by Jean, Rima
John Zachariah’s manservant, dressed as a textile merchant, greeted her as planned. Within the privacy of his shop, she transformed from merchant’s boy to noble’s niece. She was given a large chest of clothing that belonged to “Sara,” and as Zayn rummaged through it, she held her breath. Silk gowns of green, blue, pink, and russet were carefully folded inside, fit for a princess. A woman emerged, plump and unassuming, carrying a bowl of scented water. Her name was Heba, and she eyed Zayn curiously, with a hint of awe, as she helped sponge the young girl down. Annoyed, Zayn wondered why the woman stared so, then remembered that the Assassins had never had a woman among their elite ranks before. Certainly, there were lesser female agents among the Assassins who spied and reported back to Masyaf, but there had never been a female Faithful One, an agent trained in the art of murder. Zayn was the first, and therefore, a source of wonder to any of the minor agents of the Order.
Heba passed her a light cotton chemise and began to arrange her damp hair. Zayn’s thick black hair was parted in the middle, braided into two plaits that were folded and brought around her head, then fastened at the top with a fillet. All the while, Heba eyed the girl’s taut brown body, ruined by so many scars, and frowned. Zayn could feel Heba’s disapproval like hot iron on her skin and had to will herself not to rip away. Rather, she focused getting dressed quickly in order to leave sooner. When Zayn finally donned one of the silk gowns, she heard Heba’s sharp intake of breath. Zayn bristled, irritation shooting through her at the sensation of the gown’s tight, soft caress. It was form-fitting, hugging the curves of her breasts and hips, and she wanted nothing more than to tear it from her body. She’d grown fond of the freedom and concealment men’s clothes had given her. She was no longer genderless, wearing this gown. She was very much a woman, and she hated it. Filth. Filth.
With a braided belt around her waist, a fine veil over her hair, and just a hint of kohl around her eyes, Zayn was prepared to reenter the world as Sara. She threw on a light riding cloak and was back on her horse, following Gabriel, John Zachariah’s manservant, out of Acre and to Jerusalem. Two men, servants of Zachariah who were armed with crossbows and swords, accompanied them. They are meant to protect me. She could not contain the insolent smile that broke across her face as she traced the outline of the dagger she’d slipped beneath her cloak.
The ride from Acre to Jerusalem lasted only a day, but the day stretched endlessly beneath the desert sun. Zayn watched the Frankish pilgrims, some on horseback and some on foot, trudge bleakly toward the holy city. Among them were knights, monks, merchants, and peasants; dirty-faced children with cracked lips lay listlessly against their mothers and fathers, flies swarming about them. One woman, her face bright red and drenched with sweat beneath her heavy woolen cloak, swayed on her feet and crumpled to the sun-bleached ground. Zayn tugged at her skirts and hopped from her horse, much to the dismay of her escort, and dumped the contents of her water skin on the woman’s face and into her mouth. The woman’s husband approached, his toothless mouth open in surprise, and Zayn snapped, “She needs water. Remove her cloak, for heaven’s sake, or she will die under it in this heat!”
They continued to ride down the pilgrim road, when suddenly out of the bone-dry brightness emerged Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock, scintillating like a golden mirage on the horizon. A mass of pilgrims poured through David’s Gate, and Zayn gazed at the armed guards on the ground and above, on the wall and in the tower. She couldn’t help but count them, assess them. Muslims and Jews were forbidden in Jerusalem, and Zayn felt very much like a spy entering the lion’s den. The streets within the walls were crowded with both human and beast, jostling for space to move in the narrow, winding roads. What Zayn had seen of cities had not prepared her for this, and she was assaulted by the stench of human excrement. Beggars pulled at her skirts, stretching their disfigured hands out to her in supplication. Blind, legless, leprous—they were all there, hiding in the shade. A one-eyed woman, cradling a tiny baby, peered up at her from within a worn, sun-beaten face. Zayn tossed down her coins and tried to shut the woman—all of them—from her mind. She had never seen such human suffering. And this in the holiest of cities.
