Alex spun to face her. His face was tight with anger. “If you love your life, do not speak!” he said, his voice low, his words fast.
Sydney looked from him to the men around him, taking in the thunderous faces looking at her. There was more going on here than simply a woman speaking out of turn.
Rashid considered her. He frowned, the furrow between his brows deep, the muddy eyes unfocused. “You, a woman, dares to tell me what to do?”
Sydney drew in a breath that shook. Now she understood what she had done. Rashid had assumed her plea was a demand. A directive. She swallowed. There was no way to take it back. Speaking at all would be too forward. Apologizing would be speaking.
Rashid spun. The knife flashed.
Etienne made a choking, bubbling sound. Bright blood spurted from his neck, fountaining onto the sand at his feet and spraying Rashid’s boot and the hem of his tunic.
Sickened, Sydney looked away. Her heart sank. Rashid had just killed the man who would have sent Alex to Jerusalem to meet Brody and Veris and Taylor. That meeting was a critical moment in time, from which flowed consequences that would shape the history of everyone she knew, including herself. If Alex never left Egypt, she would never meet him. He would die a thousand years before she was born.
Alex had to go to Jerusalem. Now that Etienne was dead, though, who would pry him out of Egypt?
The answer was obvious. She must.
* * * * *
Etienne’s body was left where it laid, the blood pooling into the sand around it, drying quickly and turning a rusty brown color.
The men searched the body, taking anything of value. Etienne’s boots and chainmail were stripped from him and held up as a prize by the one who took them.
Sydney stayed where she was, hiding her dismay and trying to think despite it. No one was paying any attention to her right now. She could turn and run, but where would she run to? She had heard too many horror stories from Taylor and the others about surviving in the desert to think she would last out here on her own. Her best bet was to stay with these people. Besides, she couldn’t leave. She must do Etienne’s job, now. She must make Alex want to go to Jerusalem.
The only other person not moving was Rashid. His men swirled around him, collecting horses, putting their war-booty in saddle bags and talking loudly about how many they had slain and the value of the prizes they had collected. Rashid watched it all, his gaze far away.
Alex came up to his brother, leading another horse. This one had a saddle that looked very different from the type the Fatamids were using. The front and back of this saddle both stood high. The Fatimid saddle was a simple padded blanket.
Calmly, Alex went through the bags and pouches hanging from the side of Etienne’s horse, inspecting the contents. He held out a silver flask to his brother, who took it with a smile. From another square bag, Alex pulled out three books. They were leather bound, the covers and spines decorated with brass studs. The pages of all three were rough along the edges. He turned them, inspecting them, then held them out to Rashid, too.
Rashid laughed. “What would I do with them?” he asked.
Alex shrugged. “They are yours by right.”
“Take them, Alim. Add them to your useless collection. I have a different prize in mind.”
Sydney froze, for Rashid was looking at her. Alex glanced at her over his shoulder then went back to returning the books to the pouch he had pulled them from, unconcerned.
His dismissal was a double shock to her. She had forgotten this was not the Alex who knew her. This was Alim, the Fatimid who was yet to embrace Christian principals. He lived by the same standards as his brother. Rashid was clearly the leader of the group. Unit? Tribe? Battalion? Throughout history, the leader of any group got the pick of the spoils.
Rashid had made his choice and this Alex didn’t care because he had no idea who she was.
Rashid walked over to her and grabbed her chin, turning her head to inspect her face. It was the same motion cattle-drivers used to inspect their stock.
Sydney made herself breathe and stay calm, despite the coppery smell coming from his hand and the thick aroma of stale sweat and body odor wafting from the layers of cloak and tunic and more.
She had to navigate the way things were now and not bitch because they weren’t the same standards she had grown up with and was used to. Women were chattels of the same value as slaves, except they could give men sons.
Rashid hooked his dirty finger over the neck of her kirtle and the chemise beneath and yanked them out. He bent and looked at her breasts. “I will keep her for a while,” he said, letting her go. “Put her in the women’s tent, Alim.”
“Very well.” Alex nodded, turning away from the saddlebags. “She can ride this horse and then she won’t slow us down.”
“Good thinking.” Rashid said. He strode away, his attention already somewhere else. He had told his brother to take care of it and had dismissed the matter from his mind.
Alex picked up the end of the rope around her wrists and tugged it, pulling her toward the horse. He looked at her critically. “Where is your veil?” he demanded.
“I…don’t know. I lost it, somewhere back there.” Did he want her to cover up now, after his brother and the others had already squeezed and prodded and inspected every inch of her?
“Your skin is too pale. The sun will burn it before we reach camp. You must shield it. My brother would not like your appearance marred.”
Of course. The asset must be preserved for the commander’s pleasure.
Alex looked around. He spotted the body of Etienne and pulled out a knife from his belt. The blade was long and had the same slight curve as his sword. He walked over to the body, tugged the bottom of the quilted tunic up, grabbed the hem of the undershirt beneath it and used the point of the knife to sheer away most of the back of the undershirt.
He held up the linen and inspected it. The ends were jagged, although there was a good yard of fabric. Alex held it out to her and gestured with his other hand toward her head.
