‘I can understand that. I will stay here as your hostage. I appreciate that you had no need to ask me, but could have just imposed your will. Your gesture is a reflection of your genuine chivalry. When the time comes, if you will permit it, I will happily lend my voice to your request for safe passage.’
‘Thank you. I will make preparations for an escort to take your retinue down the mountain to join the road to Mazara.’
When I told the others about the Emir’s plan, they were reluctant to go and suggested that we send the sergeant-at-arms and the surviving cavalryman.
I pointed out that the Emir’s request would come better from a knight and that they would be able to emphasize to Count Roger that we had been well treated and that the Emir was an honourable man.
After some discussion, it was agreed that Edwin would travel to Mazara with our men and that Sweyn and Adela would stay with me.
Adela had now begun her training with Sweyn and Ibn Hamed’s knights. They had both become firm friends with the Emir’s men and it was fascinating to watch them develop their skills in the various Saracen practice routines. One particular skill they started to master — an expertise unknown in the armies of Europe — was the use of the recurved eastern bow, a powerful, accurate weapon at close quarters and small enough to be used on horseback.
Sweyn ultimately became so proficient with the bow at a gallop that he could outscore all the Saracen knights. Adela did not yet have the strength on her left side to steady the bow, but she began to impress everyone with the speed of her footwork and her dexterity with a sword in duels. She adapted well to the curved sabre of the Saracens and soon exchanged her straight European blade for the slashing Arab scimitar. Even with her left hand in a sling to protect her shoulder, and hampered by the weakness in her left leg, she was still able to practise duelling with the Emir’s best swordsmen.
Hassan Taleb, the Emir’s finest warrior, took Sweyn and Adela under his wing and helped them hone their skills.
It was a particular delight to see him tutor Adela in the art of the sword: advance and retreat, thrust and parry, strike and deflect. Their movements flowed with a poise that belied their purpose — they looked more like the elegant moves of a graceful dance than the crude paces of a ruthless slaying. She was only ever outdone in a routine against far stronger men, or against the finest swordsmen — and then only after putting up a ferocious defence.
It was obvious that Hassan had designs on Adela. Clearly a man used to getting what he wanted, he was big and powerful, charming and chivalrous. He flirted with her, fussed over her and fed her ego. Sweyn became less and less happy with the overt attention.
A clash seemed imminent, so I decided to raise the subject with him.
‘Will you speak to Adela about Hassan?’
‘I already have, my Lord. She knows it is a problem, but doesn’t know how to deal with it. Adela told me that she had confided in you about us… and about her situation.’
‘Do you mind that?’
‘No, she needs someone to speak to besides me. She sees me as her younger brother and you as her elder brother.’
‘That makes me your elder brother also.’
‘I know, sire. So, may I also share something with you?’
‘Yes, you may… as long as you stop calling me “sire” while doing so.’
‘Adela has told me that she finds Hassan attractive, but only in outline. When her thoughts go beyond the superficial, she sees only Ogier the Breton, the monster from Bourne, and all the memories from those terrible days come flooding back. It is a curse that denies her so much.’
‘I fear it is a burden she will carry all her life.’
‘I want to help her.’
‘We all want to help her.’
‘But I am her husband.’
‘In name only.’
‘Yes… but the truth is, I yearn for her. I lie next to her night after night and all I want to do is comfort her, make love to her and make her memories go away.’
I suddenly realized that in the midst of all my anguish about Adela’s predicament I had ignored Sweyn and his inner thoughts and anxieties. Quite apart from his own childhood traumas, he was now telling me that he had nightly suffered the purgatory of lying next to a woman who was, in the eyes of the outside world, his wife but who treated him like a brother in a marriage of convenience when, all along, he desired her with a hunger.
‘It is an impossible situation for both of you. Can you not find comfort with someone else? Adela would understand and give you her blessing.’
‘She would, and she encourages me all the time. But I have two problems. How do I find someone in this nomadic life we lead? And, more importantly, no other woman comes close to Adela in my mind. All I want is her.’
‘Have you told her this?’
‘No, I cannot. If she knew, it would ruin everything. She would either feel sorry for me and let me take her out of pity, or she would leave me in order to prevent the agony continuing. I couldn’t bear either.’
‘I am so sorry. How can I help?’
‘You cannot. It is my cross to bear.’
Sweyn walked away despondently, leaving me to reflect on two lives which, like so many others, had been devastated by the savagery of the Norman Conquest of our homeland.
The inevitable confrontation with Hassan Taleb took place a few days later. Adela had been practising her swordplay with him when she slipped and fell to the ground, hurting her damaged shoulder in the process. He had helped to her feet, but lingered too long and too suggestively with his arm around her. She had pulled away angrily and marched from the practice ground, muttering to herself and shaking her head.
Sweyn arrived moments later. Adela refused to say what had happened, but Sweyn realized immediately who had caused her distress.
His sword was drawn within two paces as he attacked the Saracen with lightning speed. Hassan Taleb was an outstanding swordsman and parried all Sweyn’s blows with great dexterity, but Sweyn was relentless, driven by a burning fury.
I remembered what he had said to me when we first met — that anger in battle is a powerful ally.
Hassan began to look concerned, realizing that he was facing a man who not only had the fortitude to kill him, but also the ability.
Sweyn began to get the upper hand and Hassan Taleb started to tire. He took a gash to his forearm, and only his heavily mailed hauberk prevented Sweyn’s blade from inflicting a deep wound to his chest. Even so, blood began to seep into his cotton tunic.
I tried to put an end to it and shouted at Sweyn to stop, but to no avail.
He was deaf to all pleading. Only when Adela reappeared and walked in between them did they relent. She started to push Sweyn away, repeating over and over again that the incident was a misunderstanding and unimportant.
I rushed to help her.
By now the Emir had appeared, beside himself with anger. When he heard what had happened, he ordered that Hassan Taleb be restrained to await a trail by his fellow knights. However, before any of his men could detain him, Hassan lunged at Sweyn with his sabre. Alert to the attack, Sweyn pushed us away, ducked under the Saracen’s wild swing and plunged his seax into Hassan’s neck. The blade entered his throat on the left and exited next to his spine on the right. Both men were motionless for a second and the onlookers frozen in shock before Sweyn put his left hand on the Saracen’s shoulder and wrenched out his weapon. Blood spurted everywhere and splashed to the ground.
Death came almost instantly for the Saracen but, before it did, he was able to lift his hands to his throat in a futile attempt to stem the cascade and momentarily stare at Sweyn with wide-eyed incredulity. He then toppled to the ground and was dead within moments.
It was an astonishingly quick reaction from Sweyn, the adroitness and accuracy of which had made all who
