by Lee Arthur
There was a mad joyous scramble among the ten for weapons. First baths, now weapons. They felt like men again. The pairings off were done without words: De Wynter and Drummond, Angus and Ogilvy; Cameron and Menzies; and Gilliver sought out John the Rob, the two being of a weight, although the latter was not well skilled in weaponry. Fionn and Carlby, the only two left, gave each other a devil-may-care look and fell to, Carlby making up in skill for the advantage Bonn's size gave him.
Hack, slash, lunge, parry, counter and thrust...over and over they did it, and the smiles on their faces were fashioned of sheer joy. No one had to urge them on, all the frustrations of these hellish days of slavery were being spent. Aisha, Ali, and Ramlah watched intently. Ali with the eye of a man, Ramlah with that of a Berber woman, and Aisha with the view of a warrior.
Ali's whistle ended the duels. Even blunted weapons can be dangerous in the hands of a skilled opponent, especially when one is out of practice. Such was the case with the Terrible Ten, as John the
Rob called them. "Terrific is more like it," Cameron complained, but the word Terrible stuck.
Those ten slept well that night, all but de Wynter. For the first time in weeks, he dreamed. The same dream that had haunted him while aboard ship: the two women standing with a child in between. This time as he rode toward them, a white-robed wraith intervened. Still, he could not see the second woman's face.
Waking, he lay there and thought long of Scotland, his mother, his dead father, and especially of his son. By now, they would have learned of his admission to the order and of the fate of the Annunciata. With no demand for ransom, they would have decided him dead or worse. He prayed James V had kept his royal word and named the boy heir. Recalling that beautiful young face, he felt a pain in his chest and tears in his eyes. Desperately, he thought of Anne Boleyn, but tonight her memory was no comfort to him.
Again the next day, after a morning spent heaving stones from one tier to another, they were given access to the weapons. The day following, half-wild horses were driven into the arena "to test its * footing," Ali explained. Gladly the men accepted the challenge facing them, John the Rob proving to be, once mounted, an unshakable jockey. That night, a tired but happy group of horsemasters compared bruises and boasts. Carlby, consulting his newmade calendar, passed the word that tomorrow would be the. start of the new year, 1533. The men grew silent. In England there would be the traditional New Year's gifts. In Scotland, toasts to the end of one year, the start of another. Angus and Ogilvy kept their more potent usquebaugh just for this purpose. Here in al Djem in the country of Ifriqiya, there was nothing. Gilliver, seeing their sad faces, reminded them, "We have each other...and Christ."
It was little consolation. That night in de Wynter's dreams there was no threesome to tantalize him. Instead, the lovely and fascinating Anne Boleyn called to him from the depths of her bed. She lay there naked, her legs finally spread wide for him. Even as he approached her, another man—coarse, grayish of hair, broad of shoulders—would have intervened but he was pushed aside as a white-haired man climbed into bed with the ripe Anne Boleyn.
De Wynter woke. For the first time in weeks, his manhood had asserted itself. Hunger and exhaustion dampen one's other bodily needs. But not tonight. Tonight for the first time in years, his body had made its demands known... and satisfied them.
CHAPTER 25
Two more weeks went by, the days swiftly, the nights fitfully. Mornings were spent heaving building blocks about to restore a small portion of the third tier. Afternoons were devoted to swordplay or work with the horses that now docilely accepted the Arabic bridle, a noose about the muzzle.
Nights seemed to crawl by. Not even nightly showers helped. All, de Wynter soon discovered, were troubled by the same type of dreams. Carlby, the priest, was no exception. "We are human, you know. Look at the late, great Wolsey.-Fathered three or four children, the latest while he was archbishop. Let my mind say chastity all it wants, the body will have its way. Besides, it's the food that's our problem. Don't look at me that way. Haven't you noticed? Less rice, more meat and vegetables and fresh fruit. Milk more often than water. If I didn't know better, I'd swear we were being fattened up for some—" He bit off his words. The men looked at one another, each wondering what the other was thinking.
Drummond was first to speak. "You don't mean"—he swallowed hard—"human sacrifice?"
