The Black Rood (48 page)

I thanked her and sat down on the edge of the box to remove my boots. She watched me for a moment, making no move to leave. “I owe you a very great debt of gratitude, you and your father,” I told her. “I intend to repay you—at least, I mean to try.”

She smiled. “There is no need.”

I thanked her again, but instead of leaving me to sleep, she sat down on the edge of the box beside me, and I caught a beguiling whiff of sweet sandalwood and spice from her clothes and hair. “You are worried about de Bracineaux.” She arched an eyebrow as if daring me to contradict her.

“Is it so obvious?”

“Not to my father, perhaps,” she allowed, “but he tends to see only what he wants to see.”

“And you, Sydoni? What do you see?”

“I see a man who winces every time the Templar's name is breathed aloud.”

“I do not wince.”

“Like an old woman with a toothache.”

“An old woman…” I did not care for her choice of comparison.

She laughed and the sound charmed even as it humbled. “It is something to do with the Holy Rood.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I know that much is obvious.”

She nodded, waiting for me to say more. When I did not, she sniffed, “Well, you do not have to say anything if it taxes you overmuch.”

“I want to tell you. It is just that it is not so easily told.”

“People only say that,” she observed tartly, “when they cannot decide how much to leave out.”

I had forgotten how very changeable she could be; like intemperate weather, Sydoni could be mild and calm one moment, and hurling thunderbolts the next.

“If I thought to leave anything out,” I replied, quickly losing my patience, “it was only to spare your feelings.”

“My feelings?” She held her head to one side and regarded me as if I were mad. “I have no feelings for Commander de Bracineaux.”

“Your father's feelings then. I know they are friends.”

“Tch! You demand that we depart Cairo with unseemly haste,” she snapped, “for the purpose of eluding the Templars, and now you think to protect my father's finer feelings?”

I was tired, and it was futile arguing with her in any event. “I suspect the Templars are in league with the Fida'in,” I told her.

“I knew it!” she cried, seizing my arm in her excitement. “I
knew
he was lying to us. The good and kind de Bracineaux, lying through his wicked teeth.”

Needless to say, her reaction—gratifying as it was in its shameless intensity—took me aback.

“He told us he was doing all he could to secure your release,” she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “When Father grew impatient, he told us to wait and pray, and leave everything to him, that negotiations had reached a precarious stage—the least word or action out of place, and we would risk losing everything, he said. Lies—it was all lies.”

“And that was when Yordanus approached the Copts,” I surmised.

“Indeed, it was his first thought,” Sydoni replied. “He wanted to make contact with them the day we arrived, but had promised de Bracineaux he would let the Templars try first. After waiting three days, he and Padraig decided that it
would harm nothing to have our friends look into matters. The Copts of Cairo,” she added proudly, “have been living with the Saracens a very long time; they have many influential contacts throughout the city.”

“If not for your friends,” I declared, “I have no doubt I would still be a prisoner in the caliph's palace. De Bracineaux did not care about me—at least, I was far from foremost in his thoughts.”

“He wanted the Holy Rood,” Sydoni said. “You were just an excuse to help him get it. He used you, just as he used my father.” She regarded me wonderingly. “But how did you discover he was with the Fida'in?”

“I saw them together.” I yawned, exhaustion overcoming me. “They were trying to break into the treasure house.”

“To recover the rood.”

“Yes—that is, I believe that is what they were after.”

She stood abruptly. “Sleep now. I will wake you for supper.”

“Sydoni,” I said, and realized how much I enjoyed saying her name, “please do not tell Yordanus about my suspicions.”

“We must tell him. We cannot keep it from him.”

“I know. But let us wait until tonight at least. I want Padraig to hear it, too.”

“Very well,” she agreed. “Tonight, then.”

She closed the door and I heard her climb the wooden steps and then her soft footfall on the deck above. I lay back on the soft-cushioned bed, my head in the place where Sydoni lay her head; and I fell asleep to the slow and gentle rocking of the ship beneath me, and the scent of sandalwood drifting through my dreams.

