Behind the Veil

by Linda Chaikin

  Rufus was immutable. “As a Nubian, my sword can hold off five of the enemy! What say you, Demetrious?”

  Demetrious gripped the Viking sword, which he had gotten from Ordic in the Varangian Guard. It was of the long, slashing variety that could cut through bone. “I shall fight three!”

  “That leaves twelve,” Tancred said, looking at Nicholas, who stroked his mustache.

  “First, I take Basel,” Nicholas said.

  “The rest are mine,” Leif boasted.

  “Do not be overly brave,” Tancred warned them. “Our goal is to divert the mercenary soldiers and scatter their formation. Get them away from Basel. Nicholas will handle him while I escape with Helena and ride toward the upper hills with Hakeem leading the way. Once she is safely away, I will come back to help the rest of you in the battle.

  “By then they will all be wounded or scattered,” Leif jested.

  “If anything goes wrong—” Tancred warned looking at each one of them, “make for the hills. Save your lives, understood?”

  They said nothing and glanced at one another.

  “We will meet up again together outside the walls of Antioch,” Tancred said easily.

  Tancred strapped on his helmet, as did the others. There followed the clink of metal, and the restless snort of the horses sensing battle in the wind. Tancred turned to Nicholas and waited.

  Nicholas reached under his warrior-bishop tunic, produced a small silver cross, and raised it with benediction. “You, O Lord, are a shield about us, the defender of our heads as well as our souls—paid by your death on the cross, and established by your resurrection. You now sit at God’s right hand as our one, true intercessor. Be with us and scatter our enemies! The Lord’s will be done.”

  “So be it,” Tancred said, and touching his stallion lightly with his heel, he was first to ride down the sandy mound toward the group escorting Helena, Nicholas on his right and Hakeem on his left hand. Leif, Rufus, Demetrious and Bardas each rode their chosen position, their weapons drawn.

  Rufus let go with a famed Nubian war cry, and clutching his great blade in his fist, he surged out ahead, his face deadly and determined. Demetrious was swinging his Viking sword above his head, racing for the entourage. “Ai-yeee!” screeched Hakeem, his scimitar lifted and gleaming in the sunlight.

  The Arabian horses sped, their nostrils flaring, their eyes wide and excited, manes flying.

  Tancred eased out ahead, followed by Nicholas; Hakeem held close, low in the saddle. Tancred’s gaze was fixed upon Helena riding just ahead of Bishop Basel.

  “Basel! Thou diabolic enemy!” Nicholas shouted, his teeth clenching white and hard against his tanned rugged face. “Come forth and fight, thou false bishop!”

  Tancred was silent, racing toward Helena’s mare. Beloved! He thought.

  Helena had only a moment to glimpse the warriors riding toward her and Bishop Basel. The armor they wore was unfamiliar. Protective nosepieces projected from their helmets so that their faces could not be seen. Like warrior phantoms out of the morning dawn with blades glinting, the men came thundering over the plain.

  “Brigands from the hills!” shouted the captain to Bishop Basel, who rode beside Helena. “Quick! Back to the castle gate!”

  “No! Too late! Stop them!” Basel ordered the soldiers. “I will ride forward with Helena. We may be able to outride them! Prince Kalid is coming now.” He turned to Helena. “Forward! Forward!”

  Brigands! She thought, terrified, remembering the Rhinelanders near the Danube, and the broken rib she had suffered at a Byzantine garrison near Constantinople.

  Basel gave a yelp fit to stir any attacking tribal warrior, and with a lash sent Helena’s mare lunging forward.

  Who were enemies, who were friends? Helena wondered. She despised them all—Turks, Basel and his mercenaries, brigands from the hills. Was she yet to be abducted by some ruthless murderers? Even Kalid could not be as horrific as this wild band of brigands.

  She urged her mare forward toward the Seljuk cavalry, Basel just behind her, the sunlight falling on his black-and-crimson garb.

  ***

  Leif, Rufus, Bardas, and Demetrious clashed with the mercenary soldiers outside the Castle of Hohms, steel against steel, but Tancred and Nicholas pursued Basel and Helena. A soldier from the castle rushed Tancred’s horse to attack, Tancred countered, blocking his sword. Before Tancred could turn his horse in pursuit of Helena, he had to defend himself again, and the wall of fighting men began to hold him back, while Bishop Basel and Helena surged ahead. Had Nicholas been able to pursue Basel?

