Devil's Bargain

by Judith Tarr

  “You’ll wager, sure enough,” said Aslam. “The stakes will be your life.”

  Falak al-Din’s beard jutted with the stubborn set of his jaw. “We’re camping as soon as we reach the mountain—there’s water there, at the Round Cistern. We’ll march immediately after the dawn prayer. Will that at least begin to content you?”

  “No,” said Aslam, biting off the word.

  “Then live with it,” said Falak al-Din, turning his shoulder to the emir.

  Aslam looked as if he would have dearly loved to sink a dagger into the idiot’s back, but he was too civilized a man—and perhaps too well aware that, fool or no, this was the sultan’s kinsman. He swallowed his temper and spurred his horse back to the body of his troops, who were riding somewhat ahead, bristling with weapons.

  Mustafa thought Aslam might ride on at nightfall, but when the caravan camped by the great stone water basin that gave the place its name, Aslam camped also, high on the hill above the rest. From there at least he would see any enemy that came—if that enemy came with lights in the dark.

  When the sun had set but there was still a little light left in the sky, Mustafa left the camels he had been driving to the care of those whose proper task it was. There were sentries all along the rim of the camp, and troops of guards roving as far afield as the terrain allowed. Mustafa, wrapped in his dusty djellaba, with the two Bedouin soft-footed behind, crept out as he had crept in.

  They almost eluded the guards. Young Ali’s misstep betrayed them: he slipped in the last of the light and sent a fall of rock down the slope onto a guard’s head. Daoud bolted like a rabbit, full on a waiting spear. Ali had better luck; he disappeared into the dark. Mustafa tried, but there was a guard at every turn.

  He circled, a dagger in each hand. One of the guards had ripped the djellaba from him; another had lit a torch, the better to see the fight. They were treating it as sport, laughing and mocking him in one of the more guttural Turkish dialects. The sight of his face made them whistle and whoop. Flower of steel, they called him, and Beauty in the night.

  It was unlikely that they knew he was a spy for the Franks. A caravaneer might be fool enough to go wandering about after dark, and these men were not above a little casual rape.

  Wrath howled out of the night, a whirlwind of deadly steel. Blood sprayed black-crimson in the torchlight. Turks shrieked and died. An iron hand heaved Mustafa up and flung him over a saddlebow. He clung blindly as the horse reared and spun.

  When the world went still again, the camp was out of sight. Mustafa’s captor let his horse fall from a flat gallop to a jarring trot, then a walk and a hard-breathing halt. Others came up around him, maybe a dozen from the sound of them.

  “Well, men,” said Richard in a voice meant to carry no farther than the circle, “we’ve got what we came for. First one back to camp wins his pick of the loaded camels.”

  Grins flashed in starlight. Richard’s was as wide as any. Mustafa clutched the saddle before he could be flung off into space.

  They did not go far. A little distance down the wadi, which the caravan’s scouts had been sure was free of enemies, Richard’s army was making its stealthy way toward the caravan. He stopped in the midst of it and set Mustafa dizzily on his feet, stripping off the djellaba that had concealed him. He was dressed in mail beneath.

  There was water for Mustafa, and bread that must have been baked the morning before. He had eaten in the caravan and drunk water from the cistern, but he had learned never to refuse a meal: Allah knew when he would find another.

  Richard would have sent him back to Blanchegarde. That was ridiculous; he pretended not to hear. He persuaded the master of horse to give him a mount and the master of arms to equip him with a Turcopole’s weapons, and joined the march, back the way he had come.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The caravan woke before dawn, secure in the conviction that the terrible Malik Ric was at least a day’s journey away. No one had found the slain guards: Richard’s men had hidden their bodies too well. As far as anyone in the caravan knew, they were safe from him.

  After the first prayer of the day, as the last of the camels was loaded and driven protesting into the line, he attacked.

  His forces boiled up out of the wadi and scattered the caravan like a flock of geese. The guards were caught completely by surprise. Some were not yet mounted, some not even armed. The scouts who should have warned them were lying in the wadi with their heads hacked from their shoulders.

