Frankish bandits were down and screaming in pain. Reynald turned to face Yusuf and John.
Yusuf raised his fist, and the arrows stopped. ‘It seems that you are the one in a trap,’ he said to Reynald in Frankish.
The Frank drew his sword. ‘I will kill you both before I die,’ he growled.
‘No. You will do as I say, and you will live,’ Yusuf said. Reynald paused, lowering his sword. ‘Show me where you have hidden our gold, and you will be given a horse and enough supplies to reach Antioch.’
John grabbed Yusuf’s shoulder and spun him around. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded in Arabic. ‘This man is the reason I was sold into slavery. He is a coward and a liar. He deserves to die!’
‘I am sorry, friend. We need that money, and only Reynald can show us to it.’
John looked from Yusuf to Reynald. He had dreamed of killing this Norman bastard for so long that the hatred had become a part of him, but eventually he nodded. ‘Very well.’
Yusuf turned back to Reynald. ‘Do you accept my offer?’
‘Why should I believe you, infidel?’
John stepped forward. ‘I would be only too happy to see you die, Reynald. But I give you my word as a fellow Christian that if you do as he says, you will not be harmed.’
‘Your word as a Christian?’ Reynald spat. ‘You’re one of them now, another sand-devil!’
‘I am a Christian and an Englishman, and I give you my word that you will not be harmed.’
Reynald hesitated a moment longer, then sheathed his sword. ‘Very well, I will do as you ask.’
Yusuf watched as Reynald galloped away, then he turned back to the camp, which Qaraqush and his men were busy ransacking. Several men were rounding up the dozens of sheep that the bandits had stolen. Others were dragging rolls of fine silk from a tent. Two mamluks dragged the money chest to the centre of camp; Reynald had shown them where it had been buried, not far from his tent. Yusuf watched as a grinning warrior hacked the lock off the chest with his sword. The man threw back the lid and gold coins spilled out. The men cheered, and Yusuf smiled. He would not be sold as a hostage. He would be emir of Tell Bashir, and he would send the Seljuk Sultan’s men back to their master. But if he were to be emir, then he would need a banner to fly above the gate of the citadel.
Yusuf strode into Reynald’s tent. The floor was covered with sheepskins and a pile of weapons lay in one corner. In the other corner, Yusuf found the saddlebags that he had brought from Aleppo. He rooted through them and pulled out the banner that his father had given him, white with a golden eagle in the middle.
As Yusuf left the tent, Qaraqush approached and clapped him on the back. ‘Well done, Yusuf! There is wealth enough here to put the Seljuk Sultan’s offer to shame. You are a brave man, and you have Allah’s favour.’ He knelt at Yusuf’s feet. ‘I will follow wherever you lead. I am your man, Yusuf ibn Ayub.’ The other mamluks gathered around and also knelt. John joined them.
Yusuf extended his hand and pulled Qaraqush to his feet. ‘You will not regret your decision. This is just the beginning.’
That night, Yusuf stood at the window of his chamber in the keep of Tell Bashir and looked down on his men, their figures lit by a celebratory bonfire in the centre of the courtyard. Some drank, passing around wineskins and recounting their roles in the day’s battle. Others had already spent their spoils on women, whom they pulled away towards the barracks. Still others were dancing around the bonfire while their fellows stood to the side with instruments in hand. Yusuf spied Qaraqush amongst these last, smiling as he beat out a rapid tattoo on his drum. Al-Mashtub, the giant of a man that Yusuf had fought less than two days ago, stood beside him, his flute toylike in his massive hands. The tune they were playing floated up to Yusuf. It was an old Turkish folk-song, the drums quick under the plaintive notes of the flute.
On the far side of the courtyard the gate opened, and Yusuf saw John enter, his chainmail glimmering red in the firelight. He was followed by a figure whose face was hidden in the shadows of a black cloak. They crossed the courtyard towards the keep, and the mamluks stepped aside to let them pass. A moment later there was a knock on Yusuf’s door.
