by Tony Roberts
A few servants hovered in the background, ready to bring yet another course to the table, usually signaled by Reynauld throwing the remains of his current course onto the floor for the dogs to eat. The Lord of Kerak belched again and glanced once more at the silent figure opposite him. “You are not eating, Lady Eleanor. Have you no appetite?”
Eleanor, pale of face and dark of hair, looked up, her brown eyes fixed on the grease-stained beard of her host. “I am not, Lord Reynauld. Please continue with your meal.”
Reynauld looked at her untouched plate and smiled. “Maybe I should have invited my wife to attend the meal, then you would have someone else to converse with!”
Eleanor smiled wanly and returned her gaze to the table top. She had not wished to travel across the southern portion of the Crusader state to this forbidding castle but her father had insisted she come with him, even going as far as to supply an armed escort and two servants, something the relatively poor man could hardly afford. She went, unwilling and wondering why she had to travel across the desert to the furthest flung outpost of Christianity.
Reynauld was married, but he didn’t care for his wife. He had loved a woman once, and married her, but she had died while he had been captive in a Muslim dungeon, and his hatred of the Muslims had intensified to an all-consuming passion. He despised the peace-loving clique at court who wished to co-exist with their Islamic neighbors. Pah! Death to the bastards.
After his release he’d quickly married his current wife, the heiress to Kerak, for the lands and castle. He hardly saw the woman now and they slept in separate beds, so much the better. He could ravage any wench he desired and this one was ripe for the plucking. He smiled to himself at his suggestion that his wife accompany the Lord de Beaucaire on a tour of the lands of Kerak, and of course they had been escorted by most of the Beaucaire retinue as well as a company of Reynauld’s best troops, leaving behind the Lady Eleanor, two of her servants and the rest of the garrison.
He judged the time was ripe and rose from the table, adjusting his leather belt so that it fitted more comfortably across his stomach. Eleanor stood too, mainly out of manners rather than anything else, and warily eyed the leering man of action opposite her. “Thank you for your company, Lady Eleanor,” Reynauld smiled, “even if your appetite was absent. I shall escort you to your quarters where you may rest until your father returns.”
Eleanor felt a wave of alarm sweep through her for a moment before curtseying and leading the Lord of Kerak up the stone staircase that led off the banqueting hall to the next floor and the guest rooms. A stone floored corridor ran the length of the wing with doors to the left; the right-hand wall contained arrow slits that looked out onto the countryside a long way down. Outside the third door Eleanor paused, and smiled faintly. “You have been a gracious host, Lord Reynauld. I thank you.”
Reynauld chuckled. “My lady, that is nothing as to what I am about to show you.” He opened the door and propelled a startled Eleanor into the room beyond, then followed, shutting the door behind him.
Eleanor regained her balance and turned, her eyes wide with fear. “Lord Reynauld!”
Reynauld unfastened his belt but held onto one end and pulled his grease-stained tunic over his head with one huge paw. “My lady, I am about to show you what it is to be laid by a man, something I hope you’ll remember for a long time!”
Eleanor backed away, shaking her head in bewilderment and terror. Reynauld was advancing on her, cornering her by the bedside table. The young woman wondered where her maid servants were, not knowing they had been sent to the kitchens by Reynauld to help prepare the evening meal. She tried to run past her captor but she was easily held and pushed roughly onto the bed, her face sinking into the surface. Her voice was muffled by the blankets and she felt her dress being pulled roughly up and her bottom revealed to the heavily breathing man.
Reynauld growled in pleasure at the sight of her pert ass; not a trace of fat or blemish on the smooth white skin. Untouched. Good, he’d change that. Eleanor pounded her feet into Reynauld’s chest as she tried to wriggle free, so he slapped her bottom hard, bringing a squeal of pain from the woman. Laughing, he deftly wrapped his belt around her left wrist, pulled her other wrist across, trapped that one too and then swung her round and entwined the remainder of the belt around one of the bed posts.
Eleanor, now face to face with her tormentor, pleaded to be released. Reynauld shook his head. “Oh no, my young beauty, not until I’ve given you a damned good rutting first!”
