The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  Eleanor’s reception of Raoul was extremely informal. He sent the boy to ask if she would see him and to his great surprise was summoned to her private chamber. She was reclining on a day-bed in a loose shift, being fanned by a half-naked dark-skinned page. Raymond was also present and also wore loose, cool robes. It was immediately obvious to Raoul that they were lovers. Eleanor’s face wore the drowsy contentment of a woman who was sexually satisfied and, in small ways, Raymond made his intimacy with her apparent.

  “So here you are at last, Raoul,” said Eleanor, giving him her hand to kiss. “I was starting to think you had forgotten me. How do the ladies in Antioch compare with me?”

  “Badly, my lady. But I had to try out so many before I could be absolutely sure.”

  Eleanor laughed.

  “What a wretch you are,” she declared. “Why do I tolerate you?”

  “Because you know I adore you!”

  “Enough of this nonsense,” Raymond said impatiently. “What of my city and its defences?”

  Raoul quickly and efficiently explained what he had seen, drawing a rough plan of the defences in chalk on the stone floor. When he had finished the Count nodded, clearly impressed.

  “It is as I thought, then. Assistance is essential.”

  “Yes,” Eleanor agreed, “essential.”

  “How did you fare, de Metz, living among the Infidels? You had to stay with your friends in their house, I expect, and rarely went abroad?”

  “Could I have observed all that if I had?” Raoul asked. “At first I had to be careful but my knowledge of their language is quite good now. I think I could pass for an Arab – apart from my lack of a beard, of course, but the kaffiyeh, the head-covering, is quite concealing.”

  Raymond and the Queen exchanged a look then Eleanor took his hand.

  “We have a plan to win back Antioch and to destroy, once and for all, the enemies of Christendom. Will you help us?”

  Raoul pressed the Queen’s fingers to his lips, his heart beating fast with excitement.

  “Of course, most gracious lady,” he said. “You know you have only to command me and I will do whatever you say.”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  “We want you to go to Damascus with letters for the Emir,” Eleanor said.

  “That doesn’t sound too difficult,” said Raoul. “When do you want me to leave?”

  “I don’t think you quite understand, de Metz.” Raymond’s tone was earnest and serious. “You would have to go in absolute secrecy and you would be in great danger.”

  “Why?”

  “Sit down, dear boy, and we’ll explain.” The Queen swung her legs to the ground, making space for him on the couch. She patted the cushioned seat and smiled up at him.

  Raoul sat down and looked from Eleanor to Raymond. Undoubtedly they were hatching some scheme between them.

  “Prince Unur, the Emir of Damascus, is afraid of Nur Ed-Din’s growing popularity and power,” Raymond explained. “He is worried that he might lose control of his city and it seems quite likely, therefore, that he will look for allies wherever he can – even amongst Frankish Crusaders.”

  “We want Unur to help us reclaim Antioch. Having done so, together we can drive Nur Ed-Din out of Aleppo and his power will be broken.”

  “What about the claim Unur will then have to a share of the Christian kingdom?” Raoul asked.

  “He will be so relieved that his grip on Damascus is secure that he’ll be perfectly content,” Raymond said unconcernedly.

  “Why is it so dangerous for me to go there?”

  “The Damascenes themselves hate Crusaders and regard Nur Ed-Din as a hero. The Emir’s army will do as he says but it’s different with the people. He is surrounded by spies who must not, for one second, suspect who you are and where you’ve come from.”

  “Obviously, Raoul, we’ll reward you well for your services,” Eleanor said. “We’ll pay whatever is necessary to get you to Damascus and if our plan succeeds, you can be sure of a barony at least.”

  “Provided it comes without a wife, I accept,” Raoul said resolutely. “But tell me, where exactly will I go? How will I get into the Emir’s palace?”

  “We have a Damascene contact whom we believe we can trust. He is in Jerusalem now and he will take you to the city. Beyond that,” the Count shrugged helplessly, “we do not know.”

