Emerald Knight

by Michelle M. Pillow

  With the beginning gentleness of a purple and gold dawn came the attack. Though, to those equipped for war, it was not readily known who attacked whom. It didn’t matter. The knights fought ardently for so long that battles melded until there was naught but the lengthy time of one war waged. Their armored bodies moved as if a wave of violent force slowly came over the countryside.

  Saracen blood covered Wolfe’s sword. It marred and stained his flesh with its hot stickiness until he was sure it would never completely wash off. His lungs breathed heavily of the foreign air as he planted his feet into the unfamiliar turns of the soil. His arm slashed with a vicious precision as he swung it over the side of his valiant horse. Again the blade met with blistering flesh. He didn’t wait for the dead man to fall from his steed before spurring onward.

  It was easy to behold the enemy, not like fighting the French back home. Their tanned skin and lighter clothing made them more agile in the heat. They wore loose trousers and large sashes across heavily decorated tunics. The hair on their heads was wrapped with large turbans, covering all but their bearded faces.

  The curved scimitar swords clashed against the armor of Wolfe’s men. The Saracen chants echoed in his mind until the language rang hard in his ears. Even their castles were shaped like no other he had seen. If they were not his enemy, he would have admired them.

  Jumping Desert over the fallen, Wolfe eyed Robert crawling slowly up from the trenches. His weighty armor made it harder to stand in the precarious position he was in. William was by his side, pitting himself against two bloodthirsty men. Wolfe swung from Desert to get better leverage in the ditch. His heart leapt as he instantly saw the red streak on Robert’s arms. His friend’s face was pale and tightly drawn.

  “Left,” Wolfe commanded William. Immediately, William aimed his blade toward the man on the left, leaving the other to his brother.

  Swords crashed and clanged, canceling all sounds but the groans of the dying and the exertion of the fighting. Wolfe slipped the main gauche from his waist, holding it tight within his grip as he fought the attacking swordsman. Within a blinding flash of his tired memory, he was home, standing over Thomas. He didn’t see the man before him, but the dead eyes of the man who slew his brother. A fierce yell escaped his lips, until his arm swung in near possession. He wouldn’t let them have William too. He wouldn’t let them take Robert. He would protect his brothers. And he refused to see another one die.

  Wolfe swung, spinning about almost completely with the force of it. Robert made it to his feet. Clutching his chest, he offered his sword to outnumber the men. But, before Robert could swing, William caught the Saracen sword in his thigh. William grunted in pain. His leg collapsed beneath him. He fell to the ground in surprise.

  Robert’s sword pierced the belly of William’s attacker. The man soundlessly fell to the ground. His eyes lulled in his head, lifeless.

  Wolfe saw his brother fall. His eyes burned in dread and he hesitated a second too long. His dark enemy caught him in the sword arm. Wolfe’s weapon fell unattended to the ground.

  But then a horn blasted in the distance. It was the retreat of the Saracen army. His attacker obeyed instantly, leaving his prey alive. Wolfe fell weakened to his knees, knowing he only still lived because of the sound. He had seen death in his attacker’s eyes. And that death would have been his.

  Robert looked from Wolfe to William in horror. His hands already stayed the flow of William’s blood. William groaned. He was nearly unconscious from pain.

  “Wolfe,” Robert called in desperation. His couldn’t reach his friend without leaving William.

  Wolfe crawled forward, fairing only a little better than his brother. Breathing hard, he ordered Robert, “Get him out of here!”

  “I won’t leave you!” Robert shouted.

  “I’ll be fine. Get William to the camp. I promised my father I’d look after him. I won’t lose another brother.”

  “And I promised Gin I’d look after you,” Robert countered. But even as he spoke, he could feel William weaken beneath his hold.

  Wolfe whistled for his horse. Desert came instantly. Growling darkly to Robert, he said, “Take my horse. Get him to safety, and then you can come back for me.”

  Robert looked around. There was no one near who could help.

  “Do it! That’s an order!” Wolfe yelled.

  Grabbing Desert’s reins, Robert hoisted William to the horse. Then, swinging behind him, he adjusted his friend more comfortably before him.

