Dressed in flowing black robes edged with gold filigree, and wearing a turban of glistening Damascus cloth, he was the very embodiment of princely nobility. Slender and tall, his trim waist wrapped in a wide cloth belt into which had been bound a long curved dagger with a ruby handle and golden sheath, he swept across the room to her in bold, eager strides, and greeted her with a kiss on both hands.
Sensing her petulance, he smiled with wry amusement, clapped his hands and, in the manner of a sorcerer demonstrating a wonder, cried a word in Arabic which sounded like: 'Haydee!'
Doors at the far end of the empty chamber were flung open and a succession of white-turbaned servants appeared. First came four men carrying iron standards, one in each hand; on each standard a candletree burned with ten lit candles. Hard on the heels of these first came four more men, carrying a lengthy roll of scarlet-and-blue figured carpet, which they placed at one end of the room and proceeded to unroll to the other; before they had reached the end, four more serving men appeared bearing enormous satin cushions on their heads, and a smaller carpet roll under their arms. No sooner had the first servants finished, than the second rank unrolled their rug in the centre of the carpet, and placed the cushions on it.
Meanwhile, two more servants had entered carrying a low table between them, which they placed before the cushions. Scarcely had these departed when the first returned pushing gigantic pots of hammered brass containing miniature palm trees on wheeled platforms. Additional tables appeared, and more plants and live greenery in beaten brass containers, until the room began to take on the aspect of an Arabian garden. Then followed satin-covered chests and carved wooden boxes of various shapes and sizes; three flaming charcoal braziers and two cauldron-shaped copper incense burners; and a three-panel pierced screen made of rosewood, which was set up behind the bank of cushions; and an enormous brass gong.
Lastly, a canopy of blue silk was placed over the table and the candles arranged around it to bathe the diners in a golden glow of gently flickering light. Cait was captivated by the speed with which the transformation was effected, and by the wonderful result. In her excitement, she kissed the prince lightly on the cheek.
Five musicians appeared, arranged themselves and their instruments at a discreet distance from the canopy, and began to play. As the softly swaying melody filled the air, Hasan lifted his hand and declared, 'This is how a true Prince of the Orient lives. Wherever he goes – whether to dine, or sleep, or,' he paused, taking Cait's hand, 'to receive his honoured guests-the noble Arab has only to command, and his naked word is transmuted into magnificence and splendour.
'But come,' he said, leading her to the bank of cushions, 'let us sit and take our ease. I have arranged food and entertainment for your pleasure. Tonight, darling Ketmia, you will sample delicacies to make the angels envious.'
'Will Danji be joining us?' she asked. 'Or Rognvald?'
'No, not tonight.' He smiled, his black eyes glinting in the candlelight. 'Tonight, my love, we spend together, you and I.'
Cait felt a quiver of illicit excitement at the implications of his declaration, but suddenly the skin at the nape of her neck crawled. A sensation of dread descended over her, and she felt as if she had just seen a snake. At any other time, this reaction would have warned her. Now, however, it irritated her. Where, she demanded of herself, was the danger?
She told herself that Prince Hasan was an admirable and generous host, a thoughtful and trustworthy friend; he was elegant, wealthy, and refined. He had already demonstrated his loyalty to her in his vow to save her sister, and now he spoke his love. No man, until now, had ever called her beautiful; to be thought so thrilled her in a way she could not have imagined. Who else had ever said the things to her that Hasan had said? A woman might search all her life for such a man and never find him. And here he was beside her, bidding her to take her ease and join him in a night of pleasure and delight.
And yet, the prospect, for all its seductive charm, produced not the rapturous warmth of mutual regard, but a thin, icy tingle of danger. She saw Hasan's smile, and it was the corpse-like grin of death.
Why should this be? Why should his loving declaration raise such dread?
As she walked to the table and sank down on to the satin cushions, she determined to ignore the warning sensations and enjoy the evening to the full. Firmly, and with an air of defiant indulgence, she pushed all such unpleasantness from her and wilfully embraced the prince's invitation to luxuriate in the warmth of their new-kindled affection.
