by Martin Lake
She forced herself back to her embroidery. Her fingers concentrated upon it but her mind wandered far away. She worried daily about Gerard and Claude-Yusuf. She knew that they were still alive and staying near to the Palace. Habib had left a message for her saying that they had been taken into the most important futuwwa. She had no idea what this meant but the messenger assured her that this was excellent news and Johara had confirmed this.
She was comforted that at least Eleanor was with her. In fact she had taken extremely well to the palace, loving its beauty and luxury. She had confided in her mother that she thought she was now a princess.
Most of Agnes' thoughts, however, concerned her husband. The last time she had seen Bernard had been outside the walls of Jerusalem. Wild rumours had swept among the captives, some even saying that Balian's knights were going to be crucified. She had almost fainted at the thought and wept inconsolably when it became clear that this was not going to be the case. Nevertheless, she knew that Bernard and John had been bought by Saladin's brother and that he was a man of diabolical reputation.
She heard a noise and glanced up. The Caliph was standing near the entrance watching her intently.
Agnes threw down her embroidery and knelt upon the floor.
'I am sorry, my lord,' she said, 'I had not seen you there.'
'There is nothing to be sorry about,' he answered. 'It is I who should apologise, for walking in to your chamber unannounced and for watching you as I have been.'
'Watching me?' A prickle of fear ran through her.
'Yes. Like some peasant from a village who gapes at a princess when she rides past, unable to believe that such a beauty can exist in the world.'
Agnes blushed. Al-Nasir stepped towards her and helped her to her feet.
'Are you comfortable here?' he asked. 'The chamber is small.'
'It is perfect, thank you, lord,' she said. 'I am very content with my chamber.'
She took him by the hand and led him over to a table where she had laid out a range of little objects.
'These are my gifts,' he said. He picked one up and examined it closely.
'You seem surprised,' she said.
'I always suspect that my gifts are hidden away in some cupboard and forgotten,' he said. 'I suspect Johara gets Dawud to sell them in the market. I swear I have bought the same brooch from there three times and given it anew to her each time I did so.'
Agnes laughed. 'Would she do such a thing?'
'Oh she would. And I forgive her each time.' He fell silent. 'I forgive in Johara things I would not forgive in anyone else.'
Agnes could not let this slip by. 'Not even Beatrice?'
For a fleeting moment the brightness in his eyes dimmed, or so Agnes thought. Her heart quickened. She touched the Caliph on his heart, a gesture she knew that he loved.
'But why am I talking of other ladies,' he said. 'I have come to visit you.'
Agnes lowered her head. 'And I am honoured.' She wanted to ask why but dare not. She had been told that members of the harem were always summoned to his chamber, never visited by him in their own.
He kissed her hand and walked around the room, sniffing at bottles of scent, playing with some wooden fruit which Johara had given to her, and finally picking up some of her embroidery and examining it carefully.
'You did this?' he asked.
'I did, my lord.' She walked towards him. 'Please take a piece that you like, as a gift from me.'
Al-Nasir looked at her in astonishment. He looked from her to the embroidery and back again. His lips tightened and he looked away, stroking his head time and time again.
She bit her lip, wondering what she had done wrong, wondering how she could put it right.
He turned back to her. 'Nobody has given me a gift since I was a boy,' he said. His eyes were wet.
She stepped towards him and held him close. Her heart beat faster but not, this time, with anxiety. Something had happened. Something had changed.
She took him by the hand and led him to her bed-chamber.
The next day Johara and Lalina hurried into her room. They looked sick and scared.
'Whatever's the matter?' Agnes asked.
'Whatever have you done?' asked Johara.
'I don't know what you mean.'
'You must have done something,' Lalina said. 'You must have done.' She burst into tears and stroked Agnes' hand again and again.
Agnes put her hand to her mouth. This was terrifying. That her friends should be acting like this. Tears filled her eyes.
'Tell me what's wrong,' she whispered.
'Beatrice is in a rage,' said Johara.
'I've never seen anything like it,' said Lalina.
'Nor have I,' said Johara. 'And I've known the little hell-cat for years.'
