“Or possibly a madman.”
“Whatever he is, we urgently need to question him – I told you why. With His Excellency away I do not know how best to proceed.”
“Could we not send for Sarwar Jannoo? He knows many tongues.”
“An excellent thought, my friend. Send someone to bring him here at once.”
Saying nothing further to Raoul, the two left the room and the door was barred securely behind them. He knew now what his strategy must be. If it could gain him an audience with the Emir perhaps his mission might not have been a total failure after all.
Some time later they returned, bringing with them a wizened old man whose appearance reminded Raoul greatly of the doctor, Nazrat Ali Benmohammed. He had a long grey beard, eye-glasses and an immense white turban. This time, Imraz had brought a jug of water from which he filled a cup for Raoul. He and the soldier – perhaps the captain of the guard by the look of him – then stepped back to allow Jannoo to speak.
Raoul immediately repeated the statement he had made to the others.
“Do you understand his words?” Imraz demanded impatiently.
“Hush! All in good time! Let me question him as you have instructed and then I shall give you his replies. Young man,” Jannoo addressed Raoul in heavily accented French, “you are a Frank, are you not? One of the Crusaders under the command of King Louis. Is that right?”
“I have told you who sent me and to whom I must speak. I will say nothing more except to him.”
“What is your name? Is it “Rool” or something similar?”
They must have heard Aysha say it. What had they done to her? He regarded the old man stonily, folding his arms obstinately across his chest, desperately trying to expel the thought of the girl from his mind.
“Why were you in the private garden of His Excellency Lord Ur-Ehman? What were your relations with his wife?”
“I have told you. I will say nothing. If I cannot speak to the Emir, let me see the owner of this house. I will speak only to him.”
“What is he saying?”
Jannoo quickly gave them the gist of what Raoul had said.
“Should we try...more forceful means?” the soldier suggested. “I can think of several methods which might help to open his lips.”
“I would not if I were you,” said Jannoo. “I have seen many men and have learned to know their weaknesses. Torture will not help you with this one.”
“In that case I really do not know the answer.” Imraz scratched his bald pate. “It is an extremely difficult and delicate situation. Tell him...No, we will tell him nothing. Let him stay here and wonder what his fate will be. Perhaps I had better see Lord Gulam and ask his advice.”
“He is mustering the army, I believe,” the soldier said.
“Then Allah must guide me,” said Imraz with an eloquent sigh.
Addressing nothing further to Raoul, his visitors then departed. Imraz had taken the water away with him and the cup Raoul had been given was soon empty. He lay back again on the slab, aching, thirsty and although he felt almost ashamed of it, hungry too. He found it increasingly difficult to keep Aysha out of his mind. Eventually, after darkness had fallen, he fell into an uneasy slumber.
The next day, not long after he had awoken, he heard footsteps approaching. He sat up and waited for his gaolers to enter. Neither Imraz nor the captain seemed to be present and this time nothing was said. Two other soldiers came into the room and, seizing his arms, dragged him off the bench, through the door and up a flight of steep steps which led to the dazzling sunlit courtyard Raoul had found his way into on the previous day. Here the captain was waiting on horseback with a number of other well-armed soldiers on foot. It looked as if he was being taken somewhere. Surely, if they had decided to torture him, they would do it here.
As soon as he emerged, a pair of iron manacles was fastened onto his wrists and another pair was put onto his ankles. The soldiers then took hold of the chains which were attached to them and a servant ran forward to open the main gate. Hope flared in Raoul’s heart. Had his request been granted? Was he being taken to the Emir?
As they walked through the narrow winding streets of Damascus, a very different procession from that which had accompanied Princess Razia, Raoul became increasingly sure that the palace was to be their destination. After about half an hour they reached an enormous and magnificent gateway, guarded by soldiers whose livery Raoul remembered from his initial entrance to the city. Moments later he was pushed through into a courtyard and from there he was half dragged, half thrown into a bare cell-like room. There his manacles were released but he was fastened into others which were already attached to the wall. A few moments later, the soldiers who had accompanied him, including the captain, knelt and prostrated themselves on the floor. Into the room came a slightly built but magnificently dressed man whom Raoul decided must surely be Prince Unur.
The man gestured to the guards that they might rise, then he stepped forward and regarded Raoul distastefully.
“You are a Frankish spy, I understand,” he said in halting French.
“No, sire, I am not.” Raoul spoke in Arabic, quietly and fluently. The captain started, his eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion, and his hand moved towards his dagger.
“Sire,” Raoul fixed Unur with an imploring glance. “It is vitally important that you listen to me. I was given letters from Prince Raymond of Antioch and Queen Eleanor of France which I was told must be delivered into your hands and into no-one else’s. I beg you, allow them to be fetched here by someone that you trust.”
“Fetched? From where?” The Emir turned to the captain. “Put up your weapon and let him speak. If he is lying we shall know soon enough. Where are these letters? What does this have to do with Lord Ur-Ehman?”
