What to tell and what not, after so long apart? Dragonetz gave the bald facts of his imprisonment and listened to the detail of Bèatriz’ wedding plans. He briefly outlined Muganni’s history and listened to the various ways in which de Rançon had behaved heroically. Perhaps it was just as well that Muganni interrupted the tête-à-tête at the exact moment when Estela was describing how de Rançon had taught her Arabic or the sound of gritted teeth might have become obvious.
Bowing to Estela, Muganni launched into speech. ‘You wanted me to let you know straight away, Effendi.’ He had to pause to catch his breath and Dragonetz motioned him to speak freely. ‘The Jew is back from Egypt. I don’t like him. He told me to stop singing, that music is a childish distraction from what is important.’
Endgame. Soon, it would all be over. ‘Then I don’t like him either. But this is business. Go back to the dyeworks and speak with him in private. Tell him that the Christian knight brings him a gift from Raavad of Narbonne, as promised. Tell him to be at the dyeworks tomorrow at vespers and I will come to him there.’
‘Effendi.’ Muganni bowed and was gone.
‘The book,’ stated Estela. When Dragonetz had left her in Narbonne, he had told her everything about his mission. ‘You give this man the book and your debts are cancelled. You’ll have kept your oath and you’ll be free again.’ She reached across to take his hands in her own, her happiness at his restored fortunes shining in her face. ‘And we can go home.’
‘Free,’ agreed Dragonetz, hiding his unease. After all, he’d never expected the endgame to be simple. Bar Philipos would of course be tracking him. In fact, Dragonetz was relying on the fact that the Syrian would also be at the dyeworks when vespers was rung. All that was needed was a good excuse to kill the man. In Dragonetz’ opinion, an attempt to steal the book might very well lead to a fight, and self-defence would count as a very good reason indeed. Of course, he didn’t mention any of this to Estela, but kissed her hand lightly as they parted. She told him she understood he’d need to rest during the night, that they had all the time in the world to be together, and he’d pretended she was right, even while he sensed the poison clogging his blood and his thoughts. Tomorrow it would all be over, one way or the other.
As he rolled up his pack and stashed it on the bed he’d claimed in the servants’ quarters, Gilles cursed Dragonetz for existing. Estela’s relationship with de Rançon had been developing nicely into more than friendship and every step of their long journey together had increased Gilles’ respect for Mélisende’s knight.
He was the sort of leader who drove his men hard and himself harder; who could handle his own weapons well and also take a strategic view; and who treated Estela like a queen. The perfect match for the woman who, in Gilles’ eyes, was more than a queen. She was the motherless little girl he’d been a father to, when her own proved wanting, and she was the spirited woman who’d travelled across seas and desert without complaining. And all to meet up with this Dragonetz!
Gilles had known little of Dragonetz before the knight had to leave Narbonne, penniless and on some secret, heathen mission. Estela’s love was evident but she wouldn’t be the first girl to fall for a sweet-talking - or even sweet-singing - rogue. Gilles had taught her how to judge the quality of a weapon, and not to judge by appearances, but he still preferred to double-check her judgement, and he didn’t like what he had found out about the man she had chosen.
De Rançon had tried loyally to hide his friend’s shortcomings but Gilles had understood much from what was left unsaid. Whatever Dragonetz had been before coming Oltra mar, he was now a dissolute womaniser - perhaps worse, judging by the way he and that boy behaved! One look at him in those robes, and with that beard, and anyone could see he was no Christian knight any more. Changing his dress back and shaving wouldn’t change what was underneath and it wouldn’t fool Gilles. It was all very well Estela making songs about it but friendship between a Christian and a Moor was just plain wrong, and likely to turn a man, and no doubt that had been the start of it with Dragonetz. Then, coming here had made things worse.
Servants always knew what was going on. They were invisible to their masters but that didn’t stop them hearing very interesting conversations. The trick was to get them to tell you what you wanted to know. And Gilles knew lots of ways to make other servants talk. He could be so harmless, so hail-fellow-well-met, and so generous with a jug of wine. Along with some crude detail on the Queen’s use of a good-looking young man (the second time, mind you! At least this time she wasn’t a married woman, but still!) Gilles found out that Dragonetz was a big man at court, with talk of some high-up marriage for him, and land here, Oltra mar. Gilles doubted that Dragonetz had mentioned any of this to Estela.
