Behind the Veil Page 22

  The Castle Ruin

  The sun was now low behind the hills of Asia Minor. Helena consoled herself with the hope that when the mantle of darkness fell over the plain, Tancred would emerge from his place of hiding.

  Above her the sky was growing ever darker; stars began to show themselves white and glittering. The wind picked up and sang with a moan about the corners of the castle ruin. She could barely see Mosul’s silhouette now. He remained where he’d been for most of the day, at the wall staring into the plain. What he hoped to see in such dark shades of night was beyond her understanding. He appeared fixated. There were no human sounds, only the wind among fallen stones and rocks, and the rustling of dried grasses like the shaking of a serpent’s tail.

  She felt she had to break the silence. “Where are the soldiers you left behind to set the ambush? Why have they not returned with your captive?”

  Mosul did not answer.

  “The ambush must have failed,” she said.

  The unexpected sound of horse hooves approached at a gallop, then trotted across the stone courtyard, echoing in the shadowed ruins.

  Mosul drew his sword, every muscle in his body ready, alert for action at the sound of rushing steps bounding up into the open hall.

  A dark figure came toward them and announced, “Mosul, the men you ordered to set the ambush have abandoned us and turned back toward Aleppo!”

  “The whimpering cowards!” Mosul’s voice reeked with disgust, and something else…fear? ”So they have run out on me? Well, it will do Jehan no good. How many men are on watch below?”

  “Twelve.”

  “It is sufficient. Spread out. Keep watch.”

  Helena closed her eyes and let the wind blow about her as she thought of God’s presence in her troubles, ‘And His song will be with me in the night’….

  When her eyes opened, the dimness of a pale yellow dawn painted the eastern sky. Shadows were still deep among the purplish hills, and a lonely shriek from a bird heralded a new day. With wings unfurled, it soared overhead as she shaded her eyes to watch its graceful flight. She thought of King David’s Psalm about King Saul of Israel hunting David out of jealousy, hoping to kill him. “Oh that I had wings like a dove, for then I would fly away and be at rest!”

  There came the rush of feet up the steps, and once again a soldier appeared to report to Mosul. Helena was not supposed to hear, but in the desert silence the whispered voices reached her.

  “Though the men exchanged watches throughout the night, he somehow managed to slip in among us without detection.”

  Mosul scrambled to his feet. “Impossible.”

  The guard’s expression was troubled. “This note was left on the steps below.”

  Mosul was reluctant to reach for the message. At last he snatched it from the soldier, then glanced over at Helena. She was afraid to smile.

  As he read, the hardness of his face deepened to an ugly flush at whatever was written in the Moorish tongue.

  He whirled to face the barren wilderness. “Even now he watches us.”

  “He must have wings,” the guard said defensively.

  “So he is here, is he?” Mosul strode over to Helena and, catching her wrist, propelled her to the terrace. “Jehan!” he shouted. “You are out there! I know you are!”

  Mosul’s shout echoed through the ruins. “Come for her if you dare!”

  There was no answer from the ruins below. Mosul’s dark eyes scanned the distant rocks for a sign of Tancred’s movements. Seeing nothing, Mosul stepped back and released Helena.

  ***

  The morning…then the afternoon, passed slowly, and when night again descended like a cloak over the ruins, one of the soldiers approached Mosul. Without a word he produced another message.

  Mosul gritted. “Where did you find it?”

  “On your horse,” the guard said flatly. “Mosul, the other men are growing tense. They do not care for this mysterious ghost hunt. They are restless. Jehan could put a dagger in any one of us, and we would have no warning!”

  “If he is here, then why have we not seen him?” Mosul demanded.

  “I do not know, but the men are getting nervous. We are only twelve men now. They begin to question the wisdom of holding the Byzantine princess. They want to leave her here, and the rest of us slip away during the night.”

  “I am in command. Who are they to question me?”

  “Some of them think Jehan has powers of a magician.”

  Mosul kicked a cushion across the stone floor. “What manner of soldiers are these who sit about in the dark conjuring up tales? Jehan is a man of flesh that cuts and bleeds. He cannot be in two places at once. He is here near the ruins somewhere. Find him!”

