The Red King, page 27
part #2 of Roger of Huntley Series
“Sh-h-h!”
“But—”
“Later,” Roger said, though there would be no later.
Roger raised the knife to Ailith’s throat, the blade against her sweat-streaked skin. He prayed and prayed that the Saracen would turn back, but the man kept coming.
The knife at Ailith’s throat wobbled.
He couldn’t kill her.
But he had taken an oath.
He had taken an oath, and he had to do it.
With a last heave, the Saracen plunged through the crevice into the cavern, his curved dagger ready to strike. Roger started the knife into Ailith’s throat, realized at the last second he couldn’t go through with it, pulled the knife back and sprang at the Saracen.
The two men stopped.
The Saracen was Yasir, the guard from Hut Three whom Roger had left bound and gagged.
Roger and Yasir stared at each other, neither man willing to strike the first blow. Ailith, who was unaware that Roger knew the Saracen, looked from one to the other in puzzlement.
After a long second, Yasir hesitantly lowered his dagger. Roger did the same with his knife.
Yasir placed a finger to his lips, motioning upward. Then he inched back out of the crevice, and they heard him climbing the incline.
Roger and Ailith did not relax. What if Yasir had merely backed off to save his own life? What if he was going to bring Narcissus and the whole pack of them down on their hiding place?
They heard Yasir say something to the men above him. They couldn’t understand his words, but the tone was obvious: “There’s no one there.”
Narcissus swore, and the Saracens moved on up the hill. After a while, they came back down, muttering, wondering how the feringhees could have gotten away. Narcissus berated his men, and his voice was tinged with desperation, presumably because he knew his fate if Ailith and Roger weren’t found.
Ailith turned to Roger, eyes wide. “Why did he do that?” she whispered.
Roger shook his head in amazement. “God’s plan.”
“Thanks for killing me, by the way.”
“Sorry. I’ll make it up to you later.”
Roger and Ailith remained where they were the rest of the day. “Stay quiet as you can,” Roger told her. “If I was Narcissus, I’d leave men behind to see if we emerge from a hiding place.”
Sure enough, toward dusk, they heard the footsteps of what sounded like a pair of men above them, retreating down the hill.
Not long after, Roger and Ailith pushed through the crevice. Ailith knelt and made the sign of the Cross, her eyes closed. “What now?” she said as she stood.
“Now we walk,” Roger said.
They edged down the hill and started across the rocky plain. It was full dark now, with only a carpet of stars overhead to light their way. They walked for what seemed like forever. They were so tired and hungry, thirsty and footsore that they could barely remain upright. They half-closed their eyes and let their heads droop, as though to get some sleep at the same time as they moved.
After what seemed forever, Roger stopped, holding Ailith back with his arm. “There—do you smell it?”
Swaying on her feet, Ailith lifted her head. Then she realized what it was. “The sea.”
There were no whoops of joy; they were too tired for that. But the realization that they were near the coast gave them renewed energy. Their footsteps were lighter now, their heads higher.
They topped a rise and saw a bright glow in the distance.
“A city,” Roger breathed. “Acre—it has to be.”
They stood there, staring at the distant light, spellbound by it, smelling the salt air. Roger could almost hear waves caressing the beach.
“We made it,” Ailith said in a tone that said she could scarcely believe it.
Roger turned to her. “Now what was it you wanted to tell me so badly back there?”
She took a deep breath and started to reply, but he went on. “Here we’re about to be killed, and of all the times to pick, you—”
“Would you let me get a word in edgewise!” she said.
Roger stopped.
She went on. “I wanted to tell you that I love you.”
Roger’s eyes widened in surprise, and she stared into them. “I’ve always loved you, even when I said I didn’t. I’m sorry things worked out the way they did between us. I was such a—”
Roger pulled her to him and kissed her. It was her turn to be taken by surprise, then she kissed him back, eagerly, her eyes wet with hot tears.