Carlby chuckled cheerlessly. "No, not that. It's not the Moslem way. Human targets, maybe, but not sacrifice."
"But do targets need weapons?" That was Angus.
"Or horses?" (Ogilvy.)
"Or to be fat?" (Cameron.)
"Or to be clean-shaven?" (Menzies.)
"If not targets, what else?" John the Rob inquired. "Bodyguards?" Gilliver hazarded. The others nodded. That seemed plausible.
"She has the silent ones for that," Carlby said, pointing out the obvious.
"Lots of them," Menzies added glumly.
The silence was deafening. Finally, Drummond said what all were thinking: "Participants."
No matter how they turned it, tested it, twisted it, and tortured it, the premise was valid. Everything fit too neatly. The monies paid at the auction. The purposeless work. The weaponry practice. The horses. The food. The daily bathing and shaving. The change of cell. Everything.
De Wynter, who had been silent throughout all this, finally spoke. "There is one way to find out for sure."
"How?" The rest spoke at once.
"Ask."
"Who?" "When?" "You?" The questions jumped at him.
He did not answer them, launching instead into another subject. "Have you noticed when we practice, there are always three or none in the box?"
They nodded. They were aware of the watchers.
"One we know is Ali ben Zaid, the head of the guard. And the woman might be his wife or handmaiden."
"No," John the Rob interrupted. "She is too arrogant, she carries herself too proudly. A beggar can tell nobility every time. Besides, I have seen him defer to her."
Carlby agreed. "She is most probably the queen. She is certainly too old to be the princess."
"Then," de Wynter asked, "who is the third one, the other silent one?" At first thought, the possibilities seemed endless. On second, most of those seemed silly or stupid.
"Fionn, did you notice the hands when the vase was broken while we raked sand?"
"No. Oh, I suppose I saw them, but they did not strike me as unusual."
"Look at them tomorrow."
"Why?"
"They are very small hands—"
John the Rob interrupted, "So are mine." The others laughed. John the Rob was very vain about his hands and boasted, "They be the best, the fastest, the prettiest hands in the land."
"That's right," Gilliver chimed in. "Many men have small hands."
"And boys," said Cameron with a leer. "How many men, or boys, paint their nails?" "And if that is the Amira herself?" Drummond wanted to know. "What difference does it make?" "All the difference."
Drummond pressed the point. "So what do you propose?"
De Wynter leaned back on his bed of straw, arms folded behind his head, and smiled cryptically. "I propose we get some sleep and tomorrow unveil the lady." He closed his eyes, the subject was closed. His companions accepted the inevitable and prepared to sleep.
Not Carlby. Kneeling by de Wynter's bed, he spoke quietly so others heed not hear. "Couldn't you ask the Amir I'al-assa instead of taking whatever chance you plan? He might talk."
The blue eyes opened wide and looked deep into his. "Tell me, priest, would you believe whatever story he chose to tell a slave?"
Staring down on that too-beautiful face, its eyes closed again as if in sleep, Carlby wresded with his conscience for a moment, then confessed, "No, I fear not."
The eyes flew open again and de Wynter grinned boyishly. "Neither would I. That's why I propose to see for myself. Now, priest, get some sleep... or at least let me. This may be the last I get for a while
."
The following day, de Wynter, though asked repeatedly what were his plans, refused to say anything except a "You'll see."
Later, however, when he had the chance, he took Fionn aside and asked, "Remember the gatehouse at Bushy Park? Could we do it again?"
The blond giant considered a moment, then broke into a big grin. "We can give it a try."
"Good. When I give the signal."
That afternoon, when the weapons had been surrendered and the horses driven in, de Wynter and Fionn began trying some of the less dangerous tricks they had done as boys, dismounting and rernotrnting with their mounts at a gallop. Before the three occupants of the royal box knew it, there were eight attempting stunts. Some of the horses shied, others stopped short, but Bonn's, a big lumbering mare with yellow teeth, seemed impervious to the actions of the giant-sized fly that insisted on landing and leaving her broad back. De Wynter's mount was not so stolid, but his firm hands persuaded her to keep gamely on without missing a stride. To one side, Carlby and John the Rob sat watching the fun, too, although John the Rob remarked deprecatingly to his companion, "Them tricks look easy."