Sydney tried to take it, only gripping anything with her hands mashed together was impossible.
Alex made an impatient sound and draped the cloth over her head, then wrapped the ends underneath each other, so the cloth was secure. He tugged on the rope again and moved over to Etienne’s horse. “Get on,” he said shortly. “You know how, yes?”
The absolute disinterest in his voice, his careless attitude, reminded Sydney yet again that this was not the Alex she knew. Even in her own mind, she would be better to think of him as Alim.
The problem was, she knew very little about Alex’s life before Jerusalem. He had spoken about other times in his life, he had even written one story down for her to make sure she understood exactly what had happened. Yet, on the matter of his life before Jerusalem, he was unusually silent. The most she knew was that Etienne had talked him into going to Jerusalem to speak to Peter the Hermit. She had not known that Alex had an older brother, or that he had fought alongside him.
She didn’t know the politics of life in the desert. She hadn’t even known they lived in the desert. She had assumed Alex had lived in Cairo, the heart of the Fatimid empire. Who was Naravas? Clearly, he was an enemy yet she couldn’t begin to guess what nationality he might be. The slain on the sand looked the same as Rashid’s troops. Had she stumbled into a civil war? She needed to know the political setup so she didn’t make any mistakes dealing with the power-holders.
She moved over to the horse and looked at Alex. Alim. “I’ve never gotten on a horse with my hands tied this way.”
“Learn how,” Alex—Alim—said sharply. “And fast,” he added.
All around them, the men were getting on their own mounts, shouting at each other, exuberant now the battle had been won and the plunder proved plentiful.
Sydney hooked her tied hands over the front projection, got her foot in the stirrup and would have heaved herself up, except that Alim pushed at her shoulder. “St
upid woman. You would break the stirrup that way.”
She stared at him, confused. How else was it done?
Alim rolled his eyes again. He turned his head and whistled.
The gray stallion he had been riding earlier trotted over to him, his harness jingling. He nudged the back of Alim’s shoulder. Alim patted his nose and turned him so Sydney could see. He gripped the small rise at the front of the saddle pad with his left hand, the rope wrapped around his wrist, then seemed to flip himself onto the back of the horse, with a little jump. His boots found the stirrups automatically.
He made it look easy.
Sydney gritted her teeth together. She wasn’t a weak woman. Even with her hands tied, she should surely be able to imitate it. She gripped the high front of Etienne’s saddle with both hands. Then she attempted the same little jump and threw her right leg over, pushing down with her hands to elevate herself and lift her thigh high enough to pass over the back of the saddle.
Her gown and chemise tangled up around her knees and she struggled to pull them down. Alim sat passively watching.
When she was done, he moved his horse closer and looped the long end of the rope he had been holding around and around the high front of her saddle, then tied it.
“What if the horse rolls?” she asked. “I’ll be crushed because I can’t throw myself out of the way.”
“Then don’t let the horse roll.” He picked up the reins and pulled the horse around so it was facing the same way as his and started walking. Hers followed with little encouragement.
Alongside and around them, the other Fatimids fell into file. They climbed out of the shallow valley. Sydney looked back and saw there were perhaps forty men, all on horses. There were spare horses—more spoils, she guessed. Just before they left the valley behind, she glanced back at the still figure of Etienne.
How could she, a woman, do what he had done? Alim barely cared what she said or thought. His only concern was to get her to the women’s tent in unmarked condition, ready for his brother’s attentions. Etienne had at least been a man and a warrior, which provided some common ground with Alim.
She looked at Alim’s straight back. He didn’t look back to check on her. He didn’t care enough to.
“Fuck,” she breathed to herself, in English.
How the hell was she supposed to do this?
* * * * *
They didn’t ride for long. After an hour or so of steady walking, that led the troop along sinuous dune lines and across flat valleys, the camp that Alim had spoken of appeared on the other side of a dune. Perhaps two dozen tents, made of astonishingly colorful cloth, most of it striped in foot-wide bands, were dotted around the bottom of the little depression below. The ground there was sandy and flat. More importantly, there was a small round well with a wooden lid over it, off to one side of the tents.
There were well worn trails leading up the sides of the dunes, packed down by traffic until they were permanent. This, then, was a known and often-visited location.
All around the tents were more people, most of them veiled women. There were many children and some older men with tanned, leathery skin. A long line of camels was staked to one side of the tents. They would be the burden-bearers for when the camp moved, carrying all the gear on their backs.
Many of the women were gathered around the front of one of the bigger tents, where two guards stood nearby with bare swords in their sashes. Some of the women were weaving on small looms. The others were apparently taking it easy, in the late afternoon sun.
When the troop was spotted, a cry went up and suddenly, everyone was heading for them, running over the sand with an ease that came from long practice.
There were enthusiastic cries from the men in the troop, too. Suddenly, they broke rank, their horses sliding and jumping down the shallow dune. Children were picked up and hugged and kissed. The women stood off to one side and waited with dignity for their turn.
Alim did not surge forward. He didn’t rise in his saddle to spot anyone. Instead, he nudged his horse into a slow climb down the dune to the valley floor. Etienne’s followed and Sydney clung to the pommel, hanging on as best she could.
