The First 3 Chapters of The Path to Redemption

Please find the first 3 Chapters of my historical fiction novel, The Path to Redemption.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – The Desert Trail

11th February 1145, 2 miles from Acre

The high-pitched scream shattered the silence. Shielding his hazel eyes against the glaring sun; James twisted his lean body on the back of the ebony stallion and scanned the golden sand in all directions. Stroking his three day old beard with his left hand, the outlander looked over at the twelve year old Jacob and did his best to look reassuring. Jacob’s azure eyes were wide and the Jewish boy was scared. The cloak of fear had covered the poor child for most of his short years and he moved his chestnut mare to his guardian and held out his perspiring palm for support.

“Relax Jacob, now go and help Aisha barter with that old skinflint; Abdul. We need decent grain at the house”

Tousling the mop of russet brown hair and keeping his voice light, he urged the boy west across the sand towards the distant figures of Aisha and the huge bulking frame of the merchant. Nodding silently, the apprehensive child moved his horse forwards and James watched the boy trot and then gallop across the bleak landscape. Casually unfastening the leather harness on his French handmade mahogany crossbow and checking the short sword was in its scabbard at his waist; his mind began to count the reasons for a female scream beyond the dunes to the north in the simmering summer heat of Outremer. Not one of the four or five assumptions invoked comfort and as the figure of Jacob began to blur out of focus, he felt the uncomfortable presence of perspiration trickling down his spine.

“Come on Merdlan, old boy”

He nudged his left boot against Merdlan’s flanks and the horse grudgingly trotted towards the dunes. Moving carefully to the base of the highest of the dunes, James dismounted and patted his faithful steed softly as he strode past him and pulled out the crossbow; loading an iron bolt into the loading mechanism as he studied the lie of the land. A second scream, followed by hysterical screeching caused the crossbowman to sprint up the sand dune as quickly as possible in the scorching heat. Reaching the crest, he threw his body to the sand and pointing his crossbow forward, looked over the brow at the unfolding scene below.
A covered wagon lay on its side across the desert trail that classed as the merchant road from Acre. A number of arrow shafts remained in the wooden frame and from the dead horse that lay beside it. A second horse was dying slowly and painfully nearby, an arrow shaft embedded in its neck and James inwardly cursed. The driver of the wagon and presumably the guard, from his armour and weaponry were also lying on the golden sand; unconscious or dead. A woman, clad in the silken layers of a style worn by wealthy Egyptians, waved a scimitar wildly in front of her as three robed figures taunted and abused her in Arabic as they circled her, toying with her. One held a short bow with arrow notched, as the others held short curved swords and the onlooker swore vehemently as he recognised the favoured weapon of the secret cult of Hashini from the mountains of Persia. Closing his right eye, he aimed the crossbow and fired.
The third scream erupted as the man to the left crumpled in a heap; a sharpened iron bolt smashing at speed into the back of his neck; killing him instantly. The two remaining protagonists froze momentarily and whirled around; seeing the newcomer some seventy yards away at the summit of the dune. The first sprinted towards him as James calmly reloaded from the leather pouch at his waist. The second man headed to the fresh corpse and frantically tried to grab the bow and reload the arrow that lay on the ground. He managed to hold the arrow in his left hand before he was punched back to the ground, struck in the chest, a little below his heart and piercing the leather breastplate he wore as protection. Grunting, the man was thrown backwards and lay on the sand, wounded and dazed. James, with much rehearsed precision reloaded his crossbow, his eyes watching the swarthy assassin closing in on his position with alarming speed. The man was fit and determined and was within 20 yards when he was hit in the stomach; the bolt stopping him in his tracks and dropping his sword; he grabbed limply at his wound; vainly attempting to stem the flow of blood. As the man forced himself unsteadily to his feet, the second bolt ended his life, a direct hit to his forehead.
James forced himself to calm down, moderating his erratic breathing and rose from his squatting position. The woman was peering up at him in confusion and still held her scimitar before her as he strode towards her; his hazel eyes on the moving third assassin who was crawling to one of the three well groomed desert horses, who stood obediently at the edge of the trail. Reloading his cross bow as he walked down the sloping sand; he paused only to shoot a quarrel into the spine of the wounded enemy, ending his pathetic attempt at leaving the scene. Content that all three adversaries were dead, James tossed the crossbow over his shoulder by its strap and held his hands outwards in a show of peace to the stricken woman, who still bore the weapon and a face contorted by panic.

“It is over. I mean you no harm.”

He used Arabic as the dark skinned woman was clearly of Egyptian descent; his accent was poor and his vocabulary limited. He knew English and Italian fluently; French and Arabic less so but the words at least caused the scimitar to lower. James approached slowly and smiled.

“It is ok. Really. I am not going to hurt you.”

The woman stared into his eyes and dropped the sword, suddenly dropping to her knees and sobbing silently into her hands as she looked over the five corpses around the roadside. James wiped the perspiration from his hands, face and neck and allowed the woman the dignity of crying alone; moving to the injured horse who was now flailing its hind legs and whinnying pitifully. In pain and dying slowly, James stroked its mane and spoke softly to it as he unsheathed his sword and sliced the keen blade across its neck in one fluid motion; ending another life, albeit this one being an innocent one. Wiping his short sword on the blanket that covered the beasts back, he studied the scene before him; unanswered questions assailing his mind. Rubbing his stubble, he viewed the horizons for signs of more would be assassins but seeing nothing; he looked down at the carriage driver and guard. Both were dead. The livery was definitely Arabic but did not look Egyptian and yet the attackers were also Muslim. There may be an uneasy peace between the nations in the Holy Land right now but it was still one of the most dangerous places in the world.