  Another horn blasted. Its echo was low and short. Robert swallowed. In the distance he saw riders scavenging through the bodies for prisoners. It was not the horses of the Christian knights. Those who were not moving, were stabbed to be sure they were dead.

  “Wolfe,” Robert began.

  Wolfe tore the gauntlet from his hand. Grabbing his ring with the family crest on it, he handed it up to Robert. “Give this to Gin. Tell her we acted honorably this day.”

  Robert nodded with a hard swallow.

  “Go!” Wolfe yelled angrily. He wanted to say more, but there wasn’t time. With one look, he knew Robert understood. Wolfe lifted his sword in his left hand. Stumbling to steady his feet, he ordered, “Get Will home safely and you as well. Promise me you will look after your sister.”

  “Yea,” Robert assented. His voice was hoarse as the sound tore from his lips. He didn’t like his orders, but he knew he had to obey. If he didn’t, three might die instead of one. Harshly, Wolfe slapped Desert on the backside, spurring him forward. Robert kicked Desert in the side and rode headlong into the distance.

  “I will lose no more brothers to the sword,” Wolfe growled. Bravely, he lifted his fist-clenched weapon. “I will keep my promise to my wife and my father.”

  Only once did Robert glance back. The scavengers saw him ride and hurried forward to circle around Wolfe. Wolfe raised his sword and faced the oncoming men. Robert cursed, continuing forward. William’s blood warmed his arm as he galloped Desert over a hill. He slipped Wolfe’s ring into his mouth, biting down on it to keep it from falling. The gold tasted of blood.

  Wolfe faced the riders, not understanding their words as they shouted at him. There were a dozen, armed and ready to slay. The horses circled him. The leader motioned him to drop his weapon. Completely outnumbered and having no choice, he lowered his blade slowly to the earth. The sword slipped from his weakened fingers. Then, he raised his good arm toward the sky.

  The men’s laughter was the only sound Wolfe recognized. Their chuckles were hard and cold, their eyes deadly with rage. Only one man seemed to carry any compassion within the depths of his face. He sat astride his steed, motionless.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Wolfe saw that Robert was gone. Grimly, he smirked in defiant satisfaction. One of the men jumped down from his horse. All blades pointed at Wolfe’s heart. Incredibly, the Saxon noble felt no fear. He bravely met the eyes of the silently watching man. The man murmured a low command, never taking his eyes from his prisoner. As his world went black, Wolfe thought of sparkling emeralds.

  Dank and shiftless stares peeked out from the darkened corners of moistened stones. The sea of blue, green and brown orbs all told the same story of woe as they watched quietly from under red-brimmed lids. Though the men were different, they were the same. They all shared the same lot, the same fate in a Turkish prison.

  The large underground chamber was like that of a corpse’s vault. Only here, the corpses lived a half-life, waiting until the time when the stoic watchman who lorded over them would release them with death. All tried to keep from disrupting their captor’s contentment, lest they bring attention to themselves and suffer the wrath of the guards.

  Around the prisoners the tortured screams of fallen men haunted the unmoving air. The smell of fire pits, burning with branded flesh, fragranced the chamber like putrid incense. The heavy clang of iron against stone testified that more were soon to join them.

  Wolfe’s brown gaze fared no better than that of his comp
anions, as it peered from the depths of sunken holes. A rough beard had begun to grow, covering his lips with the shortened bristles. He had been in the prison for many days, fortnights even, watching man after man tortured and killed. Sometimes when he could stand no more, he would close his eyes. But the sounds of their screams only reverberated all the louder.

  Feeling a kick to his foot, Wolfe angled his head up. He squinted in the dimness. The chains about his ankles clanked. Narrowing his gaze, he saw the watchman kick those next to him to gain their notice.

  “Are there any nobles within this place?” a heavily accented voice asked. His light-colored turban, clean and fine, seemed out of place in the land of darkness. Stepping easily, he lifted his pointed shoes over the stones as if he didn’t wish to touch the soiled ground. Wolfe eyed the curved dagger at his waist before turning his gaze down. “Are there any leaders?”