The kiss lasted a long time. When it was done, Roger held Ailith close and ran his fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest. “I lied when I said that kiss back in England didn’t mean anything to me. The truth is, I’ve never forgotten it.”
Roger took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I never should have left you that day.”
She smiled up at him. “I never should have let you go.”
They kissed again.
EPILOGUE
“YOUR WIFE’S STILL getting dressed, sire. Swears she won’t be but a minute.”
“Well, there’s a surprise,” Conrad remarked drily. Isabelle was always late, and to her a “minute” could mean the half-turn of an hourglass. But Conrad was fond of the little minx and he couldn’t be angry with her. The archbishop’s dinner probably wouldn’t start on time, anyway—he was as bad as she was.
“You going to wait here, sire? Want me to bring you some refreshment?”
“No thank you, Otto. I think I’ll go outside and stretch my legs.”
“Very well, sire.” Conrad was not officially crowned yet, but people were already calling him ‘sire.’ “I’ll assemble an escort.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Conrad said. “I’ll just take Guerin and Aleaume.” He nodded toward two big men in the corner.
“Is that wise, sire?”
Conrad laughed. Otto had been a man-at-arms, a good one, and a favorite of Conrad’s. He’d been severely wounded at the battle of Camerino, years ago, and couldn’t fight after that, so Conrad had made him his steward. Otto was fiercely loyal to Conrad, and Conrad feared he was becoming over protective. “Don’t be such an old hen, Otto. I’m just going for a walk up the street, nothing will happen to me. I’ll be back in a bit to fetch Isabelle. You may assemble a full escort then.”
The hatchet-faced steward frowned; he plainly didn’t like this. “Are you—”
“Yes, Otto, I’m sure.”
Otto acquiesced and bowed. “As you will, sire.”
Conrad rose from the window seat, from which vantage point he had been observing the teeming street below—a different view than the one from his castles at home, where he’d been accustomed to living on isolated cliff tops and mountainsides. He adjusted the black biretta on his shaven head and smoothed the yellow silk robe that showed off his massive chest. Since Conrad had been selected for the kingship, the biretta had become increasingly popular in Tyre—and in Acre, as well, if rumor was to be believed. The shaven head made Conrad look appropriately fearsome, but he mainly did it because long hair made his scalp itch.
There were many preparations still to be made for the coronation, which was in two days’ time. Conrad and Isabelle would sail for Acre tomorrow, and Archbishop Josicus was hosting a farewell dinner tonight for those nobles of Tyre unable to accompany the royal party.
“Royal party”—the phrase had a nice ring to it. Conrad had begun as a simple crusader, arriving with a small retinue on a ship from Genoa, and he had already achieved far more than he had ever dreamed possible. Lordship of a wealthy city, a beautiful young wife whom he plowed whenever he wanted—and he wanted it a lot—and now a crown.
Soon he would be a major power in the Levant; the two obstacles to that happening had finally been removed. First, that idiot Lusignan had been sent packing to Cyprus. Conrad was honest enough to admit a certain kinship between himself and Lusignan—they were both adventurers. The difference between them was that Lusignan’s talents lay in seducing women and flattering rich men, whereas Conrad had actual military, diplomatic and administrative skills. Conrad would make the kingdom of Jerusalem important again, more important than it had ever been, and that was something Lusignan never could have done.
The second obstacle had been Richard of England. For all his prowess as a warrior, the crusade would have been better off had Richard never come. All he had accomplished in his time here was to keep Conrad from the throne.
Conrad cracked a rare smile as he descended the wide interior steps of his palace. Once he was king, he would consolidate his power and wait for Saladin’s failing health to run its course. After that, there would be civil war among Saladin’s sons—and perhaps his brother—for the succession. Conrad would be patient, chipping away at the edges of Saladin’s empire, more of an annoyance than a serious threat to anyone, and then, when the Saracens were at their most disorganized, he would strike. A lightning campaign would take back Jerusalem and the rest of the kingdom that had been lost—and maybe a lot more.
