Reza nodded, his breathing shallow. “Hurts to breathe deeply, but yes I am. This is a lot better than on the road. That journey was not what I would call enjoyable, although Junayd did his very best.”
“He told me all about that. We are only a couple of days’ sailing from home, Uncle. It is very important that we clean you up later, and that you do not stress yourself. Junayd told me the wound is deep.”
“Very well then, I shall rest. Do you remember the way?” He attempted a grin, and despite himself Rostam had to laugh. “Be careful, Uncle, or I might drop you off in Famagusta! I am sure the Emperor would be very happy to put you up… in one of his dungeons!”
“I shall be good. You know that Talon remained behind?” he asked.
“Yes.” Rostam looked unhappy.
“I did not want to leave him, but that is one stubborn man at times,” Reza muttered, wincing again as he adjusted his position on the bunk.
They sailed all that day under a burning sun, their prow cutting a foaming path through the azure waters, leaving a wake that was as straight as a spear behind them. The wind was faithful and kept their sails full, for which Rostam was very thankful. Their lookouts perched high above the deck kept a sharp eye open for any other vessels, but although there were some sails to be seen on the horizon none came near them as they sped towards their home.
As evening approached the wind dropped off, but the light breeze was enough to keep them moving at a decent pace. Guy and Rostam agreed that if they sailed all night they would in all probability make landfall by early morning. Then it would be a matter of sailing along the long arm of the island of Cyprus until they made port. Guy was optimistic. “I think we have a good chance of landing by early afternoon tomorrow, if the winds are kind,” he told an anxious Rostam.
“You need to sleep, boy,” he continued. “I can steer by the stars along the lines you have indicated. If we bump into land I’ll wake you. Go now and rest. I need you to be sharp and clear-eyed for the morning.”
Rostam reluctantly headed for the cabins. Before he went to his bunk, he and Dar’an tended to Reza. Dar’an pointed wordlessly at the stitches, almost hidden by the puffy, inflamed flesh around them. Rostam nodded. In silence they swabbed the area of the wound with hot salt water while Reza gritted his teeth. They then wrapped a clean bandage around his chest and allowed him to lie back with a deep sigh of relief. He went to sleep almost immediately.
“The wound is infected. I hope our physician lady can deal with it,” Dar’an muttered. He had great faith in Theodora, who had learned her trade in Constantinople, but he didn’t like what he was seeing.
They were about eight leagues out from the coast the next day when they saw a rocket flare in the sky, which pleased Rostam enormously. It meant they had been seen by lookouts at the castle. He gave a great sigh of relief.
Before very long, they could see the harbor and a ship racing towards them. Henry was clearly on the alert and had mustered his crew to meet the possible threat.
“Send up the recognition flag,” Guy ordered, and within moments Talon’s standard with the ship and lion emblazoned on it was fluttering high on the mast. A similar flag was hauled up onto the ship approaching them, and before long the crews were cheering as the two ships drew alongside one another.
Henry was braced against the rail, looking over at them. “What news?” He shouted.
“Urgent to get into port and we will explain there. Reza wounded!” Guy roared back.
Henry looked alarmed, but waved them past and set about turning his ship to follow them into port, where a small crowd of onlookers had gathered.
Guy took the ship in at a fast pace, using his rowers, who were willing enough. They slid into place alongside the quay and were rapidly tied up. The gangplank was lowered and men carried Reza off the ship almost before it had stopped moving. Dar’an and Rostam accompanied Reza, while Junayd escorted the pirate leader, who was again in chains. Two crewmen came with him to make sure he didn’t try to escape. Junayd warned him, “Don’t do anything stupid. We haven’t got time to chase you. I’ll just shoot you with an arrow.”
The chained man nodded silently and watched as willing hands placed Reza on a light pallet to be carried by four men for the uphill journey. They left the port behind and began the long, steep climb to the castle on the ridge. A messenger on horseback rode ahead to notify Theodora that Reza would need her urgent attention.
