Templar Prize

by Deanna Ashford

  It was strange, she considered, as she sat down on the bed and looked at Nasir, who was sitting a table reading some official parchments: she had never realised how stimulating and satisfying sex could be for a woman even when her heart wasn’t involved.

  Oddly enough she had come to like Nasir, who was an extremely intelligent and cultured man – not at all what she had expected a Saracen nobleman to be. He thought very differently from her but he was an interesting and charming companion and their relationship was not based purely on sex: he appeared to enjoy spending time with her as well. When she had told him how bored she was in the harem, he had arranged for a teacher so she could improve her spoken Arabic and learn to read and write it as well.

  Yet, despite this, she missed not having friends, as even in a harem full of women she had not been able to become close to any of them. There were undercurrents she had never noticed when she first arrived: small groups of women banded together against each other and disagreements were caused by petty jealousies and arguments over who had the nicest clothes or most expensive jewellery. Now that she was installed as a favourite and had a far more important position in the harem, they either treated her with disdainful resentment or tried to become her new best friend because she had influence with their lord and master. She was relieved, therefore, that Nasir had now arranged for her to have her own suite of rooms so that she could shut herself away from them, although the rooms were already overflowing with the many gifts of clothing and jewellery he had given her.

  ‘Did you enjoy your lessons today?’ Nasir set aside the parchment he was reading and turned to look at her.

  ‘Very much.’ She smiled and relaxed back among the cushions, thinking that he looked very handsome today; his dark-green burnous suited his colouring.

  ‘Your teachers tell me that you learn remarkably quickly for a woman.’

  She laughed. ‘I doubt that is true. Not all women are bereft of brains, my lord.’

  ‘The women I know are not interested in matters that concern men,’ he said pensively. ‘You are unlike other women, Edwina. You have the mind of a man in a woman’s body. I find it a tantalising combination.’

  ‘You’ve not met many Frankish women but I assure you that there are others like me. King Richard’s mother, for instance. She is a great diplomat and one of the most respected women in Christendom. And his sister, Joanna, is far cleverer than I.’

  ‘Come here.’ Nasir beckoned to her.

  All her instincts told her to refuse, but she stood up and walked towards him. Edwina saw no point in disobeying Nasir on such an inconsequential matter. She didn’t know him well enough just yet to gauge how he might react if she did disobey him. There was always the possibility that he might withdraw her lessons as punishment.

  ‘I was thinking,’ she said cautiously as he pulled her onto his lap.

  ‘That’s all you ever do.’ He smiled indulgently at her.

  ‘Once I have learnt Arabic, I should like to try to learn more about your people and your culture.’

  ‘And you could study our holy book?’ He kissed her cheek and stroked her golden hair, which he insisted she always wear loose around her shoulders. ‘That would please me greatly.’

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ she said with a teasing smile. ‘In return you could perhaps allow me to visit the market with some of the other concubines. Even perhaps ride with you sometimes?’

  ‘One step at a time, my dove.’ He eased up her skirt so that he could caress her thighs, then slipped his hand between them. Edwina shivered with pleasure as his cool fingers invaded the warm valley of her sex, gently stimulating her until she gave a moan of delight. ‘The first time I touched you here, you were dry and unresponsive. Now your body becomes moist immediately.’ He sounded pleased. ‘It appears that Western women are passionate after all.’

  ‘Yes it does,’ she managed to gasp as his searching fingers slid inside her and began to move in a most tantalisingly seductive way.

  ‘Do you want me?’ he whispered against her cheek.

  ‘You know I do,’ she murmured as he somehow managed to stand up, while continuing to hold her in his arms.

  He must be extraordinarily strong, she thought, as he carried her to the bed and laid her down upon it. She watched him with rising anticipation as he stripped off his burnous and joined her.

  ‘If you want me, you can have me.’ He began to undo the tiny buttons that ran down the front of her tunic, ripping them in his haste to remove her clothing.

