by Robyn Young
His annoyed expression switched to one of shock. “My God.” His gaze flicked down the passage to where the guard had now vanished, then to Elwen, who stood rooted to the spot. He went to her and took hold of her upper arm, firmly guiding her into the room. “What are you doing here?” His tone was urgent, commanding, and his grip was verging on painful.
“I’m sorry,” said Elwen, as he shut the door behind her. “I . . .” She turned to him, her eyes desperate. “I needed a friend.”
Garin was still looking surprised, fearful even. But at these words, the sharpness with which he had ushered her into his chamber seemed to melt away. “What is it?” he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders, gentle now.
At the comforting gesture, Elwen’s grief overflowed. “Will’s gone,” she said, pushing the words through a harsh sob.
“To Mecca?”
Elwen nodded, her hands rising to her face, trying uselessly to cover her distress. Garin wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. She felt the tension in his muscles and the solidity of his frame against hers. The black linen tunic he wore smelled strongly of the incense that filled the room. Beneath that there was a smell of sweat on him, but it had a sweetness to it that was not unpleasant.
“When did he leave?”
“Yesterday,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest.
Garin thought quickly. Only a day’s head start. He could catch Will easily. It was still early. If their guide was willing, they should be able to leave that evening, dawn tomorrow at the latest. He had made sure that Bertrand and the others were ready a fortnight ago. Supplies were gathered, horses secured. With so much upheaval taking place in the palace, the organization had been simple. The only thing he worried about was how he would find out when Will left. He expected to have to go to Elwen at some point. He certainly hadn’t expected her to come to him. He let out a quiet breath, thinking how close his plans had just come to being ruined. But it all seemed fine; she couldn’t have recognized Bertrand.
Garin thought of Edward’s letter, with its demands that he obtain the funds from the Anima Templi. He had ignored the king’s order, wanting to stay out of Will’s way as he formulated his plan to take the Stone. His confidence that he could deliver Edward so much more than gold had kept him from worrying about his disobedience. But now, after the shock of Elwen’s arrival, he felt the first doubts begin to prickle at the back of his mind. What if he failed? How could he return to Edward empty-handed? “You don’t need to worry,” he said, as much to himself as to Elwen, stroking her hair distractedly and thinking through the arrangements he had made for the journey. “Will won’t be gone for long.”
“You don’t know that.” Elwen lifted her head from his chest. “You know what he’s going there to do. If he steals the Stone, he could be killed.”
“I know Will,” said Garin, summoning a smile as he wiped a tear from Elwen’s cheek with his thumb. “He’s good at what he does. He’ll be fine.”
“Don’t coddle me,” she muttered tautly, disentangling herself from him and stepping away, closing her arms about her. She looked thin and tall in her white gown, girdled at her waist with a loop of red-and-gold braid. In the half-light filtering through the gap in the window drapes, her cheeks appeared sharper, more defined than usual, the outline of her mouth like the smooth twin curves of a bow. Her eyes moved over the disorder of his chamber: forsaken wine cups, discarded clothes, a blackened censer on the table, crumpled sheets on the bed. To Garin, she seemed at once rebellious and lost as she turned back to him. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Of course you should,” he said soothingly. “Come, have some wine.” He crossed to the table, his bare feet making no sound on the rug. Seizing a cup, he poured out a measure, sloshing a little over the rim.
Elwen went to take it. As she did so, her fingers brushed against his. She started at the intimacy of the contact. His skin felt soft. Forbidden. Suddenly emboldened, she moved her hand over his, her fingers tightening. Rising onto her toes, her mouth sought his. Her lips parted.
His didn’t.
Elwen rested against Garin for a heartbeat, feeling the whole of him go still, then stepped back as quickly as if she had been bitten. She took in his shock, and shame burned itself into her cheeks. She opened her mouth to say something. Then, Garin’s expression changed. He dropped the goblet, casting a crimson fan of wine across the rug, and took her face in his hands, clasping it as his mouth found hers. Greedily, he kissed her, greedily and hard, in a way that Will had never done, and her desire, so abruptly extinguished, flared again.