“I came to Damascus in disguise, Your Highness. On my way here to the palace I was caught in an ambush. To avoid being captured I climbed the wall of Lord Ur-Ehman’s palace and found myself trapped in a private garden from which I was unable to escape. The letters which I brought are in a leather pouch under the mattress in a closet in the pavilion there.”
“You stayed in this garden with Lord Ur-Ehman’s young wife?”
“Do you remember Princess Razia?” Unur frowned at the apparent irrelevance. “Did you wonder what had become of her? I was Princess Razia and I wore my disguise during my forced sojourn in that garden. You will also find the clothes, the jewellery and the wig which I wore in the closet – and that is where I slept.”
“Are you telling me that Lord Ur-Ehman’s wife believed you to be a woman?”
“The girl is very innocent, sire, and my disguise was very good. Lord Gulam saw me more than once and he was totally convinced.”
The Emir regarded him for a moment without speaking.
“There are many aspects of what you say which require further investigation,” he said eventually, “but firstly the bare facts must be verified. Captain Khatun.” The man bowed respectfully. “You will conduct some of my people back to your master’s house and look for the items which this man has mentioned. If they are found, they must be brought straight back here to me without being tampered with in any way. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Very well. Go now. The Frank will remain here until your return.”
Having given his orders, Unur turned abruptly for the door, barely giving time for one of the soldiers to spring forward to open it for him. Moments later, Raoul was again alone.
This time he didn’t have very long to wait. To his immense relief, after about two hours had passed, one of the Emir’s soldiers came in and released him from the fetters. The guard was accompanied by two servants. One carried a bowl of warm water, cloths and towels. The other carried a long loose garment which Raoul had heard referred to as an abayeh. It was made of coarsely woven cloth but it was clean and respectable and he was glad to put it on. Once he had washed and dressed, another servant brought him a bowl of broth, some bread and fre
sh water to drink. When he had finished, the guard told Raoul to follow him and he was led through a succession of corridors, ante-chambers and reception rooms, until finally he was ushered into a sumptuous high-ceilinged chamber which opened onto a sunlit garden. Prince Unur was seated at his ease on an ornate divan and he was alone. Beside him was Raoul’s leather pouch.
“Be seated, young man.” He indicated to a low stool a short distance away. “Withdraw, Khan, if you please. Close the doors behind you and ensure that we are not disturbed.”
The Emir waited until his orders had been obeyed and then he passed the pouch to Raoul.
“Are these the letters which you referred to?”
Raoul withdrew the packet and examined it.
“Yes, sire.”
“Are the contents of your purse intact?”
“The letters are here, Your Highness, and their seals are unbroken. There were a few other items but they seem to be missing.”
“What were they?”
“Some gold coins and a small phial of... medicine.”
The Emir paused, regarding Raoul gravely.
“Lord Gulam told me nearly two months ago about the lady called Princess Razia bin Ali Assiyabi. Are you asking me to believe that you have been living in close proximity to a young woman, for all that time, without her suspecting your gender?”
“Sire...”
“And if so, why were you not dressed in the Princess’s clothes when you attempted to escape from Lord Ur-Ehman’s house?”
“Your Highness, I swear that I had no wish at all to take refuge there. She did discover my sex, and she was shocked and frightened. Speak to her husband. He will tell you that she is totally innocent, that she knows nothing about men and their desires.”
“Lord Ur-Ehman is absent from Damascus on an errand of considerable urgency. He will not return for some days.”
“Let someone else speak to her, then. Question her yourself...”
“It is too late to ask the lady anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that she is dead.”
Pain hit Raoul like a blow.
“Surely not,” he whispered. “Surely they cannot have killed her without...”
“You do not understand,” Unur cut in. “No-one has killed her. She took her own life: she swallowed poison. This is the bottle which they found by her.”
When Raoul saw the familiar ornate little bottle in the Emir’s hand, he groaned and a wave of agony seemed to sweep through him, numbing his mind and his body.
“I think there is quite a lot which you have omitted from your account, my friend,” Unur said softly. “May I suggest that you walk in the garden for a while in order to compose yourself? In the meantime I shall read the letters which you have brought, although I fear they come much too late.”
Gratefully, Raoul rose from his seat and groped blindly out into the sunlight. Aysha was dead. It was his fault. He felt as if he had murdered her.
Chapter Twenty Eight
When he returned to the Emir some time later, Raoul had himself superficially under control. Underneath he felt grim and embittered, unconcerned as to what would now be done to him.
At a gesture from Unur, he seated himself again.
“Where was King Louis when these were written?” the Emir asked, setting the pieces of parchment down beside him.
“In the north, sire, with a small army. They were assessing the strength of Nur Ed-Din’s stronghold in Aleppo.”
“Do you know what proposal these letters contain?”
“Yes, sire.”
“In your opinion, did King Louis know?”
“I am sure that he did not.”
Unur laughed bitterly.
“I believe you are right. Would it surprise you to know that for the last few days the Crusader army, led by King Louis of France, has been encamped to the east of Damascus and that my city is under siege?”
“What?”
“You heard what I said, Raoul de Metz – that is your name, is it not?”
“Yes, sire. But, Your Highness, to attack Damascus is utter folly! You are their only ally. Nur Ed-Din is your enemy too – or so I thought.”