  Raoul suddenly laughed.

  “I think I do,” he said.

  “Tell us, Raoul,” said Eleanor, intrigued.

  “I think it’s better for everyone if it remains my secret,” Raoul said, still chuckling.

  The Queen laid her hand on his arm, as if imploring him to confide in her. Raoul raised her hand to his lips but shook his head.

  “Later tonight you will meet Sami Belhaj and make plans for your immediate departure,” Raymond broke in abruptly, patently annoyed at the intimacy between his mistress and this handsome young knight. “Come to my chamber after dinner.”

  “Of course, my lord. Madam,” Raoul rose and bowed deeply, “ever your devoted servant.”

  Sami Belhaj was an earnest, soulful-eyed man in early middle age. He hated war and had come to the conclusion, wrongly, in Raoul’s opinion, that peace could be more readily achieved under Frankish rule. Reading the Gospels had led him to convert to Christianity and he believed that once Nur Ed-Din’s strength had been destroyed, everyone would lay down their arms and live in harmony.

  “We will all be brothers then,” he said, a gleam of fanatical faith in his eyes.

  Raoul could sense Raymond of Antioch’s amused contempt at the Damascene’s idealism but neither of them said anything to betray their scepticism. At Raoul’s request, after refreshments had been brought, Raymond left them.

  “I am very worried about how you are to see the Emir in secret,” Sami said once they were alone. “Lord Raymond says it must be done but I do not know how.”

  “Is the Emir interested in women?” Raoul asked.

  Sami looked at him in surprise.

  “Well, yes. As are all healthy men.”

  “But, I mean, are there many women in his household? Is he married?”

  “He has, I think, two wives – under Islam a man may have four, you know – and many concubines.”

  “Would he be likely to want more?”

  “Oh yes. A great Prince such as Unur is always adding new, even more beautiful girls to his harem. It is a matter of prestige.”

  “How would you go about offering a girl to him? What would be done?”

  “One would simply send a letter to Aulia Gulam, the Emir’s...what would one say...?”

  “Steward?” Raoul suggested.

  “Steward? No. I mean his vizier, his chief minister. One would describe the girl in a letter to Gulam and beg that his Highness would deign to accept her into his household as a concubine – or if she was a girl of high birth and noble family, as a wife. But, sir, why are you asking all this? You have such a girl in mind?”

  “Possibly,” Raoul grinned. “After you had written to the vizier, what would happen then?”

  “His Excellency would see the girl and if she seemed suitable, a meeting with the Emir would be arranged. If he then liked her, she would be his. It is quite simple.”

  “Would it be possible for a girl’s family to stipulate that only the Emir himself might see her face?”

  “Certainly. If she was to be a wife that is most likely. A virtuous girl may only show herself to her family and her husband.”

  “I thought so,” Raoul said. “Good. This is what I’d like you to do.”

  A week later a splendidly decorated, heavily guarded palanquin set out from Jerusalem. Princess Razia bin Ali Assiyabi, sadly orphaned by the plague, was travelling from a remote kingdom in the southern desert to seek marriage with the Emir of Damascus, a distant cousin of her mother. A letter from her uncle had been despatched to His Excellency Lord Aulia Gulam, vizier to the Emir. Of course, such a mighty princess would not permit any
one but Prince Unur himself to see her face and then only within the royal palace. His Excellency was kindly to arrange suitable accommodation for the princess and her retinue somewhere nearby.

  It had amused Raoul to name the princess after Kareem’s insatiable slave-girl. Using Raymond and Eleanor’s resources but without explaining his intentions, suitably elaborate clothes and jewellery had been purchased and mercenaries from southern Arabia had been hired. Then they needed Arab style tents, of the very best quality, good horses, food and expensive presents for the Emir. Raoul had blithely told the tradesmen to present their accounts to the Count of Antioch. Raoul hoped that Raymond would find the results worth the small fortune he had spent.