‘Enter,’ he called, turning from the window. John opened the door and stood aside to allow his companion to enter. She pushed aside her hood. It was Faridah.
‘Good evening, my lord,’ she said and bowed.
Yusuf nodded to her, then turned to John. ‘Go and join the men. Celebrate. You have earned it.’ John left, closing the door behind him.
‘I am honoured that you sent for me, my lord,’ Faridah said as she untied her cloak and allowed it to drop to the floor. She was wearing a tight-fitting caftan of red silk. It complemented her hair, which cascaded loose around her shoulders. Her green eyes, ringed with kohl, fixed on Yusuf. His heart began to pound.
‘We defeated the Frankish raiders,’ he told her. ‘They were waiting for me as you said.’
‘And their leader, Reynald? He is dead?’
‘I let him go.’
‘Why?’ Faridah demanded. ‘He deserved to die.’
Yusuf went to her and touched her arm. Up close, she smelled of jasmine. ‘I had to free him,’ he told her. ‘I gave him my word.’ Faridah frowned. ‘Why do you hate him?’
‘It is nothing,’ Faridah murmured. She reached out and pushed a strand of hair back from Yusuf’s face, then pressed her body against his. Yusuf put his arms around her waist and tentatively kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm. She opened her mouth and kissed him back passionately. Her mouth tasted sweet, like melon.
Faridah smiled. ‘Help me with my caftan,’ she whispered.
Yusuf undid the first button, then the second and third. The caftan spread open to reveal the gentle curves of her breasts. Yusuf’s hands began to tremble as he fumbled with the fourth button.
‘Let me,’ Faridah told him. She quickly unfastened the rest of the buttons and shrugged off the caftan to stand naked before Yusuf. ‘Now, it is your turn, my lord.’ She unfastened Yusuf’s belt, then pulled his tunic over his head. She knelt down as she lowered his loose cotton pants. Yusuf gasped as she took his zib in her mouth.
‘By the Prophet!’
Faridah looked up at him. ‘Do you wish me to stop, my lord?’
‘N-no,’ he managed. ‘Do not stop.’
Yusuf awoke when he felt Faridah stir in the bed beside him. She kissed his cheek, and he smiled sleepily. He had never before tasted such pleasure as she had shown him, and he was still glowing from the experience. He reached out and pulled her towards him.
‘I must go, my lord,’ she whispered in his ear and pulled away. She rose and began to dress. ‘My master will be angry if I do not return soon.’
Yusuf sat up in bed. ‘Your master?’
‘Zarif, the tavern owner. I am his slave.’
‘Not anymore. You are free.’
‘Do not jest of such things,’ Faridah scowled.
‘I do not jest.’
Faridah shook her head. ‘And what would I do with freedom? I have no family. No man will have me.’ She turned her back to him as her eyes grew moist. ‘Zarif is good to me, better than most.’
Yusuf approached her from behind and put his arms around her waist. ‘I will protect you now,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘If you must serve a master, then let it be me.’
Faridah turned to face him. ‘You do not want me, my lord,’ she protested, tears in her eyes. ‘I will never bear you children. I cannot.’
Yusuf wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘I do want you. And you may call me Yusuf.’
Faridah smiled. ‘Very well, Yusuf.’
‘Now, I wish to know more about the woman who will share my bed. Where are you from?’
Faridah pulled away. ‘I do not wish to speak of it. I am here now. That is all that matters.’
Yusuf gently touched her arm. ‘If I am to take a Frankish concubine, then I must know everything about you.’
Faridah nodded, then went to the window and looked out into the darkness. ‘I grew up in Edessa,’ she said. ‘My father was a Frankish lord and my mother an Armenian Christian. They died when the city fell to Nur ad-Din’s father, Zengi. My father was killed at the walls. My mother-’ she looked away. ‘My mother was raped and murdered. I was sold as a slave.’