  “We have searched. There is no flesh and blood, only messages that promise a fate worse than death if you touch the woman. I tell you, the men wish to ride out of here, tonight. Leave her to him, Mosul! Let us go even now, while we still have our lives!”

  Mosul read the warning contained in the new message. His brow glinted with sweat; he cursed under his breath and hurled his container of mulled wine.

  “He mocks me, takes me for a fool.” He began to pace. “So he is bold enough to think he can get past the guards into this hall tonight?”

  Helena was on her feet. “I told you he would come! Let me go now, Mosul, and save your life and the lives of your men! I will convince him to let you depart for Baghdad alive!”

  Mosul whirled and pointed a warning with his drawn blade. “Silence your tongue, woman!”

  The guard’s anxious face grew more troubled. “That Jehan is able to move among us is evident by the messages he leaves. Your pride endangers us all! Do as she suggests. Send her back, and we will ride on toward Baghdad!”

  “Impossible, I tell you. It is a trick to spread fear. Does he take me for a fool?” He walked over to the crumbling wall and peered off into the empty plain. Little was heard except the scuttling of dry brush in the wind.

  “If he thinks to get past the watch tonight, then let him risk it. I shall be ready for him. Alert the men—take your watch!”

  Helena’s heart pounded. Tancred was troubling Mosul’s peace of mind. She remembered an ancient proverb, “Whom the gods would destroy, they first drive to madness.”

  Helena watched him. He was nervous in spite of his boast. Her lips turned into a faint smile. Tancred’s warning that he would come tonight had already put Mosul on the defensive.

  Darkness descended upon the plain with a sliver of moon giving a hint of light. The ruin, with an ancient history of good and evil, stood like a skeleton in a desert, with a distant backdrop of smooth, humped hills.

  Mosul did not sleep. If Tancred was coming tonight then he would be ready.

  With every gust of wind whining past crevices in sob-like moans, Mosul readied his sword, expectantly waiting.

  The isolated hours of night inched persistently toward dawn; faint glimmers of morning began to chase the shadows where Helena hovered between restless dozing and wakefulness. She, too, waited, but with quiet confidence. Tancred was playing his part wisely.

  Mosul remained awake as the eastern sunrise illumined the horizon. Shadows fled before the bursting sun. Suddenly Mosul shouted his rage. “Tancred, I will kill you for this!”

  Helena bolted upright, heart thudding. Mosul was looking past the breached wall below. “Warriors,” Mosul breathed, surprised. “How did they arrive without the guards being alerted?”

  Mosul rushed to count them, even as Helena did—twenty, thirty, about forty men astride Great horses, their Norman armor glinting in the bright morning sun; the Redwan falcon insignia identifying Normans in liege to Walter of Sicily, one of Tancred’s uncles.

  She looked at Mosul. Sweat dotted his furrowed brow, a twisted look of anger and defeat lined his face.

  ***

  Mosul’s mind took an unpleasant path back to Sicily where he had once served the Redwan family…back to the Redwan castle in Palermo. With assistanc
e from enemies among the Moors, witnesses had been paid in gold to say that they had seen Tancred kill his half-brother in a fit of jealous rage, then flee.

  Mosul had left Sicily, taking a ship to the Golden Horn in Constantinople. Eventually he learned that Tancred had escaped and followed him, and was asking probing questions. Thereafter, wherever Mosul fled, he heard rumors of Tancred remaining on his trail. Somehow, Tancred had escaped from the Rhinelanders, followed Mosul to Constantinople to the camp of the Red Lion, and then to Antioch.

  Mosul riveted his gaze on the Redwan gonfanon. And now the chase had finally come to this. Suddenly, in the morning sky, he caught sight of a magnificent falcon swooping low to land on the shoulder of a warrior on an Arabian stallion who had ridden from a rocky area. Mosul gritted a curse. Was that how the messages were delivered? A falcon! He had been tricked, and his men spoofed!

  A guard came rushing up the steps. “Mosul! There are forty Norman warriors. We are trapped.”

  A distant voice from below in the courtyard was shouting up in Mosul’s direction. That voice! Mosul knew it well. He fixed his eyes on the warrior astride a stallion. Tancred broke rank from the others and rode forward alone. The horse’s prancing hooves beat rhythmically on the stone court, then stopped, followed by utter silence.