  Inside the closed litter, Raoul felt as if he was being baked alive. The chadar he wore was made of silk but it was black and seemed almost to attract the heat. They hadn’t gone far before he was drenched in sweat in a most unlady-like way. In private there was no need for him also to wear a thick veil, but it seemed wise to wear the wig at all times, especially as it was of such good quality and made of human as opposed to horse hair. Daniel Guennec would have given his eye-teeth for it, Raoul thought. Despite this, it weighed a ton and was hot as Hell. As well as the heat, the swaying, jolting motion was extremely unpleasant, making him constantly nauseous. He admired Queen Eleanor’s stamina still more now. She had travelled like this for two thousand miles.

  When they stopped the first night, there was no need for him to feign weakness as Sami helped him out of the litter and into the luxuriously furnished tent. He felt sick and giddy. He could only eat a few morsels of the food he was offered but gratefully drank several cups of water.

  It was a strangely lonely journey. Only Sami knew his true identity but, as a man, could spend little time in ‘the princess’s’ company. Raoul hadn’t dared to provide himself with maidservants as they would have been bound to learn his secret in the close confinement of palanquin and tent. Of course, he could only speak in Arabic. At first he had found Sami’s accent a little difficult but he became used to it as time passed.

  He was relieved when, on the fifth day after leaving Jerusalem, they reached the gates of Damascus. To Raoul’s delight, as soon as the guards were informed of their identity, Lord Aulia Gulam was hurriedly sent for. From outside the litter, the Vizier greeted him fulsomely. In a quiet, low voice, suitable for a shy maiden, Raoul hoped, he thanked Gulam and asked to be taken straight to his lodgings. The journey had been so exhausting, he explained. Escorted by a cavalcade of magnificent horsemen, they rode in through the gates of the city.

  Raoul ventured to look out through the gauze peep-hole in the curtains as they went through the streets. Damascus seemed to be a beautiful place, full of splendid trees, public gardens, dazzling displays of flowers and high-walled, white-washed buildings. There were similarities to the other eastern cities that he knew, but Damascus seemed less cramped and more elegant, somehow.

  After a few minutes, they halted outside a doorway.

  “If you would condescend to alight, Highness, I will show you the humble abode which I have procured for your use – until the wedding, of course.”

  Raoul’s hackles rose at the man’s unctuous and suggestive tone.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, setting the heavy veil in place and preparing to descend.

  Conscious of the size of his hand, he waved away the offer of assistance from Gulam as the curtains were parted. Practice had helped and he now emerged and stood gracefully, the picture of Islamic modesty.

  Through the doorway was a house built round a courtyard garden, similar to Kareem’s house in Byzantium, although smaller.

  “This seems acceptable,” Raoul said.

  “It is some distance from the palace but there was nothing suitable any closer. I could not expect Your Highness to accept anything less.”

  “It’s the other side of the city!” Sami muttered in an undertone.

  “And these are your servants.”

  Gulam clapped his hands and several people emerged. There were a number of men, some very simply dressed in rough, thigh length tunics, the menials, presumably; others wore long white robes with scarlet sashes. They all knelt and bowed their heads to the floor. After them came several women whose dress again proclaimed their varying status; they prostrated themselves in the same way.

  Sami fidgeted uneasily.

  “No!” Raoul said imperiously. “I shall have none of these people near me!”

  “Highness, there are, of course, secluded rooms provided for your privacy. Only the women will enter...”

  “I do not want your women!” As a suitable justification leapt into his mind, Raoul filled his voice with the throbbing emotion he had used when playing Iseult. “It was a foreign maidservant who gave the infection to my beloved mother; she passed it to my father and I was left alone.”

  He bowed his head and set his shoulders quivering with grief.

  “I am sorry, Highness. I did not know. Come this way, if you please.”

  “Some of the menservants may stay but none of these women.” Raoul was very pleased with the way his voice shook. “My steward will decide whom we need.”

