Please don't hate me for this chapter. It had to happen. Explanation to follow.
Chapter Thirteen: Shadows
The heat and monotony of the desert was oddly comforting, that heavy weight of anguish within her becoming dulled by the steady rhythm of her pace through the sand. Had she been more aware of the effect she was having on her travelling companions, the word she would have chosen to describe herself was "numb." As it was, it was that precise state of mind that made the rest of the caravan's company leave her to her own devices, instinctively sensing that she didn't want to be approached or engaged in conversation. Thomas stayed close by, perhaps hoping that her aloofness might extend to him so that the Saracens would be less inclined to notice him. His presence flittered at the corners of her consciousness, a bothersome task that she longed to be rid of. She had her own plans to make after his departure.
Her uncle hadn't questioned her story about "Khalid" when she informed him of her friend's desire to travel with them to Acre, but simply nodded them into their places among the fellow merchants, servants and mercenaries hired to guard their passage to the coast. Naturally, Thomas was twitching with nerves, responding to several greetings with a mere nod of his head, and refusing to speak to anyone except Djaq herself. Finally she was forced to announce that he was suffering from a throat infection, and that all must excuse him from his perceived rudeness. They seemed to accept that explanation, and between her stony expression and his sudden onslaught of hacking coughs, gave them a wide berth. Thomas tried to whisper to her in Arabic sometimes, but her answers were short and terse. He seemed to think her demeanour stemmed from grief rather than hate, and so satisfied himself by trailing her footprints in the day and laying his blanket down beside hers in the night.
During the day her mind was blank, the distance between desert and sea possessing a restful quality that stilled the turmoil in her mind. At times it would all come upon her again, the terrible loss that was awaiting her when she returned to the city, but in many ways her grief was too large for her relatively tiny body, and any inopportune outbursts were silenced by the sheer intensity of them. Her body simply did not have the strength it required to demonstrate her pain. And so, in her inability to voice herself, she remained silent.
It was the nights that were the worst, in which the wall she'd placed between her mind and her grief faltered and she was forced to confront the choice before her, the decision she had to come to by the time Thomas was safely on a boat back to England. She could return to Bassam's house where Safiyah was waiting, hidden safely away in mourning till the time came to reclaim her, and live the life that her parents had wanted for her. The life that she was supposed to want.
Or she could remain Djaq and continue what he'd started. She'd find a sword and join the army. She'd throw herself into the war against the Crusaders and die like her brother had. Because when she really considered it, what was really waiting for her back home? A life hidden behind a veil, secluded away in a grand estate, reduced to a pair of bright eyes and a subservient manner. No – far better to die on the battlefield, killing Englishmen until one of them killed her. Then she'd be reunited with her brother, and they'd laugh together at the shock on the men's faces as either enemies or allies – it didn't matter which - discovered that it had been a woman who had caused so much carnage.
That night, she carefully took her father's knife from its place in Thomas's bag, her fingers brushing against her father's glass lens in the process. She almost gasped at her sudden recollection of Syed's spindly fingers demonstrating how the sun's heat could be projected through its surface to create fire, but she forced it down. She was quickly learning to contain her emotions by picturing a firm wall between her heart and head, preventing the two of them from interfering with one other.
Then she stole away from the camp into the wider expanse of the desert. For a few moments she stood, feeling as though some greater force was guiding her now. She knew that once she started on the course it had prepared for her, there was to be no returning to the life she knew – no return to the life had once Khalid offered her. But that life was already over – it had died along with her family. There was to be no more secretive lessons with her father in the darkened surgery, no more feel of her mother's fingers combing through her hair, no more jokes or trickery with her brother. All of that was gone.
Carefully, she unwound the turban from her head and let it settle in the sand at her feet. Then, she unhesitatingly caught up a chuck of hair in her hand and sliced the blade through its length. This was the last step. As she hacked at her waist-length head of hair she found herself hypnotised by the sawing of the knife at increasingly higher levels till she wore no more than cropped stubble atop her crown, watching the strands of hair escape her fingers and disappear over the sands. They were like living creatures – elegant little figures that danced away to their freedom in the slight breeze like something out of a dream.