I
AWOKE TO A
cool touch on my forehead and a warm breath in my ear. I had slept long and deep, and roused myself with difficulty. When I finally opened my eyes, Sydoni was gone and I wondered if I had dreamed her. I pulled on my boots and climbed back to the upper deck, emerging into a sky of radiant, deep-flamed red and gold, with darker shades of sapphire in the east where the first stars were already shining. Low green Egyptian hills were gliding slowly past, and goat bells across the water tinkled as the shepherd led his flock to the fold for the night.

Sydoni was kneeling before a low charcoal brazier cooking red fish on latticework spits. She ladled olive oil over the meat, which made the glowing coals sizzle and flare, and threw a delicious silvery cloud of smoke into the air; when the flames died down, she squeezed half the juice of a yellow lemon over the fish, glancing up at me as she did so. Her smile was ready and welcoming. “Good evening,” she said.

“It smells wonderful,” I told her.

She held out a bowl of large flat yellow seeds. “Try these.”

I tipped a few into my mouth and munched them. They had a salty flavor. “Nice.”

“Parched squash seeds. The farmers make them. They also make this,” she said and, taking up a large earthenware jar, poured a clear, amber liquid into a large copper cup. The liquid frothed up with a white foam, and I smelled the flow
ery scent of good fresh ale as I raised the bowl to my lips. “They call it Tears of the Crocodile.”

“Öl, by another name,” I said, savoring the sweet, bitter nutlike taste as it slid effortlessly down my throat. How long had it been since I had last lifted a cup of ale?

“The Egyptians say they invented ale,” Sydoni said, then shrugged lightly. “But they say that about everything.”

“Padraig insists the Celts were first to make it—but he says that about everything.” I sipped the bittersweet brew with satisfaction, and breathed the soft fragrant air deep into my lungs. “Where is Padraig?”

“He went below to say his prayers.” She turned the fish on the charcoal and squeezed more of the lemon over it. “Vespers before the Holy Rood, he said.”

“The dreamer awakes!” called Yordanus. I turned as he came up from the stern where he had been talking to his pilot. Padraig and Wazim were not about.

“I feel as if I could take on an army,” I said.

“I hope you can eat like one,” said Sydoni. “My father has decreed a celebration to honor your rescue. We stopped a little while ago at a market and bought everything in the settlement.”

“We want to honor your return as the occasion merits,” he said. “God bless you, Duncan, but it is good to see you. I am sorry if I cannot refrain from saying it. I do not mean to embarrass you, but it
is
good to see you again.”

“And you, Yordanus,” I replied. “Please, it does not embarrass me in the least. Indeed, there were times I thought I would not be seeing you, or anyone else, ever again.”

We talked of my captivity in the caliph's palace. Already, time was at work, blunting the sharp edges of that existence and bathing it in softer hues.

“Is that why you wrote it down?” asked Sydoni. I noticed how naturally she slipped in beside me, and remembered how much I missed her simple womanly graces.

“Just so,” I affirmed, and then remembered what had happened to it in the stream. “But I fear it is ruined now. I will just have to remember as best I can without it.”

“Perhaps not,” said Padraig as he joined us, and I saw he
was holding one of the scrolls from my bundle. “This papyrus is remarkable in many ways. See here,” he peeled back a portion of the scroll to reveal the still damp surface, “the ink has washed away, it is true, but a stain remains.”

I looked forlornly at the faint gray marks. “It cannot be read like that.”

“No,” agreed Padraig casually, “but it can be copied.”

“The monks of Ayios Moni excel in such work. They are always copying old scrolls and parchments. We can take your book to them,” Yordanus suggested eagerly.

“Papa,” said Sydoni, “you presume too much. Perhaps Duncan does not wish to return with us to Cyprus.”

“No?” The old man's face fell, but he recovered himself quickly. “Of course, I was forgetting myself. My friends, you have only to say where you wish to go, and this ship will take you there.” He looked from me to Padraig expectantly. “Well?”

“I think,” said Sydoni, touching my arm lightly with her fingertips, “it would be best to tell Father what you told me.”

I nodded and drew a reluctant breath. “I think none of us should return to Cyprus just yet,” I began. “I have reason to believe that de Bracineaux and his men are in league with the Fida'in.”

