“Hold his limbs,” Sinjar commanded the four soldiers who quickly positioned themselves around the cot, each grabbing an arm or leg. “Tightly.”
“‘Tis a good thing he’s unconscious,” Leila said, holding out the rod to her father. “He will feel the pain, but perhaps he will not remember it.”
Sinjar nodded grimly, but he did not take the iron from her. “This time you must do it, my daughter,” he directed, walking to the front of the cot, where he placed his hands on the crusader’s uninjured shoulder. “I fear this man’s strength will be great, even now. I must help to hold him down.” His tone grew urgent. “Quickly, Leila, before the iron cools.”
She did not waste an instant. She knew the procedure well, having performed it many times at the hospital. With practiced assurance, she bent over the crusader and laid the red-hot iron on his ravaged flesh.
A wild, tortured scream rent the air, sending chills down Leila’s spine as the crusader’s body arched violently upon the cot. Her father had been right. It was all the five strong men could do to hold him down.
As the soldiers fought to control the crusader’s flailing limbs, Leila glanced up from his shoulder.
She gasped in amazement.
The crusader’s eyes were open and fixed on her face, the astonishingly blue depths ablaze with incredible pain. She felt a rush of pity but remained undaunted. She must continue with the procedure if there was any hope of staunching the flow of blood.
Leila applied the searing iron to the wound again and again while the crusader’s hideous screams echoed in the small cell.
Soon the air reeked with the sweet, sickening smell of singed flesh, and she swallowed against a sudden wave of nausea, blinked several times, and then concentrated more fully on her task. She knew the crusader would be scarred for life, but there was nothing to be done about it. She was grateful when his cries died away, his head lolling back on the bloodied cot.
“Excellent, Leila. Use the smaller iron to seal the wound completely.”
She did as her father bade her, using a fresh rod, and felt a curious mix of accomplishment, exhaustion, and relief when she finally straightened up. She smiled faintly at her father when she saw the approval shining in his dark eyes.
“You have done well,” Sinjar said proudly. “Extremely well. The crusader may yet have a chance.” He uttered low commands to the clearly shaken soldiers while he slathered a healing ointment on the closed wound. “Go at once, all of you. We need a large cask of cool drinking water and as many buckets of warm water as the four of you can carry. And we’ll need two more cots and fresh bedding.”
“But what of the prisoner, esteemed one?” asked the leader, his expression doubtful. “His Grace, Governor Mawdud, has ordered that we remain with him at all times—”
“You can plainly see my patient is no more likely to rise from this cot than a dead man is to cast off his shroud,” Sinjar interrupted impatiently. “This wound is only one of his ills. Add heat exhaustion and exposure, and you may judge correctly that he will not stand for days, let alone fight. Now be quick about your tasks, or Governor Mawdud will surely hear of your refusal to assist me. It is his hope that the crusader will survive this day. The man is worth a great ransom if he lives.”
So that was it, Leila thought as the soldiers respectfully bowed their turbanned heads and then quickly left the cell. No wonder her father had been summoned to attend to this man, rather than the physicians who ordinarily treated the prison’s wretched inmates. His great medical skill was only called upon for special prisoners, and truly this case was most extraordinary.
With this new knowledge, the thousand questions reeling in her mind only multiplied.
She glanced at the crusader, sprawled like a sleeping giant on the cot and wearing only an odd pair of short trousers. He was still except for his breathing, his skin glistening with heavy perspiration in the lamplight, yet even now she sensed an incredible strength radiating from him.
She recalled other male patients who had braved this procedure, men who usually looked more dead than alive when the hot irons were finally withdrawn. Not so this man. He appeared indestructible.
Suddenly she doubted her father’s confident words and decided the soldiers should be anxious. She would not be surprised if this crusader regained consciousness at any moment and rose up to fight them all off.
Leila felt her heart lurch when his thick, dark lashes flickered slightly, and she took a step backward, fearing he might do just that. But he did not. Inexplicably fascinated by him, she moved closer.
