by K. M. Grant
Kamil tried to blank out Will’s anger and did not look at Ellie at all, for he did not want to see how her face had become like that of a statue—no, harder even than that. It was bitter to him to know that he would never again see that open and welcoming smile or hear any delight in either her voice or Will’s. He was taking much needed treasure to his own people but he had destroyed treasure of his own.
It was of enormous comfort to Kamil, and not a little surprise, to find that Hosanna continued to bear no resentment. “Perhaps you alone really understand why I have to do this,” he murmured as he ran his hands over ribs growing more pronounced, for, while the people were sheltered, food for the animals was short down here. “When the ships have sailed, red horse, bear Will safely back to Hartslove and remember me kindly sometimes.” He caressed Hosanna again and again, warmed by the notion that the horse seemed as reluctant to let him go as Kamil was to leave him. Holding onto Kamil’s sleeve with more intensity and determination than usual, Hosanna would not open his teeth when Kamil tickled his lips and when Kamil eventually prized himself away, he left a small scrap of cloth behind.
On the third day, just as dusk was falling, Amal spotted something on the horizon and the men lined up along the wide beach, shielding their eyes as they tried to make out whether this was, indeed, their relief. There was excited chatter as a slim ship eventually slid close in under the cliffs, testing the depth all the way. The pennants were undistinguished, deliberately open to misinterpretation, but as the galley eased into the safety of the inlet, the watchers saw splashes in the ship’s wake as if giant, faintly discolored snowballs were being hurled from the deck into the water.
It took some time to realize that these were not snowballs but pigs. The wretched animals had been kept on deck during the long journey to disguise the ship’s Saracen origins, for only Christian ships tolerated pigs and, now that disguise was no longer needed, they were being tossed overboard to a great chorus of bellowing squeals and piteous shrilling snorts. Like a gaggle of chubby babies, they desperately paddled about, their snouts high in the air, imploring Heaven to help them to find solid ground. Heaven did not hear them. As they succumbed, one by one, to exhaustion and the freezing water, their cries became weak gurgles and finally just air bubbles. When even the air bubbles vanished, the corpse would disappear for a moment before bobbing up again and floating back toward the ship as if determined to take some kind of revenge. Then the Saracen oarsmen, disgusted, would push the dead pigs away. However, it was not so easy in the current and as the ship anchored offshore, it was soon surrounded by small hillocks of mottled pink flesh. Ellie, never moved by the annual slaughter of the Hartslove swine, had not seen anything quite like this. Revolted, she clapped her hands over her ears to block out the last feeble cries. In her head she could hear Old Nurse deploring the pigs’ watery deaths as a waste of food, but even Old Nurse would have found the sight of the animals washing about in the tide horrible. Ellie turned to Will in her distress but Will was not looking at either the ships or the pigs. He was looking at Kamil.
Standing at the end of a jag of rock sloping out into the bay, Kamil was watching a small boat being lowered from the ship’s stern. The boat contained five people, three passengers and two oarsmen, and was soon heading for the beach. Kamil was staring at only one of the passengers, and as he stared a trembling began, right in his core. It was just a tiny thing at first, a kind of vibration, but the vibration took on such force that he felt as if he was caught up in an earthquake created just for him. His arms crossed over his chest and he found it difficult to see. Blindly, he began to turn, almost slipped, but then recovered enough to break into a faltering run back along the rocks to the shore.
Amal’s breath came quickly. Now that the final moment of revelation had arrived he felt no triumph. Indeed, never had he felt so old as when he watched Kamil’s entire world disintegrate and the young man’s proud bearing collapse. Nevertheless Amal stood as upright as he was able, kept on his feet by the knowledge that the Old Man would be watching him. He stood his ground as Kamil ran toward him. Only his tongue moved, flickering over dry lips.
