She drew the covers about him and started to turn away, exhausted, when to her surprise she felt his hand close about her wrist, but the touch was different. He was alert.
Helena looked down at him and his eyes were slightly open. “Angel”…he whispered meaningfully.
Helena felt a glowing satisfaction to know she had at last eased his suffering. She managed a slight, weary smile and leaned toward him with a whisper. “No longer a witch?”
“Angel….”
His hand, weak, still persisted in holding hers.
She kissed his forehead. “Rest now.”
He gave a deep sigh, then lay still, falling back into a deep slumber.
Helena, too, sighed, for she believed the worst was over and that her beloved would live. Exhausted, her eyes felt pained with the need for sleep. She went to the divan and lowered herself into it wearily, allowing her eyes to shut. “Just a little rest,” she thought. Darkness came. This time she welcomed it, for it held not terror but welcome relief. “Thank You, most merciful Lord God,” she prayed.
Behind the Veil / The Royal Pavilions book3/ Linda Chaikin
Chapter14
Hidden Paths
The fragrance of meat simmering overnight in broth permeated the chamber as Helena awoke with a groan. Her head was dull and aching, and the smell of the meat seemed offensive despite the fact that she had not eaten a full meal since her arrival.
As she came through the doorway of Tancred’s chamber, she saw Jamil on his haunches before the hearth, where the kettle was strung across the coals. At first she thought he was stirring the broth, but her gaze fell on something he held in both hands. Jamil was staring at it with awe.
Helena came up softly behind him. Tancred’s sword and sheath! The heraldic of the Norman House of Redwan was engraved on the handle. It was a falcon, but this time she saw not only the name Redwan, but also the formidable title of William the Conqueror.
She bit back a defensive impulse to grab the scabbard—it would only alert him to the significance of his discovery and encourage suspicions. Would he understand the implications pointing to ‘Bardas’ as being of Norman blood rather than Byzantine? What of the name Redwan? The boy might know the name of Seigneur Rolf Redwan of the Castle of Hohms.
She knew that Jamil was extremely clever. If he decided to mention the heraldic to the chief eunuch, Assad, it would not take long for the news to spread until it reached Mosul.
“You may put the sword in a secure place, Jamil.”
The calmness of her voice satisfied her, but Jamil sprang tensely to his feet, showing he suspected something. Holding the heavy scabbard clumsily, he managed a bow. “G-good morning, Mistress.”
She watched him trot across the room and place the sword behind the tapestry drape. He obviously understood that the weapon was to be hidden. Who else may have seen the engraving?
“Bardas will be pleased to have the weapon back,” she told him. “Where did you find it.”
“Oh, it was leaning against the wall in the armory when Assad and the physician had the slaves carry him here from the barracks, Mistress. I knew he would want it when he awoke.”
She felt her way cautiously. Had he mentioned the sword to anyone?
“I am surprised the guards did not stop you. Did they see you take the sword?”
“None of the soldiers noticed, Mistress.” His dark head lifted proudly. “I waited until they were busy. Assad was so upset and the physician so angry that there was a small uproar. I carried it covered with his cloak when I brought his satchel.”
“You did well. My bodyguard will be pleased with your loyalty.”
Jamil avoided her eyes and went at once to the kettle and dipped a mug of broth. He brought it to her.
“Careful, Mistress, it is hot.”
“Thank you, but I am not able to eat this early in the morning. Perhaps some grapes or melon.”
“Yes, Mistress, but the broth can give you strength, and also your Byzantine bodyguard when he awakes. He is breathing well today.”
At once she caught the reference to ‘Byzantine’ and scanned his face. From his expression she could guess nothing. She decided to test him again, proceeding with caution after he returned with a bowl of fruit.
“Do you know how to handle a sword yet, Jamil?”
“Oh yes, Mistress.” His small shoulders straightened proudly. “I study all the arts of warfare. I had hoped one day to be a warrior.”
For the first time he showed disappointment. “Now that I belong to you, it will be your decision.”
