Authors: Linda Chaikin
With a stunned gasp Helena stared into the face of Tancred.
***
Nicholas gauged the distance between him and Basel, noting the oncoming Turks. He knew Basel would not surrender now, not with Kalid so near to claiming Helena while imagining that Adrianna would soon be his. Basel slowed his tiring horse, unsheathed his sword, and turned to confront Nicholas.
“At last, Nicholas,” he shouted above the wind. “It is you and I! You will not leave here alive!”
Nicholas gripped his blade and they rode toward each other, the sand whirling about the legs of their horses.
As the two horses drew near, Nicholas hacked a savage blow which Basel parried, deflecting the force of impact.
Nicholas circled his horse, hearing his own breathing mingled with the snorting of the horses.
“Too late, Nicholas,” Basel mocked, his eyes flashing hate. “In another minute you will fall under fifty scimitars!”
“Alas, you will not be here to see it. Taste the bitter cup of your transgressions.”
The two swords clashed with the of ring steel. The two riders, each in bishop’s garb, circled, looking for advantage. Nicholas saw an opening and thrust the heavy Norman blade, which cut savagely below his enemy’s collarbone.
Basel cursed, while his blade slashed a blow to the side of Nicholas’s helmet, leaving him momentarily dazed.
“The worm dieth not in your grave, Nicholas!”
Nicholas was off balance astride his horse. Basel, weakened, raised his sword arm to hack another blow, their swords crossed and held for a second.
“Lying prophet!” Nicholas gritted. “You corrupter of the Church!” with relentless determination he hammered a blow that stung Basel’s wrist, loosening his grip, and sending his weapon into the sand.
Nicholas drew back, lowering the point of his blade.
“How does it feel to come to your just end?” Nicholas said. “How fleeting the fruit of your selfish ambitions. Irene is dead. Philip is dead. You too, die alone. You have defamed the meaning of the cross you wore so brazenly! And mocked the only Savior.”
Basel hissed another dark curse. He drew his Byzantine cross and gold chain over his head and hurled them at Nicholas, then reached for the handle of his morning star, a deadly steel ball with protruding spikes.
Nicholas sheathed his sword and removed his mace, a favorite weapon of the warrior-priests. The significance was not lost on Basel; the club-like weapon was sanctified and carried in ceremonial processions before battle. Slung on a loop on the right wrist, its spiked steel head could crush armor.
They circled, each looking for opportunity. It came to Nicholas, who had trained to master the weapon long and hard at Monte Casino. He swung the mace and released it, smashing into Basel’s forehead.
Basel’s crumpled body lay sprawled on the sand, and the blowing sands began to cover his black and scarlet tunic.
Gravely, Nicholas looked down at the corpse.
The riderless horse, with its religious crimson saddle cloth, trotted away, shaking its sweating mane and prancing freely.
***
Tancred had lost Hakeem somewhere in the battle. He looked behind but could not see him.
“Ride back!” Tancred was shouting above the wind at Helena. “Make for the upper hills behind the castle—we will find you there!”
Helena’s heart thumped in her throat, and weakness left her trembling. The pursuer had been her beloved! It was too late to ride back toward the castle, their horses were exhausted, and this time she would not leave without him.
Tancred cast a swift glance at the approaching Seljuk warriors, then rode up to her, sword in hand. The blue-gray eyes under dark lashes melted her heart. The stormy and passionate gaze seemed unaware of anything else but her face, her eyes welling with tears, the dark strands of mussed hair sticking to her neck.
He stared at her, as though wanting to hold this last moment on his mind before facing certain death.
Helena’s gaze was riveting. One look between them washed everything from her mind but the fleeting moment.
“I love you,” she told him. “
Never
, will I forget you.
Never
will there be another.”
Even as the Seljuks thudded nearer, Tancred reached out to grasp Helena’s waist, and she leaned across the saddle to reach him, her hand slipping around his neck, her trembling fingers holding onto a dying dream.
The violent moment might have brought a kiss with unfulfilled longing, but it was tender, poignant with love.
The beating of drums and shouts, and the high screech of “Allah! Allah!” rang out.
