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grondficBy way of explanation:
My entries on LJ and on Dreamwidth are becoming further and further apart since The Split. Just to complicate matters, this entry is a clumsy attempt to amalgamate another of my LJ personae with that of Grondfic. Anyone interested in my fragmented Robin of Sherwood fic can follow the first 8 parts from the link below, and then return to this latest episode.
I've beenarthurrat for many years. The journal houses my everlasting WiP Chronicles of Guy of Gisburne. HOWEVER, the site became 'lapsed' and in trying to update the password, I've buggered it up worse, just as I was about to add a further chapter. Fortunately, it's still accessible and readable (Parts 1 - 8 linked here: https://arthurrat.livejournal.com/1236.html)
AND SO at the particular request of Isabeau de Navarre ....
Here is Part 9: The Wolf and the Panther
Pairing: Guy of Gisburne/Nasir (Sarak/Nasir implied. Philip Mark/Guy implied)
Rating: Hot
Disclaimers: All characters from Robin of Sherwood are owned by Richard Carpenter, Anthony Horowitz, Robin May & the RoS production team.
Notes: This story takes place 2 - 3 years after the end of Series 3 in a very distant and different setting from Sherwood.
Warnings:
Implied death of character from the Canon
Learned footnotes warning (found at end)
Era-specific slavery
We rode into Acre at sunset and were immediately informed that a Frank from the west had been enquiring for me by name. Urgently. Every day for two weeks.
I threw my horse's reins to the Nubian we'd bought to keep the rooms during our many absences, and stood waiting for Nasir to dismount.
"I do not like this news," I told him in my stilted Arabic.
I got a grunt by way of response, which I interpreted as agreement. He left his horse mid-courtyard with the reins trailing, and strode off up the well-concealed outer stairway to our private quarters under the roof. This meant he was displeased. I sighed as I made ready to follow him, gathering our saddlebags, and risking a quick look over the stair parapet at the main street-entrance on the other side of the discreet building.
Business in the main part of the house looked to be brisk tonight, with a steady stream of clients trailing through the doors below us. It seemed our joint investment was beginning to pay its way. I'd check the figures with the proprietors later, I decided.
I hated it when my partner was out of sorts. His habitual silence took on an unpredictability - almost a violence - that rendered any place he inhabited Enemy Territory. It was as if he was once again alone in an alien habitat.
I found him lighting the lamps in our room. Normally this was my job. I loved the way the oil-fed flames illuminated translucent alabaster, or shed intricate patterns of flickering light through latticed metalwork. I squandered a great deal of money in lamp-street whenever we visited the city. Nasir tolerated my extravagance and covertly, I thought, enjoyed lamplighting as much as I did.
I heaved the saddlebags through the door, and began to unpack them. Not until I'd locked the money away into the big chest in the corner did I pause to remove my sword-harness. Although now accustomed to the intricate straps that held the curved blades across my back, I occasionally still found myself reaching for the place on my hip where my longsword used to rest.
The atmosphere altered subtly. I looked up and found myself caught in the narrow beam of his concentration.
"Tomorrow -" he barked suddenly in the Saxon tongue he'd learned (minimally) during his years in Sherwood, "You stay here. The boy and I go to the Templars. Now call him!"
"I want to come too. I can stay out of sight."
"No!"
"But it might be my father, or Rob. Even if not - where's the risk, Malik?"
"You stay. Now call the boy!"
It was useless to argue further. If I did, he would decline to be drawn now; but I'd likely wake tomorrow to find myself hog-tied or chained to the pierced stonework of the partition. Sometimes, partnering Nasir Malik Kamal Inal Ibrahim Shams ad Duala Watthab ibn Mahmoud was no less frustrating than being steward to the Sheriff of Nottingham. If the word `Malik' in his list of titles had not already alerted me, I would have known he had acknowledged royal blood by the completely arbitrary way he behaved sometimes. The parallel with King John was occasionally very striking.
The Nubian appeared at the door before I could call. Nasir once more took change, this time in Arabic.
"Bakhvi - tell them downstairs that we wish to use the bathing rooms. These must be cleared immediately."
"But Malik, they'll be full of paying customers." I objected.
"Durr-ad-Nudhar,(1)" he replied with heavy patience, giving my detested title its full weight in contempt, "Until we know who requires you, we must keep secret. Therefore you will not be seen downstairs. The rooms must be cleared. Take gold, Bakhvi."
He then relapsed into silence. He'd already said more in the last half-hour than he had for the previous three days. He must take this unknown enquirer extremely seriously.
Sometime later, however, I found myself appreciating the privacy of the bathing rooms. They dated back to when the Romans ran Outremer, and were heated from below by some very complicated system of warm air ducts. They were situated in the basement of our business, and were almost as extensive as the lake at Rafadim oasis. They also had the advantage of scented water, and a variety of interesting pre- and post-bathing facilities.
I stretched out luxuriously, letting the water take my weight and wincing as the wet got to the latest newly-healed addition to my impressive collection of scars. Nasir had been extra-displeased about this since he'd had to deal with it himself, rather than calling in a healer from the local Bedu. I'd had it from a lioness last full-moon, and it ran down my right arm, clear from shoulder to elbow. I didn't let on, but (once assured that my sword-arm was in working order), I was immensely proud of it.
My last thought that evening, as I rolled into a real bed for the first time in six months, was that if I wasn't welcome on tomorrow's reconnaissance expedition, then maybe I could catch an extra hour's sleep.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Berbers!" announced the senior of the three house-proprietors in his precise Norman French, "Believe me, warrior, they're all the rage. We should clear the short-let rooms of the free-whores and buy in a consignment of Berber slaves."
"And then next week there'll be a rumour they're overrated, or carry the pox," argued the youngest of the trio (herself an ex free-whore), "The girls won't come back if you throw them out, you know. And that-there Isadora's one of the house's main pulls."
"That," I acknowledged, casting my eyes down the figures, "Is very true. I'm not much in favour of following fads myself, Archimandros. How many Berbers have we got at the moment?"
"Six," he replied sullenly, "I bought in two more this week."
"Well then, double their prices and put a strict ration on their time - just whilst the craze lasts. That way you cater only for the richest marks, and get a name for quality and exclusivity. Make sure they're clean, won't you? Spend what you need on apothecary's fees. And try not to overwork them, hmm? They last longer that way. Now ... "
I broke off and turned at a gentle touch on my shoulder.
"Bakhvi! Am I wanted?"
The Nubian gestured me away from the little group of our employees, then whispered in his heavily-accented Arabic.
"The Master says you know the man. We have him upstairs sleeping of necessity. Come - but wear this."
`This' was one of those blasted stifling mask-veils such as Sarak had worn to cover his scars. I was sure that, had I been Nasir's slave and not his partner, he'd have had me in one of these all the time. As it was, I suspected he was ashamed partnering such an obvious Frank (as all westerners were known in Outremer).
"Shit!" I said, loud enough for the others to hear.
I noticed that the ex-whore understood the Saxon tongue. I must check her further. I suspected that she'd had a variety of identities in the past and that the current name she answered to – Lalume(2) - would not get my enquiries very far. However, she had a shrewd business head on her still-pretty shoulders, and better ideas than Archimandros and Ephraim. However, now was not the time ...
"Later - after noon-meal!" I called back to them as I took the headdress from Bakhvi.
Still cursing, I found a thong to bind back my hair before arranging the intricate veiling over my head and face. The eye-pieces didn't quite fit, as usual. I wondered just how necessary this charade would be, especially if my unwelcome guest was `sleeping of necessity', as Bakhvi had poetically described the result of being hit over the head by Nasir. Why should he do that? - unless he regarded the man as an enemy to us both ....
I took the stairs two at a time, and found Nasir waiting for me at the top.
"It's de Rainault, isn't it?" I panted.
His raised eyebrow told me that my guessing had surprised him; and his fractional nod that it was an accurate guess.
"Shit! It's been more than two years. Why?"
He shrugged as I approached the door of our rooms, now shockingly invaded from a life I'd left so far behind that it belonged to someone else.
"How do we play this?" I paused before opening up. "Just you at first, with me doing my best furniture impression?"
He nodded; and I unlocked the door, wondering as I stood back and humbly bowed him in before me, whether he'd bother to ask any questions, or just sit there looking enigmatic until the Sheriff told us everything out of sheer frustration.
The room had been shrouded to make it as anonymous as possible, and Nasir had been extremely sparing with the number of lamps. I blinked behind the gauze eye pieces and made out a slumped figure on the pile of cushions in the centre of the room. I relocked the door, and turned back as Nasir took his accustomed place on the low divan, looking every inch a sultan. One of these days, when I'd finished my apprenticeship and the partnership was on a more equal footing, he'd pull that trick once too often, and I'd hit him. I'd promised myself.
I was going to have to go over and touch the Sheriff, since he was still out cold, and tied into the bargain (all the wolfsheads had been extremely thorough over this detail, I remembered). First, however, I slid through into our sleeping quarters and brought back a damp cloth and a bowl. He looked in poor shape; and I wasn't taking any chances. We didn't want a corpse on our hands, especially as he'd been known to be asking for me.
I compressed the cloth on the expected lump on the back of his head, splashed water on his face, and waited. After a moment he slid sideways, coughed and vomited. Lucky I'd remembered the bowl. Nasir would be displeased at any mess on the cushions.
As I cleaned his face and helped him to sit up, it became apparent that de Rainault was very ill. I didn't count myself a healer - merely an amateur herbalist - but even I could see the symptoms. The dried and discoloured skin pointed to a recent attack of the flux - common enough amongst newcomers here. Beyond that, however, lurked something darker. I took my hands from his flesh abruptly, not wishing to know.
I nodded to Nasir and withdrew again, this time to throw some dried mint into water over the brazier. From behind the screens I could hear the dialogue - what there was of it - begin.
"Sheriff," I could almost see the regal inclination of Nasir's head, "You ask the Templars regularly and persistently for Guy of Gisburne. Why is this?"
