Talons of a King
IV: Dockside
To say she was sick of the boat ride would be a gross understatement. She suspected that she would avoid any and all ships for as long as she could manage after this voyage. Even her dogs were beginning to whine, looking up at her with pleading eyes that implored when they were going to be on solid land again. She thanked her lucky stars her father did not force her to marry a sailor.
She had not been attempting to keep track of the time that had passed, although she had been tempted more than once to ask Malik. Although she was certain he had noticed her impatience festering, he just saw no need to comment.
"Only a few more days, Sayyidaty," he informed her one cloudy afternoon. "Until then, perhaps you could attempt to socialize with your fiancé."
She scowled. "Must I?"
"Unless you want to marry him with only the opinion that he is an arrogant bastard, then, yes."
"What am I supposed to say?" she asked. "We have no common language."
Malik rolled his eyes. "And what am I, here to add on to the scenery?"
She gave him a wry smile. "Very well. I will attempt to not be difficult."
"I doubt that is possible," he scoffed, although she could tell he was teasing, in his own way. She grimaced, watching as he walked away to go fetch his king. And her betrothed. The thought still did not sit right with her. Not necessarily because of the man himself, but the entire affair did not seem right in her head. For years she had heard terrible stories about the Holy Land, about the atrocious things the Godless Muslim heathens did to good, just Christian soldiers.
And now her father expected her to marry one of their leaders, to become assimilated into a new land, culture and people and bear 'the enemy' sons. It all seemed so out of the blue, so very strange. Maria buried her fingers in Eira's thick white fur, her face knit in confusion as she attempted to find some double meaning to the situation.
"These beasts still makes me uneasy," Malik remarked as he strolled back over to her, the hooded man she was to wed following in silent observation. She found it a bit frustrating she had yet to even see his face.
"Why does he wear that hood?" she found herself inquiring, regarding him with narrow blue eyes.
Malik glanced back at him for a moment. "A force of habit. It is a … custom, in a way, and he deems it necessary whenever out in public."
"I see," she mused with a nod. "And you do not wear it, because …?"
"Because I do not want to," Malik replied with the simplest of shrugs. "Now then, enough needless prattle – let us down to business."
The awkward silence that followed his proclamation was inevitable, but nevertheless uncomfortable. Maria rocked back and forth on her heels, fiddling with her hands as she felt his eyes boring through her skin.
Malik let out an impatient groan. "I heard many tales of the small talk administered in the court of the English king."
She snorted. "I stopped going to court when I was fifteen."
Malik scowled. "You are not making this easier, Sayyidaty." Altaïr finally spoke up, crossing his arms across his chest, seeming to direct his comment to her. Malik replied with a raise of his eyebrow.
"What did he say?" she inquired, wondering if she even wanted to know.
"He says you act unusual for the daughter of a noble," he translated. "He said he finds it … refreshing, to use the word in which he described it."
A bizarre compliment. She supposed it was better than the senseless, empty flattery that she was assaulted with when she bothered with King John's court. She was grateful that she found the sense to put a stop to all of it early on, otherwise she would have been married off to a fat, old, ailing Lord at this point.
"Tell him I said thank you," she murmured.
"Chukran," Altaïr piped in. "Is 'thank you' … in Arabi." She tilted her head a bit at the sound of his flawed, labored English.
A small voice in the back of her head found his thick accent charming somehow, but it was quickly overruled by how ridiculous it sounded. "Ah … well, chukran, then."
He nodded without a word more.
"Well, it seems my lessons have not gone entirely to waste," Malik observed, his face seeming mildly impressed. "I am surprised Maliki even bothered to listen to me, as English tends to be his least favorite subject to discuss or learn."
She cocked an eyebrow. "And yet he decided to take an English wife."
"I have given up trying to understand him," he replied, dismissing the notion with a wave of his right hand. "Regardless, let us begin this conversation with something simple, and possibly entertaining. Tell us the story of your childhood."
She snorted. "It is not an interesting story."
"The way you have turned out, I should think not," Malik argued with a counter smirk. "I spoke to an Englishman once. He said their women were gentle, beautiful and elegant. So far, well–!"
"If your king wanted a fair flower, he seems to have chosen with the skill of a blind beggar," she interrupted, her mouth setting in a scowl. And this Englishman clearly had never been to the countryside. "I was raised not by father, but by my brother."
After Malik translated her sentence to his lord, he turned back to her, his eyebrow raised. She had piqued his interest. "Your brother? Your father spoke of no brother."
"Yes, Father likes to stray from such a wounding topic," she explained, avoiding the unnerving, dark brown gaze of the man. "Alistair saw no reason to bring me up with a woman's finesse, as he knew not how. When my father was too busy with royal affairs to deal with a daughter who did not know how to be a lady of the court, and my mother was … well, not around, Alistair took the matter into his own hands."
Malik's eyebrows rose. "That is … quite strange."
Maria shrugged. "Strange, yes, but I prefer it over the alternative."
She watched his mouth twitch as Malik relayed her past over to him, and she could have sworn she saw the faintest hint of a smirk. When he stopped talking, the king did not reply or react in any noticeable way.
"Brother … where he is?" Altaïr asked.
She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. "He died."
"My apologies, then, Sayyidaty," Malik said, bowing his head for a moment. "He sounded like a great man."
