Behind the Veil (23 page)

“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 boo
k3
/ Linda Chaikin

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.

The ringing blow dimmed Mosul’s wit as intended, and for a moment he was unsteady in the saddle. Tancred turned to run the yard of steel through his chest, but a shout reached his ears, “Alive! Alive!”

Nicholas’s warning voice sent a flash of cold reason through Tancred’s senses. He did not want Mosul dead, not yet.

Tancred eased the stallion in a half circle around Mosul.

Too easy! Having trailed him from Sicily to Antioch, was his enemy now to crumble in defeat this quickly? Mosul must pay! He must fear!

“You have grown fat and lazy,” Tancred mocked. “The trophy of your head must not come in one blow. I am accustomed to battling warriors, not palace guards!”

In a rage Mosul drove at him with the advantage of the heavy Norman horse, thinking to run him down, but Tancred swerved the stallion, which seemed to flow smoothly to the side as Mosul’s horse thundered past. The Arabian shook its mane, and its nostrils flared, as though insulted by the Great Horse.

Mosul thrust his sword, trying desperately to reopen Tancred’s wound. Aware of the danger, Tancred foiled the attack and moved out of reach, keeping his vulnerable side away from Mosul.

The Moors were experts in the use of  swords. If Tancred had not disciplined himself at becoming adept to every ploy, Mosul could gain the upper hand. Tancred met and challenged Mosul’s display of dueling steel. The swords flashed, touching, impacting, at times seeming to caress. They engaged, detached, each man seeking a brief second of weakness in the other. Mosul sought the ultimate moment  to bring home the thrust of death, but Tancred fought to unnerve him.

“Come, Assassin! You must do better. Face-to-face you fail! Is that why you struck my brother in his back?”

Mosul strove to fend off Tancred’s maneuvers. Though he did not speak his hatred, Tancred knew it was because he feared he would lose concentration. But Mosul heard every deliberate gibe, and they cut as deeply as any point of steel. Tancred was tiring but he dare not show it. He goaded Mosul even more. “You disappoint me. Is this all you can do?” He shoved Mosul’s blade back with contempt.

For a moment they paused, swords crossed, and Mosul’s ragged breathing came to his ears.

“After these years I expected more of a challenge! Perhaps I should just sell you to the Rhinelanders the way you sold me? You can carry their baggage.”

Mosul lunged, striking ferociously. His blade slammed down.  Tancred saw the move coming, and thrust upward. Mosul’s blade slid off.  Tancred, sensing the moment, sent another fierce smash against the side of his helmet.  Dazed, Mosul was slipping from the saddle.  Tancred unleased the final blow, knocking Mosul to the ground.

A mighty cheer went up from his allies. Jamil was on his feet dancing among the rocks.

Tancred wheeled the stallion to circle Mosul.
At last,
his chief enemy was within his control. In any other situation he would have leaned down to strike the death blow. Again, the shout of warning, this time from his cousin Leif: “Stay your hand! You want him alive!”

Tancred swung his right leg over the rear of the saddle and pivoted on the left stirrup, reaching down to snatch up Mosul’s sword, the final act of victory. He held it up to catch the sun’s rays, and another cry of cheer came from Jamil and Hakeem!

Helena rushed down the steps of the ruins in jubilation for Tancred. Her eyes flashed as she watched him ride across the court toward the steps. She came down before he reached her, closing the distance that kept them apart for the last time.

He dismounted, sweeping her up into his arms. Her tears wet her cheeks as their adoring gaze held, speaking silent words of love, determined that nothing should ever part them again, they clung to each other.

The wind played among the stone ruins of a thousand yesterdays, but tomorrow—?  Tomorrow bid them enter their future as one, with their final hope and confidence bound together in the
One
and
only
eternal Redeemer of
all
mankind, the Lord Jesus Christ.

***

Jamil, watching the pair, could not restrain his jubilation and tried to break away, but Nicholas caught him by the back of his tunic.

“But Bishop Nicholas,” the boy protested, “I only wish to tell him that the duel was well done! Oh, I could see it again, sevenfold!”

Nicholas restrained a laugh. “You bloodthirsty cub.”

Jamil grinned. “The cub wishes only to learn from the tiger!”

“You deserve serious watching,” Nicholas told him, a subdued twinkle in his eye. “A warrior like Tancred fights only when he must. And then only in honor, as a last resort. A cub who sniffs with pleasure at the smell of battle is likely to find himself running off to lick his wounds. Remember that.”

