The Saracen: The Holy War Read online

  LIII

  Rachel sat on a divan by the window in her room. She had drawn thecurtains back and pushed the shutters open so that she could see out andfeel the cool breeze. She held a small leather-bound book in her hand,_Geography of the World_, by Yucaf ibn Faruzi, a Spanish Jew. It was oneof the small store of books Angelo had owned, written in Hebrew, thatshe had kept with her to help her pass the long hours she spent alone.Besides enjoying reading, she felt she was somehow pleasing Angelo, whohad taught her to read Hebrew.

  She was reading about Egypt when the second storm of the morning struckOrvieto and the window no longer admitted enough light to read by. A fewwater droplets blew in through the open window to fall on the openpages. She carefully blotted them up with the hem of her satin robe, butshe was afraid more rain would damage the vellum pages. So she shut thebook, and watched the lightning flash and listened to the thunder.

  Tilia's house was built halfway down an incline, so Sophia could seewater foaming in the ditch that ran through the center of the street. Soheavy was the rain that waves were flowing down the cobblestones. Wherea raindrop struck the water, the splash was like a little crown.

  A dark shadow appeared at the high end of the street, a hooded figure.Another followed, and another. They rose higher and higher, until shecould see that they were riding horses. What were men doing out in astorm like this? Were they coming here?

  They were. The first men reined up their horses outside Tilia's frontdoor, dismounted, and moved to the shelter of the overhanging housesacross the street. More men on horses, some on mules, and many more onfoot, gathered outside the house. All wore hoods or broad-brimmed hatsto keep the rain from their heads. Rachel's heart began to thud in herchest when she saw there were too many for her to count. She saw thegleam of helmets under some of the hoods, the wet glitter of mail whenan arm or leg emerged from a cloak. A train of mules carrying heavypacks came down the street and stopped.

  Rachel began to tremble. These men had not come for pleasure. There weretoo many of them, and their dress and manner was full of menace. She wasglad that the heavy rain forced them to keep their heads down;otherwise, one of them might have looked up here and seen her. She drewback a little from the window.

  A line of covered carts drawn by pairs of mules pulled up behind thecrowd of armed men. The cart in the lead was bright yellow and red, andits paint glistened wetly.

  Did anyone else in the house know this crowd was out there? Perhaps noone else was looking out a window. She ran to the door of her room, justas she heard a pounding from below.

  Then there were shouts, bangs, and crashes, the shrill shattering ofglass and porcelain, the heavy thumps of bodies falling. Rachel openedher door. Other doors swung open along the shadowy third-floor corridor.Someone stepped out with a candle. Frightened women's faces were whitein the candlelight. She saw Antonia, Angela, Gloria.

  She did not see Tilia. She must still be with Sophia, wherever they hadgone this morning.

  _Oh, if only Sophia had taken me with her as I begged her to. I knewsomething terrible was going to happen._

  "What is it?" the women cried to one another. "Who is down there? Woundsof Jesus!"

  Cassio emerged from Francesca's room, tying the drawstring of his hose.He was a big man, his bare chest matted with black hair, and the sightof him comforted Rachel until she looked into his face as he hurriedpast her and saw that it was tight and pale with fear. And he wascarrying a naked shortsword.

  But Cassio's appearance emboldened the women, and they left their roomsto crowd toward the top of the stairs that led to the lower floors.Rachel joined them.

  "I saw a lot of men outside," Rachel told the others, her heartbattering against her breastbone. "Armed men, with horses and mules andwagons."

  Antonia, a round-faced woman, hair dyed red with henna, pulled her robearound her. "Another party setting out for Perugia, I suppose. Theyprobably stopped by for a little farewell fun."

  "Then why are they fighting downstairs?" Francesca said, anxietysharpening her voice.

  Thunder shook the house, drowning out the clamor of the brawling twostories below. Then Rachel heard the clang of steel and Cassio's voicecrying out angrily.

  The carpeted stairs at the end of the corridor shook under heavy feet.Women's screams, mingled with the cries of men, arose on the lowerfloors. She pushed her way to the head of the stairs and looked down.

