Standard of Honor

FIVE

Lulled by the steady, familiar rhythm of the horse’s gait, Sinclair had no thought of falling asleep in the saddle, but when the horse halted suddenly, whickering softly, he snapped awake, excitement and fear flaring in his breast. He recognized instantly that he had been asleep, and he was already wondering what his folly might have condemned him to. But there was no danger that he could see, no one close by, and no threat that he could perceive. The only element of the scene that was extraordinary was that his horse was standing stock-still, its ears pointing straight ahead.

There had been no cliffs within sight in any direction the last time Sinclair had looked about him, but now, no more than fifteen paces in front of him, a rocky escarpment towered above him to a height more than four times his own. More wide-awake now than he had been in days, he stared at the rock ahead of him, at the diagonal black slash of the fissure facing him, and at a spear, not unlike the one he had abandoned earlier, that stood in front of it, its point buried in the sand. He knew that if it was similar in length to his own it must be half-buried. He knew, too, that there might well be someone waiting inside the cave mouth to attack him, possibly someone with a bow, and that to remain where he was without moving was inviting attack.

He was on the point of wheeling away when his eyes returned to the upright spear shaft.

Lachlan Moray had found the litter made of two spears, one of which Sinclair had used as a staff; the other he had left behind in the cave where he had sheltered from the storm. What if there had been a third, he wondered now, and Lachlan had taken it with him? Unlikely, yes, but not impossible. He had been unconscious most of the time Lachlan had dragged him on the bier, and he had been behind him all the time. And if that were the case, the half-buried weapon in front of the fissure in the cliff might well be that same spear, thrust into the ground as a signal. Two paces behind it, the fissure rose stark and black from the sand that must surely have filled it, at least partially. Moray might be lying in there, asleep or injured.

Sinclair dismounted, lowering himself as gently as he could. He drew his long-bladed dirk and walked forward cautiously, squinting against the glare reflected from the rock face as he peered towards the black incision of the cave opening. But it took only two paces to reveal that he was looking at a shadow, not an opening in the wall. A bladelike protrusion in the surface jutted towards him; its sharp-edged facade blended perfectly into the stone face behind, and it formed a sheltered corner, its vertical edge casting the hard, dark shadow he had mistaken for an entrance to a cave. Annoyed with himself for having dismounted to no good purpose, Sinclair straightened up from his crouch and was on the point of turning away when something, some nudging of curiosity, urged him to approach more closely and make sure that the sheltered nook was, in fact, as empty as it now appeared to be.

It was not. Wedged into the corner of the shallow cleft, the head and upper torso of a man were clearly discernible beneath a light covering of sand, slumped but apparently sitting upright in the angle made by the two walls. Sinclair’s immediate reaction was elation that Moray had found shelter and survived, just as he had wished and hoped. He advanced quickly, dropping to his knees and brushing away the sand from the cloth-wrapped head. The head moved, jerking away in surprise or protest from the unexpected touch, but Sinclair’s fingers had already hooked into the edge of one layer of cloth and the sudden movement pulled the covering free, exposing part of the face beneath. Within a heartbeat he was upright again. He brought up the point of his dirk, then stood there, swaying.

The inch or so of skin and hair that he had seen did not belong to Sir Lachlan Moray. Lachy’s hair was blond, almost red gold, and his cheeks were fair, constantly burning and peeling and never tanning in the desert sun. Whoever was lying in front of Sinclair now was no friend. The skin of that face was a deep nut brown, and the hairs about the mouth were black and wiry. Sinclair backed away another step, his dirk poised to strike. He knew he was in no danger, because the man in the corner was even more deeply buried than he himself had been, and he remembered how difficult it had been for him to struggle free. As he stood there, looking down at the recumbent form, his eye caught a small, peaked irregularity in the windblown surface of the shroud that masked the man, and without removing his eyes from the still concealed head in front of him, Sinclair sheathed his dirk, then stooped and groped at the protrusion with his fingers, finding the hilt of a sword.

He straightened up slowly, pulling the weapon with him, and found himself holding a Saracen scimitar, its curved, burnished blade worked in the intricate Syrian fashion known as Damascene. It was a fine blade, he knew, and that told him that its owner was a warrior, and therefore doubly dangerous. But Sinclair knew he had no need to kill him. All he need do was walk away, remount his horse and ride off, leaving the infidel to his fate. But even as he thought that, Sinclair knew he would not do it. He too was a warrior, and he lived by a warrior’s code. He had never killed anyone who was not attempting, in one fashion or another, to kill him. Already cursing himself for a fool, he thrust the sword point-first into the sand, close to hand, and knelt by the slumped form. As he took hold of the wrapped cloth again, the figure in the sand stirred violently, but Sinclair merely lowered his splinted arm to the area of the man’s sternum and pinned him with it while he unwound the multiple loops of cloth from about the head, then backed away to look at what he had uncovered.

The face that looked back at him was, as he had suspected, unmistakably Saracen, thin and high browed, hawk nosed, with prominent, tight-skinned cheekbones beneath deep-set, narrow eyes so dark that they appeared to be uniformly black. Lips and chin were covered in black, wiry, glistening hair, each strand apparently coated with its own covering of sandy dust. The eye whites were discolored and angry looking, irritated probably beyond bearing, he suspected, by the same grit and dust, but the face itself was not angry. The word that sprang into Sinclair’s mind, unthought of for years, was Stoic, and he thought it apt.

The Saracen, unable to move, gazed at him without expression, clearly waiting to see what he would do next, and for several minutes neither man moved or made a sound.