  Aslam on the mountain was better prepared, but even he had not expected so sudden or so devastating an attack. He scrambled his men together and sent them charging down from the heights, howling the praises of Allah.

  Richard’s Franks laughed at them. They had no help; no reinforcements. Every one of the caravan’s guards had fled. Falak al-Din did not even try to stop them. He was leading the rout, bolting back toward Egypt.

  Mustafa clung to Richard’s shadow. He was everywhere on the field, rounding up horses and mules and camels, cutting down guards who were too slow to escape and gleefully overseeing the taking of the spoils. They were rich beyond conceiving. Gold and silver, silk of Byzantium and of Ch’in, jewels in glowing profusion; sugar, spices, wheat and barley, tents and cured leather and weapons innumerable. There was enough here for a long siege in Jerusalem, with every comfort for the besieged; and Richard had won it with hardly a drop of Frankish blood spilled.

  He kept a tight rein on the looting. Men who fought over spoils found themselves staring down the length of a sword into the king’s cold eyes. Those who stood guard would have their share. They were needed: Aslam, though vastly outnumbered, would not give up. His Turks harried the line with sudden charges and showers of arrows from their short strong bows.

  Mustafa had taken all he needed: a bag of rubies and sapphires that fit tidily in his purse, a beautifully balanced sword of Indian steel, and a coat of crimson silk that caught his eye irresistibly. He folded it and laid it in his saddlebag, and went to try the sword on Turkish necks.

  Aslam had divided his forces in three. Two ran along the edges of the Frankish line. The third kept the advantage of the high ground. They had their eye on Richard, with growing frustration as he refused to stop in any one place. He was too wily to make himself a stationary target.

  The caravan was so large, the spoils so rich, that after the first spate of exuberance the Franks simply rounded up the beasts of burden and began to drive them back toward Blanchegarde. They did not trouble to open the packs and bales; they would do that when they were safe in guarded walls.

  Aslam’s men harried them, but the Turcopole archers shot them down one by one. Mustafa accounted for three that he knew of, before a prickle in his spine sent him back toward Richard.

  The king was herding Frenchmen. They were not as well in control of their greed as the English and the Syrians; they kept wanting to stop and crow over their conquests.

  Duke Hugh was not there to restrain them. He had neatly cut off his third of the caravan, counting beasts of burden while his clerks reckoned the tally of their burdens. They were already on their way to the castle.

  These were stragglers and heedless looters, as likely to seize a prize from one of their own as from a hapless caravaneer. Richard drove them like cattle, laying about him with the flat of his sword. Those that fled, his personal guard disposed of as if they had been the enemy.

  Mustafa knew better than to risk killing a Frank, even one who was stealing from his own countrymen. He drifted back toward the edges of the now diminished line, keeping a wary eye on the Turks above. They would have to charge soon, if they were going to charge at all.

  Richard appeared beside him, as sudden as one of Sioned’s jinn. His helm was at his saddlebow, his eyes narrowed as he took the measure of the men on the mountain. He said nothing, but his glance brought in a score of his knights, fully armed on their heavy destriers. With them came thrice that number of crossbowmen, heavy weapons up and cocked, ready to loose t
he bolts on any Turk mad enough to venture the charge.

  Aslam’s sword swept up, then down. “Allah!” he shrilled. “Allah-il-allah!”

  “Deus lo volt!” Richard thundered back, with his men behind him in a rolling echo.

  The Franks were the rock, the Turks the tide: dashing upon them, swirling and recoiling, coming back again and again in desperate search for an opening anywhere in the line. It was a wall of steel, spitting crossbow bolts, rolling inexorably over the faster, more agile, but far lighter and less well-armed Turks—and even at that, the Turcopoles could match them speed for speed and twist for twist.

  Aslam had done his best, but his mode of fighting was not suited to a severely outnumbered force, even with the dubious advantage of higher ground. His drums beat the retreat.

  But Richard was in no mood to let this enemy escape. He unleashed everything at once: crossbowmen, light horsemen, and the devastating charge of the knights. They rolled over Aslam’s men and crushed them.