  A group of men were coming up. They had thrown back the hoods of theirbrown cloaks, and their pointed helmets reflected the candlelight.Rachel backed away as she saw that the half-dozen men with helmets werebrandishing long broad-bladed daggers.

  The women around her started screaming and darting back into theirrooms. Rachel bolted for her own room.

  "Rei-cho!" The man's shrill cry shot an arrow of terror through her.That was John's voice.

  She turned in the doorway of her room and saw the Tartar standing at thehead of the stairs, his soft black cap hiding most of his white hair.Beside him was a stocky, middle-aged woman, and flanking them were theswarthy men with their daggers. John and the other men were all smiling,as if, as Antonia had said, they had come only for a bit of pleasure.But the tumult downstairs, shaking the house more than the thunder,belied that.

  John spoke to the woman and she called to Rachel. "Signore John must goto Perugia." Her Italian was strangely accented. "He wishes you to comewith him. He will give you many costly gifts."

  Rachel took a step backward into her room. "No. I do not want to go."

  Not now. Not when Sophia had just come to tell her they were going totake her south with them. South to Manfred's kingdom, where Jews weretreated like everyone else. Where she might yet find a place for herselfand forget that she had sold her body.

  John and the woman advanced down the corridor, their guards with them.Some of the swarthy men pushed open the doors of the rooms they passedand looked in. The doors could not be barred from the inside. Tilia hadalways insisted on that, so no client could lock himself in with a womanand harm her. The men with the daggers grinned at one another and talkedin a strange language.

  "No, I don't want to go!" Rachel screamed. She darted into her room andslammed the door. Frantically, she looked around for something to holdit shut.

  The door started to open, and she threw herself against it. It closedfor a moment. Then she was hurled away from it as it swung inward, Johnbehind it. She screamed in fear.

  The Tartar, who was not much taller than Rachel, strode into the room.He walked with what appeared to be a swagger because he was slightlybowlegged. He was talking rapidly in his language, advancing on Racheland smiling. He held out his arms. The stout woman stood in the doorway,watching without expression.

  Rachel backed away from them, her body rigid.

  "You must come with him now. He is in a great hurry. An army of thepope's enemies is less that a day from Orvieto, and they want to takeSignore John and Signore Philip prisoner."

  "Then let him escape," Rachel cried. "I do not want to go with him." Shewas standing before her bed now. The woman spoke to John and he answeredquickly, still smiling.

  "He says you are precious to him and he cannot leave you," she saidtonelessly.

  She had to get away now, or be John's prisoner for the rest of her life.

  Panting more from fury than from exertion, Rachel made a sudden jump toher right, and when John stepped in that direction to grab her, shedarted to the left and ran out the door. John's translator made noeffort to stop her.

  _That would not have fooled him, except that he was not expecting me todo anything_, she thought as she ran down the corridor.

  She held one thought in her mind--she must get out of this building. Sheheard screams and sounds of struggle from the rooms of the other women.She saw Francesca fighting with a helmeted man, and her eyes metFrancesca's over the man's brown-cloaked shoulder. Only one of thedagger-wielding men was in the corridor now, and she had surprised him.He shouted at her and ran after her.

  Gat
hering up the skirt of her robe, she raced down the stairs, takingthe last four in a leap. The dark man with the dagger was right behindher, and behind him she could hear John's shout. There was anger in theTartar's voice now. That terrified her even more.

  _He did not think I would get away from him this easily._

  The dark man grabbed her flying robe, and she felt the silk tear. Shehad nothing on underneath the robe. She would not let that stop her fromrunning. She must not let anything stop her.

  She heard the man behind her calling as she ran down the stairs to thefirst floor. She was in the corridor now, and she saw that it wasswarming with men in helmets and mail, struggling with Tilia's women.Some of the men had their breeches down.

  She saw tall, beautiful Maiga striking out with her fists at thehelmeted men. But they were wrestling with her and forcing her onto herback. Agonized pity for Maiga blazed up within her, but she ran on.

  One of Tilia's black African servants was lying on the floor across thecorridor. His eyes were open and he was not moving. Again she felt asurge of pity.

  But then terror gripped her.