He gripped the front of her dress and ripped it from top to bottom, tearing the material off her body. The undergarments were thus exposed and Reynauld had them off in a trice. Eleanor’s breasts bounced free, ripe and full, and Reynauld took both in his hands and began squeezing and rubbing. “By God, these are a pair of beauties!” Eleanor shut her eyes and turned her head to one side, sobbing in pain and shame. Her hands were held fast by the leather belt and no matter how she tugged and pulled it would not free them. Now she felt her legs being pulled apart and she fought and struggled, screaming in terror. Although only fifteen she had a fair idea of what was going to occur and she didn’t want that.
Reynauld cracked the flat of his palm across her cheek. “Shut up you slut! I’ll knock you senseless and have you all the same, if you prefer!”
Eleanor cried uncontrollably, whimpering for her father as her legs were separated and she felt Reynauld’s thighs inside her’s. “Now my little flower, I’m going to use my plow share to fertilize you.”
Grinning obscenely, Reynauld pressed his loins against her pubic region and rubbed them back and forth. Eleanor wanted to pass out. The pain from his slap still stung and her wrists were afire. His weight pressed down on her and she shut her eyes, trying to shut out what was happening to her.
The door hammered insistently and Reynauld swore. “I’m busy!” he shouted.
“Sire, a messenger has arrived from Jerusalem! Your presence is requested at the General Council!” came the voice of his guard captain from the other side.
“The Council can wait!” Reynauld snarled, eyeing Eleanor’s milk white breasts with longing.
“But sire! Your wife is here, insisting she accompanies you to Jerusalem! She will be coming up to your room in a few moments!”
Reynauld swore again and pulled himself off the sobbing girl. “Alright, I’m coming!”
Eleanor breathed out loudly and felt her hands being unbound. She made no move to get up, being merely content to lie on the bed in utter relief. “If my wife hadn’t returned you would be enjoying the thrust of my cock. Don’t think you’ve gotten away with it, my little slut; I’ll be back to ravage you senseless. And don’t think of saying a thing to your father or I’ll hand him over to the Saracens bound hand and foot. Keep yourself ready for me; I’ll have my way with you whether you like it or not!”
The door was hauled open, then slammed shut as the Lord of Kerak exited in a royal rage, stamping down the corridor until the sound of his feet were gone. Now Eleanor began to shake, her wrists marked cruelly, and she sat up, crying into her hands, not noticing the arrival of her two maid servants who took one look and attended the shaking woman, reassuring her everything was fine.
Eleanor shook her head. Everything was not fine. That animal Reynauld would return to rape her and there was nothing she could do. She sobbed and sobbed, praying for a miracle to save her and her father.
CHAPTER SIX
The camel train stopped and Ben Asid beckoned Casca over to him. “Over there,” the merchant pointed, shading his eyes. “The Castle of Kerak and the domain of the dreaded Reynauld.”
Casca’s eyes followed the finger and he saw in the distance a huge crag of rock upon which sat a castle he’d never seen the likes of before. There were countless tall round towers and high curtain walls joining them all together, and in the middle of the lot stood a massive stone keep. It was enough to put off anyone who harbored designs on attacking it. “I see why it is feared” he m
uttered, just loud enough for Ben Asid to hear. “What about Reynauld?”
“Ah, what can this humble merchant say of a man of war? All I know he is a giant of a man with the courage of a lion, yet the cunning of a fox and the trustworthiness of a scorpion. He attacks defenseless caravans and dishonors women. It is said he hates the people of Islam with the passion of a buffalo in heat. No Arab is safe in his clutches.”
“Sounds like a hell of a man,” Casca commented, studying the castle. As he watched, a small group of people rode up the long twisting road that led to the immense gatehouse and vanished inside. “If this Reynauld is as nasty as you say, then something will have to be done about it. I don’t like the idea of anyone killing women for fun.”