Other whispers in the servants’ quarters were about the oddness of the boy. Some said he was a djinn, who cast spells that kept his master strong. Everyone agreed that Dragonetz would hide away in his room for a day or two, with only Muganni tending him, and then the knight would emerge, full of energy, and after that the cycle would repeat. There were men who changed into beasts and had potions to keep them man-like; maybe Dragonetz was one of those. Maybe his name came with a family curse... Gilles was sceptical about Dragonetz turning into a scaled beast but then, you never knew, and hiding away was very odd behaviour.
Then there was the question of how Dragonetz had behaved with Estela. The word ‘love’ had often served a man whose only interest was between a woman’s legs. There could be no doubt that Dragonetz had found his way to that sweet place and then left Estela with child while he traipsed round the Holy Land, having God-knew-what adventures. And how was he treating her after she’d shown courage beyond her sex, facing all the dangers of their journey for his sake? He’d tumbled her, that was how, and not even stayed the night.
Poor de Rançon. No wonder he was keeping away, knowing how unworthy Dragonetz was of Estela but too loyal to take his place. Too loyal, even though, if Dragonetz deigned to notice his friend at all, it was with that sardonic sneer of his. Well, Gilles was not going to keep out of things. He didn’t trust Dragonetz and when he’d followed the boy the day before, his suspicions were confirmed. There was no good reason for a Christian knight to be meeting a Jew at sundown in a dyeworks and Gilles was going to make sure he was there, to find out exactly what was going on. When he had all the information he needed, he’d cut this bond between Dragonetz and Estela, and help de Rançon take his rightful place. Then she’d have someone who treated her right, not someone who - this was the final torch to his bonfire of outrage - not someone who didn’t even think Estela worth a second night! After over a year apart!
Wearing an anonymous brown cloak, Gilles stomped an angry path to the dyeworks in the Jewish quarter, as the sun grew low. The vats in the courtyard had been covered and the workers had already downed tools for the day when he got there, but the gates were still open. It was easy to find a suitable dark doorway, outside the empty clerk’s room, where he could stand in the shadows. Then all he had to do was wait and watch.
First to appear was a man wearing robes and a turban, with a companion fully covered, in the manner of some heathen women. The man seemed to know his way round the dyeworks and checked the covers on the vats before standing openly in the courtyard, waiting. The woman kept to the side, by the buildings, her black robe blending into the shadows.
Then Dragonetz arrived on foot, his hauberk flashing silver under his cloak and his head covered in the mail hood. No courtesy visit then. He was accompanied by the Arab imp, who was sent out of the way, to hop impatiently on one leg, so close to Gilles that he could almost have reached out and touched the boy.
‘Yerushalmi?’ queried Dragonetz, his voice deep and echoing slightly.
‘I am Yerushalmi,’ the turbaned man confirmed. ‘Lord Dragonetz?’
‘I have something for you from Raavad.’ From under his cloak, Dragonetz extracted a parcel. ‘A wise man asked me to give this book into your keeping. Blessed be he who preserves it and cursed be he who steals it, and cursed be he who sells it, and cursed be he who pawns it. It may not be sold and it may not be defiled.’
‘May the blessing be upon you,’ Yerushalmi replied. He unfastened a strap from round his neck and took a leather bag from underneath his cloak. ‘This was given to me for you in exchange for all you have done for us.’ He handed the leather bag to Dragonetz and the knight accepted it, as Yerushalmi had accepted the parcel, without showing the ill-manners of looking within.
Gilles missed the next exchange because he noticed another man arrive on the scene, moving stealthily, as if he’d been following Dragonetz. The newcomer was robed and wore a swathe of fabric round his head but it was not a turban like the Jew’s. Whether he and the Jew were in league, Gilles had no idea, but he recognised the meaning of an outstretched dagger in a man’s hand, and whatever he thought of Dragonetz, he would not see him taken down from behind.
He hissed at the boy, who looked at him, startled. ‘Your master needs help,’ he told the boy urgently, ‘Get de Rançon, tell him to come quickly.’
With one glance at the man approaching the courtyard, dagger out, the boy nodded and ran.
‘Dragonetz!’ yelled Gilles, coming out of the shadows, drawing his own dagger. With his one hand, he could only manage one weapon, but he could still throw a dagger straight and true, even in this waning light.
Dragonetz turned first to the robed man who’d followed him. ‘So glad you could join us, Bar Philipos.’ Then he sighed. ‘Gilles. This is an unexpected pleasure. I would be very grateful if you would return to guard your mistress. In fact, I’m relying on it.’