  Instantly all the men guffawed in unison, claiming in their insolence to be a king. Wolfe held quiet. His vacant eyes caught the attention of the speaker. The man motioned at once for him to be released.

  The guards unlocked his shackles and hauled him to his feet. Wolfe’s arms fell defeated to his sides, sharpened with agony at being forced to move after so long. He conserved his strength, letting most of his weight fall on the arms of those who would drag him. He hid the small satisfaction when he felt them grunt in exertion.

  The man speaking then motioned for two others to be brought forward. Wolfe recognized the men as high-ranking knights of King Philip’s encampment. Their eyes met and locked with his briefly before they turned silently away.

  Wolfe was forced to use his own strength as they climbed up the prison stairs. His legs shook from little use. His stomach gnarled and tightened in hunger, growling suspiciously beneath his hanging, tattered tunic. Slowly, as they moved through dusty stone passages, the halls changed into gilded archways, rich with golden splendor. The strange foreign designs were oddly exquisite though Wolfe was loath to concede such thoughts. He turned his head to the ground, instinct making his eyes dart about, focusing on his surroundings, looking for an escape for his men still held captured below.

  They were led though passageway after maze-like passageway, bared feet shifting in restlessness and fatigue, until they were turned around as to which direction they were heading. Very quickly they came to their destination and the three prisoners were shut into a large chamber. The men were made to stand and wait before a table. Time crept. The nobles looked questioningly to one another, but said nothing in front of their guards.

  After an hour of waiting, the door opened once more. Wolfe instantly recognized the silent man who had captured him. He wore a tunic of gold and blue silk over loose blue trousers. A large gold sash cut across his waist with a regal flare. Around his head was wrapped a tunic of matching blue. The man went behind the table. Eyeing each prisoner in turn, he directed his stare finally to Wolfe.

  “Who are you?” the man asked. His eyes shone with a mild amusement. His accent was heavy, but very clear.

  “A knight of King Richard,” Wolfe answered hoarsely. His voice was rough from little use. His mouth was hardly visible beneath the tangled mass of his bushy beard.

  “What is your name, knight?” the speaker continued, sharp and concise.

  When Wolfe didn’t answer, the man frowned and leaned forward. Hissing, he said, “If you are a leader of the King Richard’s army, then you will be ransomed. Come, what is your name?”

  Wolfe thought of the prison. His eyes had searched endlessly in the darkness, instantly recognizing some of his own men, men he’d ordered into battle. Some of them hung from chained wrists along the wall and others lay nearly starved on wet stone. Rodents ran over the prone bodies on the floor, nibbling at swollen flesh. Wolfe knew no matter how much he wanted to be free he couldn’t abandon his men. If he were to live, it would be to help free them.

  “What is your name?” the man persisted, growing aggravated. He cursed in his own language.

  The two French nobles stared at Wolfe from the corners of their eyes.

  “John. I am a knight bachelor,” Wolfe said. “I am nobody.”

  The man’s brow rose slightly on his forehead, as he stated, “You wear the tunic of a nobleman. If you are noble you will be moved abovestairs to better quarters. You will be ransomed to your king. Give me your rank.”

  “My commander is dead. He gave me this tunic.” Wolfe turned his eyes to the floor. His jaw clenched in anger. “I am John of the footed infantry.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed at the obvious lie. Turning, he ignored Wolfe and inquired the names of the other two men. The other’s stated their rank without hindrance, proud to announce their title for a chance of freedom.

  Their interrogator stayed true to his promise and had the two Frenchmen escorted to a private bedchamber as palace guests. He spoke in low tones to one of the guards before ordering them to leave him alone with Wolfe.

  “Please sit, Sir John.” The man motioned to a low stool. Wolfe sat with a heavy thump. His legs shivering with the effort it took to support his weight. Then, taking a seat across from Wolfe, the man placed his hand rigidly on his knees. His lips pursed together thoughtfully.

  “How is your arm? I have been told it is mending,” the man stated. His gaze shone with wisdom. Wolfe was surprised he remembered.

  “Your physicians tended to it well,” he said. He had been surprised to receive the treatment when so many were left without aid. Wolfe returned his captors stare boldly. He knew the man didn’t believe his claim to low birth and he didn’t care. Suddenly, the doors opened once more. A veiled woman was brought forward and left alone to stand before them.