"I have nothing to say to wolfsheads - wherever they appear!" The Sheriff's tone exactly matched the one he'd used to tell Grendel he would rather die than have any truck with the Sons of Fenris. I smiled wryly beneath my covering veils. His loss.
Nasir was nonplussed. Negotiation wasn't his strong point. There had been a time when it wasn't mine either; but I'd had to learn during the long land-and-sea journey from Sherwood to Outremer. I reappeared in the doorway, pleased to see that my entrance was hardly noted by de Rainault.
"Malik," I said in Arabic, "This is fruitless. And the man is dying. Let me free him, and find out what he wants."
"You were never so tender with the Hooded Man." he growled.
"The past is past. I .... "
"Guy?" de Rainault, straining in his bonds to look, had recognised my voice.
"Malik? Min fadilak!(3)" I appealed. He gave his minimal, most displeased nod.
"Shokran. Shokran gazillan!(4)" I said fighting my way out of the veiling, "Well, Sheriff, to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"
He stared at me, mouth ajar, but said nothing as I leaned over to cut his wrists free. As I did so, I became aware of the stale smell of vomit on his breath, and other odours indicative of his illness. He was far from the dapper figure who used to preside over the great hall at Nottingham Castle.
"You need water, Sheriff. Wait. I'll get some."
"You will not!" barked Nasir, once again in Arabic, "We do not offer bread and salt to enemies!"
"You told me water is the gift of God to all men," I retorted, "But if you insist, I'll charge him for it. This is a house of business, after all."
I decided, as I decanted and cooled the water, and strained it into an earthernware cup, that I wouldn't mention the mint or the honey I'd dissolved into it. Nasir would probably decree that these additions counted as hospitality.
"Here!" I returned and handed the cup to de Rainault, "Don't drink it all at once or you'll bloat and probably throw it all up again. Take it down slowly, and when your mouth feels less dry, you might try answering our questions."
The Sheriff took a cautious sip.
"What .... ?" he began.
"It's not poisoned, Sheriff." I interrupted hastily.
"I never thought it was, Gisburne." he replied in a pale echo of his usual style.
I pulled a spare cushion across to the divan and sat down, leaning against the edge furthest from the distant thundercloud that was Nasir.
"I'm not generally known by that name here." I informed de Rainault.
"The Templars knew it."
"Well, they administer my allowance from England, and pass on any letters. I usually contact them once or twice a year, when I'm in Acre."
"Do they know you've gone native? Quite a little addiction of yours, isn't it, Gisburne? First wolves, now filthy Saracens."
I blinked beneath this sudden onslaught, and swung my gaze to Nasir's accusatory eyes. The message - `What did you expect? This is your mess; now deal with it!' - was written clear all over him. I'd get no help there.
"I hope your father - whoever you claim he was - would be proud of you," de Rainault was continuing, "At least the Earl and Edmund were both real crusaders. You couldn't even do that right, could you? God's Teeth - have you looked at yourself in a glass recently?"
He was working himself up into a feverish fury. I could see no reason for it. Did he really hate me enough to waste what little time he had left in hunting me down, merely to revile me?
"Shall I tell you what I see?" he screamed, "I see an eunuch! Fancy robe like a woman's, and hair halfway down your back. What have you become? The Saracen's bum-boy?"
I stood up quickly. Nasir would kill him if he carried on in this vein. And probably me as well.
"Quiet!" I said warningly, repeating Nasir's training litany in my head (`Anger is no use to the true fighter. You must learn not to waste the energy. Use it up in action.')
"Truth hurt, does it, Gisburne? Face it. You always had the soul of a whore - for sale to the highest bidder. Hugo, Philip Mark or ex-Queen Hadwisa; even that filthy sorcerer Gulnar. And why? I'll tell you, shall I? Because at heart you're a coward. A coward, you hear? Twice you had me at weapon-point, and I faced you down. Well, here I am - unarmed again. So what's stopping you now, Gisburne? Do it - I dare you!"
There was a change in the atmosphere behind me. I turned back to Nasir and found him relaxed in a position of total relief. All the tension of the past two days was gone. I'd probe that later, I decided. At the moment, just glad to be freed from between hammer and anvil, I turned back to deal with de Rainault.
"Sweet Christ, Sheriff! You've spent the last fortnight bandying my name all over Acre, and likely putting me and my right-side partner in danger, purely so that you can bait me into killing you. You don't have to explain why - I know. A quick death, eh? That's your coward's way out. How long do you think you have?"
He slumped into the cushions, letting the empty cup roll across the floor.
"I'm not Sheriff any more," he mumbled, "Backed the wrong side ... Barons - Kings ... all too difficult with this dragon eating my gut out .. nothing but an embarrassment to Hugo ... bundled off to save my soul ... you think I have a soul to save, Guy?"
"We all do. Even Hugo says so."
"I wouldn't believe everything my dear brother says, if I were you." he advised with a flash of his old humour.
"D'you have anyone here with you, de Rainault? Where are you staying?"
"Yes. Hugo bullied our nephew into bringing me here. Appealed to his family loyalty I believe. We've a room at court."
"Young Martin? He'd be about - what? - fifteen now. Where is he?"
"He'll be running around the Templars' headquarters like a headless chicken, searching for me." he replied with a sour, satisfied smile.
Nasir surprised me by getting slowly to his feet.
"I go!" he announced heavily, "Martin knows me. He will remember. Durr-ad-Nudhar -" he added in Arabic, "Is there food he could take? If so, you may arrange it."
"Shokran gazillan, Malik." I followed him to the door, unlocked it for him and leaned out, calling for Bakhvi.
"It is not for you to thank me," replied Nasir turning on the stairs, "But for him."
"Not until Hell freezes, Malik," I grinned, "But I do regret that you had to hear .."
"Say nothing. The man is underbred .. and dying, as you rightly saw. I commend your restraint, my Wolf."
He was gone down the stairs on the word, leaving me to digest this quite unprecedented compliment.
I gave Bakhvi some rapid instructions to pass on to the house kitchens, before returning to our rooms. De Rainault was sitting where I'd left him, but had made himself more comfortable, and seemed more alert. I pulled one of the shutters open to let in a shaft of bright morning light; and he looked about him with a fair assumption of interest.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"These are our rooms over our business, de Rainault. We own a public bathing house. In Nottingham that would translate as high-class brothel - not that there were any as exclusive as this in Nottingham."
The Sheriff - ex-Sheriff, I reminded myself - began to laugh weakly, and I grinned back, knowing what was on his mind.
"Yes - all those so-called pilgrimages you used to go on when King John was expected were just a cover for your visits to the brothels en route. Why should this one be any different?"
He indicated his grey pilgrim's robe.
"Not very stylish, is it? Nor am I in much condition to pull, in this exclusive premises of yours. What a shame - I could have requested a reduction in rates."
"No chance, de Rainault. This is business. We even charge for looking."
"That sounds more like you, Guy. You've changed beyond recognition, you know. Lucky you spoke before I saw you."
"I took a vow - about not cutting my hair," I looked away, embarrassed, "But I admit the robes are better worn in the desert."
"They're very .. becoming. Especially without that dreadful face-mask."
"Oh, that. We both wear them when we hire as mercenaries. They add to the general air of menace. But Nasir prefers me hidden. Ashamed of partnering a Frank, I should think."
"You think that, do you? You didn't see his face when I was baiting you. I had hopes he might do it, if you didn't - but for a different reason. He didn't care what I was saying - not at first. He was just terrified I'd come to get you back to England. I expect he hides you for that reason."
I thought about this, and it made sense. Nasir had been displeased ever since we'd heard about someone asking for me. He'd been very displeased about my encounter with the lioness too. I'd been out at full-moon running with the wolves, and we'd stumbled across her after our kill. Nasir had been furious when, after he'd bullied whatever I could remember of the encounter out of me, it became obvious that she'd only attacked us because I'd inadvertently led the pack between her and her hidden cubs. I was told - in very few words and a rigid body-stance - that I'd been irresponsible to forget our partnership even when I was half out of my head with the glamour of the full-moon and the wolves.
"He's invested a lot of time in training me." was all I said to de Rainault vaguely
"I'm sure he has!" he replied smoothly. "As what?"
"His left-side partner. It means those blasted double-swords, I'm afraid. And short-bow at full-speed on a galloping horse. So what happened at Nottingham?" I asked, blatantly changing subject.
"I picked the wrong side." he sighed.
"That's not like you," I observed, "It was more my style, if I recall."
"You should never have left, Guy. It was so much easier when you were there. I always knew to take the opposite side from the one you picked. It never failed."
"Merci du compliment!" I said politely.
"I ran through three stewards in two years," he continued unheeding, "Two were killed by outlaws. The third is now Sheriff, having informed King John that I'd been talking to young Pembroke and some other rebellious barons. Only talking, mind you. Our Liege said I was lucky to keep my head." he sighed again, "Now I wish he'd taken it. They say it's very quick."
"Oh Robert," I said, putting my hand on his thin shoulder, "I'm sorry I couldn't oblige you."
"You never called me that before." his hand over mine was hot, sere, dry as old leaves.
"I .. " but I got no further.
With the touch, the dark thing that I'd sensed before leaped up to overwhelm me. He'd called it a dragon, but to me it had no form. It was merely a hunger and a monstrous growth which, though emanating from his own flesh, was eating him. In my head, an insane voice was chanting -
Hay is for horses,
Straw is for the cow,
Milk is for the little pig,
Death .... death ..... death(5)
I understood somehow that the rhyme wasn't yet complete; he had a little time. I listened to the echoes ... three days? Did having the knowledge mean I was under obligation to divulge it?
"Guy?"
"I .. was wondering what you plan to do?" I said with an effort at lightness.
"Do? I'm dying, Guy."
"Yes," I acknowledged, "But do you want to die within sight of Jerusalem? That's what most pilgrims come here for."
He thought about it for a while. I was grateful for the time to recover as well. Bakhvi and the food arrived into the silence and I took it from him quietly, dismissing him with a nod.