A figure appeared on the dune from where James had fired and his hand slid to the shaft of his crossbow. The woman, who had ceased her sobs and was watching him warily now, also saw the figure and he heard her sharp intake of breath. He recognised the lithe figure of Aisha and grinned as he saw the loaded short ash bow in her hand; even from this distance he saw the look of concern in her pretty young face. He waved as she lowered the bow and spoke to some unseen being behind her. She was flanked by the immense frame of the overweight merchant, who lumbered breathlessly into view, carrying a throwing axe in one hand and the fearful Jacob in the other.

“They are with me. It is ok.”

James spoke to the woman, whose breathing was becoming broken and ragged once again. He smiled warmly and moved to the woman’s side, offering her his hand to help her up. Suspicious eyes watched him carefully but she allowed him to help her to her feet. James studied the dark skinned woman closely, hoping his easy smile looked genuine as his eyes registered the facts. In her early twenties, dark ringlets of hair covered half of her face, which was striking rather than beautiful. She looked rather feline to James and cats could never be trusted.

“Thank you…Thank you for helping me.”

The voice was heavily accented but spoken in perfect Arabic, the Mamluk dialect. Her eyes were oval and dark brown and were studying him just as much as he was studying her. Growing concern was building within James and he realised his forced smile was fading in front of her.

“No problem at all, are you hurt?”

“I am Kallissa and no I am not.”

A thin smile flickered across her face showing perfect white teeth and the image of a panther leapt suddenly into his mind.

“I am James, pleased to meet you.”
He responded haltingly and nodded in the Mamluk manner.

“Are you ok James?”

Aisha spoke in English behind him, having moved swiftly to the scene, concern and a hint of confusion in her voice.

He turned and nodded, embracing the girl as she rushed to him.

“I am fine Aisha, just fine.”

Pushing her gently from his frame, he stroked her cheek and traced a finger across her nose. Aisha smiled and nodded and then looked over at Kallissa, appraising her instantly and blurting out her observations.

“Mamluk noble, see the Egyptian silk? Clearly not welcome in these parts. So why only one guard?”

James nodded at his ward’s swift understanding.

“Are they Hashashim do you think?”

He asked Aisha pointing to the three men he had killed.

“Yes they are and we had better leave the area right now in case there are more around.”

Abdul’s deep, booming voice answered for her.

“You do not want to make enemies of those people James.”

He added cradling Jacob’s tear stained face in his hands and looking towards the woman pointedly.

“You do not want to involve yourself in whatever this is, my friend.”

Abdul warned, shaking his head.

“I could not let them just kill her or whatever they were going to do.”

James responded evenly, casting a quick glance at the silent Kallissa.

“And I cannot just leave her here Abdul. She is in shock I think.”

“Okay, let us all go to my home; I will see to this with my brothers later. I will make sure the honourable are buried and the others are burned. We want no knowledge of what happened here to get out James. Get your answers from her later, now let us go.”

Within minutes, the small party; enhanced by the assassin’s horses, which Abdul would sell on discreetly at a later date, crossed the desert and made their way in the fading light to Abdul’s well-presented homestead on the outskirts of the multi-cultural city of Acre. The wealthy merchant led James, Aisha, Jacob and Kallissa through his gates and past the toiling workers in his vineyard; who watched the unlikely group move past with interest. Stabling the horses, Abdul barked orders at his servants to bring food and drinks for himself and his guests. Directed into the dining area, they were seated on low benches at a wooden table and sat uncomfortably in silence as ice cold fresh water, white wine, various olives, hot bread, grapes, figs and dates were brought in hurriedly. The simplistic meal was eaten in the same awkward quietude and James was the first to speak as the clay bowls were cleared away.

“Aisha, will you take Jacob to the guest room upstairs; it is too late to ride home tonight and it has been quite a day. For all of us.”

His smile was forced and as he bent down to kiss the young boys’ cheek, he nodded to the teenage girl; a motion he hoped would prevent any discussion or argument. It did and he smiled more genuinely as Aisha stood and led Jacob out of the room, through the hallway beyond. Both sets of young eyes stared at Kallissa as they left the dining area; Jacob’s with interest and Aisha with barely concealed suspicion. James waited for the soft footfalls on the stone stairs to subside before he leaned forward and looked into the stranger’s oval, dark eyes.

“Are you ok to talk now?”

“We can speak in English if you prefer.”

The woman replied fluently to the halting question in Arabic and James grinned easily and nodded, reverting to his father’s native tongue.

“It would make the conversation easier.”

“I need to reach Damascus, could you or your friend who lives here arrange to escort me or get word to my betrothed. My family will be worried about me. I can pay you of course.”

James held up his hand to stem the flow of words from the woman and smiled.

“I am sure Abdul will be happy to arrange an escort for you. So, who are you Kallissa and why would assassins be sent to kill you?”

The woman’s lips curved upwards into the very essence of a sardonic smile.

“You are very direct for a Frank.”

“I am not a Frank.”

James responded curtly yet his brusqueness barely made an impression.

Kallissa smirked mischievously, clearly her brush with danger easily swept aside.

“I did not mean to offend you James but to my people, all white men are Franks.”

She paused as if to await an answer and James kept his mouth closed, the realisation that he did not like this woman the only thought in his head. The pause lengthened into discomfort and as James shuffled on the uncomfortable seating and rubbed his forehead; Kallissa merely stared directly at him; her dark, almost opaque eyes boring into his.

“My mother was a Venetian seamstress and my father was an English knight, they met in Tyre and I was born in Acre so this land is my home. I am not a Frank. Now, I have been more than patient so please…..”

The explanation tumbled from him but the woman interjected abruptly.

“Thank you for aiding me, I will repay you but I do not know anything about those men who attacked me or who may or may not have sent them. I am the daughter of a minor noble family in Egypt and was on my way to my betrothal ceremony in Talien, near Damascus. That is all I can tell you.”

Her eyes avoided his own and she placed a soft goatskin pouch of coins upon the table.

James smiled thinly; disbelieving every word that had so carefully been chosen and merely nodded, ignoring the offering.

