The sword and the dagger, p.32
The Sword and the Dagger, page 32
“Let’s get away from the river first,” Rashid said, and they began to walk the horses slowly out of the grove and onto the plain beyond. Only then did they notice a flock of sheep and a shepherd boy, twelve or thirteen years old, watching them curiously.
From where the boy stood he must have seen everything—their swim across the river, the dash for the trees, the passing of the magistrates on the other side. Conrad and Rashid looked at each other and Elaine knew what they were thinking. It would be well not to leave any witnesses behind.
She started to speak, but suddenly the shepherd boy raised his hand and gave them a friendly wave. They burst out laughing and rode on.
* * *
A half hour later they stopped near another grove, this one of elms whose broad leaves gave shade and rustled soothingly in the gentle breeze.
The horses weren’t the only ones who needed rest. Conrad lay down with his back against one of the elms and closed his eyes. His mind went back to the Old Man’s letter. Neither he nor Rashid was capable of reading it, and Elaine had refused to do so. Yet the letter had to be read.
Half-asleep, he wondered what Charles would do. As he drifted, he dreamt he heard Charles’s voice, or perhaps it was his own voice saying what he imagined Charles would say if he were here. You have a sword. Use it!
Conrad shook his head drowsily. Yes, of course, use your advantages, use what you have. But how could a sword be used to read a letter? Then he realized the answer and sprang to his feet, suddenly wide-awake. “Elaine!”
Startled, she opened her eyes and stared at him.
“Does writing have to be any particular size?” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The letters, they can be made as big as you like?”
“I suppose so, but—”
“Rashid, come here!” Conrad said excitedly, and Rashid came over, his expression curious.
“I want you to show me the Old Man’s letter. Do you object to that?”
“What’s the point? You can’t read it.”
“No,” said Conrad. “But I can copy it into the dirt with my sword. Then Elaine can read what’s on the ground!” He’d feared it might sound stupid when he said it out loud, but he could tell by Elaine’s expression that she didn’t think it was stupid at all.
Rashid frowned. “How can you copy it if you can’t read it?”
“I’ll just be copying the marks,” said Conrad. “I won’t know what they mean but if I copy them accurately Elaine will. Won’t you?” Again Elaine’s expression confirmed his point.
He turned back to Rashid. “She won’t be violating her oath because she won’t be reading the letter. And you won’t be breaking faith with the Old Man, because you won’t be allowing anyone to read the letter.”
Rashid’s frown deepened. He’d hoped this matter had been laid to rest.
Conrad continued urgently, “Rashid! It harms no one, it violates no trust or oath, and it may save Elaine’s life.”
Rashid hesitated. “Elaine won’t read the letter…”
“She won’t even look at it,” Conrad promised.
Rashid understood the logic. He also knew it was a trick, and that the Sheikh would be greatly disappointed if he went along with it. But Conrad was looking at him beseechingly, almost desperately, and now Elaine, too, seemed to be hoping he would agree. He knew Elaine’s life, and therefore Conrad’s future, might depend on what he did next. The choice was an impossible one. Whichever decision he made, he might end up regretting it bitterly.
Rashid reached into his shirt and took out the Old Man’s letter and handed it to Conrad.
42
Conrad labored for an hour with the letter in one hand and his sword in the other, painstakingly scratching a precise, much enlarged copy of the markings into the soft dirt around the elm trees. When he was finished, Elaine read it aloud as Rashid and Conrad listened:
“To Bernard, most Gracious and Valiant Regent of Tripoli, Greetings and Salutations from ad-Din as-Sinan, Lord of the Eagle’s Nest. Very soon the business for which you engaged me will be accomplished and you will be sole master of Tripoli. I congratulate you!”
Elaine stopped reading; she was stunned. The only “business” that would make Bernard sole master of Tripoli was her death. It had been Bernard who had hired the Old Man! She’d been certain, when Conrad began making his marks in the dirt, that it would prove to be Constable Delancey, or possibly Matilda’s father, Basil.