Finally she shook her head, scraping her fingers through the scruff of hair left, making sure there were no tell-tale strands of womanly length that had escaped the knife's edge. Then she stood for a moment, watching the shadowy remainder of Safiyah sway and twist away into the distance, and felt that she should be laughing. Laughing because in all those months, Thomas had never known he'd been tended to by a female; a female who had just rid herself of the last possible symbol of her identity. But of course, she couldn't laugh. Not now. Yet there was dim comfort to be found in the realisation that such an emotion still existed.
"What do you think is happening in there?" Will asked, fidgeting.
Allan shrugged. "Don't know."
"But what do you think is happening."
"I don't know."
Will gave a frustrated sigh and resumed his place. They had been waiting for what had felt like hours – in fact, it probably had been hours, judging by the beam of sunlight streaming through a window at the end of the hall. It had slowly withdrawn as time passed, and gradually dimmed from bright yellow to a strange reddish rue as evening fell. Every once in a while Will would creep out of the alcove and scouted around the area, checking behind doors and down hallways - partly to secure their safety and partly to relieve his tension. They'd heard the guard return and resume his place in the corridor adjacent to theirs, blocking off their exit in that direction, but Will had another plan brewing, a plan born out of a rather interesting discovery he'd found in one of the store cupboards.
But for now, he gazed restlessly at Allan, who was leaning lethargically against the cold stone wall with his eyes closed, looking the very picture of relaxation. Nothing was to be heard from within the small room opposite them. The stone walls and wooden door were too thick for that – though sometimes Will fancied he could hear the faint murmuring of a conversation.
Finally, the door creaked open, and Djaq stepped out. She took a deep breath – one to match the one she'd taken on entering – and exhaled as her eyes found the shadowy figures of Will and Allan.
"I'm finished," she told them.
Will looked at her carefully as Allan roused himself from his half-sleep. She didn't look any different – no signs of any tears or deep emotion. She was as composed as she'd always been, acting as though nothing of any great consequence had passed in the time she'd been gone. He felt confused, but relieved.
Now Djaq took the initiative in planning their escape.
"Has the guard retuned?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah," Allan answered her, and she could tell that despite his careless attitude, he was burning with questions. "We heard 'im clomp up the stairs not long after you went in. Best not to go back that way. 'E's probably figured out that them rags weren't pyjamas."
She nodded.
"Very well. But Marian's map only told us how to get here."
"Ah – we can get out the easy way. Find some guards that look about our size and relieve them of their clothing."
"Or," said Will. "We could just get what we need from the armoury. I found it just down this way."
They followed him down the hallway, and Will ushered them through the door he'd found earlier that led to a small room lined with armour, shields, weapons, helmets and other guard paraphernalia.
"Ooh, nice," Allan said, stepping inside.
"Much of this seems very old," Djaq remarked, peering at the gear. "Or broken."
The rusted nose-guard of a helmet had just broken off in her hand as she'd picked it up. Allan gave a groan.
"This ain't an armoury. This is a junk-cupboard. Everyone chucks their old gear in here when they can't be bovvered to get it repaired."
"It doesn't matter," Will said, not wanting his new discovery to go to waste and choosing for himself a somewhat holey suit of chain-mail. "It's getting dark. No one will notice."
Allan shrugged and followed suit, yanking a similar suit over his own clothes.
But a problem soon emerged as Djaq poked about for her own disguise. There was nothing small enough for her, and they couldn't figure out what would be more noticeable: a guard clunking about in a uniform too big for him, or a dimunitive Saracen boy marching about with Englishmen.
It wasn't too long before Allan came up with a solution, though it was much to Djaq's displeasure since it involved her hands being tied together and her sword once again being placed in Will's possession. Will and Allan surveyed their 'prisoner', both thinking that the grumpy expression on her face rather suited the role required of her – though neither thought it especially wise to point out to her.
Yet as they exited the half-forgotten storage room, both of them taking her by the elbows and shuffling a little awkwardly in the armour and helmets that were in desperate need of repair, Djaq felt herself relax. The hardest part was over for her, and now she could simply let them guide her now, trusting them to find their way out. It left her free to mull over the events that had taken place in that strange room and her conflicting feelings concerning them. Her feet moved of their own accord as Allan and Will marched her down stairs and through corridors, and though neither were completely sure as to where they were going, they did not arouse much notice from any passing guard who simply assumed they were escorting a prisoner to the dungeons.