At first Kamil could hardly get a word out and when words did come, they were a jumble of Arabic and Norman French. The color, he babbled, the color. Could Amal see the color? Though the clothes of the passengers in the boat were perfectly ordinary, their beards were dyed a strange shade of red, not deep red like Hosanna, but a pale kind of crimson. Could Amal see that? Could he also see that the color of their beards clashed against the color of the oranges that a small, round man with a jeweled turban on his head was juggling? “Amal, Amal,” Kamil cried finally, “do you not know who it is?” He peered back toward the rowboat through a fog of incredulity. It could not be. Yet it was. He may have met the Old Man only once before, but like the Old Man himself, he had never forgotten it and prayed such a meeting would never happen again. Yet now the Old Man was here, arriving at this lonely beach as if expected. The fog began to clear as Kamil looked at Amal. He took hold of the old man’s arm and found no resistance. He looked into his eyes and found no shock. Kamil shook his head and stumbled backward. “No, Amal, no. Tell me this is not your doing, you with your prayers and your great schemes. Tell me it isn’t. Oh, please tell me.” He stumbled forward again. “Tell me I have not done everything I have done for—for—” Kamil could not bring himself to name the Old Man. He grabbed the old spy, then hurled him away, frightened he might snap him in two.
Amal did not protest at his rough treatment, and in Amal’s silence Kamil finally saw what a dupe he had been, seduced by easy admiration and childish visions of his own importance, visions now dissolving like sandcastles in the tide. What a dirty, dirty trick. Why had he not remembered that real saviors were humble men of courage and discernment, not men like him who dreamed of riding through the desert like heroes of myth and legend? He wanted to tear not at Amal but at himself, to slash a knife through his veins. Yet he did nothing. He simply stood in place because behind Amal, in the mouth of the cave, hovered Will and Ellie and at the sight of them, at the thought of what the Old Man might want to do to them, Kamil was turned to stone.
As soon as he could, Amal tried to slip away. He could already hear the oarsmen calling for the soldiers on the beach to throw ropes. But Kamil grasped him as he brushed past.
“What’s this, Amal?” Kamil forced himself to sound reasonable in these last few moments before the Old Man took complete control. Already Amal’s eyes were veiled but Kamil had to try. “You told me that we were going to use King Richard’s ransom to help our people in Palestine and to drive the infidel from our lands. Now I see that the man who has really come to collect the ransom has no interest in that at all. Yet that is for your conscience to deal with. But I must ask just one thing. Is it really for this that we have abused Will de Granville’s hospitality and scattered Hartslove blood in the dirt? Is it for this that Will and Ellie are prisoners?” Amal’s mouth twisted into a grotesque smile for he could see the Old Man getting out of the boat. This was too much for Kamil. He swayed and broke down. “Oh, what have I done?” he cried out. “How could I have been taken in by somebody like you? How could I have listened to you and not seen? Oh, how clever you must think you are, coming to England with your gifts and your holy sentiments when all the time you are just the miserable slave of a murderer and a robber. Curse you and the Old Man! I hope the Christian silver destroys you all.” Kamil lunged forward, raking his hands round Amal’s scraggy neck before forcing them back to his sides and looking Amal full in the eyes instead. A great well of bitterness broke. “Perhaps some of this silver is even destined for your pockets. How much did the Old Man pay you? How much was I worth?” He sagged.
Amal squinted up at Kamil, his face working furiously to hide his emotions, and his bones sticking out like prickles. “I do my master’s bidding. That is reward enough. This is more your doing than mine. My master thought of you as a son and you let him down.” He spoke faster and faster
as the Old Man pattered toward them across the sand. “The Old Man is like a falcon, Kamil. If he sees a rabbit and the rabbit gets away, he hovers above, a speck in the sky, until the rabbit comes out to play again. Then—” Amal banged his right fist into his left palm, bruising his knuckles. “This time, you are the rabbit.”
Kamil ignored all this and concentrated only on one request. “Amal,” he implored, “I will take what’s coming, but Will and Ellie have no part in this quarrel. If you do nothing else in your miserable life, let them go. Hosanna and Shihab can be ready in seconds. Do that, Amal, and Allah will bless you. Give Will and Ellie their horses and let them go free. It’s the right thing to do. You know that.”
Amal’s palms began to sweat. “Oh, no,” he replied, keeping his tone conversational for as the Old Man drew nearer and nearer he felt his servitude winding itself about him like a shroud. Compared to the Old Man, Kamil was a fly and Will and Ellie like grains of dust. “Alas, I cannot let them go. The Old Man wants so much to meet them and he has come such a long way.”
