Behind the Veil Read online

  Helena turned to Jamil. “He needs warmth! Make a fire in the hearth. Then bring me curdled wine and all the herbs you have in the culinary.”

  The physician gripped his satchel. “Your Highness, I am the physician—am I not?”

  Helena looked at him. “Fear not, I intend to do as you professionally bid, Honorable Doctor. How serious are his wounds?”

  He hesitated, faintly mollified. “Quite serious. I do not know if the lung was punctured. I had little time to examine him closely. The bleeding had to be stopped. He has lost much. He is strong, a warrior, and so…” His voice trailed off as his mind turned in another direction.

  “And another wound in his shoulder, but it is not as serious, and he has a concussion. I might add, that he behaves with arrogance. Before he lapsed into unconsciousness, he dared tell me how to treat him. You are both entitled to each other’s company. Good evening.” He gave a sharp bow and turned to leave.

  “Wait—will he live?”

  “He should not have been moved. The bleeding could start up again. If you keep him quiet, and his wounds do not fester, he should improve as he otherwise appears to be in excellent form.”

  The physician swept out of the chamber, and she was left with Jamil as Assad stood in the doorway to Tancred’s chamber, wringing his hands.

  “You may go now, Assad.”

  “Yes, Highness, as you wish, but please do not leave your chambers.”

  The chief eunuch left the chamber following after the physician. Helena, disoriented, stood staring at the closed door, then turned and rushed to check on Tancred.

  He was either asleep, or unconscious; she was not sure which. She hovered anxiously near his bed for a few minutes and then rushed back into the main chamber to see if Jamil had the fire going. He had a vessel of water slung from a winch above the flames. She heard a groan and rushed back into Tancred’s chamber to find him struggling to rise from the bed!

  He still wore his trousers and boots, though his blood-soaked tunic was gone, and she saw with horror that fresh blood was seeping through the cloths on his chest as the physician had warned.

  With a start she rushed to the bed and tried to push him back to the cushions. “Tancred, darling, you must lie still.”

  He focused on her, startled at her voice and presence, then suddenly caught her, drawing her toward him. “Helena…” he said with feverish confusion, “are you unhurt?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, and kissed him. “I am well. It is you who are badly injured and you must rest.”

  “What are you doing here…in the armory?” he said, somewhat dazed.

  She soothed his brow. “You are in my chambers,” she whispered. I am going to look after you until—”

  His hand closed tightly about her arm. He could summon more strength than she had thought possible. He blinked, momentarily alert. “Your chambers? I cannot remain here…for your sake—”

  “No, Tancred, it is well, believe me. I have told them you are my bodyguard from the Sacred Palace.”

  He thrashed about in search of his scabbard, and in his struggle knocked over a small marble table. “My sword—where is it?”

  She grappled with him, trying to push him back to the bed. “Be still! Your thrashing about will harm you—your wounds will open again. And if Kalid learns—” she caught herself. How much dare she tell him now?

  Tancred noted the caution in her voice. “Kalid? Where is he?”

  “We are very blessed. Kalid is away at Aleppo, trying to raise an army to come to the aid of Antioch. We have as much as three weeks before his return. You must rest and get stronger, then escape. Meantime, I will seek to find some way out.”

  “We escape together Helena, or not at all. I will not leave you here alone.”

  She might warn him of Mosul, but he was in no condition to respond to the threat. “Rest and sleep, darling,” she repeated.

  “There is no time to waste. I must think, must learn the layout of the palace—where is my satchel, is it here?”

  “No, but I will see if I can locate it, along with your sword. Jamil may be able to help.”

  “Jamil?”

  She told him of the boy. ”There is naught you can do now. Do be reasonable, Tancred. You are becoming feverish and delirious.”

  The dark blue of his eyes glittered. “What happened to Nicholas, Leif, the others?”

  She soothed him. “Surely they have survived and made it through the gate to the castle, or even back to the Norman camp. There is no talk of prisoners.”

  “The gate—we are not in the Castle of Hohms?”

  “No, Antioch,” she whispered.

  “Antioch! Mosul—”

  She must not let him know yet. “Perhaps he is with Kalid at Aleppo….”

  “They are dead,” he murmured in a feverish half-consciousness, “Dead…Philip, and Basel….”

  She stiffened. Philip, dead?

  He must be delirious. She would ask him when he was recovering. Bishop Basel may be dead if he had confronted Nicholas, but Philip?

  Helena thought Tancred was falling asleep, but when she began to pull away from his grip, his eyes opened and he pulled her toward him, his eyes searching hers. “How is it that Kalid has allowed me to remain here alive? Why did he not kill me?

  “I told you, darling, Kalid is not in Antioch now. It was his uncle who came for me.”

  “Ma’sud Khan?”

  So Tancred knew of him. But of course he would. Did he also know that Mosul was the chief captain of Ma’sud’s bodyguard? She hastened, “He treated me well. I requested he spare your life. We have much cause to thank God.”

  “Ma’sud would have no pity where I am concerned. Why would he spare me?”

  She felt his searching gaze. “All right, I did the only thing at the time I could think of. We were surrounded, and you were on the ground, and the Seljuks were deciding whether to thrust you through—I convinced them you were a favored slave. My personal bodyguard. They think you are Bardas.”

  His eyes, alert now, grew speculative and drifted across her face. A brow shot up, and his mouth turned. “A eunuch. That accounts for it. And besides Ma’sud, who else believes this? Helena…I want the truth. Keep nothing back.”

  She tensed and swallowed. “Mosul,” she whispered. “He serves Ma’sud. It was Mosul who escorted me to these chambers. But he does not know who you are.”

  His grip tightened. “He knows I am here, he will soon know who I am, if he does not know already. Neither of us will escape easily, regardless of Kalid’s absence.”

  Tancred suddenly grimaced. He fell back weakly, paling, but gritted his teeth, trying to still a short, dry cough.

  Seeing him in such pain, crumbled her courage. At once she felt a surge of contrition. She had been foolish to tell him; this was not the time!

  He was beginning to perspire. She scrambled for a goblet of wine. Her eyes darted back to his wounds. She put the goblet to his lips, watching him anxiously. She whispered calmly, “Mosul will not yet discover the truth. He is not allowed in my chambers. Only Jamil and Assad the chief eunuch, are permitted entrance, and I can manage Assad. Do not worry.” She stroked his feverish brow. “We must not talk now. You need rest.”

  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.