Eagle (31 page)

‘Good evening, my lord,’ she said and bowed.

Yusuf nodded to her, then turned to John. ‘Go and join the men. Celebrate. You have earned it.’ John left, closing the door behind him.

‘I am honoured that you sent for me, my lord,’ Faridah said as she untied her cloak and allowed it to drop to the floor. She was wearing a tight-fitting caftan of red silk. It complemented her hair, which cascaded loose around her shoulders. Her green eyes, ringed with kohl, fixed on Yusuf. His heart began to pound.

‘We defeated the Frankish raiders,’ he told her. ‘They were waiting for me as you said.’

‘And their leader, Reynald? He is dead?’

‘I let him go.’

‘Why?’ Faridah demanded. ‘He deserved to die.’

Yusuf went to her and touched her arm. Up close, she smelled of jasmine. ‘I had to free him,’ he told her. ‘I gave him my word.’ Faridah frowned. ‘Why do you hate him?’

‘It is nothing,’ Faridah murmured. She reached out and pushed a strand of hair back from Yusuf’s face, then pressed her body against his. Yusuf put his arms around her waist and tentatively kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm. She opened
her mouth and kissed him back passionately. Her mouth tasted sweet, like melon.

Faridah smiled. ‘Help me with my caftan,’ she whispered.

Yusuf undid the first button, then the second and third. The caftan spread open to reveal the gentle curves of her breasts. Yusuf’s hands began to tremble as he fumbled with the fourth button.

‘Let me,’ Faridah told him. She quickly unfastened the rest of the buttons and shrugged off the caftan to stand naked before Yusuf. ‘Now, it is your turn, my lord.’ She unfastened Yusuf’s belt, then pulled his tunic over his head. She knelt down as she lowered his loose cotton pants. Yusuf gasped as she took his zib in her mouth.

‘By the Prophet!’

Faridah looked up at him. ‘Do you wish me to stop, my lord?’

‘N-no,’ he managed. ‘Do not stop.’

Yusuf awoke when he felt Faridah stir in the bed beside him. She kissed his cheek, and he smiled sleepily. He had never before tasted such pleasure as she had shown him, and he was still glowing from the experience. He reached out and pulled her towards him.

‘I must go, my lord,’ she whispered in his ear and pulled away. She rose and began to dress. ‘My master will be angry if I do not return soon.’

Yusuf sat up in bed. ‘Your master?’

‘Zarif, the tavern owner. I am his slave.’

‘Not anymore. You are free.’

‘Do not jest of such things,’ Faridah scowled.

‘I do not jest.’

Faridah shook her head. ‘And what would I do with freedom? I have no family. No man will have me.’ She turned her back to him as her eyes grew moist. ‘Zarif is good to me, better than most.’

Yusuf approached her from behind and put his arms around her waist. ‘I will protect you now,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘If you must serve a master, then let it be me.’

Faridah turned to face him. ‘You do not want me, my lord,’ she protested, tears in her eyes. ‘I will never bear you children. I cannot.’

Yusuf wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘I do want you. And you may call me Yusuf.’

Faridah smiled. ‘Very well, Yusuf.’

‘Now, I wish to know more about the woman who will share my bed. Where are you from?’

Faridah pulled away. ‘I do not wish to speak of it. I am here now. That is all that matters.’

Yusuf gently touched her arm. ‘If I am to take a Frankish concubine, then I must know everything about you.’

Faridah nodded, then went to the window and looked out into the darkness. ‘I grew up in Edessa,’ she said. ‘My father was a Frankish lord and my mother an Armenian Christian. They died when the city fell to Nur ad-Din’s father, Zengi. My father was killed at the walls. My mother—’ she looked away. ‘My mother was raped and murdered. I was sold as a slave.’

‘And?’

‘And I would rather not speak of it. Those days are past.’

Yusuf went to her and held her close, stroking her hair. ‘I am sorry,’ he murmured. ‘You must hate my people.’

‘No. I grew up amongst Saracens in Edessa. I wore the same clothes, spoke the same language, ate the same food. I never knew I was different until the city fell.’

‘And afterwards, surely you must have thought of revenge?’

Faridah shook her head sadly. ‘Where would my dreams of revenge get me? Women exercise power through love, Yusuf, not hate. We leave that to men.’

