Behind the Veil Page 7

Tancred was rather amazed over the simplicity of the scheme. Rufus was the one man capable of deceiving her as to Philip’s actual whereabouts. She would be compelled to cooperate to save Philip whom she needed to secure her rise as empress; but after releasing Nicholas, would she try to stop them from leaving Constantinople?

  The hippodrome came into view, empty and dark. It had been arranged for the gate to be left open, and they drove through and onto the track. The empty stands gazed down upon them, and Tancred envisioned the seats as though filled with hysterical ghosts, shouting their approval—or clamoring for a death.

  A glance at Rufus, showed himself immobile, his strong features displaying signs of resignation. Tancred reached under his cloak and felt the security of his sword. He trusted Rufus, but Irene was not to be lightly disregarded.

  They waited in the chariot at the far end of the colosseum. The minutes slipped past and there was no sign of Philip’s chariot, or Irene. Had Philip been alerted?

  Tancred heard the prance of horse hooves and the rattle of wheels—a chariot was entering the gate. He stared ahead into the darkness. As it approached, Rufus spoke in a low voice, “it’s Philip.” Rufus stepped down from the chariot and walked toward the dark stands.

  Except for Philip’s personal bodyguard, Captain Demetrious, Philip was alone. Why had he come without his soldiers? How had Rufus lured him here?

  Seated in his royal chariot, Philip leaned toward Demetrious, abruptly questioning.

  “Are you certain Basel said he would meet me here?”

  Bishop Basel…his father, Tancred thought. So that was what Rufus had told him.

  Demetrious produced a small cauldron of coals and lit two torches which he set into sockets at the sides of the chariot. Soon an area of the hippodrome around Philip’s chariot was ablaze with light, and Tancred could see Philip in his royal purple, woven with gold. His handsome, aristocratic face showed uncertainty as he caught sight of Rufus standing near the colosseum seats.

  Captain Demetrious left Philip’s chariot, and walked off into the darkness.

  Stunned, Philip looked after him. “You fool! Get back here. Where are you going?”

  No reply came. Philip’s startled gaze darted about the hippodrome, then fixed upon Rufus’s empty chariot as Tancred walked toward the torchlight.

  “Basel?” Philip called toward him, his voice showing bewilderment, then growing tension when no reply came. “Basel…Father, is that you?”

  Philip stepped down and looked about in the torchlight surrounding his chariot. Grave alarm showed on his face. “Demetrious! I will have you strangled for this!” he shouted, his words echoing about the arena.

  Rufus stood motionless as Tancred walked past as a ghostly shadow—approaching Philip’s chariot.

  Philip squinted to see who it was. He looked about wildly. “Guards!”

  Tancred stepped into the torchlight.

  Philip snatched a breath. “You? It cannot be. You were enslaved for life, if not dead by now.”

  “The night is full of ghosts. Hear them, Philip? Look about you and see the cheering crowds.”

  “You have gone mad!”

  “Do you not hear the fickle spectators acclaiming your greatness? Philip the noble Byzantine, Emperor!” he mocked.

  Sweat beaded Philip’s brow. His eyes darted to the stands as if he could hear voices.

  “How soon the cheering crowds become a mob,” said Tancred. “The ghosts are now those of loyal and valorous men you deserted in battle. Remember them? The blood of men more noble than you cry out—my cousin Norris, for one.”

  Philip lunged into the chariot, crawling over the seat toward the horse’s reins, but Tancred was swiftly beside him, jerking him back. Philip slid down the rear of the chariot, his breath coming swiftly. “I should have killed you at the palace,” he spat the words.

  Tancred unsheathed his sword. “Now is your opportunity. I give you a better chance than you gave either Norris or me. You also betrayed Helena—to me an unforgiveable treachery. We will duel,” he stated flatly.”

  Philip’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at the glimmer of steel in the torchlight. “Guards!” he shouted. “Demetrious!”

  “The silence mocks you, Philip. You are on you own this time. There are no pawns to carry out your murderous commands. You must stand on your own feet and prove yourself as worthy as a common soldier. You will fight for your life. I have much to settle with you.”

  “Treason!” he shouted into the darkness at Demetrious. “I will have you executed for this!”

