“Ibn al-Farouch. He was here but a short time ago. Where did he go?”
Andre sat back on his haunches but remained leaning forward, face to face with his cousin, his hand still grasping Sinclair’s chin. “Alec, what are you talking about? Al-Farouch is not here.”
“Of course he is. What is that, if not his?” Andre looked up, following the direction of Sinclair’s gaze, and saw the yellow swallow-tailed pennant with its five black crescent moons.
“Quick, Andre, lift me up, quickly. Lift me up.”
The urgency in Alec’s voice provoked an instant response in St. Clair, and he rose immediately to kneel behind his cousin and grasp him carefully beneath the arms, cradling him as gently as he could. “How is that?” he asked. “Am I hurting you?”
“Aye, but not badly. I think I may be lying on top of al-Farouch, and if I am, he may not be able to breathe, so lift me up and move me to one side. Then I will need you to see to him—” Alec stopped, gasping for breath, but then continued. “Gently now, Cuz. Lift me straight up and step to your left. Can you do that?”
“Aye, I can manage that,” St. Clair replied, but as he moved to straighten up, thrusting powerfully but steadily with his thighs against the deadweight of Alec’s armored body, the agony of being moved, even thus slightly, ripped a tortured scream of protest from the wounded knight’s throat. Andre froze before he could straighten completely, so that he was left crouching. Alec’s weight seemed to increase in his arms and was growing insupportably heavier by the moment.
“Alec,” he hissed, straining the words through his teeth. “Alec, can you hear me?”
There was no answer, and he knew his cousin had fainted from the pain. He tensed again, drew a deep breath and expelled it noisily, then inhaled again, sucking the air into his lungs as hard as he could, and straightened up quickly, lifting Alec as far as he could and then walking backward very carefully for two paces.
Andre lowered the unconscious knight to a flat piece of ground as gently as he could and then used his dagger to cut savagely through the straps and laces that held the riven armor in place. Grateful that his kinsman could feel nothing, he manhandled him remorselessly, turning him back and forth as he tore at the chain mail, clothing, lining, and bindings until he could see bare skin and the sluggish welling of blood from the wound in Alec’s chest. Whatever had pierced the armor had been massive and sharp, and Andre guessed it had been a hard-swung battle-axe, for it had driven clean through both cuirass and chain-mail shirt, hammering individual links and pieces of metal into the gash it had made in Sinclair’s chest. Andre prayed that the wound was not lethal, but he suspected that several of his cousin’s ribs had been smashed, and he had no means of guessing at the extent of the damage Alec had sustained beneath that.
When he felt that he could do no more, he rose to his feet and peered back to the northward, looking for the distinctive black-and-white uniform of the Hospitallers, but none of them had yet come into sight, and so he knelt back down beside his cousin to find him conscious again. As soon as he came close enough, Alec grasped him by the forearm. His fingertips dug deep.
“Sweet Jesus, that hurt, Cousin. Did I pass out? I must have … Was I right? Was Ibn beneath me?”
Andre St. Clair shook his head. “I don’t know, Alec. I haven’t had time to look. You were lying atop someone, a Saracen, but how would I know who he is?”
“An amulet, hanging from his neck on a silver chain. Heavy silver … Amulet is green … the Prophet’s favorite color … Is there an amulet? Look and see.”
Andre moved away and looked at the man who had been lying beneath Sinclair, but he had to reach out and search before he could find anything about the man’s neck. A few moments was all it took, however, and he was kneeling by Sinclair again.
“Aye,” he muttered. “A carved amulet of pale green stone, with a chain of heavy silver links.”
“Jade, Cousin, it’s called jade … Is he alive?”
“No, Cousin, he is not. I checked most carefully and I could find no pulse. Your friend is dead. What happened here?”
