by Jack Whyte
“But you’ve eaten now. Can you walk on that leg at all, if I support you?”
“I believe I can.”
“Good, and did your friends dig a latrine?”
“They did, close by but far enough removed to be inoffensive. It is ten paces to the right of the entrance.”
“If I can help you there, are you capable of seeing to your own needs?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. Now, if I help you to stand up and walk, will you attempt to kill me?”
The merest hint of a smile showed in the Saracen’s eyes. “Not before you bring me back in here, despite my oath to destroy all infidels at any opportunity.”
Sinclair grunted, then moved forward, his good arm outstretched. “So be it, then, let’s see if we can raise you to your feet. Be careful of my other arm, for it is as badly broken as your leg, but not so well bandaged. Once you are up, we’ll go outside and I will leave you to do what you must. Call out when you are done and I’ll come and help you back.”
By the time they had completed their business at the latrine, full dark had fallen, and they sat together in the darkness of the small corner that was their shelter. They talked of small, unimportant matters for a time, but the night was utterly still and they were both tired, so they soon fell asleep, head to foot in the narrow space, and Sinclair’s last thought was that he would have to be awake and away by dawn.
SINCLAIR CAME AWAKE when a callused hand clamped itself across his mouth and chin, but his protesting reaction was stilled instantly as he heard a deep, guttural growl and felt the edge of a cold knife blade at his throat. He lay motionless, waiting to die. Dawn had yet to break, but there was movement all around him, and he knew he should have anticipated this development.
“Who is this ferenghi dog? Should I slit his throat?” The voice came from directly above him, and he felt the pressure on the blade at his throat increase, preparing to slash. But even as he began to tense for the blow, the voice of al-Farouch stayed the other’s hand, ringing out with an authority that was absolute.
“No! Do him no harm, Sabit. He has shared bread and salt with me and I am in his debt.”
The man called Sabit grunted and sat back on his haunches, removing his hand from Sinclair’s face but continuing to hold the knife to his throat, although it was the flat of the blade that pushed now against his skin. “How can you be in debt to a ferenghi, Amir?” His voice was rich with disgust. “He is an infidel, and therefore you need not be bound by our holy laws in dealing with him. The very idea is laughable.”
“And you would see fit to laugh at me for being compassionate, Sabit?” The hard tone of al-Farouch’s swift retort was sufficient to make Sabit remove the knife from Sinclair’s neck.
“No, not so, Amir. I was but—”
“You were but challenging my judgment, I believe.” “Never, Amir.” Sabit knelt upright, swinging to face his superior. “I merely thought—”
“That is strange, Sabit. Thought is something I have never known in you before. I require no thought from you, merely obedience and loyalty. Are we in accord on that?”
“As you say, Amir.” Sinclair did not have to see the man to know he was crestfallen.
“Excellent. Now offer thanks to Allah for His blessings and my good humor, then take the ferenghi outside and hold him where he cannot overhear us talking. He professes not to understand our speech, but I think we might have much to discuss here and it makes sense to be cautious.”
“Allahu Akbar. My obedience is yours, as always.”
As the man called Sabit lurched to his feet, al-Farouch changed languages, from Arabic to his rolling, heavily accented French.
“You should have ridden off last night, Lach-Lann, as we discussed, for now you are a prisoner. My lieutenant Sabit is a good man, but a man of firm, sometimes misguided ideals. He was set to cut your throat.”
“I could tell.” Sinclair fought to keep his voice calm. “I thank you for my life.” He hesitated. “I heard him call you Amir. Did you not say your name is Ibn?”
“It is their name for me,” the other man said. “I am emir to them, you understand? We live far from other speakers of our tongue. The Bedouin say ‘Emir,’ but where we live, we say it differently, ‘Amir.’ Now go with Sabit. He will look after you while I confer with my officers, for my men are here in strength. They will bring me up to date on all that has happened within the past week. In the meantime, Sabit will take you apart from us and hold you safe until I decide what must be done with you. Go with him, and give thanks to Allah that I was able to stay his hand before he could harm you. You will be safe in his hands now.”