The sun was setting by the time they reached the outer courtyard, quickly clattering down the stairs of the main entrance of the castle and heading for the wide gate. Speed overtook discretion in their desire to be gone and in the knowledge that this was the most precarious part of their scheme – taking a prisoner out the castle gates was sure to raise heads. Guards milled about in the shadowy darkness, the end of the day allowing them some measure of relaxation as they awaited the night-watch to relive them of their posts, but Djaq was all-to-aware of the flicker of interested eyes as two of their fellows briskly marched a prisoner toward freedom. The three outlaws were halfway across the flagstones when an authoritative voice rang out:
"Oy! You there!"
Will automatically hesitated, while Allan determinedly strode forward, and Djaq found herself yanked between the two of them.
"Will!" Allan hissed through his teeth.
"Too far away to run," Will muttered back. "Have to bluff."
"Tell them I'm a servant. Khalid's servant – done wrong," Djaq just managed to whisper, throwing out a half-formed idea and praying either Allan or Will caught on to her somewhat incoherent plan. A second later, what looked like a highly-ranked guard strode up to them with several others drifting along in his wake, mildly curious as to what was going on.
"Is this a prisoner?" the commander demanded. "Where are you taking him?"
Djaq dipped her heard down as Allan cleared his throat.
"This 'ere is one of the Saracen Lord's servants. He was caught stealin', and now 'is Lordship wants 'im thrown out into the forest. Says its proper punishment for the likes of 'im. See how well 'e does without the comforts of 'is Lord's favour."
The commander raised an eyebrow.
"I thought that Saracens punished thieves by cutting off their right hands."
Allan struggled for a moment, and Will swiftly picked up the thread.
"He's very young," Will said by way of explanation. "The Lord says to take him to the middle of Sherwood and if he can make his way back, then he'll be forgiven."
As Djaq burned with shame at the echo of her own words regarding Will Scarlett being bounced back at her, Allan gave her a cuff round the back of the head – one that presumably looked rougher than it felt. She lowered her chin further as the man scrutinised her, and after a few moments in which she was sure her heart had managed to squeeze itself into half its normal size, he finally nodded and stepped back.
Djaq allowed herself a tiny sigh of relief. Then – without thinking – she made her mistake. She glanced up as the guards backed away, and her eyes locked fatally with one standing just to the left of the commander, and she was a millisecond too late in breaking eye contact. He had recognised her as the woman from Locksley. As though trapped by their mutual awareness of each other, she could only watch in dismay as realisation dawned on his piggish little face that she'd last seen disappearing from view behind the back of his twisted helmet.
Yet as Allan and Will shifted her away, the finger that he'd tentatively raised had dropped and his gaping mouth had closed. Despite the fright pulsating through her mind, she knew why he didn't expose her. His greed. Had he pointed her out in the midst of the guards, a brawl could easily emerge as to who got to claim her reward money.
Though her heart still pounded at the shock, her fear subsided as they finally reached the raised portcullis and slipped underneath. There was nothing he could do about it now as tomorrow Khalid would renounce the bounty on her capture. She was worthless now; just a simple peasant living in the forest. That thought, along with the sight of the winding streets of Nottingham filled her with unexpected elation. The word home had sprung to her mind unbidden as she thought of trees and a campfire and a rolled out blanket just for her.
"Let's hurry," she whispered as they passed through into the township. Once they were out of sight of the castle entrance, Will whipped the rope loose from her wrists and the three of them briskly trotted into the blissful darkness of the streets.
In hindsight, she realized it was the mercenaries that had doomed them – the presence of armed men suggested that there were valuables to be had. Perhaps it would have been wiser to disguise themselves as poor nomads or refugees, but then, her uncle had always been a coward.
Although she missed the weight of her hair swishing against her back, she was surprised to find that she quite liked the freedom that short hair afforded her – and not just because she no longer had to worry about the security of the turban wrapped around her head. With her head and hair exposed, she felt more comfortable in her role as Djaq and as a boy. She tried to adopt her brother's swagger and mannerisms for her own, and found that she could appreciate the way in which men lived their lives – straightforward and stoically, without any of the silly gossip or pointless primping that had so frustrated her in the woman's quarters. Of course, there were several ribald jokes and stories told about various girls and their anatomy that she hadn't expected, having experienced a man's view of womankind only through love poetry and the teachings of the Koran. Yet it was hardly surprising that the lofty pedestal upon which she'd been raised to stand on was the work of over-imaginative poets, and she was rather fascinated by this new viewpoint of women that the other men displayed around the campfire each night.
