by Jean, Rima
Zayn knew she had to downplay her abilities so as not to attract unnecessary attention. She could almost feel Junaid’s admonishing eyes on her as she selected a bow with a higher draw weight than was appropriate for her size. She described the different parts of the bow and arrow to Marguerite, then showed her how to stand, nock her arrow, and draw. Marguerite’s first shot sailed high over the target platform on a mound a mere twenty-five feet away. Marguerite huffed in frustration.
“It takes much practice, my lady,” Zayn said. “Do not become discouraged so quickly.”
Marguerite looked at Zayn curiously. “Let me see you do it.”
“Yes, my lady.” She strapped the bracer onto her arm and as much as she disdained wearing a shooting glove, slipped it on for the sake of discretion. She selected her arrow and glanced over at her audience. In addition to the ladies and servants, the young marshal and a couple of soldiers observed her from the wall. Zayn took several paces laterally to stand before the farthest target, some four hundred feet away. She heard Junaid’s voice cursing her as she lifted her bow and drew the string taut, her power humming in her blood.
Oh, damn you, Junaid.
At the last moment, she aimed for the outermost of the two center bands. The arrow pierced the yellow ring with a distant thump.
Marguerite let out an unladylike squeal. “Jésus! Sara, you very nearly struck dead center! You must teach me how to do that, do you understand?”
Zayn struggled to appear anything but sullen. “Of course, Lady Marguerite.” She did not look to see the reaction of the marshal or his men.
Marguerite continued to practice until Alix came to fetch her. “Yes, yes, Alix,” Marguerite said, dismissing her with a wave of her hand, as though Alix were a fly buzzing about her head. “I want to show Sara something first.”
As Zayn followed Marguerite from the range, she pretended not to notice the hateful glare Alix shot her. Zayn walked with her lady to the stables, a network of enclosures that contained some of the most beautiful horses Zayn had ever seen. Mares, colts, and stallions of every shade and color stood within, their brushed flanks glinting in the light. “They’re stunning,” Zayn said. Shaitan and her chestnut mare would have been right at home among these horses.
“Yes,” Marguerite agreed. “But they are not what I wanted to show you.” She led Zayn to an area near the stables where many birds of prey sat perched beneath an awning, the master falconer tending to them while wearing his hawking gauntlet. The raptors were varied and majestic: pale brown sakrets, red-eyed goshawks, and peregrines with blue, black-tipped wings.
“We will go hunting, once I get a bit better at shooting,” Marguerite whispered, a broad smile on her face. “Won’t it be glorious?”
“Yes, it will be,” Zayn replied, and she meant it. Her body missed the physical challenges of her training at Masyaf, and her mind missed the escape, the thrill of hunting and surviving.
A strange cry, almost human, startled Zayn into a spin. There, in a courtyard nearby, were three large, sleek felines chained to a spike in the ground. She had never seen cats quite like these before; they were finer-boned than a leopard even though their fur bore spots, and they had small heads with black trails running from their eyes. “What animal is that?” she asked breathlessly.
“Cheetahs,” Marguerite replied, pulling Zayn to the big cats’ pen. “They were captured from the wild and tamed,” she said. “They help hunt gazelle and hares. Aren’t they beautiful?” To Zayn’s horror, Marguerite unlatched the gate and entered the courtyard.
“Stop!” Zayn gasped, grabbing her lady’s arm firmly.
“They won’t hurt us, Sara, I promise!” Marguerite said with a laugh, tugging away. “They’re the tamest animals you’ll ever encounter.” The cheetahs surveyed Marguerite with mild interest as she walked over and crouched beside one of them, the largest of the three. She stroked its coat with the tips of her fingers, cooing to it as though it were a baby, and it purred in delight. “The goats and hounds walk right by, and the cheetahs pay them no mind. But here, the cheetah keeper will come and tell you himself.” She stood and called, “Hakim! Hakim!”
Zayn was dumbfounded by the largest cheetah’s docile manner, the way it crooned like an overgrown house cat when Marguerite caressed it. Her shock only increased tenfold when the cheetah keeper came through the gate, carrying a bowl of water for the animals.