  Her body was slight, though covered in thin material. Wolfe instantly saw her exposed navel through the wispy attire. Her face was covered from view except for the kohl-smudged line of her almond eyes.

  The man bid her forward with a flick of his fingers. Deliberately, the woman stepped to them. Her eyes narrowed. Speaking in her own language so Wolfe couldn’t understand, she motioned to the prisoner.

  The man nodded and answered her. The woman unraveled herself from her long veil. Squinting, Wolfe vaguely remembered her face, though he couldn’t immediately place her.

  “This is Ahava,” the man said. “I am Saif adDin, brother to our king, Yusuf ibn Ayyub, Salah-ed-din, Emir of Egypt.”

  Wolfe nodded his head at Saladin’s brother. The man spoke in his native tongue as he gave orders to Ahava. The woman immediately went to a drawer and pulled out several documents. She handed them to Wolfe.

  Wolfe frowned. One was a copy of the map in his tent. The other was an opened document from the king to him. He had never seen it. Glancing over it briefly, it was the plans for an attack--naught much of import, but alarming nonetheless. Then, seeing the woman holding out another document to him, he recognized the last missive Ginevra had sent to him. He thought it lost. It had been in his tunic when he went into battle. With the parchment was his talisman, the scrap of Ginevra’s wedding tunic. With fingers that refused to give into their shaking, he reached for them. He blinked back the heavy onslaught of tears as his fingers glided over the frayed, blood-stained parchment. The tunic looked white compared to his dirt-covered fingers and blackened fingernails. It was soft along his roughened palm. For an instant, he could feel the texture of Ginevra’s skin and see the light shining in her emerald gaze. Closing his eyes, he gulped, Ginevra.

  “You are the woman from my tent,” Wolfe stated before looking about once more. He didn’t look up at Ahava as he spoke. Lightly, his thumb glided over the parchment in a tender caress. Knowing there was no reason for pretense, he folded the documents and handed them back. His full title was written on his wife’s letter, along with his rank. Ginevra’s missive, he held onto briefly before giving it back to the waiting woman. “I should have known you were not there for me.”

  The woman took the parchments and returned them to the drawer. Wolfe lifted the piece of wedd
ing tunic to his captor briefly before sliding it within his own tunic. Ahava stayed on the other side of the chamber, letting the men talk.

  “Ahava has many talents. Spying is one of them. As you can see, her unique presence allows her to gather much more information than I ever could,” Saif adDin allowed. “As to the other, they were in your tunic, brought to me by the physicians. Unfortunately, I was away when they tended you and only received them this morning, lest you wouldn’t have suffered so long in the prisons.”

  Wolfe felt his gut curl in dread. Guilt overwhelmed him. In his self-pining for his wife, he had been lazy in his watch. Because of him several men could have been killed, even captured and sent to the hellish prison he resided in for so long.

  “Do you still maintain that you are a knight bachelor?” Saif adDin asked.

  Wolfe didn’t answer. His interrogator nodded with a grim sense of approval. As he stood, he said, “You will be treated like the other nobles. Ahava will attend you. In your chambers you will find a bath, food, even women. Tonight you will join us at a banquet. Tomorrow I negotiate with your king. If he lets our people go you will be freed. If not, you will be killed. I think three nobles lives are not worth enough, so I trust you will beseech your Christian God for an English king’s wisdom and for deliverance.”

  Wolfe nodded in understanding, appreciating the man’s candid honesty. He stood slowly as the man strode out of the chamber. Ahava smiled demurely at him as she waved her arm through the air for him to follow.

  “Come,” she murmured with a smile. And as Wolfe followed the unmistakably inviting sway of her hips, he knew that this night was very likely to be his last.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Southaven Castle, September 1191 A.D.

  Ginevra stared at the cool parchment before turning her gaze back at the messenger. Nodding blankly at him, she listened quietly as Helena instructed that he be escorted to the kitchen for food and given a place to rest. Then, she let Helena escort her over the barren yard of her childhood home.