Finally Sinclair drew in a breath. “Right, laddie,” he said in his native Scots. “Let’s have you out o’ there.” He raised a finger to his lips in warning, then drew the dirk from its sheath and held it up for the Saracen to examine before he thrust it into the sand by his right knee. Then, without another word, he bent forward and began to scoop the sand away, starting beneath the man’s chin and baring his shoulders before going on to free his left arm, exposing a shirt of fine chain mail that reminded him of the one he had found on the dead man. From that point on the Saracen worked with him, thrusting the accumulated sand away from his own body. Twice Sinclair repositioned himself, throwing the scimitar behind him out of reach the first time but keeping his dirk close to him yet safe from the other man’s grasp.

They worked together, the only sounds their heavy breathing as they labored, but when Sinclair finally dug his hand beneath the level of the fellow’s waist, to scoop an armful from between his buried legs, the other grunted deeply and jerked his arm into the air in an unmistakable signal to take care. Sinclair sat back and blinked, wondering what he had done wrong, but the Saracen bent forward and indicated where his left leg must be, making vigorous shoveling motions and obviously telling Sinclair to continue. The Frankish knight went back to work, but as he did so, he saw the caution with which the Saracen now worked on freeing his own right leg, and understood that the leg must be injured. He saw, too, how haggard the man had become since first they started digging, and the recognition reminded him of his own thirst. He straightened abruptly and walked back to his horse, on the far side of the sheltering wall, where he retrieved the larger and fuller of the two water bags, and as he returned he could hear the Saracen spitting sand. The sound stopped as soon as Sinclair’s shadow came into view, and as he rounded the edge of the blade of rock he found the man he had already begun to think of as Blackbeard staring at him as he had before, stoically, his face expressionless.

Sinclair leaned against the cliff wall and lobbed the heavy water bag towards the other man, who caught it with both hands, his face registering surprise for the first time.

“Go ahead, laddie. Drink.” He nodded, and the Saracen nodded in return, his face unreadable again, then began to remove the bag’s stopper. Sinclair watched him wryly. “It’s a grand thing to have two hands when you need to drink from a bag, is it not?”

The Saracen had stopped before the bag reached his mouth, his eyes on Sinclair and his incomprehension plainly visible. On the point of repeating what he had said in Arabic, Sinclair caught himself and continued in his native tongue. “Go on, drink, but pour some for me.” He drew the metal cup from inside his jerkin and tapped it against the splints on his useless arm, then moved forward, his hand outstretched. The Saracen glanced at the arm, then nodded his understanding and filled the cup. Sinclair sipped delicately and rinsed his mouth, spitting before he took a second, proper sip and returned to lean against the wall. The Saracen did the same, rinsing his mouth carefully and deliberately before spitting the resultant mud out with some delicacy. He looked again at Sinclair, clearly asking permission, and when Sinclair nodded, he repeated the sequence, then took a third sip with evident relish, washing it around his mouth but swallowing it this time.

“Go ahead. Take more. And wash your eyes, for I know just how you feel.” Sinclair picked up the cloth that had wrapped the fellow’s head. He took one end of it and flapped it until it was relatively free of sand, then mimed wetting it and bathing his eyes before handing it to the other man, who watched him cautiously and then did as Sinclair suggested. When he had finished, he hefted the bag, clearly asking Sinclair if he wished to drink again, and when Sinclair shook his head he corked the bag deftly and set it down beside him. Sinclair stepped forward and retrieved the dirk that was still stuck in the sand, then stood looking down at the other man.

“I have a question here, Master Blackbeard: are you my prisoner, or am I yours? I have the dirk and your sword, but I’m no’ certain they’ll do me much good, gin it comes to a fight. It will depend, I’m thinking, on that leg o’ yours, for if it’s in better shape than my arm is, then I might have to pay the piper.” He paused, debating with himself on the best course of action, but well aware that he would have to finish the task he had begun. “Come on, then,” he said, shrugging, “let’s find out.”

Several minutes later, he unearthed the Saracen’s buried left foot and brushed off the last of the sand from the leg, but the Saracen himself was still proceeding very cautiously with his right, brushing delicately at the sand and clearly concerned about what yet lay beneath it. Soon enough, Sinclair could see for himself what was wrong. The leg was heavily bandaged and splinted, and it had clearly been done by someone who knew how. Sinclair laughed aloud, although there was no humor in the sound.

“Well, we’re the fine pair, are we not? Six good limbs between the two o’ us and both o’ us so useless, we canna even talk to each other, let alone fight.” He hoisted his arm and tapped the steel bolts of his splints with the blade of his dirk, and for the first time a hint of what might have been a smile flickered at one corner of the other man’s mouth.

“Well, we might as well have another drink, because I canna think what to do next. I doubt I’ll be able to climb back onto my horse wi’ this damn arm, lacking a mounting block, and even if I could, you couldna get up behind me.” He picked up the water bag again and handed it to the Saracen. “Here, you pour better than me, so pour away.” Moments later, his cup brimming, he moved away and sat carefully on a heap of sand. As he reached down to balance the cup carefully at his feet, the hilt of the jeweled dagger slipped out from the folds of his jerkin. Before he could push it back in, he heard the Saracen’s gasp, and he looked up to see a strange, wide-eyed expression on the man’s face.

“What’s wrong? Is it this?” He pulled the dagger free and held it up, and as the man looked at it, Sinclair saw something enter his eyes, and then his face went as still as it had been before.

