IV.

"Tsenkher Ord," says Henry, turning the exotic words on his tongue. Leaning back heavily in his chair, he kicks off two mud-slung boots. He props both weary feet up on an armory chest and, consequentially, creases a map of the Holy Lands thad had been unfurled atop it. "TsenkherOrd…" he intones, then, "Osul Khan."

Henry of Almain is not a young man, though he is not quite old. True, this morning he had stiffly risen from field bedding, fished a looking glass from his saddle bag and pulled a few silver strands from an otherwise black beard. True, Henry had lost sight of foolish youthful aspirations and grown quite serious about his present status. Born the eldest son of an Earl, royalty traveled Henry's veins, though he was far from the throne. It was natural that Henry ally himself with a close cousin of higher birth. Which explains his current state: sitting barefoot in vast badlands before the Byzantine City of God, picking dried Mongol horse shit from his tunic.

Leaning forward, Henry studies their position on the map more closely: There, scrawled on the beaten edge beyond Constantinople, are the words: ALTAN ORD. Finally, it clicks in Henry's mind— that is former Golden Horde territory, captured by Genghis Khan himself hundreds of years ago.

"So, altan means 'golden'," Henry says aloud to himself, "and then I suppose ord is cognate for 'horde'." But, that still doesn't give me tsenkher…. Straightening his posture, Henry collects the facts: That camp they raided a half-moon ago was undoubtedly Mongol, a splintered tribe of the Golden Horde, ruled by some half-wit kinsman. Yet, they were many. At least a thousand strong in one area. His scouts had even reported other Mongol camps a few leagues off. Are Mongolian tribes again uniting as they did before? And if they are, what does this mean for his cousin's crusade on Jerusalem and Palestine? Would their route home be severed by the enraged degenerates of Genghis Khan?

Henry raps his knuckles over Jerusalem, the sound hollow, thinly regretting his decision to raid that camp. Ah, and what of his blue-eyed changeling? That feminine boy full of a man's rage. Thrice he had slipped his guards—seasoned knights mind you— and tried running off into hostile Turkic land. The first time he was caught, William de Valence bound him with livery straps and made him bray like a horse. The second time, John de Warenne lashed him with a leather crop until his pale skin was striped with color. The third time, Henry of Almain chained him to a wagon wheel and whipped his companion until he bled. The boy never slipped his guards again.

"Bloody hermaphroditic child demon of the steppes," mutters Henry.

It is no matter, anyway. Tomorrow, they would reach Constantinople. He would promptly send out a man to sell the boys at flesh markets of the Grand Bazaar. His legion would join Edward's and together, they would exact Divine retribution on the Mamluks and their blaspheming Prophet. Then, at long last, they would return victorious to England and crown Edward High King.

Grinning, Henry reaches for a carafe of wine and sloppily pours himself a serving. Red wine distends beneath his goblet, staining a good portion of Palestine. "My cup runneth over," he chuckles.

—-

Hagia Sophia's grand dome governs the zenith of this city's seven hills, her golden cross brilliant in the setting sun. Beyond, turquoise Myanmar waters stretch toward the Orient. From the south, African winds bring rare heavy rains. From the north, arctic winds carry down from the Land of Czars. At the confluence of two continents, small frigates sail into the mouth of the Bosphorus and disappear behind rugged coastline.

Constantinople, City at the center of the world. Conquered by Rome. A Christian stronghold at the enemy gates of Islam.

Henry's army parades through the city's famed Sultanahmet district. Knights and lesser conscripts march in proud arrowhead formation, the excitement of arrival a balm for their fatigue. Osul and Petar trudge beneath the shadow of their guard, bone-tired and terrified by an uncertain destiny. Still mystified by their purpose here, Osul keeps close to Petar's side and concentrates on remembering their route through this labyrinthine city.

All around them, native men, women and children whoop and cheer. Seeking better vantage, some climb atop taut burlap roofs of merchant caravans. Others lean over high balustrades. Seeming scores of people swarm from the Grand Bazaar, one man's turbaned head piled high with patterned scarfs, another laden with large sacks of saffron. Still others wind through the English ranks, trying to sell small painted cards with depictions of Saint Paul, the Virgin Mother, the Crucifixion. Rosaries! Beautiful rosaries!

