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  Tancred waited until he feared something had gone awry. He rode near the wide doors and glanced about. It would not take long before those seeking horses caught sight of him. Then a voice called out to Jamil: “You! Infidel Turk! Come down!”

  Jamil spoke not a word as he crouched on a beam overhead where he had climbed to avoid them.

  “Set the stables afire,” called another, “that will bring him down.”

  “No, the horse feed will be lost. Go up after him.”

  One of the rabble started upward. Jamil drew his yataghan, a curved blade.

  “Make one more move toward my son and you will be minus your head,” came Tancred’s voice behind them.

  The two men whirled, confused. “Why—you are a Norman—one of us. What mean you to defend an infidel?”

  Tancred lifted his curved blade. The two men lowered their sword and ax, backing away.

  “The boy is a Christian Armenian.”

  Jamil shimmied down from the beam as fast as he had gone up. A young black horse he had long wanted to ride was in the stall looking alert, and Jamil strapped on the reigns and swung up. He rode out into the sunlight, Tancred following. His young face told Tancred he was under no illusion of the difficulty before them. The rampage in the city continued farther away.

  Tancred handed him a sword. “Be ready for anything. If anyone tries to jerk you down from the horse, use it!”

  Jamil latched hold of the sword.

  Tancred gripped his blade, his left hand holding the reins, and looked at him. The brief glance between them said far more than any spoken words.

  They rode toward the street, Tancred in the lead.

  ***

  Antioch was now in the hands of the crusaders. There were many dead in the streets, and their horses could hardly keep from stumbling. Under Tancred’s orders Jamil had ripped off his outer Turkish garb to put on Tancred’s cloak. A foot soldier grabbed at the boys reins but Jamil struck at his shoulder and the others backed away growling their displeasure.

  ”Keep moving,” Tancred told him with deliberate firmness, “Do not stop. Do not show fear. Meet their gaze with one harder than their own.”

  Up on the hill the massive Citadel was besieged by the Normans. The Seljuks inside held out, waiting for Kerbogha. Tancred reached the Bridge Gate where the Provencal knights held their position. Here, they were now safe. Without a glance back, Tancred rode aside and waited for Jamil to ride through.

  The river Orontes was ahead, blue in the warm sun. The battle for Antioch was far from over, for the cavalry of Kerbogha was only a day away. The two forces were sure to clash on the plain before Antioch finally rested in the ruling hands of Bohemond. Then there would follow the upcoming battles, sieges, and victories for Jerusalem and Bethlehem.

  Tancred’s personal battle was not over. He and Jamil would search for Helena. As for Sicily, and whether he would be able to take possession of his father’s inheritance, he did not know. That would wait for another day.

  They galloped down the Fortified Bridge, then turned toward the Gate of the Dog. Neither of them looked back to Antioch. The tension eased, and the memory of death and danger was released as the wind blew against them, warm and free. Their thoroughbreds raced over the road as though borne upon wings.

  Far behind them a distant shout reached Tancred. He looked over his shoulder and saw one horse fast on their trail, a warrior waving his arm wildly, the scimitar flashing in the hot sun. A second look at the horse and the released falcon soaring toward him, and Tancred understood who the warrior was! The falcon flew past him, its shrill cry piercing the air.

  His loyal friend, Hakeem!

  ***

  The Gate of the Dog was behind them and the road stretched far ahead. Tancred admired the Arabian beneath him as the dry wind rushed past free and wild. The stallion’s wide nostrils flared, the shiny mane flowed, and its breath came like a stallion’s ballad of ecstasy: For this I was born, for this I was trained, for this I live!

  The sand flew by beneath him, and beside him rode Jamil and Hakeem and the extra horse. Mosul the assassin: he had murdered Derek, murdered his lovely cousin Kamila, and now Aziza. Mosul had eluded him like a serpent far too long. And now he had Helena in his control.