Rostam looked down at his uncle as he lay on the swaying pallet. Reza was only semi-conscious; his fever was getting worse. When Rostam placed a hand on his forehead, it was clammy with sweat and very hot. “Hold on, Uncle!” he murmured. “We are nearly there.” He urged the panting and straining men to hurry.
They were met at the gates by a small contingent of the family. Theodora was foremost. Rav’an had her arm around Jannat, who was tense with worry and red-eyed. The messenger had not been able to tell them anything beyond the fact that Reza was grievously wounded.
Theodora immediately took charge. She briefly checked Reza’s bandage, which was pink with blood, then placed her hand on his forehead.
“The fever is setting in,” she muttered, then she looked up at Rav’an and Jannat. “We must hurry! Bring him into my rooms. I must examine him immediately.”
“Will he be all right?” Jannat was wringing her hands with worry. Rav’an put her arm around her shoulders again. “Theo will do all she can, Jannat. We must allow her to do her work. There is no one better.”
Max was there, wanting to know more of the story, but he made sure that Reza was safely with Theo before she chased everyone out of the chamber, allowing only Jannat and Rav’an to stay.
Downstairs, Max and Rostam plied Junayd with questions. He was willing enough to tell them, recounting in detail the confrontation with Rideford and his men before the battle.
Max shook his head in disgust. “No one ever listens to Talon. He knows better than anyone, other than perhaps the Count of Tripoli, how to deal with our enemies, but still they don’t heed him. And now he has gone to Jerusalem with the Count?”
“I do not know, Max. I left them at Tiberius, in the small city by the lake. I do not know what is in store for them!” Junayd sounded very distressed. “Those people over there are quite mad.”
“Hmm, I don’t disagree,” Max muttered, almost to himself.
They talked for hours that afternoon, and then, after eating, well into the evening. The story was told several times as other people of the household gathered to hear it, and each time Max became more and more convinced that there was a disaster looming. He glanced over at Rostam, who was eating bread and olives with some cheese and smoked sardines. Damian, Theodora’s young son, had wandered into the room and had been listening wide-eyed to the story. He sat next to Rostam, who attempted a smile at him. “Will Uncle Reza be all right, Rostam?” the boy chirped.
“He will be all right, Damian. Your mother is going to take care of Uncle Reza.”
It was late in the evening when the women joined the men, who by then were on tenterhooks with worry. Theo looked exhausted. “Tell us,” Max said gently.
“His fever is high, but I think I can control it. I have given him drops of frankincense and mullein. Both are good at controlling fevers and inflammation.” Theodora looked down at her hands, which were pink from washing, as though reassuring herself that they were hers. Max sat next to her, while Rostam embraced Rav’an and Jannat in turn.
“I had to reopen the wound,” Theodora said. Her tone flat. “As I suspected, the physician in the Kingdom, while good, had still missed a piece of cloth that was forced into the wound by whatever struck Reza. We had to open it right up to expose the scrap and remove it.”
“I would never have known about that, but she knew exactly what to do!” Rav’an said to the assembly, her tone awed. “She has sewn him back up and he is resting. It is in God’s hands now.”
“I shall have to stay with him until the fever breaks, and to ens
ure the drain I have placed in the wound is working properly,” Theo stated.
“I shall be with you every minute, my Theo.” Jannat began to sob very quietly. Rav’an quickly moved to take her in her arms. “He lives, my darling. We must be thankful for that.” Her own fears for Talon were temporarily forgotten as she comforted her adopted sister.
Theo departed with Jannat in tow, leaving Rav’an to see that Damian went to bed, and then to look in on the children. The remainder stayed to continue discussing the situation. The fact that Talon was with the Count of Tripoli somewhere in the Kingdom was hardly reassuring.
Eventually, everyone went to bed, but before he did so himself Max went on the prowl to see that Palladius and his men on guard were wide awake. He took Junayd with him. He also intended to check up on their two prisoners. Palladius, the Sergeant of the Guard, was full of curiosity about what had happened to Reza.