Still holding her face in his hands, still kissing her, Garin forced Elwen back. Their feet tangled in scattered clothes and bumped against wine jugs, sending them rolling across the floor, until, in just a few strides, they reached the bed. Garin pushed her down onto the mattress, throwing a hand onto the bed to stop himself from crushing her as he collapsed on top of her. With his free hand, he tore the coif from her head, letting her hair loose of its starched, stainless covering, setting free the gold within. He moved his lips from hers to look at it for a moment, realizing that it wasn’t just gold. The light that shot through the drapes caught in the strands, turning them shades of copper, amber, scarlet. He was astonished that he had never noticed it before, then realized that he hadn’t ever seen Elwen without the cap modestly perched on her head. She was watching him, her green eyes intense. Her lips were red where he had kissed her too roughly, and her chest was rising and falling. Propping himself up on his elbow, he placed a finger lightly on her chin and ran it down her neck to the line of her gown. He wondered what other delights were concealed, and couldn’t help the smile that raised his lips as his hand moved impatiently to her waist where the ties of her dress were tightly crisscrossed.
Elwen closed her eyes whilst Garin’s fingers worked the knots of her dress. Her mind conjured an image of Will to accuse her with. But she pushed it aside ruthlessly, angrily. Will wasn’t here. He was off saving the world. Oh, the irony of that pendant she had presented him with. How well he played his part, the part of a saint, and now she would play hers: the mortal, the sinner. She wanted the earthly; things she could hold and touch. Will wanted an ideal. She admired him for that, loved him for it. But love demanded more than that. She didn’t want to be second to the world, always the mistress, never the wife. Love was fire and physical and total surrender. And those things she wanted now.
Once the ties were undone, the gown came away from her like peel from fruit. Beneath it was a plain white shift. Garin sat upright on the bed beside her, his throat now dry, constricted. She was watching him again as he reached down and slid the material upward. She shivered as the air touched her bare skin and put her arms above her head, allowing him to push the shift from her. He took in her nakedness: her arms dappled with goosebumps from the cold; a ring of pale freckles on one of her thighs; the sudden curve and swell of her breasts, nipples pink and raised. He leaned over her and caught one of them in his mouth, hearing a hiss of breath escape her as his teeth bit down. Her hands came up and tangled in his hair.
“I want you,” he heard her say, strain catching in her voice. “I want you.”
Garin’s mouth came away, leaving her glistening. He tugged his tunic viciously over his head and dragged open the laces at the front of his hose. Then he was on her again and, then, in her. He felt himself encompassed, caught by her. Her legs came up over his hips and he went deeper, hardly hearing as she cried out. As his body gave itself up to sensation and his eyes closed, his mind was flooded with a torrent of images.
He saw Elwen at thirteen as she knelt beside the body of her uncle, Owein, on the dockside at Honfleur. Her screams rent the night, and when she raised her hands to her face, they were wet with blood. He saw the black-robed mercenaries Edward had sent to get the crown jewels from the knights fleeing, their mission failed, but not without a price. And the blood on Elwen’s hands was now on his. For it was he who had betrayed the knigh
ts to Edward and had given the information necessary for the attack. And the faces of her dead uncle and his were staring up at him, white like skulls, accusing him. He saw her as a woman, sitting beside Will in the market gardens, her face sad and drawn, the sunlight unkind on her delicate features. He saw her in the alleyway with Bertrand and Amaury, her terror transformed to utter relief as she turned to face him. Then, at the last, he opened his eyes and saw her under him, skin flushed, lips parted, her fingers digging into his back. Garin kept his eyes on her until he shuddered inside her and grew still.
As he lay slumped on her, the familiar languid drowsiness enfolding him warmly, comfortingly, he felt Elwen’s chest spasm beneath him. He pushed himself up on his hands, hearing a muffled breath and thinking she was laughing. Elwen’s head was turned to one side, her hair clinging limply to her face. The rush of breath came again. Garin smiled tentatively, wondering what the joke was, and brushed her hair aside to see. Elwen didn’t stir at his touch. Her eyes were open and tears were streaming from them.