“Indeed you are right – or you were. Once the Franks, in their wisdom, had decided on this new course, all the old alliances were broken. When the Crusader army was sighted I sent Khaliq Ur-Ehman, who had always urged me against trusting Christians, to ask for help from my erstwhile enemy. The fanatics in my city are calling for ‘jihad’. It seems, this time, I must heed them.”
“Your Highness, may I ask, what would you have done had the letters come to you sooner?”
“Who can say?” The Emir shrugged. “It was not the will of Allah. It is ironic, is it not, that you were prevented from offering their proposal by the very man who would have most vehemently argued against my accepting it?”
“It is good of you to see it like that. I blame myself.”
“There is no need. What is done is done.” His eyes were sympathetic as he looked across at Raoul. “And nothing more need be said or done about your relationship with the unfortunate lady, whatever it may have been. Imraz, the keeper of the seraglio, will be discreet. Others who may also suspect are...expendable.”
“Do you mean the guards and eunuchs will be killed to prevent them from talking?”
Unur smiled and spread his hands in resignation.
“It is the safest way – in the East, the usual way.”
Raoul remembered how certain Shahin had been that Kamala’s servant would keep her secret. He shuddered.
“But have you no interest in what your own fate will be?” Unur asked after a moment.
“Of course, sire. One always hopes to survive, however little one deserves to.”
“You believe that you deserve to die?”
“I do not know.”
“Your destiny, as with us all, is in God’s hands. As an ambassador, an emissary from my former allies you were trying, with much resourcefulness and ingenuity, to carry out a most difficult and dangerous mission. That it failed can hardly be considered your fault.”
“But...”
Unur held up his hand to silence Raoul.
“You may have allowed sentiment to interfere with your judgement – we were all young and foolish once. But you do not, in my view, deserve to be killed or even punished for it. Your own conscience is tormenting you quite enough. Tomorrow you will be given a horse and under a flag of truce you will be permitted to leave by the small gate at the eastern side of the city. Nur Ed-Din’s army is less than twenty leagues away. My people are eager to attack King Louis’s army. Whether you will survive or not, no-one can say. However, in case you do, I shall give you letters to take in reply to those you brought.”
He rang a small hand bell and in response to it, a servant came.
“Show this young man to a bed chamber and bring him any refreshment that he requires,” Unur told him. “And then send Khan to me.”
The servant salaamed and waited respectfully for Raoul to get to his feet.
“I should thank you for your kindness, Your Highness,” Raoul began.
“Perhaps you should.” The Emir laughed indulgently. “I know you would rather, just at present, that I’d had you flogged and thrown into a dungeon. The pain will pass, my friend, I can assure you. And then you may start to feel grateful.”
Raoul gave a rueful grin, bowed deeply, and followed the servant out of the room.
For the rest of the day and during the seemingly endless night which followed, Raoul lay motionless on the bed in a small bare room in Unur’s palace. His mind was submerged, engulfed by waves of black despair worse than anything he could have imagined. The next morning, not long after sunrise, a servant came to wake him. Raoul dragged himself to his feet and numbly accepted a small pouch containing letters. It had a leather thong attached to it which Raoul fastened round his neck. The servant then led him, like a sleep walker, down to a courtyard where
he was given a horse and told to mount up. The guards and servants watched with undisguised mirth as he wearily attempted to do so. The horse was a huge aged creature, with prominent ribs, and very few teeth. There was a rudimentary harness made of frayed rope but there was no saddle. With the aid of a mounting block, feeling as if his legs were made of lead, Raoul finally managed to get astride and prepared to follow the well-mounted soldier who was to be his guide through the city streets. Even this man’s contemptuous grin failed to rouse him from the paralysing lethargy into which he had sunk.
“There goes the mighty Crusader!” someone said and there was a cheer as he rode out through the palace gates.
Jolted about like a flour sack, Raoul jogged along. He felt as if he were riding through a fog; that everything around him was unimportant or unreal. In a square near the centre of the city, a turbaned man was passionately exhorting his fellow citizens to take up arms against the barbarian invaders.
“The fight is sacred!” the man cried. “If you destroy the foul Christian dogs your sins will be forgiven at once. When you die you will go straight to Heaven! Blessed is he who kills the unbelievers! Arm yourselves now! Jihad! Jihad!”
How strange, Raoul thought as he rode on, that the Muslims should be told exactly the same as the Christians had been. God couldn’t be on both sides. Who was right? Jesus Christ had been a man of peace – hadn’t he said that swords should be made into ploughshares and that you should love your enemy? But who was your enemy? Should he want to kill the man riding in front of him down the winding city street just because his beliefs were different to Raoul’s own? At this present moment he did not feel as if he wanted to kill anyone and if someone tried to kill him he wasn’t even sure that he would bother to protest. He might even thank him. What did it matter anyway? King Louis was a treacherous fool whose cause wasn’t worth fighting for and he, Raoul de Metz, according to the crone in Brocéliande, was in any case destined for an early and ignominious grave.
The Rightful Heir Page 45