She couldn’t keep from smiling. “We will discuss your warrior ambition later. But I have no intention to make you less than what you hope to become one day.”
Jamil brightened. Then he cast an eye to the chamber where Tancred slept. “But you already have a bodyguard. And he will grow better soon. He is strong.”
“He does look better today.”
“The sword I can handle,” Jamil went on, “But a scimitar, far better. A dagger?” he shrugged. “I need much practice to become an expert. I cannot throw strongly yet, and I miss the mark.”
“You seem to like the sword belonging to my bodyguard, Bardas.”
Jamil’s black lashes fluttered. He started to say something, then stopped. His eyes drifted away from her to Tancred’s chamber again. “I have not seen a finer one,” he said simply.
Helena’s growing alarm that Tancred’s true identity might soon be discovered by his enemies pressed her toward the need to find an escape route from Antioch. As she ate the sweet fruit and sipped strong Arabic coffee, she remembered Prince Kalid’s gift of the stallion. She arose from the cushions and walked to the terrace.
“It looks to be a fine day, Jamil. Now that Bardas is improving, perhaps we can ride the stallion into the hills today.”
“I would like nothing better, Mistress!”
“Good. Then go to the stables and prepare the horse, and one for yourself. We can go as soon as the physician comes and looks at Bardas.”
“Yes, Mistress! At once. I know just the horse I hope to ride!” And he flew out and away.
***
Over an hour had passed before Helena was led to the stables by one of the many slaves. She had informed Tancred of her plans, and had waited until the physician left and Tancred slipped back into a healing sleep. She had left word with the outer door slave not to permit anyone to enter the chambers until she returned.
Jamil waited with impatience. “He is ready and saddled, Mistress. And Haroun let me take the stallion that I have long asked him for permission to ride.”
The day was warm and clear as they set out. Helena rode the fine Arabian horse that Jamil had named Altair. Jamil sat proudly on a brown war horse.
The boy was pleased to show her everything. She viewed the gates and walls, but her interest was in the trails winding through the upper portion of the city into the hills. Was there a less guarded section somewhere in the city walls from which an escape was possible? Probably not with Antioch now under siege, and soldiers everywhere. However, she thought, for security the family of Emir Khan, as well as the Seljuk Turkish commander Kerbogha, should have some secret passage between Antioch and the mountains. There must be some manner of escape route for them in case of the fall of Antioch—a hidden exit somewhere in the higher part of the city, past the walls and before the barren brown hills.
“I suppose, Jamil,” she said, baiting him, “That Yaghi-Sian and the other great Seljuk nobles have a route to escape prepared for them and their families should the crusaders be able to enter the city?”
Jamil leaned forward in his saddle and patted the strong neck of the war horse, avoiding her gaze. For a moment he was silent.
“What makes you think so, Mistress?”
She gave a laugh. “I was born and raised amid intrigue. It is said that none know the art as well as the Byzantine.” She could see the flash of interest in his brown eyes. “Do you know the marriage to Prince Kalid
was arranged by my enemies in Constantinople? They are also giving Kalid the Castle of Hohms.”
“I have heard, Mistress. I hear all the talk among the slaves, and even among some rulers. Such marriages are the way of great rulers, they say. For Aziza, it is even worse. She is to be given to a man she hates.”
Helena looked over at him. “Aziza?”
His eyes turned sullen. “She is my sister, Mistress. She is older than I, and ready for marriage. She is a slave to the Armenian wife of Master Firouz, who serves Yaghi-Sian.”
“I am sorry for your sister.”
“She loves the son of the physician. But Habib is to be given to the daughter of a chief captain. And—”
“Yes, I see, it is sad and complicated.” She directed the topic back to the hills. “Does the Commander Yaghi-Sian often ride into the hills?”
He shrugged again, and was quiet too long, as though he guessed the reason for her question.
“I suppose all rulers have escape routes,” she gently prodded. “They would be unwise if they did not. The Seljuk army in the city must have one, as well as Emir Khan. And Prince Kalid would know of it. It is said, ‘a fox has his small den, but he is crafty enough to have another exit.’” She looked at him now, and the strained silence was broken by a rush of wind in the olive trees.