Thomas was getting more getting more and more cheerful as they neared the end of her journey, and he'd taken the lifting of her spirits as a sign that he could talk to her again – attempts that were quickly brushed off. Yet every night when the others were asleep she watched him rub the dye over himself – "running low," she heard him mutter one night, and she closed her eyes in consternation. The dye would have to last, there was no other way about it. As much as she'd come to despise him, it was essential that he survived, and not just because of all the hard work she'd put into saving him. He had to return to England to fulfil the vow he'd sworn to her – to work toward a peaceful resolution to the war. It was perhaps her own source of redemption against what she planned to do with the remainder of her life. That was her plan, and she considered it a good one.
It was in the early morning light, two days out from Acre, that she found herself pondering it, hoping that it would work out the way she intended. Thomas was lagging in her footsteps as usual, humming softly to himself, and the rest of her companions were feeling light-hearted at the thought of being so close to their destination. Knowing that she was drawing ever-closer to her own destiny, she made a tiny fist, strengthing her resolve. She was ready for this, she almost looked forward to what she now had to do. She'd get Thomas on a ship, find a sword, join the army and then unleash all her pain and fury on those that had caused it…
…it was then she heard a strange sort of gasp behind her. She turned curiously, and gazed into Thomas's face. His eyes were bulging and his mouth agape, whilst one hand reached out to her. For a millisecond she absurdly thought that he was deliberately pulling a face at her and all she could do was stop and stare in puzzled wonderment. Then he tumbled face-down onto the sand and she registered the hilt of a knife sticking out of the nape of his neck. She couldn't even scream – only watch as one of the mercenaries leaned down and yanked the knife from Thomas's skin – the white skin of his neck that he had once again forgotten to cover in dye.
"A spy!" the man cried, brandishing his knife. "An English spy!"
Her mind was blank as she watched several others lean over to exclaim over the sight and kick or spit on the body at their feet. She half-listened as her uncle began to defend his nephew against accusations that Djaq had known the true identity of his friend before the journey had begun, and as an argument arose as to who was to claim ownership of the dead man's possessions.
That was all there was to see. They moved on, her uncle gently pushing her back into formation. But she didn't hear or feel anything, not even when the Crusaders appeared over the sand dunes a few hours later and surrounded the caravan, shooting down those who attempted to fight back. She couldn't manage a reaction even when her uncle's throat was slit as he attempted to prevent the men from taking his horses.
From a foggy distance she watched as the wicker basket was torn from her shoulder and opened, the pigeon inside breaking free with a clatter of wings and racing toward home. Thomas's bag and its contents were taken by a tall, business-like man who appeared to be in charge.
She didn't struggle like the others when they bound her with rope and made her kneel with the others in a line; only watched passively as the tall man strolled down before them, choosing those who were deemed suitable and murdering those who were not. She vaguely hoped he'd do her the same service, since it wouldn't have mattered if he killed her. She wasn't alive anyway. None of this was real. But for reasons unknown he passed her by.
It was only once they'd reached the ship at port, once she'd been hefted up onto its deck and fastened with clinking manacles around her wrists and ankles that she felt a glimmer of feeling return – a deep, dark despair at the sight of the terrible gaping blackness of the hold, like a mouth ready to devour her. She allowed herself a tiny moan before she was shoved down into it.
Geoffrey Weymouth, unmarried and childless, didn't particularly like being a castle guard. Despite the hot meals and the gradually increasing pile of copper coins accumulating under his cot, there were many downsides that often made him wonder if the sensation of sending the occasional child scurrying from his path was really worth Guy of Gisbourne's callous indifference to the wellbeing of his soldiers or the sheriff's terrifying rampages that could sometimes end in badly wounded subordinates. Outlaw activity had been on the rise lately, and despite rumours that Robin Hood never took a life, Geoffrey had seen enough of the bloody aftermath of Hood's forays into Castle Nottingham to make him seriously doubt that claim. To top it off, he'd once caught a glimpse of the Night Watchman flitting like a ghost along the parapets, his reaction to which had earned him the nickname 'Sir Shrieks-a-lot' by the other guards.