“Now, do you know where I may be able to freshen up; the dust from the road you see?”

Suddenly feeling as if he was eleven years old again and dismissed by his overworked and emotionally crippled mother; he shook his head and shrugged.

“I will arrange it with Abdul’s wife.”

He said simply and left the room, closing the heavy ornate door behind him. Striding to the kitchen he found Fatima baking some heavenly smelling almond cakes and the rotund middle aged woman hugged him tightly, a cacophony of melodic Arabic spilling from her ample lips. James extricated himself politely and grinned at Fatima. Eventually reassuring his oldest friends’ wife that he was uninjured, he arranged hot towels for Kallissa and the firm acceptance that Abdul would sort everything out and he was not to worry. Accepting the large goblet of Cypriot wine from the benevolent hostess, he left the obnoxious stranger in Fatima’s capable hands and climbed the stairs to check on Aisha and Jacob.

“What did she say?”

James reached the top of the staircase to see Aisha standing on the landing with her hands on her slender hips and he was reminded of his mother for the second time in a matter of minutes, an image he did not hesitate to replace instantly with something else more welcoming.

“Not much at all.”

He stated flatly and shrugged his shoulders.

“Well I didn’t like her.”

Aisha declared and James agreed.

“She called me a Frank.”

Aisha chuckled, knowing it was a pet hate of her guardian’s.

“She spoke perfect English to me and her clothing and jewellery is worth more than our house. How would she know to speak English to me; you Saracens always think us foreign white devils speak French!”

Aisha chuckled at the teasing.

“Hey, I am but a lowly Seljuk from Syria; Jacob is a Jew from Antioch and you are the strangest mix of all! You tell me where the three of us could possibly fit in!”

James smiled genuinely and kissed her gently on her cheek.

“The three of us may be the strangest family in the entire world but I love our family and I would not change any of it for all the grain in Egypt.”

Aisha blushed and headed inside the bedchamber with a shy smile, where Jacob lay curled on the enormous four poster bed; sleeping soundly and snoring loudly.

“Is he ok?”

“He is good, apart from his hideous snoring of course.”

Aisha grinned childishly and sat down on the bed.

“He was worried about you; we both were James. You have to look after yourself. What happens to us if anything happens to you?”

The grin had disappeared, replaced with a look of haunted dejection and James approached his teenage ward and wrapped his arms around her, cradling her slight frame to his own, stroking her soft hair as her tears fell across his tunic.

Four hours later, Abdul knocked softly on the door and opened it slightly to peer inside. His large saggy face grinned as he saw James sat on the bed with Aisha sleeping soundly across his lap and Jacob curled into his side, happily snoring like an injured camel. Motioning for his friend to head downstairs to talk, Abdul headed back to the kitchen as James carefully extricated himself from his predicament without waking the children and followed him down the stone steps. The two men hugged briefly in line with their usual greeting and Fatima handed him a second glass of wine with a broad smile and he accepted it readily and graciously.

“Are the children asleep, James?”

He nodded in response and thanked Fatima as she bustled upstairs to check on Aisha and Jacob.

“Have a seat my friend, we need to talk.”

James winced inwardly at the seriousness of the tone and sat heavily on the low stool near the embers of the fire.

“My men have escorted that woman back along the road to Damascus and the scene in the desert valley is sorted. The assassins bodies are now ash, their horses are heading south to the markets and the covered wagon has been burnt. Tracks have been erased so nothing will lead anyone to any of us.”

James smiled and leant over to grasp his friend’s wrist.

“I appreciate it Abdul and sorry for bringing this on you and your home.”

Abdul waved away the apology as unnecessary.

“You did what was right. Allah moved your hand.”

The Muslim smiled at his friend’s discomfort at the mention of Allah and continued.

“To pay three Persian killers from the mountains costs hundreds of Bezants; only a few options there. Your friends in Jerusalem perhaps?”

James shook his head dubiously.

“Peace is holding; barely. They are too busy building trade routes with the West; a war with the Ayyubids would ruin everything for them. The Christians do not want war; slaying a noble woman from Egypt is murder; that could create enough trouble to start another conflict.”

“So, one of the other factions; Mamluk or Seljuk?”

“But what would they gain from a war between Muslims?”

“We have no overall leader James, when my people unite, that is the day for the Christians to worry. The Seljuks want to lead, the Mamluks want to lead, the Ayyubids cling to power. What can I say? May Allah help us all if Zengi takes control; he is an animal to all, regardless of race or religion.”

“In Acre, the Venetians are saying Zengi must be stopped. His power is growing and conquering Edessa in the north has worried the Kingdom of Jerusalem.”

Abdul drained his wine and poured another, topping up his friend before putting the bottle back down heavily on the table.

“We all have a lot to fear from that man. He has bribed, assassinated and conquered to become the Atabeg of Mosul and Aleppo. His armies grow with mercenaries from the Kurds and Turcoman tribes. Zengi promises ‘Jihad’ to strengthen his Muslim credentials but every single one of us know he craves Damascus. Since he took over Homs and massacred the local Muslim population, he rules only by fear. ”

James stroked his stubble and sighed.

“We live in a strange world Abdul; waiting for an inevitable war. By the way, didn’t she leave a pouch of coins on the table….I do not seem to see it anywhere.”

Abdul shrugged, grinned, winked and drained his glass.

“Pah, enough of this talk. I have my contacts checking out this noblewoman to find out who she is and why her death would be so important to anybody? I will know by tomorrow – now, let us get drunk together and then in the morning, we will have forgotten rude nobles and dead Persians!”

“Amen to that.”

James concluded and the two clinked earthenware before draining the sweet alcohol in unison and both reaching for the bottle at the same time, chuckling together like naughty children.

 

Chapter 2

The woman who had called herself Kallissa strode through the elegantly decorated hall to the inner chamber. Her shadow danced eerily behind her as the flaming torches leapt in the whirl of her direct, forceful movement. The Arabian spearmen who guarded the approach all made absolutely certain they did not look upon the robed woman’s face as she stormed past; her face a mask of pure vitriol.

