Authors: David Wind
Instead, he sought to win Miles's acceptance of his position by gifts of clothing, jewels, and slaves to be available for his every whim. But Saladin had not been able to break past the knight's barriers and restraints.
Shaking his head, Saladin stepped away from the window and the two men practicing their sword strokes below to attend to the matters of state that awaited him.
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Miles concentrated on his wrists, making the sword he held blur through the air before it struck the curved blade of his opponent. Every day he came into this courtyard, dressed in his armor, to spend three hours wielding his sword against the Moor who had become his jousting partner. Fighting the large Moslem, sword against scimitar, was a release for his frustrations as well as a catharsis for his tortured mind. This daily duel was an escape from the imprisonment of his body and spirit, and from the walls of the city he could not leave.
From the moment of his capture, the weeks had dragged on. Deception and treachery had brought him here, and no matter how he planned, he knew escape would be impossible. It was for that reason he had given Saladin his word that if his arms and armor were returned to him, he would give his parole to remain. Spurring that decision was the fact that between Miles and freedom were four thousand Turkish knights and warriors. Escape meant only one thing: death—and Miles Delong was not the breed of man who sought a fruitless death, when life, itself, meant hope.
And hope, for Miles, was in the shimmering form of a golden-haired woman and her silver sword. Not one night went by when Miles did not dream of Gwendolyn. The vision of her within his mind calmed him, and although it was but a dream, he knew deep in his soul that his wife, with her special powers, knew of his lot and would somehow find the means to help him.
Although Saladin treated him courteously, he was a prisoner nonetheless. He had the freedom of his rooms, and the use of this courtyard—but there were guards at every exit. He was not restrained physically and could even walk the myriad streets within the walled city, but on each side would be two of Saladin's bodyguards.
The only times Miles felt any peace within himself was when he worked with his sword, when he slept, and when he thought of Gwendolyn. Saladin had sent him slave woman after slave woman, but he desired none. His only desires were to be free to face Morgan and kill him.
Miles lowered the sword and gazed up at the gray sky.
Since his capture, winter had set in over Jerusalem. It was not as cold as England's, but the constant chill and dampness infiltrated every pore of his body.
Bowing to Amir, the thick-bodied Moor who came to him daily in the courtyard, Miles sheathed his sword to signal the end of the day's workout. When the Saracen returned the bow, Miles went to the entrance of the courtyard, and through the archway. Once inside his chamber, the slave girl who had become his servant helped to undress him and then led him to the waiting bath.
This was a custom of the Moors that Miles welcomed. The hot oil-scented bath would ease his muscles and lull his mind into complacency for a short time.
After the bath, he would be massaged by one of the slaves and then dressed. During the past five weeks, it had become a daily ritual to join Saladin in the afternoon. They would sit and talk, each learning the customs of the other, and asking questions without restraint. Usually they would do this over the Moslem game of Sheshbesh, a strange yet fascinating game using bone cubes and carved jewels on an embroidered board. The sport combined skill, strategy, and luck, and in the five weeks he had been playing it, Miles had become adept at all its maneuvers.
Miles rose from the tiles of the bath, letting the water cascade from his lean body, and then allowed the slave, Aliya, to wrap him in muslin. He went to the long cushion on the floor and lay face down upon it.
With his eyes closed, he gave himself over to Aliya's knowledgeable fingers as she spread oil on his muscles and began to massage it into his skin.
He thought about Gwendolyn, and the constant dreams he lived with. Although Saladin was content to think Miles his prisoner for life, Miles knew that Gwendolyn's visits to him when he slept were the assurance that one day he would see her again and their lives would be brought together once more. There was within him a space that she occupied, and as long as he lived, she would be a part of him.
Nightly, when he lay in his bed, he thought of her and built a mind picture. He would speak to her, callout to her, and tell her of his circumstance. Whether she heard his silent calls or not was unimportant. For Miles, speaking to her in this way was his real link with sanity.
"Turn," Aliya said, and Miles did as she requested. In the time he'd spent here, he had picked up a great deal of the Saracen tongue which enabled him to get across his wants.
Aliya's fingers were like magic on his body, easing the tightness in his muscles and soothing his conflicting thoughts. But today he sensed something different happening. Her fingers began to ease in their pressure, and changed to lilting strokes on his inner thigh. He tried to ignore her ministrations, but they were too determined.
This was not the first time a woman had tried to excite him, but it was the first time for Aliya. Nightly, Saladin had sent women to him. They offered him their lush bodies, but he had sent each away untouched.
When Saladin had asked why, he'd avoided the question, and the ruler of the Moslem world had not pursued the subject. But Miles knew that no woman could satisfy him. There was only one he desired, and if he could not have her, he wanted no other.
Aliya fondled him gently, drawing on the arts she had been taught since childhood, but when she looked into Miles's eyes, her hand stilled.
"It is not right," she said to him.
"I am different," Miles stated.
"Yet you do not like boys, either."
"No." Saladin had even taken to sending him boy slaves, to see if that was the problem. But Miles had spurned them without even speaking.
Aliya shook her head; unable to solve the mystery of this handsome Christian knight, wishing that she could help ease his torment, as she, too, knew the futility of not owning her own life. She also wanted to help him because she had fallen in love with him, but that was only for her to know.
"You are but a child, Aliya," Miles said, knowing that she would understand little of his words, but needing to be able to speak to someone of his thoughts. He had seen her devotion grow daily and had come to accept her as a friend, looking on her with a brotherly love. "Child of another world. I do not spurn your offer, I just cannot accept it. You would think me mad if you understood my words, but it matters not. Although I touch no woman, I am with my wife nightly. I feel her comforting arms around me and sleep on the softness of her breasts. One day, if you are fortunate, you, too, will know this feeling."
