over the side of the bed.
‘I am sorry,’ he mumbled as he rose and hurriedly dressed, pulling on his leather breeches and tunic without even bothering to tie them.
Faridah remained on the bed. She reached out and touched his arm. ‘You do not have to go,’ she said softly. Yusuf nodded and sat, his head in his hands. Faridah rubbed his back. ‘You are not used to drink?’
‘It is my first time,’ Yusuf said without looking up.
‘You are celebrating something?’
Yusuf shook his head. ‘I am trying to earn my men’s trust, to show that I am one of them.’
‘You will do so with deeds better than with drink,’ Faridah advised.
‘What do you know of such things?’ Yusuf snapped, pulling away and standing. ‘You are only a whore.’ He moved to leave.
‘A whore yes, but not a fool. I know more than you would imagine. I know why the Franks are waiting for you outside town. I know why they want you dead.’
Yusuf froze, his hand on the door handle. He turned to face her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The leader of the Franks sometimes sends a local man to fetch me to him. He has promised to buy me after you are dead. He said that before Gumushtagin left for Bizaa, he promised one thousand dinars for your head. The Franks wait for you even now in the hills beyond town. If you leave, you die.’
‘Gumushtagin,’ Yusuf whispered. He looked to Faridah. ‘Why tell me this? You are a Frank.’
‘I was, once, but that was long ago.’
Yusuf took the last dinar from his purse and held it out to her. ‘Thank you.’
She shook her head. ‘I have not earned it.’
‘Please, take it.’ Yusuf tossed the coin on the bed.
‘No, my lord, keep your money.’
‘I wish to give you something,’ Yusuf insisted.
Faridah took the coin and rose. She pressed herself against him, wrapping one arm around his waist while with the other she dropped the coin back in the pouch at his belt. ‘Send for me soon,’ she whispered. ‘You can pay me then.’
Yusuf nodded. He picked up his boots and left the room, stumbling down the stairs. As he passed through the beaded curtain, the men cheered.
‘Wake up.’ Yusuf cracked open a bloodshot eye to see John standing over him. Outside, the muezzin was loudly calling the faithful to prayer. Yusuf grimaced as he put his hands over his ears. ‘Leave me be.’
‘The men will expect you at prayers,’ John insisted. ‘This is your first day as their emir. You must set an example.’
‘Very well.’ The world spun as Yusuf sat up, and he leaned forward, his head in his hands. ‘I feel as if a blacksmith is hammering inside my head.’
‘I told you not to drink so much.’
‘No wonder the Prophet forbids alcohol. It is poison.’
Yusuf dressed and left the room he had been given in the keep. The guards in the courtyard nodded respectfully as he passed in the pre-dawn gloom. He headed out of the gate and down to the village mosque. After prayers, he emerged to find Qaraqush waiting for him. The mamluk commander fell in beside Yusuf as they walked back towards the citadel.
‘I trust you slept well,’ Qaraqush said with a wink. Yusuf gave him a hard look. ‘I was wondering what you have planned for today. Nothing too onerous, I hope. The men are still recovering from yesterday’s festivities.’
‘They will have to rouse themselves,’ Yusuf replied. ‘Today, we shall get your money, two thousand dinars.’
‘And where will we find this fortune?’
‘In the hands of the Frankish bandits who attacked me. We shall take it from them.’
Qaraqush stopped. ‘No. We will not.’
Yusuf turned to face him. ‘Are you afraid, Qaraqush? They are only bandits.’
‘I am not afraid,’ the mamluk commander growled, ‘but nor am I a fool. Why risk my men’s lives when we can have the sultan’s money for nothing?’
‘They are my men, Qaraqush,’ Yusuf said quietly.
‘Not yet.’
‘But they will be. I will not lead them to the slaughter. So long as you do as I say, there will be little danger to the men.’
Qaraqush’s eyes narrowed as he examined Yusuf. ‘Tell me what you propose. For your sake, I had best like it.’
The gate of the fortress of Tell Bashir slammed shut behind John and Yusuf. They carried only their swords and a single waterskin – no more than they had had when they arrived. It was raining a fine rain that showed no sign of letting up, and John’s tunic was already soaked. He looked over at Yusuf. ‘What have you got us into now?’
‘Allah will protect us,’ Yusuf replied. ‘You will see.’ He strode down the hill towards the town. John followed.
The rain had kept the townsfolk inside. They passed only one man, an elderly beggar propped up against the side of the tavern, a cup in his hand. Yusuf dropped his last dinar into the cup as he passed.
‘Why did you do that?’ John asked, his eyes wide.
‘We won’t need it anymore, will we?’
They emerged from town on the road – now little better than a muddy track – and followed it alongside the winding Sajur River. After half a mile, John stopped at a side track that led between fields and towards the low hills on their right. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing out a single rider, who sat atop one of the hills. The rider watched them for a moment, then galloped out of sight over the far side of the hill. ‘They have seen us.’
‘Then let’s not keep them waiting.’
They marched through the fields, the mud sucking at their boots. The track grew wetter and widened before cutting into the hills, running between two sheer slopes. John splashed ahead into the ravine, Yusuf close behind him. They had not gone far when John heard the sound of hooves echoing off the hills around them. He and Yusuf began to run. They rounded a curve, and the narrow trail suddenly opened up into a circular, gravel-strewn wash, surrounded by steep slopes. On the far side of the open area, a narrow passage led further into the hills. They were halfway across the wash when riders started pouring out of the narrow gap. They turned to run, but more riders were emptying out of the ravine behind them.
Two of the bandits rode forward to confront John and Yusuf. Both wore full plate armour and helmets with visors down. ‘What have we here? Two mice in our trap,’ one of the riders said in Frankish. ‘We’ve been waiting for you, Yusuf ibn Ayub,’ he added as he lifted his visor.
‘Reynald!’ John growled.
The man’s forehead creased as he examined John. ‘Do I know you, Saracen?’
‘I am no Saracen.’ John pulled off his turban to reveal his blond hair.
Reynald shrugged. ‘Whoever you are, I have never seen you before in my life.’
‘I was your man, once,’ John snarled. ‘You betrayed me, you bastard! You sent your man to kill me and left me for dead.’
‘Saxon?’ the other Frank said, pushing back his visor to reveal the wide face of Ernaut. ‘I thought I killed you.’
‘Not yet,’ John replied.
‘We will remedy that soon enough,’ Reynald said. ‘Ernaut, finish him.’
Ernaut drew his sword and spurred towards John, who backed away, drawing his weapon. Ernaut had just raised his sword when an arrow struck him in the neck. Wide-eyed, he looked down at the shaft protruding from him. He slumped from the saddle, and three more arrows sank into the ground around him. Another struck Reynald’s horse, and it reared, throwing him. Reynald scrambled to his feet, looking about wildly.
Qaraqush and his men stood high above on the surrounding hills, firing arrows down on the Christians. Reynald turned to run, but more mamluks had filled both the exits from the wash, blocking all escape. Dozens of
