by Sarah Hegger
It only surprised him it had taken Bahir most of the day to mention that he had used her language with Alya.
“You bear watching.” Bahir nodded. “You appear to be a man of many secrets.”
“You asked me no questions.” Henry envied the ease of the big man atop his saddle. He swayed with the motion of the beast beneath him. A slow, somnambulant sway that blended with the silken swish of the camel’s feet on the sand.
Bahir grunted. “How long have you spoken Arabic?”
“Long enough.” Three years in which he had counted the days despite himself. “Ask me why I learned it.”
A long silence followed, and then Bahir said, “Why?”
“So I could tell you how much I want to rip your head off and shove it up your ass.”
* * * *
Alya’s cheeks burned at the English’s language. Hen-er-ree. She formed his name on a whisper. Did it have a meaning? Could it refer to his mind-stealing eyes? Blue as pure lapis lazuli, bluer than the merciless sky arcing above them. She had never seen eyes that color. They were wasted on a man who tended her father’s goats, and used his mighty shoulders for nothing more than toting rocks, sacks and whatever Bahir bade him carry.
Except, Father had said he bore the title lord in his own land, which made him one of the infidel knights.
She had caught a glimpse of them once when they rode into Cairo to speak with the sultan. With metal tunics, massive horses, and long, straight swords, they had made her breath catch. In that moment, she had known a spine freezing fear of the foreign invaders. Had Hen-er-ree a horse so large, and had he sweated beneath all that metal in the desert sun?
Sir Hen-er-ree. This is what they called themselves, Father had told her. Sir this and sir that. Did they call their women thus? Sir Alya. It made her giggle.
Ears always pricked for the slightest sound she made, Bahir’s head swung in her direction.
She shrugged to indicate it was nothing, and went back to scouring the desert landscape for something of interest.
With midday heat trapped within its fabric confines the litter grew unbearably hot. She tied one of the curtains back. The first breeze of evening fluttered through the silk tassels and made their shadows dance across the desert floor.
Bahir rode in the front. Behind him came Henry and his pretty friend. Newt. What manner of name was Newt? If she dared she would ask them. Perhaps somewhere on this trip Bahir would allow her near enough to do so.
Her eyes ached from crying. Dry and gritty now that she had no more tears to shed. Behind her lay Father and Nasira. Her beautiful chamber draped in sunlight silk that her father had given to her when she became a woman. Her peaceful rooftop courtyard where she stood to watch the sun set, or sat beneath the canopy and painted. In the heat of the day she might lay upon a bright bed of cushions content to drowse and dream.
In her wake came the heavily laden camels with her baggage. Filled also with gifts, Bahir told her, for her new family. Spices, silks, costly perfume oils, ouds and attars, and rare myrrh. Costly, precious gifts to buy their love for her.
Bahir thought her ignorant. In faraway Genoa, her family would view her as strange and the enemy. Had they not sent their brothers, fathers, husbands and uncles to fight her kind? To bring them the word of God. Her father had raised her Christian, so she had that in her favor, but not much else. They would not see a niece or a fellow Christian when they saw her. They would see a hated foe, a nonbeliever.
What did Henry see? Or his pretty friend?
They saw a mound of dark fabric. A pair of eyes peeking over the top of her niqab.
She tweaked the front curtain for a better view of Newt. Near as tall as Henry, but younger and narrower across the chest and shoulders. His dark hair fell to his shoulders. He had the sort of face to make a girl sigh and pine like the descriptions of the poets. Only now he did not look so poetic, perched like a nut atop his camel. He would be bruised by the time they stopped to rest.
Bahir planned to travel well into the night, to take advantage of the coolness. They would stop to rest through the hottest time and travel when the sun lost some of its blaze.
Henry swung in his saddle and looked at her. Even from here she caught the pure blue of those eyes. His kaffiyeh concealed the rest of his face. A mercy, as covered in grime and dirt as it was. His people called hers savages. Hah! At least they were savages not frightened of soap and water. She lifted her chin at Henry and dropped the curtain closed.