She was struck by the color of his long, shoulder-length hair which, now that she had a chance to study it, was more a rich brown that had been streaked by the sun than fully blond. Despite its matted appearance, it had almost a metallic sheen, like spun silver or the bright, reflective steel of fabled Damascus swords.
Leila found herself absorbed by the rugged symmetry of his features: thick, winged brows; a straight well-shaped nose that nonetheless appeared to have been broken once for the slight imperfection across the bridge; a mouth that was hard, yet sensuously curved …
He was quite handsome, for a barbarian.
The realization stunned her. She generally held to a far different standard of male beauty, more like Jamal’s. With his dark fathomless eyes and midnight hair, her betrothed was truly the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
Until now, she amended honestly.
On second thought, this crusader could easily rival Jamal if the two were to stand side by side. He looked as she imagined the ruthless Viking warriors in her father’s history books may have appeared, mighty and virile. She had always thought the Arab chroniclers had greatly exaggerated their descriptions of such men, but it was clear now that she had been wrong.
This man might have stepped from those very pages. He was well over six feet tall, probably six and a half, his massive physique a perfect match to his unequaled height. Were all crusaders like giants compared with other men?
Once again many questions flooded her mind, melding with a sense of irritation that she could become so easily engrossed in studying the crusader’s masculine attributes. Yet she could not stop herself from looking at him.
How had he come to be captured? He had to be a complete fool to have ventured into Syrian lands, or perhaps his lust for plunder had overwhelmed his better judgment.
Then again, these Christian barbarians were mad in the first place to cross the seas in hopes of conquering the vast Arab Empire. How could they harbor such misguided illusions when they were outnumbered by millions, and so undeniably inferior to the men whose culture they wished to destroy?
“Leila, I will need bandages,” Sinjar requested, casting a curious sideways glance in her direction.
“Yes, Father,” she answered, embarrassed that she had to be reminded again of her duties.
She searched through the leather bags until she found the rolled linen, along with several vials containing the powdered medicines she judged her father would wish to administer to their valuable patient. She set everything on the edge of the cot, venturing at last to voice her nagging questions.
“Tell me, Father. Where did the soldiers capture this crusader?”
“The Lebanese border, in the foothills north of Mount Hermon,” Sinjar replied, using a wine-soaked cloth to cleanse away the filth, blood, and sweat around the wound. “There were four other crusader knights in his party, a dozen men-at-arms, and several native Christians for guides, but the others were all killed in the surprise attack. This man survived only because he escaped into the hills, hiding there for many days until he was captured this afternoon. Governor Mawdud ordered that he be taken alive and held for ransom.”
“But the soldiers gravely injured him,” Leila said, helping her father wrap a thick bandage across the crusader’s broad shoulder, underneath his arm, and up again until the wound was securely bound. “‘Tis a strange way to spare a life.”
“Yes, he most likely
would have died but for that padded vest he wore and his chain mail, which lessened the blow.”
“Chain mail?” Leila followed her father’s gaze to the mysterious pile of iron rings lying upon the floor. At last she was able to guess their use.
“The crusader’s armor,” Sinjar explained, confirming her suspicion. “It covered him from head to foot, protecting him from worse injury. This man fought like an enraged lion when they finally found him, slaying three soldiers before they could bring him down with that blow to his shoulder.”
Leila felt a surge of baffling excitement as she imagined the violent and bloody scene. “But why he is so valuable, Father? Is he a rich man? An important one?”
“So many questions, my daughter,” Sinjar said, studying her.
Leila’s cheeks burned at his perusal, a rare sensation, but she met his gaze steadily. “If we are to cure this crusader for ransoming, a most unusual case as you said yourself, Father, then surely I might know why the governor values him so.”