For a moment Alec Sinclair looked as though he might actually laugh, but then his breath caught in his throat and he grunted, clearly incapable of breathing as he struggled against the pain of his wounds. Andre felt the strength in his grip tighten then relax, still firm, but no longer panicked. “I saw him here, when we burst out. Could scarcely believe it.” He paused, breathing hard, and Andre waited, making no attempt to rush him. “There he was, on foot and right in front of me, bleeding from the forehead so that he had to wipe the blood from his eyes with the back of his wrist. His horse, Wind Spirit, was dead beside him …” Another pause, filled with laborious breathing, and then, “He had a bare half dozen of his bodyguard still left around him, and as I saw him, one of our knights charged in to kill him, but he was careless and one of the bodyguards got him with a flung scimitar that took his head right off … And then I saw two or three more of our knights close in to finish Ibn. He wore nothing to mark him as an emir, but there was something about his bearing, as there always was, that set him ap—” The coughing spell broke unexpectedly, and for the next brief while Andre held Sinclair as his entire body convulsed in pain, racked with the ravages of coughing through a mouth suddenly filled with thick blood. Finally, when the fit subsided, Andre pressed him back onto the ground.
“Wait here, Alec. There are Hospitallers close by. I am going to find one and bring him back here.” But when he tried to leave, he discovered that Alec had retained a firm grip on his wrist and would not let him go. Alec spat out a mouthful of blood and spoke again, his voice still strong but rattling in his throat.
“Don’t fret about the Hospitallers, Cousin. They can do me no good. I’m finished. Now listen. Listen to me … Will you listen to me?” Andre nodded, mute, and Sinclair continued. “You may hear people talk about me … about what I did … and they will probably make it sound shameful … And perhaps it was. I simply don’t know any more. I certainly did not set out to do it … didn’t know I would, or could, do such a thing. But there I was, and there was Ibn al-Farouch, about to be struck down … I don’t know what came over me, but suddenly he was down and on his knees, his sword gone, and I jumped down and was standing over him, seeking to defend him, I suppose … perhaps to take him prisoner … I know that was in my mind, that I could repay him for his kindnesses to me …
“But no one wanted to take prisoners. Everyone was mad for blood. I tried to beat them back, our own knights, to claim him as my prisoner, but then one of our fellows struck at me, and suddenly I was fighting for my own life, against my own people. Two of them came at once, one with an axe, and he struck me, hard. The second one I finished with my sword. And then you came … You say Ibn is dead?”
“Aye, Alec, he is.”
“Bring me his amulet, will you?”
When he had it in his hand, he looked at it and grunted, wincing with pain, then held it out to Andre, who took it and weighed it wordlessly. “Do something for me, Cousin,” Alec said in a hoarse whisper. “When all of this is over, will you find some way to send this back to Ibn’s brother?” He caught his breath again, sharply, on an indrawn hiss. “Sweet Jesus, that hurts. But thank God, not too much … His name is Yusuf. Yusuf al-Farouch … he lives in a village near Nazareth.” He stopped and held his breath for a long time before continuing. “The same Nazareth our Christian brethren tell us Jesus came from … It has an oasis … and they grow fine … fine dates there.”
“I know. I remember you telling me so. The brother is a mullah, is he not?” He was looking at the amulet, and Alec did not answer immediately. “Alec? Yusuf is a …” But Alec’s eyes were fixed and open, staring back at him unseeing.
“Brother? Are you well? May I assist you?” It seemed mere moments later, but as Andre looked up to see the black-robed Hospitaller standing over him, he knew that time had passed without his noting it. He glanced once again at Alec Sinclair, whose expression was unchanged, and then reached out one hand to the Hospitaller. “You can help me up, if you would. I fear I may have frozen here, for I have lost track of time.” When he was on his feet again, he nodded his thanks to the Hospitaller and then indicated the still form on the ground. “This man was my kinsman and also my closest friend. He was my cousin, the son of my father’s eldest brother. And I would like to bury him apart, I think. Perhaps down by the sea there, where his spirit might look out across the waters towards his home. Have you a shovel I might use?”
IT HAD TAKEN TWO JOURNEYS and several hours of backbreaking work to complete his self-appointed task, but now Andre St. Clair stood leaning on a longhandled shovel on a patch of firm sand several steps above the high-water mark that had been eroded over the years by the incoming Mediterranean tides. Before him at his feet lay a wide, deep grave, laboriously dug and wide enough to accommodate two bodies, side by side, and behind