“I struck that cat for urinating on its blanket, and it did nothing but cower,” Bashar said, placing the bowl before the big cheetah and scratching its head. Bashar. Hakim is Bashar. He looked at Zayn and smiled. “But a wild animal is, after all, still a wild animal. Don’t you agree, my lady?”
“Yes,” Zayn answered, her voice coming out slightly hysterical. Focus. Focus. “A wild animal will always be wild.” She smiled and added, “Hakim.”
“Perhaps,” Marguerite said with a shrug. “But I think Hakim’s done a brilliant job with these cheetahs.”
Bashar bowed. “I am not worthy of such praise, Lady Marguerite.”
No, you’re not. “We should get back, my lady,” Zayn insisted. “Alix will wonder what’s become of us.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes. “Yes, I suppose so. There’s probably something important in need of embroidering.”
As they left the courtyard, Bashar said, “Peace be with you, Lady Marguerite…Lady Sara.”
Zayn could feel his gaze on her as they hurried away, and the desire to turn and pounce on him was overwhelming. I have a knife in my sleeve. I would just need a moment. So he had come to Jerusalem as well. Why? Who was he after? Why hadn’t she been told? She hadn’t seen him at Masyaf after the incident with the urn, which he’d claimed contained Miriam’s ashes; he may have been in Jerusalem for months before her. She would have to send a coded message to Junaid. Her anger mounting, she wondered if Bashar had been asked to keep an eye on her.
She endured the rest of the afternoon in a haze, chewing her lip as she contemplated Bashar’s presence. Why had the Assassins bothered to send her to kill Guy de Molay when they could have sent Bashar all along? It made no sense to risk losing two Faithful Ones when only one was needed for the mission.
“…and Sara needs to stop biting her lip,” Alix said sharply. “It is highly unbecoming, and besides, it draws blood.” Zayn let her lower lip slip out from between her teeth and leveled a cool look at Alix. Something in her gaze must have been disturbing, because the blue-eyed maiden would not hold it, choosing rather to look away quickly. She continued brightly, “As you all know, King Baldwin’s birthday festivities begin tonight, with the dinner banquet. He is nineteen tomorrow, and we must prepare for the celebration.”
The young ladies drew in their breaths excitedly and clasped their hands, looking at one another with large, luminous eyes. Zayn looked from face to face and wondered what a “celebration” entailed—especially considering that every year King Baldwin got older was one less year for him to live. Baldwin IV of Jerusalem, Defender of the Holy Sepulcher…the Leper King. Even the peasants of Rafaniya knew that the Frankish king of Outremer, the Holy Land, was afflicted with leprosy. Despite his disease, he’d proven to be an able king and a formidable foe: just three years prior, sixteen-year-old Baldwin had led his forces into battle and with the help of the Knights Templar, defeated Saladin at the Battle of Montgisard. King Baldwin was not treated like other lepers, because he was a Christian king and therefore held semidivine status in the eyes of the Franks.
Even Marguerite seemed to look forward to the king’s birthday feast. Much time was spent selecting gowns for the occasion, and while normally Marguerite would have looked on listlessly, this time she chattered on with the others about how the blue of this gown brought out Alix’s eyes or the bodice of that gown flattened Judith’s chest. When one of the girls drew out a richly embroidered bit of cambric, Marguerite squealed and claimed, “You shall look like Queen Eleanor herself.”
Ingegerd smiled at Zayn and whispered, “You see? Only on
e morning with you, and already she is happier.”
Though Aysha had schooled her in courtly behavior, including dancing and music and poetry, Zayn felt most lost right then, watching the ladies both tease and flatter one another in moments of female intimacy. She had only been close to two women, Miriam and Aysha. Miriam had been her mother, and Aysha had been much more of a mother-figure than a friend. Zayn stiffened, inching farther into the shadows. She felt desperately alone.
“And Sara,” Marguerite said, reaching out suddenly, grasping Zayn’s wrist and drawing her into the center of their circle, “what shall Sara wear tonight?”
A moment of silence ensued in which Zayn wished to sink into the floor, and then Ingegerd said, “Blue. Icy blue. With the whitest pearls.”
“Yes!” Marguerite said with a grin. “That will look lovely with her golden skin and black eyes. And it suits her cunning with a longbow.”