“I will try to remember,” Jamil stated in a serious tone.

Nicholas lifted a brow. “You will remember if you are turned over to me as Tancred wishes.”

“Turned over…to you?”

Nicholas covered a smile. “Yes. You will first become a scholar. A disciple of the Scriptures. When you master those, then you will be ready to handle the sword wisely. For you will then know who your True Master is.”

Jamil moved uneasily. “I wish to be like Tancred.”

“Then you will learn Greek and Latin as well.”

Nicholas laughed at the expression on Jamil’s young face. He tousled his head. “Be of good cheer, Jamil. Tancred will also teach you the use of the sword. And even I have a few warrior lessons worthy of passing on.”

***

Tancred rode to the center of the line, where Walter sat astride his Great Horse like a monument to William the Conqueror, looking down on Mosul.

“Here is the assassin of Derek Redwan,” Tancred stated.

Mosul lifted his head in defiance. His eyes refused to yield to Count Walter’s even stare. “Killing Derek was a mistake. I meant my dagger to enter the heart of Tancred Jehan.”

Tight-lipped, Walter demanded, “Why Jehan?”

“Kamila. I thought she loved Jehan. I did not know it was Derek.”

“But the dagger belonged to Tancred.”

“Your enemies planned it so. It suited me well enough.”

“My enemies?” Walter asked, scowling.

“Yes!”

“And their reason?”

Mosul shrugged disdainfully. “Greed, hate, ambition—what other reasons do men kill for?”

“Are you vowing there was no other reason for my enemies to plot against the Redwan family?” Walter demanded.

Mosul’s dark eyes mocked him. “Were not greed and ambition behind the reason you believed Jehan killed his brother? And are these not now sufficient to satisfy you? Nay, there was no great reason. Jehan was simply in my way.”

Rebuked by the very man who had murdered Derek, Walter lifted his weapon but Rolf stayed his arm. “Nay, brother.”

Tancred broke the bitter, pained silence. “These enemies in Palermo who paid you to blame Derek’s death on me—who are they?” At one time, Tancred had believed Walter had been behind it. He no longer thought so, and was relieved.

Mosul turned and looked up at Tancred. For a moment he kept silent. A faint, grudging glimmer of respect showed in his eyes as he scanned him. Tancred had fought fair and well.

“I shall tell you, Jehan. It was ibn-Rushid.”

Tancred remembered the name but not the man. He exchanged glances with Rolf, then Walter. Did they know who he was?

Rolf shook his head and shifted in his saddle, the leather squeaking. “I know him not. I have been away from Palermo too long. Do you know him, Walter?”

Walter showed surprise at the name, and then his expression settled into something akin to embarrassment. “A hundred enemies, and I am taken off guard  by ibn-Rushid.”

“Who is he?” Tancred asked.

“It was ibn-Rushid who first wished to take your mother for his wife. I did not know he harbored such bitterness against your father Dreux, or you as the offspring.  Ibn-Rushid loved the daughter of al-Kareem, your grandfather. That she was given to a Norman lord like Dreux blinded him with bitterness. I should have known…but I did not give it any serious thought,” Walter said with self-incrimination. “I have not thought of him since you were born, Tancred.”

“Never underestimate a Moor,” Mosul spoke up, his tone contemptuous.

“Next time, I will be wiser,” Count Walter retorted. “But knowledge of  enemies will not bring Derek back, nor will it save you, Mosul. You are guilty of the murder of more than one soul, as we will not forget the innocent maiden, Kamila. I am sure there are others.”

Walter turned to Seigneur Rolf and the other lords. They huddled for a moment in whispers,  then Walter gestured for Mosul to be taken away.  The vote is unanimous. Hang him.”

The others rode off and left Tancred alone with Walter.

***

Jamil jumped down from Nicholas’s horse and was about to run after the men leading Mosul away, but Tancred moved his horse forward and, leaning down, caught Jamil up to the front of his saddle.

“I was only going to—“ began Jamil.

“I know well what is on your mind. See that rock over there in the shade?”

“Yes, but—”

“Go sit and contemplate justice. And,” he warned, “Be there the next time I look.”

A minute later Tancred rode back to Walter. They rode together to where the stone ruins were scattered below on a sloping mound. Here they stopped and dismounted. The breach between them must be handled with care.

The wind rumpled through the seasonal grasses of browns and golds.

Tancred felt the silence between them. For a long moment neither spoke, then his uncle sighed.

“What will you do with your future now, Tancred?”