Ben Asid nodded thoughtfully. “It will not be in our interest to come any closer, lest he sends his men out to slaughter us.” The merchant turned to the north and nodded in the direction of a range of low hills on the horizon. Scattered groves of trees offered some shade and here and there clumps of grass grew out of the sandy rock. The desert had given way to scrubland and here the land wasn’t as parched. “We must travel that way. Once we are over those hills we are on the road to Damascus and will be safe, for there lie the lands of Raymond of Tiberias, an honorable man, even of he is a Christian.”
Casca laughed. “That must be a compliment indeed, my friend.”
Ben Asid inclined his head. “Raymond is clever, trustworthy and wishes for peace, unlike the fool of Kerak. He keeps peace treaties and would never think of attacking a trade caravan.”
The merchant waved to the camel drivers and they resumed their journey, plodding along the bottom of a shallow and wide valley, marked with bones of previous victims of either drought or combat, human and animal. Heat shimmered up in waves from the baked rock and Casca wiped his brow before readjusting his head-dress and tried to keep the sun out of his eyes.
“Master!” one of the camel drivers pointed to the west, “riders come this way!”
They stopped again and sat up straight in their saddles to see three riders galloping away from the castle, heading in their direction. Behind them, at some distance but closing the gap, were a group of others. Casca reached down and pulled out his sword from his belt and turned to Ben Asid. “Get them moving again, Ben Asid, I sense trouble here. Give me three men and we’ll head off this trouble if we can.”
The merchant nodded and growled out a few commands in throat-scratching Arabic before waving to Casca and leaving him behind with three of his guards, dark-skinned hook-nosed Arabs who looked as though they could handle themselves. “Keep to me,” Casca said calmly and rode forward to the edge of a clump of boulders, keeping them between him and the approaching riders.
He could see the three riders clearly now but those behind, even though they were closing fairly swiftly, were obscured because of the dust being kicked up. Casca studied the leading rider, an armored rider dressed in chain mail that covered most of his body, save his face. Much of this was a one-piece hauberk that ended at mid-thigh and included arms and even gauntlets, which was something Casca hadn’t seen before, and his legs were covered by yet more chain armor, presumably tied at the back. A red cloth undergarment stuck out from his lower mail section, and on top of his head he wore a round topped helmet with a nose protective piece, very similar to those the Normans had worn. Over his mail he wore a red coat with designs of lilies in white, some kind of family insignia, Casca guessed.
Around his waist he wore a thin belt from which the inevitable sword hung, and this man kept on looking backwards in apprehension. His horse, a light brown mare, was blowing hard and Casca could see it was virtually out of breath. The man would have to stop very soon. With him were two others, one of whom was dressed in armor but of a more basic type and style, and was without any insignia, while the other was, to Casca’s surprise, a woman.
“Hail!” he shouted, one hand on his sword pommel.
The man in front reined in and eyed Casca and his three companions, seemingly surprised a man dressed in Arabic clothing had spoken French. Casca guessed French would be understood as many of the knights and soldiers in Outremer used it either as their first or if not then their second language.
Behind the three the cloud of dust neared and the sound of hooves reached Casca. “If you want to survive, come over to this side of the rocks,” he suggested to the leading man.
“Come,” the man snapped to the two others with him and led them through a narrow path to where Casca and his three Arabs were waiting. Eyes looked warily at each other and Casca for the first time could get a good look at the woman. Young, pretty, but looking very scared indeed. He was aware that the first man had turned and was alongside but had no time to exchange words for the pursuers had arrived and came skidding to a halt, no more than twenty feet away, right at the edge of the boulders. Dust billowed up and Casca shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them again and the dust thinned, so he could see his potential opponents.
Ten of them, in fact. Most of them a motley bunch of mounted soldiers carrying swords, spears or crossbows, all dressed in chain armor but each had similarly designed surcoats of white with red crosses on them. All were wearing beards except the leader, who was clean shaven and much more smartly dressed. He wore a conical helm with nose guard and his eyes were set deeply behind it. He studied Casca for a moment, looking him up and down, his expression hostile. Casca thought things might not be a hit with this guy. There was a cross on his white tunic but it was small and offset to the left, over his heart.
“Don’t interfere with Templar business”, the leader warned, pointing his un-gauntleted finger at Casca. “You Arabs will lie dead if you stop us taking these three back to the castle.”