"Here," I said softly, "Try eating this. It's pap, of course, but you might be able to keep it down."
"What is it?"
"Milk and honey. What else would it be?"
His smile was a mere grimace. The pain must be constant now.
"I never was a religious man, Guy. You know that. No - now I've wasted all my energy in finding you - for no good reason; what was I thinking of? - I think I'll just lie down and wait."
"Three days." I whispered.
"Do you say so? Promise?"
"I .. " I swallowed, "I know."
"I'll come and haunt you if you're wrong. This stuff of yours tastes quite good, but I've had all I can take." he moved restlessly, "Where's your Saracen with young Martin?"
"You're still so impatient, de Rainault! You've got to give them time to stalk around the Templars' quarter, miss one another a time or so, not recognise one another because Martin's grown up and Nasir's probably wearing his face mask, and finally stage a touching reunion in the street."
"You get some quite funny lines these days, Gisburne,(6) " he rejoined, "Who's writing your script?(7) "
"Best if you can write your own, don't you think?(8) Ah - that sounds like movement on the stairs."
"Isn't he writing it for you?(9)" he asked slyly, just as the door opened to admit Nasir and a trim adolescent who I had no trouble in identifying as Martin de Rainault, titular head (I supposed) of the clan.
After that, things passed in a blur. I was suddenly exhausted, as much with the banter I'd forced myself to with de Rainault as with the Dark Thing. To know the time of a man's death - this was a healer's power. I recalled someone being brought to me in secrecy when I was very young and Maman still had the care of me. I'd been backhanded by Edmund and had hit my head on the stone flags of the floor. An old peasant women (but then, they all looked old to me). The words "... live this time... a long life, My Lady, and a death far away". And the heat in my body. Afterwards, when I asked, they'd told me she was a wisewoman and hushed me at Edmund's approach. But I'd known she had the power. A Healer. It frightened me - what had I become?
Distantly I watched Martin arrange for a litter to be hired, and when it arrived lift his uncle quite effortlessly from the cushions. I noted de Rainault had soiled them after all. The place would need fumigating.
"Guy?"
"It really is Adieu this time, Robert."
"I told you - I'm not a believer. But think of me three days hence, hmm?"
"I'll know." I told him grimly, and for the first time ever, kissed him.
"He needs poppy juice," I said to Martin, not caring to make it private, "The Little Sisters of Christ will help you."
Then he was gone, and I was calling for Bakhvi so loudly that my voice cracked.
"Get those cushions out! Buy more, and get the room sweetened! And tell them downstairs that I need the baths. Alone."
"But ..."
"Alone!" I roared, "Just tell them to get it cleared."
Bakhvi directed a startled glance at Nasir, and bolted.
There was a period then, when Nasir was talking - actually talking to me non-stop, not one word of which I could remember afterwards. Nor could I recall any replies I might have made, except towards the end when I told him to fuck off and leave me alone. He did; and it was only much later that I thought about the level of mortal affront I might have caused.
It seemed forever before Bakhvi reappeared, tight-lipped and disapproving, and told me the baths were clear. I thought briefly about the benefits of flogging him for insolence, but it was all too much trouble; so I made my way down without further comment.
I spent as much time as I could down there, using every room with all the water temperatures from freezing cold to boiling hot and back again. Finally I fetched up hunched in one of the little cubicles. I really needed to call a slave if I wanted the adjacent stones heated and then quenched with cold water so that I could wallow in the steam; but what was the use? The thing I wanted to wash away was inside me.
Logic eventually prevailed, just as I heard someone blundering in and calling out to me. It was Bakhvi, and I didn't want to be found by him. So I waited until he'd gone into the main bathing room and slipped quietly out, hastily belting my robe around me.
The stairs and, I discovered, our quarters were both deserted. The shutters in the main room had been flung open and the cushions removed, but I still wrinkled my nose as I slipped through. Briefly I wondered when exactly I'd become so fastidious about smells. The odour of stale urine had hung around every dark corner at Nottingham Castle, and the stench from the dungeons, especially during high summer, had to be experienced to be believed. It was all part of the unique ambience that made an enforced stay so effective.
I looked out through the intricately pierced windows of our sleeping room directly into the red light of a setting sun. How had the day vanished so fast? Soon darkness would drop its abrupt damper across the city, and stars and lights would wink into existence. I wished for the desert, the full-moon and my wolves. I was bound to Fenris as deeply as I had bound myself by oath to Nasir's training. The Mark which Gulnar had placed on me would burn agonisingly if I did not join the run at full-moon; but in truth I needed no goad. I loved the surrender to the pack-mind, the chase, the violence, and the blood of the kill. I insisted to Nasir - to myself - that I didn't have a choice, but I'd accepted the binding of my own volition.
But now they wanted me to be a healer as well. Somehow I knew that, in opening up to Fenris under Herne's aegis, I'd opened up that hidden door too. I'd been pretending for two years that I only dabbled in herbs and medicines. For two years, I'd doctored Nasir, the slaves, our horses, even a camel once; and pretended not to notice that tiny jolt of - something - as my hands busily spread salves and tied bandages. I didn't want it. I was a killer first and foremost. What had I to do with this women's messing with pots and greenstuff, and muttered charms behind closed doors?
I watched the sun plunge down, then dropped my robe and clambered into bed. It was monstrously early, of course, and I'd eaten nothing since morning. My still-wet hair would dampen the pillows. But I wanted nothing so much as to end this day quickly; and not to have to face Nasir after what I'd shouted at him.
* * * * * * * * * *
The sound of the wind down the wadi woke me. I blinked, and wondered how I could be hearing it when my eyes told me I could see lamplight through latticed stone screens. Again the wind blew - that strange pre-dawn breeze that sometimes riffled the trees by the oasis in the chill time before the sun. I sat up - still in my bed in Acre - and listened more closely.
The wind sighed a third time, through the strings of the oud(10) I'd badgered Nasir into getting when I first discovered he could play. I would have bought it for him, but I had no expertise, and knew I'd get fobbed off with something flashy or inferior. So I'd kept on at him in my faulty Arabic until he growled and acquiesced. He'd paid me back by excluding me from our rooms whenever he wanted to practice the thing; so I'd been unable to gauge how good he was. I still couldn't. My musical education had hardly risen above the level of Alan a Dale's many Robin Hood ballads.
He hit a high harmonic, which gave the distant note of a hunting wolf. I almost responded, so accurate did it sound. A plangent scatter of notes indicated the scent of oasis water on the dawn-breeze. Again the wolf-howl; louder this time. Finally, a low sustained note that somehow grew in strength until it mellowed into pure gold. I found myself thinking that if the rising sun made a noise, that was how it should sound.
Surely this was the playing of a master! He'd caught the feel of our camp at dawn with complete accuracy. The notes slowed and softened; became a constant, like the ripple of the lake water. He cleared this throat and began to speak words.
His voice, I already knew, did not have the power of his playing, so he did not attempt to sing. The Arabic of poetry was more elaborate and flowery than the basic vocabulary with which I conducted my life, so I could only get a whisper, a pale faded scent, of what his words meant. I pieced it together bit by bit, my translation always a line or so behind his chant.
Hunter, from the east you come,
As sun-spears wound the dying night
I'd heard pieces like this before. This was an image of the dawn as a huntsman. In this case he carried spears of light; other poems spoke of a noose(11). A conventional beginning; but then -
Beloved, you stand poised
On the lip of the desert, blood
Beneath your nails, wolves your kinfolk.
The word for `beloved' was the same whether it was heard in the poem or the brothel. They used it indiscriminately and insincerely in the rooms downstairs all the time. But this was ... I couldn't believe this. He was always so unforgiving about details like the ingrained blood, when I returned from the run. He would indicate that it attracted predators.
Sun leaps up from earth to sky
As you leap down from dune to dell.
The day hangs from your belt.
Now he was presenting me with his view of myself limned against the red sun, standing on the lip of the bank above the hidden oasis, sated with the night's glamour. The last time I'd been out in this way I'd reappeared with my arm in tatters; but the month before that, I'd come back with a desert hare strung on my belt, having had some obscure feeling during the run that I should take food back to my ... to my mate.
The final lines washed over me, even as I thrashed around the unbelievable, deliriously obvious conclusion. For how long had it been this way with him? Impossible to tell. Almost impossible to ask.
Sun-rays meshed, beloved, in your hair,
My heartbeat meshed in your return.
But of course, `impossible' had never stopped me before. Even `inept and incompetent' had only made me beat my head harder against the barriers - and finish up knocked off a roof by Rob, if I remembered correctly.
Shit - I was deliberately digressing. I rose softly and floundered about in the indirect light for my discarded robe, my noises hidden by Nasir's continuing rippling accompaniment. (His musical ingenuity had stopped short of the scene where I'd thrown the dead hare at his feet and said: there - so full-moon wasn't such a waste of time after all; and he'd furiously hustled me into the lake to wash).
Pulling the robe over my head, jamming my arms into the wide sleeves, I stepped softly to the curtained archway that divided the two rooms. I moved the heavy material fractionally until I could peer through.
He'd stopped playing and gone to the door. The oud lay abandoned across the divan, still humming vestigially. I heard him call out to someone below, and the response - no; still no news. With a shock I realised that no-one knew where I was, and that Bakhvi was probably scouring the town for me even now. I grinned. Good - that would keep him well occupied for some time to come.
He'd resumed his seat and cradled the oud, drawing a deft quill across the strings, before he realised that I'd taken my usual place at the foot of the divan, propping my back against it. I had the satisfaction of watching his instantly-repressed start of surprise.
"You called," I said quickly before he could say anything (or remember what I'd said earlier), "I came."
That expressive eyebrow shot up into his hairline.
"On the oud," I explained, "Do you .. " I swallowed, "Do you always call like that, when I'm gone at full-moon?"
I watched with interest as the dark blood rose in his face. I'd never seen him do that before.
"You forget I cannot have the oud at Rafadim." he replied steadily. This was true. The desert heat would ruin the delicate instrument.