Tancred forced himself to release her. Helena’s hand slipped away and he turned to face the oncoming enemy, lifting his blade as he rode forward.
Helena bit back a heartbreaking sob and dropped her head, her hand clutching at her heart.
“Oh Christ, Thou blessed Son of God, Thou precious and only Redeemer, help us now!”
***
The disciplined Seljuk cavalry wore wide-sleeved
khalats
lined with padded cloth with Persian chain mail, and high damascened helmets. Their horses were swift and light thoroughbreds, with high-peaked saddles. The horsemen carried small painted shields and scimitars, and their short bows were strapped to their backs. With frightening speed they reached Helena and Tancred, surrounding them. Helena smothered her scream as she was swept from her saddle by several Seljuks and hauled to another horse. She refused to display outward terror because she did not wish to torment Tancred with her misery.
Tancred’s sword brought the first rider down, but another emerged, then two, three more, and in wild abandon in the struggle to endure, he soon lost all sense of reality. Blood was running into his eyes. His head throbbed from a severe blow. He wrenched an arrow from his chest and fought on. Stunned by an arrow from behind him, his awareness narrowed into a sucking pool of dizzying blackness…
“No!” Helena screamed as Tancred was knocked from his horse. She tried to break free from the two Seljuk Turks, but they held her bound. She wanted to faint as she stared dismally at Tancred’s empty horse. Any moment now they would trample him or use a scimitar to make sure he was dead, and she began to scream, “No, no, no.”
A voice commanded, “Release her at once!”
She turned her head to see the Seljuk commander, her gaze fell upon a man of greater age than her uncle Nicholas, of dignified manner with a neatly trimmed Moslem beard and mustache. He was of warrior bearing and carried weapons, including the curved blade. He had ridden up with some inner guardsmen who were sworn to die for his safety. Silver ornaments jingled on his Arabian horse.
“See if he yet breathes,” he commanded.
The command was swiftly carried out, and one rushed back to him, “He breathes, Eminence!”
She felt the princely Seljuk staring at her with cool, hard eyes as if measuring the relief she displayed at the news Tancred was alive. Who was he? She wondered. Yaghi-Sian? Kerbogha?
“The warrior,” he inquired abruptly, “who is he?”
Helena could not speak at first. The sun beat upon her, and she felt the cold eyes of the Seljuk Turks looking at her with immobile faces that revealed no kindness. What could she say? They would surely kill Tancred here and now if they knew that he was Tancred Jehan Redwan, a distant cousin of Prince Kalid himself, for the two men were known enemies!
Unexpectedly she found her voice—“A mercenary soldier in service to…to Emperor Alexius Comnenus.” It was true—at least Tancred had been so until recently. “Please! Do something to help him. Do not let him bleed to death.”
A high commander near to the princely Seljuk moved his horse up and spoke: “And if he is a spy, Eminence? What if he has been sent ahead by the one named Bohemond? This Byzantine is not worth the bother to save, Your Highness. Let them strike him dead.”
Helena’s eyes darted toward the younger man who may have been a captain of the guard. He carried several weapons, and the horse he rode upon caught her attention. She believed it to be a mare of famous breeding. The horse was restless for some reason and for a moment seemed to want to move forward toward Tancred.
The young man was sullen and haughty in appearance, wearing a short clipped beard and a thin mustache. There was a glimmer of ruthlessness in his fine dark eyes, and a mark on his right cheek just below his eyes that was healing. At once, she did not like nor trust him, but then something far worse stunned her heart—
could this be Mosul? The assassin of Tancred’s brother, Derek Redwan?
If it was Mosul, he
must
be kept from discovering who Tancred was! He must not get a clear view of Tancred’s face! He would surely recognize his own cousin!
The princely commander appeared to be considering the wisdom of the warning. Taut with fear, she wondered how to respond. If she begged or showed too much concern, they would know at once that Tancred meant more to her than a guard. Yet, if he was a favorite guard like Bardas? Had any of this large army of warriors noticed her in Tancred’s arms?
Helena realized that this sullen young man must not have seen them together or he would have brought it up!
