Angeline (2 page)

Angeline turned again to Stephen, but he would not look at her. He swayed as he stood there, as pale as death.

“Stephen?” she whispered. “How fare you? What did they do to you?”

Finally, Stephen raised his eyes to meet hers, but those eyes that had glowed with such fervour were blank and empty now. His voice was just as dead.

“What did they do to me?” he repeated. “No more than what they did to you and to all the others who survived to follow me here,” he said. “They sold me. They have sold us
all
into hell.”

Angeline could not suppress a muffled cry of protest. This could not be Stephen talking! She looked to Father Martin for help but he shook his head wordlessly. The servant tugged on their ropes. Zeid was already striding away from the slave market. They could do nothing but allow themselves to be led back to the shore. A small boat was tied up there, one white-robed man seated in the stern, his hand on the tiller, another at the bow.

Zeid untied their ropes.

“Get in,” he ordered. In silence, they obeyed. He motioned them to take their places in the centre of the boat; the servant clambered into the stern. Zeid gave a command, and the boatmen pulled in the lines that connected them to the shore. They raised two sails and the boat came alive. It fairly leaped away from the land. They were once more at sea, tossing in the waves.

As they sailed out of the harbour, they passed under the prow of the vessel in which they had come. It looked strangely deserted, with its sails furled and oars shipped. Angeline could see no sign of the sailors, nor of the captain who had brought them here. He was in the cabin, no doubt, counting the coins he had received for them and gloating over the praise he would receive from the two treacherous swine who had promised Stephen and his followers safe passage from Marseilles to the Holy Land. William Porquierres and Hugo Ferrus. William the Pig and Hugo of Iron. Well named they were, indeed.

Stephen had had a vision from God that the waters of the sea would part for them at Marseilles, as they had for Moses. He had promised his followers that he would lead them safely to the Holy Land. But the waters did not part and Stephen’s followers had been filled with fury. Many of them deserted him, those who remained were as despondent as he. And then those two wretched men had appeared. Stephen and Father Martin had welcomed them, certain that they had been sent by God. Angeline had not been so sure. She had distrusted them from the beginning, but she would not abandon Stephen. She felt the anger sweeping back at the memory and she welcomed it.

Now their small craft sailed along the coastline, then turned and made its way into the mouth of a great river whose waters ran brown and muddy into the sea. Once on the river the boat settled down and skimmed more smoothly over the surface. Only then did Zeid speak.

“You have all been purchased for the Emir, Abd’al Haseeb. I am his steward. He is a great prince, well-beloved and most trusted by our Sultan himself. He is a benevolent master and you will be well treated. The port where you landed was Alexandria. We go now to Cairo where Abd’al Haseeb lives. Cairo is a great city—the wonder of the world. You,” he pointed to Father Martin, “you will be tutor to my master’s eldest son, Habib. The Emir wishes the boy to become knowledgeable in the western languages. I can speak French, as you see, and have conversed with Habib in that language since he was a babe, but the Emir wishes him to learn to read and write Latin as well.”

Father Martin drew himself up. Although Angeline could see his hands trembling, he managed to speak with defiance.

“You should know that I will not renounce my religion,” he said. “I am a Christian priest, a servant of the one true God. I will die rather than betray my God.”

“Be at ease,” Zeid answered. “We who follow Islam are taught that you Christians and the Jews are Ahl al-Kitab, People of the Book. We respect Jesus as a great Prophet, as was Muhammad, peace be upon him. It is unfortunate that you Christians and the Jews have gone astray and left the true path, but we do not persecute you for your mistaken beliefs. We live together in our country in peace. The Jews pray in their temples, the Christians in their churches. You will be free to worship as you wish.”

Father Martin looked disbelieving, but he clamped his lips shut and remained silent. Angeline was surprised. This was not what she had heard. Not what the priests had said when warning them about what would happen if they were captured.

“If you are seized you will be tortured,” they had proclaimed. “You will be burned alive, slaughtered! Christian women will be dishonoured. The heathen hate our God. But hold fast to your faith and God will reward you in Heaven.”

