Eagle (48 page)

Yusuf took a step back, his face pale. He blinked in disbelief. ‘John?’ he murmured. ‘What are you—’ He stopped as he realized what he was seeing. The blood began to pound in his temples. ‘What is this?’ he whispered.

Behind him, he could hear Qaraqush shouting: ‘My lord, did you find something?’ Yusuf turned to see the mamluk some twenty yards off, making his way towards them.

Yusuf turned back to John, who had extricated himself from the rubble. He had taken the boy from Zimat and was helping her up. ‘You must go,’ Yusuf hissed at John. He took Ubadah from him. ‘Go!’

John nodded and scrambled away, around the pile of rubble. Yusuf put his head to Ubadah’s chest and heard his heart beating. He turned towards Qaraqush. ‘The child lives!’ he shouted. ‘Zimat too!’

The shouting awoke Ubadah, who looked about, confused. ‘What happened?’ He looked up and saw that Yusuf was holding him. ‘Uncle?’

‘Yusuf!’ Qaraqush called. He had stopped only a few feet away. His eyes were fixed on something at his feet. ‘You must come and see this. Leave the boy.’ Yusuf handed Ubadah back to Zimat and stepped over the rubble to Qaraqush. The mamluk pointed at a gap in the debris. ‘There.’ Half of Khaldun’s face was visible through a pile of masonry and fallen beams. His eye was open, staring sightless up at the heavens. Qaraqush put his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Yusuf.’

Ubadah had broken free of his mother and now appeared at Yusuf’s side. ‘What is it?’ His eyes fell on his father’s face. Yusuf lifted up the boy and carried him away, but it was too late. ‘Father!’ Ubadah cried. ‘What has happened to my father?’

Yusuf began to speak, then looked at Ubadah’s face. The words died on Yusuf’s lips. He did not know what to tell the child. His father lived, but Khaldun was dead.

The sky was beginning to lighten when Yusuf, covered in soot and dust, finally returned to the palace. His room was gone, so the guard at the door directed him to another, in a wing of the palace that had not been damaged. He entered to find Faridah waiting for him.

‘Zimat and the boy?’ she asked.

‘They live.’

‘Thank Allah.’ Faridah crossed the room and embraced him.  Yusuf stood stiffly and looked straight ahead while she held him. She let go and stepped back. ‘What is it? What has happened?’

‘John,’ Yusuf whispered. ‘He has betrayed me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Zimat’s child – it is John’s.’

‘Does Khaldun know?’

‘He is dead.’

‘What will you do?’ Faridah asked.

‘My duty – I will avenge the honour of my family and of Ubadah.’

‘By killing the child’s father?’

‘His father is already dead.’ Yusuf strode past her to the window, where he looked out on the ruined city. Fires still burned here and there.

‘You know better than that, Yusuf. The boy still has a father.’

‘He must never know.’ A tear ran down Yusuf’s cheek, making a track in the soot. ‘I will take John hunting. We will ride into the desert, and I will finish this.’

Faridah approached from behind and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not,’ she said gently.

Yusuf spun around and slapped her backhanded, snapping her head to the side. ‘Quiet, woman!’ he hissed. ‘It is none of your business.’ Faridah said nothing. Yusuf could see the red print of his hand on her cheek. After a moment he reached out and gently touched it. ‘Forgive me.’

‘I will. But if you kill John, will you be able to forgive yourself?’

Yusuf turned back to the window. ‘I thought he was my friend,’ he murmured. ‘How could he?’

‘Perhaps he loves her—like you love Asimat.’

‘This is different.’

‘Is it?’

‘John is not just one of my men. He is my friend. Does that mean nothing?’

‘It should – for both of you.’ Faridah embraced him from behind, her chin on his shoulder. ‘Do not do this thing, Yusuf. You will regret it.’

‘I must.’

‘No. You do not want his blood on your hands.’

‘What I want does not matter,’ Yusuf said, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘The earthquake was a sign, a warning
from Allah. I have been living without faith, without honour. It must stop. Friend or no, John must die.’

John rode along the ridge of a tall dune, lit gold by the sun setting behind him. Yusuf rode just ahead, the sand spilling away from his horse’s hooves and sliding down the steep slope. They had been riding all day, leaving Aleppo far behind them to the west. They had come to hunt, Yusuf said, but he had ignored the few signs of game that John had pointed out. Yusuf had hardly said a word during the long journey. He rode with his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, and John followed, unwilling to disturb his friend’s silence, afraid of what Yusuf might say.