"And for how long has it been this way with you, Malik?"
He'd been holding the oud as if it were his firstborn; now he set it aside delicately out of harm's way, and faced me as if he were going over the top in an ambush. He had the darkest eyes I'd ever seen on a man. Sometimes I caught the shine from them by starlight when we were waiting to attack.
"Since Herne gave you your Name, and the Wolf took you for Her own." he finally admitted.
"You were there!" I blurted, "But - Sweet Christ, Malik, that's more than two years!"
"Herne granted me patience."
"You had that already. He could have given you something else." I remarked.
"He also showed me you, running across the snowfield with the She-wolf. You were as carefree as a child. I hated you. I knew you for our mortal enemy. I remembered how you taunted us with Loxley's death. But still you took my breath away."
I owed him something, I felt, in response to this brave confession.
"I'd been watching you for years," I said, thinking back, "Ever since you first appeared at that tournament when you beat Flambard at the shooting. The crowd didn't like it, but that didn't matter to you. And you sure as hell weren't shooting for the glory of Simon de Bellême. No - that was pride in your own ability. I could relate to that. Sometimes it was all I had left to me, too."
Nasir bent over the far side of the divan and spat.
"Never name that man to me!"
"Nor Sarak either, I suppose." I surmised, stirring it for all I was worth.
It worked. He leaned over me, took my chin in his hand, and raised my face to his.
"Durr-ad-Nudhar," he said gently, "I know you have me at a slight disadvantage but - if I may quote Will Scarlet - don't push your luck!" His imitation was atrocious.
"I'd rather you didn't name him, either. They're all ghosts from our past, Malik. I've had enough of them for one day."
Our faces were a bare handsbreadth apart. What was holding him back? I leaned forward against his hand and was just able to brush his mouth with mine. He seemed to hesitate, then with a sigh pulled back and took his hand from my face.
"This is untimely." He announced.
"What?" I said unbelievingly, "Malik, you've waited more than two years! I know you didn't intend to tell me in quite that way, but surely .... "
I stopped. He was wearing his sultan aspect again, which meant he wasn't going to explain. This time, however, I couldn't let that happen. Maybe a change of tack ...
"Alright. Why don't you tell them downstairs that they can call off the search? I'm going to sleep. Lock the outer door, will you? I don't want to see Bakhvi tonight."
I turned and went back to bed, marvelling at my own control. I'd been without a regular bed-partner myself for that same length of time; since the two of us - neither very thrilled at being lumbered with the other (or so I thought) - had left England for Outremer.
I heard Nasir at the foot of the stairs; first giving an extremely brief explanation; then - alone - washing and performing the last of his five Salahs for the day. I'd often wondered how the rest of the wolfsheads and assorted pagans had reacted to this strict adherence to his faith in Sherwood - or indeed, he to their seasonal orgies.
Nasir returned soft-footed to the outer room, locked the door and extinguished all the lamps. There was little sound as he made ready, pulled the shutters half-closed, and rolled into his own bed across the room from mine.
I waited until the noises from below had dropped to a mere background hum, listening for his breathing, but he was always a silent sleeper and I heard nothing. With the best patience I could muster (given that Nasir was permanently fine-tuned for night-attacks), I slid sideways towards the edge of my bed.
With neck-wrenching suddenness my head was pulled back by my long hair and a knife laid flat against my jugular.
"Whatever you intended," he whispered, "Do not!"
I lay still. He would do it if I moved, whatever he'd chanted earlier. How could I have forgotten that I'd linked myself to a hunting panther - this beautiful, ruthless killer?
"We may not join until your training is complete." he said after a pause.
"Says who?" I croaked.
"That is how it has always been." he replied simply.
Could I argue with the knife at my throat? I would damn well have to try.
"Can't you see we've already broken all customs and rules of both our peoples, Malik? How many other Hashiyun have resigned from the Order - and lived? How many left-side partners are men my age? I'm thirty four, Malik, not fourteen. I've gone along with some of your more - extreme - conditions because I know that I need to learn your fighting and tracking skills if I'm going to be any use. That makes sense. But did it never occur to you that at my age, with my skin-tone, I was lucky to have enough hair to grow to this length? For boys - yes, I can see it would mark them out as not-yet-men. And you'd cut it, I expect when they turned eighteen, and initiate them - to love - as well?"
"We would take the hashish first." replied the dark shadow, the knife still rock-steady at my throat.
"Is that how it went with you?"
"I had a - Teacher - yes."
I'd heard that curiously intense pronunciation of the word before. Where? Not here. In Nottingham then? Yes - ("I was his Teacher; and see, by my eye, what he learned!" and the reply from the man I'd been trying to seduce all evening - "Then kill him too, Sarak. Kill them all .."). That intensity was pure venom - was undiluted hatred.
"Sweet Christ!" I said forgetting my position, "It was Sa ... "
The knife pressed down hard on my windpipe and the rest was lost in a gargle.
"I warned you not to name him. This time I swore there would be no betrayal. I could kill you for your disobedience and unruly tongue, and count it my failure as a Teacher. I could do that, and be free of any secret torments that I suffer for the sake of your hair, and your blue stranger's eyes, and the scars on your wolf's body!"
"Then do it and be free." (Christ! What was I saying? I must be as unhinged as him).
And the knife turned, its edge against my flesh.
"You'll miss the joy of it Malik," I breathed from beneath the blade, "I promise you that I could give you far more than he ever dreamed, or was capable of."
"You swear this?" the knife moved minimally.
"On my - my brother's life, and yours. After all," I added desperately, "An apprentice needs to practice all his skills."
An eternity; and then the knife whispered away into the darkness.
"Durr-ad-Nudhar," he said indistinctly, "Only you could have the .... indiscipline - the effrontery ... to say such things under an assassin's knife."
I was unstrung and trembling with reaction; but his hand, still wound in my hair, was equally unsteady. I couldn't afford to be the one who broke now; although, truth to tell, I'd nearly pissed myself in relief when the blade moved.
I reached up to the shadow which loomed above me, found a handful of strong springing hair; then his face, the dark eyes shut, their lids wet (best forget that small detail). I traced the outline of his lips, framed with the silky moustache; and the line of his jaw, softened by the trim beard.
"You are the Gate-Guardian of all new lands, Malik," I murmured, "I could love you, if you let me."
"You have my permission." he muttered against my mouth. Our lips met at last, and I slid my tongue past his teeth to taste and explore.
He broke from me and was gone. I made an impatient, frustrated sound, but within a minute he reappeared, shielding the flame of a small lamp with his hand. This he settled into a niche in the stonework, then turned to me in its light, and dropped his wide-necked djellabah to pool at his feet. His body was compact and square, flame-polished and most definitely aroused. He stalked back to the bed, stripped the covers back and leaned over me searching my face and body with eyes, then hands, and finally lips. He was not without knowledge, but unpractised; and having an inhibited eagerness, as if he thought I - or he - would shatter like glass if he unleashed it.
I craned upwards to mark a trail of stinging kisses down his throat and chest, feeling his breath come hard and short as I curled my tongue around his nipples. He swung away again, reversing himself, knees pressed hard against my shoulders, my head between his thighs. He stretched forward down my torso, his mouth enclosed me and I arched beneath him, reaching for him blindly with hands and mouth. His sweet hard cock slid the length of my throat and I swallowed him deep, waiting on his shiveringly prolonged spasms before (from a great distance away, it seemed), I found my own release.
Afterwards, as we lay in the velvet, spangled darkness adjusting our bodies to the reality of being bedmates, he asked (as I knew he would) why I'd sworn at him that afternoon.
"I'm a healer, Malik." I explained.
"And ....?"
"I mean - I'm not just a camel-doctor. I don't just spread salves. I feel it in my hands. I experienced de Rainault's disease. I could tell how many days he had to live, and had to tell him. I .... Malik, you knew already!"
"Of course. You healed me. One feels the power."
"But .... "
"You were truly ignorant of this in yourself?"
"I had no idea. Herblore, and what I could learn, I had from Maman. But this .. It frightened me. I thought I was turning into a monster, Malik."
"You run with the wolf-pack at full-moon; you kill - if requested - for money; and yet it is the healing-power that is monstrous to you?" he was gently sarcastic.
"Yes; but I've been a killer all my life. I don't want to have to consider the consequences - which I do if I heal. I feel them."
"Kill and heal; life and death; it is all one. The powers of light and darkness are with you.(12) "
I stared through the dark and caught the glitter of his eyes laughing at me. A cold and hilarious inevitability gripped me as I reviewed the evidence. The hood and mask he was so insistent that I wore. The fact that we operated, if not quite outside the law, at least on the very edges of it. The hostility against us from both my people and his... I could feel the warmth of his ironic smile.
"Ah, shit. That's what you put me through this apprenticeship for." I said.
..........
LEARNED & UNLEARNED FOOTNOTES
1. Pearl-of-Gold. The title is sarcastic. It denotes someone placed on this earth purely for decoration. Extreme (exotic ie. Non-Saracen) beauty combined with extreme uselessness.
2. 50s musical film reference (Kismet, if you must know).
3. "Malik? Please."
4. "Thank you. Thank you very much." Arabic courtesies from http://multaqun.com/arabic/basic.htm
5. Death-rhyme courtesy of Mad Mab (Rutterkin). I have to admit that I had the many victims of the foot-and-mouth epidemic in mind when I used this bit of the RoS canon.
6. Irony.
7. Meta-irony.
8. Meta-meta-irony.
9. Plain old innuendo.
10. Arab lute.
11. I acknowledge the opening lines of The Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam (Fitzgerald trans) as model and inspiration for the opening of this poem. The image of the noose comes from him.
12. For anyone who doesn't know - these are the words of Herne the Hunter to the Hooded Man in Sherwood (just to labour the punchline).
My entries on LJ and on Dreamwidth are becoming further and further apart since The Split. Just to complicate matters, this entry is a clumsy attempt to amalgamate another of my LJ personae with that of Grondfic. Anyone interested in my fragmented Robin of Sherwood fic can follow the first 8 parts from the link below, and then return to this latest episode.