Sinjar chuckled to himself. “You were always an inquisitive one. A very good thing in our profession.” He picked up one of the opaque vials she had set upon the cot, opened it, and sniffed lightly to discern the contents. “Letters from the Mongol Ilkhan, Abaga, addressed to Lord Edward of England, were found on several of the dead men.”
Leila gasped. “To Lord Edward, the English prince who arrived last year at the Christian port of Acre with his thousand crusaders?”
“Yes,” Sinjar replied. “No doubt Lord Edward awaits those letters from Anatolia most impatiently.” His tone grew harsh. “Fool. He does not know he waits in vain.”
“Then this man must be one of his most trusted knights to undertake such a long and dangerous mission,” Leila speculated. “Perhaps he is even a friend whose safe return would be much rewarded.”
Sinjar nodded. “Governor Mawdud believes this crusader and his companions were personal envoys sent by Lord Edward to the Mongol dogs, who are obviously still seeking to join forces against our indomitable Sultan Baybars. It seems they have not learned from the hard lessons of the past that one cannot defeat what one cannot count. We are as innumerable as grains of desert sand, as strong as the wind that shapes the dunes and causes great storms to block out the sun. Even united against us, their efforts are futile.” His voice dripped with disdain. “It is a pity the other knights were slain before the letters were found. Governor Mawdud would have had four times the ransom from this reckless English prince.”
Leila fell silent, pondering her father’s words.
Truly, the Christian crusaders were an incomprehensible lot. Fools and madmen, all of them. No wonder her mother had wasted few words on the life she had known in England. Any country which bred such men must be a very strange place indeed and hardly worth remembering—
The soldiers’ sudden noisy entrance startled her. Her thoughts flew back to the crisis at hand as the men set brimming buckets next to the cot. Some of the water sloshed onto the floor and soaked her open-toed sandals, yet she gave little notice as the cell bustled with activity.
Following her father’s lead and taking care to avoid the fresh bandage, Leila took a wet sponge and began washing the crusader to remove all sweat and grime and to cool his feverish body. She could feel the hardness of his muscles through the sponge, and an unsettling sensation of heat built inside her with each slow stroke upon his flesh.
Leila hoped her father didn’t notice that her hand was trembling. She forced herself to think rationally as they discussed other scars the crusader possessed: a deep, gougelike impression on his right thigh; an ugly eight-inch mark over his ribs, long ago healed; numerous nicks and scratches. Clearly he was a battle-seasoned warrior who had already survived several serious injuries.
They bathed him from head to foot. Leila’s flushed discomfort increased when they removed his short trousers, baring his powerful body completely. Shocked by her feelings, she quickly reminded herself that she was a physician’s apprentice and accustomed to such sights as a flaccid male organ, no matter how large.
She wasn’t used to the crusader’s profuse body hair, however; in Arab society such hair was considered offensive, and both men and women were ritually shaved of body hair at their baths. Her mother had adopted the custom at Sinjar’s request, and Leila had never known anything different. She was as smooth as pearly satin down to her toes, and she liked it that way.
This crusader, on the other hand, was a testimony to his barbaric culture. His limbs were covered with soft downy hair, his chest thickly matted, and the dark brown thatch between his thighs was positively indecent.
It was also utterly fascinating, Leila thought with chagrin, surprised at herself. Despite her unseemly urge to watch, she modestly averted her eyes while her father cleaned that particular area.
Lastly, with the soldiers’ help, they lifted the crusader from the soiled cot onto two larger ones placed side by side and made up with clean bedding and soft pillows for his head. At Sinjar’s command, the hinged door covering the cell’s only window was unlocked and opened to reveal thick, impenetrable iron bars. Still, it did not take long for the balmy night breeze to freshen the small room. A small square of incense was dropped into the brazier to further sweeten the air.
Leila inhaled the aromatic frankincense while she mixed powdered medications in a pestle under her father’s watchful eye: equal parts of crushed plaintain seed, tamarind, and star thistle. She knew well that when combined, these ingredients would do much to arrest the crusader’s fever. She carefully stiffed in small amounts of water until the mixture formed a thin paste, then she poured her father’s suggested dosage into a cup of cool drinking water and added a spoonful of almond oil and honey to mask the bitter taste.