The wind picked up, and John could hear the hiss of the sand as it blew towards them. He pulled a fold of his turban across his mouth and squinted against the stinging sand. After short time the storm passed, leaving him and his horse covered in a thin layer of grit. His horse shook its mane, sending sand flying. John blew his nose and picked grit from his eyes.

They rode down from the dune on to a flat waste of hard-baked sand, broken here and there with ridges of red, flaky rock. There was no vegetation, no life anywhere, and the only sound was the soft crunch of their horses’ hooves on the ground and the gentle whisper of the wind. John spurred his horse up alongside Yusuf’s. ‘It reminds me of our trip to Tell Bashir, all those years ago,’ he said.

‘
Hmph
,’ Yusuf grunted, his eyes still fixed on the horizon.

‘We were so young, only boys. We have come a long way, haven’t we, my friend?’

Yusuf glanced at him. ‘A long way,’ he murmured and spurred forward to ride ahead of John.

They rode out of the sandy waste and up a ridge of rock. Their horses’ hooves clattered on the hard surface, sending pebbles skittering. At the top of the rise they looked down into a shallow ravine, a thin stream of water flowing at the bottom. ‘This looks like a good place to camp,’ John suggested.

‘No, just a bit further.’

They rode north along the ridge while the sky faded from golden red to a dark violet speckled with innumerable sparkling stars. A new moon rose, bathing the landscape in silvery light. John could see his breath, drifting upwards in the night sky. He pulled his cloak more tightly about him. Still, Yusuf rode on, holding the reins with one hand while with the other he fingered the eagle hilt of his dagger. Finally, John rode closer and touched his friend’s arm. ‘Yusuf.’

Yusuf started. ‘What is it?’

‘We should make camp. Before the night’s cold settles.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘Yes, you are right. It is time.’ He pointed to a wide, flat spot beside the stream below. ‘Down there.’

They picked their way down a narrow track to the water’s edge. ‘I’ll gather wood,’ John said as he slid from the saddle. The wind had died, and the soft crunch of his boots in the sand was loud in the silence. Yusuf had also dismounted and was busy with his saddle. John wrapped his horse’s reins around one of the bushes on the riverbank, and the horse lowered its head to drink. He removed its saddle and patted its side. Then he headed upstream to look for wood.

Some thirty yards from camp, he found a pile of dry driftwood. He knelt down and began to gather up branches when behind him he heard the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn – the hiss of steel sliding against leather. He turned to see Yusuf, sword in hand. His friend’s mouth was set in a hard line.

‘What is this?’ John asked as he stood.

‘You know,’ Yusuf said, his voice trembling. ‘You lay with Zimat. Ubadah is your son. Admit it.’ He took a step closer and raised his sword. His eyes had narrowed dangerously, and his lips were stretched back in a snarl. ‘Admit it!’

John met Yusuf’s eyes and knew that his friend meant to kill him. He had feared this day since the first time he lay with Zimat. He would not fight it. He owed Yusuf his life and more.
He sank to his knees in the sand. ‘I lay with her. The child is mine.’

‘How could you?’ Yusuf shouted, taking another step towards John. ‘I warned you not to touch her. I thought you were my friend!’

‘I am.’

‘You are a dog, like all Franks!’ Yusuf kicked out, catching John on the chin.

John slumped forward, hands cradling his face, then pushed himself back upright. He spat blood from his mouth. ‘I am a Saxon. And I am your friend.’

‘I must kill you,’ Yusuf said. His eyes shone with tears as he brought his sword to John’s neck. The steel was cold. ‘You have stained the honour of my family. You have betrayed my faith in you.’

John met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Then we have both betrayed our masters,’ he said softly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean.’

Yusuf lowered his eyes. The sword shook in his hands, the sharp blade drawing a thin trail of blood from John’s neck. ‘This is different,’ he said at last. He drew the sword back, preparing to strike.

‘I love her,’ John whispered.

Yusuf began to swing down, and John closed his eyes. But the blow never came. John opened his eyes to see the blade hovering inches from his neck. Yusuf’s face was contorted in a strange mixture of anger and pain, his forehead creased, jaw clenched and eyes wet with tears. He cast his sword aside and strode away.