Pressing their way into a thoroughfare that was vaulted with stone, they found themselves in an open market, surrounded by shops and stalls selling everything from honey-drizzled sweetmeats to fresh fish. Zayn was dazzled by the vast array of people, as colorful as the clothes they wore. A pale Armenian shopkeeper counted his bezants as a swarthy farmer in a green turban stood by waiting. A sable-haired woman, her hands stained with purple dye, carried a basket of cloth on her head past an enormous Frankish knight in mail, the yellow cross on his shoulder. The knight debated something with an infantryman wearing leather breeches and a Danish axe. Beyond them, a Norman nobleman, dressed in silk and velvet, rode his Arabian steed through the crowd, pushing past donkeys and camels. Zayn shook her head in wonder. All these people, going about their daily lives together, in peace.
Gabriel led her and the guards down the thoroughfare and after several turns into impossibly narrow streets, stopped at a house some distance away from the bustle of the busy markets, in the Syrian Quarter. The house was ensconced between others similar to it, all flat roofed and wooden doored, sharing smooth stone and mud walls over which flowering vines crept in a beautiful cascade. They dismounted, and Gabriel rang the copper bell that hung beside the door. Gabriel ushered Zayn inside, past the turbaned doorman, as others led their horses to the stables. Inside, the house was dark and cool, and she heaved a breath of relief. As she removed her mantle, she glanced around at the paved marble floors, white-washed walls, and exquisite Persian rugs. There were wooden chairs and benches inlaid with mother-of-pearl and padded with embroidered cushions. A large cross of polished wood adorned the center wall.
“Ah Sara! Welcome!” John Zachariah padded quickly down the hall to her, then took her hands in his. He was not a small man, broad-shouldered, if soft, and he wore a long white robe and indoor shoes. He had a cropped, graying beard and very black eyebrows. Though he smiled warmly at her, something about his eyes made Zayn believe he had once been a Faithful One—a killer. Like me.
“You must be exhausted from your journey,” he said. “Please, come and sit. Have a refreshment.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Zayn replied, following him from the hall and into the courtyard. Gabriel nodded to her from a corner and disappeared. She could hear water spilling from fountains and rushing through channels that ran into the houses. Behind the sound of running water were the voices of women in conversation. Sitting in the shade of an orange tree were three women, one older than the other two. Aunt Yasmina…cousins Elisha and Eve… The older woman, Yasmina, rose and kissed each of Zayn’s cheeks; the younger ones dutifully followed suit. She sat and graciously accepted a cup of sherbet, answering Yasmina’s questions about her trip, Acre, and her “father,” Safed, just as she had rehearsed with Aysha. Over the course of the afternoon, it became clear that Yasmina understood the ruse, whereas her daughters did not. Elisha, who was Zayn’s age, kept gazing at Zayn sidelong, suspicious, as though appraising her competition. Zayn hid her smile. I’m not going to steal any of your handsome suitors, Cousin, don’t worry.
Both she and Elisha were going into service at King Baldwin’s Court, but Elisha was to serve Baldwin’s sister, Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem. Zayn could tell that Elisha was full of self-importance on account of it. As Zayn readied for bed that first night in Jerusalem, she thought about Elisha and living among women and their petty dramas for several months. She would have to learn to cope and even participate if she wanted to blend in. She lay against the sumptuous feather mattress, picking at the skin of her lips. How would she learn to concern herself with her appearance, to giggle over young men, when those very things made her skin crawl with self-loathing?
The answer to her question awaited her in the courtyard when she finished dressing the following morning. The maid who had helped dress her s
lipped from the room, and the sound of men’s voices outside compelled Zayn to crack open her door and peek out. She caught a glimpse of the back of a knight as he spoke to Uncle John, and her blood ran cold: he wore the unmistakable white mantle emblazoned with a red cross.
A Templar.
Chapter Ten
She shut the door carefully and pressed her back against it, breathing evenly. She held her strength in check, focusing on the air that passed in and out of her lungs.
He’s here for me.
She heard Aunt Yasmina’s musical voice greeting the knight, and a sudden knock on her door rattled her head. She turned and opened it to see Elisha, with Eve peering timidly from behind her older sister. Elisha was cold but polite. “I was sent to fetch you for breakfast.” Then, after glancing briefly at Eve, she added, “We have a guest.”
Zayn smiled. “Thank you.” She ran her hands down the front of her gown and touched the veil pinned to her head, then followed the two girls down the hallway. I am Sara Zachariah, John Zachariah’s niece. I’ve done nothing wrong. From the back, the knight could have been Guy. But he turned to greet them, and Zayn felt woozy with relief—his hairline was receding, his nose was hooked, and his name was Matthew.
