Behind the Veil (13 page)

His gaze showed frustration over his inability. “Who else knows I am here?”

“The physician. And several girl maids, but they are already supportive. Until Kalid returns, you are reasonably safe. And, Kalid will not enter my chambers. He also knows the name of Bardas and will think nothing of Bardas being here. Mosul had also heard of Bardas, and he was not suspicious.”

“He
will
grow suspicious—if he isn’t already. My sword, where is it? Find me some manner of tunic.”

She was becoming alarmed again. He had no sword. Everything had been taken from him, and should be at the armory. But she feared to tell him. And his pain could no longer be disguised. His skin was burning to her touch, and though he was sweating profusely, he’d begun to shiver.

“Do not be difficult, Tancred, please. You have no safer place to go! If you try to get up, you will collapse. At the moment I am the only one who can help you. You will never reach the corridor in your condition.”

“Nevertheless…my presence endangers you.”

Her heart ached. Even now, he was concerned for her protection. The truth was, apart from the Most High they were both trapped.

“Stop thrashing! Did I not tell you Ma’sud Khan knows you are here? He will let you recover in peace. Stop squirming! And if you toss the covers off one more time—”

His breathing became labored, and Helena felt a growing fear over what the physician had told her about possible lung hemorrhage.

She was surprised by his determination as he flung aside the covers and struggled to his feet. She understood now that he must be delirious. The exertion brought him pain that swiftly contorted his face. His eyes were sick now and his speech slurred, and he was clinging to her to stand up straight. He was choked to silence by a retching cough that erupted into new bleeding. He collapsed on the bed, Helena still grasping him, tears in her eyes.

She could see he was struggling to think clearly, as though he wanted to speak but was growing faint. Frustration marked his face, and his present agony seemed to be more demanding on him than a confrontation of battle. He was a prisoner to helplessness, and it tortured him.

No! Tancred, my beloved, do not die
!

She leaned over him as he coughed and saw blood at the corner of his mouth. Her eyes fell to his chest, where the golden candlelight flickered, and the strong muscles were to no advantage. The white cloths were turning bright red before her eyes, the size of the circle increasing until it became shiny and started dripping to the white silk coverlet.

She felt like she wanted to scream. Then, guilt and shame rocked her soul. He was going to die and she was behaving like a coward. She began to pray. A dart of sanity came to her. She grabbed a clean white cover from a cushion and pressed it against the chest wound, holding with steady pressure.

“Sphagnum..” he uttered, the word barely audible.

“W-what?”

“Sphag…num…”

Her frantic mind grasped the word…
Sphagnum, Sphagnum
. What was sphagnum?

She bolted upright. Moss! Sphagnum moss! She tumbled from the cushion and ran toward the other room nearly colliding with Jamil who hung about the door looking distressed. “Jamil! The physician! Tell him to bring sphagnum moss, understand?”

He nodded, turned, and fled like a winged bird.

She ran into a third chamber and snatched another coverlet. She hurried back to Tancred, pressing the cloth to his chest. How much blood could he loose and still live?

The moments passed endlessly slow. She glanced at his face; it was pale under the bronzed skin. His breath was slow and ragged.

Her heart pounding, she continued praying and pressing steadily on the chest wound. His eyes were faintly open, but he seemed not aware of her presence.

Her ears strained for the sound of running feet. Where was Jamil? Why did the physician delay? Suppose there was no sphagnum!

At last she heard them. The physician rushed in with Jamil at his heels. The Physician took one look at Tancred’s soaked bandages, then began to cut them away. His brows came together, but quickly his features were wiped clean of emotion. From his own bag he took out some strange-looking spongy material and soaked it with wine, then pressed it into the wounds. He left it in place as he applied new cloths to his chest.

As he was finishing, he seemed satisfied. “It should work. There is something about sphagnum that stops the bleeding, but none of the wisest physicians understand it. Your Highness, how did you know of this? I have once read that this remedy was used in ancient battles. I did not think it was known to the Byzantines. You have become learned in medicine?”

Helena was too emotionally depleted to answer. 

“You have my sincere apology. I consider that your marriage to His Eminence will bring benefit to many in Antioch.”

With that, he proceeded to mix equal amounts of two types of powder onto a leaf.

Gaining a little strength, Helena though she recognized the same drugs used by Lady Irene in Constantinople, but for less noble purposes than to help the dying retain life.