“Bernard!” she said. “I can’t believe it. I knew he had no great love for me, but I never dreamed … and Raymond. Raymond was my friend! He taught me how to use—” The words caught in her throat. After the Mongols, she’d thought nothing could ever shock her again, but she’d been mistaken.
“Raymond was your friend, but Bernard’s vassal first,” said Conrad. “Besides, it’s quite possible he didn’t know the contents of the messages he was carrying.”
“That’s true,” said Elaine, and felt a little better. “But why did Bernard go to the trouble of arranging my marriage to you, if he was going to have me killed?”
“All the better to disguise his true purpose.”
Elaine still found it hard to believe Bernard would have her murdered. On the other hand, he was certainly ambitious. And hiring the Old Man was clever, for without this letter the murder never would have been traced back to Bernard.
Conrad said, “Read the rest of it.”
With an effort Elaine put aside her shock and resumed reading. “God willing, you will soon be master of Antioch as well and the most powerful Christian ruler west of the Euphrates.”
“What?” Now it was Conrad’s turn to be shocked. “My father is master in Antioch! Are you sure that’s what it says?”
“I’m sure,” Elaine said.
“Bernard must be planning to eliminate my father and myself as well,” said Conrad, his face white with fury. “Go on.”
Elaine continued: “Despite our present dealings I know you regard me as an enemy and I confess that such has been my opinion of you. But I write to tell you of a different enemy, one that threatens your kingdom and mine as well. From reports I have received from beyond the Zagros Mountains, this enemy is so numerous and powerful that they have swept all before them, slaughtering believers and non-believers, my people and yours, alike.”
“The Mongols,” Conrad said. “He’s warning Bernard about the Mongols.”
Elaine continued: “The ruler is an arrogant dog who calls himself King of Kings and intends to lay waste to all lands east of the Great Sea. Though you and I are not of the same faith, does it not behoove us to join together against such a pagan enemy, who is an abomination in the sight of heaven? Are we not far more likely to prevail if we stand together, and do not permit this filthy cur to destroy us one by one? Will you not meet with me to discuss uniting our nations, and others as well, both Christian and Muslim, in Holy War against him? Let us avoid the shame of being enslaved by this infidel heathen who is an offense to my God and to yours also! Tell me what conditions you require to ensure your safety but let us not delay our meeting, for this pig has already sent spies west of the Mountains and his army will surely follow in force, perhaps in the next fighting season. There is little time to lose.”
Elaine stopped reading and looked up. “That’s all,” she said.
There was a moment of silence, then Conrad said, “The Old Man is trying to form a coalition to fight the Mongols. That’s why he was so anxious to get the letter back.”
Elaine nodded. “If the Khan saw this he’d pursue the Old Man to the ends of the earth.”
Conrad could not help smiling. “Yes. I think the Khan would also object to being called an arrogant dog and a filthy cur.”
“Also a pig and a heathen,” said Rashid.
“An abomination in the sight of heaven,” Elaine said.
They were laughing, but it was nervous laughter because, intemperate though the Old Man’s language was, they knew he was right about the Khan’s intentions.
Rashid realized there was another way in which the letter was dangerous to the Old Man. The Assassins were already regarded as renegades by the vast majority of Muslims, and if it became known that the Old Man had approached a Christian state about an alliance, the Assassins would be even more hated and despised than they already were.
Rashid held out his hand. Conrad handed him the letter and Rashid put it inside his shirt again, wondering if he’d done the right thing in allowing Conrad and Elaine to use it as they had. The sooner he placed it in the Old Man’s hands the better he would feel. “You’re finished with the markings?” he said.
“Yes,” said Elaine. “We know what we need to know.”
Rashid began rubbing out the marks in the dirt with his feet, and the other two joined in until there was no trace left of the work Conrad had done with his sword.