  Behind the Veil / The Royal Pavilions book3/ Linda Chaikin

  Chapter 22

  On the Desert

  Mosul and his men draped themselves in black hoods, their only protection from the harsh desert surroundings. Helena had a cloak that she kept tightly wrapped about her burnoose, but it did little to stop the wind and stinging sand.

  Tancred…dead. The stabbing words repeated themselves in her mind without mercy. Scalding tears stung her eyelids as the wind blasted her without mercy. I wish I were dead, too. Bitter, rebellious toward her captors, she refused to talk or eat, and kept her head turned away whenever Mosul approached her.

  They camped beneath the stars a day’s journey from Antioch, and several of his men made a fire in a windbreak. Helena sat sullenly by the fire. Her ankle was still sore, and to make matters worse, she had no shoes. Mosul had forced her from the chamber without any of her personal items. Grieved by Tancred’s death and in discomfort, the possibility of escape did not enter her mind. She was dazed, nothing but a prisoner without hope. She avoided eye contact with the soldiers loitering about on constant guard. A Moor squatted by the small fire roasting a desert bird he had taken with an arrow, and Helena stared blankly at the flames sputtering up from dripping juices. She was nauseated at the sight.

  “You are not hungry?” the soldier asked quietly.

  She shook her head.

  Mosul saw him speaking to her and walked up to the fire with his mulled wine, staring down at her. “You are cold?” he asked.

  Trying to hide her trembling, Helena shook her head no.

  “Your foot is swollen. Let me see it.”

  “No! Do not touch me!”

  Heads shifted in their direction. In the shadows the soldiers expressions could not be seen. Did they feel pity for her, or indifference?

  Mosul’s black brows thundered together. “Can you do nothing but cry? Drink this!” He handed her the mug.

  With a sob Helena flung it into the sand. Mosul muttered under his breath and jerked her to her feet, and for a moment she thought he would strike her. It went suddenly silent as every eye riveted upon them. Helena tried to jerk away.

  “You whine like a spoiled child,” Mosul mocked. “This bodyguard for whom you weep so much must have been your adopted papa!”

  “You killed him! I despise you—” she stopped abruptly. In a flash she realized that something was wrong. If Mosul killed her bodyguard as he had said, then surely he would have recognized his own cousin, Tancred Redwan! Mosul must be lying. He could not have killed him! Why, she thought amazed, joy suddenly filling her heart, Tancred should still be alive! And if so, she had hope that he would yet find her.

  Mosul’s hands dropped from her and he strode angrily away.

  The Moors turned away and continued their preoccupation.

  He is not dead…Helena sank to the ground near the fire, and whispered into the night, expecting no listeners but the Great Creator. “Tancred, oh, Tancred…” But at once she sensed her mistake, for the guard attending his cooking looked up.

  He stared across the flame at her. His eyes narrowed as if the name had to detach itself from some memory in order to find its proper place. Then slowly, he put the cooking pan aside and was on his feet. He glanced over at Mosul, who had his back turned toward them. He walked over to him.

  Helena watched them talking. Mosul turned his head toward her.

  Now Mosul knew who her bodyguard was!

  Mosul left the Moor and strode toward her, his face tense. For a long moment he did not speak but stared down at her intently.

  “What name is this you lament?”

  Helena kept silent. Please, Lord, help me,” she prayed.

  He grasped her arm and pulled he
r to her feet. “Tancred?” he nearly hissed the name as if it were bitter medicine on his tongue. “Redwan? Tancred Redwan?”

  Her eyes met his evenly and she saw the anger and venom. “Yes,” she hissed back and managed to jerk free of his hand. She took a step backward and cast a reprimanding glance among the Moorish soldiers, shouting, “Tancred Jehan Redwan from Palermo, Sicily. He was a ruling count, was he not? From the respected house of al-Kareem? You have betrayed al-Kareem’s grandson!” She turned back to Mosul. “Assassin! You murdered his half-brother Derek Redwan and blamed it on Tancred!”

  Mosul, too stunned to react to her accusation, stared at her.

  Helena wondered, surprised at the change that came over him.