“So you think the sphagnum will work?” she asked weakly.

“It
is
working. But there is another problem. I suggest that poisons are forming in his body.”

“Poisons?”

“He is hot with fever. He may go into delirium. Keep this chamber warm. Mix this powder into a brew. See that he drinks it through the night. I can promise you nothing. By tomorrow, if the fever cools, he will live.”

***

For Helena, the darkness of the night made the trials more painful, and her hopes waned with the shadows. Trapped in an unfamiliar Moslem palace, the uncertainty could not have been more vexing. As Tancred lay near death, his delirium made it more heart wrenching, for she could not commune with him.

He thrashed about, muttering words she could not understand. When he did speak, the words were sometimes in Latin, sometimes in Arabic and Greek. This surprised her, but she realized it shouldn’t have. There were many Moors in Sicily, and had he not said his father Count Dreux Redwan had married a Moorish woman from the house of al-Kareem?

He spoke of Palermo, mumbling the names of the Redwan family, of the sea and galleons…then, of a falcon. A boyhood pet? She wondered. How different to imagine Tancred as a boy on  sun-drenched wharves of Palermo, among ships, or training a falcon. Once the name of a girl was mentioned. Kamila, he called her.

She felt an emptiness. He did not call her own name.

Through the long, pain-wracked night, Tancred fought for survival, and Helena fought with him in her ceaseless prayers, rarely leaving his side, and even with Jamil in the room her ears were attentive to any sound from Tancred. Finally she insisted that Jamil get some sleep.

“I am not sleepy, Mistress. I will sit up with you,” he whispered, and his hand went to his mouth to conceal a yawn.

“To bed at once. I will call you when I need you.”

Reluctantly he left Tancred’s chamber and curled up on a Persian rug before the glowing hearth. In a few minutes he was in a deep slumber.

It was now late, but she was too troubled to feel the need of sleep. She arouse to add wood to the embers. Despite the heat and the extra covers, he would sometimes shiver as if cold. Not wanting to leave him for a moment, she grabbed the Persian cover from off the table and used it as another blanket.

He grew still, and she went back to the hearth to stir the medicinal brew. The water had boiled down, and she ladled a mug of the brew. But how was it possible to get him to drink? She heard him moving restlessly again. She set the cup down to cool and held the candle down close beside him to check the bandage, fearing the worst in the darkness of night. He was sweating profusely, but there was no fresh blood. She heaved a sigh. Touching him, his flesh burned. She wiped him with a cloth and tossed it aside with the others. He murmured and she bent her face closer, hoping he was conscious.

“Tancred?”

“Water—”

Helena scowled to herself. She would give him all the water he wanted, but the physician said he was to drink the brew first. She brought the cup to his mouth; he reached for it thirstily, only to push it away impatiently, spilling some on his chest. She wiped him quickly, but he only groaned for water until she could hardly bear to hear him.

Tancred hallucinated that he was chained to a torturous rack while the haunting voice of a woman tormented him. She hovered over him with a candle, and filled his vision with the glaring sun. She mocked his love; her fragrance drugged his senses into confusion.

He tried to focus on the face above him, to make out the voice that spoke.

“Tancred, it is me, Helena.”

Her voice penetrated his semi-darkened consciousness, and he tried to speak to her, but could only close his eyes again.

Tancred agonized for water. His lips and mouth were dry, and he could hardly swallow. She was prolonging his suffering. His thirst was unquenchable! She deliberately denied him. His mind swam in shadows, and the cloak of her intoxicating perfume brushed his skin.

Her fingers caressed him, a low soothing voice near his ears promised endearments. It could not be Helena who was beguiling him with potions as he groaned…. “Witch
….
” He sank back into hot, painful darkness….

Then…he saw his brother, Derek, lying in a pool of blood with Tancred’s own dagger protruding from his heart. Mosul came from behind a dark curtain to mock, and when Tancred tried to reach him, his arms felt weighted down.

“Helena…where are you? Helena….water—”

A cool palm caressed his forehead. “I am right here, darling. I will not leave you.”

Helena could stand his pleas no longer. The dark and loathsome brew was doing nothing to help. Even when it came to the sphagnum moss, it had been Tancred who had known of it. Her mind made up, she turned abruptly and hurried into the next chamber, where her supper remained untouched on the low table. She grabbed the water vessel and returned.

“Tancred, water…here, my love. Drink as much as you want.”