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James closed the heavy door and stripped wearily before gingerly stepping into the heated, scented water that filled the oaken bath tub. Murmuring an expletive as the heat turned his skin pink instantly, he swiftly washed his aching body with the almond soap and then settled back to relax. It had been 24 hours since the incident on the desert trail and he had not heard any news at all from Abdul. Presumably, this meant there was nothing of interest to tell but James was unsure of this. Abdul had many sources across the Holy Land and generally found out the information he required within a few short hours. A lingering sigh brought this train of thought to a sudden end, already boring him with the endless amount of speculation about the attack. Everything had been cleared up without witnesses so there was no possible retribution. It had been an unfortunate incident and they had hardly been the first men he had killed in the East and sadly, it seemed unlikely to be the last.
Dropping his shoulders into the water as it cooled in the ground floor marble and polished stone room, his drifting thoughts meandered to Jacob and Aisha. Neither had reacted badly to the event, which was pleasing after the hardship both had experienced in their short lives and the ‘family’ unit had returned this morning with the trade goods from Abdul and set about the daily tasks without issue. The word ‘family’ caused instant pain and he sank his head below the water for a few seconds before breathing again. His mood darkened. The main reason that he had took on Jacob; the orphan and Aisha; the runaway, was that everybody deserved a happy childhood, no matter of race, creed, religion or circumstance. He truly believed that; due to the fact that his own childhood had been sad, lonely and filled with melancholy. Wiping his face, he attempted forlornly to wipe away the creeping memories that seeped into his brain.
Images of his mother sobbing on her husband’s slain body swiftly morphed into the harrowing scene of his elder brother’s funeral. At just eleven years of age, he lost his father and brother to a holy war, a meaningless crusade against the heathen. His father; Jack, a strong, devout man from middle England died at Sarmada, the battle that ended the initial victories of the Christian forces and eventually brought the two sides to stalemate and a grudging peace. His brother; John, just sixteen years of age had accompanied his father as his page and the arrow head that had wounded him, slowly and painfully killed him in his mother’s arms a few weeks later. The Field of Blood, the survivors from the battle had renamed it after Ilghazi of Aleppo had savagely destroyed Roger of Antioch’s tired and outnumbered knights. It meant that the lonely childhood which James had already struggled with became almost totally unbearable.
His mother; Maria, born in the squalid streets of the innumerable poor in Venice had arrived on one of the very first Venetian ships carrying the hopeful populace to their land of plenty. She settled first in Antioch and then in Jerusalem, where she met and married Jack. A son was born nine months later and when the coastline had become settled and the region of Outremer had been created; the family moved to Acre, where James was born a few years later. The religious conflict ebbed and flowed all around the Holy Land and the family, led by their father were pious and Christian. When Jack and John died, his mother became enslaved to Catholicism; retreating from motherhood and settling into the role of bitter widow; spending more time with the dead than with the living. A Frenchman; Georges; invalided out of the Knights Templar due to his left hand being hacked off in the eight month siege of Antioch, who himself, had lost his wife to illness, spent time with James and taught him everything he knew. In the young boy, he found a willing and eager pupil and James quickly learned to ride, to fight with a sword and knife and how to read, write and speak English, Italian, Latin, Arabic and French.
His greatest achievement and his favourite subject was the use of the crossbow. From an early age, James had excelled in archery but despite his English ancestry, he was drawn to the crossbow; loving its power and its workmanship, the simplicity of its mechanical action and beauty of its design. Drifting into manhood, he saw very little of his mother who preferred the church or graveyard and he became friends with Georges, looking after the old man as the years proved difficult to cope with for him. Georges arranged for James to enter the elite Knights Templar and all the tests had been passed convincingly before his final conversation with his mother ended this commitment. His mother, hysterical and emotionally unbalanced made the sixteen year old James swear on the souls of his father and brother that he would not become a knight and in a confusing mix of family loyalty and honour; the young man agreed.
For the next few years, he remained at Acre, with the support of Georges, becoming a wine trader; his natural charm and personality helping the flow of funds and the gathering of assorted friends; regardless of nationality or religious connotation. Abdul became a close friend and opened up the trade routes to the Saracens and James made considerable wealth, supporting Georges and his estranged mother with bequests and enjoying a carefree lifestyle of hedonism. War became more distant and more Europeans flooded into Outremer, keen to pursue a better class of living in the new world. Life was easy and shallow; lovers came and went and wine, friends and money were plentiful. Georges died, a peaceful death of old age after three score and ten and James gained his house and all worldly belongings, including his ornate crossbow, handmade by artisans of Paris. As overcrowding and religious fervour began to increase in Acre, James decided to sell his business and the house; moving beyond the Southern walls and into the relative wilderness of the rugged coastland. With his plentiful funds he constructed a wooden cabin of his own design, complete with stables and a well; purchasing a vineyard and enough land to breed horses. Abdul provided the skilled labour and the dwelling was built inside a year. With a cursory wave, James left the Christian city of Acre and established himself in his own private piece of heaven.
The loud knocking at the door shook his mind from the thoughts of yesteryear and he smiled as Jacob poked his head around the door.

“Aisha said I should bathe too as I stink badly.”

James chuckled as he watched Jacob say the words with contempt but then sniff his own tunic and contort his face.

“Give me ten seconds to get out and it’s all yours; I will fetch you some more hot water though; it is tepid now.”

Jacob grinned boyishly and murmured something unintelligible but appreciative and his head disappeared back behind the door.