The crusaders from the west wouldn’t like the delay, of course. They wanted Conrad to march on the Holy City right away—it was one of the reasons they had supported him to be king. But the truth was, he had played them false to get that support. He could accomplish what he wanted without them. They had a timeline, and he didn’t. He wasn’t going home like they were—this was his home. Besides, there would always be a steady stream of young men from the west, eager to fight infidels, from whom he could build up his forces.
He left the palace and entered the crowded street. Guerin and Aleaume struggled to stay close to him in the mob. Conrad had made Tyre a cosmopolitan city. There were men from every county in Christendom, Muslims from every principality in the East, along with Africans, Greeks and an occasional mustachioed fellow from far-off India. There were soldiers, merchants, whores, men hawking goods and foodstuffs of every variety. There were horses and camels and men playing flutes. Men laughing, men shouting, men singing bawdy songs, women with lithe figures and veiled faces. There was even a snake charmer, and Conrad paused beneath a colorful awning to watch him.
He started off again, and again his bodyguards got separated from him in the press. People recognized him and edged away in respect, even as they cried, “Good day, sire!”
Conrad responded with a good-natured wave; he could afford to be good natured on this day. In a moment he would return to his house. Maybe there would be time for a quick coupling with Isabelle. She would fuss about her expensive clothes getting rumpled before the big dinner, but he didn’t care.
He reached the cathedral and was about to turn for home, when he spied the young priest in training, Michael, crossing the street toward him, hands stuffed in his bell-like sleeves. Michael, who was attached to his household, was studious, and Conrad enjoyed sitting with him of a rainy day debating obscure bits of theology.
“Michael, my young friend!” Conrad exclaimed. “How are you?”
Michael bowed low and smiled, unusual for one so serious. “Greetings, sire. Shouldn’t you be at the archbishop’s house for dinner?”
“I’m waiting for my wife to get dressed,” Conrad said. He let out a mock sigh. “You religious fellows don’t know how good you have it.”
Serious again, Michael said, “If you have a moment, sire, I’m curious about a point you made when last we met.”
§
Abu Flath, once called Tarik, couldn’t believe his luck. He had finally been given the order to carry out his mission, and at the same moment, his target had become nearly impossible to get close to. In frustration, abu Flath had already booked passage to Acre, in hopes that he would have better luck there, but now, by the grace of Allah, here was his target in front of him, trailed by two clumping bodyguards who were too far behind to be of any assistance.
Abu Flath said, “If you have a moment, sire, I’m curious about a point you made when last we met.”
Conrad creased his heavy brow, as if trying to remember. “Which point was that?”
“This sharp one.”
Abu Flath pulled the expensive dagger that Sinan had given him from his sleeve and thrust it at Conrad’s chest. He aimed at the German’s heart, intending to stab him again and again in a series of rapid strokes, but Conrad was incredibly fast for a man of his size, and he turned just enough so that the knife went into his side, instead. Abu Flath felt the blade go through Conrad’s yellow robe and shirt, through skin and gristle, felt it slide across a rib.
Conrad grunted and tried to steady himself, ironically using abu Flath’s shoulder for support. Abu Flath drew the blade from Conrad’s side and stabbed again, again trying to get at Conrad’s heart, but the angle was bad and the blade merely scraped Conrad’s chest. By this time Conrad was falling and people were crowding around, trying to see what was going on, blocking abu Flath from another attempt.
“He’s fainted!”
“Get him water!”
“He ain’t fainted, he’s been stabbed. Look at that blood!”
“Did you see who did it?”
“Goat Fucker—had to be.”
Incredibly, no one seemed to realize that the young priest standing there was the one who had attacked Conrad. Abu Flath tried to force his way closer to his victim and finish the job, but he was cut off by the growing mob of people.
Then the two bodyguards were there, beating people away with curses and the backs of their swords. A whistle sounded. Abu Flath knew he would not be able to complete his mission, not now, so he backed away, losing himself in the crowd, and withdrew to contemplate what he must do next.
