Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II

by Kathryn Le Veque

  From his reply, the Muslim must have been studying the weaponry in front of his face, although from where Garret was, he couldn’t see enough to determine where, exactly, the Muslim was looking.

  “I know those symbols,” the Muslim replied. “Those are the Knights of the Temple.”

  “They are a disease!”

  The Muslim looked into the face of his captor. “They are Christian,” he said simply. “You are all a disease.”

  The man suddenly lashed out and struck the Muslim across the face, sending him toppling over. As the Muslim struggled to right himself, the Christian stood over him angrily.

  “The Templars are a disease that eats away at the armies of God,” he said. “They infect everything they touch and they pollute the minds of the faithful!”

  “Then they represent all that it means to be Christian.”

  The man with the weapons shoved the Muslim over, kicking him now that he was on the ground. “There is one true God, Savage,” he screamed as he threw his foot into the Muslim’s body. “It is my God. Your god does not exist. Even now, as you are being defeated, your god does not come to help you. But I have the strength of my God behind me. After your death, men will find these weapons of the Templars in your body and know that it is the Templars who have become dishonorable assassins.”

  The Muslim was trying to defend himself. “What does that prove?”

  “It will prove that they are untrustworthy! They are thieves and rogues, and they must be purged from the Christian armies!”

  It was an unsteady rant. Garret could see that the Muslim had his hands bound and it was difficult for him to protect himself. The Englishman was doing a good job at pummeling him and, any moment, Garret expected the Englishman to plunge one of those weapons into the body of his victim.

  Although Garret wasn’t opposed to killing Muslims, he was a man of honor. He did not condone killing men that could not fight back. Moreover, it was clear to him that this was Richard’s cousin, a fool of a man that was trying to set up some manner of deception. Revenge on the Templars, as his dirty soldiers had explained.

  He was attempting to sully their reputation.

  It was a confusing situation, but there was no time for clarification. Garret reached to the back of his saddle and unstrapped his crossbow. If he rode into view now, then the Englishman could quite possibly kill his quarry before Garret could intervene. But a well-placed arrow could stop the situation before the Englishman killed his enemy with stolen weapons.

  Just as Garret collected the crossbow, he could see the Englishman lifting his right hand, the one that held the broadsword. Simply by the way he was holding it, Garret could tell the man intended to plunge it into his victim. Quick as a flash, Garret brought the crossbow to bear on his target and let the arrow fly, sailing it into the forearm of the Englishman.

  A scream filled the air and the broadsword clattered harmlessly to the sand as the Englishman staggered back with an enormous spiny arrow sticking out of his arm. Garret spurred his charger forward into full view as the panicked Englishman suddenly bolted for his stolen horse, thinking that he’d been set upon by the colleagues of the man he had intended to kill.

  Muslims!

  Ripping the arrow out of his arm, the Englishman leaped onto the horse, nearly falling off when the animal bolted forward. It was by sheer luck that he managed to stay astride the beast, turning around to see what army was charging upon him. But all he saw was a lone Christian knight with an emptied crossbow in his hand. As the moonlight illuminated the heavily-armed knight who had launched an arrow at him, the Englishman raised his injured, bloodied arm and shook it angrily.

  “You traitor!” he screamed.

  Garret could see the man’s features; he was pale-skinned, with a wild mop of hair that was some shade of blonde or even reddish-blonde. It was difficult to tell. He was slender and unhandsome, made worse by the expression he bore. Since Garret was wearing both his mail hood and a helm, he knew the man couldn’t see him very well. Not well enough to pick him out of a lineup of men, at any rate.

  “De Nantes,” he said calmly, “Richard has sent me to find you. He expects you back in camp immediately. Return with all due haste.”

  Jago de Nantes was furious. Beyond fury, actually; he was beginning to foam. “You do not give me orders,” he cried. “I shall tell the king what you have done to me!”

  “And I shall tell the king that you intended to kill this man and let the Templars take the blame.”

  That shut de Nantes up quickly. Knowing he had no argument and feeling cornered, he dug his heels into the side of his horse in a fit of anger and sped off into the moonlit night.

  Garret watched him ride off, wondering if de Nantes was going to do as he was told and return to camp. A large part of him hoped he was captured by Muslim patrols and taken to the Muslim commanders as a prize. It would be justice well served.

  As de Nantes disappeared from view, Garret turned to the Muslim prisoner just as the man was rising to his knees again.

  “Go back where you belong,” Garret told him. “Your god has spared you this night, for I have not the time or the inclination to do away with you.”

  The Muslim was looking up at him without fear. In fact, there was admirable bravery in his expression considering he was beaten and bound, now facing off against another English knight who appeared bigger, meaner, and far more armed than the one who had captured him.

  “You have saved my life,” he said. “Why?”

  It was a reasonable question. Garret eyed the man; he was well-spoken from what he’d heard, intelligent, with skin the color of rich, brown earth and dark eyes that glittered in the moonlight. He wasn’t unhandsome, certainly not as swarthy or dirty as some of the savages he’d seen in these lands.

