Enchantress

by Amy Sumida

  “I'm drawn to a man I should not care for,” Ayla finally said. “He's a Barbarian who worships the Christ-God and has no respect for the true path. I've never been so lost and unsure.”

  “Has your heart ever been untrue to you?” The Lady’s whisper was the cool night breeze.

  “Never,” Ayla said immediately.

  “Then why do you not trust it now?”

  “I'm afraid,” Ayla said simply.

  “Does your soul not remember him?” Umai moved her arm across the sky in a graceful arch and the stars coalesced, brightened, then softened, to show her Rannulf. His face changed but it was still him, she didn’t know how but she recognized him. Again and again it changed but every time it did, her heart knew it was him.

  “I remember,” Ayla said in awe as she stepped closer. Lifetimes of loving him, washed over her and her heart ached with the memories.

  “Be gentle with him, daughter,” the Goddess advised. “He has journeyed far for you.”

  “For me?” Ayla’s brow furrowed in confusion.

  “You've drawn him to Antioch,” Umai confirmed. “Not his faith or his holy war. Those are excuses for his mind to hold on to. You're his only need, someday he'll remember that.”

  “Someday?” Ayla’s fear returned.

  “He's forgotten the gods, in this life,” the Lady shook her head sadly. “Once, he stood beside you and served us, he knew the feeling of my magic and the power of my love, but now he's lost and you must bring him home, Ayla. Bring him back to us.”

  Ayla nodded in understanding.

  “I will,” Ayla vowed. A low rumbling shook the air around them and the Goddess looked back, over her shoulder.

  “My lover calls to me,” Umai said with a mischievous grin. “Gods and men, they are the same in love. They only appreciate the hard-won victory.” She laid a cool hand on Ayla’s brow. “There will come a time when you must leave him, in order to keep him.” The thunder started again. “They grow impatient, my God and your man. Return with my blessing, daughter.”

  The Goddess kissed her on the forehead and Ayla opened her eyes to find herself in Rannulf’s arms. He looked down at her with a worried expression that lessened only slightly when she smiled.

  “Are you well?” Rannulf asked as he stroked her hair back. “I found you lying here and you wouldn’t respond to my calls.”

  Ayla looked around and saw that she was back on the pallet before her altar and the sun was still high in the sky. The statue of the Goddess seemed to wink at her.

  “I’m fine,” Ayla said, smiling even bigger. “I was communing with the Goddess.”

  Rannulf frowned at her and followed her gaze to the altar. Thin wisps of incense still hung in the air around the statues and it played tricks on his eyes, giving the carvings the look of life that they couldn’t have had. A shiver went down his spine and he unknowingly clutched Ayla tighter to his chest.

  “Rannulf,” Ayla whispered his name and it made his heartbeat race.

  He looked back down at her and kissed her, forgetting the eerie statues and sweet smelling incense. For the first time, his desire for her was tempered by something else, something deeper and much more meaningful.

  He kissed her, wanting more than her body, needing a connection even more intimate. He laid down on the thick pelts beside her, then drew back to search her eyes. There was something there that he hadn’t seen before, a softening and an acceptance. He leaned his forehead down to hers and stroked both sides of her face with his hands as he covered her with his body.

  “What have you done to me?” He asked in wonder.

  “What do you mean?” Ayla countered, smiling a little.

  “My thoughts turn constantly to you,” he groaned. “I can’t get you out of my head and now it seems that you’ve crept down into my chest to take up residence there as well.”

  “I love you too,” Ayla laid her hand on his cheek and his eyes widened in surprise.

  “You do?” Rannulf pulled her up into a sitting position with him. “How is this possible?”

  “Love can't be explained or predicted,” Ayla laughed at him. “It happens without our permission.”

  “We're so different,” he frowned. “How can you love me?”

  “Maybe I love you because of our differences,” Ayla offered.

  “Or in spite of,” Rannulf finally smiled. “I love you, Ayla.”

  He leaned down and kissed her with all she'd made him feel.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Hours later, Rannulf finally left their chambers. Outside, he stared at the little golden bolt that would lock Ayla in. Why did he feel so wrong about using it? He frowned again and slid it into place. He couldn't afford to lose her now.