The street was in an uproar; abu Flath saw a Muslim merchant on the ground, being stomped by the mob. He slipped into the nearest building, the cathedral, where he might gather his thoughts.
It was dark and cool in the cathedral. Empty, too, since everyone had left to see what the commotion in the street was about. The noise from outside was muted here. Abu Flath pondered his next step. He had been expected to die on this mission, so there was no question of his returning to the Eagle’s Nest. Sinan would make him jump off the mountain if he came back a failure, so he had to devise a new plan. It might take him months to get near Conrad again, because Conrad was sure to be guarded closely after this. Abu Flath would have to change his appearance, as well. A soldier, perhaps . . . ?
Loud voices. Footsteps on stone.
“Make way, you fool, make way. Get him out of the sun.”
“How is he?”
“He’ll be all right, God be praised. It’s not a bad wound, but it’s too far to carry him to his house. Put him there and summon the physicians.”
“Put a guard on the doors, too—and find some water.”
They were bringing Conrad into the cathedral. They laid him on the stone floor, making a pillow with someone’s cloak, stemming Conrad’s wound with strips torn from the hem of his yellow robe.
“Move back, there! Move back! Give him air!”
Abu Flath stared from the shadows, scarcely believing his good fortune. Truly Allah was great. Abu Flath stuffed his hands in his sleeves and started for the group.
“Where’s that damned doctor?”
“Here he comes—the priest!”
“Out of the way, give him room.”
As abu Flath grew closer, Conrad raised his head and saw him. “That’s no doctor!” he cried. “That’s the man who stabbed me.”
“What!” men said, disbelieving. But before they had a chance to stop him, abu Flath raised both hands and plunged the razor-sharp dagger into Conrad’s heart. Blood sprayed abu Flath even as the feringhees were pulling him away from the dying man.
Somebody held abu Flath by the collar. Blows rained down. His nose shattered, his face was wet, an eye seemed to explode, teeth were dislodged.
Then it stopped.
“Why did you do this? Who paid you?” said a garlic-and-wine-scented voice that he did not recognize. He was pounded in the jaw. “Who paid you!”
Sinan had ordered abu Flath to resist their questions as long as he could, in order to make his answer seem more plausible, but he thought of what was in store for him from the barbarian feringhees—eyes gouged out with red-hot pokers, fingernails pulled, bones smashed with hammers—and he was no longer a fierce killer. He just wanted to get it over with. Allah save him, he did not want to undergo their torture. He wanted to be back home with his mother and sister. He wanted to enter Paradise.
“King Richard did it!” he cried through broken teeth. “It was King Richard who paid me!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Richard the Lionheart’s name sometimes appears on lists of history’s great generals, which seems odd because his military reputation rests almost entirely upon the battle of Arsuf. In the same fashion, Arsuf occasionally appears on lists of the world’s great battles. The battle itself was indecisive, so perhaps the fascination with it endures because it featured the two foremost commanders of the age—Richard and Saladin.
As with anything concerning the Middle Ages, it is difficult to discover the true facts of the battle, but in general they are as I have presented them. It seems to have been a near-run thing, with a possible Saracen victory spoiled by the crusaders’ counterattack. There are two eyewitness accounts. Beha ad-Din, Saladin’s chronicler, says the counterattack was a well-coordinated move involving Richard’s entire army; while Ambroise, a Norman minstrel in Richard’s employ, claims in his Histoire that Richard would have destroyed Saladin’s army had the rear guard not attacked prematurely. He blames the attack on the Hospitaller’s marshal, William Borrel. Richard later claimed the same thing. Interestingly, Ambroise also hints that the rear guard was in more or less desperate straits and in danger of being overrun when the counterattack occurred.
Richard’s massacre of the Acre prisoners tends to be glossed over by a number of his biographers, as though they do not wish to tarnish his reputation. Their general consensus is that it was unfortunate but a military necessity. I leave the reader to decide.