“I thank you again. Clearly you are a man of more authority than I had suspected. I will go with your man.”
“Go now then. Sabit will assist you. Help him up, Sabit.”
The last sentence was in Arabic, and as Sabit moved to obey, Sinclair was able to discern his face and shape in the strengthening light. He was a huge man, with the twin clefts of a deep scowl between bushy eyebrows, and a fiercely hooked and bony nose. He wore a spiked helmet with a folded white kufiya draped loosely over it, its ends thrown over opposite shoulders so that the folds covered the lower half of his face. His right eye was covered with a black patch, from which a livid scar stretched down, plainly visible even in the wan light, to disappear beneath the layers of cloth that obscured his mouth and chin, and the fingers of his left hand caressed the hilt of the long, curving sword that hung by his side. He extended his other hand, glowering fiercely, and Sinclair used it to pull himself up to his feet, where he stood swaying for a few moments before stepping towards the mouth of the fold in the cliff. The Saracen fell into step behind him, one warning hand on his shoulder.
A silence fell as Sinclair stepped out from the shade into the open, and he looked about him curiously. More than a hundred men, most of them still mounted, were staring at him in the dawn’s light. Not a man of them spoke or moved as Sabit prodded Sinclair forward with a gentle finger, but every eye in the throng followed the Frank as he proceeded some thirty paces along the base of the cliff until his escort’s hand closed over his shoulder again.
The big man pointed at the ground, waving downward flat-palmed with his other hand in an unmistakable gesture. Sinclair sat down without further prompting, leaning his back against the rock face, and watched as two of al-Farouch’s men, their hands linked to form a chair, carried him out from the niche that had sheltered him. They stopped, facing their comrades, who roared out their greetings to their chief in a manner that left no doubt of the affection and approval they held for him. Sinclair was impressed but not really surprised by their welcome, based on his own impressions about al-Farouch’s character and temperament. He was surprised, however, when the mass of mounted men parted to reveal a matched pair of white horses harnessed to a vehicle of a kind that he recognized but had never before seen. It was a battle chariot, a light, two-wheeled conveyance that was little more than a basket-sided platform mounted on high, slender wheels, but he saw at a glance that it had been equipped with a seat that would permit its rider to sit in comfort and control the vehicle despite his broken leg. A richly dressed warrior led the horses forward, and al-Farouch’s attendants raised him up carefully to where he could reach out and haul himself into the seat. He raised his hand and waved to his men, drawing a renewed burst of cheering.
Moments later he issued a quiet command and the assembly broke up. Most of the men dismounted and formed into casual groups, while others, evidently officers of one description or another, followed al-Farouch’s chariot as he led them away from the gathering to where they could talk without being overheard. Sinclair abandoned any thought of attempting to listen after that, for even had they been shouting at each other, hearing what they said would have been impossible from where he sat. Instead, he settled himself to wait in as much comfort as he could, aware of the formidable and watchful Sabit looming above him, and of the sun’s gathering strength on his fac
e. Careful to show no emotion, he covered his face with the folds of the kufiya the big man had tossed to him moments earlier, crossed his arms on his chest, and bent his head as though to sleep.
He was startled when Sabit prodded him with his foot, for he had not expected to fall asleep, but when he looked up wide eyed he saw the other reaching for him again with his right hand. He took it and hauled himself up to his feet, then adjusted the sling on his arm and followed the big man. Al-Farouch sat waiting for him in his chariot, and he was aware as he went that he was being scrutinized by every man there.
Al-Farouch nodded solemnly to him, then stroked the point of his beard between thumb and forefinger. He spoke in French.