  _They are killing people here! My God, what are they doing, what arethey doing?_

  Instead of going on down the stairs from the first floor gallery to theground floor, she leapt over the body of the black man and ran into thecrowd of men and women struggling in the hall.

  _I am small and I am quick_, she thought, and that gave her the courageto keep running. The men in the hall were not interested in her, and sheslithered past them while John and his bodyguard stumbled along behind.

  The bodyguard's voice sounded far away. Other men were shouting at him.

  "Catch her yourself, you damned Armenian ape!" These men were speakingin Italian. "We've already got ours."

  Rachel reached the stairs at the other end of the corridor. They leddown to the same place as did the main stairs, the reception room on theground floor. But her pursuers would not know that. Sure enough, theywere following her through this first-floor corridor. She glanced backand saw that the crowd of Italian men had gotten in their way, so thathalf the corridor was between them.

  _Run, Rachel!_

  Frantically she ran down to the first floor. There, horror greeted her.More of Tilia's black men--she could not count--were sprawled around thereception hall.

  She saw blood spattered over the frescoes. She saw a black arm lying byitself. One body had no head. She heard a scream of horror and knew itwas her own voice. Why were they doing this? What devils drove them?There was blood all over the floor. Puddles of it. She had to dartaround them, over them.

  Terror streaked through her as a tall man blocked her path. His hood wasthrown back and his cloak was open, and a jeweled cross glittered on hischest--like the one Tilia wore, only three times bigger. Their eyes met;his were staring and full of rage. His nose was big, and his mouth wassmall and cruel. He pointed a long finger at her, a fortune in jeweledrings glittering on his gloved hand.

  "You! The one we came for! Stop!"

  She stood paralyzed as a recollection of the dread face before herflashed into her mind. Dinners for John and Philip--Tilia had givenelegant dinners, three or four of them--with musicians and thecompanionship of her ladies, Rachel included.

  And this was how they repaid her courtesy.

  This man had been a guest at those dinners. He was a man of very highrank, a cardinal in the Christian Church. He was French, she remembered.His Italian words were heavily accented.

  _What will they do to me if I don't obey him? Will they burn me forbeing a Jew?_

  And there was the other Tartar, Philip, standing beside the Frenchchurchman. He looked like John--round head, brown skin, slittedeyes--except that his beard and mustache were black. He was carrying abow in one hand and had a quiver full of arrows slung over one shoulder.Rachel froze, like a rabbit trapped by two wolves.

  The tall Frenchman reached for Rachel--but another figure appearedbetween them, one of Tilia's black men. He blocked the tall man with thecross, giving Rachel a chance to jump for the door.

  Out of the corner of her eye Rachel saw Philip, strong white teethgleaming in a brown face, raise his bow. She heard the thrum of thestring, and then a piercing scream. Anguish for the black man welled upin her.

  Her torn robe was flapping as she ran out the door. She almost fell assomeone seized the back of her robe and yanked on it. She twisted out ofthe robe and ran on, naked.

  She heard John's shrill voice. He had reached the ground floor.

  She was out of the house. In an instant her bare body was rain-wet fromhead to toe.

  A group of big men holding horses stood across the street, under theoverhang of the house opposite Tilia's. They were wearing swords andpurple surcoats over mail shirts. They looked at her gloomily and madeno move to stop her.

  She had no idea where to go, but downhill was the easiest direction.Maybe hide in an alley. Knock on a door and beg for help. Try to getacross town to Sophia.

  Anywhere, if only she could get away from John.

  Many times she had nightmares of running from something that was tryingto kill her. Sometimes a monster or a demon. Sometimes from crowds ofroaring people carrying torches. Always in those dreams she could notmake her legs move. It was like trying to run through water. Always shetried to scream for help and no sound would come from her throat but awhisper.

  Now she was able to run full speed away from that house where death anddestruction were running riot. And running as fast as she could was notenough! It would not get her away fast enough from John and his armedmen and that horrible cardinal. She was able to scream at the top of herlungs, but to no avail. Nobody would come to rescue her. Nobody wouldhelp her.

  She had also had nightmares about running through the street naked, withhundreds of people watching. In those dreams she had been horriblyembarrassed. Now she was really doing it, and she did not care about hernakedness.