* * * *
As much as he sympathized with Newt’s pain, Henry stood ready to pound him into the desert by the time Bahir called a halt midway through the next day. They entered a small oasis, barely more than a few palms sheltering a deep well.
“Jesu and his ever-loving Father’s balls.” Newt tumbled off his kneeling camel. He arched his back this way and that and hobbled a few steps forward. “I have never ridden anything more uncomfortable.”
“You get used to them.” Henry watered the animals as Bahir got Alya settled.
Bringing down her litter, Bahir made a makeshift tent with the coverings for her to crawl inside and sleep through the heat of the day.
“I will never grow used to that.” Newt stood beside his camel and sneered at her.
Eyelids closing against the bright day, she chewed her cud.
“Here.” Henry showed Newt how to drape his kaffiyeh over the camel’s saddle, and prop it to make a shady patch. “You need to sleep now. We will move again once it grows cooler.”
Newt eyed his small tent. “Will we eat, or is the big bastard determined to starve us as well as break our asses?”
“Later.” Henry tossed him a small sack of dates. “Put those in your cake hole and stop whining.”
Alya had crawled in beside her camel and out of his view.
“English!” Bahir stalked toward him. “Keep drawing water. You smell like a goat, and I will not be subjected to your stench all the way to Alexandria.
Solely based on who made the demand, Henry considered objecting, but he suspected he did smell like a goat.
The fabric surrounding Alya twitched. So the lady wanted to see what happened all about her, did she? If Bahir knew he’d probably slap a blindfold on her as well as the rest of her swaddling.
In a desert, you never wasted water, so he drew a small pail for himself and moved between two date palms.
“Here.” Bahir tossed him a bag of sweet sand.
Henry caught it. “Would you like to wash the crack of my ass for me.”
As he’d said it in English, Newt snickered.
Clever enough to catch the intent of his comment, Bahir glowered at him.
Henry met his stare.
With a sneer, Bahir turned away and yelled orders at the guards. A few baleful looks tossed toward him gave Henry a childish surge of satisfaction. The big turd might need to watch his back.
Stripping off his tunic, Newt joined him. “God’s wounds, it’s hotter than hell.”
“You grow used to it.” Henry shucked his loose linen pants and hauled the tunic over his head.
“Nay, you don’t.” Newt wet himself and spread sweet sand all over his body. “Been in this sodding place for more than a year looking for you. I’ll never fancy being baked alive like a loaf of bread. Give me the cool rains of home over this sweat hole.”
Henry tried not to remember cool autumn rain that brought the promise of winter. Fresh April showers auguring spring. Wintery hard-driving tempests straight off the freezing sea. Nay, he had not allowed himself to remember. At the end of this journey they waited for him. He could almost taste the rain on his lips. Sweet sand stung the cuts and sores on his arms but he worked it into his skin. Bahir insisted the servants bathe regularly, but working like an ox meant many cuts and scrapes.
Newt hissed. “What happened?” Staring at his back, Newt’s expression grew clouded with anger. He jerked his head at Bahir. “He do that?”
&nb
sp; “Only one or two.” Henry shrugged. “The worst came before him.” He had not seen his back, but his obedience had come slowly. Mostly at the hands of the couple who found him and nursed him back to health. A few more from the slave traders who objected to his attitude. Bahir had whipped him in the beginning, trying to beat the resistance out of him. It galled Henry most that it had worked. Sooner or later every man’s head bowed beneath the pressure of wanting to live. The big bastard tended to threaten now more than whip. The memory of Bahir’s whipping had kept every servant in the master’s courtyard under control.
“I’ll kill him.” Rigid, gaze locked on Bahir, Newt stood.
Henry used the water to wash the sweet sand off. “Not if I get to him first.”
* * * *
Alya should turn her head and not watch as the men cleaned themselves. Bahir would be displeased. When she had gone with Nasira to the suq, she had been forced to drop her gaze away from the partial nudity of the beggars and ignore the mostly naked slaves herded into pens.