“Where did you obtain that knife?” The question was in Arabic, but Sinclair had anticipated it, and he kept his own face blank as he shook his head and shrugged, as though not understanding a word. He could not have explained to anyone why he was pretending ignorance, but he knew instinctively that it was the right thing to do. The Saracen frowned, then made another attempt.

“How did you come by that?”

The question was in French this time, and Sinclair’s eyes widened with shock, but he answered immediately in the same tongue, genuinely pleased to have a means of communicating with this man without revealing his understanding of Arabic.

“I found it, this morning. On a dead man. Several miles from here.”

There was a long pause before the Saracen said, “You killed him?”

Sinclair heard pain in the question and he shook his head, then lifted his rigid arm so that it rested on his upraised knee. “No,” he said, adjusting the arm to make it as comfortable as possible. “I told you, I found him dead, buried like you. Who was he? It’s plain that you knew him.”

The Saracen paused, but then he dipped his head in acceptance. “His name was Arouf. He was youngest brother to my wife. He was sorely wounded when he left here. The bleeding had been stopped for hours by then, and the wound was packed and tightly bound, but it must have opened again while he was riding.”

“He took your horse and left you here?”

“There was no other choice. We were three men, with two horses. Arouf rode north in search of help, and Sayeed rode east. They left me here safely in the shade. None of us knew the storm would come.”

“So the other man, this Sayeed, may still be alive?”

“Aye, if Allah so wills. If it is written in the Angel’s book. If it is not, then it may be written therein that you and I will die here, together.” He looked about him. “But we will not die yet. I, too, have water, and a bag of food, buried somewhere here by the wind.”

Sinclair ignored that. “What happened to your leg, and who did this?” He waved towards the splinted limb.

“Sayeed saved both of us. He is learned in the healing arts.”

“A physician?”

“No, a warrior, but he was trained in youth by his father, who was a famed physician. Sayeed never followed his father’s craft, but he remembered his teachings on the care of wounds.”

“And he rode east?”

A dip of the head. “I have said.”

“In search of whom? How came you here? Were you at Hattin?”

“Hattin? Ah, you mean Hittin …” The Saracen’s brow wrinkled then, but he plainly resisted the impulse to ask what was in his mind and simply answered the question. “No, I was not. We were on our way to Tiberias, in obedience to the Sultan’s summons, when ill fortune befell us.”

Sinclair reached down and handed the water bag to the Saracen again. “Tell me about it, since we have nothing better to do, and then we will find your food and water. What happened to you?”

The dark-faced man sat thinking for a few moments, then began to speak.

HIS NAME WAS IBN AL-FAROUCH, he said, and he had been in the southwest, riding with a reconnaissance force near the town of Ibelin on the coast when a courier arrived to summon them to Tiberias, eighty miles away. They had set out immediately on receiving the command, and along the way had met a wounded man who had, mere hours before, escaped from a nearby village that was being attacked by bandits. The bandits, the fugitive told them, had numbered fewer than twenty, but the villagers, lacking their men of fighting age, had been unable to resist them. The name of the village, which meant nothing to Sinclair, had caught the attention of al-Farouch immediately, because he had an aged uncle, fond brother to his mother, who lived there. Angered at the thought of his uncle, who had always been kind to him and to his family, being molested and perhaps even killed by godless brigands, he had sent his men on their way, but had ridden with an escort of ten hand-picked companions to administer justice to the raiders.

Unfortunately, he said after a lengthy pause, in his anger and indignation he had underestimated his opponents, not merely their strength but their number, taking the word of the fugitive at face value. He and his party had ridden into a cleverly constructed ambush in a steep-walled wadi, and he had lost seven of his men, shot down from concealment, before he could even begin to collect himself. Only Sayeed, Arouf, himself and one other had managed to fight their way free, three of them, and two of their mounts, wounded. The fourth man had died of his wounds soon after their escape, as had his horse, and Sayeed had cut the throat of Arouf’s horse some time after that, when the deep slash in its belly had finally split and spread, spilling the beast’s entrails to tangle in its hooves. Arouf, pressing a cloth to his bleeding groin wound, had then mounted behind Sayeed, and the three had kept riding until they found this place, where they had stopped for the night. Sayeed, the only one unhurt among them, had stanched the bleeding in Arouf’s groin first, sprinkling it with some powder that stopped the flow of blood, after which he had strapped the wound up tightly. He had then tended to al-Farouch’s leg, the smaller bone of which had been snapped by a crossbow bolt. He cleaned the wound, set the bone as well as he was able, and then bandaged and splinted the limb, which he expected to heal completely.

They had spent the night here together, all three of them, and when the next day dawned they discussed what must be done. Their companions would be far ahead of them by now, and might even have stopped to wait for them, or turned back to search for them, but all three men knew that the odds against their being found without assistance left little hope. And so al-Farouch decided that Sayeed would ride out in search of the others. Arouf would have none of that, swearing he was sound enough to ride, now that the bleeding from his groin had stopped. He would ride out with Sayeed, overriding his brother’s wishes for the first time in all the years they had known each other. He would take the northern route while Sayeed searched farther to the east. Al-Farouch, whose splinted leg made it impossible for him to mount a horse, would remain where he was, with a supply of food and water sufficient to sustain him for seven to eight days, by which time one or both of the others would have returned with help. The two then rode off, leaving al-Farouch’s round shield hanging from his upended spear to serve as a sign on their way back.

“And now you know as much as I do, ferenghi,” al-Farouch concluded, using the Arabic term for a Frank and lapsing back into silence.