Her heart thudded heavily. In the next few minutes, she would be shown to the women’s tent and Alex would leave. She had to talk him into keeping her by his side, instead of handing her over. She couldn’t convince him to leave everything he had ever known for an uncertain life in Palestine if he wasn’t there to talk to at all. She still had no idea how she could it despite wracking her brain on the walk here. All she knew for certain was that staying where Alim could hear her was a good first step.
Alim halted his horse and jumped down to the ground with the same easy fluid movement he had used to mount it. He came around to the side of her horse and uncoiled the rope from around the saddle peak.
“You can’t put me in the women’s tent,” Sydney said urgently.
“Get down,” he said shortly.
“You don’t understand. I’m white and a stranger. They will resent me.”
“I said, get down.”
Sydney recalled the reception the women of Mercia had given her—forcing her to sleep on the floor, with no blankets. They had stolen everything of value from her. “You must listen to me,” she insisted. “You want me delivered to your brother in pristine condition, don’t you? If you leave me with the women, you’ll fail your brother.”
He didn’t hesitate. It was as if she had not spoken. He didn’t reach up and lift her down. Instead, he hauled on the rope. She was pulled out of the saddle by the power of the heave, to sprawl on the soft sand. Despite the softness, the palms of her hands tingled from being scraped across the sand.
She laid for a moment, dazed and shocked.
This is not Alex. Not the Alex you know, she reminded herself for the thousandth time since tumbling down the side of the dune. Despite the reminder, tears pricked her eyes and made them sting.
He gripped her arm and hauled her to her feet, making her shoulder creak with the strain. The temporary headdress unwound and slithered to the ground.
His gaze bore into her. They were Alex’s eyes, yet there was none of the warmth and love she was used to seeing in them. “You try my patience, whore,” he said softly.
“If you would only listen to me, then I wouldn’t have to,” she said quickly.
He pushed her into walking, almost jogging to keep up with him as he wove between tents, skirting goats and children, equipment and tools, tent ropes and pegs and more.
“Please!” she added.
“Stop talking,” he snapped.
“If you put me in that tent, you’ll regret it.”
“I said, be quiet.”
The big tent was right in front of them. The two guards straightened to attention when they spotted Alim. One of them pulled the flap aside. Sydney could see red carpet beyond, the colors of the pattern on it glowing in the late afternoon sun.
She halted, digging in her feet to resist his pull.
Alim spun and gripped her other arm, which was what she had been counting on. She rose up on her toes and rammed her head against his face. It was a classic headbutt and it connected squarely.
He reeled back, his hands going up to his face. He staggered and sank down to the ground, dizzy. He still had a grip on the shortened rope and she was yanked down to the ground with him, which she had not anticipated.
She smacked into the ground with an impact that dazed her, because she couldn’t brace herself or use her hands to break the fall. It was as shocking as being pulled off the horse.
Alim flipped her onto her back and pinned her down, holding her still. He shook his head, trying to clear it. There was a red mark on his forehead, just below the turban.
The weight of him lying on her was eerily familiar. She steeled her mind against the memory. However, it did give her an idea. She spoke quickly. “You take me. Keep me by your side. Make me yours.”
His gaze met hers. For the first time she
knew he was seeing her. Really seeing her.
“Please,” she whispered. “I’ll be safer with you.”
For a moment she thought he might actually be considering the proposition.
“You won’t regret it,” she added. She would make sure of that.
His mouth curled down. He heaved himself up. “You are my brother’s whore now,” he said shortly. “Do not further sully yourself with this useless begging.”
She had said the wrong thing again.
He pulled her to her feet. This time he did not try to urge her forward with a hand on her arm. He picked her up off her feet and carried her. Three steps, then he threw her through the tent opening.
She hit the red carpet and rolled, for her hands were still tied. She came to a sprawling halt on her side. The rest of the rope was tossed in on top of her and the tent flap dropped back down.
Sydney looked up and around. A dozen or more women sat or laid on cushions and carpets, all of them sultry, doe-eyed women, whose eyes all narrowed in suspicion.
“Look at her hair,” one of them said quietly. “That skin.” The woman ran her hand down her own body. She was wearing a thin tunic and lots of jewelry and that was all. Her hair was bare and flowing down her back in a dark river.
“No veil, no coverings. Who is she?” another said.
They had assumed that because she looked foreign, she couldn’t speak Arabic.
Sydney sat up and held out her hands. “Would one of you be so kind as to untie my hands?”
They all gasped and drew back. One of them looked up and behind Sydney. “Well?” she demanded.
Sydney looked over her shoulder. A tall woman stood at the flap, holding it open by a few inches. She held a veil across her face as she whispered to someone on the other side of the flap.
Then the flap was closed and she turned back to face the other women and lowered the veil. Her face was indignant. She pointed at Sydney. “She got her English man killed. She is for Rashid.”
Everyone turned to look at one of the women, who sat apart from the others. Her belly was swollen and distended. She looked as if she was in the last stages of her pregnancy. She was beautiful, with huge dark eyes that had been enhanced with kohl. Her lips were full and dark.
Kiss Across Seas Page 7