Well, if Henry did not want her to look, he should not stand where she had a clear sight of him. Even now, darkened by the sun, Henry’s skin remained fairer than the men about him. Would his fairer skin feel cool to the touch? Or would it be warm and dry, surprising her like the skin of a snake she had touched when the charmers came to perform for Father?
Muscle bulged along the length of his arms as he spread sweet sand over his chest. Strong ridges cut across his abdomen. Two lines of muscle dipped inside his hipbones and disappeared beneath his loincloth. His legs were long and powerful.
An odd prickling sensation spread over her skin. She tightened her stomach against the tingle of excitement.
Nasira had lectured her about these sensations, warned her that a pure woman did not look upon a man who was not her husband and feel these things. Nasira was far behind in Cairo, and Alya did not want to look away, or stop the sensation. It climbed from her belly to her breasts, tightening her nipples to points.
Henry dampened a cloth in water and wiped the sweet sand off. Water glistened along every fascinating ridge, snaked in droplets over his belly and thighs.
Lust. She lusted for the English with the beautiful eyes, and the man’s body.
She closed her eyes and forced them to remain that way. This would never do. His blue eyes held some manner of sorcery.
Chapter 5
Henry sat beside Newt as they shared a meal before the caravan got underway. With the sunset came the cool of the desert evening and he wrapped his kaffiyeh tightly around his head to keep the wind off him.
Bahir prowled the outskirts of the small oasis. He stopped, cocked his head, tense and alert.
“What’s up with him?” Newt jerked his chin at Bahir, who slid like a wraith between the date palms, his attention intent on the dark expanse of nothing all around them.
Henry’s nape prickled. He sensed it too. It ran like ants across his skin, tightened his belly, and made him uneasy. He rose, his hand reaching for the sword that no longer rested at his hip. “I am not sure.”
Wind whispered and hissed through the palms, the deep silence pressing in on them from all sides.
A wild dog yipped.
Bahir whirled and shouted. “Arm yourselves!”
“Bedamned!” Newt whirled. “What is happening?”
“There are no blasted wild dogs this close to Cairo.” With no sword, Henry ran for Alya. “Give no quarter.”
Swords flashing, the escort clambered to their feet,
Rising out of the sand like smoke, the attackers swarmed out of the desert. Desert nomads. Fast, deadly and merciless.
Alya stood beside her camel. Alone.
Bahir engaged three men, and cut down two almost immediately.
Henry reached her before Bahir. “Have you a dagger?”
“Aye.” Eyes huge, she looked fearful but calm.
“Use it.”
Shrouded in dark clothing and difficult to see, men surged around them. The nomads knew the desert well. Knew how to use it to their advantage.
A figure lunged out of the shadows.
Alya screamed.
Henry ducked the sword. He rammed his shoulder into the man’s gut, driving them both to the ground.
Hard-packed sand jarred his knees and elbows.
The nomad twisted beneath him and got his hands about Henry’s throat.
Henry tossed sand in his eyes, grabbed his turban and pounded his head into the sand until the man’s grip about his neck relaxed.
Another two headed for Alya, making no sound on the soft sand.
“Henry!” Newt yelled. A sword winged through the air toward him.
Henry snatched it and swung. Steel bit into flesh and the first man dropped. The other bastard skidded to a stop. His blade swaying like a cobra.
In his hand, the pommel fit like a gauntlet. Henry curled his fingers about it. Another man converged on them from the right.
The first attacked. Henry swung double-handed, striking blade against blade. Sparks flew. He found the bind, twisted and wrenched the sword from the nomad’s hand.
Dancing back, he dodged the blow from his right. Cutting up, his metal bit into cloth and then stuck in the man’s chest.
Henry shoved with his boot, and the man dropped to the ground.
Years and years of training took over. Dodge, cut, thrust, parry, strike. Weight balanced on the balls of his feet, searching constantly for the next attack.