Gilles didn’t bother responding as Dragonetz’ attention switched to Yerushalmi’s companion, who’d moved out of the shadows and rolled down the hood to reveal a young woman’s face, black hair and flashing brown eyes.
‘Yalda!’ exclaimed Bar Philipos.
Dragonetz drawled, ‘One surprise after another. I assume you’re here to finish off what the little black bull didn’t?’
‘You flatter yourself.’ Yalda stood beside the Jew, who was holding tightly to the parcel Dragonetz had given him. ‘I’m here because of him.’ She jerked her head at Bar Philipos, who seemed unable to move. ‘You can’t believe it, can you?’ she jeered at him. ‘Well it’s true. Another daughter goes to the Jews. Only you won’t beat this one till you kill her.’
She looked at Dragonetz then. ‘I told you she died because of love. She was going to run away with Yerushalmi and marry him until he found out. Then he did what he always did with us, if we weren’t ‘good daughters’. Only you got carried away, didn’t you, father.
But it all turned out for the best because you covered it up so well, and you could use the death against this stupid knight.’ She laughed, raw and bitter. ‘What does it feel like to have been played, Dragonetz?! Don’t you want to kill him yet? Don’t you understand why I do?!’
Yerushalmi put his arm round her, shushing her, speaking in his measured way. ‘These matters are behind us now. We will take the Keter Aram Sola to Maimonides and I will study it with him in Egypt, somewhere Jews don’t have to beg permission to scratch a living, somewhere ‘vespers’ will be but a memory,’ he gave an ironic glance towards Dragonetz, ‘and we will live in our words and observe our religion.’
It was the Jew’s words, or unruffled tone, that sparked Bar Philipos out of his shock. ‘I should have killed you too! You can take my second harlot daughter and damn her to hell with all Jewry, but you’re not having the book!’
He attempted to rush Yerushalmi but Dragonetz was too quick and a sword blocked the way, swinging dangerously. Bar Philipos seemed to regain control. ‘I can wait,’ he said. ‘De Rançon will be here any minute with your whore and you’ll have the choice, my Lord.’ He gave a sarcastic bow. ‘Give us the book or your Estela will die, efficiently I suspect, knowing de Rançon.’ He must have seen murder in Dragonetz’ eyes because he threw his dagger away. ‘Would you kill an unarmed man?’ he mocked.
‘Go,’ Dragonetz told the Jew and the girl. ‘Go quickly.’
Then Gilles realised what he’d done and swore aloud as he saw Estela walking towards the dyeworks, with de Rançon. No doubt Muganni had found them en route. He was skipping alongside de Rançon and Estela’s hand rested lightly on her companion’s mailed arm, her face anxious - for Dragonetz, no doubt. De Rançon moved with graceful assurance, despite the weight in armour he carried. Sword out, murmuring words of reassurance to Estela, he reached the scene, just as Yalda picked up the dagger Bar Philipos had discarded and stuck it between her father’s shoulder-blades.
Staggering towards de Rançon, the Syrian held out his arms and tried to speak. If, like Estela, he hadn’t known better, Gilles would have been impressed at the speed with which de Rançon assessed where the danger to his friend was coming from.
The Syrian only got as far as ‘De Rançon...’ in talking to his partner, before he was run through by an efficient sword-stroke, which turned his words into the bloody gurgle of a dying man. De Rançon had finished what Yalda began.
‘He wasn’t armed,’ Dragonetz said drily, his body tensed pre-fight, waiting de Rançon’s next move. Estela was behind de Rançon, who only had to move back a few steps to reach her and run her through, with nothing Dragonetz could do to stop him. She stood there, trusting, happy that de Rançon had saved his friend’s life.
Swopping dagger for sword, Gilles edged backwards, one tiny movement at a time, slowly trying to move out of de Rançon’s peripheral view, while the man’s attention was focused on Dragonetz. He was sure Dragonetz could see what he was trying to do but the knight didn’t betray him by so much as a flicker of his eyes. Instead, he turned his attention to Yalda, who was staring at her father’s dead body, impassive.
‘You have what you came for,’ Dragonetz told her, ‘but what I don’t understand...’ Anyone who knew him would have been put on guard by the casual, insulting drawl.
He opened his cloak, giving her a clear view of the gap between hauberk and hood, the bare target of his insolent face. ‘What I really don’t understand, is why you have to fuck every man your sister has.’