  After their mutual confession, Rannulf had carried Ayla to the bed. She was very weak and he didn’t trust her to walk. Her journey, as she called it, had taken a lot out of her. He was still worried about her recovery and a little upset that she had endangered herself by taking some Heathen potion. It had probably just given her wild dreams that she interpreted as visions. But, on some level, Rannulf was pleased she'd seen what she needed to in order to free herself to love him.

  Ayla loved him! The words repeated over and over in his head. When had she become so much more to him? When had she become everything? That she could love him in return was more than he could have ever hoped for. No one had ever loved him, not even his own mother, and he'd resigned himself to being alone. Now this magnificent woman had come into his life and saved him, in so many ways.

  He walked through the ornate corridors in a daze, until he passed by Bohemund’s room and heard shouting. He paused and knocked on the door. After a moment, Tancred answered. He was flushed and had a wild look about him.

  “Is there trouble I should know about?” Rannulf asked him.

  “Not really trouble,” Tancred said reassuringly as he stepped aside. “But you should probably come in and witness this.”

  Rannulf entered the vast chamber and saw six Armenians standing before Bohemund. On the floor before them was an open sack. Bohemund was smiling down at it. He looked up when Rannulf approached.

  “Rannulf,” he called. “It seems that Yaghi-Siyan has returned to us.”

  “Oh?” Rannulf went over to look into the bag, already knowing what he’d find. Sure enough, the sack contained the severed head of the room’s previous occupant. Rannulf pressed his lips together and looked away.

  “The Armenians have brought us some much needed supplies, along with treats such as this,” Bohemund smiled broadly.

  Bohemund handed the Armenians a heavy purse. The man he handed it to weighed it in his palm and nodded at his companions. They brushed by Rannulf on their way out; their long, dark robes smelling of sunshine and death.

  “Tancred,” Bohemund called. “Put this on a pike and display it on the palace wall.” Tancred walked over and took the sack from his Uncle. With a curt nod, he turned and walked out.

  “Is that necessary?” Rannulf looked back from the door to Bohemund.

  “Necessary?” Bohemund pursed his lips. “Probably not, but it’s amusing.”

  “You find a man’s severed head amusing?” Rannulf was completely disgusted by his friend.

  “When it’s an enemy whose chambers I now occupy and when I get to display said head from his old palace’s walls, the very defenses that kept him safe, then yes, I do find it amusing.” Bohemund laughed at his friend’s expression. “We all need our amusements, don’t we Rannulf.”

  “Meaning?” Rannulf raised an eyebrow at Bohemund’s insinuation.

  “How is our little enchantress?” Bohemund’s smile never wavered.

  “More than an amusement,” Rannulf narrowed his eyes at Bohemund.

  “Don’t tell me you're growing feelings for the witch,” Bohemund’s smile instantly disappeared.

  “She’s become special to me, yes,” Rannulf admitted.

  “You've not spent enough time with women,” Bohemund
scoffed. “If you would pay attention to them longer than it takes to get them into your bed, you'd know there is nothing special about that whore.”

  “She is no whore,” Rannulf’s stare became menacing and Bohemund withdrew a little.

  “How can you be so certain, my friend?” Bohemund held up his hand in supplication. He had never seen Rannulf act this way.

  “She has defended her virtue so far,” Rannulf was telling Bohemund more than he intended to.

  “You mean you haven’t bedded her?” Bohemund was aghast.

  “I’m not a man who enjoys bedding an unwilling woman.” Rannulf ground out.

  “This is exactly what I mean,” Bohemund threw his hands up in exasperation. “You don’t have enough experience with women. Bed the wench and be done with her.”

  “I have lots of experience with women,” Rannulf sat down heavily on one of the couches.

  “Your experience with women,” Bohemund sat down next to him, “is of them falling prey to that handsome face and dropping into your bed immediately. You’ve never had to fight for a woman and so this one denies you and you think that you care about her. All you truly care about is spreading her legs, you just think it’s more because you’ve never had to wait this long before. The witch is making you insane. Now, go do what I say, bed her before you go mad!”