Folding her legs beneath her, she reclined on an elbow while the prince, taking up a leather-tipped mallet, struck the gong twice. Before the sound had faded, the door opened and serving maids appeared-two of them with trays, one bearing a jar and two gold chalices, and one a selection of silver bowls. While one of the serving maids placed the bowls on the table, the other poured the wine.
'There is good news,' said the prince, watching the dark wine splash into the golden cups. 'The storm abated somewhat at midday, so I was able to send Halhuli and some of my men to take word of my offer to the settlements. It will not be long, I think, before we hear word of his whereabouts.'
'Oh, that is good news. Thank you, my lord. I owe you a debt of gratitude.'
'It is my pleasure to serve you, my sweet Ketmia,' said Hasan, passing her a cup. 'Let us drink to a splendid and glorious future together.'
Cait accepted the cup without hesitation and thus began a night of such intimacy and tenderness that when she finally rose to return to her quarters, she felt as if she were leaving part of herself behind.
Now, in the thin morning light, as she lay in bed still floating on the ebullient tide of emotion, she experienced the first faint twinges of regret. Outside, the storm rampaged with renewed vigour. She could hear the gale-driven sleet and snow rattling against the windows, and the wind booming and bellowing as it hurled itself against the walls in waves like a raging ocean swell.
She pushed any thoughts of reproach or misgiving firmly aside and got out of bed. Her serving maids had risen and were waiting to dress her, and adorn her hair. When they were finished, she went out to find Rognvald to tell him that he need not worry about resuming the search.
She found him, along with Svein, Dag, Yngvar and the two Spanish knights hurrying across the snowy courtyard to the stables. They were dressed in heavy skins, wool, and leather, and carried bags of provisions on their backs. At her call, the tall knight sent the others on, and returned to hear what she had to say.
'The horses are saddled. We have provisions enough for three days on the trail. With God's help we will return before then.'
'But the storm still rages.'
'And it may continue for several more days before it is finished. We have already lost three days, we dare not waste any more.'
'There is no need,' she said lightly. 'The prince has already sent word to the settlements. We have only to wait and Ali Waqqar will soon bring Alethea to us.'
'I beg your pardon, my lady, but I do not think it wise to abandon the search.'
'Now you are just being stubborn,' she told him.
'And you are being gulled by a man used to having every whim satisfied,' he replied, straining to keep his tone even. 'Mark me, a dalliance with a man like Hasan can only end in misery.'
'How dare you come high-handed with me!' she charged, instantly furious with him. 'And I will thank you not to speak of our benefactor in that coarse and insinuating way.'
'Benefactor?' Rognvald dismissed the notion with a scornful laugh. 'That man only thinks to benefit himself. I should have thought a woman of your discernment would recognize a poisonous snake when she saw one.'
'Take that back!' she snapped. 'Hasan has treated me with more respect and esteem than any man I have ever met. He is a prince in both word and deed, and a nobleman worthy of the name.'
'Is he?' the knight challenged. 'Is he indeed? Then consider this: do you not think it strange how this noble man seems to know such a great deal ab
out the price of slaves in Tunis?'
'What of that?' Cait countered waspishly. 'Even /know the ransom price of a pig-headed knight rescued from a Damascus prison.'
Rognvald glared at her, his mouth a firm, hard line, his blue eyes bright with cold fire.
'Nothing else to say, my lord?'
'Sneering does not become a lady.'
'Nor does petty spite and envy appear more seemly in a man,' she retorted. 'If you could keep your contemptible observations to yourself, I would count it a blessing.'
Still glaring, he made a curt bow. 'As you will. Pray give my regards to your prince; my men and I will resume the search for Abu and your sister.'
'Then go – for all the good it will do!'
He stepped quickly to the door and paused. 'I made a vow before God,' he said in solemn earnest, then hurried out into the storm.