THE ROAD TO MECCA, ARABIA, 14 APRIL A.D. 1277
A thin line of smoke hung suspended in the distance, a white exclamation over the next point of civilization or, for the party of sixteen men on the road, the next point of danger. Their scattered moments of laconic conversation faded into nothing and the tension grew. Soon, all that could be heard was the endless crunching of feet and hooves in the gritty sand and the continuous swish and thwack of sticks as the two men in front beat the ground to ward off snakes and scorpions. The air was baked, and every breath the men took parched their mouths and throats a little more, as if the desert was trying to enter them, to make them part of itself.
Will, rocked from side to side in one of the seats of the wooden shugduf that straddled the camel, steeled himself. This would be the tenth guard post they had passed through in fifteen days, but their frequency hadn’t lessened the anxiety that built in him each time they approached one. A fresh rivulet of sweat wormed its way down his spine and soaked into the tunic he wore beneath the black, voluminous burka, the Muslim woman’s garment that covered the whole of his body and face with the exception of his eyes. He met Robert’s gaze. The knight, also shrouded and masked, was wedged in the seat on the other side of the lurching camel, with a cloth canopy that floated above their heads to keep off the heat. Robert gave Will a nod, then lowered his head.
It had been a brutal journey, worse for Zaccaria and Alessandro, the only two of the Templar party on foot. Arriving in Ula, which they reached with little incident, the six knights had gone to the mosque as instructed by the message. Here, they gave Kaysan’s name and were taken to the same house they had been held captive at the year before. They were given one night to rest, then, their horses replaced with camels and their merchant garb discarded, they were on the road again. Zaccaria and Alessandro were handed men’s clothing and were forced to walk with Kaysan and the Shias, leading camels that bore supplies and the other knights, who masqueraded as their wives. The Mamluks were used to seeing Muslims of varying shades of skin, themselves originating from so many different regions. Will had doubted the adequacy of the disguises when he had first seen them. But so far they had worked.
They could smell the smoke now, and a cluster of huts appeared, with the figures of men, distorted by the heat haze, moving between them. As their party approached the guard post, four Mamluk soldiers came out to greet them, others watching from the shelter of the huts. Will was careful not to look any of the guards in the eye as they moved past, checking over the company. Two soldiers headed for the camel in front of his, and Will’s hand reached instinctively to his side, seeking the falchion that wasn’t there. One of the guards lifted the lid of a pannier. He dipped a finger in and it came out covered in powdered nutmeg. He licked it, shut the lid and moved to the next. Will’s hand drifted slowly from his hip as the guard continued down the line, oblivious of the pannier’s true contents, which lay swaddled in cloth beneath the false tray of spices, a smooth, black secret, known only to himself and Robert.
Satisfied, the Mamluk guards waved them on, and several hours later, as evening shadows were creeping across the valley floor, the company reached the last settlement, where they would leave their supplies and head into Mecca.
“It looks busy,” murmured Robert to Will as they entered the jumbled array of mosques, houses and tented stalls that had sprung up out of the valley. Torches were burning, orange stars floating in the growing darkness. The sounds of music and laughter came to them.
Will was troubled by the sudden appearance of humanity in the wasteland. They had passed pilgrims on the road, although according to Kaysan they were mere drops of water in the face of the flood that would inundate this valley in a month’s time when the Hajj began and the caravans from Damascus, Cairo and Baghdad moved sinuously through the desert. Will had grown used to the solitude, had been relying on it.
Kaysan glanced round at Robert’s voice. “We have friends here,” he said in halting Latin. “We will be safe. Do not speak now.”
Will and Robert fell silent as they reached the settlement and headed through a lively bazaar. Beyond the stalls, a series of wooden poles, just visible in the torch flames, rose from the sands like strange naked trees. Will realized that each had ribbons tied to it, hundreds of fluttering strands of color, then the poles were swallowed by darkness and the party moved toward a row of houses, opposite a mosque. After leading them into an enclosed courtyard at the back of one of the buildings, Kaysan pointed to a stone bench on the other side of the courtyard. “You will wait here,” he told Will and the knights. “In six hours we leave.”