“Impossible!” scoffed Yordanus. “You are surely mistaken. Commander de Bracineaux would never contemplate such a thing.”

“If there is another explanation, I will gladly hear it and repent if I am wrong. But I know what I saw.”

This news proved so distressing to Yordanus that Sydoni suggested we all sit down and discuss it together over our cups. “The meal will be a little time yet. Let us get this unpleasantness behind us before we eat.”

Wazim roused himself from his nap as we filled our cups, but declined to join us as we sat down on the rugs beside the mast; Sydoni put him to work helping prepare the meal instead. I related what Sydoni had told me about de Bracineaux's insistence on negotiating with the caliph himself. “If he sought audience with the caliph, I never learned of it,” I told them. “The first I knew of his presence was
when I saw him in the tunnel helping the Fida'in break into the treasure house.”

“Are you certain they were Fida'in?”

“I did not know
who
they were,” I replied, and explained that it was Wazim who identified them from my description.

“He might have been mistaken,” Yordanus pointed out. “It is possible, no?”

“It is possible,” I allowed. I called across to Wazim, and asked him if he had any doubt about who we had seen breaking into the treasure house.

“No, my lord,” he replied. “They were the Hashishin.”

“But you did not see them, Wazim, did you?” asked Yordanus. “You did not see them with your own eyes.”

“I did not need to see them,” he said, “I could smell them. They smelled of the hashish smoke.”

“Much of the city was in flames last night,” the old man pointed out shrewdly, “how could you be certain it was the hashish?”

He had sown the seed of doubt, but I remained convinced. I asked Wazim if anyone had come to the caliph's court to arrange ransom for me. “No, my lord,” he replied again. “No one ever came.”

“Might someone have come without your knowing?” wondered Yordanus. Although his manner was tactful and kindly, I could see what he was doing, and it made me uncomfortable. Had I been too hasty in my judgment of the Templars? Perhaps imprisonment had soured my good opinion of Renaud.

“I am a good jailer,” the little man answered. “I make it my business to know such things. If anyone came seeking ransom for one of my prisoners, I would know of it. But no one ever came to the palace to offer ransom.”

“Who approached you on my behalf, Wazim?” I asked.

“Father Shenoute sent word and summoned me.”

“That is the Holy Patriarch of the Cairo church,” explained Padraig. “When Renaud seemed to have trouble arranging the audience with the caliph, Yordanus and I went to the patriarch and asked if he could help. Father Shenoute
made a few inquiries and found that Wazim was well placed to help us.”

Wazim nodded. “Father Shenoute said I would be doing God's will if I helped Da'ounk to gain his freedom. When the riots began, I saw my chance and took it.”

“There, you see?” said Yordanus. “It might all have been a mistake. I might simply have succeeded where the Templars failed. It does not mean they intended betraying you in any way.”

I conceded the point. “It may be as you say,” I granted, “but one thing bothers me still. If they only wished to help gain my freedom, why did they go to the treasure house first? When given the chance, why did they not seek my release?”

“I suppose they hoped to secure the Holy Rood,” said Yordanus.

“That very thing above all else,” I said, trying to keep an even temper.

“Can you blame them?” said Yordanus. “It belongs to the church at Antioch. Blundering Bohemond lost it and they have a sacred duty to get it back.”

“They chose the relic above my life,” I said. “Yet they told you nothing about that part of their enterprise. Why would they hide it from you?”

Yordanus spread his hands. “That is something we must ask Commander de Bracineaux when next we see him.”

“What do you propose?” Padraig asked. I could tell from his tone and glance that he, like myself, was uneasy with the prospect of allowing the Templars to get their hands on the holy relic again.

“My friends, I believe this has been an unfortunate misunderstanding. I propose we sail home to Cyprus and, with your kind indulgence, I will send word to Renaud to come and meet us in Famagusta to discuss these matters. After all,” he said, “the good Commander Renaud helped us immeasurably in Damascus. Before condemning him, we owe him a hearing, I think.”

