Standard of Honour. Jack Whyte
Читать онлайн книгу.
battle at Hattin was enormous. We had the strongest army ever gathered solely in the kingdom—more than thirty thousand strong. Knights, Turcopole allies and infantry. Your Sultan, Saladin, commanded at least twice our number, probably more, and we were beaten. I saw only glimpses of the main battle, from afar. I was wounded and unhorsed early, breaking my arm, and then was left behind in the fighting. I had a friend with me and we escaped together that night. We decided to make our way back to La Safouri, but we were overtaken by the storm.”
“Where is your friend now?” the Saracen asked.
“Gone. Somewhere in the sands. He dragged me behind him for two or three nights—I was raving mad from my injuries—and then he went looking for water, leaving me asleep in a cave he had found. When I woke up the storm had arrived. I have not seen him since. He could be anywhere. I pray he is alive, but I fear he may be dead.”
“So what will you do now? Where will you go if you ride away from here?”
“I have no idea. There might be no place for me to go.” Sinclair grunted, part laughter, part disgust. “Perhaps that’s why I am loath even to make the attempt.”
Al-Farouch held up a peremptory hand, his head cocked suddenly as though listening. Sinclair strained to hear what it was that had attracted his attention, but he heard only the stillness of the desert, and eventually the Saracen lowered his hand, shaking his head.
“I thought I heard horses approaching.” He looked at Sinclair, one eyebrow rising high on his brow. “I suggest, however, that if you are contemplating an escape from here you should leave now.”
Sinclair turned his head slightly to gaze out into the gathering dusk, mildly surprised that the day had vanished so quickly. “I have been thinking about that,” he said, before turning back to al-Farouch. “And I find that I have a conflict to resolve in my own mind. We spoke of honor briefly, a short time ago, and honor, in my life, involves responsibilities that we Franks call duty.”
Al-Farouch nodded, his face impassive. “We, too, have duties, some of them more onerous than others.”
“Very well then. Since you understand the concept, as you called it earlier, perhaps you can help me to resolve my dilemma. This day is almost done, so were I to leave now, I would be riding out into the darkness with nowhere to go and no knowledge of how to get there, for the sole purpose of avoiding capture by your warriors. I might achieve that anyway, simply from their failure to come here at all. Then, on the other hand, I might ride straight towards them in the darkness if they do come, for I have no means of knowing the direction they’ll come from.
“My dilemma is this: if I ride off blindly into the desert now to avoid capture, with no knowledge of where I am going, will I be acting honorably, because it is my duty to win free, or will I be guilty of dereliction of duty by acting foolishly and endangering my own life needlessly? Do you see what I mean, Master Saracen? Is my duty better served by riding off in the darkness now, perhaps to die, or by remaining here and taking my chances?”
Neither man spoke for a moment, and then Sinclair resumed. “Besides, as I’ve told you before, I like not the idea of leaving you here alone…And so I have decided to stay here until the morning comes. Then, providing there is no sign of your men, I will make you comfortable and ride far enough away to avoid capture, and there I will wait. If your rescuers do not appear, I will return and eat with you, for nothing will have changed, and I will still not know where to go.”
Al-Farouch ran the tip of his middle finger down the length of his nose and pressed it against his pursed lips. “Why do you say you do not know where to go? Were your losses at Hattin so grave?”
Sinclair rose to his feet and went to lean against the edge of rocky wall that formed their small shelter, staring out into the approaching night. When he spoke, he did so without turning his head. “Night comes quickly here, in the desert. In Scotland, where I grew up, the evening light at this time of the year can linger for hours after the sun goes down. There is no word for it in French that I know of, but we call that time of lingering betwixt day and night the gloaming…It is the loss at Hattin, more than our losses, that concerns me—the defeat itself, rather than the casualties, although God knows they were appalling. Your Sultan, from all I know of him, is not a man to ignore an opportunity sent from God, and to his eyes that is how his victory at Hattin will appear. Tiberias will have surrendered to him by this time, I suspect, with the army crushed, and I already know his men have taken La Safouri, and probably Nazareth, too. Were I he, backed by a victorious army and knowing that the Frankish forces are in disorder if not completely destroyed, I would march on Jerusalem at once.” He straightened up and turned back towards the other man. “And that, I fear, leaves me with few places to run…When did you pray last?”
Al-Farouch blinked. “Some time ago, at the appointed hour. You were here. You simply did not notice.”
“Should you not have faced the east?”
The Saracen smiled. “Allah requires our prayers, but being merciful, He does not insist that we torture ourselves when we are disabled. I will pray properly when I am able, but until then I will pray as I can.”
“Well then, when did you last defecate?”
The Saracen’s eyes went wide, but then he shrugged. “The morning my friends left, but I have eaten little since then, so I have had no pressing need.”
“But you’ve eaten now. Can you walk on that leg at all, if I support you?”
“I believe I can.”
“Good, and did your friends dig a latrine?”
“They did, close by but far enough removed to be inoffensive. It is ten paces to the right of the entrance.”
“If I can help you there, are you capable of seeing to your own needs?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. Now, if I help you to stand up and walk, will you attempt to kill me?”
The merest hint of a smile showed in the Saracen’s eyes. “Not before you bring me back in here, despite my oath to destroy all infidels at any opportunity.”
Sinclair grunted, then moved forward, his good arm outstretched. “So be it, then, let’s see if we can raise you to your feet. Be careful of my other arm, for it is as badly broken as your leg, but not so well bandaged. Once you are up, we’ll go outside and I will leave you to do what you must. Call out when you are done and I’ll come and help you back.”
By the time they had completed their business at the latrine, full dark had fallen, and they sat together in the darkness of the small corner that was their shelter. They talked of small, unimportant matters for a time, but the night was utterly still and they were both tired, so they soon fell asleep, head to foot in the narrow space, and Sinclair’s last thought was that he would have to be awake and away by dawn.
SINCLAIR CAME AWAKE when a callused hand clamped itself across his mouth and chin, but his protesting reaction was stilled instantly as he heard a deep, guttural growl and felt the edge of a cold knife blade at his throat. He lay motionless, waiting to die. Dawn had yet to break, but there was movement all around him, and he knew he should have anticipated this development.
“Who is this ferenghi dog? Should I slit his throat?” The voice came from directly above him, and he felt the pressure on the blade at his throat increase, preparing to slash. But even as he began to tense for the blow, the voice of al-Farouch stayed the other’s hand, ringing out with an authority that was absolute.
“No! Do him no harm, Sabit. He has shared bread and salt with me and I am in his debt.”
The man called Sabit grunted and sat back on his haunches, removing his hand from Sinclair’s face but continuing to hold the knife to his throat, although it was the flat of the blade that pushed now against his skin. “How can you be in debt to a ferenghi, Amir?” His voice was rich with disgust. “He is an infidel, and therefore you need not be bound by our holy laws in dealing with