James grabbed a towel and stood in the tub; placing the soft wool around his naked form before stepping onto the cold marble floor. Using a smaller hand towel to dry his hair and face, he called Jacob in and collecting his discarded clothing; he left the boy to bathe; padding to the room next door where he grabbed a large bucket of heated water from the burning coals and warmed the bath. Leaving Jacob to his leisurely soak, he headed into the kitchen barefooted and through it to the wooden staircase which led to the three bedchambers upstairs. Trudging upstairs; he finished drying his toned body and dressed in tight fitting Arabian pantaloons and a deep green sleeveless tunic embroidered in the Venetian style. Keeping his mind clear of memories, he focused on the mundane tasks ahead of him to maintain his vineyard and horse farm running. With thoughts of watering vines and hay bales distracting him, he smiled as Aisha knocked softly and entered his bedchamber.

“Can I accompany you to the docks in Acre tomorrow?”

James had expected the question all day and smiled, agreeing happily as he had not spent much time alone with Aisha in recent weeks; the endless amount of work on his land occupying the vast majority of his time.

“Sure, it should be really busy. New traders are due to arrive from Sicily and Malta so plenty of material, clothing, weaponry, armour and people. Possible buyers for horses and wine as well.”

“Clothing, material?”

The young woman’s eyes widened in undisguised excitement and James grinned.

“Yes and as you have been wonderful with Jacob recently, we can even go and see Zachariah in the marketplace.”

Aisha rushed over and hugged him, knowing that Zachariah was the elderly Jewish owner of the precious gems stall and known as the greatest jeweller in the whole of Acre.

“Thank you James! I will pack everything tonight for us and sort the horses in the morning – you riding Merdlan?”

“Actually, I thought I would take the new mare; see how she copes with crowds.”

He considered thoughtfully, smiling as Aisha interrupted him.

“You mean Chestnut; it was Jacob’s turn to name the new horse.”

The smiling youth needlessly explained and James chuckled throatily as Aisha headed out of the door, her mind a myriad of thrilling possibilities about the morning at the docks and markets of Acre. His mood brightening, James headed back downstairs to the kitchen and grabbing a handful of dates, wondered out into the evening; the intense heat of the region lessening as the fiery sun was slowly sinking into the placid Mediterranean before his eyes. Hearing the two Nubian freedmen herding the horses into the stables in the paddock to his left, he strode towards them to help his workers undertake the unenviable task of coaxing eight horses of very different personalities into the stables for the night.
For two arduous hours, James, ably supported by Aboulias and Jamaal locked up the animals carefully with fresh hay, grain and water. Bidding goodnight to his workers, he made a final round of his lands; a low stone wall marking out the perimeter, before heading back into the kitchen to be greeted by Sharla, his keeper of the home and mother to Aboulias and Jamaal. The hard working, permanently positive African woman in her fifties basically ran the home; cooking, cleaning and educating Jacob but generally mothering all. Due to one of the many conflicts in Nubia; her homeland, during the Egyptian conquest of her peoples; she was taken prisoner and enslaved with her two boys. Drifting through the slave markets, the three poor individuals found themselves in Arsuf where Abdul bought them at a bargain price; setting them to work on his farm. During a drunken game of dice; James gained victory over the Arab and never betting with money; James freed the family from slavery. However, with no home and no Bezants to their name; hundreds of miles from their birthplace; freedom actually meant a new life of incredible hardship. Learning harsh lessons in this part of the world, James reacted by granting jobs and a home and never made a better decision. All three relished their freedom, working hard and becoming an integral part of the homestead; supporting James in building his businesses and family.
In typical fashion, Sharla offered him the strong herbal tea and James accepted gratefully; four years of drinking the beverage had created a liking for the sweet, aromatic taste.

“Are you sure Aisha should accompany you to Acre?”

The admonishment was clear and James nodded, sipping the tea.

“She deserves a treat; she is a young girl who works harder than any girl should. Aisha has been so good with Jacob; they are already bonding like brother and sister. It is much more than I could have hoped.”

Sharla smiled proudly and nodded slowly.

“Well, do not spoil her. She is growing into a young woman and will not be a girl for much longer. But you are correct, it is beautiful to see. When you brought that poor boy back from the north years ago, I was worried. He had seen such things and could have affected us all, especially Aisha, who had finally found contentment herself.”

“We are blessed Sharla and life is good. We are all healthy, the vines are growing rapidly and the horses are coming along nicely.”

“And I thank all of our gods every day; all of my children are well and I mean all five of you. Goodnight James. ”

The woman bustled out of the kitchen, kissing James on his forehead as he sat at the low table drinking, heading to the log cabin near the entrance of the compound, where she lived with her two grown up boys. He smiled as Sharla left him alone to his thoughts. Thinking how fortunate he was and how his life had changed immeasurably richer in the past few years in so many ways; his smile broadened as he listened to Jacob’s chuckling as the boy played some imaginary game in his bath in the adjacent chamber. Upstairs, Aisha was giddy with excitement at her trip to Acre’s plentiful markets in the morning and he drained his tea in contentment. His mother, in the earlier and happier days of his childhood, used to have an Italian phrase that she used often. ‘Vita e bueno.’ It was a simple, beautiful statement and he echoed his mother now as he closed the door on the golden red sun setting on the placid Mediterranean.

“Life is good.”

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The man known to his fanatical followers as Imad Ad-Din Atabec Zengi Al Malik Al Mansir hurled the goblet of Syrian wine against the ornate rug that hung against the wall of the great chamber.

“Why is Allah punishing me? The dogs in Damascus still will not accept me as their master, what more must I do? If I use all of my forces to destroy this city, I risk the Christians attack in the west or the Armenians or Byzantines in the north.”

The aged advisor; Mahmud, remained stoically silent, hoping his expression of understanding was apparent enough to avoid the contempt and aggression of his Emir. Eighteen years of service as his right hand taught him many things and staying alive was chief among them.

“I have taken Edessa from the Christians to prove my strength and what do the cowards claim; this will incite the Franks to attack us and they fear them! I proved to them at Homs and Baalbek, if my own people turn on me, I will annihilate them!”