Yalda screamed, pulled the dagger from her father’s back and would have thrown it at Dragonetz had not Muganni hung onto her arm, preventing her and shouting. ‘He’s trying to kill himself. He’s using you to kill himself. It’s the drugs. He can’t help what he says.’ Yerushalmi moved to hold the girl, taking the dagger, calming her in soft, foreign words.
Gilles used the distraction to reach Estela and drag her backwards till he could put himself and his sword between her and de Rançon. The latter acknowledged the move with a twisted smile. Gilles knew he was no match for de Rançon but Dragonetz was at least an equal, and de Rançon was caught between them. Estela was no longer the easy hostage she had been.
‘I don’t understand,’ Estela kept saying. ‘Get off my foot!’ but Gilles had no intention of letting her free to go to de Rançon and it was too complicated to explain to her now. Unable to hold her and the sword, he’d settled for standing on the fashionable long pointed end of her boot, pinning her down neatly.
‘You must stay here,’ he told her, urgently.
‘My dear Estela,’ de Rançon told her, putting down his bloody sword, ‘it will be all right. I’m here.’ So it was to be play-acting, thought Gilles grimly, with Estela as the audience and everyone else watching, to see what trick the bastard would pull next.
Dragonetz nodded to Gilles, and that little gesture of gratitude and reassurance was enough from such a man. They would get out of this! ‘Go, Yerushalmi,’ Dragonetz told him again.
The Jew looked towards Bar Philipos’ crumpled body. ‘The curse has delivered justice. Maimonides teaches that we should eschew vengeance, but even so, Yalda and I will know greater peace in our new life for having truly finished with this one. Come, Yalda,’ he said and the couple retreated into the dyeworks building, locking a door behind them. De Rançon followed them with his eyes.
‘Effendi,’ yelled Muganni. Dragonetz had crumpled to a heap on cobbles, apparently asleep. ‘It is the drug,’ the boy told them, placing the leather bag under his master’s head. ‘It takes him against his will to the poppy-world for a short time and then he wakes, groggy as if from too much wine. He needs a litter to take him back to his lodging.’
De Rançon and Gilles weighed each other up, coldly. With Dragonetz unconscious, de Rançon could kill them all. ‘Dragonetz!’ cried Estela and rushed, one-shoed, to her lover’s side, too fast for de Rançon to catch her, if he’d tried. Gilles moved to block de Rançon’s access to the couple but at most he could only buy time against such a swordsman.
Oblivious to all danger, Estela ordered, ‘De Rançon, go to the hospital. Get a litter out here, as soon as you can!’
Gilles readied himself to give his life for his mistress, praying that the city guard would turn up, drunk Templars, thieves, anybody! But instead, inexplicably, de Rançon put his sword up and left. Gilles had no idea where de Rançon would go or what he would do, so he sent Muganni ‘to get Dragonetz’ chamber ready’ and (sotto voce in the boy’s ear) to get the Hospitalers to send a litter.
If the boy was confused by the duplication of litters, he gave no sign, merely his customary ‘Yes, Effendi’ and he was off, leaving Estela cradling Dragonetz’ head in her lap, and Gilles clutching a leather bag, his heart full of silent apologies and prayers.
Like the stone walls and closed door of Dragonetz’ chamber, Estela and Gilles heard all that was said but stayed silent. A little weak still and lying on the bed, Dragonetz was nevertheless lucid as he outlined the way he had been drugged, the effect in hallucinations and sleep, the sickness when he had no poppy or reduced the dose. Muganni showed Estela and Gilles the poppy pods and the ground hash that he was using. He told them the quantities that Dragonetz needed to avoid being sick.
‘But poppy is dangerous,’ he warned. ‘Sometimes it is stronger than others, even with the same proportions of pods to water. You will see by the colour of the infusion and you must be careful - an overdose will kill. I use the hash to make a little happiness.’
Never had someone spoken of happiness with as serious an expression. ‘At some stages of the cycle the poppy makes depression and anxiety, and because we are trying to keep the dose low, there are sometimes pains too. The hash gives a little relief.’
Muganni made Estela recite the method and proportions of preparing the concoction until he was satisfied that she had them memorised and Dragonetz smiled weakly at the boy. ‘You have done well, my boy.’
Then Estela realised why she had to learn the preparation of the drugs. ‘You are leaving,’ she said to Muganni.