After a grueling uphill march over ankle-breaking cobblestones, Henry's army reaches the outer walls of Byzantium's Ecumenical Patriarch. Passing through high-spired gates, Henry's army collectively looks up—up— at towering Hagia Sophia, her face Heavenly in sunlight. Awed by its sheer magnitude, Osul realizes she has never seen a true engineering wonder; even Kalemegdon fortress of Beograd would sit dwarfed at this basilica's feet. Osul is mesmerized by Hagia Sophia's beauty: the perfect masonry of multi-elevated gables and archways, the radiant colors of colossal leaded glass windows, and that dome throwing golden light back to God. She now knows why a man might, in repose, sigh and refer to his city as 'she'. For woman is man's only natural measure of beauty.

A call files down rank and Henry's army draws to a halt before two massive cedar doors. Dust drifts up in holy silence. There is a brief pause before a herald steps forward: "My Lord, Henry of Almain, son of Richard, first Earl of Cornwall, humbly awaits the invitation of his Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales."

With a loud creak!, one cedar door opens wide enough for a man to slip through. It is another herald: "My Lord Edward, Prince of Wales, imminent King of Eng—" But, the herald is interrupted by a loud din: Cedar doors scrape wide across hollow brick. In the shadowed threshold is another legion of iron knights, their crossed pennons starkly white and red. Then, their stiff attention is broken and the front rank parts to reveal an exceedingly tall man, sporting a mane of golden ringlets. Quite hastily, every other man gathered drops to one knee. He pushes past his herald and strides regally on legs like two beech trees across the courtyard. Once standing before a kneeling Sir Henry and Sir John, the tall man beckons them to their feet. With a deep laugh, he warmly embraces Henry of Almain, then John de Warenne, a smile chiseled from very stern features.

So they know each other, reasons Osul. Is this giant golden-haired man the Khan of England? He must be for two such legions to prostrate themselves before him. This is the man responsible, thinks Osul. A sudden rage gales through her body and brings with it an glacial clarity. Actions are placed before her like stepping stones across the shallows of a river. Void but for naked vengeance, Osul batters into her guard, knocking him off balance, and quickly draws the Falchion blade from its scabbard at his hip.

Proffering the lightweight steel, she swings wildly and slices a wide gash from the soldier's temple to chin. Another advances, but Osul swings hard, hooking the flesh just above his collar, and yanks the pulse from his neck. Blood ribbons across her face like a baptism. Silently, she thanks the heat for causing many soldiers to remove their helmets. Then, the whole army seems to collapse like a net around her. Yet, Osul drops down and propels herself through a forest of legs. Ducking two more soldiers, Osul sees her path clear and breaks a full charge toward the Prince of Wales. Madly, she thrusts forth, the last rays of sunlight knocking like sparks from her blade— but its trajectory is blocked! Henry himself has parried her blow. He quickly disarms her and two others jump to aid in restraint; her arms are wrenched painfully behind, head shoved forward. Osul is forced to lay supine, cheek scraped against warm white brick.

"And who is this young pup?" asks Edward, attempting to mask the strange terror of near assassination by the hand of child.

"Bi bol Osul Khan!" she howls. Her vision is overwhelmed by a pair of dusty boots, so it is at these boots that she directs her rage, "Khökh Ordyn ni!"

"My Lord, I beg your pardon," demurs Henry, "We razed a camp of nomads west of the Danube and recovered gold and livestock, beautifully bred Mongolian horses—"

"And child slaves, I take it," supplies Edward. Curiously, he gestures for Sir John to unhand him. Wearily, the boy rises to his knees. To Osul, the shame of this position is getting very old.

"We believe this one to be a Mongol prince. He'd fetch high bids at market and stock your war treasury with Arab gold. A fortuitous thing. Don't you think, my Lord?"

"A prince, you say…." Edward regards this boy on his knees. Though he is beaten, bloodied, half-starved and promised a life of slavery, still he holds his head high, blue eyes lashing Edward with the fury of spring rain.

"Many hardships," says Edward and Osul is astounded to find that she understands him. "Much blood. I offer peace to you."

She realizes that he is speaking in broken Persian, tone clumsy and vowels unstressed.

Osul nods slowly, grateful for Perun's brief flirtation with a Persian merchant's daughter. She remembers her brother pacing their family yurt one night, puffing resolutely at his ivory pipe. He exhaled the word 'Asheghetam' and it became the night's maddening refrain.

Which Rumi couplet are you trying to quote her? asked Lech, attempting to train the quiver of suppressed laughter from his voice. But, this only made Osul and Toqta erupt in loud guffaws.