Then they went down into the dungeons to have a look at the prisoners. The boy and his father were separated by an empty cell, so that if they wanted to communicate with one another they had to call out, thus allowing the sentry to hear what they said. Max had asked for a sentry who spoke Arabic to be posted. The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, looking sullen; he barely looked up when Max and Palladius arrived. The father, however, came to the bars of his cell and asked, “Is the Lord Reza going to live?”
Max barely understood him, but he guessed what he was saying and replied, “You should hope he lives, because if not you die.” The grim look on his face must have spoken volumes, because the pirate retreated and went to sit on his pallet. There were no further words between them. After making sure they had water and some food, Max and Palladius left.
The next day, another ship was observed making its way towards the harbor. The flare went up and the intruder was intercepted by both scout ships as it approached.
As Henry and Guy stood off from the newcomer, it became apparent that this was the same ship that had escaped from them during the engagement some weeks prior. The railing on its starboard side was still in a state of disrepair. Henry wrinkled his nose at the smell emanating from the vessel. There were slaves aboard. It was a slovenly ship, but he knew better than to underestimate the men who sailed it.
The rough-looking crew clearly became apprehensive when the two ships pointed their bows at their vessel, but a lean, finely dressed man wearing a huge turban waved, indicating he wanted to talk.
“What do you want?” Henry shouted across the water.
The man on the pirate ship put a hand to his ear and shouted something back.
“My Arab is poor,” Henry told his steersman. “Who speaks the Arabic on our ship?”
One of the crew stepped forward. “I do, captain.”
“What is he saying?” Henry asked his man.
“He said he has come to parley for our prisoner, Captain.”
“Parley? About what? Tell him to be quick, or we’ll sink him right now!” Henry told his translator, forgetting for the moment that they now held a prisoner at the castle. He glanced towards the bows, where several of his crew were standing by, one with a fuse coil ready to fire the Scorpion spear with its deadly explosive load.
The man on the other deck shouted across the water. “You have my cousin and his son prisoners. I want them back. I have come to parley for them. You still have them, don’t you?”
Henry looked blank for a moment, but Guy, who had been listening also with a man who understood Arabic, shouted back. “Yes, we have them. You lead the way with your vessel. No stupid moves, or we sink you. Anchor in the middle of the harbor. No one is to leave ship without our permission. We will take you up to the castle.”
“The castle?”
“Yes, that place up there!” Guy pointed to the distant castle perched high on the mountain.
“Ah, yes,” Abdul-Zinad said quietly to his nearby lieutenant. “I would very much like to see the inside of that place. Very much indeed.”
____________________
Chapter 13
Frankish Treaties
Perhaps the revealer of depths, the Lord,
will show me where wisdom lurks—
for it alone is my reward,
my portion and the worth of my work.
—Shelomo ibn Gabirol
The bell of Tiberius cathedral dolefully beat single notes throughout the morning, the stroke of a hammer marking the death of each of the fallen. The priests had gathered inside and a Latin mass was being said for the dead, punctuated by the muffled sound of the bell tolling above the heads of the congregation. Count Raymond of Tripoli and his wife, Eschiva of Bures, were present to hear the solemn service. Just as the priest finished one long intonation and was about to begin another, there was an interruption at the door of the church and all heads turned.
After genuflecting at the doorway, Sir Matthew strode along the nave, his spurs rattling and his leather hauberk creaking and clinking as he approached the Count, who had also turned to find out what was going on.
“What is it?” he demanded sharply.
“My Lord, there is a party of horsemen sighted on the road. They appear to be coming from the south. We think they are Christians.”
The Count shrugged. “Very well. I shall come.” He looked over at the priest, who was waiting to continue with barely suppressed impatience.