He appeared to hear her, and struggled as she slipped her arm under his damp head to raise him. He drank avidly as she tipped the vessel to his mouth, spilling some on him. She gave him all that he desired. The cool water brought a sigh of contentment. She kissed his forehead.

As dawn finally broke, he began to rest calmly, and in the candlelight she saw that he was not sweating as much and his brow was cooler to her touch. The fever was breaking! She wrung out the cool cloths and bathed his face.

He was no longer groaning in sub-consciousness, and his hands were not clenched. She removed his boots; as she pulled she noticed a dagger concealed in one of them. It was like Tancred to keep a hidden weapon. The handle was studded with jewels, and holding it to the candle flame she read the inscription on the blade,
Justice
.

She drew the covers about him and started to turn away, exhausted, when to her surprise she felt his hand close about her wrist, but the touch was different. He was alert.

Helena looked down at him and his eyes were slightly open. “Angel”…he whispered meaningfully.

Helena felt a glowing satisfaction to know she had at last eased his suffering. She managed a slight, weary smile and leaned toward him with a whisper. “No longer a witch?”

“Angel….”

His hand, weak, still persisted in holding hers.

She kissed his forehead. “Rest now.”

He gave a deep sigh, then lay still, falling back into a deep slumber.

Helena, too, sighed, for she believed the worst was over and that her beloved would live. Exhausted, her eyes felt pained with the need for sleep. She went to the divan and lowered herself into it wearily, allowing her eyes to shut. “Just a little rest,” she thought. Darkness came. This time she welcomed it, for it held not terror but welcome relief. “Thank You, most merciful Lord God,” she prayed.

Behind the Veil  / The Royal Pavilions boo
k3
/ Linda Chaikin

The fragrance of meat simmering overnight in broth permeated the chamber as Helena awoke with a groan. Her head was dull and aching, and the smell of the meat seemed offensive despite the fact that she had not eaten a full meal since her arrival.

As she came through the doorway of Tancred’s chamber, she saw Jamil on his haunches before the hearth, where the kettle was strung across the coals. At first she thought he was stirring the broth, but her gaze fell on something he held in both hands. Jamil was staring at it with awe.

Helena came up softly behind him. Tancred’s sword and sheath! The heraldic of the Norman House of Redwan was engraved on the handle. It was a falcon, but this time she saw not only the name
Redwan
, but also the formidable title of
William the Conqueror.

She bit back a defensive impulse to grab the scabbard—it would only alert him to the significance of his discovery and encourage suspicions. Would he understand the implications pointing to ‘
Bardas
’ as being of Norman blood rather than Byzantine? What of the name Redwan? The boy might know the name of Seigneur Rolf Redwan of the Castle of Hohms.

She knew that Jamil was extremely clever. If he decided to mention the heraldic to the chief eunuch, Assad, it would not take long for the news to spread until it reached Mosul.

“You may put the sword in a secure place, Jamil.”

The calmness of her voice satisfied her, but Jamil sprang tensely to his feet, showing he suspected something. Holding the heavy scabbard clumsily, he managed a bow. “G-good morning, Mistress.”

She watched him trot across the room and place the sword behind the tapestry drape. He obviously understood that the weapon was to be hidden.
Who else may have seen the engraving?

“Bardas will be pleased to have the weapon back,” she told him. “Where did you find it.”

“Oh, it was leaning against the wall in the armory when Assad and the physician had the slaves carry him here from the barracks, Mistress. I knew he would want it when he awoke.”

She felt her way cautiously. Had he mentioned the sword to anyone?

“I am surprised the guards did not stop you. Did they see you take the sword?”

“None of the soldiers noticed, Mistress.” His dark head lifted proudly. “I waited until they were busy. Assad was so upset and the physician so angry that there was a small uproar. I carried it covered with his cloak when I brought his satchel.”

“You did well. My bodyguard will be pleased with your loyalty.”

Jamil avoided her eyes and went at once to the kettle and dipped a mug of broth. He brought it to her.

“Careful, Mistress, it is hot.”

“Thank you, but I am not able to eat this early in the morning. Perhaps some grapes or melon.”

“Yes, Mistress, but the broth can give you strength, and also your Byzantine bodyguard when he awakes. He is breathing well today.”

At once she caught the reference to ‘
Byzantine
’ and scanned his face. From his expression she could guess nothing. She decided to test him again, proceeding with caution after he returned with a bowl of fruit.