Perun quelled his pace, eyes glassed, smiling a half-moon: Asheghetam means simply, "I love you".

"Shomâ pârsi sohbat mekunid?"

Edward's voice shatters the brief interlude of memory. She should laugh, though: an English prince speaking Persian to a Mongolian girl before a Roman altar. It would be comical if not for the gravity of her present situation.

"Yes, I understand," she replies in her own rudimentary Persian, "Are you Khan of England?"

Surprised, Edward cocks his head. "Ah, Khan! You mean King. Am I King of England?"

Osul nods.

"Soon, my son," says Edward, smiling, "After good war, I am Khan."

This man is not then responsible for the murder of my kin, Osul summates. Henry of Almain was acting under the command of some other far-off demon king.

"Sire," Henry breaks in, "I hate to distract your interest. But, we have many important things to discuss and this boy must be shown at market."

Edward frowns, eyes betraying a very complex thought. "You will not sell him."

Henry's thick brow shoots up before he remembers himself. "Of course, My Lord. What do you wish I do with him?"

"I will welcome him into the House of Plantagenet. He will be a squire in the Royal Army. No doubt he was bred to sit atop a horse. Such long legs."

Osul wakes to Petar's screams. The sky dark and their campfire down to coals, she sees only a shadow stretched over Petar like a great wolf.

"Let go of me!" Petar shouts, thumping his fists against the attacker.

Osul pounces on the man, but another shadow appears pulls her off. He digs a knee into between her shoulder blades, bearing down with all his weight. Osul screams.

"God knows what my Prince sees in you, heathen!" growls John de Warenne, "Be thankful that you are spared."

Osul struggles wildly beneath Sir John's squire, but he is broad, exhibiting a grown man's strength. Sir John grabs a tuft of Petar's hair and drags him from his blankets.

"Petar!"

"Osul Khan!"

His limited patience departed, John de Warenne binds Petar's hands in rope and pushes him forward.

"Careful with him," says Sir John to the young man sitting atop Osul. Then, he turns and disappears her last and only friend into the night.

"Petar. Oh, Petar," she cries, "I will find you."

—-

"My Lord!" booms the Earl of Surrey, "The Mongol has killed my squire!"

Sir John stalks the golden aisles of the sultan's library. Below, resident monks recite droning mantras that resonate from the marble floor, ambient in all the basilica's vast empty rooms. At the far end of the library, before a great stained glass window, Edward stands looking out over the Myanmar. He supports his lean frame with an elbow crooked on the wings of an ornate chair.

"Then you had a bad squire," replies Edward.

"I demand the Mongol's blood!"

"Selim!" booms Edward.

A frail eastern man hobbles into view.

"Bring me the young Mongol captive."

Selim nods and quickly turns to do his master's bidding.

Edward turns to Sir John, "Remember, old friend, bad men have good slaves and good men, bad slaves. That's Herodotus."

"My Lord, I do not pretend to know your mind. But, there is already aplenty English blood on that boy's hands. He deserves the axe."

"Yes, I suppose you are right," considers Edward, "but, I have glimpsed a great man's soul in that boy's eyes. That is why you will teach him to serve me, to strive after knighthood, to honor England as his country and Christ Jesus as his God."

Sir John bristles, "I will not permit that devil to lick my horse's hoof, let alone shod it."

"You forget your place," says Edward, "Your prince has given you an order. Land and status generously bestowed by my father, your King, can easily be taken away."

Bowing low, John says, "A thousand apologies, your Highness."

Edward sniffs, taking some pleasure in his groveling. "Arise, John. You are forgiven."

"Thank you, My Lord."

"Perhaps it would help you to know my mind, as you said. In my studies, I have come across a Roman strategy for conquering… problematic tribes. In the year of our Lord, 415, a child of the Hun was taken as hostage by the Imperial Court of Western Rome. He was taken here, to Constantinople. After five years, the boy was released to his people, a peace treaty secured. The idea behind this was to educate a heathen child in Roman ways— he would learn the language, customs, and military— then return to govern his people with Roman sympathies. A quiet conquering.

You see, Sir John, the Mongols have been a very serious threat by virtue of Genghis Khan— a brilliant leader, I must admit. Since his Reign of Terror, the Horde has dissipated but certainly not disappeared. They are divided into two main tribes, Blue of the West and White of the East. Do you follow?"

Sir John nods, though in no mood to be lectured.