* * *
As they traveled on Elaine felt a reluctant admiration for the Old Man. His habit of murdering his enemies had alienated Christians and Muslims alike, yet he’d suspected what no one else west of the Zagros had: that before long Genghis Khan would lead his army over the Zagros and into the western lands, and the inhabitants of those lands would have two choices—death or submission. The only chance for the Muslims and Christians to survive as independent peoples would be to unite against the Mongols, just as the Old Man had said.
But she wondered if such an alliance was possible. Even leaving the Assassins aside, the infighting among the Muslims in the Holy Land was notorious, and was the only thing that allowed the Christians there to survive. Yet the Christians were no better—Bernard’s plot against her and Conrad was proof of that. How much less could Christians and Muslims be expected to set aside their differences, even temporarily?
Yet Conrad and Rashid had once sworn to kill each other, and since that time they had risked their lives for one another repeatedly; and now they rode side by side, friends and companions. Perhaps the impossible was sometimes possible.
It was all very complicated. And of course, dealing with Bernard would be no simple matter either.
43
The last few months had not been pleasant for Bernard, Regent of Tripoli. First, the damned Assassin had unaccountably failed to kill Elaine; then he and the Princess had apparently vanished into thin air, and to top it off, Prince Conrad had mysteriously disappeared as well, and none of them had been seen since.
It was perplexing and also humiliating. As Regent he bore ultimate responsibility and he knew he was the subject of much criticism and even ridicule, which increased as time passed with no sign of any of the three renegades. Of course if the truth were known—that he himself had paid to have Elaine killed as part of a plan to make himself joint ruler of Tripoli and Antioch—ridicule would be the least of his problems. But exposure seemed highly unlikely, because whatever else the Old Man might be, he was always discreet. Secrecy was woven into the very fabric of his life.
So Bernard had believed; but now he could no longer be certain even of that. A month after Elaine had vanished, an iron strongbox had been given to the castle guards with instructions to pass it on to Bernard. Bernard had ordered it brought to his chamber, where he opened it in private; it held fifty gold coins—the advance payment he had sent to the Old Man for the murder of Elaine.
Why had the Old Man returned the money? Was he simply acknowledging his failure to carry out his part of their bargain? Or did it signify a change of heart—he was no longer willing to carry out his part? Bernard did not dare send a message to the Old Man to find out, for the only one of his servants with sufficient courage to carry one, Sir Raymond, had been discovered, slain by a strange arrow and buried in a shallow grave in the wilderness between Tripoli and the Eagle’s Nest.
Everyone had wondered what Raymond was doing, alone, in such a deserted spot; only Bernard knew the answer, but of course he had pretended to be as puzzled as everyone else, and it was added to the list of inexplicable misfortunes that Tripoli had recently suffered.
Bernard had sent out envoys and spies by the dozen to make inquiries about the possible whereabouts of Conrad or Elaine or the Assassin. He got back hundreds of answers, mostly rumors, fabrications, or speculations that became more fantastical by the day. Yet by patiently sifting through and comparing the myriad reports, he was able to glean a few grains of wheat from the chaff, and he believed he had some idea of what had happened, if not why.
Three travelers, fitting the general descriptions of Elaine and the other two, had been seen together in various locations that suggested they had passed through the Old Man’s territory and then crossed the Euphrates River at Ar-Raqqah. They had somehow become separated but had been reunited in Mosul, where they may or may not have been involved in a killing of some kind. Then they had gone over the Zagros Mountains into Khwarazm, which, according to various reports, was engaged in a war with some foreign power.
Why the three were traveling together, and what their purpose was, he couldn’t guess. But the very fact that they were together damned Conrad and Elaine in the eyes of most Christians, and Bernard made sure that the results of his inquiries were made known throughout Tripoli and Antioch.
