Hi readers, here's chapter nine, just for you! Thanks again to all my reviewers and those that have placed this story on favourites/alerts.
Chapter Nine: Khalid
Looking back now, she realised that it had been her last day of peace. Regardless of the news of war that filtered throughout the house every hour, spoken in heavy tones by her father and his guests, and then whispered among the servants, it had always seemed that no Christian marauder could ever cross the threshold of her home.
Except for Thomas of course, but he hardly counted. He was back to full-strength now, pacing restlessly around the surgical room and impatiently counting down the days till her uncle's departure. She felt a wave of irritation when she saw it. Did he have to act quite so eager to abandon her here? The last time she had felt like this, she'd been a little girl, forced to release the fledging bird that she'd found fallen from the nest and who she'd nursed over a period of weeks. She'd wanted to keep the tiny creature, but her father had pointed out that birds weren't meant to be kept in cages – not forever, anyway. Now she recognised the same mournful sense of loss that she'd felt when the tiny bird had taken wing for the first time – and the loneliness that came when a dependant patient no longer needed her care. Once Thomas left, a piece of her freedom would go with it, for she knew her days as Djaq were coming to an end. She had overheard her parents' conversations, seen the resignation in her father's eyes and the blend of sadness and delight in her mother's. The time was drawing swiftly upon her.
It was inevitable, she supposed. Certainly she was old enough. But as she watched Thomas try on her brother's clothes and smear sweet-smelling dye over his hands, exclaiming like a child over the effect it had on darkening his skin, she felt herself envious at his escape – from the war, from his duties, from this place – from everything.
"Only two more days," he told her, his eyes closing in rapture. In spite of herself, she smiled at his expression.
"Do you remember your story?" she asked him.
"Oh yes – I was an apprentice in this house, but found that the life of a physician wasn't the life for me. Now I'm travelling to Acre with a merchant caravan, but the horrors that I witnessed here mean that I don't like to do a lot of talking. Oh, that reminds me – shouldn't I have a name?"
She blinked.
"You do have a name."
"No," he laughed. "I mean a Saracen name. Just so your uncle knows what to call me."
"Khalid," she blurted without thinking, and instantly regretted it. Why that name? she scolded herself. But it was too late to take it back now – Thomas was testing it out on his tongue with a smile on his face.
"Khalid," he said. "Khalid. Hello Djaq, my name is Khalid." She jumped in fright at his impersonation of a Saracen nobleman. Thomas was a natural mimic, almost as good as her brother, and right now – with his Eastern clothes and darkened skin and solid grasp of Arabic – a person would be hard pressed to identify him for who he truly was. Now, by deepening his voice and drawing himself up to his full height, even she felt vaguely intimidated by his disguise. She forced a smile, and moved forward to straighten the turban on his head, brushing his hair under it as she did so.
"Er, thanks," he said, a little awkwardly, and she froze with embarrassment at the realisation that her actions had been decidedly feminine. She stepped back, trying to appear casual, annoyed at herself for her carelessness.
"I will tell my father that you are to be addressed as Khalid from now on," she said. "He'll make sure my uncle gets word."
Thomas nodded, reassured.
"Turn around," she ordered. "Let me see you."
Obediently, the newly-made Khalid revolved on the spot, and she cast her eye up and down his body. He wore her brother's trousers and coat, a turban was wrapped around his dark brown hair, and his skin was now a dark brown hue thanks to the dye. But –
"Wait!" she told him once he had his back to her. "The back of your neck!"
Thomas had forgotten to smear the dye on this tell-tale area, leaving Khalid with a neck that looked as white as the moon compared to the rest of his tanned body. After pointing out his mistake she left him as he vigorously rubbed the sticky substance into the exposed area. A vague chill of foreboding had come over her…that odd blend of the familiar name and the alien whiteness of that neck…
She hurried up to her room, wincing at the sound of what sounded like another argument between Djaq and her father in the living quarters, and shed her boy's clothes to once again took up her skirt and veils. Her slip-up over Thomas's turban had shaken her, having fallen into a mothering air without being conscious of it. But as she strode out the front door of her house, beckoning a household servant to follow, she remembered that it wouldn't matter. He would be gone soon, as would her persona as Djaq. Gone forever, she pondered sadly, her feet dragging in the dust. As she always did in such times, she was headed for Bassam's house, just a few streets away from her own home, to slip into the peace and coolness of the aviary. Here, finally, she was at peace.
