Doctor Who and the Crusaders (9 page)

‘Arrange my audience for late this evening. When it is dark, wait by the stables. I shall bring the woman to you.’

El Akir watched the merchant walk away into the palace, suddenly finding that his head was hanging heavily on his neck. His eyelids seemed to be having trouble staying open. The fly returned with others and buzzed around him but this time he found no energy to drive them away. He settled back in the chair with one thing uppermost in his befuddled brain; that chance had brought him a way to satisfy the hate and vengeance towards the slim, attractive girl, whose smile had been worse than a hundred daggers through his heart. And, in contentment, El Akir let sleep overtake him.

Barbara listened seriously as Sheyrah warned her she had made an enemy, repeating the events of the meeting with El Akir and his obvious determination to find Barbara and exact some vengeance on her. There was no fear that he would try and attack her, Sheyrah promised, provided she stayed well within the palace.

‘I hear that he is returning to his own palace in Lydda,’ said Sheyrah, as she combed Barbara’s hair, ‘so he will soon be far away, and you will be out of danger. Your hair is very lovely, my lady,’ she said, as if trying to change the conversation for her own benefit, as much as for Barbara’s; for her fear of the Emir was considerable. Barbara smiled at her in the mirror, then looked doubtfully at the clothes she wore.

She loved the sun and thought nothing better, in her own time in the 1960s, of sunburning herself in a bikini on the nearest beach at every available opportunity. But the beach was one thing, whereas being attired for a social engagement with Saladin – in a brief, two-piece bathing costume affair, embroidered with beads, the only other addition being the
transparent Turkish sleeves and trouser legs fastened at the wrists and ankles with slim bands of gold silk – wasn’t the same at all. She frowned uncertainly as Sheyrah bent down and slipped a beautiful pair of pointed slippers on her, sitting back on the floor, clapping her hands with delight.

‘Are you sure this is what I should wear, Sheyrah?’ she said anxiously. The servant rose to her feet, clucking her mouth in self-annoyance.

‘Of course you are right, lady,’ she said, ‘and I am the most stupid of women to forget.’ She crossed the room, ferreted about among some other clothes on a chest underneath the window, then returned to Barbara triumphantly, bearing a small piece of diaphanous silk in her hands. She fastened the yashmak behind Barbara’s head.

‘Now,’ she said proudly, ‘see how you look! All men will stare at the beauty of your eyes this night.’

‘But the rest of me,’ said Barbara, in a small voice. She searched for some way to explain, conscious that in Sheyrah’s eyes, the briefness of the costume mattered less than that the face was covered. ‘Sheyrah,’ she said suddenly, inspiration coming to her assistance, ‘I’m not used to this climate. You wouldn’t have me start shivering in front of the Sultan. He might think I was afraid of him. And besides, how am I supposed to tell him stories, when my teeth are chattering?’

Sheyrah shook her head, bothered by the problem.

‘Could I not wear the cloak Sir William bought for me?’

‘You may wear a cloak,’ replied Sheyrah, ‘but it must be of better quality. I will search and find one.’ Sheyrah bustled out of the room through a bead curtain and began to delve into another chest, in the ante-chamber beyond.

Barbara turned her mind to the role she was going to have to play for the Sultan. At first, the idea of relating a story to an audience had terrified her to death, until she had realized
that worrying about it was simply making it worse. Then she had remembered the rich heritage of the English literary world, and so many plots and ideas had filled her brain that she hadn’t known which to choose and which to abandon. Now she sat quietly, composing her thoughts, selecting what she felt might divert and entertain Saladin. Shakespeare, of course, was the very first on the list. ‘Hamlet’ she considered too difficult to put across; ‘Romeo and Juliet’, however, seemed an excellent blend of drama and romance. She felt also that she could slightly change ‘The Merchant of Venice’, making Shylock a Syrian or an Arab to bring the story closer to Saladin’s understanding and provide him with a character with whom he could sympathize. As she pictured herself actually relating any of these stories under the unwavering gaze of what she knew would be a most critical audience, a cold, clammy hand of fear closed around her heart, but she resolutely pushed that vision from her mind and started to tabulate a list of authors in her mind.