  “Jehan would not be your eunuch slave,” he ridiculed. “He traveled alone; he fought alone. You lie.”

  “Are you frightened of a dead man?” she mocked. “Does your vile conscience rise to torment you?”

  Still he did not react to her words. He turned from the campfire to stare off into the desert darkness behind them, as though listening to the whine of the Arabian winds. Swiftly Mosul kicked sand on the fire, leaving them in dim starlight. A swirl of smoke curled upward over the coals and was carried off with a gust of wind.

  Helena stared at him, alert. Why…he is afraid, she decided, bemused by the thought. Then it is true. Tancred is not dead.

  Had Mosul assassinated some guard in her chambers as he’s said? Maybe he’d not even gone to her chambers where Tancred was disguised as Bardas, but straight to the quarters where he had brought her to meet Kalid. He must have lied to frighten her into cooperation? Tancred must have been concealing himself in Antioch, no doubt seeking to learn through Jamil what had happened to her. Sudden understanding leaped into her heart. Her eyes brightened and great joy filled her with praise. “Thank You, Lord God, for protecting him!”

  “We will not camp here tonight,” Mosul ordered his men. “Get the horses ready. We will ride through the night to reach the ruin.”

  Helena watched him as he swiftly walked off. She turned to the Moor, who was trying to retrieve his roasted bird from the coals. “Does your commander fear ghosts?” she jibed.

  “No, he fears no one. A word of advice, lady. Do not mock him lest he strike you. His temper is vile.”

  “Then why do you serve such a man?”

  “I ask myself that sometimes.”

  She watched as he sullenly tried to wipe sand and ashes from his bird. She was still in mild pain and a little dazed by all of the events. “Why should he fear Tancred when he first told me he’d killed my bodyguard?”

  “You are right,” the Moor whispered. “I think Jehan is not dead.”

  Tancred would come for her, she thought. Even now he may be out there in the desert trailing after them. The thought brought strength and steeled her wearied emotions. She looked up toward the heavens. Thank You, most merciful Savior, You have not abandoned me.

  The soldiers, all from Sicily, knew that Tancred had long been searching for Mosul. As they mounted their horses no one said a word, but the looks exchanged between them said that Mosul was a worried man.

  “He should be worried,” Helena stated boldly, seated astride the horse. Now she felt giddy with new hope. “Mosul is not only guilty of Derek’s murder, but now he has stolen the woman Tancred will marry!”

  Astonishment spread across many a face. This beautiful woman of Constantinople royalty was the bride-to-be of Jehan Redwan?

  Mosul whirled and stared up at her. At the look on his face she froze.

  The silence was broken as he threw his head back and laughed loudly.

  Helena cringed at his glee.

  “So you are to be his bride? Then let him come! If he does, I shall have him at my mercy. So you are the woman, are you?” He turned to his men who were all somber. “The woman of Jehan, he repeated, astounded.” He laughed again. He walked up beside her horse and snatched the reins from her hands. His eyes moved over her. “So that is why your “Bardas” risked the blades of fifty Seljuks. And to think I was fool enough to not guess it. He was within reach of my blade that very moment. And Kalid! What a fool you made of him. It could not have worked out better for me. I shall not merely have gold from Infidel Nicholas, but I shall have the wolf who has trailed me since Palermo.”

  Helena stared down at him, troubled by her blunder.

  One of the Moors who had been trailing behind them as a guard now rode into the camp with a second horse in tether. “We are being followed, Commander.”

  “Followed? Kalid’s men?”

  “There were three men, but they separated just after sunset. Now there seems but one man who trails us. He rides a black Arabian stallion, and had a spare horse which I now have with me, but I lost sight of him.”

  Her heart raced. The black stallion—my horse, Altair; it has to be. And it must be Tancred. Now, she was confident the stallion Tancred rode was the one Kalid had given her.

  “This one who trails us knows what he is doing. I would not have guessed he followed except he deliberately sent this horse ahead with a message attached to the saddle.” The young Moor handed a folded piece of paper to Mosul.