Zayn was speechless as the young women rummaged through coffers, glancing back at her occasionally to assess her eye color or skin tone. They held fabrics up to her face and pinched at her waist. Their voices flitted together like the songs of birds: “…to accentuate her small waist… Such a full bosom… No belly at all!” Even Alix participated in dressing her, putting her personal dislike for Zayn aside to join in the camaraderie. A warmth spread through Zayn, like nothing she’d ever known, and she almost wanted to cry.
The celebration would last three days. Enormous tents had been erected within and without the palace walls, and the servants rushed about, preparing the tableware and food. There would be a mass, dining, games, and entertainment, Zayn was told. “And,” Ingegerd said mischievously, “all the most handsome knights will be here, professing courtly love.”
She felt her good humor slipping away. “Knights? The Knights Templar as well?”
“Of course.” Ingegerd raised an eyebrow. “There is one you favor?”
A smile hardened on Zayn’s lips. “Yes, you could say that.”
Although she tried to affect the girls’ enthusiasm, thoughts of Guy de Molay distracted her. She had to hide herself from him, lest he recognize her. She doubted he would, but she would be cautious regardless. A veil over her hair would hopefully be enough, she thought, as Christian women wore them in public as well. A man like Guy would have had his way with many a native girl, and she couldn’t imagine that he would remember her. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms, stopping only when she could feel the wetness of her blood at her fingertips. Guy and Bashar, the two men who could ruin all of Zayn’s brief moments of happiness, would both be here tonight, just within her reach.
The Great Hall of the palace glowed by candlelight that evening, the jeweled platters piled high with food catching light from their trestles: rabbit in wine-currant sauce, veal and eggs, venison ribs, roasted chicken, pickled fish, and fruit pies. There were some Arabic dishes as well, such as cooked eggplant and Andalusian hens that were seasoned with vinegar and lemon juice. The dais held the imperial table, which was draped in sumptuous gold tablecloth.
The evening began with a procession of the king and queen to the dais; King Baldwin and his sister Princess Sibylla wore their crowns, and Baldwin carried the imperial sword. He wore a red tunic adorned with silver crescents, a jewel-encrusted collar, and a dark veil over his face and gloves on his hands, hiding the lesions of the disease that consumed his body. Zayn caught sight of two fiery blue eyes and noticed the absence of a nose beneath the diaphanous material that hid the king’s face. Princess Sibylla, though not beautiful, walked with the grace of a woman raised to be queen all her life, a gold diadem sparkling on her head. The princess was a widow, and therefore, quite a prize for any ambitious noble, since Baldwin could not produce an heir, the man who married Sibylla could control the kingship of Jerusalem after Baldwin’s death.
Harps, lutes, cymbals, and flutes began to play music, a melodious mix of East and West, and the banquet began in earnest. As people ate and laughed, Zayn glanced at the table of the Knights Templar. Although they were not allowed any sort of adornment, they were tidy in their finest white hooded mantles, the bright red crosses on their breasts. Though she would have recognized Guy de Molay’s chiseled face and black curls anywhere, on this night her eyes deceived her. The savage beast she remembered was not the same straight-backed knight who engaged in polite conversation at the Templar’s table, looking every bit the gentleman. He took a small sip of wine from his goblet and smiled politely at a lady who conversed animatedly with him. He’d grown a beard, tidy and trimmed close to the jaw, and wore a soft cap on his head like a true Templar. Ironic—had it not been for his clothes, he could have passed for a Syrian nobleman. Was this Guy?
“Lady Sara,” Marguerite snickered from beside her, “do stop staring so openmouthed at the Knights Templar! And wipe the drool from your chin.”
Zayn snapped around to look at Marguerite and felt her cheeks go red. She couldn’t blush on command, but the idea that Marguerite thought she was lusting for a Templar was humiliating. “Who…my lady, who is the dark-haired knight in the center?”
Marguerite smiled knowingly. She wore a golden yellow form-fitting silk gown with trumpet sleeves, and her russet hair was coiled atop her head in elaborate braids, covered with a veil edged in gold, and topped with a jeweled circlet. She looked stunning. “Guy de Molay,” Marguerite confirmed. “All the ladies swoon over him. He is, by all appearances, a brave warrior. But I must warn you, Sara, he has something of a reputation.”