  Richard was at the head of the charge, his golden stallion making nothing of the steep stony ground. Aslam’s mare was faster and less heavily burdened, but she caught her foot on a stone and went to her knees. Richard was on her before she could rise again. Aslam blocked the sweep of the heavy broadsword, but his blade cracked and shattered. Richard’s second blow hacked through his neck, cleaving it in a single and well-practiced stroke.

  Richard caught the head as it fell, eluding the fountain of blood, and hung it by the long plaits from his saddlebow. The eyes were still alive; Mustafa, still in Richard’s shadow, was transfixed. That instant of shock nearly cost him his life. Only his mount’s sudden veer and shy and his reflexive parry kept him from sharing Aslam’s fate.

  The Turk who would have killed him joined Aslam in death, but his head stayed where it fell. Richard was not collecting heads today, now that he had Aslam’s.

  Mustafa, shaken into full alertness, accounted for two more Turks. Then there was none. The hillside was littered with the corpses of men and horses; the caravan was a cloud of dust rolling toward Blanchegarde. There was no Turk left alive. All of Aslam’s men were dead, killed in the battle. They would dine in Paradise—quite unlike the caravan guards, who if they were lucky would come back alive to Egypt, and who if they were not, would find themselves in the hell of cowards.

  Richard paused on the summit where Aslam’s camp had been. A fire or two still smoldered there, and oddments were scattered about, bits of belongings that the Franks had not seen fit to take away. He swung from the saddle and stooped, stiff in his mail, and took up a tassel cut from a horse’s bridle. It was a particularly beautiful shade of blue, with an amulet woven in it, a charm against the evil eye.

  On a whim he tried to braid it into his stallion’s forelock. His fingers were swollen with heat and exertion; they were not as deft as they usually were. Mustafa took the tassel from him before he could cast it off in frustration, and plaited it neatly between the stallion’s eyes. Fauvel was sweet-natured, for a stallion; he rested his broad forehead against Mustafa’s breast and sighed. He knew he was protected, as any wise horse would.

  Mustafa smoothed the pale mane on the golden neck and smiled at Richard. “A fine victory,” he said.

  Richard’s temper melted away before a broad and exuberant grin. “Isn’t it? Isn’t it glorious? Have you ever seen such a caravan?”

  “Not in all my days,” Mustafa said.

  “Ah,” said Richard, cuffing him lightly. “What are you, eighteen, nineteen? You’re a child. I’m twice your age, and I’ve never seen the like.”

  Mustafa did not remember how old he was. He supposed he was nineteen. Maybe twenty. It did not matter. Richard had won, and so had he.

  “It’s thanks to you we did it,” Richard said. “You’ll be rewarded—no, don’t shake your head! Of course you deserve anything you can ask for. But don’t ask now. Wait, and think about it. Later you can tell me.”

  That suited Mustafa, for whom later could stretch into never. He found himself holding Fauvel’s rein while Richard strode through the remnants of the camp, rounding up his men and sending them toward Blanchegarde.

  Mustafa took both his own horse and Richard’s down the hill to the cistern and let them drink. In a little while Richard came down. He was alone but for a squire; the rest of his men were on the road.

  “Mustafa,” he said in a tone that made Mustafa’s brow arch. “I’ve another great favor to ask you. You can refuse—I won’t force you. Will you take word of this to my mother, and tell her everything? This is a victory she should share. Tell her that when she comes to me in Jerusalem, I’ll heap her with jewels and gold and wrap her in silk.”

  Mustafa bowed. He was no more enamored of the dread queen than he had ever been, but he could not refuse Richard anything. This time, he thought, she would actually be glad to see him—once she heard the news he brought.

  “Take this with you,” Richard said, pulling a ring from his finger. It was a signet, a ruby carved with the leopards of his line. Mustafa took it and kissed it and laid it away in his purse, safe beside the little bag of jewels. Richard embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks. “Bless you,” he said, “and ride quickly. Take remounts from Blanchegarde—whatever you need.”

