Visits and Secrets

Bassam's house, Acre

May 1194

Djaq untucked the prayer scarf from behind her ears and folded it neatly, keeping her face turned to the east. The sun had risen a scant hour before, as she began her morning prayers. In the warmth of the early light and in the comfort of the familiar Arabic litany, she had felt the deep peace that had so often eluded her in Sherwood. This, of all things, was the one piece of her old life for which she had yearned for, and here, alone in her rooms in Bassam's house, she had found it. Only now she was not exactly alone.

In the other corner of the room, lying on his stomach and sprawled across most of the bed was Will, fast asleep. She walked over and gently sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. The sun had lightened his hair even as it had darkened his skin, making him look different, even to her. There were other changes in Will as well. In the two months since their wedding, he had acquired just enough Arabic to be able to speak to the servants and the travelers who sometimes came through Bassam's house. On one occasion, he had managed to surprise even Djaq by haggling in his broken Arabic with a cloth merchant in the market. She smiled at the memory, remembering Will's almost boyish happiness at his achievement, and feeling so pleased that he was somehow part of her old life renewed.

She reached out and ran a gentle hand through his hair. He mumbled something incoherent and then turned to face her, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"'S morning already?"

She laughed. "Oh yes. It's been morning for hours and hours."

He shielded his eyes and looked in the direction of the window that faced east. "Liar. Sun's too low."

"You are such a...what is the word? A slug!"

He laughed and reached out for her, running his hand up from her hip to her waist, his fingers moving in languid suggestion. She closed her eyes and sighed, leaning into his touch and enjoying the feeling of his warm fingers against the cool silk of her robe. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and into his arms. But instead, she swatted his hand away gently.

"It is time to get up, Will. I have things to do...the pigeons have to be fed, and I have other things to attend to." She got up with some reluctance and made her way to the door, clapping imperiously. An elderly woman was there in an instant, inclining her head in a polite show of respect to Djaq.

"Barkhat. Bring tea."

"Yes." The woman paused, casting a cold glance in Will's direction. "He should not still be here. He should be back in his own rooms."

Djaq sighed. Barkhat had been an old retainer of her own family, and she had somehow found her way to Bassam's house when news of Saffiyah's return had reached her. She was fiercely loyal, but also deeply distrustful of strangers, and especially foreign strangers.

"I know, Barkhat. But it is...not the way in their land."

"This is not their land."

"Just bring the tea."

Will was out of bed by then, half-dressed and regarding Djaq carefully. "She doesn't like me very much, does she?"

"She does not like anyone very much, Will."

"I should be going then..."

Djaq frowned. It had been difficult explaining to Will the Saracen tradition of allowing women to keep to their own rooms after marriage, and she suspected the habit of lingering in her bed every morning was actually his way of getting around it. Part of her, the part that still felt like an English rebel, was pleased by this and wanted to live as Will wished, as they might have lived in the forest. But this was not England, and she felt enough of a debt to Bassam that she was determined to uphold the customs of his house somehow.

She took Will's hand and gave him a reassuring smile. "No. You don't have to go. I do not want you to go...it is just the custom here."

"I know. It's just...strange, that's all."

She shrugged. "I suppose it must seem that way to you, but this is the way things have always been here." She bristled a little. "We do not find our ways so strange."

He laughed, only it was an odd and strangled sound, almost without mirth. "I suppose it's just another thing I have to get used to then."

Djaq sighed. She knew he did not intend it, but it sometimes felt as if Will were testing her. It was almost as if he needed to know that she would choose him over all else in Acre, and she found herself mildly irritated by this.

She let go of his hand. "It does not matter anyhow, because I really do have to go. Bassam will be waiting."

Will's eyes narrowed as he watched her. She could almost see the questions forming in his mind, but today, to her surprise, he chose not to ask them. Instead, he got to his feet and kissed her forehead gently.

"I do understand, you know. I'll go."

She nuzzled his shoulder and then gave him a quick peck. "Thank you." She held him close for a moment longer and then reluctantly let him go.

She watched his back as he left, knowing he would linger outside the door for a few moments before going on his way. She waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps and then sank heavily into her chair just as Barkhat returned with the tea.

She took a sip of the bitter brew and let her thoughts wander. She sighed again, this time so audibly that it even got Barkhat's attention.

"Are you alright, my lady?"

"Yes. Just tired."

The train of her thoughts always seemed to lead her back to Will somehow. She was worried for him. As well as he seemed to be adjusting to their new life, she could see how it wore on him sometimes. In England, even as an outlaw, he had a measure of freedom he would never have here, as a rank outsider, an Englishman born to neither wealth nor heritage. In public, he was treated with almost scrupulous politeness, but behind closed doors, they spat the word al-Franj at him and made thinly veiled suggestions of his English treachery. Bassam understood that Will was an easy target, and so he had placed him under all manner of restrictions, and though Will knew this was for his own safety, she could see how he chafed at the restraint, how lost he was now that he could not be his own man.

There were days when Djaq felt much the same way. Here, in her own land, surrounded by all that was familiar and certain, she often felt unaccountably lost and adrift herself, and this was in spite of the freedom allowed to her because of her high birth and her status as Bassam's ward. She was not idle, as Bassam had turned over the fairly large task of managing his household to her. She had plenty to occupy her time and her mind, but there was something missing, that grander sense of purpose that had colored so much of her life before.