  Tancred’s blade struck—whacking, thrusting, parrying. He fought on, trying desperately to break through. Rufus, Bardas, Leif, and Demetrious were holding their own. Hakeem appeared with a cloud of dust and managed to come up on his left, his scimitar swinging, clearing a path and allowing Tancred to surge ahead.

  The Seljuks must have seen the fighting; a number of them broke formation, riding to secure Helena and Basel.

  Nicholas raced ahead. Tancred was dimly aware that Nicholas was catching up and nearing Basel’s horse.

  The desert sand and rock flew past, the rugged brown hills looming large against the sky. The wind was picking up against him. “Helena!” he shouted, but the wind hurled her name back in his face, and she rushed forward, Basel just behind her. Tancred glanced back over his shoulder to see Basel bearing down on him like the grim reaper of death.

  They raced. The Seljuk armor glinted, drawing closer, their sleek light thoroughbreds charging, the wind at their backs. He felt the sand rising in the wind and beginning to blow into his face shield.

  Helena glanced back at him. She saw he was gaining on her and clutched at her mare’s mane, her body stretched low as the horse speed forward.

  Tancred murmured under his breath. Her riding ability was working against him

  Basel was falling behind and Nicholas was getting catching up to him.

  Tancred leaned low over the horse speaking confidently into its ear as he left Basel behind with Nicholas. You can do it, girl, you are winning…go, go—

  Tancred blessed the Arab trader who had sold him the racing horses, for while Helena’s mare grew winded, his own had maintained a fiery determination. Tancred maneuvered up beside Helena—

  Helena lashed her mare, keeping her face close to its sweating neck, horse hooves thundering across the sand.

  “Helena!”

  The Seljuks were closing the gap in front of them. Tancred could now see their small painted breastplates.

  “Helena!” Tancred shouted again. “You infuriating woman—it’s me!”

  The sky rapidly grew darker. The warm wind swirled the sand along the desert floor. As the blowing sand increased, Helena began to lose firm control of the mare.

  Tancred’s face shield offered him some protection from the stinging sand. He saw Helena reaching for her cloak. In the moment of confusion he advanced beside her.

  “Helena! It’s me, Tancred. Turn aside!” But his face shield garbled the words.

  She looked at him wildly. He leaned over and grabbed the reins, slowing the horse to turn them both back in the direction of the Castle of Hohms.

  She struck him with her whip, but he snatched it from her hand, still turning their neighing horses. She fought him, trying to beat him with her free hand. Then, with one quick lift he threw back his shield.

  With a stunned gasp Helena stared into the face of Tancred.

  ***

  Nicholas gauged the distance between him and Basel, noting the oncoming Turks. He knew Basel would not surrender now, not with Kalid so near to claiming Helena while imagining that Adrianna would soon be his. Basel slowed his tiring horse, unsheathed his sword, and turned to confront Nicholas.

  “At last, Nicholas,” he shouted above the wind. “It is you and I! You will not leave here alive!”

  Nicholas gripped his blade and they rode toward each other, the sand whirling about the legs of their horses.

 
As the two horses drew near, Nicholas hacked a savage blow which Basel parried, deflecting the force of impact.

  Nicholas circled his horse, hearing his own breathing mingled with the snorting of the horses.

  “Too late, Nicholas,” Basel mocked, his eyes flashing hate. “In another minute you will fall under fifty scimitars!”

  “Alas, you will not be here to see it. Taste the bitter cup of your transgressions.”

  The two swords clashed with the of ring steel. The two riders, each in bishop’s garb, circled, looking for advantage. Nicholas saw an opening and thrust the heavy Norman blade, which cut savagely below his enemy’s collarbone.

  Basel cursed, while his blade slashed a blow to the side of Nicholas’s helmet, leaving him momentarily dazed.

  “The worm dieth not in your grave, Nicholas!”

  Nicholas was off balance astride his horse. Basel, weakened, raised his sword arm to hack another blow, their swords crossed and held for a second.