  Mustafa bowed again and murmured thanks. His mare was waiting, fresh enough for the journey to the castle, and even a little impatient. She did not like to stand about when there was a race to be run. He sprang into the saddle, saluted Richard, and gave the mare her head.

  Queen Eleanor was indeed pleased to hear of her son’s victory—so much so that she gave Mustafa a bed to sleep in and a page to wait on him, and a gift of gold that he could not in courtesy refuse. He kept a little of that, enough for such needs as he had, and gave the rest to beggars on the road as he made his way back to his king. They all praised him lavishly and showered blessings on his head, wishing him a life of good fortune.

  He was feeling very fortunate as he came back to the camp at Beit Nuba. Henry had come at last, and the camp had more than doubled in size; Mustafa had to pause at the edge of it to get his bearings.

  He was wearing the desert robes that he most often wore when he went out spying, both because they were practical and because they attracted no suspicion among the people of this country. They were a small difficulty in meeting Frankish sentries, but he had Richard’s ring, which had won him through to the queen and brought him back intact to the king’s camp. He expected no trouble once the guards had seen that; at worst they would drag him off to Richard, or to one of Richard’s generals, all of whom knew him perfectly well.

  These guards were French, and not friendly. They examined Richard’s ring from every angle, and called in their captain to aver that yes, its carving did look like the Plantagenet leopards. They found his little hoard of gold, too, and his jewels in their silken bag. “Thief of a Turk,” one of them muttered, not caring that Mustafa could understand.

  Mustafa kept a steady grip on his patience. “Take me to the king,” he said. “I’ve come from the queen in Tyre; he’ll be wanting to see me.”

  “Oh, he’ll want to see you,” said the captain with a little too much relish. He nodded to the guards who held Mustafa between them. They pulled his arms behind him, not gently, and bound them with cords that cut even through the sleeves of his robe.

  He gritted his teeth and endured. This was not the first time he had been brought in like a felon. He had learned not to protest, and never to struggle. The quieter he was, the fewer bruises he would earn before he saw the king.

  They quick-marched him through a part of the camp that had been bare hillside and thorny scrub when last he saw it. Richard’s tent was down below in the shelter of the valley, with his leopard banner flying from it, silken image of the ring that resided now, with Mustafa’s bit of wealth, in the captain’s purse. Richard was in residence, then, and not out on one of his raids.

  Mustafa’s captors took him not to the king’s tent but to one p
itched on a hill that looked toward another, higher hill. That one was called Montjoie, because from it one could see Jerusalem.

  This was a great lord’s tent, larger and richer than the king’s. It had come from the caravan; Mustafa recognized it. Falak al-Din had settled into it the night before he lost everything.

  Now the Duke of Burgundy had taken it and filled it with spoils. He was entertaining several of his countrymen, among them a bishop who crossed himself at sight of Mustafa.

  Mustafa could not bow; he was bound too tightly. But they had not gagged him. “Messire,” he said in his best and most lucid French, “the king is waiting for the messages I bring. If you would send me to him—”

  “Yes,” said the duke. “The king waits.” He inclined his head to his guests. “If you will pardon me, my lords . . .”

  They could hardly do otherwise under his grim stare. The bishop seemed vastly gratified, although for what reason Mustafa could not tell. He was beginning to wonder if he should worry. Something was odd. The air had a sharp tinge to it, like brimstone. But it had nothing to do with magic. This was pure human malice.

  There were men waiting in a tent near the duke’s, with instruments that made Mustafa forget his determination not to struggle.

  “You have been accused,” the duke said, “of treason against the king and the army of the Crusade.”

  Mustafa’s heart was hammering so hard that he was dizzy. His breath came in gasps. And yet he could not help but laugh. “Treason? For being the king’s messenger?”

  “You have spied on us on the enemy’s behalf. Some say you serve the sultan. I wonder,” said the duke, “whether it may not be another whom you serve. You were in Tyre, were you not, when the marquis was murdered?”

  “I do not serve that one,” Mustafa said through clenched teeth. “I serve the king, and only the king. I was in Tyre on his business and that of his mother—as you well know, my lord. Who accuses me? Does the king know?”