He felt it was time to move on – and since this Saracen Lord had set himself up in Nottingham, winning over the sheriff with chests of Eastern treasures, Geoffrey had played with the fantasy of returning the wayward Saracen woman to her master. The reward was immense – more substantial than the committed bachelor had ever dreamed a woman could be worth, but with that kind of money he could quit this dreary, dangerous place for good and set himself up nicely in some other district. Maybe even pass himself off as a noble…
And so when a routine search for outlaws at Locksley had unexpectedly revealed this woman, it had seemed that angels were finally paying attention to Geoffrey of Weymouth.
Till a twist of his helmet and an excruciating kick to the groin had proved otherwise.
But now, here she was again, once again appearing out of the blue like a fey-creature out of an old wives' tale that promised riches if only one could hold on to her. Except she was in the possession of two others, the object of some dubious story that involved taking her out to Sherwood Forest. Why they were taking her from the castle was a mystery. But it didn't matter. Geoffrey was not a man prone to worry about the doings of others – all that mattered to him was attaining what was obviously meant to be his.
Announcing her presence whilst surrounded by his fellow guards would be an utter mistake, but now he would have to move quickly. Going straight to the Saracen Lord himself would take too long – he would be shuffled back and forth between servants and retainers before finally being granted an audience with no woman in his grasp to show for it. Yet he couldn't do this by himself, not without some witness to the cleverness with which he'd seen through the woman's disguise.
Geoffrey walked quickly around the side of the castle, out of sight of the others, and shed the more bulky aspects of his uniform, abandoning his pike in favour of his sword. Then, at a run, he made for the dormitories designed for less-exalted guests and rapped smartly on one of the doors.
From inside, he heard the sound of a chair scraped back, and a moment later a man opened the door. Geoffrey knew this man only as Mark Hayworth, a merchant from the shore. But he was the man who had led the Saracen envoy to Nottingham Castle, having fought through Robin Hood and all his men in order to bring the tribute safely to the sheriff's coffers. Or so he said.
"Sir," Geoffrey said, knowing that a little flattery would go a long way. "I know the whereabouts of the Saracen woman!"
Mark at once snapped to attention.
"Where? Have you made sure she can't escape?"
"No, I haven't caught her yet. She's just left the castle with two guards. If we hurry we can apprehend her and deliver her to your Lord."
Mark's eyes widened, and Geoffrey was shrewd enough to see a glint of greed in the man's expression. He would have to keep on guard around this one, at least until he had his reward safety delivered to him. But for now he needed him.
"I have no horse, and you don't know what way they went," Geoffrey said urgently. "And she moves further away with each passing moment."
It wasn't long before the two of them were mounted on the horses that the generous Saracen had awarded Mark in payment for his services. Already feeling it might be too late, (how long had it been since the men had dragged her away?) the men cantered out into the streets.
"They said they were heading for the forest," Geoffrey said. "And I watched them head down the main street in that direction. We should be able to catch up with them if we hurry. They had some cock-and-bull story about how she was a thief that needed to be punished for stealing."
Mark's eyes flickered in the lamplights of the streets, and suddenly Geoffrey had the distinct feeling that Mark understood something that he didn't.
"I can't understand why they'd take her into the forest instead of collecting the reward," he continued, hoping to catch on.
Mark looked at him witheringly. "Can't you?"
With that Geoffrey understood, and felt revulsion trickling through his veins. Englishmen, and a Saracen woman? He could see why they might be curious, but such a thing was still an abomination.
Geoffrey spurred his horse into a gallop, his lust for gold rapidly overcome by disgust. He just hoped that the Saracen Lord would still want her after the guards were done. He'd just have to hurry, and cut them off before they reached the forest's edge.
So yeah…I killed Thomas. I feel really bad about it, and I hope it doesn't feel like a cop-out because I honestly had this planned right from the beginning (I tried to foreshadow it with the constant reminders of Thomas's pale neck). I almost gave him a reprieve when I realised how fond some readers were getting of him (and considering how much pain Djaq had already been though), but it had to happen. First of all, because it was the only way for Djaq to get over her hate for the English – if she were to see that her own people were just as capable of cruelty and prejudice. Second of all, I couldn't envision Djaq letting herself be taken alive by slave-traders unless she was in a state of shock. And there was only one way to get her into that state. But there is more to be said on Thomas, and naturally he's going to have a big impact on why Djaq chooses to stay in England. But...I'm really sorry...I promise more uplifting things in future. It's well-past time to give Djaq some happiness.