"Practice plays nicks on your eyes, my friend. Those boys have done those tricks a thousand times to make diem look that easy."
"Well, if you say so..."
"I do. Save your neck. Don't try—now what are those two up to?" Carlby was watching Bonn and de Wynter. The two had been exchanging horses on the run, but now both rode one, Bonn's mare. Even as Carlby spoke, Bonn brought his mare to a stop before the royal box, and onto his shoulders climbed de Wynter. While Carlby watched unbelieving, de Wynter was over the wall in one catlike move and into the box. Two strides took him to the side of the alarmed Amira who had stood instinctively when she saw him vault the wall. Before she knew what he was about, his strong brown hand ripped off her veil. In that one instant, de Wynter knew he was looking at a face one couldn't forget—one as cold as it was beautiful. Soft, yet hard. Young, yet old beyond its years. Simple, yet haughty. But above all, beautifully, maddeningly desirable.
He had planned to demand she tell him her plans for them. He had rehearsed it many times in his mind. But being this close to such enticing lips drove all logical thought from his mind. Instead, he seized her and kissed her hard. The lips may have looked soft and luscious, but under his they were unrelenting—cold and immune to the demands his warm, hungry ones made.
Berce with anger, Ali's hands cruelly pulled de Wynter from the princess. She stood there, white-faced with shock, her eyes blazing. She did not even deign to acknowledge his kiss by wiping it scornfully from her mouth. Instead, with a hand that trembled imperceptibly although she wiHed it not to, she replaced her veil. To de Wynter she said coldly, "Do not ever touch me again." To Ali: "Punish him."
To her mother, who had stood aghast and disbelieving as mis tragicomedy unfolded before her eyes, Aisha said, "Come. We are finished here."
The silent ones had charged the box and poured into the arena: The slaves below were hauled down from horseback and herded at spearpoint down the ramp leading to their cell.
De Wynter had made no effort to fight off either Ali or the others. Instead, he smiled and shook his head at his own rbolhardiness. The kiss could not possibly be worth the punishment. However; he thought to himself, I should have thought of that earlier.
Ali in his agitation gave oral orders. "Take him below. In a cat cell by himself. I’ll see to him later." Not waiting to see his commands obeyed, Ali followed after his Aisha. That this slave had so defiantly violated her was my fault, Ali berated himself. All my fault. I was the one who suggested the training in weapons, the horsemanship practice. But Til have my revenge.
Down one ramp de Wynter was taken, then another, a flight of stairs, more stairs, and then into a warren of narrow cells. Left, right, right again, then left. He lost track of the turns. Finally, he was thrust into a small cell. The only source of light, the torch, disappeared with his guards. Wryly, he remembered his exploration of the Tower. This cell, be decided—his outstretched arm reaching easily to all three walls—was more like the pit his companions had had to endure. But here, though there was plenty of room to stand, there was none to lie down.
Instead, he could but crouch or squat of sit with legs bent tight He settled down as best he could for what might be a long wait In the hours—or was it days?—that followed, he recited every poem he knew. Then he translated each out loud, one by one, from Scots into English, French into Italian, Latin into Spanish, then switched around. He tried one into Arabic, but the language, he decided, did not lend itself to rhyming or else he was not fully master of it. When his throat grew parched, he damned himself for wasting his spit by speaking out loud.
Eventually, he slept. Not long, he thought, but he was thirsty and cramped when he woke. As he moved to relieve the cramp, he disturbed the other occupants of this underground prison. He could only hope that that rustling sound meant mice, not snakes nor large-sized vermin. Awkwardly he climbed to his feet within the confines of his cell, and stood for a while dancing up and down to start his circulation moving and to discourage any unwanted creeping, crawling visitors. The dust he disturbed swelled about him like a cloud of smoke and set him to coughing feverishly. He would have given much for a drink of brackish water. At last, he slept again.