Behind her, she heard her servant take his usual seat by the door, and from the adjoining room, Bassam pottering about and muttering to himself. She decided not to call out to him – ever since she was a little girl she'd had the run of Bassam's house, from the pigeon alcoves, to the fountain in the large hall; from the kitchens were she would beg for treats as a child, to the spacious courtyards outside.
She wandered about the large room, listening to the familiar sounds: the soft gush of the fountain, the shuffle of the birds, the muted sound of the streets outside. Bassam had lined up the messenger pigeons that needed to be sent that day, each with the tiny scrolls fastened to the rings around their legs. It would seem odd to many that simple-minded Bassam would be entrusted with the care of birds that could carry anything from love tokens to a faraway spouse to coded military orders to a war general, but the elderly man was perfectly capable of following instructions and – more importantly – had no interest in whatever information needed to be sent. His only concern was for the birds themselves. Despite his affectionate grumbling, he could tell each bird apart, and had given each one a name. Safiyah had always been touched by his devotion to them, long before her father explained to her the importance of the task that a pigeon handler held.
As she glanced over at the pigeons, rustling in anticipation for their flight back to their mates, she heard Bassam approach, his steps shuffling across the stucco floor.
"Hello Safiyah," he said, and she smiled in return. Since the night Thomas had come into her life, Bassam had been the only other person privy to her secret education in the field of medicines. Sometimes she suspected her mother knew also – but Fatima pointedly ignored the reality of the situation, whereas Bassam liked to wear a secretive expression whenever she visited his house. It left her mildly exasperated, but she trusted him. Bassam had known her since she was an infant, doting on her through her entire childhood, and now into her early adulthood.
He nodded toward the row of pigeons, shifting impatiently by the window in their separate cages, as though they knew that freedom was almost upon them.
"Would you like to do it this time?" he asked.
She smiled blissfully, and moved forward to the first of the pigeon boxes. It was a strange little game that she'd made up as a child, one that had gone from an abstract imagining to a fully-fledged ritual: she carefully took the first pigeon from its box, holding its wings down gently but firmly, and carried it over to the open window. Closing her eyes, she pretended that all her father's teaching was flowing from her own mind into the bird, emptying her mind of everything she knew about medicine, surgery and human anatomy. Then, with a flourish, she thrust the bird into the air, listening to the loud clatter of wings as it took off. With it went the part of herself that belonged to her father, thrown out into the vast open sky. The second pigeon took with it all the fencing and parrying that her brother had been teaching her for almost ten years, and the third took the sly looks and graceful gestures and submissive curtsies that her mother had instilled in her from a very young age. The pigeons took with them all the abilities that had been imposed upon her by her family – she had asked for none of it, and the silly ritual eased her mind – momentarily freeing her from all her familial responsibilities and granting her some respite.
According to Safiyah, Bassam possessed the ideal lifestyle. By caring for the pigeons, he lived a life of importance and respect without the sight of blood or gore or the screams of the dying, without the idiocy of flirting or coyness or the need to please a man by concentrating on every little action and speech and glance. Here, more than anywhere else on earth, she was free to simply be herself.
The problem was, she didn't know exactly who that was. The rest of her life was so full of her family's need of her, that moments without their constant demands on her time and attention were rare. In Bassam's house she was free, but also strangely listless and uneasy – adrift in a life without a purpose. As she watched the rest of the birds take to the sky, she found herself pondering the fact that she had no grasp whatsoever on who she was – only what she was to others.
Long ago she had explained her pigeon-game to Bassam, knowing that he would understand. It had been his words that had inspired her to begin the activity in the first place, after he'd told her that in their mastery of flight, only birds would ever know true freedom. In his mind, flight and freedom were the same thing, and tending these birds brought him closer to both. His words had seemed so profound when she was young, no doubt sounding grand and awe-inspiring to a nine-year old, but of late they felt hollow. If by the grace of Allah mankind was granted the gift of flight, there would be no freedom – just another war over possession of the skies. Grumpy at herself for being so thoroughly pessimistic – why couldn't she be perpetually cheerful and carefree like her brother? - Safiyah settled on the divan next to the window and gazed up into the grey sky. She didn't look down when she felt someone sit beside her – she already knew who it was.
"So what were you fighting about this time?" she asked Djaq.
He shrugged, so she answered the question for him.
