Eagle (30 page)

‘She’s got her eye on you, boy,’ Qaraqush winked.

Faridah reached Yusuf’s table, and he turned to watch her. She stopped before him, her hips still rotating, the tambourine held high as she slowly turned. Qaraqush reached out to grab one of her perfectly shaped buttocks, and she slapped his hand away. She turned back to face Yusuf, placing a hand on his shoulder and sitting on his lap so that her breasts were only inches from his face.

Yusuf flushed as Faridah’s eyes moved to the prominent bulge in his breeches. She leaned close and breathed in his ear, ‘Come.’ Then, she took his hand and led him from the table.

‘Lucky bastard,’ Qaraqush grumbled.

The rest of the men cheered as Yusuf followed Faridah through the curtain of beads and up a dark stairwell. He stumbled after her into a small room, where a single candle cast a flickering light over a wide bed. Faridah closed the door behind Yusuf and turned to face him. He did not move. He had no idea what to do next. She stepped close and pulled his tunic over his head. His breathing quickened as she proceeded to unlace his breeches. She gestured to the bed, and he sat. Faridah knelt before him and removed his boots. Then she took hold of his breeches and pulled them off. Her eyes widened when she saw his fully erect zib. Yusuf felt the room spin around him as the blood pounded in his temples.

Faridah stepped back and untied the string that held the dangling copper disks in place around her chest. It dropped to the floor, revealing her firm breasts. She untied the string around her waist and then removed her veil last of all. She was striking, her lips full and her cheeks soft curves. Her eyes had the faintest hint of wrinkles at the corners. She was older than Yusuf had expected, perhaps thirty.

She sat beside him. Yusuf’s hand trembled as she took it and placed it on her warm, soft breast. She met his eyes. ‘This is your first time?’ He nodded, and she smiled. She gently pushed him back down on the bed and straddled him. She bent forward, and Yusuf gasped as she kissed his neck, her tongue flicking over his skin. He reached out tentatively and ran his hand down her side.

Faridah moved down, kissing his chest, his stomach. Yusuf closed his eyes, dizzy with pleasure and wine. Then there was an ominous grumbling from his stomach. Faridah pulled back as Yusuf rolled over and vomited over the side of the bed.

‘I am sorry,’ he mumbled as he rose and hurriedly dressed, pulling on his leather breeches and tunic without even bothering to tie them.

Faridah remained on the bed. She reached out and touched
his arm. ‘You do not have to go,’ she said softly. Yusuf nodded and sat, his head in his hands. Faridah rubbed his back. ‘You are not used to drink?’

‘It is my first time,’ Yusuf said without looking up.

‘You are celebrating something?’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘I am trying to earn my men’s trust, to show that I am one of them.’

‘You will do so with deeds better than with drink,’ Faridah advised.

‘What do you know of such things?’ Yusuf snapped, pulling away and standing. ‘You are only a whore.’ He moved to leave.

‘A whore yes, but not a fool. I know more than you would imagine. I know why the Franks are waiting for you outside town. I know why they want you dead.’

Yusuf froze, his hand on the door handle. He turned to face her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The leader of the Franks sometimes sends a local man to fetch me to him. He has promised to buy me after you are dead. He said that before Gumushtagin left for Bizaa, he promised one thousand dinars for your head. The Franks wait for you even now in the hills beyond town. If you leave, you die.’

‘Gumushtagin,’ Yusuf whispered. He looked to Faridah. ‘Why tell me this? You are a Frank.’

‘I was, once, but that was long ago.’

Yusuf took the last dinar from his purse and held it out to her. ‘Thank you.’

She shook her head. ‘I have not earned it.’

‘Please, take it.’ Yusuf tossed the coin on the bed.

‘No, my lord, keep your money.’

‘I wish to give you something,’ Yusuf insisted.

Faridah took the coin and rose. She pressed herself against him, wrapping one arm around his waist while with the other she dropped the coin back in the pouch at his belt. ‘Send for me soon,’ she whispered. ‘You can pay me then.’

Yusuf nodded. He picked up his boots and left the room,
stumbling down the stairs. As he passed through the beaded curtain, the men cheered.

‘Wake up.’ Yusuf cracked open a bloodshot eye to see John standing over him. Outside, the muezzin was loudly calling the faithful to prayer. Yusuf grimaced as he put his hands over his ears. ‘Leave me be.’

‘The men will expect you at prayers,’ John insisted. ‘This is your first day as their emir. You must set an example.’

