This is the beginning of an AU story idea that has been rattling around my brain for some time. Basically, it's a chance for me to explore certain themes in the RH universe, while also attempting to write something with an actual plot, which is almost a first for me. Of course, the plot itself has been completely jossed by Series 3. *sigh*

I have been posting this fic elsewhere, and I want to thank my readers, especially Wenrom31, Ravenya03, Biancaneve and MissWed, whose encouraging comments have made it possible to keep writing this thing. Finally, a great big thank you to freelancerrh (or rebeldivaluv) whose excellent beta work has made this fic readable.

Prologue

The party had been traveling three long days and nights, and they were exhausted. They were far from home, and with little food or water between them, they were not sure how much longer they would last. Still, the end was nearly in sight. In another half-day, they would almost certainly be at their destination, where food awaited them and, if they were lucky, a place to sleep as well.

They were part of a caravan of French pilgrims, dusty travelers who had sought God and salvation through the Way of St. James and were now returning home. Godfroi de Gand rode at the head of the caravan. He was a Flanders wool merchant who had once hoped to serve God by becoming a knight and joining the Crusades, but now contented himself with leading pilgrims to Compostela and back. This particular group of travelers was the usual motley crew of minor nobles, merchants and peasants, and a strange young couple who had joined the caravan just as it was leaving Compostela.

It was clear to Godfroi that the two were not French, although they spoke the language passably well. He was also nearly certain they were not pilgrims. For one, they were far too young to be worried about their souls, and for another, he had never seen either one of them inside the many small churches the caravan had passed on its way north from Compostela. Finally, neither of them wore rings, meaning they were unwed, and young people who were not married rarely risked the wrath of the Church by going on a pilgrimage.

Godfroi watched them carefully now as they spoke quietly to one another in a language he could not quite understand. It sounded vaguely like Spanish, but more than that he could not guess. They made a striking pair, or would have if they were not so weary. The man, barely more than a boy, was tall and paler than most Spaniards, his clothes well-worn and travel-stained. He carried nothing except a leather satchel and tool belt, and he wore a forbidding expression that kept the other travelers in their company at bay. The woman, equally young, was small and pretty, and although her clothes were just as worn and stained as his, they gave the impression of wealth and breeding, as did the look of polite indifference that Godfroi had seen on the faces of so many young noblemen and women. At first, he had mistaken her expression for a friendly one, and perhaps it was, but he was soon rebuffed by her companion's manner.

Still, Godfroi had not become a successful merchant without some persistence, and he was curious enough to chance conversation. He slid out of the saddle and began to walk his horse in their direction. After a time, the woman gave him a nervous half-smile, clearly curious about his intentions.

"Horse needs to rest." He spoke in French, and the woman apparently understood, because she nodded. But she said no more, and it was a few minutes before Godfroi could think of something else to say.

"What part of Spain are you from? You're not from Compostela."

Again, the woman smiled, and this time, Godfroi noticed a pair of bright, intelligent eyes, apparently taking his measure. He shifted uncomfortably, but was put at ease when she spoke.

"No, not Compostela. From…somewhere farther south." Her French was heavily accented, but otherwise perfect, a clear sign to Godfroi that she was an educated woman.

"Your friend. He does not speak?"

She laughed. "He does. When he needs to."

"What's your name?"

She looked taken aback, and at first, Godfroi wondered if he had been impolite in asking. But then it struck him that she was taking too long to answer and he knew the name she gave would be a false one.

"Maria. My name is Maria."

"And his?" She seemed uncertain and looked to her companion for direction, but the man said nothing.

"He calls himself 'Spaniard.'"

At this, Godfroi laughed. "Yes, and I call myself Flemish, but it is not my name!"

She did not answer, instead casting her eyes down, letting him know the conversation was over. Godfroi sighed in frustration and then turned his attention to the man.

"So. Do you have a name, young man?"

For the first time, the man turned and looked at Godfroi, amusement clear in his bright green eyes. "Of course I have a name. Everyone does."

Godfroi chuckled. "Yes, that is true. But do you have a name you would like to tell me?"

Like the woman before him, the young man hesitated, but after a moment, he gave Godfroi an answer.

"Daniel."

Godfroi nodded. "Very well, Daniel. And Maria. We will be in Roncevaux two days from now. There is a church there where we can rest." He thought he saw the woman shiver in response, but decided she was simply tired. "Perhaps we will speak again soon."

Godfroi climbed back into the saddle and, nodding to both of them, he rode to the head of the caravan. He did not know it at the time, but the young man had given Godfroi his real name.

He was Daniyal ibn Al-Ahmar, he was a Saracen, and he was traveling to England to kill his father.

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"Ahmar" is the Arabic root word for the color "red" (I think). You do the math!