"War. What else?"
"He doesn't want me fighting."
"Of course not. He's your father. And you're too young."
"No I'm not!" he cried, startling some of the pigeons. He instantly lowered his voice and glanced around guiltily. "Well I'm not. Every day the invaders are pushing their boundaries – pushing closer to this city, to our home – and he just expects me to sit there and do nothing."
"He doesn't want you in danger."
Djaq scoffed. "Danger? From those infidels? We're superior in numbers, intelligence and prowess. There's no danger in fighting such inferior beings."
Secretly quailing at the scorn she heard in his voice, and the anger that would emerge should he learn that such an 'inferior being' had lodging in his very house, she drew her knees up to her chin.
"If we're so superior to them, we should find a better way than fighting to rid ourselves of their presence."
"You sound like father."
"One of his children should."
Djaq was silent, a little stung. Moments passed, and the twins gazed out at the sky together. Djaq seemed to want to say something more – he kept taking a breath as if to speak, but then exhaling again. Safiyah waited patiently.
"Do you think Bassam will lend me a pigeon?" he said finally.
Safiyah stifled a snort. "Who is she this time?"
Djaq looked at her seriously.
"The girl I'm going to marry."
It was a gift her brother had, that along with stirring up laughter and frustration in her like nobody else could, he possessed the ability to occasionally render her truly speechless with his absurdity.
For several moments she struggled to decide whether he was serious, or whether this was the setup to another elaborate joke. Certainly he looked earnest enough, and she was the only one who could recognise the difference between Djaq's true sincerity and the wide-eyed innocence that he plastered across his face after doing something particularly mischievous, but – marriage? Not Djaq – not the boy who fell madly in love with a different girl each week. It had to be some sort of game, but there he sat, staring at her intently and in perfect seriousness, but with a gleam in his eyes that reminded her suddenly of Thomas expression as he expressed his joy at returning home. Freedom – the random word blossomed unexpectedly in her mind, but she cast it away with the shake of her head.
Well, there was only thing for it. As had always been her way, ever since they were children, Safiyah swiftly adapted her attitude and demeanour to oppose his. When he was serious, she felt it was her duty to be silly, and now she felt her teasing smile blossom across her face.
"Marriage?" she asked, her eyebrows raised. "Have you been wandering about in the desert without a hat?"
"No," he said simply. "I'm really going to marry this one. I'm in love, now and forever."
Again she scoffed, trying to force from him a smile or a wink, or something that would tell her that he was only joking. But there he sat, watching her steadily. She sighed and decided to indulge him.
"Well, who is she then?"
"She's kind and clever…and she has beautiful eyes. She moves like a dancer. And she's not like the other girls either – she doesn't gossip or giggle or anything like that."
"You don't even know her name, do you."
"Well, not yet – but what difference does that make? I'm in love with her. And when I get back, I'm going to marry her."
Safiyah's mind whirled upon a thousand questions, but finally her mouth managed to blurt one out.
"How can you possibly be in love with her?"
"I don't know. I just am."
"You decide to love this woman even though you barely know her?" she demanded.
He laughed suddenly.
"Ah Saffy," he said in that irritating know-it-all tone. "My clever sister who knows nothing about love. It's good to know I will always surpass you in at least one subject."
She glared at him. Once again, his mind was so full of his own dreams and fancies that he was completely missing the point.
"I have more important things to do with my time than try and find someone to love."
"Sister dear," he told her, reaching forward to tweak her nose (a gesture she hated, which was probably why he was always doing it). "You don't find someone to love. You don't decide or choose! It just happens."
She shook her heard, her logical mind finding the whole subject incomprehensible, not to mention vaguely terrifying.
"One day you'll understand," he told her patronisingly. "One day you'll fall in love, and you'll remember this day and think – 'my stupid, foolish brother was right.'"
For the briefest of seconds, she wanted it. She wanted to fall in love as easily and as completely as her brother seemed to do, to feel like he often looked: dreamy-eyed, short of breath, full of rapture and exhilaration. For just one moment, she would have pounced at the chance to own it, no matter the consequences. And then the moment passed, and with a strange blend of relief and sadness, she settled back into herself again. She'd never know Djaq's kind of love. For her, love would have to be like that of all other women of her class: quiet, comfortable, dutiful. Her mother had assured her from an early age that one day she would wake up and find herself loving the man sleeping beside her, simply because she'd have no choice – time and familiarity would have done its task. It was a safer kind of love than Djaq's, and besides, declarations of love were for a man to make. She was as much gagged on the subject of her ability to love as she was on the other traits within herself that Bassam's pigeons had taken with them into the sky.