I've been
arthurrat for many years. The journal houses my everlasting WiP Chronicles of Guy of Gisburne. HOWEVER, the site became 'lapsed' and in trying to update the password, I've buggered it up worse, just as I was about to add a further chapter. Fortunately, it's still accessible and readable (Parts 1 - 8 linked here: https://arthurrat.livejournal.com/1236.html)AND SO at the particular request of Isabeau de Navarre ....
Here is Part 9: The Wolf and the Panther
Pairing: Guy of Gisburne/Nasir (Sarak/Nasir implied. Philip Mark/Guy implied)
Rating: Hot
Disclaimers: All characters from Robin of Sherwood are owned by Richard Carpenter, Anthony Horowitz, Robin May & the RoS production team.
Notes: This story takes place 2 - 3 years after the end of Series 3 in a very distant and different setting from Sherwood.
Warnings:
Implied death of character from the Canon
Learned footnotes warning (found at end)
Era-specific slavery
We rode into Acre at sunset and were immediately informed that a Frank from the west had been enquiring for me by name. Urgently. Every day for two weeks.
I threw my horse's reins to the Nubian we'd bought to keep the rooms during our many absences, and stood waiting for Nasir to dismount.
"I do not like this news," I told him in my stilted Arabic.
I got a grunt by way of response, which I interpreted as agreement. He left his horse mid-courtyard with the reins trailing, and strode off up the well-concealed outer stairway to our private quarters under the roof. This meant he was displeased. I sighed as I made ready to follow him, gathering our saddlebags, and risking a quick look over the stair parapet at the main street-entrance on the other side of the discreet building.
Business in the main part of the house looked to be brisk tonight, with a steady stream of clients trailing through the doors below us. It seemed our joint investment was beginning to pay its way. I'd check the figures with the proprietors later, I decided.
I hated it when my partner was out of sorts. His habitual silence took on an unpredictability - almost a violence - that rendered any place he inhabited Enemy Territory. It was as if he was once again alone in an alien habitat.
I found him lighting the lamps in our room. Normally this was my job. I loved the way the oil-fed flames illuminated translucent alabaster, or shed intricate patterns of flickering light through latticed metalwork. I squandered a great deal of money in lamp-street whenever we visited the city. Nasir tolerated my extravagance and covertly, I thought, enjoyed lamplighting as much as I did.
I heaved the saddlebags through the door, and began to unpack them. Not until I'd locked the money away into the big chest in the corner did I pause to remove my sword-harness. Although now accustomed to the intricate straps that held the curved blades across my back, I occasionally still found myself reaching for the place on my hip where my longsword used to rest.
The atmosphere altered subtly. I looked up and found myself caught in the narrow beam of his concentration.
"Tomorrow -" he barked suddenly in the Saxon tongue he'd learned (minimally) during his years in Sherwood, "You stay here. The boy and I go to the Templars. Now call him!"
"I want to come too. I can stay out of sight."
"No!"
"But it might be my father, or Rob. Even if not - where's the risk, Malik?"
"You stay. Now call the boy!"
It was useless to argue further. If I did, he would decline to be drawn now; but I'd likely wake tomorrow to find myself hog-tied or chained to the pierced stonework of the partition. Sometimes, partnering Nasir Malik Kamal Inal Ibrahim Shams ad Duala Watthab ibn Mahmoud was no less frustrating than being steward to the Sheriff of Nottingham. If the word `Malik' in his list of titles had not already alerted me, I would have known he had acknowledged royal blood by the completely arbitrary way he behaved sometimes. The parallel with King John was occasionally very striking.
The Nubian appeared at the door before I could call. Nasir once more took change, this time in Arabic.
"Bakhvi - tell them downstairs that we wish to use the bathing rooms. These must be cleared immediately."
"But Malik, they'll be full of paying customers." I objected.
"Durr-ad-Nudhar,(1)" he replied with heavy patience, giving my detested title its full weight in contempt, "Until we know who requires you, we must keep secret. Therefore you will not be seen downstairs. The rooms must be cleared. Take gold, Bakhvi."
He then relapsed into silence. He'd already said more in the last half-hour than he had for the previous three days. He must take this unknown enquirer extremely seriously.
Sometime later, however, I found myself appreciating the privacy of the bathing rooms. They dated back to when the Romans ran Outremer, and were heated from below by some very complicated system of warm air ducts. They were situated in the basement of our business, and were almost as extensive as the lake at Rafadim oasis. They also had the advantage of scented water, and a variety of interesting pre- and post-bathing facilities.
I stretched out luxuriously, letting the water take my weight and wincing as the wet got to the latest newly-healed addition to my impressive collection of scars. Nasir had been extra-displeased about this since he'd had to deal with it himself, rather than calling in a healer from the local Bedu. I'd had it from a lioness last full-moon, and it ran down my right arm, clear from shoulder to elbow. I didn't let on, but (once assured that my sword-arm was in working order), I was immensely proud of it.
My last thought that evening, as I rolled into a real bed for the first time in six months, was that if I wasn't welcome on tomorrow's reconnaissance expedition, then maybe I could catch an extra hour's sleep.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Berbers!" announced the senior of the three house-proprietors in his precise Norman French, "Believe me, warrior, they're all the rage. We should clear the short-let rooms of the free-whores and buy in a consignment of Berber slaves."
"And then next week there'll be a rumour they're overrated, or carry the pox," argued the youngest of the trio (herself an ex free-whore), "The girls won't come back if you throw them out, you know. And that-there Isadora's one of the house's main pulls."
"That," I acknowledged, casting my eyes down the figures, "Is very true. I'm not much in favour of following fads myself, Archimandros. How many Berbers have we got at the moment?"
"Six," he replied sullenly, "I bought in two more this week."
"Well then, double their prices and put a strict ration on their time - just whilst the craze lasts. That way you cater only for the richest marks, and get a name for quality and exclusivity. Make sure they're clean, won't you? Spend what you need on apothecary's fees. And try not to overwork them, hmm? They last longer that way. Now ... "
I broke off and turned at a gentle touch on my shoulder.
"Bakhvi! Am I wanted?"
The Nubian gestured me away from the little group of our employees, then whispered in his heavily-accented Arabic.
"The Master says you know the man. We have him upstairs sleeping of necessity. Come - but wear this."
`This' was one of those blasted stifling mask-veils such as Sarak had worn to cover his scars. I was sure that, had I been Nasir's slave and not his partner, he'd have had me in one of these all the time. As it was, I suspected he was ashamed partnering such an obvious Frank (as all westerners were known in Outremer).
"Shit!" I said, loud enough for the others to hear.
I noticed that the ex-whore understood the Saxon tongue. I must check her further. I suspected that she'd had a variety of identities in the past and that the current name she answered to – Lalume(2) - would not get my enquiries very far. However, she had a shrewd business head on her still-pretty shoulders, and better ideas than Archimandros and Ephraim. However, now was not the time ...
"Later - after noon-meal!" I called back to them as I took the headdress from Bakhvi.
Still cursing, I found a thong to bind back my hair before arranging the intricate veiling over my head and face. The eye-pieces didn't quite fit, as usual. I wondered just how necessary this charade would be, especially if my unwelcome guest was `sleeping of necessity', as Bakhvi had poetically described the result of being hit over the head by Nasir. Why should he do that? - unless he regarded the man as an enemy to us both ....
I took the stairs two at a time, and found Nasir waiting for me at the top.
"It's de Rainault, isn't it?" I panted.
His raised eyebrow told me that my guessing had surprised him; and his fractional nod that it was an accurate guess.
"Shit! It's been more than two years. Why?"
He shrugged as I approached the door of our rooms, now shockingly invaded from a life I'd left so far behind that it belonged to someone else.
"How do we play this?" I paused before opening up. "Just you at first, with me doing my best furniture impression?"
He nodded; and I unlocked the door, wondering as I stood back and humbly bowed him in before me, whether he'd bother to ask any questions, or just sit there looking enigmatic until the Sheriff told us everything out of sheer frustration.
The room had been shrouded to make it as anonymous as possible, and Nasir had been extremely sparing with the number of lamps. I blinked behind the gauze eye pieces and made out a slumped figure on the pile of cushions in the centre of the room. I relocked the door, and turned back as Nasir took his accustomed place on the low divan, looking every inch a sultan. One of these days, when I'd finished my apprenticeship and the partnership was on a more equal footing, he'd pull that trick once too often, and I'd hit him. I'd promised myself.
I was going to have to go over and touch the Sheriff, since he was still out cold, and tied into the bargain (all the wolfsheads had been extremely thorough over this detail, I remembered). First, however, I slid through into our sleeping quarters and brought back a damp cloth and a bowl. He looked in poor shape; and I wasn't taking any chances. We didn't want a corpse on our hands, especially as he'd been known to be asking for me.
I compressed the cloth on the expected lump on the back of his head, splashed water on his face, and waited. After a moment he slid sideways, coughed and vomited. Lucky I'd remembered the bowl. Nasir would be displeased at any mess on the cushions.
As I cleaned his face and helped him to sit up, it became apparent that de Rainault was very ill. I didn't count myself a healer - merely an amateur herbalist - but even I could see the symptoms. The dried and discoloured skin pointed to a recent attack of the flux - common enough amongst newcomers here. Beyond that, however, lurked something darker. I took my hands from his flesh abruptly, not wishing to know.
I nodded to Nasir and withdrew again, this time to throw some dried mint into water over the brazier. From behind the screens I could hear the dialogue - what there was of it - begin.
"Sheriff," I could almost see the regal inclination of Nasir's head, "You ask the Templars regularly and persistently for Guy of Gisburne. Why is this?"
"I have nothing to say to wolfsheads - wherever they appear!" The Sheriff's tone exactly matched the one he'd used to tell Grendel he would rather die than have any truck with the Sons of Fenris. I smiled wryly beneath my covering veils. His loss.