  She darted past the carts and the horses and mules and their driversthat filled the street from side to side. She was running naked andbarefoot over the cobblestones.

  She ran past the red and yellow cart at the head of the line of wagonsand saw sitting beside the driver a man with a full white beard. He waslooking down at her. For a moment she thought he was a rabbi. Then shesaw his shaven scalp and brown robe. One of those Christian beggingmonks. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but she was past himalready.

  She heard hoofbeats behind her, and gooseflesh broke out all over hernaked body.

  _Dear God, is he chasing me on horseback?_

  But she could dart into a quintana, the space between two houses. Itwould be too narrow for a man on horseback to follow her. She saw anopening on her left and made for it, begging God to help her run faster.

  She felt something whip around her body, tearing her skin. She wasjerked off her feet. She fell on her back on the wet cobblestones. Shelay helpless, stunned and gasping for air. A rope was cutting into herchest just below her breasts, pinning her arms above the elbows to hersides. The rope burned her. Her back felt scraped and bruised. She saw ahorse's legs beside her. John was grinning down at her, holding theother end of the rope. The rain pouring down in her face stung her eyes.

  Now that she knew she was caught and helpless, her terror was transmutedinto rage. What right had he to treat her this way?

  "May God strike you dead!" she spat. He might not know the words, butshe was sure he could hear the hatred in her voice.

  He tugged on the rope to make her climb to her feet. She felt she wouldrather lie there and make him drag her, if he wanted her so badly, butshe realized that would only hurt her worse.

  She took a grip on the rope to haul herself up. The cold rain beat down,plastering her hair to her head. She wanted to wipe her face, but herarms were pinioned. Her back felt as if it were on fire.

  She looked at Tilia's house and saw that a man's body was swinging,sodden and limp, above the door.

  Her stomach turning at
the sight, she recognized Cassio's features inthe swollen, blackened face. They had hanged him from Tilia'screnellated balcony. And she had always thought he was such a big, toughman. She felt a stab of pity for him, even though he had never beenespecially nice to her.

  Her heart grew heavier and colder in her chest as the horror sank in.These men had destroyed Tilia's house, killed the men and raped thewomen with the gleeful cruelty of small boys stoning a bird's nest.

  Another jerk on the rope started her walking back up the street. Shekept her eyes down to avoid the sight of Cassio's body.

  As they passed the yellow cart, a voice called out to the Tartar, and heanswered briefly in what seemed to be his own language. Again the voice,and there was command in the tone. John reined his horse to a stop.

  Apprehension filled her. What new indignity would she have to suffer?

  Very slowly, the brown-robed Christian priest climbed down from thecart. He pulled his hood up against the rain. Rachel put one handbetween her legs and tried to cover her breasts with her forearm, lesthe be offended. Fear and the cold rain beating down on her naked fleshmade her shiver violently. She could not hope for kindness from thiswhite-bearded man. After all, as a priest he must condemn her as aharlot. And if he found out she was a Jew, he would despise her all themore.

  The priest reached up into the cart and took down a long walking staffand a gray blanket. Leaning on the staff, he approached her slowly.Looking at her very sadly, unconcerned about the rain soaking his robe,he draped the blanket over her head and shoulders. She gripped the edgesof the blanket and pulled it across her. As long as John's rope stayedslack, the blanket would cover her, although it was already cold andheavy with rainwater.

  The kindness in the seamed, bearded face warmed Rachel, and she droppedto her knees before him.

  "Help me, Father," she begged. "Do not let him take me away from here."

  "Get up, child." Leaning heavily on the staff with one hand, he used theother to help her to her feet, and she saw how stiffly he moved andheard him give a little groan of pain.

  "You are hurt, Father."

  "Just a few old broken bones," he said. "It has been months, and theyare mending well enough."

  He reached under the blanket that covered her, and she shrank away fromhis hand.

  "Forgive me," he said. "I mean no harm." Without looking at her, andhardly touching her, he managed to loosen the rope around her chest sothat it fell to the ground. She stepped out of the loop, and it slidaway from her. She looked up and saw John coil the rope and tie it tohis saddle. His face was reddened and his mouth compressed with anger.