  “Had your hands not been bound, I would not have interfered as I did,” he said. “But there is no honor in killing a man who is at a disadvantage, not even if that man is your sworn enemy. Live to fight another day, Muslim. But remember this night and remember a Christian knight who showed you mercy. Mayhap someday, you will be required to show one of my brethren the same.”

  The Muslim staggered to his feet, weary and wounded. “Allah favors the merciful,” he said quietly, “as I am sure your God does the same. I will remember your mercy, Salibi. May I know the name of the man who saved me?”

  Garret was reluctant. “Does it matter?”

  The Muslim nodded. “It does, as I intend to ask Allah to protect you in battle.”

  Garret didn’t know if he was flattered or insulted by that. He didn’t need the protection of a heathen god but, on the other hand, he supposed it couldn’t hurt. He was coming to think that his own God had too much work to bother with the smaller details in life.

  “I am de Moray,” he finally said.

  “I shall pray for you, de Moray.”

  “If you feel the need. And your captor – did he give you his name also?”

  It was a calculated question; Garret wanted to know if this prisoner would return to his Muslim comrades to tell the story of King Richard’s vindictive cousin and his hatred for the Templars. But the Muslim looked off to the west, into the darkness where the Englishman who had beaten him had fled.

  “He did not,” he said. “But I can tell you that he had his men capture me. They brought me out here to face him and he sent them away. He told them that he needed no witnesses for what he intended to do. He had weapons from the Knights of the Temple and he said that by killing me, he intended to show they were assassins. It is none of my business how the Christian armies behave, but it seemed to me as if he wanted to turn you against each other.”

  Garret had heard all of that, too. He had to admit that he was relieved to know the Muslim did not know his captor’s name.

  “Wherever you have men, you have politics,” he said, “and you have those who have ill-will towards everyone, including their own. No army is exempt from that.”

  The Muslim held up his
bound hands to Garret in a gesture that suggested he was asking to have his ties cut. Perhaps he was too proud to ask or perhaps he was hoping he didn’t need to. In any case, Garret understood the silent question and removed a sharp dagger from his belt, leaning forward to slash the rope between the man’s wrists. They fell away as the Muslim rubbed his skin.

  “Shukraan,” he murmured. Thank you. Still rubbing his wrists, he looked off to the west again. “Nay, de Moray, no army is exempt from that behavior. But I must ask – how did you find us? It is desolate out here. And full of danger. Why are you traveling alone?”

  Garret looked at him. “You would not believe me if I told you.”

  “I would never doubt the word of the man who has saved my life.”

  Garret wasn’t sure how much he should tell him. In fact, he didn’t even know why he was in conversation with the Muslim other than he felt some obligation to because he’d prevented the man from having his throat slit. Still, there was some wisdom in telling him the truth – perhaps the man would tell others to beware of the king’s cousin who was looking to murder one of them in a most dishonorable way. If Alfaar had tried once, he might try again and Garret couldn’t, in good conscience, not give fair warning about it.

  “I am out here because the man who tried to kill you is a cousin to King Richard,” he said frankly. “We call him Alfaar because he is a vile excuse for a man. However, being the king’s cousin affords him leniency that most men do not have. I will not go into the details of why I was seeking him on this night but, suffice it to say, that my coming upon you was no accident. My king sent me to find his cousin because he was afraid the man was going to do something stupid, which I have fortunately prevented. You will tell your brethren to beware of Jago de Nantes, for that is his name, and if one of your arrows were to find him, no one would weep over his loss.”

  The Muslim nodded in understanding. “There are men in my ranks who are of the same dark character,” he said. “It is not limited to the Christians. I, too, am a cousin to a great man. My name is Al-Zayin ibin Aziz and my cousin is Salah ah-din, the commander of our armies. He shall know of your mercy, de Moray. You have my gratitude.”

  Garret lifted his eyebrows. “Your cousin is Saladin?”

  “He is. And I am called Zayin. Remember my name, for we are now brothers, you and I. You have saved me and I am in your debt, always.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Garret’s lips. “I already have a brother.”

  “Now you have two.”

  His grin spread. “Although I am honored, a debt is not necessary. I would have happily put an arrow into Alfaar had he been beating a man who needed it much less one who did not.”

  Zayin smiled, flashing his big white teeth in the moonlight. “You shall not get rid of me so easily, Salibi,” he said. “In my country, we pay our debts. You saved my life and, someday, I shall save yours.”

  Garret could see the determination in Zayin’s eyes. “Then it shall have to be while I am in your land because I am going home as soon as I can,” he said. “I will leave you to your searing heat and clinging sands, for I intend to return to the green fields of England where water is plentiful and the seasons bring cold winds. In fact, the next time I see snow, I am going to roll around in it and consider myself blessed.”

  Zayin cocked his head. “Snow? What is that?”

  Garret pointed to the sky. “Water that has turned to ice,” he said. “It falls from the clouds and covers the land in white.”

  Zayin’s eyebrows lifted. “Ice,” he repeated. “I have heard of such things, from a caravan that has traveled far to the north where the Northmen live. You have such things in your country, too?”

  Garret nodded. “It has all that and more,” he said. “Have you ever seen water and grass covering the land? I have, and I miss it. I wish to return to it. I have only been in your country for two months and already, I hate it.”