  It seemed to Stephen that they had been travelling for days, barely resting at all, and he was feeling exhausted. He didn’t find the searing heat as easy to cope with as the Saracens did, especially while carrying many pounds of chainmail on his body. Most of the Saracen cavalry who accompanied him wore only lightly padded garments designed for this climate, as they relied more on their speed and manoeuvrability than strength. His mail was chafing his skin in places, as he had had no chance to remove it, let alone undress and wash since they set out. He was chained hand and foot when they did stop to rest and, even while riding, Stephen’s wrists were kept permanently manacled together.

  They had crossed the desert and the fertile plains of Sephora, riding through almost endless green fields, orchards of olive trees and acres of sugar cane; it was a verdant part of the country with good supplies of water. Now, only a couple of hours later, they were climbing out of a barren valley. The hills of Nazareth were just to the south of them and, as they reached the top of the ridge, Stephen saw the desolate place known as the Horns of Hattin. Well over three years had passed since the battle but all around him were the sad remnants of the defeated Christian army. Just by the side of the track was a skeleton of a horse, and in every direction were piles of human bones, picked clean by the vultures, which still circled high in the sky. Just ahead he saw another skeleton, this one still clad in its rusting chainmail, with a decapitated head lying alongside it, still wearing its battered helmet.

  ‘It is a sad sight, is it not?’ he heard Armand say, and he looked to up to see the man he now loathed urging his mount forwards to ride beside him. This was the very first time Armand had spoken directly to him since he had been captured.

  ‘Why should it trouble you?’ Stephen asked derisively.

  ‘Because 1 fought here.’ Armand looked at the remnants of the carnage, an unreadable expression on his face. ‘On the side of the Christians as it happens.’

  ‘Then when all was lost you became a turncoat and sided with the Moslem victors, I presume?’ Stephen said in utter disgust.

  ‘You make too many presumptions on matters you know nothing about.’ Armand dug his spurs into the sides of his horse and cantered away from him.

  To Stephen the pitiful remains seemed to go on forever. It wasn’t surprising because the Christians had fought with at least twenty thousand men, and the Moslems even more. The heat had become so intense that even the Saracens seemed troubled by it as they stopped to share out the last of the water before setting off again.

  Only a short time later, Stephen was urging his exhausted mount down into a valley and, in the distance, he could see the cool blue waters of the Sea of Galilee sparkling invitingly in the sunlight. He had never felt so hot in his life before; he was soaked in sweat and his sopping shirt and sodden gambeson seemed to be welded uncomfortably to his body. No doubt he stank appallingly. He lifted his bound hands and pushed back his mail coif so that the faint breeze coming off the sea could blow through his perspiration-sodden hair.

  Ahead was a place he knew well, the town of Tiberius. The walled town had once been the home of his godfather Raymond and Stephen had resided there for a fair proportion of the time he had spent in the Holy Land. At the centre of the town was the citadel, which now sadly flew only Saracen flags from its high battlements.

  Peasants, who were working in the fields, stopped as they approached and stared curiously at him. Most probably they had not laid eyes on a Frankish knight for some t
ime. More people stopped to stare as they rode through the gate and into the town itself, which was crowded with people and looked to be a prosperous community. As well as Moslems, he saw a few Armenian Christians and a number of Jews, who had chosen to remain here under Saracen rule. There were others, with pinched pale faces and ragged clothing. They were most likely Christian slaves and Stephen couldn’t help wondering if he would soon share their fate, presupposing he survived, of course. Yet logic told him that Armand would not have brought him all this way just to kill him: he had something else in mind for him.

  Stephen’s horse clattered across the drawbridge and entered the citadel itself. Here it did look different, because in the middle of the large central courtyard was a massive yellow silk tent, which had a banner fluttering from one of its tall centre posts. Stephen stiffened in surprise, recognising the insignia of the Sunni leader the Saracens called Salah ad-Diri. He wasn’t happy about being Armand’s prisoner but at last he was going to lay eyes on the great man himself – the charismatic leader who had united the Arab world.

  As one of the soldiers grabbed hold of the reins of Stephen’s horse, Armand approached him looking irritatingly at ease in his ornately decorated Saracen hauberk, with burnished silver panels on its front.