Sydoni came and called us to our dinner then, and no more
was said about the matter that night. It did not sit well with me, but I tried not to let it spoil the festive mood which Yordanus and Sydoni strove to instill in the evening's celebration. After a few more bowls of ale and Sydoni's delicious banquet I succeeded in putting my doubts about Renaud and the Templars to one side and enjoyed myself despite the troubling black cloud of foreboding hanging over me.

The meal was an inspiration of wholesome flavors prepared simply to allow the unadorned beauty of each dish to please with its own particular appeal. There was fish, and slow roasted peppers with garlic, olives, herbed flat bread made by the village women, and—my favorite—little chunks of lamb soaked in olive oil, sprinkled with dried herbs and roasted with tiny onions over the coals on slender wooden skewers.

We sat on the deck and talked and ate as night deepened around us. The flickering fires of passing houses and settlements spangled the riverbanks even as the stars dusted the sky above with glowing shards of light. The moon rose late and spilled its light onto the water to turn the lazily swirling liquid into molten silver. After a time, Yordanus bade us good night and went to his bed, then Padraig and Wazim likewise, leaving me alone with Sydoni.

We talked long into the night, enjoying the balmy air and the gentle music of the water rippling along the keel and steering paddle. The pilot kept the ship in the deep mid-river channel; from time to time, one of the crewmen would come to relieve him, and he would lie down on his mat in the stern for a time, only to awaken a little later to take the tiller once more. It was a fine night for sailing, and I was glad to be out on the water. Looking up into the great bowl of the heavens and the star-flecked sky, with no bound or hindrance in any direction as far as the eye could see, I began at last to understand that I was truly free.

Some time later, Sydoni bade me good night and went to her bed, but I remained on deck gazing up at the stars and listening to the sound of the dark river as the ship slid along the slowly winding waterway toward the sea. I slept a little toward dawn, but woke again at sunrise and went at once to
the stern. The sky was bright pink in the east with gray shading to blue above, and not a cloud to be seen. The river had broadened considerably during the night, and the nearest bank was now a fair distance away.

There were no ships behind us, but two smaller boats kept pace one behind the other just ahead. I asked the pilot how long they had been there, and he said they had joined us at sunrise. “They are fishing boats,” he told me in crude Latin. “Do not worry, my friend. No one follows us.”

I thanked him but did not relax my vigil, keeping watch through that day and the next. Only when we had put sweltering Alexandria behind us, and entered the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, did I dare to believe we had made good our escape. Once under full sail, I allowed myself to rejoice in the knowledge that, despite the combined efforts of the Seljuqs and the Saracens, I was on my way home.

The voyage to Cyprus was swift and fair; the weather, though hot, was fine for sailing, and thanks to a favorable wind and bright, cloudless nights, we reached Cyprus in only three days. While the island was yet but a blue-brown hump looming in the sea haze, I prevailed upon Yordanus not to put in at Famagusta, but to use another port instead.

“But why?” he asked, genuinely mystified by my distrust and uneasiness.

Although I could think of several extremely compelling reasons to avoid Cyprus altogether, I merely replied, “I would feel safer if our return was not widely known just yet.”

“But where is the danger?” the old trader countered innocently. “I am certain the caliph has more important matters on his mind than the escape of a solitary prisoner. Still, if it would ease your mind, I will have a word with the magistrate and he will put the garrison on watch for a few days.”

“Father,” Sydoni scolded, “we both know the magistrate is an officious gossip and meddler. The garrison is only a dozen old war dogs who bark far worse than they ever bite.” To me she said, “We have a small house in Paphos on the other side of the island. We can stay there for as long as you like.”

Yordanus rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, but yielded to his daughter without farther comment. I spoke to the pilot, who arranged it so that we did not make landfall until just after sunset; I wanted our arrival to arouse as little interest as possible. Accordingly, once ashore, we moved quickly through the lower, busy sea town and up the hill into a quieter quarter, known as Nea Paphos, where, scattered in amongst the large new estates of wealthy planters and merchants, the ruins of ancient fortresses and the crumbling palaces of long-dead kings could still be seen among the gnarled olive trees and thorn thickets on the hillside.