Nasir was nonplussed. Negotiation wasn't his strong point. There had been a time when it wasn't mine either; but I'd had to learn during the long land-and-sea journey from Sherwood to Outremer. I reappeared in the doorway, pleased to see that my entrance was hardly noted by de Rainault.
"Malik," I said in Arabic, "This is fruitless. And the man is dying. Let me free him, and find out what he wants."
"You were never so tender with the Hooded Man." he growled.
"The past is past. I .... "
"Guy?" de Rainault, straining in his bonds to look, had recognised my voice.
"Malik? Min fadilak!(3)" I appealed. He gave his minimal, most displeased nod.
"Shokran. Shokran gazillan!(4)" I said fighting my way out of the veiling, "Well, Sheriff, to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"
He stared at me, mouth ajar, but said nothing as I leaned over to cut his wrists free. As I did so, I became aware of the stale smell of vomit on his breath, and other odours indicative of his illness. He was far from the dapper figure who used to preside over the great hall at Nottingham Castle.
"You need water, Sheriff. Wait. I'll get some."
"You will not!" barked Nasir, once again in Arabic, "We do not offer bread and salt to enemies!"
"You told me water is the gift of God to all men," I retorted, "But if you insist, I'll charge him for it. This is a house of business, after all."
I decided, as I decanted and cooled the water, and strained it into an earthernware cup, that I wouldn't mention the mint or the honey I'd dissolved into it. Nasir would probably decree that these additions counted as hospitality.
"Here!" I returned and handed the cup to de Rainault, "Don't drink it all at once or you'll bloat and probably throw it all up again. Take it down slowly, and when your mouth feels less dry, you might try answering our questions."
The Sheriff took a cautious sip.
"What .... ?" he began.
"It's not poisoned, Sheriff." I interrupted hastily.
"I never thought it was, Gisburne." he replied in a pale echo of his usual style.
I pulled a spare cushion across to the divan and sat down, leaning against the edge furthest from the distant thundercloud that was Nasir.
"I'm not generally known by that name here." I informed de Rainault.
"The Templars knew it."
"Well, they administer my allowance from England, and pass on any letters. I usually contact them once or twice a year, when I'm in Acre."
"Do they know you've gone native? Quite a little addiction of yours, isn't it, Gisburne? First wolves, now filthy Saracens."
I blinked beneath this sudden onslaught, and swung my gaze to Nasir's accusatory eyes. The message - `What did you expect? This is your mess; now deal with it!' - was written clear all over him. I'd get no help there.
"I hope your father - whoever you claim he was - would be proud of you," de Rainault was continuing, "At least the Earl and Edmund were both real crusaders. You couldn't even do that right, could you? God's Teeth - have you looked at yourself in a glass recently?"
He was working himself up into a feverish fury. I could see no reason for it. Did he really hate me enough to waste what little time he had left in hunting me down, merely to revile me?
"Shall I tell you what I see?" he screamed, "I see an eunuch! Fancy robe like a woman's, and hair halfway down your back. What have you become? The Saracen's bum-boy?"
I stood up quickly. Nasir would kill him if he carried on in this vein. And probably me as well.
"Quiet!" I said warningly, repeating Nasir's training litany in my head (`Anger is no use to the true fighter. You must learn not to waste the energy. Use it up in action.')
"Truth hurt, does it, Gisburne? Face it. You always had the soul of a whore - for sale to the highest bidder. Hugo, Philip Mark or ex-Queen Hadwisa; even that filthy sorcerer Gulnar. And why? I'll tell you, shall I? Because at heart you're a coward. A coward, you hear? Twice you had me at weapon-point, and I faced you down. Well, here I am - unarmed again. So what's stopping you now, Gisburne? Do it - I dare you!"
There was a change in the atmosphere behind me. I turned back to Nasir and found him relaxed in a position of total relief. All the tension of the past two days was gone. I'd probe that later, I decided. At the moment, just glad to be freed from between hammer and anvil, I turned back to deal with de Rainault.
"Sweet Christ, Sheriff! You've spent the last fortnight bandying my name all over Acre, and likely putting me and my right-side partner in danger, purely so that you can bait me into killing you. You don't have to explain why - I know. A quick death, eh? That's your coward's way out. How long do you think you have?"
He slumped into the cushions, letting the empty cup roll across the floor.
"I'm not Sheriff any more," he mumbled, "Backed the wrong side ... Barons - Kings ... all too difficult with this dragon eating my gut out .. nothing but an embarrassment to Hugo ... bundled off to save my soul ... you think I have a soul to save, Guy?"
"We all do. Even Hugo says so."
"I wouldn't believe everything my dear brother says, if I were you." he advised with a flash of his old humour.
"D'you have anyone here with you, de Rainault? Where are you staying?"
"Yes. Hugo bullied our nephew into bringing me here. Appealed to his family loyalty I believe. We've a room at court."
"Young Martin? He'd be about - what? - fifteen now. Where is he?"
"He'll be running around the Templars' headquarters like a headless chicken, searching for me." he replied with a sour, satisfied smile.
Nasir surprised me by getting slowly to his feet.
"I go!" he announced heavily, "Martin knows me. He will remember. Durr-ad-Nudhar -" he added in Arabic, "Is there food he could take? If so, you may arrange it."
"Shokran gazillan, Malik." I followed him to the door, unlocked it for him and leaned out, calling for Bakhvi.
"It is not for you to thank me," replied Nasir turning on the stairs, "But for him."
"Not until Hell freezes, Malik," I grinned, "But I do regret that you had to hear .."
"Say nothing. The man is underbred .. and dying, as you rightly saw. I commend your restraint, my Wolf."
He was gone down the stairs on the word, leaving me to digest this quite unprecedented compliment.
I gave Bakhvi some rapid instructions to pass on to the house kitchens, before returning to our rooms. De Rainault was sitting where I'd left him, but had made himself more comfortable, and seemed more alert. I pulled one of the shutters open to let in a shaft of bright morning light; and he looked about him with a fair assumption of interest.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"These are our rooms over our business, de Rainault. We own a public bathing house. In Nottingham that would translate as high-class brothel - not that there were any as exclusive as this in Nottingham."
The Sheriff - ex-Sheriff, I reminded myself - began to laugh weakly, and I grinned back, knowing what was on his mind.
"Yes - all those so-called pilgrimages you used to go on when King John was expected were just a cover for your visits to the brothels en route. Why should this one be any different?"
He indicated his grey pilgrim's robe.
"Not very stylish, is it? Nor am I in much condition to pull, in this exclusive premises of yours. What a shame - I could have requested a reduction in rates."
"No chance, de Rainault. This is business. We even charge for looking."
"That sounds more like you, Guy. You've changed beyond recognition, you know. Lucky you spoke before I saw you."
"I took a vow - about not cutting my hair," I looked away, embarrassed, "But I admit the robes are better worn in the desert."
"They're very .. becoming. Especially without that dreadful face-mask."
"Oh, that. We both wear them when we hire as mercenaries. They add to the general air of menace. But Nasir prefers me hidden. Ashamed of partnering a Frank, I should think."
"You think that, do you? You didn't see his face when I was baiting you. I had hopes he might do it, if you didn't - but for a different reason. He didn't care what I was saying - not at first. He was just terrified I'd come to get you back to England. I expect he hides you for that reason."
I thought about this, and it made sense. Nasir had been displeased ever since we'd heard about someone asking for me. He'd been very displeased about my encounter with the lioness too. I'd been out at full-moon running with the wolves, and we'd stumbled across her after our kill. Nasir had been furious when, after he'd bullied whatever I could remember of the encounter out of me, it became obvious that she'd only attacked us because I'd inadvertently led the pack between her and her hidden cubs. I was told - in very few words and a rigid body-stance - that I'd been irresponsible to forget our partnership even when I was half out of my head with the glamour of the full-moon and the wolves.
"He's invested a lot of time in training me." was all I said to de Rainault vaguely
"I'm sure he has!" he replied smoothly. "As what?"
"His left-side partner. It means those blasted double-swords, I'm afraid. And short-bow at full-speed on a galloping horse. So what happened at Nottingham?" I asked, blatantly changing subject.
"I picked the wrong side." he sighed.
"That's not like you," I observed, "It was more my style, if I recall."
"You should never have left, Guy. It was so much easier when you were there. I always knew to take the opposite side from the one you picked. It never failed."
"Merci du compliment!" I said politely.
"I ran through three stewards in two years," he continued unheeding, "Two were killed by outlaws. The third is now Sheriff, having informed King John that I'd been talking to young Pembroke and some other rebellious barons. Only talking, mind you. Our Liege said I was lucky to keep my head." he sighed again, "Now I wish he'd taken it. They say it's very quick."
"Oh Robert," I said, putting my hand on his thin shoulder, "I'm sorry I couldn't oblige you."
"You never called me that before." his hand over mine was hot, sere, dry as old leaves.
"I .. " but I got no further.
With the touch, the dark thing that I'd sensed before leaped up to overwhelm me. He'd called it a dragon, but to me it had no form. It was merely a hunger and a monstrous growth which, though emanating from his own flesh, was eating him. In my head, an insane voice was chanting -
Hay is for horses,
Straw is for the cow,
Milk is for the little pig,
Death .... death ..... death(5)
I understood somehow that the rhyme wasn't yet complete; he had a little time. I listened to the echoes ... three days? Did having the knowledge mean I was under obligation to divulge it?
"Guy?"
"I .. was wondering what you plan to do?" I said with an effort at lightness.
"Do? I'm dying, Guy."
"Yes," I acknowledged, "But do you want to die within sight of Jerusalem? That's what most pilgrims come here for."
He thought about it for a while. I was grateful for the time to recover as well. Bakhvi and the food arrived into the silence and I took it from him quietly, dismissing him with a nod.
"Here," I said softly, "Try eating this. It's pap, of course, but you might be able to keep it down."
"What is it?"
"Milk and honey. What else would it be?"
His smile was a mere grimace. The pain must be constant now.
"I never was a religious man, Guy. You know that. No - now I've wasted all my energy in finding you - for no good reason; what was I thinking of? - I think I'll just lie down and wait."