Jamil watched a falcon soaring. “I have some falcons that I train and take care of. The one up there looks like it belongs to someone out hunting,” he suggested. “Sometimes I go that direction to watch the falcons with the wind freely in their wings, but only if I am alone when no one knows. I will be in much trouble, Mistress, if I bring you into forbidden territory.”
“I suppose,” she said, “That not even you could get through one of the gates without being caught.”
He gave her a short glance. “If I were going to have my head struck off for some forbidden deed? Then I could get out.”
“Oh?” she said artfully.
He pointed toward the paths leaving the postern gates. He looked behind his shoulder as if making sure no one was there. He lowered his voice. “Mistress, the smaller gates open onto seldom-used trails leading into Syrian villages. Few know of them except those who have lived in Antioch for many years.”
Her heart beat faster. “You must show me sometime, Jamil.”
“It is dangerous to go near there. His Eminence will hear of it.”
“I suppose a clever boy like you, Jamil, would know just where the most hidden paths are out of view.”
He looked at her, troubled. “Mistress, if I say I do not know, you will think your new slave is a foolish boy; and if I say I know—you will ask me where it is.”
She smiled. “I think you are clever, Jamil, far from being foolish. So clever that I would risk this Arabian stallion in a wager that you do know.”
Jamil’s brown eyes swept the stallion with devotion. “Such a horse is worth much—if one could live to keep it. But speaking certain information will mean death for the teller of tales.” He looked up to see her alert gaze fixed upon him. They measured each other, as though each debated the wisdom of trusting the other.
Helena spoke first. She must trust someone, and if not this boy, then whom?
“Vow your loyalty to me, Jamil. Help me as I ask, and one day I will reward you with this stallion for your service.”
Jamil bit his lip and watched her intensely, then set his young jaw. “Mistress, I vow my loyalty without getting the fine stallion. I know the warrior in your chambers is not your slave. Neither is he a Byzantine—he is a goodly warrior. His name is Count Tancred Redwan, a Norman lord from Sicily in the West.”
Helena gripped her reins but kept calm. It was as she had suspected. “How do you know all this? You could not have learned so much from the heraldic on his scabbard.”
“My ears hear much. Few pay attention to a boy. I heard Prince Kalid and Mosul once talking before you came. They were expecting Count Redwan to come for you and try to kill Mosul. But I did not know who the man you called Bardas really was until I heard you call his name last night when he was so ill.”
She sighed. “Oh…I should have been more cautious.”
“It is because you love him, and you were very frightened.”
“You are too wise for your age, Jamil.”
“Then I saw the scabbard. The insignia of the falcon in the hunt, and of the military leader, William the Conqueror. I have been learning about training falcons. The art is best taught by the Normans, and so I guessed his heritage. Also, he has the body of a warrior.”
“You must say nothing, Jamil. If you do, it will mean his death. He is too ill to do battle.”
“Prince Kalid will kill him?”
“Prince Kalid, Mosul, even Ma’sud Khan.”
“So I thought, too. Mosul is a cruel man. I have no liking for him. He has tried to kiss my sister.”
“Then if you know the manner of man Mosul is, you will understand why he must not learn the identity of Count Redwan until he recovers his strength. Everyone must think he is the Byzantine named Bardas.”
Jamil scowled. “Why does Mosul want to kill a goodly warrior?”
“Mosul is a Moorish cousin of Tancred. Out of jealousy for a woman in Palermo, Mosul killed the half-brother of Tancred and arranged to have him blamed. His Norman uncle, Walter of Sicily, is also searching for Tancred to make him stand trial in the Norman style.”
“And Tancred Redwan has trailed Mosul to Antioch?” he asked, obviously impressed with Tancred.
“Yes…and if Mosul discovers that he lies helpless in my chambers, he will think nothing of putting a dagger through his heart as he sleeps upon his bed, already wounded from a noble stand to protect me.”