For a while she simply looked at her brother's face wistfully, then leaned forward and touched his knee gently.
"If I was going to fall in love, don't you think I would have done it by now?"
His smile faded, the light left his eyes, and he gazed at her solemnly.
"Sorry. I forgot."
She sighed. So often it seemed that there was no room for anything in Djaq's head but his own joy and grief. But then, that was simply Djaq's way, she thought, as she rearranged herself on the divan so that her head was on his shoulder. She'd chastised him enough for one lifetime, and they were getting older now...soon it would have to stop. Right now she just wanted to rest in the peacefulness of Bassam's house…yet there was something Djaq had said that troubled her…only she couldn't quite remember…something he was going to do…
Her eyes drooped sleepily. She'd think of it soon…
She sat up with a jolt and a small gasp. She'd fallen asleep, Djaq was gone, and the shadows of the aviary had deepened considerably. Her brother's words that had been niggling in her mind as she'd drifted asleep suddenly rose up clearly: "When I get back, I'm going to marry her." Get back from where? She wondered, raising herself up into a sitting position. She gazed around the empty room, once more struck with foreboding. This place had always seemed a sanctuary for her, but now it felt the outside world was suddenly looming threateningly around her, pressing in on the four walls, creeping across the floors as irrevocably as the evening shadows. Something was coming for her…
All of this and more whirled through Djaq's head as she sat, frozen on her stool in the small Locksley cottage whilst Allan and Will looked at her intently, a range of emotions playing across each face. Curiosity… speculation… suspicion… her eyes flitted nervously from face to face as she grasped for an explanation. They would never believe that another Saracen woman was lost somewhere in the vicinity, and besides, she'd already given the game away with her reaction.
She wet her lips, a plan formulating at record-speed in her mind – or, at least, the first steps of a plan. She'd have to figure out the rest as she went along, though she already knew where it would lead her. Taking the little bottle of acid out of her pocket like it was some sort of talisman, she squeezed it tightly in her fist and took a deep breath, knowing she'd have to play this very, very carefully.
"Yes…yes, I think it is me," she said in reply to Allan's question.
"Do you know who these men are?" Will asked her.
"I believe so. I think I recognised the voice of their leader in the forest last night, though I cannot be sure."
"Well, who is he?" Allan demanded. "What do they want with you?"
"He – was a friend of my family. At least…it is difficult to explain. Things may have changed now."
"Are you in danger?" Will asked quietly.
She took a deep breath, praying to Allah that she was choosing the right words.
"Possibly. I can't know for certain until…until I see him."
Allan raised an eyebrow.
"See him? Why can't we just hide you in the woods till this whole thing blows over?"
"Because this man will not give up easily. He has already got his men searching the area. Eventually one of the villagers is bound to mention me."
"But they all think you're a boy!"
"He is not stupid. He will figure it out."
Before another word could be said Kate returned, carrying a loaf of bread and a glass jar of some strange red substance that made Allan suddenly sit up straighter. As she set the food down on the table she cast a worried look at the three of them.
"Soldiers have just arrived," she said. She fetched a knife from a deep pocket in her skirt and began to slice into the bread.
"What about the Saracens?" Will asked her, taking advantage of Djaq's forced silence to prod into the mystery further. "What else did they do?"
Kate shrugged, her eyes on the task at hand. "Nothing – they just gathered outside Locksley Manor and started handing out sacks of food. Then they said that they were looking for one of their own women that had gone missing from their envoy, and would give a reward to anyone who found her."
Allan's ears pricked up. "Reward? How much?"
"Allan!" hissed Will, leaning around Djaq to poke him in the ribs.
"What!" he spluttered defensively. "I'm just curious! I'm not gonna-"
Kate interrupted him with the answer to his question, and instantaneously both Will and Allan's jaws dropped. Djaq squirmed in a state of agony that was edging ever closer to panic.
"Heck," Allan said after a lengthy pause. "They…they must really want her back."
"Mmhmm," Kate agreed, spreading the gloopy-looking substance on the slices of bread with her knife. "There are instructions not to harm her, but to either take her to Nottingham Castle, or to tell the Saracens there where to find her. Said anyone with information is supposed to ask at the gate for a man called Khalid."