Furious still, and determined not to allow him the satisfaction of the last word, she dashed to the open door and shouted after the swiftly retreating figure. 'Hasan is twice the man you are!'
Her words were lost in the rattling howl of the wind. Rognvald walked on, and the sleety snow soon took him from view. She turned to the door and, pushing with all her might, slammed it shut with a booming thump; the sound brought the two porters on the run. They admonished her in rapid Arabic, but she paid no heed and stalked off, leaving them to wipe up the puddle of melted sleet on the floor.
Seething inside, she stormed along the deserted corridors of the al-qazr, smacking her fist against the wall now and then, and cursing Rognvald's insufferable insolence. She swore on her soul that she had never known a more vexatious and annoying man.
She did not know which was the more irksome-the Norwegian lord himself, or the fact that, impudent as he undoubtedly was, he was also right: a dalliance with the prince could bring serious, not to say disastrous, consequences.
Not yet ready to admit as much, Cait dismissed the thought from her mind and made her way back to the women's quarters without pausing to summon Jubayar to escort her. Presently, she reached the covered courtyard and paused at the fountain to look at the water lilies and chide herself for being so angry with Rognvald.
She was gazing at her own glum reflection in the water when she heard the soft brush of a light step on the gallery above, and glanced up to see Hasan's sister Danji watching her intently. Forcing a smile, she raised her hand in greeting, and drew breath to speak. Before she could utter a word, however, the young woman silenced her with a frantic gesture, and motioned for her to come up on to the upper gallery.
Glancing around quickly to make certain they were unobserved, Cait hurried up the stairs only to find that Danji had moved on. She was standing a few paces away, and as Cait made to join her she disappeared through a door leading to one of the inner chambers. Uncertain what to do, Cait hesitated, and a moment later Danji's hand appeared, beckoning her on.
Cait hastened to the door, which was open, and stepped inside; the room was cold and dark, the only light coming from a small window covered by a heavy grill. With a look of intrigue that sent a quiver of complicity racing through Cait, the young woman pulled her into the room and closed the door behind her. She then moved to the window and motioned for Cait to follow.
'I must speak to you,' Danji said. 'But we must never be seen together.' Her voice trembled, but whether with fright or cold, Cait could not tell. 'Promise me you will tell no one.'
'You can speak Latin,' said Cait.
'You must promise,' Danji insisted. 'Now. This instant-or I will tell you nothing.'
'I do promise. I will tell no one what passes between us,' she agreed firmly.
'Very well. Do not think me unkind, but you must leave here at once. It is not safe.' She gripped Cait's arm for emphasis. 'You must believe me.'
'Why? What is wrong, Danji?'
Glancing around as if she feared they would be overheard, Danji shook her head. 'I can say no more.'
'Why must I leave?'
'You are in danger.' She edged closer to the door.
Cait held her. 'Tell me why? Where is the danger?'
'Please, I can say no more. He would kill me if he found out I spoke to you.' Danji moved quickly to the door.
Cait followed. 'Who?' she asked, but received no reply. Clearly she would get no more from the frightened woman this way, and decided to try another approach. 'No harm will come to you,' she said, trying to reassure her. 'I thought Hasan said you could not speak Latin.'
'Hasan says many things,' the young woman replied. 'He said also that I was his sister.'
'Are you not?'
'No.' Opening the door a crack, Danji peered out to see if anyone was watching. As she stepped out on to the gallery, she looked back over her shoulder. 'I am not his sister,' she whispered. 'I am his wife.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
'In Anjou before the snow,' muttered Renaud de Bracineaux thickly as he stared at the muddy track before him; white-topped mountains in the distance seemed to be holding up a sky like rumpled grey wool. 'Winter at your estate-that is what you said.' He spat into a puddle.
'I blame the emperor,' the baron replied indifferently. 'If we had not been made to lavish attendance on his silly cow of a niece, we would have been there and back by now.'
De Bracineaux continued as if he had not heard, 'Not to mention the priest disappearing.'