John let him go. He finished gathering wood and then returned to their camp. Yusuf was sitting against his saddle with his back to John, staring at the dark waters of the stream. John dropped the kindling and set about building a fire. When the blaze was crackling, he pulled up his saddle and sat facing
the  flames. After a moment, Yusuf turned around. They sat across from one another, staring at the blaze in silence.

Finally, one of the logs burned through and collapsed, sending a spray of sparks into the night sky. John leaned forward to poke at the fire with a stick, then added another branch. He sat back and looked across the flames to Yusuf, who was still staring straight ahead, his features shadowy in the firelight. ‘You asked me once why I came to these lands,’ John said to him. Yusuf did not reply, and John continued. ‘I was raised in Northumbria in the town of Tatewic, far from here, in England. It is a green land, so different from here. But my land too has been conquered, and by the same Franks who conquered the holy city of Jerusalem.’

‘But you are a Frank.’

‘No, I am a Saxon. My father was a thane, an emir amongst my people. Before the Normans came, we were a family of great lords. When William the Bastard claimed England for himself, my family joined the other thanes to fight him. We lost almost everything. Still, we were some of the lucky ones. The Normans killed hundreds. Worse, they burned crops and slaughtered livestock, leaving thousands more to die of hunger. We lived, but my father never forgot.

‘He was a good man, my father. He taught us to fight and to farm the land. He raised my older brother to follow him as thane; even after the wars, we still had a smallholding and a few serfs. He sent me to the nearby abbey every day to learn the French and Latin of our invaders. I was to become a priest.’ John stopped, looking into the fire and battling old memories. It seemed he could see the face of his father in the flames.

‘What happened?’ Yusuf asked.

‘My older brother was not satisfied with the little that was left to us. He made a deal with the Norman king. He accused the remaining Saxon lords in our county of treason, including my father. They were all hanged, and their lands seized by the Normans. In return, my brother was given the land of our
neighbours. I could not forgive him. I killed him, my own brother.’ John looked away.

‘You did your duty,’ Yusuf said quietly.

‘Yes.’ John swallowed. ‘But killing him did not feel like justice. I could not forgive myself for what I had done, and I feared the Normans would hang me for a criminal. So I fled. The Pope has promised redemption to all who take up the Cross. I went to France and joined the crusade. I thought my capture at Damascus was God’s punishment for my crime.’ He looked away from the fire, to Yusuf. ‘Now I know it was a gift. I will never forgive myself for what I did, but God has granted me a new life, a new brother.’ Yusuf met his gaze. ‘Can you forgive me, Brother?’

Yusuf’s forehead creased, but he said nothing. They sat beneath the endless stars while the fire burned to nothing. When the last flames had vanished and the embers had turned to ash, Yusuf rose and stretched. He looked down at John. ‘You know that you can never marry her.’

‘I know.’

Yusuf nodded. He stepped over the ashes and held out his hand. John took it and Yusuf pulled him up. ‘Come then, friend. Let us return to Aleppo.’

JUNE 1163: ALEPPO

Y
usuf trotted up the long causeway leading to the citadel of Aleppo, with John riding beside him. They had ridden in silence during the long trip back from the desert. They passed through the gate and into the citadel grounds, where they stopped and dismounted before the stables. Yusuf met John’s eyes as he handed him the reins to his horse. He took a deep breath. ‘I—I wanted to say—’

John raised a hand, stopping him. ‘There is no need. We said all that needed to be said in the desert. We are still friends; that is all that matters.’

Yusuf nodded. He reached out, and they clasped hands. ‘I will see you this evening when we train the men.’

‘This evening,’ John agreed and led the horses to the stables.

Yusuf headed for the palace, skirting the field at the centre of the citadel, where a dozen mamluks were playing polo. One of them knocked the kura through the goalposts and whooped in triumph. Watching him, Yusuf thought back to his childhood and the first time he had bested his brother Turan at polo. He shook his head. Then, beating Turan had seemed the most important thing in the world.

Yusuf entered the palace and went to his quarters. He was not surprised to find Faridah waiting for him. She took one look at his face and smiled. ‘Thank Allah, you did not do it.’

‘I could not.’

She crossed the room and kissed him. ‘You did the right thing.’