"He was," she agreed, attempting to suppress the many memories flooding to her mind of him. Alistair would not want her to act in such a way in an unknown land where she must be strong.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o
It had been nearing a month since John had demanded the woman's name, and he still received no answer. His patience was wearing thin. Why were his men such incompetent wretches that they could not even procure a name?
"Why have I not yet received my information?" he demanded to his council, glaring them all down. "I want that whore's name, damn you all!" He slammed his fist down on the arm of his throne as the men who swore their lives to him stood before him. It startled his wife sitting next to him, but he paid her no mind. A 15 year old child knew not of matters of state.
"Your Grace, my men are trying quite hard, but the Assassins pride themselves in subtlety," James murmured, lowering his eyes in apology.
"Are you trying to tell me that the full might of the crown cannot even find a low-bred whore's name? She is a traitor to her entire country – I want her hung for high treason!"
"A thousand apologies, Your Grace," many of them muttered under their breaths, the useless swine.
He buried his face in his hands. "Leave, all of you." They all bowed their heads and began to file out of the throne room. "Except you, William. You stay."
Ever unflinching, he turned around with his hands folded behind his back. "As you wish, My Lord."
"Isabella, wait for me in my chamber," he commanded of his wife, shooing her away with a gesture of his hand. She was a pretty little thing, with long, wavy auburn hair and big brown eyes. It stirred up a bit of trouble with King Philip II of France, but that would be dealt with at another time. She did as she was told and disappeared. She did not talk very much – which was a fine quality in a wife, in his opinion.
Once she was gone, he saw to the matters at hand. "Sir William, if I ask for your honest council, would you give it to me?"
"I have never given you my dishonest council, Your Grace," he replied. He enjoyed William for his calm demeanor in otherwise infuriating situations. Although, it was a bit frustrating deciphering the man's true feelings toward a given subject.
He nodded his head. "Then tell me your opinion on this entire situation. I know you are not the type to make your voice known in a group of people."
"I have my own suspicions, but …"
"Out with them, then!" he ordered. "I am your king, I will know of any and all suspicions."
He nodded. "Of course, Your Grace." He paused for a moment. "James Duvont's daughter Lillian … she has been away in France for quite some time, and I do believe she departed the day your boy Thomas spotted that Assassin ship."
What an accusation! But it seemed entirely plausible. And the facts added up. "So you accuse Duvont of conspiracy with the Assassins?"
He did not reply for many moments. "All I say is that the facts are rather curious. I do not presume to accuse my colleague."
"I admire the honor you have, but there is no nobility in shielding a traitor," he proclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I will take this into consideration. Be gone with you, William."
"Of course, sire," he answered, striding off out of the throne room, his footsteps echoing off of the stone walls.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o
Maria was sitting upon the edge of the bed in the small chamber designated to her on the ship, her dogs both asleep, her fingers folded in a tight lock. She cursed herself for bringing Alistair up. It was none of their business, why did she open her big mouth?
She thought of Alistair, her eyes clenching tight. She thought of the wide, playful smile behind his slight brown beard and his dark green eyes, reminiscent of the forest, the corners of which would crinkle when he laughed. She thought of his dark brown hair that fell in a curled mess on his head. The both of them looked like their mother. Neither of William Thorpe's children resembled him, although Alistair had his eyes.
God, he was so full of life. He had to become a father when he was 15 to his little five-year-old brat of a sister, when most boys that age were refining their skills with the blade and going off to war. He was teased for being so close to her by his friends, but he did not seem to care at all.
He taught her how to ride horses and hunt animals. He was the son of a prominent Lord, heir to land and wealth and a position as the king's advisor, but he somehow managed to remain humble. He, like her, did not like noble life, and much rather preferred keeping his mischievous sister out of trouble in the village, and having a pint of mead at the local pub.
He went off to the join the Crusade – unwillingly – when she was 12. He had placed a kiss on her forehead, winked, and promised her that he would be back before some unworthy bastard took her hand. He never returned. And, with the events transpiring, was unable to keep his promise. The only memento she had of him were the skills he taught her, the wisdom he passed on, and the memories.
Tears stung her eyes. She had to stop. She could not let them see her in such a state. A knock on her door alerted her to scrub any and all moisture from her eyes. She straightened her back and resolved to conduct herself with some shred of dignity.
"Come in," she called out.
Malik opened the door. "We have arrived, Sayyidaty."
She stood to her feet, walking out of the room to see a vast city on the horizon. A strange vermillion color engrossed the entirety of it as the ship grew closer and closer. The buildings were built in a way so different than in England. There was not a shred of forest in sight, either. "This … is Masyaf?"
"No," he replied, effectively ruining her awe. "This is Latakia, a port city we had to dock in – Masyaf is three days' ride from here."
"Oh," she muttered, pouting. "I see."
He threw his head back in a melodious laugh. "I do not mean to disappoint you, Sayyidaty. Unfortunately, Masyaf is not this big – nor is it this grand, but it has its own charms."
She did not even care at that point. All she wanted to do was step off the damn boat and stretch her legs.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o
A/N: Writer's block, writer's block everywhere. But nonetheless, it's here, and with no time to spare, haha. Junior year is killin' me, man. But your response is unexpected and awesome. Thank you. :)
Oh, and here's a fun little tidbit. The person I had in mind for Alistair is Kit Harington. Look him up, preferably with the scruff he got for his role in Game of Thrones. Addkd;l;ldsk;dl.
But, anyway, enough of my fangirling. I hope you enjoyed this installment, and will be as patient as before for the next!