"Three days." I whispered.
"Do you say so? Promise?"
"I .. " I swallowed, "I know."
"I'll come and haunt you if you're wrong. This stuff of yours tastes quite good, but I've had all I can take." he moved restlessly, "Where's your Saracen with young Martin?"
"You're still so impatient, de Rainault! You've got to give them time to stalk around the Templars' quarter, miss one another a time or so, not recognise one another because Martin's grown up and Nasir's probably wearing his face mask, and finally stage a touching reunion in the street."
"You get some quite funny lines these days, Gisburne,(6) " he rejoined, "Who's writing your script?(7) "
"Best if you can write your own, don't you think?(8) Ah - that sounds like movement on the stairs."
"Isn't he writing it for you?(9)" he asked slyly, just as the door opened to admit Nasir and a trim adolescent who I had no trouble in identifying as Martin de Rainault, titular head (I supposed) of the clan.
After that, things passed in a blur. I was suddenly exhausted, as much with the banter I'd forced myself to with de Rainault as with the Dark Thing. To know the time of a man's death - this was a healer's power. I recalled someone being brought to me in secrecy when I was very young and Maman still had the care of me. I'd been backhanded by Edmund and had hit my head on the stone flags of the floor. An old peasant women (but then, they all looked old to me). The words "... live this time... a long life, My Lady, and a death far away". And the heat in my body. Afterwards, when I asked, they'd told me she was a wisewoman and hushed me at Edmund's approach. But I'd known she had the power. A Healer. It frightened me - what had I become?
Distantly I watched Martin arrange for a litter to be hired, and when it arrived lift his uncle quite effortlessly from the cushions. I noted de Rainault had soiled them after all. The place would need fumigating.
"Guy?"
"It really is Adieu this time, Robert."
"I told you - I'm not a believer. But think of me three days hence, hmm?"
"I'll know." I told him grimly, and for the first time ever, kissed him.
"He needs poppy juice," I said to Martin, not caring to make it private, "The Little Sisters of Christ will help you."
Then he was gone, and I was calling for Bakhvi so loudly that my voice cracked.
"Get those cushions out! Buy more, and get the room sweetened! And tell them downstairs that I need the baths. Alone."
"But ..."
"Alone!" I roared, "Just tell them to get it cleared."
Bakhvi directed a startled glance at Nasir, and bolted.
There was a period then, when Nasir was talking - actually talking to me non-stop, not one word of which I could remember afterwards. Nor could I recall any replies I might have made, except towards the end when I told him to fuck off and leave me alone. He did; and it was only much later that I thought about the level of mortal affront I might have caused.
It seemed forever before Bakhvi reappeared, tight-lipped and disapproving, and told me the baths were clear. I thought briefly about the benefits of flogging him for insolence, but it was all too much trouble; so I made my way down without further comment.
I spent as much time as I could down there, using every room with all the water temperatures from freezing cold to boiling hot and back again. Finally I fetched up hunched in one of the little cubicles. I really needed to call a slave if I wanted the adjacent stones heated and then quenched with cold water so that I could wallow in the steam; but what was the use? The thing I wanted to wash away was inside me.
Logic eventually prevailed, just as I heard someone blundering in and calling out to me. It was Bakhvi, and I didn't want to be found by him. So I waited until he'd gone into the main bathing room and slipped quietly out, hastily belting my robe around me.
The stairs and, I discovered, our quarters were both deserted. The shutters in the main room had been flung open and the cushions removed, but I still wrinkled my nose as I slipped through. Briefly I wondered when exactly I'd become so fastidious about smells. The odour of stale urine had hung around every dark corner at Nottingham Castle, and the stench from the dungeons, especially during high summer, had to be experienced to be believed. It was all part of the unique ambience that made an enforced stay so effective.
I looked out through the intricately pierced windows of our sleeping room directly into the red light of a setting sun. How had the day vanished so fast? Soon darkness would drop its abrupt damper across the city, and stars and lights would wink into existence. I wished for the desert, the full-moon and my wolves. I was bound to Fenris as deeply as I had bound myself by oath to Nasir's training. The Mark which Gulnar had placed on me would burn agonisingly if I did not join the run at full-moon; but in truth I needed no goad. I loved the surrender to the pack-mind, the chase, the violence, and the blood of the kill. I insisted to Nasir - to myself - that I didn't have a choice, but I'd accepted the binding of my own volition.
But now they wanted me to be a healer as well. Somehow I knew that, in opening up to Fenris under Herne's aegis, I'd opened up that hidden door too. I'd been pretending for two years that I only dabbled in herbs and medicines. For two years, I'd doctored Nasir, the slaves, our horses, even a camel once; and pretended not to notice that tiny jolt of - something - as my hands busily spread salves and tied bandages. I didn't want it. I was a killer first and foremost. What had I to do with this women's messing with pots and greenstuff, and muttered charms behind closed doors?
I watched the sun plunge down, then dropped my robe and clambered into bed. It was monstrously early, of course, and I'd eaten nothing since morning. My still-wet hair would dampen the pillows. But I wanted nothing so much as to end this day quickly; and not to have to face Nasir after what I'd shouted at him.
* * * * * * * * * *
The sound of the wind down the wadi woke me. I blinked, and wondered how I could be hearing it when my eyes told me I could see lamplight through latticed stone screens. Again the wind blew - that strange pre-dawn breeze that sometimes riffled the trees by the oasis in the chill time before the sun. I sat up - still in my bed in Acre - and listened more closely.
The wind sighed a third time, through the strings of the oud(10) I'd badgered Nasir into getting when I first discovered he could play. I would have bought it for him, but I had no expertise, and knew I'd get fobbed off with something flashy or inferior. So I'd kept on at him in my faulty Arabic until he growled and acquiesced. He'd paid me back by excluding me from our rooms whenever he wanted to practice the thing; so I'd been unable to gauge how good he was. I still couldn't. My musical education had hardly risen above the level of Alan a Dale's many Robin Hood ballads.
He hit a high harmonic, which gave the distant note of a hunting wolf. I almost responded, so accurate did it sound. A plangent scatter of notes indicated the scent of oasis water on the dawn-breeze. Again the wolf-howl; louder this time. Finally, a low sustained note that somehow grew in strength until it mellowed into pure gold. I found myself thinking that if the rising sun made a noise, that was how it should sound.
Surely this was the playing of a master! He'd caught the feel of our camp at dawn with complete accuracy. The notes slowed and softened; became a constant, like the ripple of the lake water. He cleared this throat and began to speak words.
His voice, I already knew, did not have the power of his playing, so he did not attempt to sing. The Arabic of poetry was more elaborate and flowery than the basic vocabulary with which I conducted my life, so I could only get a whisper, a pale faded scent, of what his words meant. I pieced it together bit by bit, my translation always a line or so behind his chant.
Hunter, from the east you come,
As sun-spears wound the dying night
I'd heard pieces like this before. This was an image of the dawn as a huntsman. In this case he carried spears of light; other poems spoke of a noose(11). A conventional beginning; but then -
Beloved, you stand poised
On the lip of the desert, blood
Beneath your nails, wolves your kinfolk.
The word for `beloved' was the same whether it was heard in the poem or the brothel. They used it indiscriminately and insincerely in the rooms downstairs all the time. But this was ... I couldn't believe this. He was always so unforgiving about details like the ingrained blood, when I returned from the run. He would indicate that it attracted predators.
Sun leaps up from earth to sky
As you leap down from dune to dell.
The day hangs from your belt.
Now he was presenting me with his view of myself limned against the red sun, standing on the lip of the bank above the hidden oasis, sated with the night's glamour. The last time I'd been out in this way I'd reappeared with my arm in tatters; but the month before that, I'd come back with a desert hare strung on my belt, having had some obscure feeling during the run that I should take food back to my ... to my mate.
The final lines washed over me, even as I thrashed around the unbelievable, deliriously obvious conclusion. For how long had it been this way with him? Impossible to tell. Almost impossible to ask.
Sun-rays meshed, beloved, in your hair,
My heartbeat meshed in your return.
But of course, `impossible' had never stopped me before. Even `inept and incompetent' had only made me beat my head harder against the barriers - and finish up knocked off a roof by Rob, if I remembered correctly.
Shit - I was deliberately digressing. I rose softly and floundered about in the indirect light for my discarded robe, my noises hidden by Nasir's continuing rippling accompaniment. (His musical ingenuity had stopped short of the scene where I'd thrown the dead hare at his feet and said: there - so full-moon wasn't such a waste of time after all; and he'd furiously hustled me into the lake to wash).
Pulling the robe over my head, jamming my arms into the wide sleeves, I stepped softly to the curtained archway that divided the two rooms. I moved the heavy material fractionally until I could peer through.
He'd stopped playing and gone to the door. The oud lay abandoned across the divan, still humming vestigially. I heard him call out to someone below, and the response - no; still no news. With a shock I realised that no-one knew where I was, and that Bakhvi was probably scouring the town for me even now. I grinned. Good - that would keep him well occupied for some time to come.
He'd resumed his seat and cradled the oud, drawing a deft quill across the strings, before he realised that I'd taken my usual place at the foot of the divan, propping my back against it. I had the satisfaction of watching his instantly-repressed start of surprise.
"You called," I said quickly before he could say anything (or remember what I'd said earlier), "I came."
That expressive eyebrow shot up into his hairline.
"On the oud," I explained, "Do you .. " I swallowed, "Do you always call like that, when I'm gone at full-moon?"
I watched with interest as the dark blood rose in his face. I'd never seen him do that before.
"You forget I cannot have the oud at Rafadim." he replied steadily. This was true. The desert heat would ruin the delicate instrument.
"And for how long has it been this way with you, Malik?"
He'd been holding the oud as if it were his firstborn; now he set it aside delicately out of harm's way, and faced me as if he were going over the top in an ambush. He had the darkest eyes I'd ever seen on a man. Sometimes I caught the shine from them by starlight when we were waiting to attack.