  “First, you must execute me,” Tancred stated. “Did you think I would not find you? You played the fool, Philip, when you sent Helena to Kalid at Antioch.”

  “I need not fight you! Why should I? Soon there will be a hundred soldiers out looking for me. When they come, I will have you thrown to the leopards.”

  “Not this time. For once in your life you must answer for yourself. Did you have the courage to face Helena with the truth about holding Nicholas before sending her to Kalid?”

  “Helena chose her fate when she chose you instead of me. Everything I’ve done, I did with her in mind. My rise to power was to be shared with her, but she rejected me—for you, Norman,” he said bitterly. “You were a curse from the time I first laid eyes on you at the Danube. I should have had you eliminated then.”

  “Cease your self-pity. You left Helena little choice. Did you think she would marry a man who betrayed her mother to Basel and her uncle to Irene?”

  “Neither will you have her, Norman! Kalid has her now! I have taken her from you.”

  “You will reap what you have sown, Philip. Our meeting can only end at your death.”

  “Or yours! If you kill me you will never leave Constantinople alive. You will never escape the edict of the emperor. And if you think me a coward, you will learn otherwise. You wish a duel, you will have one!” He unsheathed his sword and stepped back.

  Tancred drew his blade, coming swiftly to meet Philip’s thrust, turning it aside. Philip came at him with more determination than Tancred thought him capable. Tancred fought off his rush, but Philip’s sword made brief contact, bringing blood to Tancred’s wrist. Tancred countered his blade with several aggressive moves that drove Philip backward onto the arena floor.

  In the torchlight the sweat could be seen beading Philip’s brow as they fought back and forth, the sounds of clashing metal echoing off the walls, filling the night with the certainty of death.

  Tancred spoke contemptuously, “For once, Philip, I commend you. At least you are fighting your own battle! How does it feel to be alone with nothing but your own courage?”

  Tancred thrust his blade past Philip’s and nicked him on the neck. “This is how a soldier does battle…while you sit back with your silver wine goblets and command them to die for you!”

  Philip cursed him, and swung his sword, and Tancred deflected it downward, his blade sliding off. Their swords smashed, then disengaged and Tancred thrust and felt the purple cloth give under the point of his sword, but Philip’s sword brought a to cut his shoulder.

  Philip rushing him, struck again viciously and Tancred parried his blow. Philip kicked Tancred’s knee, and it seemed as though a shout arose from the empty stands as Tancred knelt down, and Philip laughed. “I need not play by the rules; all that matters is that I win!” He came at Tancred hoping to kick him in the face, but the strong Norman caught his foot and twisted until Philip, went down clumsily on his side. Tancred stood.

  “Then neither will I.” He grabbed him by the front of his tunic and pulled Philip to his feet, smashing a fist into his belly. As he doubled, Tancred landed a second blow. Philip sank to the dust, doubled over, groaning.

  Tancred wiped the sweat from his face, and snatching up their swords, he tossed Philip’s beside him and waited for him to recover.

  “Get up,” Tancred demanded. “I’ve not finished with you yet.”

  Philip delayed, then struggled to his feet, hissing a curse
at him under his breath. They circled. Philip feinted, then lunged. Tancred deflected the blade then, moved in again, narrowly missing Philip’s chest.

  They circled again with Philip growing exhausted. The battle continued, but Tancred wished for the ugly moment to be over.

  Again, Philip sprang at him, snarling his hatred. Tancred warded off the attack, deflecting Philip’s blade and, moving in, he delivered a swift and final plunge through his chest. Philip gave a choking curse, his teeth bared, and Tancred pulled his weapon free, leaving Philip to collapse as the sword clattered from his hand onto the arena floor—the same floor that had received the fallen dead from Roman-style games.

  Tancred looked down upon him, then started to slowly turn away when something familiar about the sword on the arena floor caught his attention. He stooped to pick it up and saw a falcon engraved on the handle—the heraldic of the Norman House of Redwan! It must have appealed to Philip’s pride to have possessed Tancred’s own weapon after the ambush at the summer house! Tancred took the Norman sword and sheath and walked back toward the chariot where Rufus and Captain Demetrious waited. Demetrious handed him a skin of water.