MARCH 1154: TELL BASHIR

J
ohn stood on the wall of the citadel of Tell Bashir and watched the men gathered in the courtyard below. Six mamluks stood in a line, each with a bow in hand and a quiver slung over his shoulder. Yusuf was thirty paces away, hanging a small, round shield from the inside of the citadel wall. When the shield was in place, he turned to face the archers and the men crowded behind them. ‘You know the rules,’ he called out as he walked towards the line of archers. ‘Each archer will fire one arrow. The two men who come closest to the centre of the shield will then compete for the prize: six dinars.’ The crowd of mamluks cheered. Some of the archers smiled, thinking what they would do with the money – two month’s pay. Others glanced at their competition. One man – the bald warrior, Nazam – checked the tautness of his bowstring.

Yusuf had been holding these contests every Sunday since he and John had come to Tell Bashir, over a year ago. One week it was archery, the next horsemanship, the next swordplay. The men’s skills had improved dramatically as they sought to win the weekly prize. John watched the games each week, but he never participated. As the commander of Yusuf’s khaskiya – his private guard – John had earned the respect of the men, but he would never be one of them. To them he would always be alifranji, the Frank, a man apart. He had a different past, different memories. John thought of the brilliant green fields of England
and then of Zimat. He frowned. She would be married by now, and as unreachable as his home country.

‘Ready!’ Yusuf called, drawing John’s attention back to the courtyard. Yusuf had stepped behind the line of archers, each of whom now reached back and, in a fluid motion, drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow. The crowd quieted in anticipation, and John could hear the bows creak as the archers drew them taught. ‘Rama!’ Yusuf shouted, and the men let fly. The arrows hissed through the air, and all six found their target, thudding into the leather shield.

Yusuf took the shield from the wall, and as he walked back towards the archers, he pulled out the arrows, starting with the ones furthest from the centre. ‘Manzur!’ he called after examining the colours painted on the shaft of the arrow. He tossed the shaft aside. ‘Rakin! Akhtar! Liaqat!’ He dropped the last arrow as he came to a stop before the archers. ‘Your aim was true, but not true enough. The Frankish armour is thick. It is not enough to hit them, for if you hit their chest, your arrows are wasted. You must strike their neck where the armour is thin.’ He wrested the remaining two arrows from the shield. ‘Nazam and Uwais, you have come closest to the mark. Ready yourselves.’

The two men grinned, and their fellows clapped them on their backs as they stepped forward. Each man notched an arrow to his bow. John could hear some in the crowd placing bets as to who would win. ‘In battle,’ Yusuf told them, ‘you must hit a moving target. Let us see how skilled you truly are.’ He tossed the shield high into the air.

Immediately, Nazam pulled back and let fly. His arrow thudded into the shield before it had even reached its apex. Uwais waited until the shield was frozen at its highest point before shooting, his arrow slamming into the shield. The shield had just begun to fall when Nazam hit it with another arrow. He quickly nocked another and managed to strike the shield once more before it hit the ground. The men cheered his feat, and John gave a low whistle of appreciation.

Yusuf went to the shield and raised it high. Uwais’s arrow – the shaft decorated in black and blue – protruded from the centre of the shield. Nazam’s three arrows were scattered around it. ‘The winner is Uwais!’ Yusuf declared. He took a coin pouch from his belt and tossed it towards the victorious archer.

Nazam snapped the pouch out of the air before it reached its intended target. ‘It is not right! I struck the shield three times, and Uwais hit it only once.’

The mamluks in the courtyard went quiet. Even from high on the wall, John could see the change in Yusuf’s bearing – his back straighter, his shoulders back. He stepped close to Nazam and placed a hand on the mamluk’s shoulder. ‘It is not he who strikes most, but he whose strike is the most telling who wins, Nazam.’

‘But—’

‘I have spoken!’ Yusuf snapped.

Nazam lowered his head. ‘Yes, qadi.’ He handed the pouch to Uwais.

John turned away from the scene to gaze out beyond the castle walls. His eyes wandered across the town to the glittering waters of the Sajur River. Two miles off, he saw a cloud of dust rising above the road beside the river. John could just make out the shapes of riders amidst the dust.

The lookout spotted the men at the same time. ‘Riders approaching!’ he shouted down to Yusuf. ‘Three of them.’

Yusuf hurried up the stairs to join John atop the wall. The riders were closer now, just entering the outskirts of the town. John could see that two were older warriors, well-muscled and tanned, with full beards. The third was a young man, still beardless. Yusuf squinted as the riders drew closer. ‘The young one, I know him.’ He grinned and slapped John on the back. ‘Come!’