  "It is useless to try to outrun a Tartar on horseback," said the priest."They are like centaurs. What is your name, child?"

  As she told him, Rachel felt a glimmering of hope. The priest had spokento John in his own language, and the Tartar seemed to have some respectfor him. At least he was no longer trying to drag her away.

  "I am Friar Mathieu d'Alcon," said the white-bearded priest. "What doesthis man want with you?"

  Rachel felt a blush burn her face.

  "He has lain with me, and he paid money to me and Madama Tilia," Rachelsaid, barely able to choke out the admission of her shame. "Now he isleaving Orvieto, and he wants to take me with him."

  Friar Mathieu sighed and shook his head. "And so young. Jesus, bemerciful." He turned to John and spoke to him in a soft, reasonablevoice. Rachel sensed that the priest was chiding the Tartar gently.John's answer was a series of short phrases, shrill with anger. Hefinished by slicing the air with his hand in a gesture of flat refusal.Rachel's heart grew heavy with despair.

  "He will not listen to me," said the friar. "He thinks he has a right totake you. His customs are not ours."

  "But you are a priest. Does he not have to do what you tell him?"

  "Sometimes he does what I tell him to, because he _is_ a Christian, andI have been his companion and confessor for some years. But he is moreTartar than Christian, and Tartars keep many women."

  Rachel's limbs turned to ice. "Does he think he owns me?"

  Colder than the rain pouring down on her was the terror of being tornfrom the few friends she had, to be used for pleasure by a man who couldnot even speak to her. She put her hands to her face and started to sobheavily.

  A burst of loud laughter from John made her look up. At first shethought he was laughing at her tears, but he was pointing at Cassio'sdangling body. Still chuckling, he said something to Friar Mathieu.

  "He says that man used to be the stud bull hereabouts. Now he is deadbeef."

  Rachel shook her head. "He has no pity for Cassio--nor for me." Filledwith revulsion, she thought she would rather die than spend the rest ofher life with that brute.

  Friar Mathieu looked off into the distance. "That is how it is with theTartars."

  Rachel shuddered. To John, Cassio was just a bundle of rags to belaughed at, and she was a plaything to be dragged through the world.

  "Please help me get away," she begged Friar Mathieu. "I think I willkill myself if I have to stay with him."

  Friar Mathieu closed his eyes in pain. "Do not talk that way, my child.Every person's life belongs to God."

  Another voice boomed down at them from above, speaking a language Rachelhad heard before but did not know. The sour-faced man with the big nosepeered at them out of a cavernous hood. The French cardinal. He toweredover them on a great black horse. Rachel shuddered at the sight of him.

  "Pardonnez-moi, votr'Eminence," said Friar Mathieu calmly. He went on,in what must have been French, to say something which she supposed fromhis gestures was about John and her.

  The cardinal's reply seemed as loud as thunder. He pointed at Rachel,and she cringed away. What was he saying, that she belonged to John?

  Feeling hopeless, Rachel stood weeping silently while the priest and thecardinal argued what was to become of her in a language she did notunderstand.

  _Has God abandoned me because I have sinned?_

  She looked at Tilia's house, at the horrid sight of the hanged man abovethe door, cries of women barely audible over the rumble of thunder andthe pounding of rain on the pavement. She saw men carrying boxes andbundles of cloth out the front door and realized that they wereransacking the place.

  Cold horror swept her as she realized she was going to lose everything.Everything she had earned by her shame was in a chest in Tilia's room.

  Friar Mathieu cried out something in French. In the midst of her misery,Rachel was shocked to see a beggar-priest publicly chastising acardinal.

  The cardinal stared at the friar, seemingly also shocked. He blinked aslightning flashed overhead.

  Rachel said, "Good Father--"

  The cardinal found his voice and roared back at the friar, jabbing abejeweled finger at Rachel and turning on her a glare of utter contempt.His look hurt Rachel as much as if he had hit her in the face with dung.She pulled the soaking blanket tighter around herself. She saw that,staunch as the friar might be, all the power was on the other side.

  "Father," she said, "if nothing can stop them from taking me, at leastlet me get the things I own from the house. My clothes and books." Shedid not mention the bags of gold ducats in Tilia's chest, though Johnmight know of them. "Let me take them with me and travel with you."