It was this loss of purpose, this idea that their lives were meant for no more than just living, that really troubled her, and she suspected this was even more true for Will. In England, he had something to fight for, a cause that gave his life meaning. Without it, he was like a boat that had come free from its moorings, with nobody to steer him straight and nowhere to go. It had dawned on her only recently that he was her charge. She had to help Will find a new purpose here. With that thought had come a different sort of revelation...that somehow his purpose was tied to her own, and this was why Allah had put them together. She had to find Will something to do with his life.

"Barkhat?" The woman was almost instantly by Djaq's side, surprising her. "Do you know where the Lord Nasim's house is?"

Barkhat raised an eyebrow at Djaq, but then promptly lowered her head. "In Garden Street, I think."

"Good. Let us go pay him a visit now."

--000--

Outside Roncevaux, on the Spain-France border

March 1216

Daniel leaned against a tree, thankful for its shelter. The shade was welcome after nearly an entire day of walking, but it also hid him just enough that he could keep an eye on Ayesha without her being any the wiser.

He was not certain why he was suddenly so fascinated with her, but he suspected it had something to do with having finally seen her face. In Cordoba, he had asked her to dispense with her veils as a precaution, but when she had actually done it, he had been stunned. He had never seen any woman—save his own mother—without the protection of a veil. The sight of her uncovered face had left him awed and speechless, and indeed they had been almost to Villafranca before he had found his tongue again.

He watched her now as she fed Godfroi's horse some oats out of her hand, speaking to the animal softly in Spanish, her voice soft and lilting. She had fashioned her veils into some sort of headscarf, and a mass of dark curls spilled out and onto her shoulders. Her dress, rich and dark when she had first come to him, was now quite dirty, the hem all ragged from walking long distances on the bare ground. At the spot where she had torn away a long piece of the hem, he could just see a small patch of her ankle, and it left him oddly pleased. But it also disturbed himenough to turn away from the sight.

If there was one thing he did not desire, it was the distraction of a bare ankle or a suddenly revealed face, or even a dark pair of clever eyes. He shook his head, trying to shake off what he had seen, and walked over to her. If he was within speaking distance, it would keep his mind from wandering needlessly.

"You know how to ride?"

She looked up at him, surprised by his sudden proximity. "Yes, of course. My father kept some of the best horses in Al-Andalus." She gave him a sad smile. "But I was not allowed to ride once I became old enough to wear long dresses. It was not considered...seemly."

He nodded, but said no more, so she continued. "This horse, though...it's not one of those sort of horses. It's a war horse. A destrier I think they call it."

He motioned towards Godfroi, who was regaling a group of elderly women with the tales of his last pilgrimage. "You should ask him. He might let you ride it."

She shook her head and then became thoughtful. "He might let me. He's a kindly man."

"He's a fool."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "No. He's not a fool. He sees things. You should be careful around him."

He shrugged to hide his nervousness at her sudden admonition. "I have nothing to be careful about. No money, no reputation."

"You have your life. Is it not worth something to you?"

"You think that old man is a threat to my life?" He tried to keep the derision out of his voice, but failed. "Why should I fear him?"

She gave him a sharp look and then shook her head. "Do you know what place this is?"

He frowned. "Ibañeta. The French call it Roncevaux...after the pass in the mountains."

"Have you never heard of it before?"

"No, I..."

"More than four hundred years ago, the Franks were returning from a battle against the Moors in Spain. They were trapped here and vanquished. Later, they came back with reinforcements and brutally slaughtered all the Moors." She had a faraway look on her face, as if she were remembering something she had learned by rote as a child.

"They chopped the bodies of the enemy into small pieces and flung them in the river, condemning them to hell and damnation. This place...Roncevaux…they celebrate that slaughter. They build churches to commemorate it; they sing songs about it!"

"You have it wrong. The song celebrates a man, a soldier who was betrayed by a kinsman, but fought valiantly for his king before he died."

"I thought you had never heard of this place before."

He gave her a sharp look, irritated by the fact that she had trapped him in a lie. "I remembered it when you told the Saracen version of the story."

"The Saracen version?" She snorted derisively. "Is that not your version as well?"

"What?!"

She reached out and yanked hard at his shirt collar, forcing his shirt open and exposing the tiny tattoo on his chest. It was the number 786, and it would have been more familiar to Ayesha than even the writing of her own name.

"You fool! If you could not hide that you are a Muslim from me, a mere woman, how long will you be able to hide it from Godfroi? From the others?"

"I...I'm not..."

"Save it! You are a man with many secrets, Spaniard! A Muslim pretending to be a Christian. On a pilgrimage...in a place where they honor the men who killed Saracens in battle. You need to be careful. Because if you are not, even Allah may not be able to help you!"

--

A/N: Just a few quick notes. First, the term al-Franj was originally an Arabic corruption of "Franks" who made up the majority of the Crusaders. Ultimately, the word came to denote Crusaders generally. Whether it was ever used as an insult is beyond me, but plausible, IMO.

Second, the story Ayesha references is The Song of Roland, of course.

Finally, the number "786" represents the numerical value of a common Islamic invocation ("In the Name of Allah, the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful"). I've seen many Muslims use it as a sort of lucky number, charm or talisman. I'm not sure I've ever seen it as a tattoo, however.