'Ho, now! I will not have that laid at my feet,' d'Anjou objected. 'Anything might have happened to him. Wild animals might have got him for all we know.'
'God's teeth,' snarled the Templar, 'it was that damnable woman! And that is another thing you were wrong about.' He regarded the man on the horse beside him with rank disgust. 'I am curious. Tell me, d'Anjou, have you ever been right about anything in your life?'
Sergeant Gislebert reined up just then. 'The company is ready, commander.'
De Bracineaux cast a glance at the long double rank of troops and pack animals and wagons. The knights sat hump-shouldered on their mounts; hooded, their once-white surcoats now brown with mud, they looked like the ruined remnant of a vanquished army. Turning away abruptly, the commander looked again at the low, sullen sky as rain began to spatter on the mud-slick road. 'Let us make a start,' he said. 'God knows we will not get far today.' Raising a hand, he signalled the columns to move forward, and they rode on into another day of drizzle and cold.
At midday, they stopped at the ford of a swift-running stream to rest and water the horses. While there, the scouts who had been sent out the previous day returned. The commander met them as they rode in. 'Well?' he said, impatience making him sharp.
'We have found something, my lord,' said one of the Templars. 'We think you should take a look.'
'What is it?'
'Remains of a camp,' said the second knight.
'How far?'
'Not far. We can be there by nightfall.'
De Bracineaux accepted this estimate without comment. He turned to Gislebert. 'Get fresh mounts for these men,' he ordered. 'And have one of the cooks prepare them something to eat. I want to be ready to move on as soon as the horses are watered.'
Until now, the trail had not been difficult to follow. The abbot of Logrono reported having spoken to a foreign knight, and having attempted to dissuade him and his party from continuing their journey. At Milagro and Carcastillo, the villagers told them that yes, of course, a party of knights passed through; they stopped and worked in exchange for bacon, flour, oats, and such. Yes, they said, there were women with them, and a priest. They stayed a few days and then departed, heading north and east along the river.
The Templars followed the river, too, and when the settlements grew so far apart and so far off the trail to be dependable sources of information, de Bracineaux took to sending out scouts. The trail was old, but the scouts were expert trackers, so the Templars slowly followed their quarry further and further into Aragon's high, empty hills.
With the approach of winter, the wind and rain and occasional frost had begun
making the thieves' trail increasingly difficult to raise. For the last two days, they had journeyed on without clear indication that they were still in productive pursuit. Now, however, the scouts had turned up another clue to help them continue the search a little longer.
Even so, de Bracineaux knew not to allow himself to become too overjoyed by this development. Winter was coming to the high country, and if he did not discover where the priest was leading his band of thieves before it fell, he might never find them. The thought that they might yet escape his grasp filled him with an icy and implacable rage that drove him on.
By the time they reached the place the scouts had marked, the day had ended in a damp gloom which descended over the rain-soaked track like a curtain. 'We can see nothing now,' said de Bracineaux. 'Set up camp down there,' he pointed back down the trail to where the troops were waiting. 'If there is anything to see, I do not want it trampled into the mud. We will give the place a thorough inspection as soon as it is light.'
The tents were raised and the evening meal prepared in the rain and dark-five tents with four men each for the knights, one for the commander, and one for the baron. When space permitted, they clustered the tents around two or three large campfires which both warmed them and dried their sodden clothes. This night, however, because of the trees and thick underbrush they strung them in a line along the track, and had to rely on small campfires before each tent; there was little warmth, and no one went to sleep in a dry cloak or boots.
The next morning dawned clear and, while the sergeant oversaw the troops as they prepared to resume the journey, de Bracineaux, d'Anjou, and the two scouts rode up to the abandoned campsite. Dismounting a few score paces away, de Bracineaux walked to where the fire had burned. He squatted down and looked at the ground inside the fire ring. The ashes had been washed away by numerous rains; all that remained was a milky-grey puddle and a few unburned ends of branches, with a small pile of sticks stacked beside the ring of stone.
The mystic rose cc-3 Page 30