'But what has this to do with me?' Agnes asked.
'That's what we came to find out,' said Lalina.
'But I've done nothing to Beatrice.'
'Whether you did or not, she thinks you have,' said Johara. 'You must appease her.'
'But how?'
'I don't know, but you must.'
No sooner had Johara said this than Beatrice's eunuch entered the chamber. Agnes took a step backward, uncertain what to do. He gave an urgent gesture for her to stay still and put his fingers to his lips. His face looked alarmed.
A moment later Beatrice swept into the chamber. She strode up to Agnes and slapped her hard across the face.
'You gutter-whore,' Beatrice cried. 'That a piece of filth like you thinks you can steal him away from me.'
Agnes opened her mouth to protest but Beatrice struck her once again, even harder.
Agnes staggered then, without thinking, stepped back and slapped Beatrice across her cheek.
Beatrice held her hand to her face, her tirade cut short. Finally she overcame her astonishment and she found her voice again.
'You are dead,' she hissed. 'And so are all your family.'
She swept out of the room.
CHAPTER 47
THE POWER OF LUST
Antioch
Simon smiled and strode down the corridor which led to the main gate. He had only gone a dozen yards when he saw Princess Cybil watching him from the entrance to her chamber. Her bear cub was asleep in her lap and she toyed absently with its ear.
He immediately felt nervous and bowed low to her.
'Come here, Englishman,' she said.
Simon swallowed and looked about him before following her into the room.
'This is not my bed-chamber,' Cybil said, 'so you need have no fear. And perhaps not any hope.'
She smiled and he was once more reminded of a cat but this time one exotic and dreadfully dangerous.
'I've been watching you, Simon Ferrier,' she said.
'You have,' he mumbled. 'I hope I have not given any offence.'
'Oh we are hardly that intimate. Yet.' She sipped at a cup of wine.
'I have been watching you,' she continued, 'because you intrigue me. You are said to be one of the commoners that Balian knighted. Yet you don't serve him. Instead you serve that knave of a priest.'
Simon nodded. Her gaze terrified him so much that he did not know what to say.
Cybil touched him on the cheek. His fear was banished instantly and his lust aroused.
She laughed, a high and tinkling laugh like distant bells. 'So it is true. I have heard that you rut like a boar with some child from the gutter. But I look into your eyes Simon and know that you have had choicer meat by far.'
Simon did not answer. He saw Agnes lying naked on her bed; saw himself placing on her belly the eight dinars he had had used to buy her. Saw himself sneak back into the house in the night to steal the money in order to buy his own freedom.
Then he saw Cybil's eyes blazing into his. 'So. It is as I suspected. You are consumed by lust. That is not unusual in a man. But there is more to you than this. You combine lust with vengeance. You weave webs of hope and deceit; you gain what you most desire and then you
betray. Oh what a fascinating man you are, Simon Ferrier. It is no wonder that Eraclius has seen your merits and seeks to use you.'
She brushed his cheek with her lips. 'But you, Simon, need to learn that there is a far, far greater power in Antioch than Eraclius.
'And one day she might just call upon you to serve her.'
CHAPTER 48
TRAINING REGIME
The Caliph's Palace
Sheik al-Djabbar's eyes narrowed as he watched Claude-Yusuf and Gerard sparring together. He was sitting in the shade on the edge of the training ground. The fringes of the field were lush with green grass but in the centre the movement of many boys had turned the area a dusty reddish brown.
Today, a dozen young boys fought with wooden swords, their feet slipping on the dry earth and making dust rise up like clouds of midges.
'The young Franks fight well considering their age,' came the bird-like squawk of al-Djabbar's friend.
'You are right, Bahir,' the sheik answered. 'And they have no experience of weapons at all.'
'You are a fool if you believe that,' Bahir answered. 'All boys know about weapons. Even boys from the gutter fight with swords made of wood or bone.'
Al-Djabbar pursed his lips and nodded. 'Once more you are right, my friend. I am so old I had forgotten it. You, presumably, know this from your boyfriends.'
Bahir laughed at the insult.