“He is no spy, Eminence,” she announced, relieved her voice did not tremble. “He is my chief bodyguard and trusted friend.”
Well, Tancred been protecting her ever since they’d met on the Danube.
“
I’ve had him in my service since I was a young girl. His name is—Bardas
.”
“I have heard of him,” the younger man stated. “He is a eunuch. Your Eminence, I think your nephew will have little reason for concern. He is a good warrior—we may have use of him later as he knows Byzantium well.”
Nephew?
This princely commander must be an uncle of Prince Kalid.
Without a word the older man lifted his hand toward his soldiers, signaling reprieve for Tancred. Gold rings and rubies flashed in the sunlight. “Bring the bodyguard.”
At once several Seljuks went to the spot where she had seen Tancred fall. She watched, trying to keep a calm demeanor. It would never do to show too much relief. Her wary gaze took in the faces of the hardened soldiers, but they all might as well have worn masks, so hidden were their emotions. What if someone mentioned later that they had seen them in an embrace?
The wind was picking up again, and the sand blowing. She turned her face from the wind to guard her eyes, feeling grit between her teeth.
“Mosul, bring Prince Kalid’s bride to the caravan,” the commander ordered.
Mosul
!
The haughty and ruthless-looking guard rode up beside her, and others under him followed suit. She was escorted toward the main body of the Seljuk army. She wisely revealed no emotion. So this was man was the assassin Tancred had been searching for. Her eyes came back to the scar. Tancred had placed it there in the fighting at the camp of the Red Lion when her mother had been rescued. Fear gripped her. How could she manage to keep Tancred disguised until he was strong enough to ride from Antioch? For the caravan was now moving in that direction, leaving the Castle of Hohms behind.
Helena turned briefly in her saddle to look back. She could see Tancred now. He was unconscious and bleeding as they secured him to the back of his horse. The sight cut to her heart. She prayed for the mercies of Christ to aid him. Peril was at every hand. He would need much time to recover. She found herself desperately praying for his protection—and a way of escape.
Tancred would be helpless inside Antioch. What could she do? What could either of them do now? Kalid too, would recognize him at once. Tancred was trapped between Mosul and Kalid, And she had not seen the real Bardas since Philip had betrayed them at the summer palace. She was without a friend.
They rode toward Antioch, fighting the wind and sand.
Behind the Veil / The Royal Pavilions boo
k3
/ Linda Chaikin
As the caravan advanced toward Antioch, she wondered where she would be brought.
Would she have her own chamber?
Helena determined to stay alert for any means of escape, though at present it was impossible. She knew Tancred would wish to know anything she could discover—if she could ever speak with him alone. Could she manage to have him brought to her chamber? She knew that wherever there were women kept, there were eunuchs who had charge over them. So far, they believed that Tancred was her eunuch bodyguard. Perhaps a request to have him nearby, as she’d had Bardas in Constantinople, would be deemed acceptable for a woman of the purple belt.
Despondency swept over as she gazed upon Antioch’s thick walls. How would it even be possible for the western feudal princes to take this city? Until just recently, she had not concerned herself with the crusaders. The expedition to take Jerusalem back from the Moslems had been simply an ambition of the western branch of the church in Rome, and a political concern of Emperor Alexius who saw his Byzantine Empire shrinking. Now, however, the future and freedom for herself and Tancred was bound up in the victory of the crusaders. She despised the idea of marriage by force to the Seljuk prince, but her liberty could come with the fall of Antioch and the arrival of Bohemond.
I thought I’d never long for the arrival of the Normans!
Tancred!
The very thought of him brought a fresh wave of respect. There was no other like her beloved. But even if he fully recovered from the wounds of battle, how could he escape the notice of his enemies? And with Mosul in the city, and perhaps even in the palace!
As the caravan neared the Gate of St. Paul, it swung open to admit the prestigious entourage. She thought of the Apostle Paul entering this gate with Barnabas over a thousand years ago before the first missionary journey with the news of the Savior to cities about Antioch and the Roman Empire!
As a matter of choice she veiled herself to keep away prying and curious eyes, though unlike Arab women, Turkish women did not always, as a matter of edict, veil themselves.