Casca grinned. The speaker had spoken in perfect French, expecting these “Arabs” not to understand him. Beside him, he felt the fugitive stiffen in tension.
“What have they done to incur the wrath of the Templars?” Casca inquired mildly, enjoying the reaction of the Christians to his fluency. He hadn’t spoken French in nearly a century but it hadn’t altered much.
“You speak my language; good, then there is no misunderstanding then, Muslim!” the title was a slur, an insult. Casca grinned even more, infuriating the Templar.
“What’s so fucking funny?”
“The look on your peasant face,” Casca responded, “I think the most intelligent one there is your horse.”
The Templar opened his mouth in shock. “What did you say, Arab scum?”
“I’m not an Arab, you thick Provenҫal muck spreader. Now tell me what these people here have supposed to have done to incur your wrath?”
The Templars drew their swords, provoking Casca’s Arabs to do likewise. Next to Casca the well-dressed Crusader leaned sideways. “My name is Roland de Beaucaire, Lord of Beaucaire. My daughter has been insulted by the Lord of Kerak, Reynauld. We were fleeing from his, ah, ‘hospitality’ but unfortunately his men and these accursed Templars captured most of my retinue. We only just managed to escape ourselves. May I introduce my daughter Eleanor and my retainer Guillaume?”
Casca nodded to Guillaume, a hard-bitten warrior, if his appearance was any indicator. Guillaume was scowling, and his face covered in thick black stubble. Casca smiled at Eleanor but she still looked scared. “Rufus Longue,” he offered, preferring to hide his real name in case any of the Brotherhood were around, he couldn’t be sure. “Traveling through this land to Damascus as escort to an Arab trader. These are my guards,” he said as an afterthought, indicating the three tense Arabs who eyed the Templars with undisguised hatred.
The Templar leader spat on the ground. “I have no time for pleasantries, especially where traitors, heretics and filthy Arabs are concerned!”
“So your Lord defiles guests, does he?” Casca stated, his eyes moving from Eleanor back to the Templar leader. “I didn’t think Templars went in for that sort of thing; aren’t they supposed to be chaste?”
“He’s not a Templar
, and neither am I!”
“Well then what are you?” Casca snapped back, irritated by the man.
“I am Lord Reynauld’s guard captain. These men are Templar knights based in the castle, there by invitation of the Lord of Kerak. Now hand these fugitives over to me at once or you die!”
Casca turned to look directly at a shaking Eleanor. “If you go back you would be at Reynauld’s mercy once more, yes?” Eleanor nodded, her face white. He then looked squarely at her father. “And you, de Beaucaire? Your fate?”
De Beaucaire laughed mirthlessly. “Thrown off the battlements if I’m lucky. I’m a minor noble of no importance. I was being shown the estate when news of Reynauld’s summons to Jerusalem reached us and we returned to the castle to find my daughter in a state of shock and Reynauld raging like a caged bear; it seems the summons saved my daughter from a terrible ordeal. I took issue at once….”
“Silence, de Beaucaire!” the guard captain interrupted, his sword in his right fist, “you will surrender now or answer to the Lord of Kerak!”
“I’d rather die” de Beaucaire said through fixed teeth.
“Then you shall!” the captain yelled and screamed a war cry, waving his sword high. The Templars dug their spurs into their horses’ flanks and charged. But they found they couldn’t attack very far; the boulders provided an effective barrier, stopping their intended charge. Casca motioned to his three Arabs to take the Templar right while he and de Beaucaire moved in the other direction – towards the enemy left – and went for the captain.
They skirted the edge of the big boulders and closed in on the wheeling and confused Templars from two sides. Casca’s sword rang against the captain’s in his first attack. He followed up by hacking down at the man’s helm, striking a glancing blow. Casca’s mare was much more agile than the typical mount of a Crusader, a stallion. The bigger horse of the captain couldn’t charge or use its superior strength. Casca’s horse danced circles round it. De Beaucaire passed on the other side and scored a cut across the captain’s shoulder, causing him to lose a grip on his reins and his horse shied in fright.