"Since Herne gave you your Name, and the Wolf took you for Her own." he finally admitted.
"You were there!" I blurted, "But - Sweet Christ, Malik, that's more than two years!"
"Herne granted me patience."
"You had that already. He could have given you something else." I remarked.
"He also showed me you, running across the snowfield with the She-wolf. You were as carefree as a child. I hated you. I knew you for our mortal enemy. I remembered how you taunted us with Loxley's death. But still you took my breath away."
I owed him something, I felt, in response to this brave confession.
"I'd been watching you for years," I said, thinking back, "Ever since you first appeared at that tournament when you beat Flambard at the shooting. The crowd didn't like it, but that didn't matter to you. And you sure as hell weren't shooting for the glory of Simon de Bellême. No - that was pride in your own ability. I could relate to that. Sometimes it was all I had left to me, too."
Nasir bent over the far side of the divan and spat.
"Never name that man to me!"
"Nor Sarak either, I suppose." I surmised, stirring it for all I was worth.
It worked. He leaned over me, took my chin in his hand, and raised my face to his.
"Durr-ad-Nudhar," he said gently, "I know you have me at a slight disadvantage but - if I may quote Will Scarlet - don't push your luck!" His imitation was atrocious.
"I'd rather you didn't name him, either. They're all ghosts from our past, Malik. I've had enough of them for one day."
Our faces were a bare handsbreadth apart. What was holding him back? I leaned forward against his hand and was just able to brush his mouth with mine. He seemed to hesitate, then with a sigh pulled back and took his hand from my face.
"This is untimely." He announced.
"What?" I said unbelievingly, "Malik, you've waited more than two years! I know you didn't intend to tell me in quite that way, but surely .... "
I stopped. He was wearing his sultan aspect again, which meant he wasn't going to explain. This time, however, I couldn't let that happen. Maybe a change of tack ...
"Alright. Why don't you tell them downstairs that they can call off the search? I'm going to sleep. Lock the outer door, will you? I don't want to see Bakhvi tonight."
I turned and went back to bed, marvelling at my own control. I'd been without a regular bed-partner myself for that same length of time; since the two of us - neither very thrilled at being lumbered with the other (or so I thought) - had left England for Outremer.
I heard Nasir at the foot of the stairs; first giving an extremely brief explanation; then - alone - washing and performing the last of his five Salahs for the day. I'd often wondered how the rest of the wolfsheads and assorted pagans had reacted to this strict adherence to his faith in Sherwood - or indeed, he to their seasonal orgies.
Nasir returned soft-footed to the outer room, locked the door and extinguished all the lamps. There was little sound as he made ready, pulled the shutters half-closed, and rolled into his own bed across the room from mine.
I waited until the noises from below had dropped to a mere background hum, listening for his breathing, but he was always a silent sleeper and I heard nothing. With the best patience I could muster (given that Nasir was permanently fine-tuned for night-attacks), I slid sideways towards the edge of my bed.
With neck-wrenching suddenness my head was pulled back by my long hair and a knife laid flat against my jugular.
"Whatever you intended," he whispered, "Do not!"
I lay still. He would do it if I moved, whatever he'd chanted earlier. How could I have forgotten that I'd linked myself to a hunting panther - this beautiful, ruthless killer?
"We may not join until your training is complete." he said after a pause.
"Says who?" I croaked.
"That is how it has always been." he replied simply.
Could I argue with the knife at my throat? I would damn well have to try.
"Can't you see we've already broken all customs and rules of both our peoples, Malik? How many other Hashiyun have resigned from the Order - and lived? How many left-side partners are men my age? I'm thirty four, Malik, not fourteen. I've gone along with some of your more - extreme - conditions because I know that I need to learn your fighting and tracking skills if I'm going to be any use. That makes sense. But did it never occur to you that at my age, with my skin-tone, I was lucky to have enough hair to grow to this length? For boys - yes, I can see it would mark them out as not-yet-men. And you'd cut it, I expect when they turned eighteen, and initiate them - to love - as well?"
"We would take the hashish first." replied the dark shadow, the knife still rock-steady at my throat.
"Is that how it went with you?"
"I had a - Teacher - yes."
I'd heard that curiously intense pronunciation of the word before. Where? Not here. In Nottingham then? Yes - ("I was his Teacher; and see, by my eye, what he learned!" and the reply from the man I'd been trying to seduce all evening - "Then kill him too, Sarak. Kill them all .."). That intensity was pure venom - was undiluted hatred.
"Sweet Christ!" I said forgetting my position, "It was Sa ... "
The knife pressed down hard on my windpipe and the rest was lost in a gargle.
"I warned you not to name him. This time I swore there would be no betrayal. I could kill you for your disobedience and unruly tongue, and count it my failure as a Teacher. I could do that, and be free of any secret torments that I suffer for the sake of your hair, and your blue stranger's eyes, and the scars on your wolf's body!"
"Then do it and be free." (Christ! What was I saying? I must be as unhinged as him).
And the knife turned, its edge against my flesh.
"You'll miss the joy of it Malik," I breathed from beneath the blade, "I promise you that I could give you far more than he ever dreamed, or was capable of."
"You swear this?" the knife moved minimally.
"On my - my brother's life, and yours. After all," I added desperately, "An apprentice needs to practice all his skills."
An eternity; and then the knife whispered away into the darkness.
"Durr-ad-Nudhar," he said indistinctly, "Only you could have the .... indiscipline - the effrontery ... to say such things under an assassin's knife."
I was unstrung and trembling with reaction; but his hand, still wound in my hair, was equally unsteady. I couldn't afford to be the one who broke now; although, truth to tell, I'd nearly pissed myself in relief when the blade moved.
I reached up to the shadow which loomed above me, found a handful of strong springing hair; then his face, the dark eyes shut, their lids wet (best forget that small detail). I traced the outline of his lips, framed with the silky moustache; and the line of his jaw, softened by the trim beard.
"You are the Gate-Guardian of all new lands, Malik," I murmured, "I could love you, if you let me."
"You have my permission." he muttered against my mouth. Our lips met at last, and I slid my tongue past his teeth to taste and explore.
He broke from me and was gone. I made an impatient, frustrated sound, but within a minute he reappeared, shielding the flame of a small lamp with his hand. This he settled into a niche in the stonework, then turned to me in its light, and dropped his wide-necked djellabah to pool at his feet. His body was compact and square, flame-polished and most definitely aroused. He stalked back to the bed, stripped the covers back and leaned over me searching my face and body with eyes, then hands, and finally lips. He was not without knowledge, but unpractised; and having an inhibited eagerness, as if he thought I - or he - would shatter like glass if he unleashed it.
I craned upwards to mark a trail of stinging kisses down his throat and chest, feeling his breath come hard and short as I curled my tongue around his nipples. He swung away again, reversing himself, knees pressed hard against my shoulders, my head between his thighs. He stretched forward down my torso, his mouth enclosed me and I arched beneath him, reaching for him blindly with hands and mouth. His sweet hard cock slid the length of my throat and I swallowed him deep, waiting on his shiveringly prolonged spasms before (from a great distance away, it seemed), I found my own release.
Afterwards, as we lay in the velvet, spangled darkness adjusting our bodies to the reality of being bedmates, he asked (as I knew he would) why I'd sworn at him that afternoon.
"I'm a healer, Malik." I explained.
"And ....?"
"I mean - I'm not just a camel-doctor. I don't just spread salves. I feel it in my hands. I experienced de Rainault's disease. I could tell how many days he had to live, and had to tell him. I .... Malik, you knew already!"
"Of course. You healed me. One feels the power."
"But .... "
"You were truly ignorant of this in yourself?"
"I had no idea. Herblore, and what I could learn, I had from Maman. But this .. It frightened me. I thought I was turning into a monster, Malik."
"You run with the wolf-pack at full-moon; you kill - if requested - for money; and yet it is the healing-power that is monstrous to you?" he was gently sarcastic.
"Yes; but I've been a killer all my life. I don't want to have to consider the consequences - which I do if I heal. I feel them."
"Kill and heal; life and death; it is all one. The powers of light and darkness are with you.(12) "
I stared through the dark and caught the glitter of his eyes laughing at me. A cold and hilarious inevitability gripped me as I reviewed the evidence. The hood and mask he was so insistent that I wore. The fact that we operated, if not quite outside the law, at least on the very edges of it. The hostility against us from both my people and his... I could feel the warmth of his ironic smile.
"Ah, shit. That's what you put me through this apprenticeship for." I said.
..........
LEARNED & UNLEARNED FOOTNOTES
1. Pearl-of-Gold. The title is sarcastic. It denotes someone placed on this earth purely for decoration. Extreme (exotic ie. Non-Saracen) beauty combined with extreme uselessness.
2. 50s musical film reference (Kismet, if you must know).
3. "Malik? Please."
4. "Thank you. Thank you very much." Arabic courtesies from http://multaqun.com/arabic/basic.htm
5. Death-rhyme courtesy of Mad Mab (Rutterkin). I have to admit that I had the many victims of the foot-and-mouth epidemic in mind when I used this bit of the RoS canon.
6. Irony.
7. Meta-irony.
8. Meta-meta-irony.
9. Plain old innuendo.
10. Arab lute.
11. I acknowledge the opening lines of The Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam (Fitzgerald trans) as model and inspiration for the opening of this poem. The image of the noose comes from him.
12. For anyone who doesn't know - these are the words of Herne the Hunter to the Hooded Man in Sherwood (just to labour the punchline).
no subject
Date: 2022-05-31 02:21 pm (UTC)I'm sorry to hear LJ has been buggy for you! Would you post to AO3, and preserve your fic there?
no subject
Date: 2022-05-31 03:15 pm (UTC)I'd like to post all this on AO3, but it's fragmentary (cf parts 1-8!) and I started it literally decades ago. I need to fill in gaps and re-work the whole into a coherent narrative. So - not before next Tuesday-twelvemonth then!
no subject
Date: 2022-06-01 04:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-06-01 06:28 am (UTC)