Sinclair sat silent, mulling over what he had been told. If Sayeed had survived the storm and found his fellows, they would return here and that would be the end for him. He could still depart on the horse, he knew; one way or another he could contrive to mount it again, even without a mounting block, now that he knew its placid nature. He thought of looking out again to check that the horse was still nearby, but instead he leaned forward and spoke to the Saracen.

“How is it that you speak our tongue?”

“One of your tongues,” the other answered drily.

“When you spoke at first, in that first tongue you used, it fell upon my ears like the gibbering of djinns. What was that noise?”

Sinclair grinned for the first time in days. “That was Gaelic, the language of my people in Scotland, where I was born.”

“You are not, then, a Frank?”

“No, I am what they call a Scot, but my family came there from France a hundred years ago. When the call went out for warriors to come here, I joined the army.”

“Are you a knight, then? I see no badges of rank on you.”

“I cast them off with my armor when I found myself afoot in the desert. There are too many ways to die out here without being foolish enough to seek one, weighed down with useless steel and heavy clothing.”

“Ah, I see. Plainly you have been here long enough to learn a smattering of Allah’s wisdom, praise His name … But you came here to kill Saracens, no?”

“No, not exactly. I came because my duty as a knight summoned me here, to Outremer. Killing or being killed is merely part of the knight’s code.”

“You are of the Temple, then?”

Something, some unidentifiable element of menace in the simple question, made Sinclair change the affirmative that sprang to his lips, but he managed to dissemble without either lying or, he thought, betraying himself. “I am a knight,” he drawled. “From Scotland, many days from France by sea. Not all the knights in Outremer are of the Temple or the Hospital.”

“No, but the Temple djinns are the most dangerous of them all.”

Sinclair let that statement lie as it fell. “You did not answer my question, about how you came to speak the language of the Franks.”

“I learned it as a boy, in Ibelin, where I grew up. There was a Frankish lord who built a fortress there, after the capture of Jerusalem, long before I was born. He took the name of the town as his own. I worked there when I was a boy, in the stables, and I ran and played with his son, who was my age. I learned to speak their tongue, as the boy learned mine.”

Sinclair was frowning. “Ibelin … Mean you Sir Balian of Ibelin? I know him. I rode with him from Nazareth to …” He broke off, aware that he might be saying more than he ought, but al-Farouch was already nodding his head.

“It would be he. His name in our tongue is Balian ibn Barzan, and he is a powerful man among the ferenghi nowadays—a knight, but not of the Temple.”

“Are you still friends, then?”

The Saracen shrugged. “Who can be friends, as Muslim and Christian, in a holy war of jihad? He and I have not met in years, not since we were boys. We might pass each other in the souk and not know it.”

Sinclair slapped his good hand on his thigh and straightened his back, turning to squint out into the brightness behind him. “We should eat something. All men share that need, even in a jihad, no? When did you last eat?”

Al-Farouch thought, his lips pursed. “I cannot remember, but it was a long time ago.”

Sinclair stood up. “I left my horse—your horse— saddled in the sun, and he must be suffering. If I bring him in here, close to you, will you help me to unsaddle him? It’s difficult to loosen a tight girth with one hand.”

“I will, if you can bring him close enough that I can reach him.”

A short time later, the horse seen to and its saddlebags removed, Sinclair dropped the saddle to the floor of the little shelter and sat on it while he rummaged in the bag that held the food, withdrawing a large piece of dried meat and the sharp little knife. He threw the meat first and then the knife to the surprised Muslim, who caught it easily, hilt first. “Here, you have two hands and can cut better than I can. Cut us to eat from that, while I see to the rest.”

The Muslim set to slicing the hard meat without comment, while Sinclair extracted dried figs, dates, and bread from the saddlebag for both of them.

They ate in a courteous, strangely companionable silence, each immersed in his own thoughts. Sinclair reflected upon the unlikelihood of the circumstances that had brought him to this point, placidly sharing a meal with an enemy who, under any other conditions, he would have attempted to kill on sight. He wondered if his silent companion might be thinking the same thing, but then his thoughts returned to the veiled threat he had suspected in the Saracen’s question about the Templars, and he began to take solemn stock of it.

Sinclair had no means of knowing whether his cautious response had been any more necessary than his decision to conceal his knowledge of Arabic, but he felt comfortable with the way he had deflected al-Farouch’s curiosity. He was indeed a Temple Knight, and he suspected that the Saracen would have accorded him little in the way of approval for that, but there was much more to Sir Alexander Sinclair than mere membership in the Order of the Temple, and he had good reason to be reticent about who he was.

Sinclair was a highly placed member of the clandestine Brotherhood of Sion, the secret society within the Temple that had founded and created the Order for its own ends, decades earlier at the turn of the century, and which still supervised and guided the Order’s policies. So secret was the brotherhood that not even its existence, let alone its activities, was suspected by the rank and file of the Order, and although many of the most senior officers of the Temple belonged to the brotherhood, many others of equivalent military rank lived out their lives and died without ever being aware of the brotherhood’s existence. Prime among the latter was Gerard de Ridefort, the current Master of the Temple, who, although prized and honored for his courage, military skills, and high-principled audacity, had been deemed unqualified, thanks to his pride and hotheaded arrogance, to enter the brotherhood.