  ‘Get off your horse,’ he ordered.

  Stephen dismounted and two of the soldiers took hold of his arms while Armand strode over to the yellow pavilion and spoke briefly to a dark-clad mullah at the entrance. Beckoning them forwards, Armand walked inside, followed by Stephen and his guards.

  Stephen was a little disappointed when he caught sight of Salah ad-Din for the first time, sitting cross-legged on a low couch. Somewhere in his mind he had equated him with his own handsome young king. But then Richard was only in his early thirties, while Salah ad-Din was 54, well into middle age, and time had not been kind to him. He was very slim with dark weather-beaten skin and a large slightly beakish nose, and his long dark hair and beard were streaked with grey.

  ‘My lord.’ Armand stepped forwards and bowed low before the great general. ‘It is my honour to bring you a very special prisoner.’ Salah ad-Din nodded his head and looked thoughtfully at Stephen, his eyes resting on the grubby blue tabard on which the crest of Jerusalem was still visible through the grime.

  ‘Special prisoner?’ he spoke in a weary, rather resigned tone.

  Stephen was manhandled forwards until he stood directly in front of Salah ad-Din. When their eyes made contact he realised with a jolt of surprise that he sensed something unique and powerful in this man.

  ‘May I present Stephen, Comte de Chalais – King Richard’s friend and most trusted lieutenant. He works closely with the Lionheart and is well acquainted with all his future plans. Under expert questioning he will be forced to reveal all he knows. Now that we have lost Acre, the correct intelligence is of paramount importance, is it not?’

  So Acre had fallen. Stephen was unable to hide his start of surprise, and Salah ad-Din had been sharp-eyed enough to notice his reaction. ‘So you did not know, comte.’ He turned questioningly to Armand to act as interpreter.

  ‘There is no need, I speak your language,’ Stephen interjected. ‘And you are right, I did not know that Acre had fallen.’

  ‘It may hearten you to know that I did not like the terms of surrender.’ Salah ad-Din smiled wryly. ‘The commanders of the city did not bother to acquaint me of the details until the deed was done.’

  Stephen was surprised that he was admitting to a weakness within his ranks. ‘Sometimes, my lord, our men do what we do not expect them to do.’ He stared pointedly at Armand.

  Salah ad-Din nodded sagely, then added, ‘And are you indeed conversant with all King Richard’s plans?’

  ‘I am. I helped him formulate them. However, I regret that is all I am prepared to say on the matter,’ Stephen replied.

  ‘Despite the fact that my eager young commander would wish to use every painful means at his disposal to force the answers from you?’

  The thought of being tortured would horrify even the strongest man but Stephen could not in good conscience tell the Saracens anything that might result in the loss of Christian lives. ‘I have no doubt that this man, who I know as Armand, will be overzealous in his efforts to force the information he wants out of me. I pray that I can be just as zealous in preventing him from doing so.’

  ‘I would have expected no other answer from one of the Lionheart’s knights.’ Salah ad-Din rose to his feet and stepped over to Stephen. ‘Release your hold on him,’ he ordered the soldiers as two servants hurried forwards. One offered Salah ad-Din a goblet of liquid, while the other held a medium-sized metal box. As Salah ad-Din flipped open the lid, Stephen saw that it was lined with wood and packed full of ice – a very precious commodity in heat such as this. Salah ad-Din put two generous scoops of the ice into the silver goblet and handed it to Stephen. ‘Rose water cooled with the snows of Hemon,’ he said. ‘Now drink.’

  ‘I am honoured.’ As Stephen lifted the goblet to his lips, he heard Armand’s indrawn hiss of breath and he knew full well why he was angry. Arab custom said that if one offered a prisoner food and drink his life was safe and no harm would be done to him. He was doubly thankful to Salah ad-Din as he drank deeply, feeling the liquid cool his burning throat. ‘I give thanks for your generosity,’ Stephen added as he solemnly handed Salah ad-Din the empty goblet.

  ‘You are most welcome.’ Stephen could have sworn that he saw Salah ad-Din’s lip twitch as if he were amused by Armand’s horror at the gesture. Stephen began to think that he could well come to like this man.