  The wind sent Tancred’s challenge echoing among the ruins.

  “Mosul!”

  “I hear you, Jehan! One word from me and my soldiers will cut you down.”

  “Your boast is empty. Your men have deserted you!”

  “He speaks truth,” the guard whispered to him. “I had the last watch. When I awoke, the others had slipped away. Beside me, there is just one other guard.”

  Mosul’s jaw set. “So be it.” He shouted down from the portico, “I have my sword, Infidel cousin, and the woman, It is enough!”

  Below, Tancred held his mount steady, while the stallion was impatiently bobbing its sleek black head and pawing the ground. Tancred stared up at the terrace. He could only guess Mosul’s position.

  “In the name of Norman justice I challenge you, Mosul! Come down, defend your claim to innocence in Derek Redwan’s assassination.”

  “Why should I? You killed him. The rulers of Palermo know it. They have not left Sicily to fight the Seljuks, but to locate you! Will you deceive them now by trapping me? Hear me!” Mosul shouted toward the main body of warriors. “Tancred killed Derek Redwan! There are witnesses!”

  Tancred glanced over at Walter of Sicily, who remained immobile astride his Great Horse. Tancred’s other uncles, William and Robert, moved uneasily on their mounts. His cousins, including Leif, exchanged glances with the other five young Redwan warriors. Leif was scowling, and Tancred believed he knew what he was thinking, that Tancred was making a mistake in this duel with Mosul, for his strength was not yet in keeping with the grievous ordeal ahead.

  On the way from Antioch with Hakeem and Jamil, Tancred had been surprised and encouraged to meet up with Bishop Nicholas, and even more surprised to see his adoptive father, Seigneur Rolf Redwan and the rest of the Redwan clan. They had left Antioch and ridden to the Castle of Hohms in time to join Rolf and Nicholas. The clan, led by Walter of Sicily, had informed Rolf and Nicholas that Tancred requested the right to meet Mosul in craven to prove his innocence, and Rolf knew, he too, must be at his adoptive son’s trial. Fortunately, Leif had told their uncle Walter how Philip the Noble was responsible for Norris’s death. So they had trailed Tancred, Hakeem, and Jamil across the desert to this old ruin.

  Now they were all gathered for the grave ordeal.

  Tancred looked up at the ruins and challenged, “You are a warrior, are you not, Mosul? Come down, show your sword! Will you crouch, behind the noble shield of a lady? Perhaps you would prefer to send her down to contest me!”

  “I could take you, Jehan! As for the woman, she will be worth her weight in Lysander and Redwan gold and jewels. She remains with me!”

  “Then come down. Let us meet at last. Here—now. The rulers of Sicily look on as our judges. They have agreed to render guilt or innocence upon the warrior who survives. Kill me, and you will be free! Defend your claim of innocence—unless you admit to the deed of an assassin. Come, swine! Murderer of women!”

  Mosul’s eyes flared with rage. He was trapped and he knew it. Tancred had left him no room to maneuver. Either he would die trying to escape, or he would have to kill Tancred in a duel. It would be difficult, but not impossible. Mosul’s reputation as a Moorish swordsman was respectable, but if he tried to escape, even with the woman as a shield, he would be run down by the Redwans and forced to walk the red-hot coals.

  He moistened his lips. “If I take you, does your father Rolf give the Norman vow to let me depart in peace?”

  “You have not only his vow, but the vow of all the lords here gathered.”

  “What of the Byzantine woman?” Mosul shouted.

  “If I fail, the lords have sworn along with Bishop Nicholas to pay in gold for her release. Think, Mosul! Your freedom, gold, and the satisfaction of my death! Come forth! Defend your name! Will it be on foot or on horse? Sword or scimitar? I leave the choice with you!”

  “Sword and horse,” Mosul shouted down.

  In reply, Tancred threw down the gauntlet and, turning the stallion, rode backward a few paces and waited.

  Soon, a Norman led a horse across the court toward the steps and held the reins, waiting for Mosul.

  The moments were prolonged, with tense silence as Tancred waited. Mosul would come. There was no hope of escape. Tancred riveted his gaze on the wide stone steps leading to the pavilion. There was a movement behind a broken pillar—then a warrior emerged from the shadows. Mosul stepped forward into the sunlight.