Although not up to the splendor of Constantinople, Antioch, under favorable circumstances, would have proven a pleasant city. In the distant past, under the iron rule of ancient Rome, Caesar had once sat in its theater. Herod, in the days of Christ, had sections paved with marble for his own enjoyment. The Roman General Titus who destroyed Jerusalem and the Jewish temple in A.D
.
7
0
, had watched the chariot races here. And the Byzantines, from the time of Justinian in the sixth century, had created the beautiful hanging gardens among myrtle trees and running fountains.
Her eyes passed over the disciplined Seljuk cavalry lining the route to the palace. As the caravan wound its way down the stone street toward the Moslem palace, the Seljuk’s fell in around her.
Lord, I’m afraid
, she prayed,
Help me be brave, for You are ever with me.
At the palace their horses were led away by slaves, and Helena was delivered to more Seljuk guards. She wanted to avoid speaking to Mosul, and her eyes sought for the older uncle of Prince Kalid. At first she thought he had departed, but he appeared, followed by Mosul and another top guard.
“You will first be taken to the emir, the prince’s grandfather. The emir wishes to see whether or not you are worthy of his grandson.”
“And my bodyguard?”
He turned indifferently and spoke in his native language to the elite soldiers. “He will be brought later,” he told her briefly.
Later? What did they expect to do with him? What if Tancred became delirious with fever and called out her name?
Would they tend to his wounds? She would have protested but it would alert them to suspicion. She must not seem more interested in Tancred than was called for.
“Prince Kalid has arranged for your comfort. His servants will see to your every need. I am his uncle Ma’sud Khan.”
She believed Ma’sud a warrior of some honor, else he would not have spared the wounded man he thought to be Bardas. She wondered where Kalid might be—though not at all desirous to see him. Still, it was unlike protocol for him to not have met her upon her arrival. In fact, now that she thought about the matter, he should have been the one to meet Bishop Basel’s entourage to escort her back to Antioch instead of his uncle Ma’sud. Had something happened?
Thinking momentarily of Basel, she wondered how the dreadful battle outside the gate of the Castle of Hohms had gone. Was her own uncle Nicholas alive? And the real Bardas?
“If you need me, you may send Captain Mosul, or one of the other palace guards, with a message. As Kalid’s proud uncle, I wish you peace and prosperity among us.”
Helena did not forget her position and lowered her head in a gesture of gratitude. He strode away with Mosul and the inner guards, and she was turned over to slaves. When would she meet the emir? The slaves bowed and gestured a wide arm toward a shadowed colonnade bordering a fragrant court.
Oh what a miserable situation I am in! How could all this have happened to me?
Lady Irene
, she thought bitterly,
and Bishop Basel
! And where is my poor mother? What of the baby she was expecting? Had she given birth yet? It would seem so.
Poor mother
!
Things have gone astray for her
!
Helena followed the slaves through the court, then across exquisite rugs, soft and thick beneath her feet. They were not of the celebrated Persian designs, she noted, but of Turkish knot, tufted with floral patterns and colors ranging from sapphire blue to yellow. They looked to be made not only from wool but also silk. There was a glitter of gold and marble everywhere, and the fragrance of flowers.
Ahead, the slaves stopped, their backs toward her. They were bowing in the direction of an elderly man who was seated on cushions on a dais in the far corner of a splendid chamber. Helena found herself before the emir, one ruler among others who held authority in Antioch. His name was Oman, the grandfather of Kalid. His brown wrinkled face was contemplative, his slanting black eyes, vigilant.
Helena stood in silence, waiting. At last he lifted a jeweled hand toward a slave, who then came to her.
“He will see you closer now. Come forward.”
Helena approached and bowed in respect. “Greetings, Your Excellency. The most noble emperor of Byzantium sends his wishes of favor and peace.”
Emir Oman was aided to his feet. “Welcome Lady Helena Lysander of the Nobility. Welcome to Antioch, and to the house of Khan. It is with regret that my grandson, Prince Kalid, could not ride to meet you and the Byzantine entourage, but I trust my son Ma’sud has made your arrival one of welcome.”