Will stood alone for a while as the knights stretched their stiff limbs and talked amongst themselves, away from the Arabs. The stars in the black were like dust on velvet. He had never felt so far from home. The desert’s empty hostility was soul crushing, and the feeling of trespass weighed heavily on his heart. Closing his eyes, he murmured the Lord’s Prayer, feeling the chant of words flow from him, familiar, comforting.
THE HIJAZ, ARABIA, 14 APRIL A.D. 1277
It was late afternoon when the company of eight halted and looked down from the foothills over the settlement two miles north of Mecca.
“We should send someone to see if they’ve arrived.”
Garin didn’t look around as Bertrand moved up behind him. The soldier’s voice had roughened over the course of the journey. “Send Amaury,” said Garin, moving his gaze along the road, which wound out of sight between the mountains. “But tell him to be careful.” He turned to Bertrand to emphasize this point and saw, now that the Cypriot had removed the kaffiyeh he had been wearing, the journey’s affects in his face. Bertrand had lost weight and his skin sagged loosely around his jaw. His beard was dusty and unkempt, and his eyes had a new hardness to them, along with a subtle desperation. Garin knew that he looked much the same, as did the rest of the men. Those who had survived.
Ten of them had set out from Acre with their guide, two days behind the Templar party. Riding hard, they caught them quickly, sending one man ahead to scout. Garin, who had been unable to get details of their numbers from Elwen, had been secretly relieved that he hadn’t been wrong in his estimations, and that his own company outnumbered Will’s party almost two to one. Against Templars, the Cypriot soldiers would need every advantage they could get. In Ula it hadn’t been hard to keep track of the knights. Garin, concealed in oversize robes and a kaffiyeh, followed them to the mosque and then to a rundown house. His earlier satisfaction was cut short by the appearance of a group of Arabs, which more than doubled the Templar party. But concern over this was rapidly replaced with a more pressing problem.
In Acre, their guide, who had been only too keen to lead them to Ula for money, had brushed over the issue of how they would proceed to Mecca along the guarded road, by telling them that there would be plenty of people willing to take them. This, as it turned out, wasn’t true, and it seemed, as the Templars set out the next morning in their
disguises, Garin and Amaury watching them go, that their plan would be over before it had begun. Finally, after a few threatening words from Bertrand, their guide suggested that they ask the local Bedouin. At first, the desert nomads wouldn’t even speak to Garin. Then, later that evening, a young, whip-lean man had sought him out and offered to be their khafir.
All the way down through the Hijaz and on, beyond Mecca, the Bedouin owned grazing lands where their animals were pastured. Each tribe owned its own territory and no one was allowed to enter without permission. A khafir was a member of the tribe who agreed to act as guardian for those wanting to cross the territory. At the point where one tribe’s lands ended and another’s began, a new khafir would be summoned to continue the guardianship. The Bedouin didn’t use the main roads, negating the danger posed by the Mamluk guards. And so Garin and the soldiers, leaving Ula and civilization behind them, headed into the wilderness, following their barefoot, solemn guide. Each time they had been passed on to another khafir, Garin had handed out more gold, like he was scattering bread crumbs to mark a trail, hoping against hope that they would lead them home again. Some of these tribes would attack pilgrims in the Hijaz, stealing their money and even their clothes and food, leaving them to the mercy of the vicious elements, but there seemed to be a certain honor amongst them that prevented them from stealing from their guests. But even though the people were relatively clement, the land itself was anything but.
The first death occurred in the first few days. One of the Cypriots rolled onto a snake in his sleep and was bitten. He died vomiting and foaming at the mouth. The second came four days later. They were trudging across a high ridge, the sun in their eyes, when one man slipped. He slid down a scree-covered slope, taking half the skin off his back and breaking both his legs. Amidst his anguished cries when they reached him, the other soldiers spent some time arguing as to what they should do, before Bertrand ended his suffering with a fast slash across the throat.