Discrediting the three was good, but it would be even better if they stayed away from Tripoli, preferably forever. But there were two problems. The first was the possibility that they had somehow discovered Bernard’s treachery. The second problem was that they might come back. If they did return to Tripoli knowing the truth, his days were numbered.
Only one conclusion was possible: they must not return to Tripoli alive.
* * *
Walter, Sergeant-at-Arms and former Master of Horse at Tripoli, was also enduring a very difficult few months; in fact, he was thoroughly disgraced. He had been the one who’d hired Rashid in the first place, and he had also led the search party from which Conrad had vanished.
Walter and his men had remained in the field for many days, scouring the countryside for some trace of Elaine or the Assassin or Conrad, but had finally returned to the castle empty-handed, and very soon afterward Walter found himself a pariah and a laughingstock.
There had been some talk of exile, but he was spared that fate in view of his long years of faithful service to the kingdom. But he was removed from his position as Master of Horse; and his dream—one he had cherished secretly for many years—of one day being knighted, slim at best given his advanced age, was now an utter impossibility.
Since then he had lived a shadowy existence, formally part of the castle guard but without any real status, seemingly destined to live out his life in shame and obscurity. So when he received word that Bernard had sent for him he was not much perturbed, for he had little left to lose. When he appeared at the entrance to the throne room he was surprised to see that Bernard was alone, with no courtiers or advisers around him.
“Come in, Walter,” the Regent said in a friendly tone, and Walter entered. Bernard closed the door behind him and said, “How are you, old friend?”
This was strange coming from the man who had been responsible for Walter’s demotion, but Walter just said, “Well enough, m’lord.”
“Perhaps you think it odd of me to call you friend?” said Bernard.
Very odd, thought Walter, but he said, “I hope we’ve always been on friendly terms, m’lord.”
“I’ve been a better friend than you know,” said Bernard. “You’re aware that some wanted you exiled after the recent … unpleasantness?”
“I’d heard talk of it.”
“Did you also know there were even some who thought you should be stripped of the right to bear arms?”
This was a shock. For a warrior such as Walter, death would have been far preferable.
“I would not permit it,” Bernard said. “Unfortunately I was unable to preserve your station as Master of Horse, but I did what I could.”
It seemed to Walter that Bernard, as ruler of Tripoli, could have done whatever he pleased, but he just said, “I thank you, m’lord.”
“The fact is, Walter, you and I have both been victims of some extremely strange circumstances. Why did Elaine flee from the castle with the Assassin? Why did Conrad vanish as well? And why was Raymond slain? It’s as if we were under a curse!”
“I confess the answer is beyond me,” said Walter.
“It is a puzzle,” Bernard agreed. “But I’ve been making inquiries and a few things have come to light.”
He told Walter what he’d learned from his spies, most of which Walter had already heard through rumors, though he listened politely until Bernard had finished. Then Walter said, “They are beyond the Zagros, then.”
“So it seems,” said Bernard. “And once winter sets in they’ll remain there at least until next year. But if they try to return sooner, say in the next few weeks, they will have to be stopped.”
“Stopped, m’lord?”
“What possible good could result if they returned? The Assassin, by virtue of the very fact of what he is, should be killed on sight, and the Princess Elaine has become his whore.”
Walter flinched at this, but the Regent pressed on. “What other explanation can there be? They’ve been together since the day they left Tripoli.”
“Perhaps against her will.”
“Not according to the reports I’ve received.” Bernard paused to let this sink in.
Walter shook his head. “I can scarce believe it.”
“Nor can I. But I ask again, what other explanation can there be?”
“None, I suppose.”
“Exactly. Now, suppose she returns. What will she do? Move back into the castle with her lover the Assassin?”
“As you say, we’ll kill the Assassin,” said Walter.
“And what then?” said Bernard. “What future could there be for his former whore? Will anyone marry her? Will the citizens of Tripoli accept her as their ruler when she comes of age? She will be a shame and a disgrace to herself and to the nation. Can you deny it?”