“No doubt Mosul would kill him, Mistress. That is his way. I will keep your secret and Tancred’s upon pain of my death. All I can do to help the Norman warrior I will do.”
“I will not forget your loyalty, Jamil. Tancred must escape Antioch.”
The boy’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “The truth is, Mistress, I know of several routes from Antioch. In the palace there is a tunnel leading under the city outside the Gate of the Dog.”
Her heart thudded. “Then you must show me.”
“Well, the entrance is said to be somewhere in the secret chambers of the royal family.”
Her heart sank. “Then you’ve not witnessed such an exit?”
“No, and I know of no servant who has seen it, but there are whispers.”
Helena sighed. “Our most secret inquiries will reach the emir. We can trust no one. But Jamil! There must be another route, perhaps through the hills.”
“Aziza can be trusted. She despises Mosul, and she too wishes to escape Antioch. You see, we are not true Seljuks, but Armenians. Our father was a ruler in Antioch until he was killed. Our mother is dead. And they made Aziza and me into slaves.”
Helena looked at him with grave sympathy.
Jamil lowered his eyes and petted the horse. “They also insist we worship Allah, though our father and mother were Christians. Will not Prince Kalid also make you a Muslim?”
“Undoubtedly they would try—especially if I became with child to the House of Khan. I suppose, like your mother, I will die young,” she said ruefully, “for I will not worship Allah.”
“Then you must escape, Mistress! You and the Seigneur both!”
“If we do manage to free ourselves, you too, may come if you choose.”
His eyes widened with excitement. “Truly, Mistress? And—and my sister?”
She bit her lip. “If possible, yes. If the Lord God helps us. But tell me, do you think Aziza would know a way out? Perhaps that secret passage you mentioned?”
Jamil shook his head. “She knows less than I. She does not serve in the emir’s chambers. The men who serve there have little to do with the lesser slaves. They are warriors, sworn to die to protect the emir. But I know there is a way out of Antioch; it leads through the postern gate. And if I were going to have my h
ead removed, I could get out there. Maybe the Norman warrior could too. All of us. Do you think so?”
Her excitement soared again. “We will try, Jamil. I wish to view that gate.”
“If we ride too near the gate, the guards will notice us. You heard yesterday what Assad told us? No one is permitted near the Tower. It is a garrison.”
“Then we will only ride as near the Tower as it is safe. I want to make a report to Tancred when he awakes. Come, the afternoon wears on.”
As Jamil rode a length ahead of Helena, he called back over his small shoulder, “I have a great ambition, Mistress. I want to know Seigneur Redwan, to learn the art of warfare and courage from him. There could be none better than he. And if I help him escape Antioch, why, maybe he will let me go with him to Sicily and learn the ways of the Normans!”
“Perhaps,” she said with a laugh. “Perhaps we will both go with him to Sicily, Jamil.”
“But Aziza? If I leave her here in Antioch, who will protect her?”
“It may be that Aziza will be permitted to marry the physician’s son after all, and escape to Syria or even Constantinople,” she soothed.
For a time Helena allowed their dreams and ambitions to live. The warm wind was pleasant and promising.
The slope rose steadily toward the hills. Trees and shrubs grew like thickets, and as they ascended slowly upward the great wall of Antioch ended at the mountainous incline. Jamil drew his horse under some sycamore trees where the afternoon shadows offered relief. He waited for her to ride up beside him. The heat was oppressive, and the silence was broken only by the drone of insects.
Helena swished a buzzing insect away from her face and stared into the distance. A small gate could be made out.
“It is seldom used, Mistress. It is said to open upon a little-known trail leading farther into the rugged hills. I know of it because I am Armenian,” he explained in a whisper. “There are shepherds in the hills and mountains farther away. Sometimes they come down and are permitted through the gate to bring their goat cheese and olives to market. But Mistress, see? While the gate is small and little used, it is most strong, and to your right you can see the Seljuk guards. Once there were no guards, but with the coming of the western crusaders, Commander Yaghi-Sian put guards there to watch for spies day and night trying to enter the city.”
Behind the Veil Page 13
