would add a phrase or two, or a glance or a smile, to the speeches that Mustafa rendered into the languages of the east: Arabic of course, Greek, Turkish, Armenian, and the odd dialect of Egypt or Syria or the Arabian desert. Richard knew what he had in Mustafa, and was visibly glad of it.
A day or two after the lord al-Adil came back from his prudent retreat, Richard went hawking in the hills above the sea. It was a very early morning, up and out before dawn, and he took only a few hardy souls for escort, reckoning to be back in Jaffa by full morning. He did not need Mustafa for that, but Mustafa had been unable to sleep.
So, it seemed, had the singer Blondel. Richard did not raise a brow at either of them, but Mustafa was aware of the chill in the air, which was more than early autumn in this part of Syria could account for.
It did not matter to him. He had a favorite hawk, a desert falcon, small but swift, which the king’s chief falconer was so kind as to look after for him. It was good to see the fierce little creature again, to feel the grip of claws on his gauntleted fist before he bade it shift to the padded perch on his saddlebow. He took a place not too far from the king, but not too presumptuously near. Blondel, with his lute in its case but no falcon to hunt for him, rode just behind Richard, defying anyone else to displace him.
No one did. Newcomers would cross him, but anyone who had been with Richard through the Crusade had learned to let the singer be. He was Richard’s and only Richard’s. He cared for nothing and no one else.
The hunting was good—so much so that they had gone rather farther than they had intended, out of sight of the city and into a stretch of tumbled hills. They dismounted there to drink from a spring that bubbled up from the rock, to eat such provisions as they had brought in their saddlebags, and to share a brag or six. No one troubled to post a guard. Mustafa thought of it, but fast riding and fresh morning air and the rising of warmth with the day made him lazy.
Richard, having eaten and drunk with good appetite, spread his cloak on a flat stretch of ground and lay on it. Blondel tuned his lute. The others gathered to listen, or were already snoring in the sun. The horses, hobbled, nosed about for what grazing they could find. Only the falconers were honestly awake, tending the birds in a curve of rocky hillside, sheltered from the wind.
Blondel’s voice was sweet, whatever one might think of his disposition. Richard smiled as he drowsed. Mustafa took note of the words of the song, which were in the language of the south of France, swift and liquid, with a hint about it of strong sunlight and thyme-scented hillsides. Someday he would see those hills, he thought sleepily. Someday he would—
Sleep broke asunder in a thunder of hooves, a chorus of shrilling howls, and the clash of steel on steel.
Turks. Seljuks, shrieking out the titles of the Almighty in barbarous Arabic. Mustafa bit his tongue before he sang them back. The Franks would never understand. He leaped up, whirling his sword about his head, eyes darting until they found Richard. The Lionheart was on his feet, laying about him with his great sword and bellowing like a bull.
None of them was in armor; they were only armed with swords and knives and here and there a hunting spear. Those who could get to the horses at least had the advantage of weight and speed—even the Franks’ palfreys were heavier than the eastern horses, though never as fast on their feet.
Mustafa hacked two-handed at a shrilling Turk, hauled him down off his horse and vaulted into the saddle. The horse wheeled, shaking its head, ears flat back. It snapped at his knee; he dealt it a vicious kick in the jaw, which subdued it handsomely. It was still a hard-mouthed, dead-sided, evil-tempered ravenbait, but it had one sterling quality: it had no fear at all.
The way was open—all the Turks had fallen on the Franks, leaving Mustafa alone and
A day or two after the lord al-Adil came back from his prudent retreat, Richard went hawking in the hills above the sea. It was a very early morning, up and out before dawn, and he took only a few hardy souls for escort, reckoning to be back in Jaffa by full morning. He did not need Mustafa for that, but Mustafa had been unable to sleep.
So, it seemed, had the singer Blondel. Richard did not raise a brow at either of them, but Mustafa was aware of the chill in the air, which was more than early autumn in this part of Syria could account for.
It did not matter to him. He had a favorite hawk, a desert falcon, small but swift, which the king’s chief falconer was so kind as to look after for him. It was good to see the fierce little creature again, to feel the grip of claws on his gauntleted fist before he bade it shift to the padded perch on his saddlebow. He took a place not too far from the king, but not too presumptuously near. Blondel, with his lute in its case but no falcon to hunt for him, rode just behind Richard, defying anyone else to displace him.
No one did. Newcomers would cross him, but anyone who had been with Richard through the Crusade had learned to let the singer be. He was Richard’s and only Richard’s. He cared for nothing and no one else.
The hunting was good—so much so that they had gone rather farther than they had intended, out of sight of the city and into a stretch of tumbled hills. They dismounted there to drink from a spring that bubbled up from the rock, to eat such provisions as they had brought in their saddlebags, and to share a brag or six. No one troubled to post a guard. Mustafa thought of it, but fast riding and fresh morning air and the rising of warmth with the day made him lazy.
Richard, having eaten and drunk with good appetite, spread his cloak on a flat stretch of ground and lay on it. Blondel tuned his lute. The others gathered to listen, or were already snoring in the sun. The horses, hobbled, nosed about for what grazing they could find. Only the falconers were honestly awake, tending the birds in a curve of rocky hillside, sheltered from the wind.
Blondel’s voice was sweet, whatever one might think of his disposition. Richard smiled as he drowsed. Mustafa took note of the words of the song, which were in the language of the south of France, swift and liquid, with a hint about it of strong sunlight and thyme-scented hillsides. Someday he would see those hills, he thought sleepily. Someday he would—
Sleep broke asunder in a thunder of hooves, a chorus of shrilling howls, and the clash of steel on steel.
Turks. Seljuks, shrieking out the titles of the Almighty in barbarous Arabic. Mustafa bit his tongue before he sang them back. The Franks would never understand. He leaped up, whirling his sword about his head, eyes darting until they found Richard. The Lionheart was on his feet, laying about him with his great sword and bellowing like a bull.
None of them was in armor; they were only armed with swords and knives and here and there a hunting spear. Those who could get to the horses at least had the advantage of weight and speed—even the Franks’ palfreys were heavier than the eastern horses, though never as fast on their feet.
Mustafa hacked two-handed at a shrilling Turk, hauled him down off his horse and vaulted into the saddle. The horse wheeled, shaking its head, ears flat back. It snapped at his knee; he dealt it a vicious kick in the jaw, which subdued it handsomely. It was still a hard-mouthed, dead-sided, evil-tempered ravenbait, but it had one sterling quality: it had no fear at all.
The way was open—all the Turks had fallen on the Franks, leaving Mustafa alone and
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