The two old men watched the fighting in silence for a while longer.
'The older boy is a clever fighter,' al-Djabbar said quietly.
'Not just in fighting,' Bahir answered. 'He has a tongue as fast as a cobra. And he is popular with the other boys.'
The sheik sniffed. 'He may go far in the Caliph's service. I shall push him.' He sipped at a glass of iced water. 'The younger boy? I forget his name.'
'Gerard.'
'What do you think of his promise?'
'He is not as intelligent as Claude-Yusuf, but there again, few are. He is bullied a little by the older boys.'
'That is good.'
'Yes, that is good. And he is learning how to stand up to them.'
'That is even better. I hear he rides well.'
'Like a Bedu.'
'And he has a gift with beasts?'
Bahir nodded. 'Yesterday I saw him quiet a stallion which even the grooms were finding difficult.'
Al-Djabbar laughed. 'I think he has inherited that from his mother. The eunuchs say she has quite beguiled the Caliph.'
'Has she, indeed?' said Bahir. 'I wonder what the bitch Beatrice will make of that.'
'And I wonder what she will do about such a rival,' said al-Djabbar. 'My suspicion is that Gerard will very soon become an orphan.'
Bahir took a drink of coffee. 'Have you seen his mother? Is she comely?'
'You old dog,' al-Djabbar said, swatting him with a cane. 'She is very comely. She has the innocent, everyday look that every man desires in his sister.'
'That is not so special.'
'Ah. But she also has something more, a rare beauty. She has the fleeting look of a fawn in the forest, delicate and fragile. A fawn which eagerly awaits the rutting stag.'
Bahir laughed aloud. 'Ah to be young again.'
'Ah to be a Caliph.'
'What do you think they're laughing about?' Claude-Yusuf said.
'Maybe somebody tickled them,' Gerard answered.
'I doubt that. Nobody would dare to get that close to them.'
Gerard nodded miserably. He was in dread of the two fierce old men.
The soldier who was training them blew upon a whistle. It was the signal to stop and go for food.
The Caliph's son hurried to join them in the scrum for food.
'Here, al-Dahir,' Claude-Yusuf called. 'We are at the front.'
Al-Dahir pushed his way towards them.
'I fought well, today,' he said. 'I got ten strikes on my opponents. How many did you get?'
'None,' said Gerard. 'Claude-Yusuf is bigger than me.'
'I got twenty,' said Claude-Yusuf. He saw the face of the prince fall. 'But that is because Gerard is smaller than me.'
Al-Dahir's face brightened. 'Of course it was.' He gave Claude-Yusuf a quizzical look. 'Although when you've had more practice you may prove a deadly swordsman.'
Claude-Yusuf blushed. 'What makes you say that?'
'I didn't,' the prince answered. 'Bahir did.'
Claude-Yusuf snorted. 'What does that old fool's opinion matter?'
'A lot,' said al-Dahir. 'He was the supreme general of the Caliph's armies. He is the only man that the sheik respects.'
'He was a general?' Gerard asked. This served to make him loom even larger in is nightmares.
'Yes, to my great-great grand-father, al-Muqtafi. He was a mighty Caliph and defeated the Seljuk scum. Bahir was his General.'
'That must make Bahir hundreds of years old,' Gerard murmured.
The others nodded. He certainly looked it.
'If Bahir was a great general why isn't he in charge of the futuwwa?' Claude-Yusuf asked. 'Why Sheik al-Djabbar? Who is he?'
'He was one of al-Muqtafi's allies from the south. I don't know how he became head of the futuwwa.'
Claude-Yusuf glanced up at the old man. He could guess how.
Al-Djabbar pulled at his beard thoughtfully. 'You said that the younger Frank is standing up to bullying.'
Bahir nodded.
'How will he respond if we allow Suhail to return to the futuwwa?'
Bahir frowned. 'Ask Sinbad. But remember, Sinbad knew that a Jinni is best left in its bottle.'
Al-Djabbar chuckled and summoned a servant.