  ‘Now tell me.’ Salah ad-Din stared deep into Stephen’s eyes. ‘If I unchain you, will you give me your parole – your solemn vow as a knight that you will not try to escape?’

  Stephen nodded, knowing that in time a ransom would be negotiated to free him. In the meantime he hoped he might be given the opportunity to get to know Salah ad-Din much better. ‘You have my word as a knight.’

  12

  Edwina sat on a low divan while elaborate henna patterns were painted on her feet and the back of her hands in preparation for the ceremony. It was something that she didn’t like to think about even though she knew she had to. Nasir had decided to make her his second wife, which meant that she now had no chance of ever getting away from him. When he told her of his decision she had not dared to say she didn’t want to marry him as she had already learnt from the other woman that one did not say no to Nasir. First Guy, now Nasir, she thought sadly – why did the wrong men always want to marry her?

  ‘This is the material.’ Jamilah showed her a scrap of peacock-blue silk embroidered with gold thread. ‘It will suit your colouring.’

  Edwina did her best to look enthusiastic even though she was feeling very morose and wanted only to wring the neck of the brightly coloured singing bird that Jamilah had just brought to her as a gift. It was singing in a high-pitched tone almost constantly and the noise was getting on her nerves. ‘It is very pretty. If you think it suitable then I will have it.’

  ‘Why don’t you show more interest in the clothes you will be wearing for the ceremony?’ Jamilah asked.

  ‘I will be covered from head to foot in a veil, so no one will see me anyway.’

  Fortunately, Jamilah missed the cynicism in her words. ‘But Nasir will see you. Don’t you want to look beautiful for him?’

  ‘Of course I want to please him,’ Edwina replied. ‘I’m just a little tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you with child?’ Jamilah had been married to Nasir for four years but had not yet fallen pregnant. Edwina had been told that Jamilah feared Nasir might divorce her because of her barrenness. However, if she as his second wife was able to give him the sons he craved, most likely Jamilah’s position was safe. ‘It would be wonderful if you were, would it not?’ she said, her expression softening.

  ‘I am not, Jamilah.’

  ‘A pity.’ Jamilah stroked her cheek. ‘When my lord told me that
he planned to many you, at first I was concerned. It seemed strange for him to take a Frankish woman for a wife. Now I think it might be a wise choice as it will help him understand your people more.’

  ‘I hope it will.’ Edwina forced herself to smile at Jamilah even though she felt like curling up in a ball and weeping; however she didn’t even have the privacy to do that at present.

  The henna patterns were finished and the maids held out Edwina’s hands for inspection. Jamilah smiled and then waved the maids away. ‘Now we should prepare as our guests will be arriving soon.’

  ‘Guests?’ Edwina knew that a number of Saracen noblemen had been invited to the wedding but only men held any positions of importance in this culture and they would not be allowed in the harem.

  ‘Yes. Guests.’ Taking hold of her wrist, Jamilah pulled Edwina to her feet. ‘The wives of some of our most influential emirs and the sister of Taki el-Din, who is Salah ad-Din’s nephew.’

  ‘I did not know that they would bring female relatives with them.’

  Jamilah patted her cheek affectionately. ‘You still have much to learn.’

  Her presence sometimes irritated Edwina but she was glad of the friendship, even if it was prompted by selfish motives on Jamilah’s part. The two women walked into the main chambers of the harem and the concubines immediately moved aside for them. Edwina was treated with great respect now that it was known she was to marry Nasir.

  Suddenly, the impressive beaten copper doors at the main entrance swung open and a crowd of veiled females, all chattering excitedly, entered the harem. They clearly knew Jamilah well because when they spotted her their veils were tossed aside and they hurried towards her. Soon Edwina found herself being examined intently on all sides before she was embraced by numerous soft-skinned, heavily perfumed women. She was reasonably fluent in Arabic now but they were all talking at once in high-pitched voices and she became confused, unable to fully understand what was being said. It didn’t appear to matter, however, as she didn’t seem to be required to say anything.