  Raoul was led up a flight of polished marble stairs to the upper floor of the house. At the arched doorway of the suite of rooms intended for the princess’s personal use, Gulam bowed in the eastern fashion and began to take his leave.

  Raoul slumped artistically onto a nearby couch and nodded feebly in response to the vizier’s promise that the Emir would send for him very soon.

  Once he was sure that Gulam had gone, Raoul began to examine his new quarters. He had been left in an ante-room with several satin-cushioned sofas ranged round the walls. From it a stout door opened onto a spacious chamber with many seats, low tables and ornate lamps – the equivalent of a western lady’s solar, he assumed. There was also a sumptuously furnished bed-chamber and a dressing-room which led into the upper floor of the bath-house. From the main room, through a curtained arch, a narrow stairway led up onto the roof. This had been cunningly fashioned into a garden. There were orange trees, small palm trees and a myriad of fragrant flowers in painted or terracotta pots. Vines had been trained to grow over a series of archways providing an area of leafy shade. Beneath it were bench seats made of gleaming marble. On a trellis which was fixed to the parapet, a dense screen of flowering plants grew. As there was only one entrance, the garden was totally secluded.

  Feeling elated, Raoul went back down the stairs into the solar where he found Sami anxiously awaiting him.

  “I am not happy, sir,” Belhaj said mournfully. “This house is too far from the palace. We dare not trust these men provided by Aulia Gulam nor Lord Gulam himself. What you are doing is too dangerous.”

  “Sami, it’s the only way. What have you done about the servants?”

  “I have kept only the cook and the sweepers. The soldiers we recruited in Jerusalem are happy to stay as our guards – provided that we pay them well. I have posted a man at the foot of the staircase which leads up here and shall keep a man there night and day. With your permission I shall now send for Nazlee, my wife, and she can wait on you. It will seem too strange if I am seen often to be entering your quarters. With luck Gulam will not have noticed that she didn’t travel with you. And your secret will be entirely safe with her.”

  “Good. Well done. How long do you think I shall have to wait?”

  “I do not know, sir. But I pray that it will not be long.”

  “So do I, Sami, so do I. One thing, though...”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You had better call me “Your Highness” or “my lady”, even when we’re alone. We mustn’t take any risks.”

  “I am sorry, s...Highness. I will remember in future.”

  Nazlee arrived later that night, smuggled in under cover of darkness. She was a pretty woman, younger than Raoul had expected. When Sami brought her up to the solar, both of them seemed nervous and unhappy. She had shot one astonished gla
nce at Raoul then turned away and whispered frantically to her husband. He shook his head and squeezed her hand.

  “I am very grateful to you for helping me like this,” Raoul told her.

  The woman murmured something but kept her eyes modestly lowered and pulled her veil well down over her forehead.

  “Do as I have bid you,” Sami said sternly to his wife. “It is your duty.” He gave her a little push towards Raoul.

  “Good night, Sami. Nazlee can carry messages between us in future. It will be very much safer.”

  “Yes, indeed.” His attempted heartiness sounded false.

  With a last look from his wife to Raoul and back again, Sami bowed and left the chamber. Nazlee stood clutching her bundle, looking at the floor.

  “Now that you are here I can do something I have looked forward to all day,” Raoul said.

  The woman’s huge dark eyes met his in alarm.

  Raoul laughed.

  “It’s nothing for you to be scared of, I can assure you. Put down your belongings and come with me.”

  Slowly and reluctantly, she did as he had said. Raoul picked up a lamp and led her up the stairs to the roof-garden, illuminated now by the light of an almost full moon.

  “What do you want of me?” the woman said in a voice which trembled with fear.

  Raoul took her hand and led her to a seat under the vine. He sat opposite her and set down the lamp.

  “Here in this garden, Nazlee, I can take off this disguise and be myself,” he told her.

  “And I?”

  “I am relying on you to stay in the rooms below and prevent anyone from finding out that I am not what I seem! Up here, no-one can see me. You must give me ample warning when I need to become Princess Razia again.”