‘Very well.’ The world spun as Yusuf sat up, and he leaned forward, his head in his hands. ‘I feel as if a blacksmith is hammering inside my head.’

‘I told you not to drink so much.’

‘No wonder the Prophet forbids alcohol. It is poison.’

Yusuf dressed and left the room he had been given in the keep. The guards in the courtyard nodded respectfully as he passed in the pre-dawn gloom. He headed out of the gate and down to the village mosque. After prayers, he emerged to find Qaraqush waiting for him. The mamluk commander fell in beside Yusuf as they walked back towards the citadel.

‘I trust you slept well,’ Qaraqush said with a wink. Yusuf gave him a hard look. ‘I was wondering what you have planned for today. Nothing too onerous, I hope. The men are still recovering from yesterday’s festivities.’

‘They will have to rouse themselves,’ Yusuf replied. ‘Today, we shall get your money, two thousand dinars.’

‘And where will we find this fortune?’

‘In the hands of the Frankish bandits who attacked me. We shall take it from them.’

Qaraqush stopped. ‘No. We will not.’

Yusuf turned to face him. ‘Are you afraid, Qaraqush? They are only bandits.’

‘I am not afraid,’ the mamluk commander growled, ‘but nor am I a fool. Why risk my men’s lives when we can have the sultan’s money for nothing?’

‘They are
my
men, Qaraqush,’ Yusuf said quietly.

‘Not yet.’

‘But they will be. I will not lead them to the slaughter. So long as you do as I say, there will be little danger to the men.’

Qaraqush’s eyes narrowed as he examined Yusuf. ‘Tell me what you propose. For your sake, I had best like it.’

The gate of the fortress of Tell Bashir slammed shut behind John and Yusuf. They carried only their swords and a single waterskin – no more than they had had when they arrived. It was raining a fine rain that showed no sign of letting up, and John’s tunic was already soaked. He looked over at Yusuf. ‘What have you got us into now?’

‘Allah will protect us,’ Yusuf replied. ‘You will see.’ He strode down the hill towards the town. John followed.

The rain had kept the townsfolk inside. They passed only one man, an elderly beggar propped up against the side of the tavern, a cup in his hand. Yusuf dropped his last dinar into the cup as he passed.

‘Why did you do that?’ John asked, his eyes wide.

‘We won’t need it anymore, will we?’

They emerged from town on the road – now little better than a muddy track – and followed it alongside the winding Sajur River. After half a mile, John stopped at a side track that led between fields and towards the low hills on their right. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing out a single rider, who sat atop one of the hills. The rider watched them for a moment, then galloped out of sight over the far side of the hill. ‘They have seen us.’

‘Then let’s not keep them waiting.’

They marched through the fields, the mud sucking at their boots. The track grew wetter and widened before cutting into the hills, running between two sheer slopes. John splashed ahead into the ravine, Yusuf close behind him. They had not gone far when John heard the sound of hooves echoing off the hills around them. He and Yusuf began to run. They rounded a
curve, and the narrow trail suddenly opened up into a circular, gravel-strewn wash, surrounded by steep slopes. On the far side of the open area, a narrow passage led further into the hills. They were halfway across the wash when riders started pouring out of the narrow gap. They turned to run, but more riders were emptying out of the ravine behind them.

Two of the bandits rode forward to confront John and Yusuf. Both wore full plate armour and helmets with visors down. ‘What have we here? Two mice in our trap,’ one of the riders said in Frankish. ‘We’ve been waiting for you, Yusuf ibn Ayub,’ he added as he lifted his visor.

‘Reynald!’ John growled.

The man’s forehead creased as he examined John. ‘Do I know you, Saracen?’

‘I am no Saracen.’ John pulled off his turban to reveal his blond hair.

Reynald shrugged. ‘Whoever you are, I have never seen you before in my life.’

‘I was your man, once,’ John snarled. ‘You betrayed me, you bastard! You sent your man to kill me and left me for dead.’

‘Saxon?’ the other Frank said, pushing back his visor to reveal the wide face of Ernaut. ‘I thought I killed you.’

‘Not yet,’ John replied.

‘We will remedy that soon enough,’ Reynald said. ‘Ernaut, finish him.’

Ernaut drew his sword and spurred towards John, who backed away, drawing his weapon. Ernaut had just raised his sword when an arrow struck him in the neck. Wide-eyed, he looked down at the shaft protruding from him. He slumped from the saddle, and three more arrows sank into the ground around him. Another struck Reynald’s horse, and it reared, throwing him. Reynald scrambled to his feet, looking about wildly.