‘I have some jobs to do for the master and then he bids me go to my people in the mountains. I am Hashashin and I will be free.’ There was pride and excitement in his voice but something else too.
‘You were always free with me,’ Dragonetz told him, opening his arms. The boy went to the bed and hugged his master, the way Dragonetz had taught him, as men hug, as father and son hug. Estela thought it a pity that de Rançon couldn’t see them now or he would realise how mistaken he had been about the relationship between Dragonetz and Muganni.
They released each other, patted each other heartily on the back, and Dragonetz smiled his approval. If his eyes were a little moist, then no doubt, like their redness, it was an effect of the drugs.
‘You are leaving too,’ Muganni told Gilles and Estela.
‘For the mountains?’
Muganni looked at his master with regret. ‘It is not possible. The Hashashin face many threats and my Lord would draw down on us a force that would finish us. We can only survive by hiding and there is nowhere Oltra mar that a man like my Lord can hide. Everyone will seek him. He must go home, somewhere he can be isolated for the time it takes.’ And then Muganni told them what had to be done to purge Dragonetz of the drugs and what the risks were.
White-faced, Estela asked, ‘How will we get him home?’
‘I am still here, you know,’ Dragonetz complained. Everyone ignored him.
‘My Lord planned all this. In the event that he survived the meeting at the dyeworks, there is a camel train, leaving tomorrow at dawn, with two litters, one for my Lord and one for my Lady.’
‘I’d rather ride a camel than be in one of those coffins!’ interrupted Estela.
‘As my Lady wishes,’ bowed Muganni. At St Jean d’Acre there will be a ship waiting for you.’
Estela’s eyes were round. ‘The cost!’ she said ‘How could you have paid so many men to travel in the stormy season. Camel trains! A ship!’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Laughter struggled to emerge in the tired eyes. ‘I’m unbelievably rich. Look.’ He passed her the leather bag, which had been beside him on the bed. ‘Go, Muganni.’
‘No, wait!’ a thought struck Estela. ‘Muganni could tell de Rançon that we’re leaving, so he can come with us. We could do with the extra protection.’ She dropped her eyes, hiding the suggestion that Dragonetz’ weakness left them vulnerable.
Gilles and Dragonetz exchanged looks. ‘No,’ said Dragonetz. ‘De Rançon is the Queen’s man and it would put him in an impossible position. Mélisende will be livid when she knows I’ve gone. She had plans for me. De Rançon will be able to say, honestly, that he knew nothing and he’ll keep his place at court. Go, Muganni.’ The boy left. Gilles was gazing fixedly at Dragonetz, with respect.
Estela still felt unsure about leaving de Rançon out of their plans. She started to open the bag. ‘The Jew’s teacher is right, you know, about eschewing revenge. De Rançon said something similar when we were travelling. So difficult to surmount those feelings and so admirable, don’t you think? Oh. My!’ She’d opened the velvet pouch inside the bag and spilled a dozen or more fine-cut jewels over the bed. ‘I hope you counted them!’ she said, gathering them up again, admiring the glitter as different facets caught the light, and putting them back safely in the bag. ‘Twenty?’ she queried, drawing the string tight. ‘They must be worth a fortune!’
Dragonetz nodded. ‘Read the parchments.’
Estela pulled two rolled parchments out of the bag. The first was as expected, signed by Raavad and writing off all debts against his loan to buy the land and material for his paper mill. ‘You’re free!’ Estela beamed at her lover.
‘Read on.’
The second parchment took longer to read and was signed Malik-al-Judhami of the Banu Hud. Al-Hisba! thought Estela as she read his message.
Dearest friend of my mind,
Forgive my deceit but if I had not got you out of Narbonne, you would not be alive, and I could not let the world lose a mind such as yours.
If you read this, then you have completed your task for Raavad and enough time has passed for you to come home without fear of the assassin. When you do come back, you have wealth beyond your dreams. Before the paper mill burned, I shipped all the paper to Venice. We were right about the potential of paper and the payments are waiting for you with Raavad, who has full accounts. The summer’s work bore the harvest you deserve and you can now reap the rewards.
The Christian Church will never allow you to make paper again but what we learned together will find a use, in some other form. You will find another project and you have the money to invest in it.
I am sometimes in Narbonne on business so perhaps our paths will cross once more. I hope so.
Insha’Allah
Malik-al-Judhami of the Banu Hud
‘You’re rich.’