Miles smiled gently at her doe-like questioning gaze, and then reached out to caress her uncovered cheek. Yet, he saw within her large brown eyes a form of understanding—not of his words, but of the way he had said them.
Miles sat up, ending both the massage and his confession.
He ordered Aliya to bring him his clothes. When he had begun to visit Saladin, he had been given the clothing of the Moors. But again he had protested, and Saladin, for some unknown reason, had acceded to his desire to wear the clothing of his culture and had several surcoats made for him. But Miles had made two concessions to the Arab dress. He wore the soft kid slippers of the Moslem, and when he went out of doors, in the colder days, he covered himself in the long flowing folds of the burnoose.
After he was dressed, Miles glanced at the sky outside.
Evening was upon them, and the gray sky was growing dark. Without a word to Aliya, he left his chamber and went toward Saladin's.
His two guards stepped behind him and silently followed, but when he reached the caliph's quarters, the large black guard at the door stopped them.
He spoke too rapidly for Miles to understand, but when he had finished, Miles's own guard spoke in French.
"Saladin has requested you join him in the audience chamber."
Again Miles walked along the hallway. At the large entrance to the chamber, Miles heard the sound of many musical instruments.
Entering, Miles saw the audience chamber was filled with people. The sounds of music floated in the air, and slave women danced in diaphanous veils that whirled in accordance with their movements.
Saladin sat on his high chair, his large frame covered by a long, flowing robe. A keffiyah covered his head, and his olive skin glowed in the light of the burning oil lamps.
Making his way to the sultan of the Moors, Miles paid his obeisance to the seated monarch before going to the place Saladin had always reserved for him.
"You are well today?" Saladin asked. "I am still a prisoner," Miles replied.
"So you are. Perhaps that will change."
Instantly, Miles concentrated his attention on Saladin's face. His words had been spoken lightly, but Miles sensed a deeper meaning within them. Yet, he held back his questions and waited for the king to speak.
"I have grown to like you, Miles of England. Why do you spurn all that I have offered?"
"I have not spurned your offers, Emir of the Chosen," Miles replied, using one of Saladin's many titles of respect. "I have been unable to accept them. There is a difference."
"A very slight difference. You know that I may not release you, yet you persist in clinging to some stray hope. Do you think Richard strong enough to defeat me?"
"War is itself an unknown area. The strong are not always victorious, nor are they smartest. War is directed by the caprices of fate."
"Embrace the true faith, my friend, for you speak with the wisdom of a holy man," Saladin said with only the faintest of smiles.
"Would you in my place?" Miles asked.
"But I am not. You are an enigma to me. You are brave to a fault in battle. You are strong, young, and have a superior body. Yet you practice celibacy like a holy man. Why, whenever I offer you a woman, do you turn her down?"
"Is it not my right?"
"It is not natural. Do you think when you die that your God will look kindly on you for this?"
"What I do is for myself, not for an unknown being called God. Saladin, though you be the wisest man of your land, you know not how I feel of religion. Yet, I have spent much time studying yours. The God of the Christians and of the Moslems is the same. The same even as the God of the Jews. It is only your belief of Muhammad, as the prophet, that differs from our beliefs."
"That is but the surface of it," said Borka-al-Salu, interjecting his own words.
"Exactly!" Miles stated. "Underlying this is the fact that it is but one God that all pray to."
"Our fight is much more than that." Saladin's words had a chilling effect on Miles, and Miles slowly nodded his head in agreement.
"Yes, Caliph of the Faithful, your words are true. Our fight is not one of religion, but of power. Foolish is it not?"
"And wasteful. But it has been so for over a hundred years."
With that, Saladin turned his attention to the entertainment before them. A startlingly beautiful woman was dancing, clad only in a loincloth and veil. Her body was perfectly formed, and the undulating muscles of her stomach attested to her art. She moved lithely, covering the floor in sweeping arcs of arms and hands, moving her body in perfect rhythm. For a moment, Miles was taken from the chamber he sat in and transported to another world where beauty and grace lived, and war was but a faint memory.
The music grew louder, accenting the pace of the dance, until, with a clash of cymbals, the woman fell to the floor before Saladin, her dark eyes looking up at the king.
"Have you any woman in your land to equal the beauty of this one?" Saladin asked.
Miles gazed openly at Saladin for a moment before he spoke. When he did, his voice was heavy with emotion. "There is one, but her beauty is of a different kind."
"I would that I could see her," replied the caliph.
"If I were you, I would pray that that day will never come." Miles was suddenly aware of Saladin staring strangely at him.
"And why is that?"
"Because the woman we speak of is my wife."
"Tell me of her."
And Miles did, describing for himself, as well as Saladin, the beauty of Gwendolyn Delong. When he was done, Saladin pierced him with a stare for several long moments.
"She is the reason for your abstinence?"
"She is the reason for my life," Miles whispered.
"You English are a strange breed," Saladin said, once again turning from Miles to watch the ongoing entertainment.
Miles waited patiently, his mind still holding the earlier words Saladin had spoken, and when there was a break in the entertainment, he ventured a question. "What may change my status?"
Saladin barked a laugh and shook his head. "You do not let anyone sidetrack you, do you? One way for you to be freed is for Richard to defeat me. My spies inform me that Richard is preparing for another battle. His army is a day from Jerusalem.