She passed a slice of the bread around to each of them and looked at them expectantly. Djaq looked down at her portion in a daze, her eyes fixed on the red mess on top of it. What on earth is that supposed to be? she thought numbly.
"Kate?" Will asked. "Do you think you could give us a moment?"
She blinked, a little surprised, and then nodded.
"Alright. I've got some chores to do," she told them, and left again.
Allan was still looking at Djaq incredulously, and it was Will who had to reopen the discussion.
"We should find Robin," he said. "He'll know what to do."
"No!" she cried, horrified. She did not want Robin involved in this – provided he wasn't already, which was an even greater reason to avoid him. She quailed to imagine what he'd say – what he'd do. His sense of honour was very great, and there was a good chance he wouldn't side with her in this matter.
But these two…with these two there was a slim chance of getting out of this unscathed. Quickly she weighed up the facts. Her countrymen had lied about her being in their envoy for the sake of convenience – but the lie meant Allan and Will would consider them untrustworthy. The fact that a reward had been placed on her capture gave a sinister edge to their motives. And by now, Khalid would be lodging in Nottingham Castle – an ominous display of misplaced loyalties if ever there was one. All this gave her the advantage in arguing her case.
"I…I need to do this by myself," she said carefully. "It's my business. No one else needs to be involved."
"And what exactly is it that you plan to do?" demanded Allan.
"I'll…go and see him. I'll make him leave."
The two of them stared at her, dumbfounded.
"Wait, wait, wait," said Allan, waving his hands in the air. "You're telling us that some old family friend has sailed all the way from the Holy Land, put a reward out for your capture that would feed Locksley for a year, has his men scouring each village for you – and you're going to make him leave by…asking him?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't. How could she ever explain herself?
As it turned out, she didn't have to, for at that moment Kate burst back in through the door.
"The soldiers are searching the cottages!" she gasped, ushering them to their feet. "They're searching for the woman – obviously they've heard about her ransom, but I'm sure the arrest of three outlaws will be equally rewarded by the sheriff."
They leapt to their feet and scrambled for the door they'd entered by – Allan stopping briefly to snatch up the slice of bread from the table – and shuffled out one after the other. Pressed up against the wall of the house, they each snuck a glance around the corner to see a party of castle guards roaming the area, knocking on doors but giving the inhabitants no time to answer before bursting into the private dwellings. Quickly, the three of them edged in the opposite direction, toward the trees that lined the hamlet.
"Okay, on three, we make a break for it," Allan hissed back at them, and then counted down. The three of them dashed away across the open space of wet grass and muddy ground, but it was not until they were just metres away from the tree line that Djaq realised she'd forgotten her vial of acid – it was sitting on Kate's table, where she'd absentmindedly placed it whilst spinning out her strategy. She skidded to a halt, and turned around.
"My vial!" she called as loudly as she dared to the boys as they reached the trees. "I'll be right back!"
It didn't take long to slip back into Kate's cottage and retrieve the bottle from the table. Kate herself was no where to be seen, and Djaq assumed she had gone into hiding. Carefully she opened the small door in the side of the house and crept outside again. Her route to the trees was clear, and she hurriedly moved forward again, only to cry out when something hit her heavily across the back. She fell to the moist ground and rolled onto her back, reaching for her sword. A helmeted guard stood over her, an ugly grin on his face, the blunt of his sword having struck her to the ground.
"Going somewhere little boy?"
The question died in his throat as his eyes fell from her face to her body, and she realised in horror that the clasps of her waistcoat had opened, revealing her far-less-bulky shirt and the cleavage that it was meant to hide.
"Saracen woman," he muttered darkly, his eyes gleaming with sudden greed. She gave an angry yelp as he reached down to grab her, and then gaped in astonishment as a pair of pale hands appeared either side of his head, and firmly swivelled his helmet around back-to-front. Effectively blinded, Djaq took the opportunity to kick the man firmly in the groin, and as he toppled to the ground, shrieking in pain, she looked up into the wide eyes of Kate. It took only a moment for the English woman to take in the sight of Djaq's chest, before reaching down to take her hand and pull her up.
"You'd better get going," she said. "Before anyone else sees."
Djaq took her advice, and the two women took off in opposite directions, one to the village, one to the trees.