“What does that mean?” Zayn tried not to look too interested, but her breath came quickly.
Marguerite nearly frowned, but seemed to think better of it. “He visits the brothels,” she said, her voice barely audible. “The Templars mostly turn a blind eye to his misbehavior because of the money Gerard de Molay lavishes upon the Order.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice even more. “It is said that Guy has gotten many a young girl with child. He has a preference for Syrian girls, it seems, particularly Saracens. Which is odd, considering his father was once held prisoner by Saladin. One would think Guy must hate the Saracens.”
Ah. So it is the Guy de Molay of old. Zayn did not allow her expression to change. “Then his appearance is deceiving.”
“Most definitely,” Marguerite agreed, wrinkling her nose, just a bit. “He deceives most everyone—except me.”
Zayn leaned forward. “And does my lady favor any of the fine knights in attendance this evening?”
Marguerite’s face remained carefully composed, but scorn lit her eyes. “Heavens, no. They all bore me, with their chivalry and words of love.” She waved a long, white hand in their direction dismissively. “I do not grow giddy over such silliness.”
Taking a sip of a heady red wine from Mt. Hermon, Zayn smiled into her cup. Lady Marguerite, I like you more and more with each passing moment I spend in your company.
As the night wore on, jesters and troubadours performed their juggling and poetry, and some guests played chess and gambled in corners. For most of the evening, Zayn surreptitiously watched Guy through the corner of her eye, from within her veil—just his arm, his shoulder, or the back of his head. This Guy was so unlike the one she remembered that her strength hesitated.
The urge to bite her lip pensively had just begun to pester her when she saw the Guy of her nightmares: Elisha had just walked before his table, swaying her hips in an almost obscene manner as she followed Princess Sibylla, and his face flickered, revealing the predator behind the gentleman’s facade. It was just a glimpse, lasting ever so briefly, but there was no doubt it was him.
The man who murdered my mother. The man who raped me.
Her stomach soured at the thought of food, and the wine did not help. Her power gushed forth, and she ached to unleash it on him. She wanted to kill him now, consequences be damned. Her strength nearly bubbled into a frenzy as she watched him eye Elisha the way a wolf eyes a helpless fawn. And she—the ignorant chit!—encouraged him with her pouts and
blushes and fluttering lashes. Zayn watched the flirting between Guy and Elisha escalate as the evening wore on, and when Elisha casually disappeared, Guy stood and began to excuse himself.
No! Zayn looked about frantically, wondering how she would stop what was about to happen without exposing herself to Guy. She had no love for Elisha, but she would not let that animal destroy her. Perhaps she had to kill him now. She had no choice…
“Sara, are you feeling ill?” Marguerite scanned Zayn’s face, her brow wrinkled with concern. She held the back of her hand against Zayn’s forehead.
Marguerite. In a hushed voice, Zayn said rapidly, “My lady, remember what you told me about Guy de Molay? To be wary of him? He…has eyes for Elisha, lady. He is following her from the Hall this very minute. I fear for my dear cousin.”
Guy was making his way from the Great Hall, greeting people as he passed them. Marguerite blanched. “Oh dear,” she murmured. Then her expression changed. The color returned to her face, and her lips tightened. She grabbed Zayn’s hand and squeezed it once. “I will stop this nonsense.” She marched off behind Guy, her shoulders pulled back and her head held high.
After waiting a beat, Zayn followed quietly, making use of her Assassin stealth. She walked from the Great Hall and into the shadows, glad for her darkly colored gown. Marguerite was easy to follow; her footfalls were loud and quick, as was her voice. “Brother Guy de Molay!” she called. “May I have a word with you?”
Zayn stood against a wall around the corner, and she watched anxiously as Guy stopped and turned toward Marguerite. He looks annoyed. We’ve interrupted his little game. He composed his features and bowed. “Of course, Lady Marguerite.”
Thinking she’d meant to stall him, Zayn was stunned when Marguerite said, “You don’t fool me, Guy de Molay. I saw how you looked at Elisha Zachariah. She is but a child, Guy. And the daughter of an esteemed member of the Syrian Court, one who lavishes the Templars with gifts! How could you even think of it?”