“Mesdemoiselles,” he said, bowing stiffly to the girls. Elisha smiled, lowered her eyes, and blushed, as if on cue. Eve, who was no older than thirteen, did the same. Where did they learn to do that? Why can’t I do that?
Zayn had no appetite, despite the enticing array of citrus fruit placed on the table before her and the smell of caramelized sugar that filled the air. She listened carefully as the men discussed politics, noting that Elisha often met Sir Matthew’s eyes and looked away, her cheeks rosy. Matthew, on the other hand, kept glancing at Zayn, and at first she thought he might suspect her of something. By the end of the meal, however, she realized that the look in his eyes bespoke of something different. Pay me no mind, you dolt. It’s Elisha you should be flirting with.
When the young Templar finally took his leave, Zayn asked John, “What did he want?”
“Oh, it was a friendly visit,” John replied. “I occasionally donate a gift to the Templars, so they come to pay their regards.” His eyes held Zayn’s for a beat. Zayn smiled.
Three days passed peacefully, and she readied herself for life in the palace. She mulled over her instructions from Aysha and Junaid, absently packing her chest. She wondered by what means she would kill Guy de Molay. If it was entirely up to her, she would simply drive a dagger through his heart the first chance she got. It wasn’t up to her, though; she had to be utterly discreet and execute the assassination flawlessly, without implicating herself. The Assassin reputation, after all, depended on it. Additionally, she was required to wait a minimum of three months before making an attempt on Guy’s life. The three months would give her an opportunity to gather intelligence on the off-chance she mishandled the assassination and had to flee Jerusalem. She sighed deeply. Three months. She only had to play the Frank’s lady-in-waiting for three months. She reached into her chest and felt for the soft lambskin purse Aysha had given her—inside were those magical herbs, the ones that eased her pain. She was not sure she could survive without them.
John Zachariah took his daughter and “niece” to the palace on Zayn’s fourth day in Jerusalem. The royal residence was located near Jaffa Gate, south of David’s Tower. It was much like the Zachariah’s home with its white-washed walls, tiled floors, and colorful rugs, except everything was larger and more opulent. Mailed guards, both Frankish and native, stood at every corner; oil lamps of glass hung from the ceiling, exuding perfume; lords and ladies wore colorful silks and moved with purpose, not a gesture out of place.
Before Zayn could be passed to a servant, John gathered her hands in his and smiled down at her. “You will do the family proud, Niece, I am certain of it,” he said to her, his eyes twinkling. “Do not hesitate to reach out to me if you need me.”
She thanked him and said her good-byes, not missing the meaning behind his words. Elisha flashed Zayn a haughty smile before turning away. As Zayn followed the servant, an older Armenian woman, down a hallway and up the spiral staircase of a turret, she conceded that she and Elisha would probably not be friends. It was a shame, since they were likely to be the only Syrian ladies-in-waiting attending the Frankish noblewomen. They turned a corner, and Zayn heard a burst of female giggles coming from one of the chambers. The servant led her in to see several exquisite girls, mostly Franks, sitting in a circle on throw pillows and cushioned stools. They looked up suddenly, their faces prettily pink.
“My lady Marguerite,” the servant woman said to the girl lying flat on her stomach, propped up by her elbows, “I would like to introduce Mademoiselle Sara, your new lady-in-waiting.”
Zayn curtsied and lowered her eyes. Lady Marguerite rose slowly, eyeing Zayn with interest. She was tall for a girl of seventeen, and slender as a reed. Her complexion was alabaster white, save for the faint freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her hair was a lustrous copper, like nothing Zayn had ever seen before. The dainty features of her face were pretty if not beautiful, and her feline eyes were a startling greenish-gold. “Sara,” she said with a smile. “So my mother finally heeded my request for a Syrian girl. ’Twas about time!” She grinned at Zayn’s confusion. “I pride myself on learning from the women of other cultures.” She pointed to the young women in her chamber one after the other. “Ingegerd is from Sweden, Judith is from Germany, and Theodora is from Byzantium.” She pointed to two other young women and said, “Alix and Stephanie are Normans.”