Suddenly she saw a hand appear in the archway leading to the corridor beyond, and a tall, richly-dressed man slipped into the room, a finger to his lips, his eyes burning with intensity.

‘I am Luigi Ferrigo,’ he whispered urgently, ‘and I have come to set you free.’ He stared about the room and spotted the figure of the servant in the ante-room, sorting through the clothes.

‘Who sent you?’ asked Barbara, a wild hope surging through her, mostly that she would be released from the role of story-teller she was inwardly dreading so much. ‘Was it Sir William?’

Ferrigo nodded quickly. In his right hand, he held a pair of gloves; on the back of each was embroidered a snake picked out with a series of small pearls. He laid them down on the
table, gesturing urgently with both his hands to lend force to his persuasion.

‘I have a horse for you in the stable, and a guide to take you to Jaffa. But you must come at once!’

Barbara nodded and got silently to her feet, then thought of the flimsiness of her costume.

‘I’ll need a covering of some kind,’ she pleaded. The Genoese pursed his lips then swung the heavy dark cloak from his own shoulders and wrapped it around her.

‘Come!’ He snatched up his gloves, urging her through the archway, with a last look back at the servant to make sure she was still occupied. Hastily but without any signs of panic, he conducted her through a series of corridors, keeping as much to the shadows where possible, stopping sometimes and listening; his head bent forward as he searched with acute hearing to find if danger lay around a corner. Once they slipped past a Saracen guard, who stood half asleep, leaning on a lance – and just before they reached the head of a small stone stairway which, the man whispered to Barbara, led down to the stables. They had to negotiate themselves past an open doorway of a well-lit room, from within the depths of which they could both distinguish the sounds of several men talking. The merchant risked a look in and, satisfied that the men were heavily engaged in a game of chance, hurried Barbara across and down the flight of stairs.

Breathing rather heavily, he held her back with one arm as he peered out of the archway which led out to a small street, on the other side of which was a half-open door leading to the stables. He glanced anxiously up at the moon, which rode high in the cloudless sky.

‘Stay here,’ he breathed, ‘and run across to that door when I call.’ Barbara nodded, and he stepped out boldly, turning his head quickly from right to left. She watched him walk
across to the little door, push it open and then look back at her. Even before he could open his mouth, she clutched the cloak around her tightly and ran across to join him. He closed the door behind her, took her by the arm, gently but firmly, and led her to the other end of the stables. The horses tethered in their stalls stared at the hurrying couple as they went by, the pride of the Grand Sultan’s collection, each one as black as pitch, with coats that rippled and gleamed in the moonlight filtering through the small windows high up on the side walls.

‘Your guide should be at the other end of the stables,’ whispered Ferrigo, ‘the horses ready for immediate departure.’

‘How can I ever thank you,’ said Barbara gratefully. Ferrigo smiled at her, and it was at that moment that a tiny icicle of suspicion formed at the back of her neck, sending little droplets of shivers down her spine. She heard the sound of footfalls behind her, watched the smile grow on Ferrigo’s lips, the eyes narrowing with expectancy, watched almost with fascination as his tongue appeared and ran over his top lip. Her heart started to beat faster, certain now that she had been betrayed in some way, and she took a step to one side. A hand gripped hold of her arm and twisted it behind her cruelly and the face of El Akir was thrust into hers, the livid scar suddenly picked out by a shaft of moonlight, heightening it and making it a symbol of terror.

In a few seconds, the Emir had tied a piece of cloth tightly around her mouth, while Ferrigo bound her hands in front of her with a piece of rope El Akir produced from his belt. She made no attempt to struggle but just stood listlessly, while the two men made her helpless, the heavy weight of despair robbing her of any resistance, any thoughts of escape. El Akir led her to where two horses had been brought just inside the
stable doors.

‘You have settled my terms?’ inquired Luigi Ferrigo sharply. El Akir lifted Barbara up on to her horse, and then mounted his own, holding both reins in his left hand. He leant across, slipped a rope through those securing Barbara’s hands and looped the other end around his right wrist.

‘I have arranged your audience with the Sultan and his brother. You are to dine with them tonight.’