Membership in the Brotherhood of Sion was not lightly bestowed. Its members were few and bound by oath and loyalty to utter silence and secrecy, and they seldom met in plenary session. Whenever they did convene, it was under the guise of traditional celebrations called Gatherings, and those were always held in secure and private properties owned by senior brethren of the Governing Council. There the brotherhood would assemble, surrounded by their families and friends, most of them kinfolk, and while the celebrations and rejoicing went on above, in the public spaces of the hosting family, the brotherhood would gather secretly in the lower reaches of whatever castle had been chosen as the venue, to celebrate their own clandestine business of initiations, instruction, and promotion, their activities unsuspected by the other celebrants at the Gathering.

Individual members of the organization were not distinguishable in any way save one, and even that knowledge was secretly guarded, close held among themselves, although it was a distinction that no one who was not an initiate could ever see. Every man of them was selected from one of a federation of aristocratic clans known among themselves as the Friendly Families, all of which lived in the region of southern France known as the Languedoc, so called because the region had its own ancient language. The name literally meant “the tongue of Oc,” or “the place where Oc is spoken.” The association of the federated families dated back more than a millennium, to the first century of the Christian era, when the founders of each of the clans settled together in southern Gaul after their long overland flight from the Roman destruction of Jerusalem in the year 79.

Their collective Jewish roots were the greatest secret of the brotherhood, for their families had assimilated seamlessly into local society soon after their arrival, and they had now been Christian for a thousand years, blissfully ignorant of their Semitic origins. Only the initiates of the ancient Brotherhood of the Order of Rebirth in Sion knew the truth, passed down in secret throughout the generations of that same thousand years, and they alone undertook to shoulder the great responsibility entailed in that knowledge, their singular entitlement safeguarded and reinforced by the inflexible edict that only one male member from every generation of each of the Families could be eligible for initiation.

Sir Alexander Sinclair, chosen from among seven brothers in a family that had produced no daughters, had been admitted to the brotherhood on his twentieth birthday. None of his siblings, all of whom were now of age and two of them knights of the Temple while a third rode with the Order of the Hospitallers, ever suspected that their brother Alec held a secret station above and beyond any of theirs. And because the duties imposed upon him by the brotherhood had made it all but impossible for him to interact normally with his brothers in their workaday world of filial and familial obligations, Christian dedication, and feudal loyalties, they chose to believe that their brother Alec was an ingrate, guilty of turning his back on his family responsibilities. Alec had had no other option than to shrug and appear to accept their condemnation.

And so he had disappeared into the secretive world of the brotherhood, where the Governing Council, having assessed and quantified his every trait and capability, began to educate him in a specific way, for its own purposes. Alexander Sinclair, Knight of the Temple, was a spy for the brotherhood.

“You are deep in thought, ferenghi.” Al-Farouch’s French was fluent, despite the guttural overtones of his Arabic diction. Sinclair smiled wryly and scratched at his scalp.

“I was thinking about my situation here, thinking I ought to climb back up onto your horse and make good my escape before your friends arrive to rescue you.”

“If they arrive. Nothing is certain but what is written, and it might be Allah’s will, blessings upon His name, that I should remain here and die.”

Sinclair thought about that for a while, then nodded slowly. “I find myself believing that Allah might be reluctant to discard a weapon as strong as I suspect you might be for him … I was also thinking that I do not enjoy the thought of simply riding off and leaving you here alone to live or die, strange as that might sound to you.”

The Saracen’s eyes narrowed to slits. “More than strange. It smacks of madness. Why should you care what happens to me here, when every moment that you remain places you in deeper peril of being taken, if my men arrive?”

A bleak smile flickered on Sinclair’s lips. “Call it a family weakness, bred in my bones: that no man of honor should ever leave another to die when he might either save him or help him.”

“Honor. It is …” The Saracen paused, searching for a word. “It is a concept, no? A reality without substance. One that is given much … external recognition … but is truly understood by very few.”

“Even among the faithful of Allah?”

“Even so, alas, as I am sure it is among your own kind.”

“Aye, yon’s the truth …” Sinclair had lapsed back into Scots, but even so he could see that the man across from him had understood his tone.

“What is your name, ferenghi? You know mine already.”

“Lachlan Moray.” The lie sprang naturally and unbidden to Sinclair’s lips.

“Lachlan … That almost sounds like an Arabic name. Lach-lan Murr-ay.”

“It might, to your ears, but it is Scots.”

“And you have but little beard. I thought all Frankish knights had beards.”

Sinclair scratched ruefully at his stubbled chin. “It is true. I would never be mistaken for a Templar were I in the midst of them. But if I stay out here much longer the beard will grow and I will regret that. I have an affliction, even in the eyes of my comrades, in that my face has little hair and my skin is … do you know the word ‘delicate’?”

The Saracen shook his head, and Sinclair shrugged. “Well, as my beard grows, the skin grows scaly and itches painfully, and so, to maintain my sanity and keep from scratching myself bloody, I choose to keep my face clean shaven, when I can. Few of my fellow Franks can understand that.” He said nothing of the fact that being clean shaven enabled him to wear a false beard of whatever shape and texture he required from time to time in the course of his work.

“Tell me of Hittin … Hattin, as you call it.”

The request was straightforward, but couched as it was in a mild command, it caught Sinclair unawares so that he sat blinking, unable to think of a response.

The Saracen sat straighter, flexing his shoulders. “You asked me when you first arrived if I had been at Hattin, and the tone in which you asked caught my attention. I was not there, as you now know, but Hattin is close to the place you call Tiberias, and the Sultan, may Allah smile upon him, summoned us to gather there. Was there a battle there? Is that why you are here alone?”

Sinclair silently cursed his own carelessness, but there was no point in lying now. He sighed. “Aye, there was a battle.”

“I see. And it was … decisive?”