  The wind rustled his black hood. His tunic was belted, reaching to his thighs. He came slowly down the steps, his boots against the loose stone, a determined expression on his face. His hand rested on his sheathed sword.

  One glimpse of the man he had sought for so long, and Tancred’s strong jaw clenched. At last.

  Nicholas and Rolf Redwan came with pieces of armor: the customary chain mesh that went over the inner tunics, the helmets with face shields to protect the bridge of the nose, and leggings.

  As Tancred put his helmet on, he unexpectedly caught sight of Helena in an ankle-length hooded cloak, being restrained from running toward him by the two remaining guards in Mosul’s band. Tancred could see the fear on her face. His temper surged. He rode forward shouting, “Take her away!”

  The guards hastened to oblige, but Helena jerked free. She stared down at Tancred. As their eyes met and briefly held, she desired to cry out to him of her love, but the words never left her lips before a Norman lord on horseback shouted for the duel to begin.

  She watched him lower his face shield, then turn the horse to trot ahead to his position. The Normans had formed two lines, and as he rode through them, followed by Mosul, Helena’s stomach flinched. “May our Lord God aid thee, my beloved Tancred,” she whispered in prayer.

  Behind the Veil / The Royal Pavilions book3/ Linda Chaikin

  Chapter 24

  Confrontation

  Mosul was a powerful warrior, adept with sword and scimitar, and seated tall on his horse he gave every appearance of a seasoned fighter. He was not to be treated lightly as Tancred well understood. Mosul had once served the Redwan castle in Palermo before Derek’s assassination, and Tancred had jousted with him and the other castle defenders in rigorous training.

  Tancred touched his face shield as a sign he was ready and drew his blade, then looked across the field to Seigneur Rolf Redwan, awaiting the signal. Rolf, a flaxen-haired commander with the body of a Viking, had already confronted his older brother Walter with anger over the injustice he believed done in Palermo to Tancred. “I have a mind to return to Palermo and assume position over the clan,” he had once roared at Walter.

  “Then come!” Walter had countered. “There are enemies enough among the Moslem Moors to keep
both our blades occupied!”

  But Nicholas had hinted to Tancred earlier that Rolf would not return, explaining that a warm friendship had flared between Rolf and Helena’s mother, Lady Adrianna.

  Tancred shook these family thoughts from his mind. Absently he touched the chain mesh beneath his leather tunic where the bandages from his injury were tightly bound.

  Faithful Hakeem was there too, the one Moor among the Normans, the falcon with him, its feathers ruffling in the breeze. Hakeem had come to him alone before Tancred rode to meet Mosul. “It is a battle between two Moors, Master. Remember the treacherous use of his sword when the two of you were boys? Always he would go for the scimitar when you knocked the blade from his right! He has not changed. Beware. I trust him not, no matter what Norman laws he agrees to obey.

  Jamil was tight faced and in prayer as he sat back upon a pile of old stones. He was trembling and gritting his teeth to stop. Tancred had given him a signet ring and his cloak as a reminder of his promise to adopt him. Though the morning was hot, Jamil had wrapped himself in the cloak. He was also protecting the Scriptures that Nicholas had given to Tancred. “Should anything happen to me, Jamil, remember to make these living words the foundation of all your days. And you will find no better uncle than Bishop Nicholas.”

  Tancred looked over the line of Redwans and saw his cousin Leif with the others. Leif gave him a confident raise of his blade in a salute.

  Uncle Walter was there too, watching in stoic silence, his stark blue eyes riveted on Tancred, but there was evidence of turmoil in the movement of his gloved hands as he flipped the reins. Walter was somewhat of a changed man since meeting Leif and his wife Adele in their tent.

  Rolf prepared to signal for the duel to begin.

  The moment came. Mosul, with face shield in place, sword ready, galloped toward Tancred, and Tancred rode to confront him, the sleek Arabian gaining speed. Mosul’s sword came with the force of a strong right arm, and Tancred deflected his blade, redirecting its energy. Turning the Arabian with ease, he struck a quick, vicious blow against Mosul’s helmet.