  “Lying prophet!” Nicholas gritted. “You corrupter of the Church!” with relentless determination he hammered a blow that stung Basel’s wrist, loosening his grip, and sending his weapon into the sand.

  Nicholas drew back, lowering the point of his blade.

  “How does it feel to come to your just end?” Nicholas said. “How fleeting the fruit of your selfish ambitions. Irene is dead. Philip is dead. You too, die alone. You have defamed the meaning of the cross you wore so brazenly! And mocked the only Savior.”

  Basel hissed another dark curse. He drew his Byzantine cross and gold chain over his head and hurled them at Nicholas, then reached for the handle of his morning star, a deadly steel ball with protruding spikes.

  Nicholas sheathed his sword and removed his mace, a favorite weapon of the warrior-priests. The significance was not lost on Basel; the club-like weapon was sanctified and carried in ceremonial processions before battle. Slung on a loop on the right wrist, its spiked steel head could crush armor.

  They circled, each looking for opportunity. It came to Nicholas, who had trained to master the weapon long and hard at Monte Casino. He swung the mace and released it, smashing into Basel’s forehead.

  Basel’s crumpled body lay sprawled on the sand, and the blowing sands began to cover his black and scarlet tunic.

  Gravely, Nicholas looked down at the corpse.

  The riderless horse, with its religious crimson saddle cloth, trotted away, shaking its sweating mane and prancing freely.

  ***

  Tancred had lost Hakeem somewhere in the battle. He looked behind but could not see him.

  “Ride back!” Tancred was shouting above the wind at Helena. “Make for the upper hills behind the castle—we will find you there!”

  Helena’s heart thumped in her throat, and weakness left her trembling. The pursuer had been her beloved! It was too late to ride back toward the castle, their horses were exhausted, and this time she would not leave without him.

  Tancred cast a swift glance at the approaching Seljuk warriors, then rode up to her, sword in hand. The blue-gray eyes under dark lashes melted her heart. The stormy and passionate gaze seemed unaware of anything else but her face, her eyes welling with tears, the dark strands of mussed hair sticking to her neck.

  He stared at her, as though wanting to hold this last moment on his mind before facing certain death.

  Helena’s gaze was riveting. One look between them washed everything from her mind but the fleeting moment.

  “I love you,” she told him. “Never, will I forget you. Never will there be another.”

  Even as the Seljuks thudded nearer, Tancred reached out to grasp Helena’s waist, and she leaned across the saddle to reach him, her hand slipping around his neck, her trembling fingers holding onto a dying dream.

  The violent moment might have brought a kiss with unfulfilled longing, but it was tender, poignant with love.

  The beating of drums and shouts, and the high screech of “Allah! Allah!” rang out.

  Tancred forced himself to release her. Helena’s hand slipped away and he turned to face the oncoming enemy, lifting his blade as he rode forward.

  Helena bit back a heartbreaking sob and dropped her head, her hand clutching at her heart.

  “Oh Christ, Thou blessed Son of God, Thou precious and only Redeemer, help us now!”

  ***

  The disciplined Seljuk cavalry wore wide-sleeved khalats lined with padded cloth with Persian chain mail, and high damascened helmets. Their horses were swift and light thoroughbreds, with high-peaked saddles. The horsemen carried small painted shields and scimitars, and their short bows were strapped to their backs. With frightening speed they reached Helena and Tancred, surrounding them. Helena smothered her scream as she was swept from her saddle by several Seljuks and hauled to another horse. She refused to display outward terror because she did not wish to torment Tancred with her misery.

  Tancred’s sword brought the first rider down, but another emerged, then two, three more, and in wild abandon in the struggle to endure, he soon lost all sense of reality. Blood was running into his eyes. His head throbbed from a severe blow. He wrenched an arrow from his chest and fought on. Stunned by an arrow from behind him, his awareness narrowed into a sucking pool of dizzying blackness…

  “No!” Helena screamed as Tancred was knocked from his horse. She tried to break free from the two Seljuk Turks, but they held her bound. She wanted to faint as she stared dismally at Tancred’s empty horse. Any moment now they would trample him or use a scimitar to make sure he was dead, and she began to scream, “No, no, no.”

  A voice commanded, “Release her at once!”