Barbara turned her head and stared down at the merchant contemptuously, wondering how he could hand over the body and soul of a human being for such a trivial reason.

As if he read her thoughts, Luigi Ferrigo turned away as the Emir urged the horses to a gallop so swiftly that the impetus had Barbara grabbing desperately for the long mane of her steed.

Luigi Ferrigo staggered backwards as the horses shot away, a cloud of dust spraying up and covering part of his robe. With a muttered curse, he reached for the gloves at his belt, intending to brush himself. He stared at the single glove in his hand, wondering where its fellow was. He started to go back on his tracks, his eyes bent on the ground, searching out every dark corner.

The two horses galloped away from the palace through the town of Ramlah, startling the few people who were in the streets and making them step into doorways and press themselves against the walls. One look at the hard, set face of the Emir, bent forward low over his mount, urging every inch of speed out of it, was enough to make them turn their faces away and close their minds to questions, although some of them wondered who the beautiful girl could be whose hair streamed out behind her.

The horses sped out of the town and into the surrounding country, across fields baked hard in the long summer, every
yard adding to El Akir’s triumph, every inch increasing Barbara’s desperation and despair.

Luigi Ferrigo had failed to find his glove and would have put the affair out of his mind as a trifling matter, except that somehow it irritated him. He was a careful man and the gloves had been specially designed for him, and had been very costly. More than this, he had covered every inch of the ground he had walked, except, of course, for that part of the palace he and Barbara had covered so secretly. The merchant had no intention of venturing back there again, merely to find a piece of wearing apparel. Finally, back in his room, bored with the problem of the missing article, he made a complete change of clothes to be ready for his audience with Saladin and tossed the single useless glove on to a window ledge. He stared out of the window, trying to forget the expression in the beautiful girl’s eyes as she looked down at him from the horse. Then a servant entered and announced he had come to conduct him to the Great Sultan.

All thoughts of the events of the earlier part of the evening now fell away from him as he planned his approach, discarding this idea, adopting another. The servant conducted him to a wide archway guarded by two magnificently tall fighting warriors of the Sultan’s own race, the Kurds, and into a large, pleasant chamber festooned with draperies and hangings, furnished with low couches and cushions and luxuriant carpets.

Saladin sat on one of the couches, his brother Saphadin standing beside him, and both the men received their visitor with smiles and words of friendship, the Sultan gesturing to the merchant to sit beside him. Saphadin tapped his hands together lightly and servants carried in a long, low table upon which were some goblets and a wine-jug, dishes of sweetmeats and fruit. Ferrigo was most interested in the wine-jug, which
he guessed was of Roman origin, probably as early as 50
B.C
. He questioned Saladin about it and the Sultan complimented him on his knowledge.

‘This is an actual reminder of Gaius Julius Caesar, and his stay in Egypt. It is one of a collection presented by the General to Cleopatra, the Queen of Egypt, and made specially for the occasion.’

A servant poured some wine from the wine-jug under discussion and handed the goblet to Ferrigo.

‘Now tell me,’ said the Sultan when they had tasted the wine, ‘what is your business here at Ramlah?’

‘I would have you imagine Europe as a great shop, Your Highness, constantly full of customers begging for perfumes and cloth, ivory and gold and spices. All these things have been scarce of late.’

‘Because of the war,’ pointed out Saphadin.

‘And wars are costly,’ replied Ferrigo. ‘The sale of these items would produce a vast profit.’

Saladin nodded thoughtfully. ‘As you say, wars are costly. And we are not averse to trade, merchant, nor do we turn away from profit. But our enemies hold the coast from Acre to Jaffa. You cannot imagine you would make the land journey, for you would be a prey to marauders and thieves every step of the way.’

‘No, I have ships, Your Highness. And my information is that Conrad of Tyre wishes to make peace with you.’

The brothers exchanged glances.

‘You are well informed,’ murmured Saphadin, ‘although we have not concluded any terms with Conrad.’

‘What you are seeking,’ said Saladin directly, ‘is a concession. Is that not so?’

The merchant inclined his head. ‘With safe conduct guaranteed for caravans to and from the town of Tyre.’

‘And where is our profit in this merchant adventuring? When the goods are sold in Genoa?’