Zayn greeted them politely, mentally filing away their names. She was certain that, like the women of the Eastern harems, Marguerite’s ladies-in-waiting had created a hierarchy for themselves. Zayn did not have to watch them interact with one another to know that Alix and Stephanie were at the top of that hierarchy. Without a doubt, Zayn would be at the bottom.
Rubbing her hands together, Marguerite looked excitedly at Zayn. “I am to understand that you will help me improve my riding skills and teach me archery,” she said, her eyes bright.
Zayn nodded. “Yes, my lady.” A sudden memory of Aysha scowling flashed through her mind, and she suppressed a smile.
“I know you’ve only just arrived,” Marguerite said, “but I am most anxious to begin learning. Perhaps we could begin tomorrow morning?”
Zayn could feel the stares of the other girls like poisoned darts. “Of course.”
“Excellent!” Marguerite cried, clapping her hands like a happy child. “Alix, will you show Sara to her room, please?”
Alix, a golden-haired, blue-eyed picture of Western perfection, rose gracefully. “Yes, my lady.” She looked icily at Zayn. “Follow me, please.”
Marguerite’s ladies shared the adjoining room, and Zayn’s bed was near a window. Her chest had been brought in and left at the foot of the bed. Alix thrust a sheet of parchment at her. “This is Lady Marguerite’s daily schedule, unless she explicitly changes it. Do not be late to anything.” She turned on her heels and walked quickly away, her skirts swishing around her legs.
With raised eyebrows, Zayn glanced at the schedule. Coiffure and wardrobe, language studies, embroidery, music, prayer… She stifled a grimace. She much preferred the spartan lifestyle of the Assassins to this.
“Alix’s bark is far worse than her bite,” a soft voice said, and Zayn looked up to see Ingegerd, the Swede. Ingegerd smiled conspiratorially, and Zayn smiled back. Perhaps she would, in fact, make a friend after all.
The rest of the day was spent in orientation, with Ingegerd as Zayn’s willing guide. Zayn was suddenly glad for all the time spent learning proper court etiquette, for she would now be lost without Aysha’s careful instruction. Zayn watched Marguerite carefully as she went about the day’s schedule, and could not help but notice the lady’s impatience with most of her duties, particularly the lessons in household management. Marguerite often lost interest and gazed off into the distance, only to be repr
imanded by her mother or aunts. Zayn mentioned this to Ingegerd, to which the pretty Swede answered, “Yes. She is strong-willed and a bit eccentric, our Lady Marguerite. But she has a heart of gold.” Ingegerd cast Zayn a narrow-eyed look. “I think you will become her favorite.”
Startled, Zayn asked, “Why would you think that?”
“You are to teach her things she longs to learn,” Ingegerd replied. “With you, she will finally have a modicum of freedom from life in the palace.”
The next morning, Zayn was careful not to be late for Lady Marguerite’s toilette. She entered the lady’s chamber and curtsied. Marguerite’s face lit up upon seeing Zayn, and she stood, swatting Stephanie’s hands away from her half-dressed hair. “Sara! I am so glad to see you. I have spoken to my mother, and she has agreed to let you take me out for archery lessons after we breakfast.”
“Very good, my lady,” Zayn replied, unable to resist smiling at the girl’s beaming face. I know that craving for freedom all too well, Marguerite.
Zayn watched in amusement as Marguerite took two bites from a biscuit and declared herself stuffed. Zayn crammed her breakfast into her mouth as daintily as possible before Marguerite dragged her out into a large courtyard that adjoined the armory. She hailed the king’s marshal and requested longbows for training.
“Has Lady Melisende finally surrendered to your pleas, Lady Marguerite?” the marshal asked with a grin.
Marguerite laughed. “’Tis a miracle, I know.”
The marshal handed his page several longbows, quivers, two shooting gloves, and bracers, slanting a dubious look at Zayn. He clearly didn’t think she could shoot—or that she should shoot. Whatever the case, Zayn tingled with the unspoken challenge as she ran her hand over the polished yew of a fine English longbow. She and the marshal’s page followed Marguerite to an area outside the palace walls designated for archery training. Several young soldiers practiced here and there, their bawdy jests simmering down as they caught sight of Marguerite and Zayn. Some of the other ladies and servants had followed them and now watched from the shade.