Towards the end of the day, after prayers, the boys of the futuwwa headed towards the refectory. Sitting on top of the table at the far end was a boy about fourteen years of age.
A loud cheer came from the rest of the boys and most rushed towards the figure. He did not move but allowed himself to give a contented smile. A couple of boys hung back for a moment then seemed to think better of it and chased after their peers.
Only Claude-Yusuf, Gerard and al-Dahir did not join the jubilant throng.
The boy climbed to his feet and walked along the table, kicking the carefully arranged dishes out of place. Gerard was shocked, imagining the sharp smack he would have received from his parents for doing such a thing. He glanced at the refectory orderly to see how he would respond but the man looked away and busied himself with some dishes on the side-board.
Gerard looked back at the table. The new boy had walked the length of the table and was now staring down at them.
'What do we have here?' he asked.
'They are Franks, Suhail,' said one of the boys quickly. He glanced up at the boy on the table as if to see how he might react to this information.
Suhail nodded. He stepped off of the table, onto the bench and then onto the ground. He did not look at where he was putting his feet because all the time his gaze was fixed firmly upon Claude-Yusuf.
Then he turned toward al-Dahir and gave an elaborate, courtly bow. 'Son of the Caliph,' he said. 'It is good to see you once more.'
Al-Dahir nodded but did not reply.
Suhail once again turned his attention to Claude-Yusuf. He walked around him several times, scrutinising him thoughtfully all the while. After two circles he stopped and stared into Claude-Yusuf's eyes.
'A Frank,' he said softly. 'How does a Frank come to be in Baghdad?'
'We were captured in Jerusalem,' Claude-Yusuf answered. 'My father is a captain in the army of the King. My uncle is a knight of Jerusalem.'
'That's my father,' began Gerard.
Suhail placed his hand over Gerard's mouth. 'I don't believe I was talking to you,' he said.
'Sorry,' Gerard mumbled. He suddenly felt alarmed.
Suhail continued to stare at Claude-Yusuf. 'You know that my name is Suhail,' he said. 'What is yours?'
'Claude-Yusuf,' he answered. 'And that is my cousin, Gerard.'
The boy surprised them by leaning back
and giving a hearty grin. 'You are welcome Claude-Yusuf and Gerard. Even though you have such peculiar names.'
The atmosphere of the refectory changed instantly.
Claude-Yusuf grinned back at Suhail who clapped him on the shoulder. Gerard, however, continued to regard Suhail with suspicion. He could not tell why. He had felt this same tightening in his throat once before but could not recall when.
The boys were, as usual, famished after their day of training. They fell upon the food like wolves and were soon holding up their platters for more. The food was simple but of good quality and there was plenty of it.
Eventually every belly felt full and the room was filled with loud belching. The boys put their down their knives and waited impatiently. After a few minutes there came the sound of a gong. The boys leapt to their feet at once, pushing and shoving each other in the race for the exit.
They hurried out to get the last few minutes of daylight. It soon became clear that Suhail had decided to make a firm friend of Claude-Yusuf. He was waiting for him in the exercise yard and draped his arm around the younger boy's shoulder.
'I am sorry to hear that you were captured in Jerusalem,' Suhail said. 'Does this mean that you were sold as slaves?'
'Yes,' said Claude-Yusuf. 'We were brought to Baghdad by Habib and Dawud.'
Suhail laughed. 'Habib the Fat? I am surprised he is able to waddle outside of the palace.'
Claude-Yusuf laughed. 'He puffs and pants a lot.'
'He is a scoundrel,' Suhail said. 'Whatever you do, don't trust him.'
'I wouldn't. He played tricks on us from the first.'
'But he said that was part of our training,' Gerard said. 'And he was nice to us on the journey.'
'He did that to take you into his confidence,' Suhail said. 'You're lucky that you didn't wake up with your throat slit. Or worse.'
'Worse?'
'I hear from people that he likes boys.'
Claude-Yusuf looked concerned. 'I will remember that.'
'Do so.' Suhail pulled an apricot from inside his robe and offered it to Claude-Yusuf.
'Why haven't you been in the futuwwa until now?' Gerard asked him.