“Do you know how to handle a sword yet, Jamil?”

“Oh yes, Mistress.” His small shoulders straightened proudly. “I study all the arts of warfare. I had hoped one day to be a warrior.”

For the first time he showed disappointment. “Now that I belong to you, it will be your decision.”

She couldn’t keep from smiling. “We will discuss your warrior ambition later. But I have no intention to make you less than what you hope to become one day.”

Jamil brightened. Then he cast an eye to the chamber where Tancred slept. “But you already have a bodyguard. And he will grow better soon. He is strong.”

“He does look better today.”

“The sword I can handle,” Jamil went on, “But a scimitar, far better. A dagger?” he shrugged. “I need much practice to become an expert. I cannot throw strongly yet, and I miss the mark.”

“You seem to like the sword belonging to my bodyguard, Bardas.”

Jamil’s black lashes fluttered. He started to say something, then stopped. His eyes drifted away from her to Tancred’s chamber again. “I have not seen a finer one,” he said simply.

Helena’s growing alarm that Tancred’s true identity might soon be discovered by his enemies pressed her toward the need to find an escape route from Antioch. As she ate the sweet fruit and sipped strong Arabic coffee, she remembered Prince Kalid’s gift of the stallion. She arose from the cushions and walked to the terrace.

“It looks to be a fine day, Jamil. Now that Bardas is improving, perhaps we can ride the stallion into the hills today.”

“I would like nothing better, Mistress!”

“Good. Then go to the stables and prepare the horse, and one for yourself. We can go as soon as the physician comes and looks at Bardas.”

“Yes, Mistress! At once. I know just the horse I hope to ride!” And he flew out and away.

***

Over an hour had passed before Helena was led to the stables by one of the many slaves. She had informed Tancred of her plans, and had waited until the physician left and Tancred slipped back into a healing sleep. She had left word with the outer door slave not to permit anyone to enter the chambers until she returned.

Jamil waited with impatience. “He is ready and saddled, Mistress. And Haroun let me take the stallion that I have long asked him for permission to ride.”

The day was warm and clear as they set out. Helena rode the fine Arabian horse that Jamil had named Altair. Jamil sat proudly on a brown war horse.

The boy was pleased to show her everything. She viewed the gates and walls, but her interest was in the trails winding through the upper portion of the city into the hills. Was there a less guarded section somewhere in the city walls from which an escape was possible? Probably not with Antioch now under siege, and soldiers everywhere. However, she thought, for security the family of Emir Khan, as well as the Seljuk Turkish commander Kerbogha, should have some secret passage between Antioch and the mountains. There must be some manner of escape route for them in case of the fall of Antioch—a hidden exit somewhere in the higher part of the city, past the walls and before the barren brown hills.

“I suppose, Jamil,” she said, baiting him, “That Yaghi-Sian and the other great Seljuk nobles have a route to escape prepared for them and their families should the crusaders be able to enter the city?”

Jamil leaned forward in his saddle and patted the strong neck of the war horse, avoiding her gaze. For a moment he was silent.

“What makes you think so, Mistress?”

She gave a laugh. “I was born and raised amid intrigue. It is said that none know the art as well as the Byzantine.” She could see the flash of interest in his brown eyes. “Do you know the marriage to Prince Kalid was arranged by my enemies in Constantinople? They are also giving Kalid the Castle of Hohms.”

“I have heard, Mistress. I hear all the talk among the slaves, and even among some rulers. Such marriages are the way of great rulers, they say. For Aziza, it is even worse. She is to be given to a man she hates.”

Helena looked over at him. “Aziza?”

His eyes turned sullen. “She is my sister, Mistress. She is older than I, and ready for marriage. She is a slave to the Armenian wife of Master Firouz, who serves Yaghi-Sian.”

“I am sorry for your sister.”

“She loves the son of the physician. But Habib is to be given to the daughter of a chief captain. And—”

“Yes, I see, it is sad and complicated.” She directed the topic back to the hills. “Does the Commander Yaghi-Sian often ride into the hills?”

He shrugged again, and was quiet too long, as though he guessed the reason for her question.

“I suppose all rulers have escape routes,” she gently prodded. “They would be unwise if they did not. The Seljuk army in the city must have one, as well as Emir Khan. And Prince Kalid would know of it. It is said, ‘a fox has his small den, but he is crafty enough to have another exit.’” She looked at him now, and the strained silence was broken by a rush of wind in the olive trees.