Then the emir did not know yet of the fighting. Helena lowered her head and said nothing.
“Kalid has ridden to Aleppo to meet with the sultan. The great locust-army of the West has been sighted.”
Helena veiled her profound relief. Kalid was not in Antioch. His departure meant a postponement in the ceremony of taking her as his wife.
“He will return in a few weeks. Until then, you will refresh yourself. Your slaves will see to your wishes.”
At his handclap, the slippered slave reappeared and led her away across the palace to a far assemblage of chambers that she surmised to be the women’s section.
Here the floor was veined marble with magnificent rugs, and in the marble arches there were gold mosaics from a far earlier time in Byzantine history.
The voice of the chief eunuch could be heard shouting his dissatisfaction over some failure of the slaves, and a moment later Helena had her first look at Assad, a Turk who was nearly half as wide in the middle as he was tall. He ushered three girls forward to meet her and a young boy of perhaps fourteen.
“Your slaves, Princess Helena!” he announced breathlessly. “A gift from the wise and noble Prince Kalid!”
The young girls were dressed in silk that covered them from ankle to shoulder, and sheer pantaloons that billowed out about their legs and arms. They bowed low while the chief eunuch, Assad, looked on with a fastidious scowl, judging their performance. His scowl eased and he seemed pleased, then he turned with a deeper scowl to the boy, ushering him forward as though he expected a blunder of the most provoking sort.
The handsome boy had mischievous brown eyes, and olive skin polished with oil. He came forward on sandaled feet and, with extravagant fanfare, bowed deeply. “Welcome, O most lovely among women!”
Helena couldn’t refrain from smiling, and Assad, too, appeared relieved and pleasantly surprised. “Quickly, Jamil, my boy, quickly!”
The boy proceeded to bring her an armful of costly silk garments.
“From Prince Kalid,” he said. “Greatest of all living warriors.”
“I am sure,” she said innocently.
The three young girls then came forward one by one, bowed again, and extended lavish gifts of jewels, gold bangles, and carved ivory containers of perfumes: musk, ambergris, and spikenard. There followed other rare gifts, even animals: a large cat black with white paws and gold eyes, and a bird of red-and-green plumage, but the gift that caused her heart to skip was the promise of a thoroughbred horse.
“Ah, Princess,” Assad crooned. “Most noble Kalid had hoped to present the stallion to you, but urgent business in Aleppo has detained him. The horse is magnificent and has won all races this past year!”
Helena envisioned the sleek stallion, seeing speed…and freedom.
“I am most pleased, Assad. You have made my coming indeed welcome…and when may I see this matchless stallion?”
“As soon as tomorrow, if you so wish, my Mistress Helena.”
“The day after tomorrow would please me well.”
Assad turned to the boy. “This should make you most happy, Jamil. You will go with your new mistress when she is ready.”
The boy’s eyes glittered like ripe brown plums as they focused on Helena. “He is a most wondrous horse, Your Loveliness! I helped train him myself.”
“Did you indeed? How fortunate for me, Jamil.”
The pride showed in his winsome smile. She already knew she was going to become attached to the boy.
He bowed a second time. “I will prepare him well, Mistress. He is the most handsome of the prince’s thoroughbreds. I am sure you will like him. I was given the honor of naming him, but you may change the name if you wish.”
She smiled at him, her mind racing with the horses.
Would it be possible to escape with Tancred while Kalid was away?
Would the boy know of some secret route to take them from Antioch? What eager young boy did not know of such things? And one glimpse of Jamil said he was full of adventure.
“I am sure I will like his name. Jamil, you must show me everything in Antioch.”
He beamed. “I know every trail, every tree, every gate, Mistress.”
“You and I will become good friends,” she said smoothly.
“Then can we go early tomorrow and spend the entire day?”
Helena thought of Tancred. She expected him to be brought to her by the next morning.
“Not tomorrow, but soon.”
Jamil tried not to show disappointment but wiped his face clear of expression when Assad scolded him with his eyes. Jamil bowed.
“When you would see your horse, Mistress, you have but to speak. I will never be far away.”