“Well, Lach-Lann, it appears that you were right to be concerned about where you might run to, and I am impressed with the accuracy of your predictions. Tiberias surrendered to the Sultan as soon as they heard of our victory at Hattin. He was merciful, as always, and permitted the defenders to depart unharmed. Suffiriyya and Nazareth also fell to us, as you foretold, and the Sultan, may Allah continue to shed His light upon him, has besieged Jerusalem and is expected to win back the city and drive its defenders into the sea before we can arrive there. Palestine, your Latin Kingdom, is ours again, free of the Frankish yoke, and the other territories that you call Antioch, Edessa, and Tripoli will soon be equally blessed. Our lands will be united under Allah from northern Syria to Egypt.”
Sinclair stood wooden faced as this was all recited to him, then nodded his head.
“What of the battle, my lord? Know you the extent of our casualties?”
“I do.” There was no trace of raillery or gloating in al-Farouch’s demeanor. “The Turcomer infantry attached to your knights was destroyed, without survivors. Of your original twelve hundred knights, more than a thousand died. The Crow of Kerak, the foul beast called de Chatillon, is dead, personally cut down by Saladin in fulfillment of his oath to do so.” Al-Farouch paused, and a new expression, something unidentifiable, sharpened his gaze. Sinclair braced himself for whatever might come next, but it was not at all what he expected to hear.
“Also dead, I am told, at the express command of the Sultan, are more than one hundred Temple Knights, taken in the battle and executed later.”
“They executed prisoners? I do not believe it. Saladin’s name would never recover from such an atrocity.”
Al-Farouch’s right eyebrow twitched. “Saladin’s name? You mean his reputation among the Franks? The Sultan’s name is revered by the followers of Allah, by the warriors of Islam. It matters nothing, to any of the Faithful, what the infidels might have to say about his name or his reputation. This is the man who has sworn the holiest of oaths to sweep Islam clean of the pollution of the Franks, and he ordered the execution of the Temple Knights because he believes them to be the most dangerous men on earth. He has issued a decree that henceforth no Templar will ever be allowed to go free and fight against us again.”
Sinclair could not think of anything adequate to say in response to that, and nodded. “What will you do with me now? Am I to die, too?”
Al-Farouch barked a laugh. “Die? No, you are not to die. I owe you a life. But you will be my prisoner, until such time as you are ransomed. Do not be alarmed,” he added quickly, seeing Sinclair stiffen. “You will not be treated harshly, so be it that you cause no trouble. We will teach you to speak our tongue while you are among us, and expose you to the words of Allah and His Holy Prophet Muhammad, blessed be his name. We may even teach you to bathe and to dress like a civilized man, but that will depend on how long you remain among us. In the meantime, I have given Sabit charge over you. You will find him swift to deal out punishment and retribution, but he really is not a harsh taskmaster unless provoked. Your Frankishness would normally provoke him grievously, but I have warned him against permitting himself that enjoyment. Go with him now, but before you go, learn your first lesson in Arabic. ‘Sala’am Aleikhem.’ It means hello, greetings, welcome, and it also means farewell and goodbye. The response to it is to repeat the same words. And so I say to you, until we see each other again, Sala’am Aleikhem.”
“Sala’am Aleikhem,” Sinclair replied, wondering whether he ever would see his home again, for these people believed his name was Lachlan Moray and no one would ransom Sir Lachlan Moray, a Scottish knight with no affiliation to any major group. There was no Templar knight with such a name, and there was no one out there, even among the brotherhood, who might be capable of divining the truth of what had happened.
Sabit stepped forward and clamped a hand on his shoulder, and Alec Sinclair moved obediently in response, taking his first real steps into captivity as he made his way, under guard, to the horse—al-Farouch’s horse—that had been reserved for him in the center of the Saracen formation.
THE COUNTY OF POITOU 1189–90
ONE
Even before Ector shook him by the shoulder, Henry St. Clair knew he had been dreaming, caught in that wavering limbo between sleep and wakefulness that he had been visiting regularly since his wife died the year before. The noises in his dream had been disquieting and vaguely frightening— distant, but thunderous and threatening—and yet he had been incapable of doing anything about them, unable to move decisively or to raise his voice in question or protest. And then hands were grasping at his shoulders, pinioning his arms, and he awoke with a muffled cry to find Ector standing over him, weirdly menacing in the flickering light of the candle by the bedside.