“I will hold his head, Leila. Administer only a third of a drachm,” Sinjar cautioned her as she knelt by the cot.
Leila’s breath caught as she grasped the crusader’s chin and lifted the cup to his mouth.
His skin was very warm and pliant beneath prickly dark whiskers which chafed her fingers, and she could sense from the hard line of his jaw that he was most likely a very stubborn man. As she gave him the proper dose, some of the liquid dribbled from his mouth but most he involuntarily swallowed. She wiped the corners with her head scarf, her fingers brushing his lips, and shivered at their unexpected softness.
“Good. That is enough for now,” Sinjar said with satisfaction. “I will give him more medicine throughout the night which should calm his fever. He has lost a lot of blood. That is the most serious strike against him. By dawn, we should know if he will live or die.”
Leila met her father’s dark eyes, not surprised by his blunt statement. She knew as well as he that the physician’s art was imperfect and fraught with many uncertainties. They had done all they could for their patient. Only time would decide the final outcome, yet something told her this man would survive. He was too strong not to.
“Shall I stay with you, Father?”
“No,” Sinjar replied, shaking his head. “If he survives past this night, your assistance will be needed in the days to come when I am called away on other duties. I want you to go home and rest.” He motioned to two of the Mameluke soldiers. “They will escort you, my daughter.”
Leila handed him the cup and rose to her feet, suddenly very tired. She turned to go, but her father’s hand upon her arm stopped her.
“I am very proud of you,” Sinjar said simply.
“Thank you, Father.”
“Your apprenticeship will soon be over. When I see such skill as you demonstrated tonight, I have no doubt you will be most worthy of our profession. Jamal is blessed to have you for his betrothed, and it pleases me that you accepted the marriage I arranged for you. Between us, the practice of Al-Aziz will be very great indeed.”
Leila smiled despite her weariness. His praise never failed to send her spirits soaring, as her goal of becoming a full-fledged physician moved ever closer to reality. It was her most ch
erished dream.
“I owe my humble worth to the greatness of my teacher,” she responded sincerely. “Good night, Father.”
With a last glance at the crusader, Leila lifted her face veil and fastened it to her headband as she walked from the cell, her legs feeling slightly wooden. Her efforts of the past hour had taxed her more than usual, or perhaps she was tired simply because she had been up since dawn. She was glad the walk home was not a long one.
“This way, revered daughter of Al-Aziz,” said one of the soldiers, leading the way while the other man walked a few paces behind her.
Leila clutched her kufiyya around her shoulders and silently obliged him. She kept her eyes riveted on the soldier’s broad back as she followed him from the prison, not wanting to view any more wretched prisoners. Truly, she had seen and heard her fill of misery for one night.
It was enough that she could not chase the haunting image of the crusader’s eyes, a blue as deep and vivid as the Mediterranean Sea, from her mind.
Chapter 2
“What has happened?” Sinjar demanded, rushing toward the grim-faced captain of the prison guard with Leila in tow. “Your message said to come in haste, nothing more. When I left my patient only a few hours ago to seek some rest at my home, he was still unconscious—”
“He is unconscious no longer, my lord Al-Aziz,” the captain interrupted smoothly, bowing in greeting with his hand pressed over his heart. “That is why I sent the message. I thought you would want to see him now that he is awake. He gave us a great deal of trouble at first, but I have things well under control. Don’t let his roaring trouble you. He can do no harm now. The wild animal has been tamed.”
Leila sensed her father’s agitation at this last statement when he proceeded across the large room, she and the captain rushing to keep up with his long strides. As they approached the crusader’s cell, she could hear the enraged cries growing louder, and goosebumps prickled her skin. In a way it did sound as if a ferocious animal were caged inside.
Captive Rose Page 3