"The White Horde is currently led by Berke Khan. We had hoped the Mongols would turn to the Christian faith. Ten years ago, however, Berke Khan converted to Islam. Can you imagine how devastating it would be to our Cause if the Mongols were to unite, not only with their own splintered tribes, but with the Islamic plight?"

Sir John swears an oath. Yet, he catches that sly smile on Edward's face. After so many years at the Prince's side, John knows that smile to mean a scheme in the works.

"All is not lost, brother," prefaces Edward,"Recall the battle of Ain Jalout in 1260? The Mamluks rallied and ousted the Mongols from Palestine. You see, the Mongols and armies of Christendom have a common enemy: Baibars, King of the Mamluks!"

"Forgive me, Lord, does this mean you wish to make overtures to the White Horde?"

Edward nods, "To the White and the Blue. Let us ally them for our own purpose. And this is where our young Mongol hostage becomes important. He will be our envoy. He will be our future, our way to defeat Baibars and take back the Holy Lands."

"I am not sure I understand, my Lord," says John, "you mentioned Rome and their hostage— but, the Huns utterly destroyed Rome at Constantinople."

"Ah, yes," Edward replies, a bit sheepish, "that is because the hostage they took happened to be none other than Attila. I am hoping for better luck with ours."

At that, Selim reappears, bearing the irate subject of their digression.

"My Lord," says Selim, bowing. Having heard of this boy's violent ways, Selim cautiously ushers him toward his master.

"Come," says Edward in his thick Persian.

Osul paces terrified in Selim's wake, sure that she had been summoned for execution. Somehow, she manages to keep herself from shaking. Never let your enemy see your fear, said her father. She did not mean to kill Sir John's squire. When his Master left with Petar, he got rough with Osul and, upon ripping her caftan, discovered her body to be that of a girl's. Spurned and enraged by this, he sought to impart a lasting reminder of her sex. Before he could lift her hem, however, Osul managed to reach his knife. She plunged it deep into his throat to the hilt. Selim found her chained to a pillar in the courtyard, painted in russet stains, three soldiers at her guard. Selim quickly acquired a smock and led her to the marble pools of Hagia Sophia's well. He scrubbed her face, neck, arms and hands until her skin was pink.

"An English tunic suits you," says Edward, "as does a bath."

Osul sneers, interpreting his words as harsh even though she cannot understand them.

"A squire shall kneel before his Prince," says Edward, placing two hands on Osul's shoulders and forcing her down. "You have much to atone for: First, you attack Sir John. Then, you threaten my life and wound my soldiers. Now, I hear you've killed Sir John's squire. Tell me, why should I spare your life?"

Osul remains silent.

Edward boxes her ear, but Osul does not cry out.

"Blood!" he swears in Persian.

"Blood," she echoes. She resigns to bare any humiliation, for she knows she must keep alive for Petar's sake. But, she will refuse to make apologies. They spurned her to it. They murdered her kin, so she will murder theirs.

"Honor Sir John as squire," commands the prince, "and someday you may be a Knight in turn."

Pain streaks through Osul's crystalline eyes as understanding comes.

"Or, death," says Edward.

Faced with this ultimatum, Osul grits her teeth and demurs before the Englishmen.

"Good," says Edward in English, "By my rightful honor as Edward, Prince of Wales, I swear you to Sir John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey. Ah, but do you have a name, Mongol prince?"

She does not offer her name: Osul Khan will not serve a foreign master who slaughtered her kinsmen.

"No matter," sighs Edward, "I will give you a new name. What shall we call him, Sir John?"

"How about Bruner the Black," John offers, laughing.

"Ah, yes. Knight to mythic King Arthur himself. He who wore the ill-fitting coat of his murdered father. Tell me, what is the word for 'black' in your language?"

Osul's eyes dart between the two men.

"I remember now," says Edward, "the word is 'khar'. A fitting name. From now on, you will be known as Khar of Sultanahmet, for this is the district where you are reborn an Englishman."

John laughs heartily, threads of spittle flying into his russet beard.

"Say it with me," says Edward, placing his hand beneath Osul's chin. How smooth his skin, thinks Edward, like a river stone or white birch. "I am Prince Edward of Wales."

"Prince Edward of Wales," repeats Osul, her accent dressing his name in peregrine tones.

"You," he says, shaking her chin, "are Khar of Sultanahmet."

"Khar of Sultanahmet." She tastes the words and nearly retches.

It will be many years before Osul ever hears her true name again.