Behind him, Alya. Before him they came in a steady flow, one man after another. Metal clanged against metal, grunts and hoarse cries, the stench of sweat, the sharp coppery tang of blood. Battle. His blood surged in response.
His breath tired first. Rasping through his chest as he danced with his sword. The fatigue spread to his arms. Still their attackers came out of the darkness. His footwork grew sloppy. His responses slower. Henry shook sweat out his eyes.
Then, Bahir was beside him. Carving that deadly curved sword of his through nomads. Shoulder to shoulder they fought, until Newt joined them. Henry drew on his last reserves, his arms shaking with the effort to raise the sword.
The attackers dwindled to a trickle.
And then they were gone.
In the aftermath, the silence rang like a bell.
Henry dropped his hands to his knees and tried to catch his breath. Breath seared through his chest, his heart pounding so hard it drummed in his ears.
“They are gone,” Alya whispered.
Bodies littered the oasis, crumpled over like cloth poppets. Camels brayed their alarm. Their handlers clucked and soothed, speaking to them in harsh guttural grunts.
“Bastard dogs.” Bahir spat. He strode to the nearest body, grabbed its head and lifted, only to drop it back to the floor. “Find one of them alive.”
Metal whispered against leather as Newt sheathed his weapon.
Henry straightened, his body aching like an oldster.
“That was close.” Newt hauled his headscarf off and wiped his brow. “You fight like an old woman.”
Henry wanted to brain the little turd, but Newt spoke true. He had fought like a sodding farmer. Three years of herding goats had cost him his speed and his endurance. Thick spit and sand coated his mouth and he snatched the waterskin Newt held out to him. He rinsed his mouth and spat.
But Alya was safe. Behind him she moved in a silky swish of cloth and the scent of jasmine oil.
“An old woman who taught you how to fight.” He punched Newt on the shoulder, nearly crying with the effort it took. But a man had his pride after all.
A strangled cry arose from where Bahir dragged some hapless fighter up and threw him against a boulder.
Only then did Henry allow himself to look at Alya.
Her gaze moved across the oasis constantly. Beneath her covering, he could not tell what expression she wore but she held her shoulders tense. She raised her head when she caught him looking. So
mething fierce flashed in the green-brown depths of her eyes. “My thanks, Hen-er-ree.”
She knew his name. It surged through him hot and sweet. Not trusting his voice, he nodded, tightened his grip on his pommel, and followed Newt.
Bahir had the injured man pinned to a boulder. His kaffiyeh lay in the sand at their feet. Through the grit, sweat and blood a young, clearly terrified, boy stared up at them.
So fast that Henry barely caught a word of it, they spoke in the language of the desert tribes.
At the end of which, Bahir shoved the boy away. The nomad stumbled and fell, righted himself and ran out into the night.
“Should we be letting him go?” Newt examined the blade of his metal.
“He’s a child. We do not kill children.” With a harsh grunt, Bahir spun on his heel and stalked across the oasis to where a small band of the escort crouched. “We have bigger problems than a dirty tribal boy.”
“What sort of problems?” Newt followed on behind him.
He needn’t bother. Bahir would deem it beneath him to share the information with them. Henry wanted to punch the bastard in the small of his back, right at the tender spot that would bring him to his knees.
He followed Bahir anyway.
Bahir and the leader of the escort spoke urgently to each other. From the look on the leader’s face, he would not be joining Bahir’s band of admirers. Thus far, the only person who seemed to tolerate Bahir was Alya.
For the escort, Bahir had switched to Arabic. “How many?”
“Three dead.” The leader rose wearily to his feet. “Five injured.”
“Pack up, we need to move.” Spinning again, he marched away.
Henry stepped into his path. “Would you care to explain?”
“Nay.” Bahir squared off.
One of these days, Henry promised himself, there would be a reckoning between them. “I gather there’s a problem. Her father gave her into my care as well as yours. I suggest we try to work together on this.”
Bahir curled his lip back. “She is nothing to you, English. You purchased your freedom with this journey.”
