can recommend it – especially after sex!”
“What did I say? Who was she – and where does she live?”
“My lips are sealed – but she was a damn sight better than the raddled harridans you’ve had to put up with, I’ll bet.”
Suddenly noticing a lack of troopers or activity around them, Raoul frowned.
“What’s going on here? Are Bertrand and the Count off on some sortie? If so, why aren’t you with them?”
Pierre and Gustave looked grave.
“We’ve been left to keep watch here while the others mount a search. That and wait for you to return.”
“Search?”
“Weren’t you questioned at the gates?”
“No.”
“It’s only French soldiers trying to get in they’re stopping. And I suppose you were under the Emperor’s special protection in any case.”
“Bloody typical!” Pierre snorted.
“Look, I really don’t understand,” Raoul protested. “Who are they searching for? I wasn’t exactly under anyone’s protection...” Then he remembered Kareem’s insistence that Bhavesh should go with him as far as the gates – and Bhavesh would be known to the Byzantine guards, presumably.
“We don’t hold it against you, Raoul, it’s all right.” Gustave gripped his shoulder reassuringly. “The word here was that you’d gallantly rescued a girl from a fate worse than death and she turned out to be betrothed to some eminent someone-or-other, a close friend of the Emperor. In gratitude you were asked to stay as the guest of her family so that they could treat you royally and shower you with gifts.”
“And baths!”
“And baths. Is that so?”
“Yes, more or less. But I still don’t...”
“Who were the girl’s attackers?”
“Jean Taloc and Mathieu Le Gros. But surely you were told that? I killed Taloc but Le Gros got away.”
“Yes.” Gustave nodded grimly. “And he came into the camp last night and made an attempt on the Count’s life.”
“But I thought you said he was out...”
“Paul, the squire, got in the way.”
“What? Is he dead?”
“Not dead but very badly wounded. He can’t survive. They’re out now hunting for Le Gros.”
“Where is Paul? Let me see him.” Raoul grabbed Pierre’s arm excitedly.
“But what...?”
“Look! Look at the wound on my face! See?”
“Holy Christ! It’s gone! Cured!”
“They have doctors who can do that here. It’s like magic.”
Gustave crossed himself.
“I don’t mean that it is magic – it’s just they know a great deal more than we do and...”
“I wouldn’t l
et the priests hear you talking like that! They’d excommunicate you for sure.”
“Isn’t Paul’s life more important than...than...heresy?”
“He’s in Tréguier’s tent. But it’s hopeless, Raoul, truly.”
Raoul rushed over and lifted the flap. One of the other squires was sitting on the floor by a heap of blood-stained bedding where the injured man lay, deathly pale and apparently unconscious. Raoul’s nostrils were assailed by a new foul stench. He swallowed, gagging.
“How was he hurt?” he asked when he had recovered sufficiently to speak.
“Dagger wounds in the guts. Bled like a pig,” the boy said phlegmatically, not bothering to look up.
By the dim light of the tallow candle he appeared to be paring his fingernails with his meat-knife.
“But why is he just lying here in his own blood? Why has no-one cleaned him up?”
“Been bandaged,” the boy muttered sulkily. “Going to die anyway so what’s the point? His lordship said I was to stay here till he snuffs it. He didn’t say to do anything else.”
“Oh God!” A vision of the dazzling white infirmary at Kareem’s house flew into his mind.
He must fetch Nazrat Ali before it was too late.
Without waiting to consult with his friends. he ran back to the gates of Byzantium. Someone would be able to direct him to the doctor’s house. Surely he would agree to come back with him. But what if he was out already, treating a patient?
Trying to swallow rising panic, he reached the gates and tried to go through.
“Stop there!”
As Gustave had said, the guards immediately sprang forward to prevent him from entering. Two pikes were crossed in front of him, barring his way.
“Let me enter, please. Someone will die if I don’t!”
“No Franks in the city, by order of the Emperor.”
Raoul fought down his anger and fear for the young squire’s life. It wasn’t their fault – they were simply following orders.
“It’s all right,” he said more calmly. “I don’t need to go in. I just need a message to be sent.”
“Message to whom?” The guard eyed him suspiciously.
“It is for the doctor – Nazrat Ali Benmohammed. Do you know him?”
The Rightful Heir Page 32