The shrill voice became more high pitched and hysterical as the glass fruit bowl and cutlery followed the goblet at speed against the wall.

“Fear the Westerners? Fear them? All they have done for the past 10 years is build walls and castles to hide inside. I offer my own people Jihad and they are too frightened to take up arms! The Egyptian scum are stirring to the south, our spies tell us the Caliphate is building his own army of Mamluks and they refuse to accept my authority. Byzantium sits in the north biding its time as we all kill each other and now you inform me the Christians are still crossing the sea to our lands. You tell me that they will attack if I move against any more of their cities. The Armenian campaign has robbed me of troops and money; my Kurdish mercenaries will happily fight against me if someone paid them enough. What do I do? How can I prove myself anymore to my own people to prove I am the One who will unite all our brothers and sisters?”

Zengi spat out the words and slammed his fists on the intricately carved table and tried to reign in his vehemence. His dark, almost black eyes narrowed as he studied the tall, emaciated frame of his only trusted advisor and controlled his rage.

“And now, you tell me that they failed. These Shi’ite warriors that never fail did not do what I paid them to do. You said they never failed.”

Concern rippled through the advisor as those penetrative eyes of darkness stared at him and he coughed apologetically.

“Sire, they have advised that they will amend their mistake as soon as is physically possible and they offer complete apologies for this most unusual failure. They are investigating how this could have happened as they expected only token resistance from her one bodyguard.”

The Atabeg swore under his breath in response to what he perceived as a weak excuse.

“Get word to these people not to bother and to refund my gold. Immediately! I will do what I should have done all along and take care of her myself. Find out where she is and give her my concern; I need to get to Armenia with money for the mercenaries. Some Frankish knights slaughtered a troop of Turcoman archers and now there are rumours of deserters I also need to check on the Kurd; Naim al-Din Ayyub; I gave him control of Baalbek and now his Kurdish mercenaries class him as their leader and not me.”

“Leave it to me Sire, I will pass on your concern and find out what exactly happened and see to it that no stone is left unturned.”

The advisor bowed his head as Zengi strode around the table towards him.

“I want you to personally make sure that my gold is returned, find out how she survived and make sure she is here waiting for me on my return. I want to deal with the traitor myself. “

With the menacing words ringing in his minion’s ears, he abruptly turned and left the room, screaming for his guards to prepare for his journey.

Chapter 3

The expedition commenced badly. Jacob was upset that he was being left behind to be tutored rather than being treated to presents and Sharla had made her feelings well known on the subject of Aisha accompanying him to the heavily populated port, creating numerous images of doom over a simple breakfast of bread and honey. Relieved to leave the gloomy atmosphere behind them, James soon regretted his decision to take the skittish young mare instead of his trusted Merdlan. The journey became arduous in the extreme morning heat of the desert trail as James constantly coaxed, harried and abused the horse into submission, much to the amusement of Aisha; who seemed immune to the array of tears, complaints, moans and forebodings that had been thrown, rather unfairly, her way that morning.
The journey to Acre improved as James felt the burden of responsibility ease with every mile they travelled away from the homestead and Aisha was good company; conversing freely and easily with her guardian; sharing hopes and ideas. The older rider in turn, his usual persona returning, openly discussed his plans for the future with Aisha, trusting her implicitly with details of finance and time frames. His vision of developing and growing the vineyards, creating olive groves as Abdul had excitedly described these as ‘black gold’ and improving the stables to include breeding. Aisha was proud to be included in these plans and the two of them conversed deeply and happily until the high walls of Acre loomed in the distance.
The two riders followed the roughly hewn stone path through Patriarch’s Gate and towards the inner harbour and the dockside market in the Venetian Quarter. James knew the port intimately as his entire childhood and much of his early adult life had been spent in the overcrowded, badly built city. Only the extensive walls and towers that defended Acre had been planned and well-built with excavated foundations and skilled craftsmanship; utilizing the artisans that flocked to the Holy Land from all corners of Europe; England, France, Holy Roman Empire, Austria, Poland, Hungary, Sicily and the various Italian city states. The churches had multiplied in the past two decades and now Acre had no less than six places of Christian worship within the city walls. These ornate, elegant buildings sat unhappily amidst the hurriedly and haphazardly built homes of the booming population; increasing at an alarming rate with every Venetian, Genoese or Pisan galley bringing more citizens to Outremer.
James watched Aisha as her young eyes widened at the sheer scale of the city walls, towers and churches and her face scrutinised the crowds around her. Robed French priests, armoured English knights and Genoan sailors mingled freely with Moorish peasants and Muslim traders, their differing languages creating an incomprehensible chattering which assailed the ears. As the two figures stood silhouetted on the dockside with the morning sun blazing in the azure sky behind them; they watched as a caravel bearing the coat of arms of Pisa across its sails unloaded a dishevelled array of new arrivals of all ages; their eyes wide with wonder, excitement and fear at the ‘new world’.
Safely installing the horses in one of the many stables which punctuated the quayside; a whole bezant was paid to the grinning boy, who promised to groom and look after both animals personally, James explained the reasoning for the arrivals.

“They come from every squalid, poverty stricken corner of Europe – desperate for the better life the Pope has promised them. This is the New Land; God’s Realm; where they hope to find salvation from their previous sins.”

James stated as he watched the newcomers get ushered onto the cobbled streets by the sailors, eager themselves to find a tavern or other form of entertainment in the bustling city.

“And what do they find?”

Aisha asked, squinting in the haze as her eyes followed the steady stream of bodies leave the calm Mediterranean Sea and rush headlong into the alien environment of Outremer.

“Who knows Aisha? Some may find a better life, most will not. Some will remain in poverty, just in a different part of the world. Others will die fighting for their various gods and beliefs.”

The girl contemplated for a moment and then spoke quietly, choosing her words carefully.