  Rufus looked at Tancred, who was catching his breath as he leaned against the side of the chariot, quenching his thirst.

  Captain Demetrious looked up, alert. “Nicholas comes. Both of you best leave at once. Madame Irene will soon learn of this. Few escape her wrath. She has a hundred spies.”

  “Irene has already learned,” came the dull voice of Rufus.

  “Both Tancred and Demetrious turned their heads to look in Rufus’s direction.

  “Irene was at the Lysander summer palace when I arrived and told her Philip was here with Redwan,” Rufus explained. “You need fear her no longer.”

  The water skin stilled at Tancred’s lips.

  “Like Jezebel, she is dead. I threw her over the terrace tonight. Unlike the high priestess of Baal, Irene the queen of astrology, was not eaten by dogs, but by her own leopards—the same fate she heaped upon my beloved son, Joseph.”

  Stunned silence gripped Tancred and Captain Demetrious. They looked at him. Joseph? Thrown to the leopards?

  “You? You had the courage to kill her?” Demetrious whispered, amazed.

  “I have long intended to do so, but her threats against Joseph prevented me. When she learned that Joseph helped Nicholas escape, she had Joseph thrown to her leopards, she was most unwise,” Rufus said in a dead voice. “His life was her only safeguard.”

  Rufus turned and walked away.

  At the gate of the hippodrome came the rush of horse hooves. The men scattered, swords drawn, but it was Nicholas who came bounding up, his robust and handsome face alert and sober in the torchlight. Tancred walked to meet him, and Nicholas slowly relaxed astride the horse, the breeze touching his dark cloak. His eyes were quick to see, by the blood stain on Tancred’s tunic, that he had done battle.

  “Nicholas’s jaw flexed. “Is he dead?”

  Tancred merely nodded. Captain Demetrious gestured to the track. “Over there, Seigneur.”

  Nicholas dismounted and walked to the place, gazing down, confirming Philip’s death.

  Rufus loosened the horses from the chariots and handed Tancred the reins of one, while he and Demetrious mounted the others.

  Nicholas returned to his horse, and swung himself up. Pausing to collect his thoughts, he looked over at Tancred. “Under Irene’s ungodly influence, Philip’s trust in his future being written in the stars directed his own egoistic epitaph. He is responsible for much suffering and many deaths. But now we must hurry, it will soon be nearing midnight and the ship to St. Symeon may sail without us.”

  When they arrived on the wharf, the Genoese ship was preparing to leave. They ran past the darkened hulls of many ships, past crewmen and lone guards who paid them no heed.

  Captain Rainald was on deck when Tancred shouted for his attention. Rainald leaned over the ship’s side and gave a command to those about him to lower the gang plank. Scarcely a minute later, Tancred ran up the incline onto the solid deck, with the others following.

  Rainald stood on deck, grinning, a picture of elegance, his black hat sporting gems.

  “You had me worried, Tancred! Welcome aboard!” He turned and gave a bow of respect and welcomed Nicholas, Rufus, and Demetrious.

  As the ship left the Golden Horn, Tancred looked back, his face grave. Constantinople, the Queen City, was forever behind him. But what would the future hold for him and Nicholas at Antioch?

  Behind the Veil / The Royal Pavilions book3 / Linda Chaikin

  Chapter9

  Outside Antioch

  Captain Rainald was indignant. “What is this? You will not fight beside us to take St. Symeon?”

  They were nearing the port when Tancred explained that his destiny did not lie with the Genoese. “If it were any other time, my friend, I would find myself honored to fight alongside you. And neither can I yet join Bohemond in the siege of Antioch! I must get inside the city, and this challenge I must accomplish alone.”

  Rainald did not bother to hide his disappointment. “You and I, and yes Bardas, I thought we would fight together.”

  “We may yet join swords, my friend, but now I have no honorable choice except to go directly to the Castle of Hohms.”

  “And from there, Antioch, yes I see. Perhaps it is best. The crusading armies will soon be starving,” Rainald cautioned.

  “Not if you valiant Genoese take the port so that supplies can be shipped in.

  “Even if we could take the port tomorrow, it will take time to bring in food from Cyprus.”

  “I have every confidence in you and your Italian friends. We will meet again.”