Angeline looked at Zeid. He looked back at her calmly. There was a peacefulness about him. Truly, this man was not what she had expected. But could he be trusted?

“The boy will assist you,” Zeid went on, speaking once more to Father Martin. “And he will help in the gardens as well. We have need of another slave to help our gardener, Kareem. He is old and lacks someone young to work with him.”

Angeline could hold her peace no longer.

“And me?” she asked. “What is to become of me?”

“You are to be slave to Zahra, the master’s favourite concubine,” Zeid replied. “You are fortunate.”

Fortunate? Whatever a concubine was, how could she possibly be considered fortunate? They were supposed to have been the chosen children of God—the ones who would succeed where all others had failed. They were supposed to have been the ones who would march triumphant into Jerusalem and conquer the city by their faith alone. Theirs was to have been a destiny glorious beyond all comprehension.

Fortunate?

Angeline looked at Stephen, who sat crumpled beside her. He was staring at the brown waters swirling by. He seemed not to have heard anything of what Zeid had said. How could he be so indifferent? How could he not care what was to happen to them? To her? It was as if the boy she had come to admire and care for so deeply on their dreadful journey had disappeared. As if he had been replaced by a shell of a person. But she needed him! She was terrified! They were slaves in a strange, harsh land. Who knew what fate awaited them, despite the words of this man?

Angeline sat in the boat and stared at the shore as it slipped by. Try as she might, she could not get Stephen to speak a word. She longed for him to talk to her. To reassure her. To chase away the pictures that flooded her mind no matter how hard she tried to block them out. Pictures of what might be awaiting them, each more frightening than the other.

“What is a concubine?” she asked Father Martin in a whisper.

He pursed his lips. “A woman who is like a wife, but not a wife. Not wed. The heathen keep them as well as wives.”

“They are allowed to do that?” Angeline asked incredulously. “No one disapproves?”

But Father Martin would say no more.

They pulled into the river shore just as the sun was setting. Angeline tensed. What would happen now? There was no sign of a city here or any dwellings at all. They could not have reached Cairo yet.

“We have gone as far as we can for today,” Zeid announced. “You will not be tethered. There is nowhere to run should you try to escape. Come with me and I will show you.”

Stephen sank down in a heap on the shore as the boatmen pulled the small craft up onto the bank and made it fast. He shook his head, wordlessly.

Angeline held back. She was not about to go anywhere alone with that man, no matter how civilized he seemed. She looked to Father Martin, unsure as to what she should do.

“I will come as well,” the priest reassured her. He gave Stephen a worried glance, then turned to Zeid. “Stephen will stay here.”

Zeid shrugged. “As you wish,” he said.

Reluctantly, Angeline followed Zeid through the bushes that lined the riverbank. She made certain to keep Father Martin between her and the man. What was it he wanted to show them? She cast a look back at Stephen, but he sat hunched into himself, staring at the river. He looked so desolate! She stopped—she could not just leave him there. She almost called out to urge him to come with them, then bit back the words. She looked at the marks on her wrists where the rope had burned. She could not help it—the anger that simmered within her turned now on him. It was because of
him
that she was here. It was because of
him
that she was a slave, doomed to a future far more horrible than any she would have faced had she not chosen to follow him. He should have known! He should never have trusted those men!

But even as she railed at him in her mind, a small voice chastised her:

Joining Stephen’s crusade was your choice,
it insisted.
Stephen did not even want you at first, have you forgotten? Only a handful of boys followed him then—he feared the journey would be too hard for a maid and that outraged you. You forced him to accept you. Do you not remember?

It was true. She had to admit it.

“Angeline!” Father Martin called.

Startled out of her memories, she gave Stephen one last look, then made haste to catch up.

Alongside the riverbank the land was lush and green with trees and bushes and a small field in which grew some kind of crop.

Zeid pointed to the plants. “Al-fasfasah,” he said. “The father of all foods.”

Angeline stared at the low, bushy, green-leaved plants with pink flowers that she recognized immediately. Alfalfa, growing here, in this foreign land! The villagers grew it in France as well—the best of all fodder for their cattle, they believed. She reached down to touch a blossom. For one brief moment she could almost make herself believe that when she looked up again she would be back in her own village. That her mother would be calling her to sup. That this had all been naught but a nightmare. If only it could be true!