“Aye, I fear it was. We were defeated. Your side was victorious.”

“Allah be praised. What happened?”

“What happened? You ask me that? Have you ever been in a major battle, involving thousands of men?” “I have, several times.”

“Have you ever held supreme command in such a battle?”

The Saracen frowned. “No, I commanded my own men, but I am no general.”

“Nor am I. So you know as well as I do that a warrior in a battle has little awareness of what is happening in the overall sense of the fighting. He only learns of victory or defeat from what he sees at the end of it. In the midst of it, he strives to protect himself and his men—to stay alive.

“This battle at Hattin was enormous. We had the strongest army ever gathered solely in the kingdom— more than thirty thousand strong. Knights, Turcopole allies and infantry. Your Sultan, Saladin, commanded at least twice our number, probably more, and we were beaten. I saw only glimpses of the main battle, from afar. I was wounded and unhorsed early, breaking my arm, and then was left behind in the fighting. I had a friend with me and we escaped together that night. We decided to make our way back to La Safouri, but we were overtaken by the storm.”

“Where is your friend now?” the Saracen asked.

“Gone. Somewhere in the sands. He dragged me behind him for two or three nights—I was raving mad from my injuries—and then he went looking for water, leaving me asleep in a cave he had found. When I woke up the storm had arrived. I have not seen him since. He could be anywhere. I pray he is alive, but I fear he may be dead.”

“So what will you do now? Where will you go if you ride away from here?”

“I have no idea. There might be no place for me to go.” Sinclair grunted, part laughter, part disgust. “Perhaps that’s why I am loath even to make the attempt.”

Al-Farouch held up a peremptory hand, his head cocked suddenly as though listening. Sinclair strained to hear what it was that had attracted his attention, but he heard only the stillness of the desert, and eventually the Saracen lowered his hand, shaking his head.

“I thought I heard horses approaching.” He looked at Sinclair, one eyebrow rising high on his brow. “I suggest, however, that if you are contemplating an escape from here you should leave now.” Sinclair turned his head slightly to gaze out into the gathering dusk, mildly surprised that the day had vanished so quickly. “I have been thinking about that,” he said, before turning back to al-Farouch. “And I find that I have a conflict to resolve in my own mind. We spoke of honor briefly, a short time ago, and honor, in my life, involves responsibilities that we Franks call duty.”

Al-Farouch nodded, his face impassive. “We, too, have duties, some of them more onerous than others.”

“Very well then. Since you understand the concept, as you called it earlier, perhaps you can help me to resolve my dilemma. This day is almost done, so were I to leave now, I would be riding out into the darkness with nowhere to go and no knowledge of how to get there, for the sole purpose of avoiding capture by your warriors. I might achieve that anyway, simply from their failure to come here at all. Then, on the other hand, I might ride straight towards them in the darkness if they do come, for I have no means of knowing the direction they’ll come from.

“My dilemma is this: if I ride off blindly into the desert now to avoid capture, with no knowledge of where I am going, will I be acting honorably, because it is my duty to win free, or will I be guilty of dereliction of duty by acting foolishly and endangering my own life needlessly? Do you see what I mean, Master Saracen? Is my duty better served by riding off in the darkness now, perhaps to die, or by remaining here and taking my chances?” Neither man spoke for a moment, and then Sinclair resumed. “Besides, as I’ve told you before, I like not the idea of leaving you here alone … And so I have decided to stay here until the morning comes. Then, providing there is no sign of your men, I will make you comfortable and ride far enough away to avoid capture, and there I will wait. If your rescuers do not appear, I will return and eat with you, for nothing will have changed, and I will still not know where to go.”

Al-Farouch ran the tip of his middle finger down the length of his nose and pressed it against his pursed lips. “Why do you say you do not know where to go? Were your losses at Hattin so grave?”

Sinclair rose to his feet and went to lean against the edge of rocky wall that formed their small shelter, staring out into the approaching night. When he spoke, he did so without turning his head. “Night comes quickly here, in the desert. In Scotland, where I grew up, the evening light at this time of the year can linger for hours after the sun goes down. There is no word for it in French that I know of, but we call that time of lingering betwixt day and night the gloaming … It is the loss at Hattin, more than our losses, that concerns me—the defeat itself, rather than the casualties, although God knows they were appalling. Your Sultan, from all I know of him, is not a man to ignore an opportunity sent from God, and to his eyes that is how his victory at Hattin will appear. Tiberias will have surrendered to him by this time, I suspect, with the army crushed, and I already know his men have taken La Safouri, and probably Nazareth, too. Were I he, backed by a victorious army and knowing that the Frankish forces are in disorder if not completely destroyed, I would march on Jerusalem at once.” He straightened up and turned back towards the other man. “And that, I fear, leaves me with few places to run … When did you pray last?”

Al-Farouch blinked. “Some time ago, at the appointed hour. You were here. You simply did not notice.”

“Should you not have faced the east?”

The Saracen smiled. “Allah requires our prayers, but being merciful, He does not insist that we torture ourselves when we are disabled. I will pray properly when I am able, but until then I will pray as I can.”

“Well then, when did you last defecate?”

The Saracen’s eyes went wide, but then he shrugged. “The morning my friends left, but I have eaten little since then, so I have had no pressing need.”

“But you’ve eaten now. Can you walk on that leg at all, if I support you?”

“I believe I can.”

“Good, and did your friends dig a latrine?”

“They did, close by but far enough removed to be inoffensive. It is ten paces to the right of the entrance.”