How many days he spent in that cell he couldn't guess. Once he heard sounds in the distance and feared his rescuers had become lost in the maze, so he called to them. The echoes of his voice were his only reply.
He was asleep when they finally came for him. The point of a spear woke him up. The light of their torches dazzled his eyes.
"Jamad ja'da, you sleep soundly," said a voice not far from his ear.
He opened his mouth to make a witty reply, but nothing came out.
"I assume," Ali ben Zaid continued, "you would like to come out and stretch your legs."
De Wynter could only nod; his swollen tongue couldn't answer. Nor was he sure his legs would respond if he tried to rise.
"Maybe even have a drink with me?"
The sound of water pouring into a cup stirred the crouching man. Frantically his hands clawed at the bars of his cage while his eyes searched for the cup he knew was out there somewhere. Yet, even under this impetus, he could not force his throat to speak.
"There is only one problem."
De Wynter's blue eyes focused now on the dark brown ones looking at him over the folds of the veil. Ali had his full attention. "The princess has been defiled by your touch. She would have had those lips of yours sewn together permanently, but I dissuaded her." Ali did not care to remember that angry discussion. "She has agreed you be freed from this cell and given water, but only under one condition."
The blue eyes had not once looked anywhere but at his own.
"You are to enter her contest. Hundreds of men will compete. Most will die. Chances are you will, too." The blue eyes didn't even blink.
"But, I am not finished. You and your friends—The Terrible Ten, I believe you call yourselves—you all will compete. Those of you who live through it will no longer be the Amira's slaves. I assured the Amira you would agree. Nod if I am right... and then I'll give you water."
The blue eyes stared fixedly into his, then just as Ali was about to give up hope, they partially closed as the man laboriously nodded his head. When they reopened, they seemed to have gone dead, as if the light behind them had been extinguished. Ali could not meet that stare. Getting to his feet, he issued orders.
"Open the door. Bring the cup here and give him a drink. Not too much. Now, you two lift him up to his feet. You will have; to carry him, I fear. More water. Not too much. He'll be sick." The rest was a blur to de Wynter.
Finally, he was back in the cell he had shared with his friends. The daylight forced him to squint. Gratefully, he sank down onto the bed of straw, relishing the feel as though it were a featherbed. The anxious looks about him told him he must be a frightening sight.
Drummond, kneeling down and adjusting the straw to make a better pillow for his friend, asked, "Was the kiss that good? Was it worth it?"
Good, kind, unimaginative Drummond. De Wynter managed a smile. "No."
CHAPTER 86
If Carlby had warned him as he crouched in the cage with nothing to do but sleep that he would sleep little... or that once his ordeal was over, he would sleep around the clock, de Wynter would have laughed in the priest-physician's face. But when next those blue eyes opened, it was once again daylight. The first face he saw was the kind, open one of Drummond.
"Welcome back. Thirsty?''
With the support of his friend's arm, de Wynter drank greedily, pausing only long enough to ask, "How long?"
"That you slept? A full day."
De Wynter shook his head, then drank more.
"You mean before? Six days. Finished?"
As Drummond eased him back onto his straw bedding, the other eight gathered around.
"Are you up to answering a few questions?" That was Carlby's solicitous voice
He couldn't look them in the eye. How can you tell your friends that to save your own life, you have risked theirs? That by so doing he had given them a chance to win their freedom did not ameliorate his crime.
"Do you know where you were?"
"In an animal cage... under the floor of the arena."
"Ali swore we'd never see you again. Why did he change his mind?"
"I don't know." "Don't you?"
In his weakness, his face betrayed his every thought, his internal struggle. Finally he confessed. "I agreed to their terms."
Carlby persisted. "Speak up. What terms?"
De Wynter was saved from answering by Drummond, who turned angrily on the older man. "He agreed to compete, that's what. You know that's what they wanted. John the Rob read their signs."
Carlby ignored the outburst "Did you?"
De Wynter could not look the priest in the eye, instead nodding his head wearily.
"And if you win?" Carlby was insistent.
"I would be freed."