Qaraqush and his men stood high above on the surrounding hills, firing arrows down on the Christians. Reynald turned to run, but more mamluks had filled both the exits from the wash,
blocking all escape. Dozens of Frankish bandits were down and screaming in pain. Reynald turned to face Yusuf and John.

Yusuf raised his fist, and the arrows stopped. ‘It seems that you are the one in a trap,’ he said to Reynald in Frankish.

The Frank drew his sword. ‘I will kill you both before I die,’ he growled.

‘No. You will do as I say, and you will live,’ Yusuf said. Reynald paused, lowering his sword. ‘Show me where you have hidden our gold, and you will be given a horse and enough supplies to reach Antioch.’

John grabbed Yusuf’s shoulder and spun him around. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded in Arabic. ‘This man is the reason I was sold into slavery. He is a coward and a liar. He deserves to die!’

‘I am sorry, friend. We need that money, and only Reynald can show us to it.’

John looked from Yusuf to Reynald. He had dreamed of killing this Norman bastard for so long that the hatred had become a part of him, but eventually he nodded. ‘Very well.’

Yusuf turned back to Reynald. ‘Do you accept my offer?’

‘Why should I believe you, infidel?’

John stepped forward. ‘I would be only too happy to see you die, Reynald. But I give you my word as a fellow Christian that if you do as he says, you will not be harmed.’

‘Your word as a Christian?’ Reynald spat. ‘You’re one of them now, another sand-devil!’

‘I am a Christian and an Englishman, and I give you my word that you will not be harmed.’

Reynald hesitated a moment longer, then sheathed his sword. ‘Very well, I will do as you ask.’

Yusuf watched as Reynald galloped away, then he turned back to the camp, which Qaraqush and his men were busy ransacking. Several men were rounding up the dozens of sheep that the bandits had stolen. Others were dragging rolls of fine silk from
a tent. Two mamluks dragged the money chest to the centre of camp; Reynald had shown them where it had been buried, not far from his tent. Yusuf watched as a grinning warrior hacked the lock off the chest with his sword. The man threw back the lid and gold coins spilled out. The men cheered, and Yusuf smiled. He would not be sold as a hostage. He would be emir of Tell Bashir, and he would send the Seljuk Sultan’s men back to their master. But if he were to be emir, then he would need a banner to fly above the gate of the citadel.

Yusuf strode into Reynald’s tent. The floor was covered with sheepskins and a pile of weapons lay in one corner. In the other corner, Yusuf found the saddlebags that he had brought from Aleppo. He rooted through them and pulled out the banner that his father had given him, white with a golden eagle in the middle.

As Yusuf left the tent, Qaraqush approached and clapped him on the back. ‘Well done, Yusuf! There is wealth enough here to put the Seljuk Sultan’s offer to shame. You are a brave man, and you have Allah’s favour.’ He knelt at Yusuf’s feet. ‘I will follow wherever you lead. I am your man, Yusuf ibn Ayub.’ The other mamluks gathered around and also knelt. John joined them.

Yusuf extended his hand and pulled Qaraqush to his feet. ‘You will not regret your decision. This is just the beginning.’

That night, Yusuf stood at the window of his chamber in the keep of Tell Bashir and looked down on his men, their figures lit by a celebratory bonfire in the centre of the courtyard. Some drank, passing around wineskins and recounting their roles in the day’s battle. Others had already spent their spoils on women, whom they pulled away towards the barracks. Still others were dancing around the bonfire while their fellows stood to the side with instruments in hand. Yusuf spied Qaraqush amongst these last, smiling as he beat out a rapid tattoo on his drum. Al-Mashtub, the giant of a man that Yusuf had fought less than two
days ago, stood beside him, his flute toylike in his massive hands. The tune they were playing floated up to Yusuf. It was an old Turkish folk-song, the drums quick under the plaintive notes of the flute.

On the far side of the courtyard the gate opened, and Yusuf saw John enter, his chainmail glimmering red in the firelight. He was followed by a figure whose face was hidden in the shadows of a black cloak. They crossed the courtyard towards the keep, and the mamluks stepped aside to let them pass. A moment later there was a knock on Yusuf’s door.

‘Enter,’ he called, turning from the window. John opened the door and stood aside to allow his companion to enter. She pushed aside her hood. It was Faridah.