“If I can help you there, are you capable of seeing to your own needs?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Good. Now, if I help you to stand up and walk, will you attempt to kill me?”

The merest hint of a smile showed in the Saracen’s eyes. “Not before you bring me back in here, despite my oath to destroy all infidels at any opportunity.”

Sinclair grunted, then moved forward, his good arm outstretched. “So be it, then, let’s see if we can raise you to your feet. Be careful of my other arm, for it is as badly broken as your leg, but not so well bandaged. Once you are up, we’ll go outside and I will leave you to do what you must. Call out when you are done and I’ll come and help you back.”

By the time they had completed their business at the latrine, full dark had fallen, and they sat together in the darkness of the small corner that was their shelter. They talked of small, unimportant matters for a time, but the night was utterly still and they were both tired, so they soon fell asleep, head to foot in the narrow space, and Sinclair’s last thought was that he would have to be awake and away by dawn.

SINCLAIR CAME AWAKE when a callused hand clamped itself across his mouth and chin, but his protesting reaction was stilled instantly as he heard a deep, guttural growl and felt the edge of a cold knife blade at his throat. He lay motionless, waiting to die. Dawn had yet to break, but there was movement all around him, and he knew he should have anticipated this development.

“Who is this ferenghi dog? Should I slit his throat?” The voice came from directly above him, and he felt the pressure on the blade at his throat increase, preparing to slash. But even as he began to tense for the blow, the voice of al-Farouch stayed the other’s hand, ringing out with an authority that was absolute.

“No! Do him no harm, Sabit. He has shared bread and salt with me and I am in his debt.”

The man called Sabit grunted and sat back on his haunches, removing his hand from Sinclair’s face but continuing to hold the knife to his throat, although it was the flat of the blade that pushed now against his skin. “How can you be in debt to a ferenghi, Amir?” His voice was rich with disgust. “He is an infidel, and therefore you need not be bound by our holy laws in dealing with him. The very idea is laughable.”

“And you would see fit to laugh at me for being compassionate, Sabit?” The hard tone of al-Farouch’s swift retort was sufficient to make Sabit remove the knife from Sinclair’s neck.

“No, not so, Amir. I was but—”

“You were but challenging my judgment, I believe.” “Never, Amir.” Sabit knelt upright, swinging to face his superior. “I merely thought—”

“That is strange, Sabit. Thought is something I have never known in you before. I require no thought from you, merely obedience and loyalty. Are we in accord on that?”

“As you say, Amir.” Sinclair did not have to see the man to know he was crestfallen.

“Excellent. Now offer thanks to Allah for His blessings and my good humor, then take the ferenghi outside and hold him where he cannot overhear us talking. He professes not to understand our speech, but I think we might have much to discuss here and it makes sense to be cautious.”

“Allahu Akbar. My obedience is yours, as always.”

As the man called Sabit lurched to his feet, al-Farouch changed languages, from Arabic to his rolling, heavily accented French.

“You should have ridden off last night, Lach-Lann, as we discussed, for now you are a prisoner. My lieutenant Sabit is a good man, but a man of firm, sometimes misguided ideals. He was set to cut your throat.”

“I could tell.” Sinclair fought to keep his voice calm. “I thank you for my life.” He hesitated. “I heard him call you Amir. Did you not say your name is Ibn?”

“It is their name for me,” the other man said. “I am emir to them, you understand? We live far from other speakers of our tongue. The Bedouin say ‘Emir,’ but where we live, we say it differently, ‘Amir.’ Now go with Sabit. He will look after you while I confer with my officers, for my men are here in strength. They will bring me up to date on all that has happened within the past week. In the meantime, Sabit will take you apart from us and hold you safe until I decide what must be done with you. Go with him, and give thanks to Allah that I was able to stay his hand before he could harm you. You will be safe in his hands now.”

“I thank you again. Clearly you are a man of more authority than I had suspected. I will go with your man.”

“Go now then. Sabit will assist you. Help him up, Sabit.”

The last sentence was in Arabic, and as Sabit moved to obey, Sinclair was able to discern his face and shape in the strengthening light. He was a huge man, with the twin clefts of a deep scowl between bushy eyebrows, and a fiercely hooked and bony nose. He wore a spiked helmet with a folded white kufiya draped loosely over it, its ends thrown over opposite shoulders so that the folds covered the lower half of his face. His right eye was covered with a black patch, from which a livid scar stretched down, plainly visible even in the wan light, to disappear beneath the layers of cloth that obscured his mouth and chin, and the fingers of his left hand caressed the hilt of the long, curving sword that hung by his side. He extended his other hand, glowering fiercely, and Sinclair used it to pull himself up to his feet, where he stood swaying for a few moments before stepping towards the mouth of the fold in the cliff. The Saracen fell into step behind him, one warning hand on his shoulder.

A silence fell as Sinclair stepped out from the shade into the open, and he looked about him curiously. More than a hundred men, most of them still mounted, were staring at him in the dawn’s light. Not a man of them spoke or moved as Sabit prodded Sinclair forward with a gentle finger, but every eye in the throng followed the Frank as he proceeded some thirty paces along the base of the cliff until his escort’s hand closed over his shoulder again.