  Zayin chuckled. “It hates you, too, Salibi,” he said. “Go home. But if I have not saved your life before you go, then I am going with you.”

  Garret snorted. “We will never see each other again after this,” he said. “Go back to your people and I shall return to mine. Consider this a parting well made.”

  There was a confident twinkle to Zayin’s eyes. “We shall see each other again. Allah shall make it so.”

  Garret simply waved him off, turning his horse back the way he had come. “That would be a miracle,” he said. “Go with God, Al-Zayin ibin Aziz. And give thanks that either your god or my God was watching over you this night.”

  As he headed off into the darkness, Zayin called after him. “I will find you, Salibi! I have faith!”

  Garret simply waved him off, returning to find David wandering around in the darkness and telling the young knight what had happened. David was frustrated that it had not been him putting an arrow into de Nantes’ arm, but he was thrilled by the story of Garret’s bravery nonetheless. Returning with all due haste back to the Christian encampment, David and Garret wasted no time in telling Richard what they had come across and what Garret had been forced to do.

  Garret simply stood by modestly as David sang his praises and Richard was close to murdering his foolish cousin who, by morning, still had not returned to camp. Only when Alfaar wandered back into the enormous spread of dusty tents close to sunset the next day with a bloodied, wrapped right forearm did Richard send for him and demand to know what happened. According to Alfaar, he’d gotten into a fight with a Muslim warrior who had nearly killed him.

  But Richard knew better.

  After that incident, Richard kept Jago close to him, rarely letting the man out of his sight. He was not allowed to have a personal army; instead, his dirty, poorly-armed men were absorbed into other armies. The situation remained as such until October 1192 A.D., when the Christian armies were departing The Levant to return home after a terrible year of battles, defeats, and victories.

  At that time, Garret and many other English knights chose to take the land route home, the Pilgrim Trail, because of pirates and threats upon vessels heading out to sea. But Richard, ill with scurvy at the time, chose to go by sea because he believed it was the fastest way but Jago managed to go by land simply to get away from his overbearing cousin. For him, freedom was more important than reaching home swiftly.

  In the mass exodus of the Christian armies, Garret and his circle of friends, including the de Lohr brothers, took their armies northward along the coast. It was their second night of travel when, encamped on the outskirts of Tyre, rumors of a Muslim soldier surrendering to them were flying amongst the men. But when the man was brought to Garret, he knew instantly that this was no random surrender. In fact, he wasn’t surprised to see the “prisoner” at all.

  We shall see each other again.

  Zayin had been right.

  They had.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, England

  Month of August, Year of our Lord 1196 A.D.

  It was the time of year when the humidity from the River Thames began to make itself known… and that was exactly what worried her.

  Already, she could feel the sweat on her back and she was terrified that it would bleed through the fabric of her silk dress in an embarrassing display. It was a borrowed dress as it was, and she wanted to ensure it remained pristine for the party. But having been sent on an errand for the duchess, the stress and heat had her headed straight for embarrassment.

  Upon the Blessed Virgin, please do not let me make a fool of myself!

  Inside the duchess’ fortified carriage as it made its way back to Westminster Palace, Lady Lyssa du Bose was the only one in the cab, which was a good thing. The driver, having been instructed to make all due haste back to the London townhome of the Duke and Duchess of Colchester, had taken that command literally and was flying over the road, bouncing Lyssa around so much that she’d hit her head on the side of the cab. And the precious cargo she held – slippers made from gold thread and intended fo
r the prince’s wife on the event of her birthday celebration – had also gone flying. Now, Lyssa was attempting to collect the strewn slippers from the floor of the cab and trying not to get killed in the process. But the duchess had told them to hurry, and hurry they were.

  Whether or not it incapacitated them.

  Lyssa finally shouted to the driver to slow down, which he did, marginally. There was still a good deal of bounce going on but at least Lyssa could keep her balance now. She began to curse the duchess for leaving the slippers behind – they had been invited to a birthday celebration and, in the excitement, had forgotten the tribute for the guest of honor. All of England’s nobility had turned out for the celebration of Hawisa of Gloucester, wife to Prince John, and Westminster Palace had been alive with lights and music when last Lyssa had seen it. The smells of exotic foods covered half of London. But it had been a very brief experience before Lyssa had been hustled back into the carriage to retrieve the forgotten gift.

  Truth be told, she wanted to return quickly to the palace, too. It wasn’t often that the entire household of the Duke of Colchester was invited out into London society, so this was a rare and exciting treat. Great knights and nobles alike would be there, to see and be seen, so it was quite an exciting occasion. Therefore, Lyssa held tight to the beautiful slippers and prayed the sweat on her back wouldn’t soak through the silk as the carriage, once again, approached Westminster Palace, perched like a lion on the banks of the gentle Thames. When she saw the lights of the palace come into view, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Although it hadn’t been a long trip to the ducal townhome, it seemed as if it had taken hours. Even as the carriage approached the palace, once again, under the watercolor-stained sky of sunset, there were still hordes of guests arriving. There was a line of carriages and people, all of them waiting to enter the grounds but being inspected by gangs of Prince John’s soldiers.