  “I have more experience with women than that,” Rannulf sighed and leaned back against the cushions. “I’ve acquainted myself with lots of women before bedding them.”

  “Name one,” Bohemund laughed when Rannulf’s expression turned thoughtful. “See, you can’t even remember a name.”

  Rannulf looked at Bohemund in disbelief. Bohemund was right; the only name he could recall was Ayla. He tried and tried to think of another woman but they all blurred together and became one dark-haired temptress.

  “Catherine,” he finally said in desperation.

  “Catherine?” Bohemund sat next to him and looked at him skeptically. “What did she look like?”

  “She was blonde,” Rannulf was grasping at whatever came to mind that was not at all like Ayla.

  “And?” Bohemund prompted.

  “And thin,” Rannulf sounded silly even to his own ears.

  “Thin, Rannulf?” Bohemund laughed again. “A thin blonde named Catherine. Well, I owe you an apology, evidently you spend lots of time getting to know your women.”

  “I don’t have the time,” Rannulf finally gave up and shrugged his shoulders. “They're too much effort, when I could simply move on to another.”

  “I agree,” said Bohemund. “Although, I’ll be needing to find one to marry soon, now that I’ve a Principality to think about.”

  “A wife, eh?” Rannulf shook his head. He was relieved that they were off the subject of Ayla. “Where might you be looking for one?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Bohemund admitted. “I’ll probably send a letter to my father to ask him to find one for me.”

  “You would trust your father with finding you a wife?” Rannulf was shocked.

  “He will find a suitable woman,” Bohemund said. “One with a title, wealth, and beauty. I’m sure of it.”

  “Good luck to you, then,” Rannulf smiled.

  Why did Bohemund’s way of finding a wife repulse him? It was the manner in which most nobles found a spouse. Rannulf said a prayer of thanks that he was not nobility. He would hate to be saddled with a woman someone else had chosen for him.

  “Thank you,” Bohemund smiled. “And by the way, we’ll be having a celebration feast tonight, now that we have the supplies to do it. Bring the witch.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ayla entered the grand dining hall of Antioch Palace, a step behind Rannulf. He stopped, in confusion and looked back at her. Then he reached out and gripped her hand reassuringly. She felt his strength flow into her and let him lead her further inside.

  The opulent room was stunning to behold. She'd never actually dined there but had been confined to her chambers most of the time. The room was easily ten times the size of Ayla’s chambers, with stone pillars soaring to the ceiling and numerous mosaics covering the floors.

  The Seljuks had made the palace their home though, and had covered the Roman mosaics with thick carpets, only a space in the middle of the room had been left uncovered. In the center of this was a large, circular fountain of white marble. The sound of falling water made a pleasant backdrop for the musicians that sat on the fountain’s low rim.

  Along all the walls were couches; low benches, covered in plush carpets and pillows. In front of these were numerous octagonal tables to dine on. Oil lamps in bronze, with colored glass panels, hung from the ceiling and illuminated the room in colored patches.

  Between the stone pillars were high arches with beautiful Islamic writings on them. The walls had colorful tiles adorning them in a horizontal stripe and the windows were covered with wooden shutters, whose elaborate cut-out designs let in the sunlight during the day. Placed sporadically around the room were potted trees, some even bearing fruit.

  Ayla let Rannulf lead her to a low table and seated herself on the couch, next to him. Bohemund was there with Tancred and John, who she smiled at upon seeing, at least there was one friendly face to greet her.

  “Ayla,” John called happily. “I was hoping you’d come tonight. You’ve never dined here before, have you?”

  “No,” she admitted with a smile. “Yaghi-Siyan barely let me out of my chambers.”

  “I still don’t understand why your own people had to hold you captive,” Bohemund narrowed his eyes in her direction. Why did the witch seem to grow more beautiful, every time he saw her?

  “Antioch is not my home,” Ayla said, glad to have Rannulf between her and Bohemund. The man gave her a horrible, sick feeling in her stomach whenever he got too near. “I would've preferred to be with my family.”