“My lord! My lord Henry, wake up.”
Henry stiffened, then relaxed, recognizing both his steward and his own familiar bedchamber as the last elements of his nightmare dwindled and vanished. He scrubbed at his eyes and pushed himself up onto one elbow, peering owlishly at his visitor.
“Ector? What is it? What hour is it?”
“Long after midnight, my lord, but you have visitors.
You must dress yourself, quickly.”
“Visitors? In the middle of the night?” He flung away his coverings, then paused, half in and half out of bed, squinting up at his steward. “Is it those thrice-damned priests again? For if it is they can all go to Hell, where I will supplicate the Devil to dig deeper pits among the coals for them. Their sanctimonious arrogance is—”
“No, my lord Henry, not the priests. It is the King. He bids you join him, as quickly as you may.”
“The King.” Henry’s toneless voice betrayed his bewilderment. “The King of France? Capet? Philip Augustus is here in Poitou?”
“No, my lord, I meant the Duke. The English King, Richard. Your liege.”
“Richard of Aquitaine.” St. Clair’s voice flattened. “You dare to name him King, here in my house? His father would have us both gutted for even thinking that, let alone saying it aloud.”
Ector hung his head, abashed at his gaffe. “Forgive me, my lord. My thoughts impaired my tongue.”
Henry held up his hand. “Enough! He will be King of England soon enough, but Henry is not dead yet. And in the meantime, the son is here at my door.” He jerked his hand in warning as Ector opened his mouth to speak again. “No! Be quiet and let me think. And while I do that, pray you for Heaven to protect us all from an ill wind, for no fair breeze blows any man to another’s door at this time of night, let alone Richard of Aquitaine. Why did you not say sooner it was he?”
Still clad in the tunic and leggings he had worn the previous day, Sir Henry rose from the bed as quickly as his aging body would permit and crossed to the bowl on his nightstand, where he splashed water onto his face and scrubbed at his eyes and cheeks. Ector offered to bring heated water, but Henry simply grunted and reached for a towel, bidding him fetch a fresh surcoat and his cloak instead. By the time Ector had retrieved them from his armoire, Henry had adjusted what he was already wearing and slipped his feet into a pair of sturdy, fleece-lined boots.
“How many men has he brought with him? Is this a war party?”
“No, my lord. He is practically alone. One noble companion and half
a score of guards at most. I had the impression they have ridden a long way and still have farther to go.”
Henry shrugged into the first of the two garments Ector held out to him, a sleeveless white ankle-length surcoat without blazon. He wrapped the two sides around his waist and cinched them there with a leather belt. “How is his mien, his mood? Does he seem angry?”
Ector raised his eyebrows. “No, my lord. He seems … excited, full of enthusiasm.”
“I’m sure he is.” Henry picked up Ector’s candle and held it high as he bent forward to peer into a mirror of polished metal. He dipped his other hand into the bowl and splashed water on his hair and beard, rubbing it in with his fingertips and then combing and grooming himself with spread fingers. “But for what is he enthusiastic now? I wonder. His passions ever change from week to week. I wonder where he’s bound, that he should pass by our very door. Did he say anything of that?”
“No, my lord. Not to me.”
“No, of course. He would not. Well, I shall have to go and ask him.”
St. Clair bared his teeth and nodded to his reflection in the mirror, then turned back to Ector, taking his knight’s mantle from the steward’s hands and sweeping it around above his head in a broad, circular motion, so that its voluminous folds flared out and settled perfectly across his shoulders, with the St. Clair crest prominently displayed on its left breast. He snapped shut the catch that secured the heavy cloak across his chest, then nodded again and strode towards the door to make his way down the broad, shallow staircase of stone that led to the main entrance hall, where a profusion of bright lights and bustling servants focused his attention on the large antechamber into which Ector had ushered his visitors.
“You set food and drink for him, I hope, before you came for me?”
“Of course, my lord, and replenished the fire as soon as he arrived.”