  The appeal seemed to soothe Rainald, and encourage his cooperation.

  ***

  In the cabin with Rainald, Tancred and Nicholas studied the map of the environs of Antioch that Tancred had drawn in the Royal Library in Constantinople. A lantern hung above the wooden table casting its glow.

  “It would be best to go ashore late at night in a small boat,” Nicholas suggested to Rainald. “Can you bring us close to the beach at St. Symeon?”

  “Slipping past the Muslim Turks will be difficult, but being the most excellent captain that I am, it can be done. We corsairs know of secret places to stow away. I shall bring you to a point farther south.”

  Tancred exchanged smiles with Nicholas.

  Late that night the ship’s crew lowered the anchor a mile offshore from a deserted beach. The wind had picked up, and clouds blotted out the moon. No voices were raised as a rowboat was lowered into the dark swells. Tancred snatched up his two bags, tossed them down to a crewman, then gripped the rope and descended, followed by Nicholas, Bardas, Rufus, and Captain Demetrious.

  The oars manned by two Genoese, the boat moved away from the ship’s hull toward the distant shoreline. After nearly a half-hour the beach became discernible, and Tancred heard waves crashing against the shoreline. It was starting to rain when they reached the beach. With a friendly salute, the crewmen left them and rowed back toward the ship.

  Leaving the beach, the five men climbed a hill and found themselves on a small coastal mound above the main port of St. Symeon, now dark and quiet. Rain sprinkled Tancred’s face as the frontal wind blew against him, but he was far from being disillusioned. In a few days he would be at the castle. Helena waited, and also his adoptive father, Rolf Redwan, an uncle, whom Tancred had not seen in six years. He was at last coming to his destination. What lay ahead?—the embrace of Helena, or was she already married to Prince Kalid?

  He would not stay defeated forever. Somehow, in God’s purpose and goodness, he would go on to the end of the path and reach the goal planned for him.

  They walked the rugged path to the harbor. The rain and the late hour kept dockside activity to a minimum. The shores were crowded with merchandise to be loaded or unloaded at the light of dawn. Camels slept, and the guards had taken shelter. Ahead were several carav
ans from the southern regions of Aleppo and Damascus.

  “Seljuk Turks?” Nicholas whispered.

  “Arabs is my guess.”

  “We are in good stead.”

  “Maybe. It is true that there is little affection between the Arabs and their recent Turkish overlords,” Tancred said. “However, Arab princes will commit their desert warriors to the cause of Islam rather than Christendom. We must retain our caution.”

  The caravan drivers were up early, and a fire burned. Tancred smelled the aroma of the small round Arab breads, chunks of goat meat, and hot bean curry.

  Leaving their companions on guard, Tancred and Nicholas approached three Arabs sitting about the fire, their heads covered. At the sound of footsteps, the men turned their heads and measured the newcomers.

  “We are looking to buy horses,” Nicholas called in a friendly voice.

  One of the men stood and beckoned them to enter the goatskin shelter.

  “You come from Cyprus?” the graybeard inquired, scanning first Nicholas, then more cautiously, Tancred.

  Tancred avoided a direct reply, as did Nicholas, whose cleric outfit was wisely concealed beneath a peasant’s rough tunic. Tancred’s armor was not of any particular uniform, but a mixture of the best.

  “We are from many places,” Nicholas said with a smile. “And your caravan?” Does it come from far?”

  “Aleppo.”

  While Tancred deliberately remained in the background, Nicholas gestured to the pen of horses. “They look to be of a good breed. Are you willing to sell?”

  The Arab’s alert gaze studied them. “If it is Allah’s good pleasure to see them with another,” he said evasively. “We were bringing them to Antioch to be sold to Prince Kalid, but the way grows dangerous for travel.”

  Tancred affected indifference as though he’d never heard the name. Nicholas inquired, “How goes the preparation for the siege against the barbarians?”

  The sharp dark eyes of the Arab were equally cautious. “News from Armenian shepherds tells us they have crossed the mountains. In Antioch the great Yaghi-Sian prepares for battle. His Seljuk commander, Kerbogha, expects more soldiers from the sultan at Aleppo to ride to their defense.”