“If the Christian God is omnipotent and benevolent and the Jewish God is the same and the Muslim God is the same. Why is there so much death in the name of these gods?”

James looked at his young ward and his smile widened as a youthful bald man wearing simple robes strode from the docks holding forth a wooden cross; his face contorted into a grimace as he mumbled through some form of prayer.

“Aisha, you are the brightest, most intelligent girl I have ever known. Honestly. Now let us go visit Zachariah! If life is so short in this damned land of ours – let us enjoy it.”

Aisha’s dark, oval eyes widened, more than a little bewildered by the effervescent compliment but more than a little excited by the prospect of the jeweller’s wares. The finest crafted gemstones in Acre and perhaps in the whole Kingdom of Jerusalem itself awaited her. For that very moment, she was overcome by love and affection for James and rushed to him, hugging him tightly to her slender frame and kissing his pale cheek softly.

“Thank you.”

The older man was touched by the sentiment; knowing the young Syrian was not prone to sudden outbursts of emotion. He smiled and held her close, surprising himself with the sheer force of his own love for her. Stroking her ebony hair and soft olive cheek, he stepped backwards from the embrace.

“You deserve a treat Aisha. You have helped me so much; with the home, the vineyard, the horses, the stable and especially with Jacob…he adores you.”

He paused and Aisha held his strong, calloused hand, her countenance expectant; waiting.

“You are my daughter in all except blood. You are the closest person to me in this world and I love you with all of me…”

The words became brittle, choked with feeling and James twisted his tanned face to look over the crowded fish market, confident that the ever moving sea of faces was unconcerned with their emotive conversation. Aisha felt the wetness of tears on her cheeks and she wiped them swiftly away with her free hand.

“I love you too. And Jacob. And what we have built from nothing. Our home…our family.”

Her lyrical voice trailed off and both suddenly smiled at the other.

“Just look at the state of us? Come on, let me spoil you.”

“And Jacob.”

Aisha almost admonished and James laughed heartily, feeling alive in the middle of the docks of Acre, surrounded by the market traders calling out their wares in Arabic, French and Italian; the warm sea breeze caressing his skin.

“Yes, and Jacob. And don’t forget Sharla, Aboulias and Jamaal – today, we all get gifts!”

The girl laughed gleefully and literally skipped with pleasure along the low stone wall of the port, skirting past the Venetian quarter and into the densely populated, antiquated area of Acre where the Jews existed. Their wooden one storey, one room homes packed uneasily between the Genoan and Venetian quarters. The shrill sounds of the Italian hawkers abated as the streets narrowed and became little more than cramped alleyways.

“James, my boy and Aisha, you beautiful vision of womankind!”

The booming voice spoke in heavily accented English, which the elderly Zacharias knew both patrons understood and he opened his corpulent arms wide as they approached his garishly coloured store.

“It has been too long.”

He grinned showing a distinct lack of teeth, even for a man of more than sixty summers as he shook hands vigorously with his male guest and hugged Aisha.

“And how are you sweetness? Does he look after you as he should?”

Without waiting for a response, he clapped his hands and a boy, no more than twelve years old appeared with glasses of iced water, a delicacy in the arid lands of the Holy Land.

James and Aisha took the elegant glassware gratefully and sipped the refreshing drink, ducking under the crimson cloth canopy and entering the confined store. A conspicuous guard, clad in a shiny suit of scale mail armour and holding a longsword, eyed the visitors warily from a stool in the dimly lit corner. Zacharias nodded sagely to the swordsman and James drained the glass, narrowing his eyes as he studied the guard evenly.

“We have come to see your jewels my friend. Not your usual cheap imported stuff from Cyprus or Armenia. We want to see your handcrafted items; this is for Aisha.”

The aged owner smirked.

“But of course, something exquisite for the young lady.”

Turning his avaricious eyes to Aisha, he bowed slightly.

“And what are you seeking? I have gold from Egypt, bronze from Syria, silver and copper from Byzantium….”

“A necklace with a golden chain I think…”

Aisha interrupted, exchanging a knowing glance with James, who smiled warmly. Zacharias clapped his hands again and barked orders in Hebrew to an unseen servant. Within a matter of mere seconds, a different boy appeared with a polished onyx tray, an array of delicate gold chains with a variety of gemstones and precious metals interwoven in intricate designs. The young, thrilled orbs studied the necklaces carefully, eventually picking out an elaborate chain with a single blue sapphire pendant.

“This one.”

She stated as James nodded in response to her questioning gaze.

The vendor pursed his lips, nodding in agreement.

“Aaah… that is a beautiful piece is it not? That however, is one of my favourite necklaces but is also one of the most expensive items.”

“I thought it may be you old rogue. Is 30 Bezants enough for you?”

James stated with a wry smile and pointedly ignored Aisha’s worried glance.

Zacharias nodded his balding pate enthusiastically.

“For you James and because I knew Georges so well, I will grant you the artefact at that outrageous price, though it is almost theft.”

He bowed slightly and James stifled a chuckle, mumbling that outrageous was indeed the correct word as he counted out the agreed price and lifted the necklace, carefully placing it around the girl’s sleek neck, stepping back to admire its well-crafted beauty.

“It is an excellent choice. Simple but effective design in only the best gold with a sapphire from the mines in southern Egypt.”

The seller said proudly and James winked at Aisha.

“A pleasure, as always my friend. Now, we have many more purchases to make. Until next time Zacharias, you take care now.”

The Westerner clasped hands and the two men embraced quickly.

“Peace be with you both. Are you going to see your mother while you are in the city?”

Aisha smiled and followed James out of the small shop but sensed her guardian stiffen suddenly and he turned his head to the Jewish owner. The usual gentle hazel eyes flashed with anger and he replied simply.

“No.”

Various questions meandered through the teenager’s inquisitive mind as she strolled in silence and as they moved back into the Venetian Quarter, she chose to stifle the burning desire to understand the history and background of James, instead asking a simple question with a smile;

“Where to next?”