  “Antioch is your home now,” Rannulf said quietly but with undisguised steel.

  Bohemund raised an eyebrow at Rannulf’s words but Ayla said nothing, she was too busy remembering the words of the Goddess Umai. One day she would have to leave him.

  “I didn’t here you answer him, witch,” Bohemund shot at Ayla.

  “I didn’t realize there was a question,” Ayla snapped without thinking and Bohemund leaned forward to glare at her across Rannulf’s chest.

  “His statement requires an acknowledgment,” Bohemund said with menace.

  “Fine,” Ayla said. “I acknowledge he said it.”

  “You will show more respect, wench,” Bohemund snarled and Rannulf had finally had enough.

  “I will handle this,” Rannulf placed a hand on his friend’s arm.

  Bohemund took a deep breath and pulled his eyes away from Ayla, who hadn't looked at him once. He looked at Rannulf.

  “The witch needs some lessons on manners,” Bohemund said.

  “Yes, she does,” Rannulf agreed and looked at Ayla with a warning in his eyes. “Apologize to Lord Bohemund.”

  “What?” Ayla was aghast.

  “Do it, now,” Rannulf’s voice got deadly serious.

  “My apologies,” Ayla said quietly. She pursed her lips in distaste and looked toward the fountain to try and find some calm.

  “And where is your home?” Bohemund continued.

  “With my Lord Rannulf,” Ayla said softly, turning her acquiescence into an announcement of possession.

  Bohemund had thought to embarrass Ayla. He was unprepared for her heartfelt declaration or the look of love she sent to his friend. Rannulf beamed at her and pulled her close to kiss her forehead.

  Bohemund frowned but said nothing. Why did his gut twist at the looks between them? Why did he want to tear them apart? He knew his friend desired the woman but he'd never expected him to fall in love with her. She was a Pagan witch who had tried to bring ruin to them, how could Rannulf hold her so dear?

  Then the food arrived. There was roasted mutton, pieces of meat speared on a long metal skewer, a th
ick stew called yahni, flattened bread called yufka, and sweet mint tea. The men ate voraciously and Ayla smiled as Rannulf filled her plate for her. She was finally getting used to eating with men and having him serve her.

  “What kind of instruments are those?” Rannulf asked Ayla as he gestured toward the musicians with his eating dagger.

  “The drums are called kudum, the large ones are darbukas,” Ayla smiled at Rannulf, pleased with his interest in her culture. “The reed instrument is called a zurna and is similar to your European flute.”

  “Tell them the superstition about the kopuz,” John piped up from the cushion he'd just moved to. He wanted to be closer to Ayla and the floor was just as comfortable as the couch.

  “The kopuz,” Ayla laughed as John arranged the pillows to his liking, “is the stringed instrument they play.” She pointed it out to Rannulf but continued to ignore Bohemund. “It's said, that a warrior who carries the kopuz at his waist will never receive injury from an enemy’s hand.”

  “Protection from a musical instrument?” Bohemund scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

  “It's an instrument blessed by the gods,” Ayla said softly. “One would do well not to mock them.”

  “I have no fear of your gods,” Bohemund sneered. “They are no match for the one true god. Isn’t that right, John?”

  John squirmed uncomfortably on the cushions and frowned.

  “Even though I have no belief in Ayla’s gods,” John began. “I would never think to insult them as that would be an insult to her and I don't believe in insulting women, my lord.”

  “She is just a Pagan witch,” Bohemund scoffed. “She is not deserving of my respect.”

  “She's my woman,” Rannulf put a hand around Ayla. “As such, I’d appreciate your respect for me to extend to her.”

  The table got quiet as Bohemund considered Rannulf’s words. Finally Tancred broke the tension.

  “I don’t know about you, Uncle,” Tancred said. “But I find it very hard to disrespect a woman so beautiful. Maybe we should find ourselves our own Pagan witches to enjoy, huh? Then we can smile as Rannulf does all the time.” The men around them laughed and Bohemund relaxed.