‘That’s what I said.’ Dragonetz gave her a boyish grin. ‘So now you really love me, don’t you.’ She moved close to him, put her arms round him in a very unmanly way, laid her head on his chest and sobbed.
At dawn, the guards on the Damascus gate let a party of three adults leave the city. Robed, in travel headgear, and carrying only three bags, the small group walked to the camp outside the walls, where the camel drivers were already fastening saddles to camel backs. Two litters were also buckled tight but they remained empty, at least for the first day. Both Dragonetz and Estela preferred to ride in the open, although each nagged the other at regular intervals, to take the enclosed option.
‘I’ll buy you more dresses,’ Dragonetz promised as Estela mourned all the new finery, abandoned in the palace of Jerusalem. She had been banned from returning there, both by Dragonetz and by Gilles, and she had accepted that their flight had to be secret, but she kept remembering one item after another.
‘My tortoise-shell comb,’ she said glumly. ‘After all those weeks in the same sweaty dress, with nothing, I could finally look like a girl again. And here I am stuck on a damned camel once more.’
‘Ladies don’t swear,’ Dragonetz told her.
Estela proved volubly that she was no lady and they continued to distract each other from what lay unsaid between them, but which weighed heavily on both.
At one point, Estela asked, ‘Sisters?’ and Dragonetz told her simply of the drug illusions, of bedding Yalda, of his discoveries about the girl he’d thought had died for him.
As if aligning two portraits of the same man, Estela matched what she learned against her memories of the man she’d fallen in love with in Narbonne. She remembered how hard he’d tried not to love her, fearing she’d get hurt, and she understood this better. She also matched what she was told against a third picture, the one de Rançon had painted as they travelled together. Some things fitted; some things didn’t. She shrugged off the discrepancies. De Rançon had misinterpreted what he saw, not knowing Muganni’s background and not knowing that Dragonetz had been drugged against his will.
How Dragonetz had treated de Rançon in the past and indeed how he was treating him now, remained a puzzle to Estela so she didn’t dwell on what she couldn’t interpret. There was enough to worry about. She had to maintain the correct dose of the drugs to get this man home, across weeks over desert and sea, and then she had to wean him off the poppy. None of the herbal lore she’d gleaned from her mother had prepared her for such a task.
When they set up camp at the end of the first day’s travel, the travellers could see the darkness swirling behind them and the sky above, starless black. ‘Sandstorm,’ confirmed the camel drivers. ‘I think we will outrun it but the way behind is closed for days.’
When Gilles caught a private moment with Dragonetz, he started with his apologies. ‘So you were played too,’ Dragonetz drawled. ‘De Rançon impressed you, didn’t he. So much more the right man for Estela than I am, don’t you think? Such a pity it turned out he was a treacherous bastard, working with that... pig.’
‘When are you going to tell her? About de Rançon? Or do you want me to?’ Gilles owed Dragonetz the choice, given his misjudgement of the man.
‘I can’t. Neither of us can. De Rançon barbed his hooks and if either of us tries to draw them out the poison will remain. If we speak against him, Estela will take his part all the more and any doubts he set in her mind about me will become certainties. She has seen him do nothing but behave in a courageous, loyal, chivalrous way.’
Grim-faced, Gilles acknowledged the truth of this.
‘With any luck, we’ve left him behind. And not just for a few days. If not, at least you can tell me the worst. What has been said about me?’
Hesitant at first, Gilles began the catalogue of petty spite, arrogance and dissolution which described Dragonetz, as seen through de Rançon’s clever inferences. Neither man took pleasure in the tale.
De Rançon directed soldiers into one house after another, enjoying the screams of the occupants at the invasion into their homes. The sound of smashing crockery and furniture was music to de Rançon’s ears. Someone would pay for this evening’s comedy of errors, he promised himself.
From the moment Yalda stuck a knife in her father, rendering him useless, all that careful work, months of planning, had been for nothing. It should have been so simple. He would have had Estela, to threaten and swop for the book. Dragonetz would have capitulated straight away and given the Torah to Bar Philipos, who could have dealt with the Jew and the book. The Syrian would have enjoyed dealing with the Jew, his hatred of the entire race being evident to anyone who knew him. In his imagination, de Rançon played the game as it should have been.