  Friar Mathieu nodded and spoke again angrily to the cardinal.

  The cardinal yanked on the reins of his horse, turning the black headaround, up the street. He flung his answer over his shoulder.

  Friar Mathieu turned a sad face toward Rachel. "He says you and I andJohn can go back into the house and get what belongs to you. And you cantravel in my cart. But I am not to interfere if the Tartar desires you."He shook his head. "I promise you, child, as long as you are with me,John will not touch you. I was a knight before I was a priest. They canmake me stand by and witness murder and robbery. But not rape."

  Rachel looked up to see John grinning at her with proprietary pride.Like Rachel, he had not understood a word of the
argument between thefriar and the cardinal, but he understood well enough that Rachel wasstill his prisoner.

  She felt a little better for having an ally in Friar Mathieu. But shepromised herself that whatever John might think, he would never take herback to his country. She really would kill herself first.

  * * * * *

  The storm had passed over Orvieto by the time the cart carrying Rachelwas bumping along the road to Perugia. As she sat on a bench beside theold priest, looking out through the open front end of the cart, Rachelsaw patches of blue sky above the hills to the northeast.

  John had gone with Friar Mathieu and helped him find her chest inTilia's room and the key to the padlock, hidden under Tilia's mattress.He had ordered two of his Armenian guards to carry the chest out forRachel and load it in the back of the cart, along with another chest ofher books and clothing. He himself had smilingly handed her the key. Asif he expected her to be grateful, she thought.

  So she was still a wealthy woman, Rachel thought bitterly, even thoughshe was also a prisoner.

  With Friar Mathieu sitting on the bench up front beside the driver, shehad gone to the back of the cart and opened both chests to make sureeverything was there, even hefting the bags of gold. Then she had driedherself off and put on a bright blue linen tunic.

  On the outside she was more comfortable now; within, desolate. Eventhough Tilia had sold her to the Tartar, Tilia's house had been home toher for nearly a year. She had come to know the men whom today she hadseen murdered, and the women who had been forcibly taken by the Tartars'bodyguards. They and Sophia, David, and Lorenzo were the only friendsshe had known since Angelo was killed. Now she would never see themagain.

  She had not felt so wretched since the night of Angelo's death.

  To comfort herself, she took out the Hebrew prayer book Angelo had givenher. To have light to read by, she would have to go to the front of thecart and sit beside Friar Mathieu. The sight of her prayer book mightturn the old priest against her. She remembered Angelo telling her howpriests at Paris had burned a thousand or more volumes of the Talmud.Tears had come to his eyes at the thought of so many holy books,lovingly copied by hand, destroyed.

  But Friar Mathieu had been kind to her even when she admitted that shehad lain with the Tartar for money. He did not seem like the kind of manwho would despise her for being a Jew.

  Right now she desperately needed to be able to trust someone, and shedecided that she could trust Friar Mathieu.

  Balancing herself against the swaying of the cart, she climbed on thebench beside the old priest.

  Her book was a collection of writings and prayers, including passagesfrom the Torah. Some rabbi, or perhaps more than one, with quill pensand parchments, had taken years and years to copy it out. She had markedthe Psalms with a ribbon and turned to them now.

  _For lowly people You save, but haughty eyes You bring low ..._

  For the first time since she had seen those hooded riders approachingTilia's house, she felt some measure of peace.

  After a moment she realized Friar Mathieu was reading over her shoulder.Fear chilled her.

  "One rarely finds a _man_ learned enough to read Hebrew," said FriarMathieu gently. "In a woman as young as yourself it is positivelymiraculous."

  She smiled timidly in answer to the kindliness in his eyes. "My husbandwas a seller of books. He taught me to read the language of ourancestors."

  "Your husband?" His eyes, their blue irises pale with age, opened wider."You have been married?" He shook his head. "People never cease tosurprise me. I would like to know you better, child. Will you tell meabout your life?"

  His gentle tone gave her heart. Not since Sophia had talked to her onthe road from Rome to Orvieto had anybody been interested in who shewas. Talking to this good priest about her past, she could forget for awhile the terror of present and future. She would tell him everything.