John followed Yusuf as he hurried down from the wall. ‘Open the gate!’ Yusuf shouted. The gate swung open just as the riders were coming up the ramp towards the citadel. When
he saw Yusuf, the young rider slid from the saddle and sprinted forward. The two men embraced and exchanged kisses.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Brother!’ the young man exclaimed.

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Selim.’

Selim? John’s eyebrows rose as he looked more closely. Yusuf’s younger brother had added several inches since John last saw him, and his round, boyish face was now lean.

‘You are a man, now,’ Yusuf said, gripping his brother’s shoulder. ‘What brings you to Tell Bashir?’

‘Shirkuh has sent me. Nur ad-Din has need of you and your men. He is marching on Damascus.’

APRIL 1154: ON THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

Yusuf smelled Nur ad-Din’s camp long before he saw it. The breeze brought him the pungent odours of wood smoke and manure mixed with the musky scent of the thousands of horses, camels and sheep that accompanied the army. As Yusuf neared the top of a low hill, he could hear the snorting and harrumphing of the camels and the bleating of sheep. Then he crested the rise, and the camp lay before him, stretching for a mile along the Orontes River, which blazed red under the setting sun. Thousands of animals grazed at the edge of the camp. Beyond them rose a maze of tents, the sprawling structures of the Bedouin interspersed with the neat, wool triangles of the mamluks. In the centre was Nur ad-Din’s grand pavilion, his banner flying from the top.

‘Qaraqush!’ Yusuf called, and the mamluk commander left the column of Yusuf’s warriors – fifty men in all – and rode up beside him. ‘See that the men are quartered. Make sure to camp upwind of the livestock.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Selim and John come with me,’ Yusuf continued. He looked behind him to where Faridah sat on a camel, her face veiled. ‘You too, Faridah.’

Yusuf rode down the hill, and Selim and John followed, riding on either side of Faridah. They passed through a herd of camels chewing impassively at their cuds as they watched the riders pass. At the edge of the tents, two mamluk sentries were waiting for them. ‘Halt, friend,’ one of them called. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I am Yusuf ibn Ayub, emir of Tell Bashir,’ Yusuf replied as he and the others dismounted. ‘I have come at Nur ad-Din’s request.’ He handed his reins to one of the sentries. ‘Take care of our horses,’ he said and walked past.

‘Yes, my lord,’ the sentry called after him.

Yusuf led the way between the Bedouin’s ramshackle tents – sprawling structures that held entire clans. Hard-faced men in patchwork leather armour lounged outside, chatting or tending their cooking fires. The Bedouin’s bravery was legendary, as was their greed. They had been known to put down their arms in the midst of battle in order to strip the bodies of the dead, friend and foe alike.

Past the Bedouin, Yusuf entered amongst the tents of the vassal lords who served Nur ad-Din. These tents were more luxurious: tall, round structures with several rooms, each surrounded by the tents of the emir’s men. Yusuf spotted Shirkuh’s standard fluttering in the distance, but lost sight of it as he wove his way through the maze of tents. He stopped when he came to a fire surrounded by a dozen men who he recognized as Shirkuh’s soldiers. They were eating, scooping boiled wheat out of a common pot.

‘I am looking for Shirkuh,’ Yusuf said to them. ‘Where is he?’

The men looked up from their food. One of them, a tall, muscle-bound man, grinned. It was Qadir, the man who had confronted Yusuf all those years ago on the practice grounds of Aleppo.

‘Look here, boys,’ Qadir said. ‘It’s the little bugger himself, all grown up.’

Yusuf raised an eyebrow. ‘What did you say?’

Qadir rose, towering over Yusuf. ‘You heard me, bugger.’

Yusuf smiled, then turned his back on the man. ‘John,’ he called.

Without a word, John stepped forward and punched Qadir hard in the groin. The huge mamluk grabbed his crotch and fell to his knees, eyes bulging. John hit him with an uppercut that snapped his head back, then a hard right to the chin. Qadir toppled into the dust, unconscious. John wiped his hands and stepped away.

Yusuf noticed that Selim was watching him wide-eyed. He winked at his brother, then turned back to the men around the fire. ‘Let us try again. Where is my uncle?’

A grey-haired man rose. ‘I will take you to him, my lord.’

Yusuf was approaching Shirkuh’s tent when Turan stormed out, scowling. He stopped short when he saw Yusuf and the others.