  She turned her head to see the Seljuk commander, her gaze fell upon a man of greater age than her uncle Nicholas, of dignified manner with a neatly trimmed Moslem beard and mustache. He was of warrior bearing and carried weapons, including the curved blade. He had ridden up with some inner guardsmen who were sworn to die for his safety. Silver ornaments jingled on his Arabian horse.

  “See if he yet breathes,” he commanded.

  The command was swiftly carried out, and one rushed back to him, “He breathes, Eminence!”

  She felt the princely Seljuk staring at her with cool, hard eyes as if measuring the relief she displayed at the news Tancred was alive. Who was he? She wondered. Yaghi-Sian? Kerbogha?

  “The warrior,” he inquired abruptly, “who is he?”

  Helena could not speak at first. The sun beat upon her, and she felt the cold eyes of the Seljuk Turks looking at her with immobile faces that revealed no kindness. What could she say? They would surely kill Tancred here and now if they knew that he was Tancred Jehan Redwan, a distant cousin of Prince Kalid himself, for the two men were known enemies!

  Unexpectedly she found her voice—“A mercenary soldier in service to…to Emperor Alexius Comnenus.” It was true—at least Tancred had been so until recently. “Please! Do something to help him. Do not let him bleed to death.”

  A high commander near to the princely Seljuk moved his horse up and spoke: “And if he is a spy, Eminence? What if he has been sent ahead by the one named Bohemond? This Byzantine is not worth the bother to save, Your Highness. Let them strike him dead.”

  Helena’s eyes darted toward the younger man who may have been a captain of the guard. He carried several weapons, and the horse he rode upon caught her attention. She believed it to be a mare of famous breeding. The horse was restless for some reason and for a moment seemed to want to move forward toward Tancred.

  The young man was sullen and haughty in appearance, wearing a short clipped beard and a thin mustache. There was a glimmer of ruthlessness in his fine dark eyes, and a mark on his right cheek just below his eyes that was healing. At once, she did not like nor trust him, but then something far worse stunned her heart—could this be Mosul? The assassin of Tancred’s brother, Derek Redwan? If it was Mosul, he must be kept from discovering who Tancred was! He must not get a clear view of Tancred’s face! He would sur
ely recognize his own cousin!

  The princely commander appeared to be considering the wisdom of the warning. Taut with fear, she wondered how to respond. If she begged or showed too much concern, they would know at once that Tancred meant more to her than a guard. Yet, if he was a favorite guard like Bardas? Had any of this large army of warriors noticed her in Tancred’s arms?

  Helena realized that this sullen young man must not have seen them together or he would have brought it up!

  “He is no spy, Eminence,” she announced, relieved her voice did not tremble. “He is my chief bodyguard and trusted friend.” Well, Tancred been protecting her ever since they’d met on the Danube.

  “I’ve had him in my service since I was a young girl. His name is—Bardas.”

  “I have heard of him,” the younger man stated. “He is a eunuch. Your Eminence, I think your nephew will have little reason for concern. He is a good warrior—we may have use of him later as he knows Byzantium well.”

  Nephew? This princely commander must be an uncle of Prince Kalid.

  Without a word the older man lifted his hand toward his soldiers, signaling reprieve for Tancred. Gold rings and rubies flashed in the sunlight. “Bring the bodyguard.”

  At once several Seljuks went to the spot where she had seen Tancred fall. She watched, trying to keep a calm demeanor. It would never do to show too much relief. Her wary gaze took in the faces of the hardened soldiers, but they all might as well have worn masks, so hidden were their emotions. What if someone mentioned later that they had seen them in an embrace?

  The wind was picking up again, and the sand blowing. She turned her face from the wind to guard her eyes, feeling grit between her teeth.

  “Mosul, bring Prince Kalid’s bride to the caravan,” the commander ordered.

  Mosul!

  The haughty and ruthless-looking guard rode up beside her, and others under him followed suit. She was escorted toward the main body of the Seljuk army. She wisely revealed no emotion. So this was man was the assassin Tancred had been searching for. Her eyes came back to the scar. Tancred had placed it there in the fighting at the camp of the Red Lion when her mother had been rescued. Fear gripped her. How could she manage to keep Tancred disguised until he was strong enough to ride from Antioch? For the caravan was now moving in that direction, leaving the Castle of Hohms behind.