Kamil opened his mouth, but a tinkling laugh made him shut it again. The Old Man had arrived. “My faithful servant,” he said, patting Amal’s shoulder, “you have done gallant service and I shall reward you as only I know how.” He twinkled and scraped his nails down Amal’s arm, leaving five small scratches. The scratches split the skin but Amal knew better than to wince. The Old Man tiptoed around to stand directly in front of Kamil, his beard shining where it had been heavily oiled. “Well now,” he said, “this meeting is a long-awaited pleasure, Kamil. I cannot tell you how much I have looked forward to it.” He looked up into Kamil’s face, then, monstrously, he winked.
13
Hundreds of miles to the north, two horses were trotting very close together, their riders deep in conversation. At least one rider was talking and the other had not much choice but to listen. Elric had scarcely paused to draw breath for hours and even Hal’s patience was wearing a little thin. Yet he could hardly be cross. Elric had, after all, saved his life, parrying sword thrusts and blows as best he could as he pulled Hal up behind him instead of fleeing as he must have so badly wanted to do. Both were injured by the time Dargent had begun to gallop aimlessly away from the ambush with the last of the terrified pack animals. They did not see Will being knocked unconscious and by the time Hal fell off, dragging Elric with him, they were several miles from the battle scene and quite alone, deserted even by the loose horses.
They had lain overnight in the grass until Hal had felt his legs being pulled and kicked out in response. “Ouch!” came a voice from above and, opening his eyes, he found himself staring at the familiar mop of brown hair. Elric was trying, very inexpertly, to bind a wound in Hal’s leg. “It’s not too bad,” Elric said. Hal pulled himself up. His head was thick and muzzy and he could remember almost nothing. Elric, white and his voice tense, had to repeat himself several times. “We must get back on Dargent and find them. That’s what we’ve got to do, Hal.” The boy’s eyes were glazed. These new blows to the head, added to his old ones, had set him back.
“Dargent?” Hal, still bemused, could taste blood on his tongue.
“Dargent’s here. He’s fine. Can you mount by yourself? We MUST go back.”
Hal’s head began to clear although he could not yet understand what had happened. It seemed easier to agree. “Yes,” he said automatically. “We must.”
Elric helped to haul him into the saddle, but it was only after Dargent had jolted along for a good few miles that Hal began to remember what had happened. Then he turned as white as Elric.
It took longer to get back to the ambush spot than they thought for they had no idea where they were, but at last they arrived at the river and followed it up to where they had camped. There they found nothing living at all and Elric, finally, broke down. “It’s my fault,” he sobbed, “my fault. That man, he insulted Mistress Ellie but I shouldn’t have drawn my sword. They’re all dead because of me.”
Hal was too shocked to offer any comfort at first and, as memory piled in upon memory, he had to confront his own crippling guilt. “I left the battle scene with Will and Ellie still in danger.” He slumped to his knees in front of the mass grave Kamil had caused to be dug. “What sort of a squire am I? I should have died here with all the others.” He could not at this moment think about how the fighting had broken out. All that mattered was that Will and Ellie were almost certainly either dead or captive, and Hosanna gone. He thought hard. The emperor’s soldiers—and Hal had no reason to believe that they were not—would surely not leave Will and Ellie alive? Much better if they were dead and then the emperor could spin what tale he wanted about the slaughter. He could even blame Will, so that his own troops would be completely innocent. Hal felt dead himself.
However after a long while, Elric’s tears disturbed him. The boy was still his responsibility and he got up and put his arm round Elric’s shoulders. “We both failed them,” he said simply. “I don’t know how we will ever get over it. We can’t stay here, though.” He whistled to Dargent, who was grazing nearby.
“Do you think they really are dead?” Elric clung to him.
“I think so,” Hal could only whisper.
“Where shall we go?” wept Elric.
Hal thought for a moment, trying to keep his composure. “We ought to go home,” he said doubtfully, “to tell them.”
Elric clung to him again. The thought of Old Nurse’s face was unbearable. “No,” he cried, “we should at least try and find Hosanna and Sacramenta. Surely they can’t be dead, too? We must find them. Isn’t that what Will would want us to do? And what about the silver?”