They walked on. As soon as they left the fertile banks, Zeid stopped.

“Behold,” he said, gesturing.

Angeline caught her breath. Rolling, blinding dunes stretched out in front of her as far as the horizon. She was looking at a sea of sand as great as the sea over which they had sailed. Waves and waves of sand in every possible shade of light and dark. The sun blazed down so fiercely she had to shield her eyes; shimmers of heat wavered in the air. On the river there had been a slight breeze, but no air stirred here. Zeid had spoken truly. There was no escape. Beside her, Father Martin drew in his breath.

She stumbled as they made their way back to the riverbank. It was just about the time the church bells in her village would have been sounding Vespers, and she saw not the dusty path on which she trod, but instead, the path she took every evening at this time to fetch water from the well in her village. People would be coming in from the fields, now. They would be settling down for their evening meals. Life would be continuing back in her village as it always had. How could that be? How could life go on as usual for them while she was so far away in such a different and terrifying world?

When they got back to the boat, Stephen still sat where they had left him. Father Martin approached and knelt beside him. He spoke, but Angeline could not hear what he said. Stephen took no notice, and with a sigh the priest straightened up again.

Then Angeline heard a lilting song coming from far up the river. It was strange and outlandish, like no other song she had ever heard before, in words she could not understand.

“You will wait now,” Zeid said. He and the other men washed themselves in the river, then pulled out small rugs and prostrated themselves on them, foreheads to the ground.

This must be a call to prayer, Angeline thought. But prayer to a foreign god. She closed her eyes and ordered her mind to blot it out. In its place she tried to imagine the tolling of Christian bells, but to no avail. She could hear naught but the Muslim summons.

When their prayers were done, the men unpacked baskets of food and spread it out on cloths.

“Eat,” Zeid said.

Father Martin settled himself down and motioned to Angeline to sit beside him. He glanced once at Stephen, then bowed his head and said grace. He prayed for a long time. When he had finished, Angeline looked at the food. Fruits and cheese. Loaves of round flat bread. Her stomach rose at the very sight of it.

“I cannot,” she said.

No amount of entreating from Father Martin could change her mind. The priest made an attempt to eat, but she could see that he managed very little.

“You should try,” Zeid said to her with a worried frown. “You need food.”

Angeline shook her head.

After the meal was done, the boatmen erected two tents.

“One for the maiden,” Zeid said. “You will sleep with the boatmen and myself,” he added, motioning to Father Martin and Stephen.

Angeline crept into the shelter, grateful at first to have it to herself, but then lay fearful and loath to sleep. She was used to the close companionship they had developed on the crusade. She and Stephen had shared a campfire every night and rolled themselves in their cloaks side by side. Father Martin had always been right beside them, a reassuring presence. Usually at least two or three little ones had snuggled up to her for warmth and reassurance. On board the ship, even though it had been crowded and filthy, she had always been glad to have Stephen and Father Martin near. Now she felt so alone. She started at every small noise. Once she gathered the courage to peek out of the tent flap, but the darkness outside was impenetrable. Stars shone down out of a black sky with a brilliance she had never before seen. The invisible river gurgled past. Then a rustle in the trees above her head sent her scuttling back inside.

She had been given a roughly woven blanket and she wrapped herself in it. The day had been fiercely hot, but as soon as the sun set, all heat fled from the land and the night was cold. Sometime in the middle of the night the same lilting call to prayer echoed along the riverside again. Angeline heard Zeid and the boatmen come out of their tent to pray, but she huddled into her blanket and closed her eyes against them.

Finally, she slept.

Another call to prayer woke her the next morning just at the time when her village bells would have been tolling Prime. She emerged from her tent to find Father Martin waiting, Stephen standing behind him.

“Come,” the priest said, “it is time for us to pray, also.”

“How can I pray?” Stephen said bitterly. “My God has deserted me.” He turned from them and strode over to the boat.