  Mosul snatched it from his hand and struggled in the dimness to read the words written in the Moorish tongue, and his face turned hard and tense.

  Tancred was not far behind. Helena wanted to shout with joy but kept silent. A gust of wind came against her, and it seemed her beloved’s nearness reached with the wind to embrace her. Helena took courage, and looked about in the darkness for him, her heart beating heavily, sensing in some way the nearness of the man she loved. She could endure now—Tancred was out there, not far away, and she was sure that he had sent the message to undermine Mosul’s confidence—and also to bolster hers.

  Mosul crushed the message in his hand and looked up at her, his eyes, hard. Helena lifted her chin.

  “You do well to be afraid,” she spoke boldly. “Tancred’s way with the sword is respected and feared by his enemies. Your men know this.” She called over to the Moorish soldiers. “You know the honorable name of Redwan in Sicily? If you wish to live, slip away into the night and he will spare you! Return to Palermo to serve him. For he will surely come, and who is to say he will come alone?”

  Mosul seized her roughly from the saddle, and she thought his strong hands would snap her arm.

  “Speak thus again and he will find you with a dagger in your heart.”

  He let her go and she crumpled to the sand.

  She heard the Moorish guard speaking to Mosul in a low voice. “Why not leave the Byzantine princess here? No amount of gold or vengeance is worth facing Jehan and the Redwans. Let us divide into three groups. He will not know which set of hoof-prints to follow. And if the lady is safe and unhurt, he will be satisfied.”

  “No. We will not scatter like a pack of sheep. We are twenty warriors; Jehan is alone, or has but a few allies with him. Let him come. We will set an ambush for him. I want him alive.”

  ***

  At dawn they approached what Helena guessed to be an old abandoned castle-keep. The walls were breached; large and small stones were scattered on the slope or piled in mounds, and covered with dried summer grasses. Wide steps, like those for a Greek pavilion, led upward to a hall surrounded by a large crumbling wall. In one corner she saw steep inner steps leading onto an old terrace offering a wide view of the desert. From the terrace, no one could approach without being seen.

  Mosul’s remaining men were on guard and waited throughout the day for those in charge of the ambush to return with their prey. Helena was kept in an ancient banqueting hall, now open to the pale blue sky and the desert elements, where Mosul could watch her closely.

  “Have you no pity, Mosul? Are you human at all? I can hardly escape with an injured ankle. Is there any reason why I must be tied to this pillar?”

  Mosul stood behind a broken section of the wall, staring out across the plain. He looked over at her. Then taking out h
is dagger, came up behind the pillar and cut the rope binding her wrists.

  “This warrior you crave will yet be bound,” he stated.

  Helena forced an outwardly composed facade.

  “All the Redwans are the same,” he said bitterly. “Masters! Demanding! I have but one good thing to say of the man: he is a warrior equal to any I have met, including me. He has survived these years on his own merit, his own sword, even as I. Do you know we are related by blood?”

  “Yes. How could two boys raised together in the house of al-Kareem turn so violently against each other?”

  “I learned to hate him. He bested me in everything I did, and our grandfather favored him. When Jehan stole the heart of Kamila from me—”

  Mosul must have decided he had already confessed too much, for he stopped.

  “He will not bargain with you on my account,” she said.

  He laughed shortly. “Ah yes, he will.” He turned away and retook his position by the broken wall, his eyes once again riveting on the plain. The sun beat upon it, and the rocks reflected the heat.

  “He will come for you,” he murmured. “I know him that well. And in this he shall find his doom.”

  Helena would choose death for herself rather than become Tancred’s reason for being captured and suffering again.

  The noon sun rose high in the sky and beat down into the roofless hall. She was thirsty but refused to take Mosul’s mulled wine.

  Tancred is too wise to be taken in an ambush, she repeated to herself for the hundredth time that day. If she knew him as she thought she did, he would expect Mosul to set a trap.

  Behind the Veil / The Royal Pavilions book3/ Linda Chaikin

  Chapter 23