Instead, first the Syrian’s daughter, then that clod of a manservant had intervened - pieces which should never have been on the board - and the game-plan was wrecked. The book was vanishing out of his reach with the mealy-mouthed Jew while Dragonetz lay unconscious from drugs, protected by a woman, a small boy and a one-handed man. De Rançon was renowned - renowned, he reminded his imaginary listeners - for his skills as a knight and now the revenge he’d dreamed of was reduced to skewering an unconscious man, already dying of drugs. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Dragonetz would live long enough for de Rançon to make him suffer before he died. Instead, de Rançon chose to chase the book, while the trail was still hot.
One of Mélisende’s Guards rushed out a house to report, breathlessly, ‘My Lord, they’re hiding in the synagogue.’
‘Then get all your men and capture them!’ roared de Rançon.
The soldier hesitated, then, ‘Yes, my Lord.’
De Rançon had been right. Turning over the Jewish Quarter, men who knew their work had found Yerushalmi quickly enough. Within the hour, the Jew and Yalda were intimate with the instruments of torture maintained by Queen Mélisende for special guests at the palace. Men, who also knew their work, applied carefully judged degrees of pain and pressure, while de Rançon paced the passageways. The book had not been on the Jew when he was found with the woman, hiding by the altar - where no woman was allowed, de Rançon had pointed out to them. Yerushalmi said he’d passed on the book, that it was safer for someone else to take it Egypt. Yalda said she didn’t know who he’d given it to. Lies, de Rançon had thought. All lies.
But morning had come and the Queen’s torturer reported to de Rançon, with his apologies, that the woman had not known who the book had gone to, or had died without saying. The good news was that the Jew had given up a name before they put him out of his misery. De Rançon barely waited for the last syllable before he was off hunting in the Jewish Quarter once more, with the same result; a successful capture, but no book, and more work in the Queen’s torture-chamber, more pacing the passageways. Red-eyed and fuzzy-headed from lack of sleep, de Rançon walked another restless night before, finally, the report came to him.
When it did, he smacked his gauntlet across the man’s face in frustration but someone in his line of work would hardly flinch at a blow to the face and the Queen’s torturer merely repeated, ‘He gave it to someone else. That’s all he would say. We used everything.’
‘You should have kept him alive and started again!’
‘You wanted the information in a hurry.’ The man shrugged, explaining the obvious to a debutante. ‘Can’t do both. You should’ve said if you were willing to wait.’
Dropping with fatigue, de Rançon returned to his lodgings to sleep. He could order random raids on the Jewish quarter, and he could give instructions to search every Jew leaving the city for a book stolen from Queen Mélisende, but he knew the odds were against finding it. The Jews would wait till things had quietened down then the Torah would head for Egypt. As for his business with Dragonetz, that could surely wait, the state Dragonetz had been in when last seen.
By the time de Rançon knew he should have checked earlier, it was too late. He’d had no inkling that there was an escape plan, and Dragonetz had seemed too ill for any sudden action. De Rançon admitted it; he’d missed the move. When he realised Estela and Gilles were missing, he checked on Dragonetz and followed the trail to the Damascus Gate and a camel train en route for the coast. He’d almost laughed at the crazy daring of the plan. It was so much like something he would have done. He would have followed them on racing camel, or even horseback, had the sandstorm not made the final judgement on his chances of catching them. It was not to be.
All de Rançon could do now, was to consider the position in which he was left. He still had all his credibility with Estela and he would find a way to use that in the future. Bar Philipos had become a liability, and the timing of his death had raised de Rançon’s credit with Estela, at the same time as solving a problem. It wouldn’t do to have Queen Mélisende know how closely her loyal knight had worked with Nur ad-Din in Damascus.
On the other hand, the Queen was going to be very disappointed. She’d wanted the book, she’d wanted Dragonetz and she’d relied on de Rançon to deliver both. However, if word went out on the streets that thanks to their gracious ruler, a priceless Torah had been delivered to the Jewish citizens of Jerusalem and was on its way to Egypt for study, that would be received very favourably by the Jewish community, and might even be seen as a positive outcome by the Queen. De Rançon wrote the scenario in his head. Bar Philipos was the thief, intercepted and executed by the Queen’s man - de Rançon himself - who also trapped his partner, the daughter, and obtained her confessions to this crime. Then, at the Queen’s command, de Rançon had delivered the priceless book to its rightful owners.