Hal frowned. He knew he should care about the silver. All his training told him that matters of state were more important than personal losses. But he could not care. He did, however, care very much about Hosanna and Sacramenta. He looked about him. The cart tracks were still visible. Hitching Elric onto Dargent, he climbed on himself. Elric was right. They should find the horses. It was the least they could do.
If Dargent found carrying the two of them hard, he did not object. They dismounted often to try and tease out the ransom cart tracks from others. Hal was puzzled greatly by the southerly direction the ransom seemed to be taking for surely the imperial troops should be heading east. At the river, when the cart tracks disappeared entirely, they had to guess which way to go. Neither Hal nor Elric thought about Kamil, presuming him dead with Will, or about Shihab. They thought only of Hosanna and Sacramenta and Hal had a hard job keeping Elric from despairing self-reproach.
It was through luck on the third day that they found Ellie’s necklace. Lying down for the night having stolen rabbits from peasant traps, Elric shifted and groaned until Hal suggested they move to somewhere more comfortable. Elric mumbled and put his hand under his back to pull out what he thought was a stone and tossed it away. It landed under Dargent’s saddle and, in the thin dawn light, it would have gone unnoticed except that the leather thong caught on the stirrup and suddenly, in front of Hal’s eyes, the green jasper trickled out in a glowing stream. Hal was not quick enough to catch it, but Elric was. It dropped into his filthy hands and at once the boy began to jabber. “God in Heaven, Hal, it’s Mistress Ellie’s necklace! And here in this place! She must be alive! The men who’ve got the silver must have taken her with them.”
But Hal could not believe it. “They’ve stolen it from her,” he said, but he quickly finished saddling Dargent.
Elric refused, point-blank, to accept that. “This necklace is full of luck,” he declared confidently, his old chirpiness returning fast. “If we found it, it’s a sign. I just know it, Hal. I think at least Mistress Ellie is alive. Perhaps Will, too.”
Hal did not dare believe it, but he didn’t want to knock Elric back. “What’s the necklace telling us to do, then?” he asked gently, forbidding himself really to truly share Elric’s hopes. “Should we go on following the tracks or not?”
“Yes, follow them,” said
Elric. “Come on.”
Hal frowned but did not refuse.
But the tracks kept on disappearing and when they asked people they met if they had seen a cavalcade of heavily armed men surrounding wagons, the people shrugged, unable to understand Norman French and not very impressed with two ragged creatures on an increasingly ragged horse. Deeper and deeper into unfamiliar country they went, crossing borders unknowingly and occasionally hiding from men wearing strange armor and flying unknown pennants. The forests seemed thick and endless and nothing about them inspired confidence. Once, some jobbing stonemasons told them, in a gutteral dialect they could just about grasp, that wagons had gone south, and for a week they rode faster, expecting every day to see Hosanna’s red tail or, by some miracle, to hear Will’s or Ellie’s voice. But most of the time they both knew they were going around in bigger and bigger circles though neither said a word about that. At night Hal stared at the stars as if they could help him but they never did.
After a month of utter frustration, even Elric’s optimism was fading and one morning, Hal saddled Dargent and turned the horse to the North. Elric argued, as was his habit, but though Hal listened, he was not deflected. This was no good. As they made their way slowly back along roads they had already traveled, Elric fell silent. Only in the evenings, as he held fiercely on to Ellie’s necklace, did he tell Hal that he knew, he just knew, all would be well. They had not found the necklace for nothing. Hal let him prattle but he himself felt leaden as he sat in front of their makeshift fire trying to think, trying to work out what Will would do in his place. Never did he come up with the same answer twice. He needed somebody else to talk to.
Hal did not tell Elric at once that they were going to Arnhem to tell Marissa what had happened, and to see if the nuns had heard any news, for convents were hotbeds of gossip, and by the time Elric realized, and objected violently, Hal was exhausted enough to be sharp. “At the very least the nuns will give us another horse,” he snapped, “and maybe they know something. Nobody may care about dead Hartslove men but if Richard’s ransom has gone missing they’ll care about that.”