Angeline stood helplessly, looking after him. Father Martin, too, stared after him, his face grim. Then he knelt. Angeline dropped to her knees beside him. She had come to trust and respect Father Martin, and the familiar words of the Mass should have comforted her, but she hardly heard them.

During that whole, terrible time, Stephen had never wavered in his belief. He had been steadfast in his purpose. Even when she had lost faith and chastised him, screamed at him in her despair over the deaths of the children, even then he had been as steady as a rock. But now he would not even pray! She bowed her head but her mind was spinning. She felt abandoned. Lost.

When they resumed their journey, Angeline made no further effort to talk to Stephen. She sat silently in the boat, staring at the shore as they swept by it. She could not bring herself to believe that what she was seeing was real. Everything was so different from anything she had known before. The banks along the river were a reddish colour. Here and there, nestled into the trees, were small huts made of mud bricks of the same hue. Women washed their clothing down by the water. She could hear their chattering as the boat sailed past. She saw donkeys and another one of the strange dun-coloured animals. Zeid pointed it out and told them that it was called a camel. “Gamal,” in his own language. He seemed anxious to reassure them, to allay their fears, but when his arm brushed hers she flinched, still frightened of him. Oxen-like creatures pulled carts in the fields. Once she saw a boy herding sheep to the water. Stephen had been a shepherd. She glanced at him, then looked quickly away to spare him shame as she realized that he, too, was watching the boy and was weeping.

Then she saw a strange, fearsome beast slide into the water from the riverbank. Before her horrified eyes it began to swim toward them. Neither fish nor animal, it seemed to be a combination of both. It had a huge head and when it opened its mouth, Angeline saw long, sharp teeth, dripping water and green, slimy weeds. The creature was covered in what looked like scales. It swam nearer, its evil eyes fixed on her. She jumped to her feet and cried out. The boat rocked alarmingly.

Zeid caught her arm.

“Be still!” he commanded.

Father Martin reached for her other arm to steady her, but he was as frightened as she. His fingers dug into her skin painfully. Startled, Stephen half rose and stared at the thing. The boatmen, eyes wide with a terror as great as hers, made ready with their oars and pole to fend it off, but just as it reached the boat, it gave a flick of its powerful tail and disappeared under the water.

Angeline sank back down onto her seat, weak with shock. Unconsciously, she reached for Stephen’s hand, but after his first start of alarm he had withdrawn again, his head buried in his arms.

The call to prayer sounded out twice more during the day before they camped for the second night. Each time the boatmen made the craft fast to the shore while they washed and prayed. Father Martin watched them, tight-lipped. The second time, around the middle of the day, Zeid and the boatmen ate a little bread and cheese. Father Martin accepted some, but Angeline still could not bring herself to eat. That night, however, her belly demanded food. She looked dubiously at the fruits spread out in front of her. They were strange to her. She picked up a bright, orange globe, not knowing what to expect. The rind was hard and slightly bitter, but when her teeth sank through, a burst of sweet juice filled her mouth. With that, her hunger suddenly overwhelmed her. She pulled the fruit apart greedily and sucked every drop from it. There were small, brown, sticky fruits as well. She tried them, avid now. When she bit into one of them her teeth grated on a hard pit, but again, the taste was so sweet that she spit out the stone and devoured the fruit. The cheese was white and crumbly. This was something she could recognize. It was not unlike the goat cheese she had eaten at home. She wrapped it in the flat bread and crammed it into her mouth. There was pale juice to drink that was tart on her tongue and refreshing. It quenched her thirst marvellously. When she finished, she licked her fingers clean and looked around. Father Martin was eating as well, but Stephen still sat in a stupor. She could not tell if he had eaten anything or not, but for the first time in months
her
belly was full. Starvation had killed many of the younger children on their crusade—there had never been enough food for all of them. She had usually given most of what little she could obtain to the smaller ones she had tried to care for.

Tried and failed. The thought thrust itself unbidden into her mind. How little Dominic would have enjoyed this feast. How the two angel-faced imps, Marc and Yves, would have gobbled it up.

The food she had eaten turned sour in her stomach. She staggered to her feet and vomited into the bushes beside their camp. The memory of those children—of all the lost children—was a searing ache within her that she would carry for the rest of her life.