“Alessio’s; for the riders cloaks for Jamaal and Aboulias. Hopefully his sister; Maria will have some of the silk scarves from Syria; Sharla deserves something nice.”

James smiled but Aisha knew it was forced and the hazel eyes were dulled. Her need to ask questions was almost bursting out of her but she managed to focus her attention on something else, wondering why every woman of Latin origin seemed to be named Maria. As the unlikely duo strode through the busy streets, her young eyes widened at the sights and sounds they encountered. Street hawkers called out their wares in Italian; figs, oranges and wheat from the lands in Outremer itself, saffron and cinnamon from the Turkish territories to the east, apricots and plums from Armenia, olives and lemons from Sicily, apples and grapes from Greece and Cyprus, wine from Italy and the Judean Hills, mead, ale and cider from France and England. The sheer variety of foodstuffs excited her senses as James passed them by, apologising and smiling at the vendors as he did so. Moving past the street vendors and into Silk Street, they headed to a brightly coloured shop with deep red awning; the colour of the Venetian Quarter itself.
Entering the store was like entering an exotic, enticing realm as lengths of silks, wool, satin and cotton of every conceivable colour were out on display and in every garment of clothing imaginable and some that Aisha had never imagined. Hundreds of bolts of fabric lined the wooden shelving across every wall. The small, dark haired woman in her thirties looked up and smiled genuinely as she recognised James and Aisha watched her rush around the counter and hug him tightly.

“James! Alessio did not say you were coming? Oh it is so good to see you.”

Pulling away to appraise him she turned her flushed face to Aisha and crouched down to kiss her cheek.

“Aisha, you have grown. How old are you now? You are turning into a beauty, but your clothes, we must dress you properly!”

“Fifteen.” Aisha mumbled, suddenly self-conscious as she looked down at her riding breeches and her favourite tunic, which seemed dull and worn in such a store.

“Fifteen! You are practically a woman Aisha. I could make you something perfect for your shape. So slim, you are so lucky!”

James smiled at Aisha and he pushed the melancholic thoughts of his mother out of his mind as he saw Aisha blush at this well-meaning but embarrassing Venetian onslaught.

“Stop embarrassing her Maria, we do not live in Acre and attend parties like you and Alessio; we live and work on the land. Where is Alessio anyway?”

“I am not embarrassing you, am I Aisha?”

Maria beamed, rubbing the girl’s cheek and causing yet more colour to rise; the polite fifteen year old shaking her head although her eyes screamed out for the seamstress to stop. Stifling his grin, he looked around, repeating his question.

“He is where he always is these days. ‘The Caravel’.”

The final two words were almost spat out and James winced. ‘The Caravel’ was one of the largest taverns in Acre and had established itself in the Genoese Area of the port, its reputation was poor with a brothel upstairs and card games in the cellar rooms. Few nights passed without violent incident and it instantly brought back memories of yesteryear for him as he had frequented the very hostelry throughout his late teens and early twenties when he lived with Georges. Since leaving Acre, seven years ago, he had not been back but rumours of money lending and criminal activity still made their way down the desert trail. His instincts told him to be worried for Alessio, who had been a constant drinking and gambling partner all those years ago and who, had the unfortunate ability to get involved in trouble whenever the opportunity would arise.

“Aisha, are you ok to stay with Maria for a while. I need to go and see Alessio. Choose the riding cloaks and scarf for me, you have better taste anyway and if you want a new outfit, go for it but do not let Maria bully you into anything you do not like.”

He winked at Maria and kissed Aisha briefly on her forehead and exited the store.

“So is James still not married then…?”

Maria smiled broadly at Aisha and the girl giggled at her obvious statement as the Venetian strolled to the door and closed it, rotating the sign to ‘Closed’.

“I think we are just going to have the best afternoon! Now, think pretty!”

Pausing to hear the laughter from behind him in the haberdashery, James grinned and was pleased that at least Aisha was in good hands, he headed to the inn in trepidation, knowing that at mid-morning, a man who spends his time at such an establishment was a drunk, a gambler or something much worse. Sighing audibly, he instinctively felt for his short sword and wished he had not left the comforting feel of his crossbow with his saddlebags at the stable.

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The aged, emaciated soothsayer shook the worn leather pouch and scattered the contents onto the bronze plate; her wild eyes staring at the assorted teeth and bone splinters that came into contact with the metal and fell haplessly in the fresh animal blood that covered the salver. Peering closely at the human shards, she scraped the lifeless grey wisps of hair back from her forehead and stared gleefully at her Mistress.

“Mistress Nadirah, the omens are auspicious. He who tried to slay you shall he himself be slain within one year. His kingdoms will be split asunder but the Lion of Islam will come to unite our people and claim victory over the outlanders.”

The weeping eyes glazed and Nadirah watched the seer in tense quietude; the sweltering heat of the small room creating beads of perspiration to appear across her covered forehead.

“Your funds have helped His father claim His ascent to power but we must watch over him Mistress. He is but seven years old and a feeble boy. The prophecy will be fulfilled but there are dangers.”

“Dangers?”

Nadirah whispered hoarsely and the elder woman nodded gravely; picking up the contents of the tray and dropping them delicately back into the pouch before emptying them on the metal again. Spreading the blood with her elongated brittle fingernail, she studied the signs and gasped an oath.

“The Frank! The one who saved you from the assassins… Mistress, he crosses your destiny.”

Nadirah smiled slowly.

“The life of one miserable Outlander does not concern our prophecy. We need to continue to destroy Zengi’s power first, starting with that old fool Mahmud. I will enjoy dealing with him myself.”

“And the Frank, Mistress?”

“Forget about him…for now at least. If he still appears in your visions, I will deal with him when the time comes.”

The wizened crone cackled shrilly as Nadirah pulled the cowled robe around her slim shoulders and departed the chamber.