“Finish the service,” the Count ordered, then turned to his wife. “You should stay here and be seen to represent me,” he said, then he was striding out of the cathedral into the blinding light of the noonday sun. He shrugged off his ceremonial cloak and looked around for Talon, noticed him standing with his phantom attendant Yosef on the walls overlooking the entrance to the city, and made in their direction.
“I missed you at the service, Talon,” the Count said pointedly as he came alongside. Talon was leaning on the parapet, gazing at the oncoming horsemen.
“I thought I should keep an eye on the road, Lord,” Talon replied. “If I am not mistaken, that is Count Balian of Ibelin, to whom you introduced me in Jerusalem.”
“Yes it is,” said the Count, and if I am not mistaken the two persons dressed in their usual finery are the Bishop of Tyre and Nazareth respectively.” He shook his head.
“They make no concessions to the heat, do they?” he remarked. “Preferring to retain their dignity above all else, including the sensible comfort of light robing. Which is probably why their thinking is always so addled,” he added caustically.“Well, I can imagine why they are here. We should make them welcome, I suppose. Sir Matthew!”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Open the gates, man! We have company, and it is from the Church. Honor guard and all the trappings. You know what to do.”
Matthew hurried off to carry out the Count’s bidding. A trumpet blared, and men-at-arms formed a rough line of spearmen near the entrance of the city gates. The large wooden portals were pushed open by four strong men. Not long after, the party of dignitaries and armed knights clattered through the archway and rode into the main courtyard.
The Count, meanwhile, had stationed himself at the top of the stairs leading to the entrance of the citadel, with several of his knights in attendance. He had requested that Talon join him, so Talon and Yosef stood just to the right of the waiting Count.
The visitors dismounted, Ibelin with practiced ease, but the two bishops needed assistance to clamber off their mounts. Pages held their horses and the two older men hobbled slowly after Ibelin, who strode up the steps with his arms wide. The two Counts embraced. “These are sorry times, cousin,” Ibelin murmured to Raymond. “We must talk as soon as possible.”
“We will, Balian, we will. But you are very welcome, even under these tragic circumstances. You will need some refreshments, I think. It is thirsty work riding this time of year.”
The two bishops had by this time arrived at the top of the steps and were waiting to be greeted. Instead of kneeling and offering to kiss their rings, the Count greeted them tersel
y. “I trust you are well after your ride, Bishops?”
Nazareth frowned, but Tyre, who was used to this treatment, nodded and said, “Indeed, Lord Raymond, the road was wearisome, but infinitely worse is what occurred in Cresson.” He was almost wringing his hands with distress. They had ridden past the battlefield on their way to Tiberius and had beheld the gristly sight of the unburied and headless knights lying where they had fallen. His restless eyes darted to the right and to the left; he recognized Talon and stared. Talon gave the bishop a sardonic half bow; he scowled and looked away.
The visitors were ushered into the citadel’s great hall and seated at the head table to be plied with bread, cheese, olives, goat meat and wine, even some dates. The Count, who had already eaten, sipped a silver cup of water and watched the bishops stuff their mouths with food. Ibelin was more circumspect, eating sparsely and taking an occasional sip of the rough red wine provided by the Count’s steward.
The Count’s wife passed through the hall on her way to the upper chambers and was greeted respectfully by all. “I shall be in my chambers, my Lord,” she addressed the Count pointedly. “You will bring me news there?”
He nodded without saying anything. Talon was struck by the coolness between the Count and his lady.
As soon as the bishops appeared sated, Raymond stood up and said, “We will convene in my chambers upstairs, my Lords. I wish to bring Sir Lord Talon with us, as he witnessed the disaster.”
Ibelin nodded in recognition. “I do remember you, Sir Talon. I am pleased to see you again.” He smiled. “There have been many rumors about you, not least from Acre. I would like to hear your side of things some time.”
The reaction of the bishop of Nazareth was different. “Is this the heretic of whom we have heard who uses witchcraft?” he demanded. His tone was hostile and he fingered his rosary.
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