Jamil watched a falcon soaring. “I have some falcons that I train and take care of. The one up there looks like it belongs to someone out hunting,” he suggested. “Sometimes I go that direction to watch the falcons with the wind freely in their wings, but only if I am alone when no one knows. I will be in much trouble, Mistress, if I bring you into forbidden territory.”

“I suppose,” she said, “That not even you could get through one of the gates without being caught.”

He gave her a short glance. “If I were going to have my head struck off for some forbidden deed? Then I could get out.”

“Oh?” she said artfully.

He pointed toward the paths leaving the postern gates. He looked behind his shoulder as if making sure no one was there. He lowered his voice. “Mistress, the smaller gates open onto seldom-used trails leading into Syrian villages. Few know of them except those who have lived in Antioch for many years.”

Her heart beat faster. “You must show me sometime, Jamil.”

“It is dangerous to go near there. His Eminence will hear of it.”

“I suppose a clever boy like you, Jamil, would know just where the most hidden paths are out of view.”

He looked at her, troubled. “Mistress, if I say I do not know, you will think your new slave is a foolish boy; and if I say I know—you will ask me where it is.”

She smiled. “I think you are clever, Jamil, far from being foolish. So clever that I would risk this Arabian stallion in a wager that you do know.”

Jamil’s brown eyes swept the stallion with devotion. “Such a horse is worth much—if one could live to keep it. But speaking certain information will mean death for the teller of tales.” He looked up to see her alert gaze fixed upon him. They measured each other, as though each debated the wisdom of trusting the other.

Helena spoke first. She must trust someone, and if not this boy, then whom?

“Vow your loyalty to me, Jamil. Help me as I ask, and one day I will reward you with this stallion for your service.”

Jamil bit his lip and watched her intensely, then set his young jaw. “Mistress, I vow my loyalty without getting the fine stallion. I know the warrior in your chambers is not your slave. Neither is he a Byzantine—he is a goodly warrior. His name is Count Tancred Redwan, a Norman lord from Sicily in the West.”

Helena gripped her reins but kept calm. It was as she had suspected. “How do you know all this? You could not have learned so much from the heraldic on his scabbard.”

“My ears hear much. Few pay attention to a boy. I heard Prince Kalid and Mosul once talking before you came. They were expecting Count Redwan to come for you and try to kill Mosul. But I did not know who the man you called Bardas really was until I heard you call his name last night when he was so ill.”

She sighed. “Oh…I should have been more cautious.”

“It is because you love him, and you were very frightened.”

“You are too wise for your age, Jamil.”

“Then I saw the scabbard. The insignia of the falcon in the hunt, and of the military leader, William the Conqueror. I have been learning about training falcons. The art is best taught by the Normans, and so I guessed his heritage. Also, he has the body of a warrior.”               

“You must say nothing, Jamil. If you do, it will mean his death. He is too ill to do battle.”

“Prince Kalid will kill him?”

“Prince Kalid, Mosul, even Ma’sud Khan.”

“So I thought, too. Mosul is a cruel man. I have no liking for him. He has tried to kiss my sister.”

“Then if you know the manner of man Mosul is, you will understand why he must not learn the identity of Count Redwan until he recovers his strength. Everyone must think he is the Byzantine named Bardas.”

Jamil scowled. “Why does Mosul want to kill a goodly warrior?”

“Mosul is a Moorish cousin of Tancred. Out of jealousy for a woman in Palermo, Mosul killed the half-brother of Tancred and arranged to have him blamed. His Norman uncle, Walter of Sicily, is also searching for Tancred to make him stand trial in the Norman style.”

“And Tancred Redwan has trailed Mosul to Antioch?” he asked, obviously impressed with Tancred.

“Yes…and if Mosul discovers that he lies helpless in my chambers, he will think nothing of putting a dagger through his heart as he sleeps upon his bed, already wounded from a noble stand to protect me.”

“No doubt Mosul would kill him, Mistress. That is his way. I will keep your secret and Tancred’s upon pain of my death. All I can do to help the Norman warrior I will do.”

“I will not forget your loyalty, Jamil. Tancred must escape Antioch.”

The boy’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “The truth is, Mistress, I know of several routes from Antioch. In the palace there is a tunnel leading under the city outside the Gate of the Dog.”