The big problem was that large numbers of Jewish families had been raided by the Queen’s Guard. Then they must revisit the Jewish Quarter, with largesse and apologies, explaining that Bar Philipos and his daughter had been in league to steal the Queen’s book. De Rançon had tried nobly to prevent them, and had returned the book to the Jew who would carry it safely for study in Egypt.
Of course, this Jew’s name must remain secret to protect him, when he carried such a precious object, but he travelled with the blessing of Queen Mélisende. There were a few more details to be tidied up, monies and threats, in the required proportions, to the families of Yerushalmi and the other Jew who’d died under torture, but the story had enough of a ring to it to be spread as truth by those whose palms were greased well enough. Yes, he rather thought he could sell that version to the Queen and to the city. He sounded rather fine in it, there was no-one to contradict him, and it wasn’t so far from the truth.
As to the Queen wanting Dragonetz; she had made it clear when she sent de Rançon to Damascus that she wanted Dragonetz leading her armies or dead. Dragonetz would not be leading her armies but neither would he be leading anyone else’s, thanks to the good work of Bar Philipos. The poppy would most likely finish Dragonetz, but on the slim chance that it didn’t, de Rançon would be only too happy to take on the Queen’s alternative wish. In fact, if he’d killed Dragonetz in the dyeworks, the match would be over, without him having seen the man suffer. De Rançon had enjoyed the admiration he saw in Estela’s eyes. She still believed in him, and therefore believed in all he’d said about Dragonetz. She was hooked and all he had to do was reel her in, while Dragonetz watched, helpless. If he survived the poppy, of course. De Rançon was starting to hope that Dragonetz would survive.
So much potential in Estela. It would be a waste not to combine business with pleasure and he had unfinished business with the slut. Bar Philipos was right about women - sometimes useful and always disposable. De Rançon didn’t like unfinished business, or unsolved mysteries, and there had been something on the journey, something he’d meant to revisit... what was it again?
He retraced their ride in his imagination, till he came to the turn for Marselha. That was it! The chit had wanted to go right, towards Narbonne, and Gilles had known why. She was very emotional about it too. So there was something Narbonne-way that Estela was very attached to. He smiled. Attachments were useful. They could be used to hurt people.
Which reminded him. Another piece of unfinished business. And this time there would be no mistakes.
Muganni was singing as he skipped along the cobble-stones, the sort of song a boy sings to himself when all is right with his world. He’d finished his errands for Dragonetz the day before, luckily, as the pigeons would never have been able to take off in today’s sandstorm. He had followed instructions carefully, putting a duplicate of the same message in each of fifteen tiny leather pouches, buckled in turn to all fifteen pigeons ‘to make sure that at least one gets to the Khatun’.
He had held each one high above his head, cupped in both hands, feeling the plump breast and fragile heartbeat under the feathers and he had loosed them, to beat their noisy wingstroke away from the city and back to Damascus, where their keeper would feed them, care for them and take the messages to the Khatun. Whatever the Khatun knew, so would Salah ad-Din, and Muganni imagined them reading the message. He knew what the words said but they made no sense to him at all.
‘All as planned. My sword sleeps. Damascus chooses without me. Swordsmith, rose-grower and horse, please. Acre. Insha’Allah’ and there was a tiny dragon’s head as signature. There was no need for Dragonetz to worry if the message fell into the wrong hands, thought Muganni; the worry was whether it would be understood at all, even in the right hands. When they left Damascus they’d had twenty-four pigeons so Dragonetz must have sent some earlier. No doubt the combination of messages would make sense to someone. And the pigeons would be home.
As he’d set each one free, Muganni’s own heart had lightened, as if he were flying a little way with each one. Home. Free. His steps echoed on the cobbles as he skipped and sang. He’d been wrong in the Great Hall. This was the happiest day of his life. If the sandstorm hadn’t stopped him, he would have gone to the mountains today, but tomorrow would do. Tomorrow he would be back with his people. One day made no difference.
He didn’t see the man lurking in the shadows, nor have any forewarning of the knife that slit his throat from behind. As in the alleyways of most cities, people could turn blind and deaf, melt away into air, at a hint of trouble, and whoever might have been heading that way, found other streets to turn into when they saw the unmistakeable shape of one man holding another, followed by one figure collapsing to the ground.
Had there been a watcher, the witness would have heard the murderer say, ‘Sing now,’ as he kicked the corpse into the gutter and then bent to pick up something glittering that rolled out of the boy’s clothes. The city saw nothing and heard nothing; merely absorbed one more bloodstain into its stone streets.