The big man pointed at the ground, waving downward flat-palmed with his other hand in an unmistakable gesture. Sinclair sat down without further prompting, leaning his back against the rock face, and watched as two of al-Farouch’s men, their hands linked to form a chair, carried him out from the niche that had sheltered him. They stopped, facing their comrades, who roared out their greetings to their chief in a manner that left no doubt of the affection and approval they held for him. Sinclair was impressed but not really surprised by their welcome, based on his own impressions about al-Farouch’s character and temperament. He was surprised, however, when the mass of mounted men parted to reveal a matched pair of white horses harnessed to a vehicle of a kind that he recognized but had never before seen. It was a battle chariot, a light, two-wheeled conveyance that was little more than a basket-sided platform mounted on high, slender wheels, but he saw at a glance that it had been equipped with a seat that would permit its rider to sit in comfort and control the vehicle despite his broken leg. A richly dressed warrior led the horses forward, and al-Farouch’s attendants raised him up carefully to where he could reach out and haul himself into the seat. He raised his hand and waved to his men, drawing a renewed burst of cheering.

Moments later he issued a quiet command and the assembly broke up. Most of the men dismounted and formed into casual groups, while others, evidently officers of one description or another, followed al-Farouch’s chariot as he led them away from the gathering to where they could talk without being overheard. Sinclair abandoned any thought of attempting to listen after that, for even had they been shouting at each other, hearing what they said would have been impossible from where he sat. Instead, he settled himself to wait in as much comfort as he could, aware of the formidable and watchful Sabit looming above him, and of the sun’s gathering strength on his face. Careful to show no emotion, he covered his face with the folds of the kufiya the big man had tossed to him moments earlier, crossed his arms on his chest, and bent his head as though to sleep.

He was startled when Sabit prodded him with his foot, for he had not expected to fall asleep, but when he looked up wide eyed he saw the other reaching for him again with his right hand. He took it and hauled himself up to his feet, then adjusted the sling on his arm and followed the big man. Al-Farouch sat waiting for him in his chariot, and he was aware as he went that he was being scrutinized by every man there.

Al-Farouch nodded solemnly to him, then stroked the point of his beard between thumb and forefinger. He spoke in French.

“Well, Lach-Lann, it appears that you were right to be concerned about where you might run to, and I am impressed with the accuracy of your predictions. Tiberias surrendered to the Sultan as soon as they heard of our victory at Hattin. He was merciful, as always, and permitted the defenders to depart unharmed. Suffiriyya and Nazareth also fell to us, as you foretold, and the Sultan, may Allah continue to shed His light upon him, has besieged Jerusalem and is expected to win back the city and drive its defenders into the sea before we can arrive there. Palestine, your Latin Kingdom, is ours again, free of the Frankish yoke, and the other territories that you call Antioch, Edessa, and Tripoli will soon be equally blessed. Our lands will be united under Allah from northern Syria to Egypt.”

Sinclair stood wooden faced as this was all recited to him, then nodded his head.

“What of the battle, my lord? Know you the extent of our casualties?”

“I do.” There was no trace of raillery or gloating in al-Farouch’s demeanor. “The Turcomer infantry attached to your knights was destroyed, without survivors. Of your original twelve hundred knights, more than a thousand died. The Crow of Kerak, the foul beast called de Chatillon, is dead, personally cut down by Saladin in fulfillment of his oath to do so.” Al-Farouch paused, and a new expression, something unidentifiable, sharpened his gaze. Sinclair braced himself for whatever might come next, but it was not at all what he expected to hear.

“Also dead, I am told, at the express command of the Sultan, are more than one hundred Temple Knights, taken in the battle and executed later.”

“They executed prisoners? I do not believe it. Saladin’s name would never recover from such an atrocity.”

Al-Farouch’s right eyebrow twitched. “Saladin’s name? You mean his reputation among the Franks? The Sultan’s name is revered by the followers of Allah, by the warriors of Islam. It matters nothing, to any of the Faithful, what the infidels might have to say about his name or his reputation. This is the man who has sworn the holiest of oaths to sweep Islam clean of the pollution of the Franks, and he ordered the execution of the Temple Knights because he believes them to be the most dangerous men on earth. He has issued a decree that henceforth no Templar will ever be allowed to go free and fight against us again.”

Sinclair could not think of anything adequate to say in response to that, and nodded. “What will you do with me now? Am I to die, too?”

Al-Farouch barked a laugh. “Die? No, you are not to die. I owe you a life. But you will be my prisoner, until such time as you are ransomed. Do not be alarmed,” he added quickly, seeing Sinclair stiffen. “You will not be treated harshly, so be it that you cause no trouble. We will teach you to speak our tongue while you are among us, and expose you to the words of Allah and His Holy Prophet Muhammad, blessed be his name. We may even teach you to bathe and to dress like a civilized man, but that will depend on how long you remain among us. In the meantime, I have given Sabit charge over you. You will find him swift to deal out punishment and retribution, but he really is not a harsh taskmaster unless provoked. Your Frankishness would normally provoke him grievously, but I have warned him against permitting himself that enjoyment. Go with him now, but before you go, learn your first lesson in Arabic. ‘Sala’am Aleikhem.’ It means hello, greetings, welcome, and it also means farewell and goodbye. The response to it is to repeat the same words. And so I say to you, until we see each other again, Sala’am Aleikhem.”

“Sala’am Aleikhem,” Sinclair replied, wondering whether he ever would see his home again, for these people believed his name was Lachlan Moray and no one would ransom Sir Lachlan Moray, a Scottish knight with no affiliation to any major group. There was no Templar knight with such a name, and there was no one out there, even among the brotherhood, who might be capable of divining the truth of what had happened.

Sabit stepped forward and clamped a hand on his shoulder, and Alec Sinclair moved obediently in response, taking his first real steps into captivity as he made his way, under guard, to the horse—al-Farouch’s horse—that had been reserved for him in the center of the Saracen formation.