Page 1 of Retribution

PROLOGUE

Year of Our Lord 1250

Damietta, Egypt

The streets were dark, the air warm, filled with the khamsin winds that blew off the desert at this time of year and smothered everything in sand and heat. There was a faint smell of myrrh mixed with smoke from the cooking fires, something that both assaulted and soothed the nostrils.

The English knight standing at the mouth of an alleyway had become accustomed to that scent. He’d been here for two years and, to him, the desert was a mix of the soothing and the violent. So many memories triggered by one smell, filling his brain and making him feel less in control of his life than he already did, for tonight, he was on the hunt.

But he was also being hunted.

The assault on Damietta by the Christian armies had been a disaster, with most of the Christians either dead or captured, but he wasn’t either. He’d been managing to hide away in opium houses or other places the Muslims wouldn’t search, and long ago he’d stopped being a noble knight from England and simply became what he was at this moment.

A desperate man.

Desperate for that fairest of flowers, the residual of which could take away pain in a most miraculous way. One could liken it to a moment of enlightenment, when everything in God’s good universe became clear and a man could see his way to Paradise. But it could also cause one to become dependent upon it, and when he was wounded in the first landing of the crusaders at Damietta, a local physic had given him the resin from this flower to take away his pain.

He still sought it, even now.

Even as the Ayyubid soldiers hunted him.

Sir Everald de Beaumont, Lord Nalliers, was a valuable vassal of Louis IX because he had lands and wealth in France as well as ties to England. His wife’s family was a wealthy one, situated in the wilds of Cornwall, and any barbarian who might hold him hostage could ransom him for a great deal. He knew his worth. He wasn’t particularly concerned about actually being a captive because they would treat him well. They always did, at least for the richer nobles or the more prominent ones.

Nay, he didn’t particularly fear capture.

But he feared not having access to what he needed.

The flower of mercy.

That was what it was called by some. It was called khashkhash by others. Whatever that sap was, it was what Everald needed to survive these days. The injury he’d had that required it for pain relief had long since healed, but his body required the sap. He knew that if he was captured, the Ayyubid soldiers would not keep him supplied with it and he honestly wasn’t sure he could survive.

He had to reach his supplier before the soldiers reached him.

The alleyway he found himself in was clouded with sand from the winds. They hurled down the narrow alley, screaming and howling, wrapping him up in the frenetic chaos they created. He could hardly open his eyes and was having difficulty locating the apothecary’s shop, so much so that soon enough, he’d all but given up hope. Close to collapse, and terrified he would be discovered at any moment, he tripped on something buried in the sand and ended up falling through a doorway.

The door behind him was quickly shut.

“Ayuha alahmq al’akhraqu!”

Someone was shouting at him over the noise of the wind and he recognized the words. You clumsy fool, the man had said. Wearily, he sat up, holding up a hand to beg forgiveness.

“My apologies,” he said. “The sand has blinded me. I did not mean to stumble into your abode.”

There was a pause. As the knight tried to clear his vision, he could see a shape standing in front of him.

“Ya sayidi?” the shape said. “Is it you, Sir Everald?”

Everald blinked his eyes until he could actually see the man in front of him. “Ajmal?” he said feebly. “Is it you?”

“It is,” the shape said. As it reached over to pull Everald inside the cottage, the shape transformed into an elderly man with white hair wearing dusty robes. “Come inside, sayidi. Come and rest.”

Everald allowed the man to push him into a chair, but his body was tense. He couldn’t relax. When Ajmal tried to give him boiled fruit juice, he pushed it away.

“Nay,” he said, his tone raspy. “I have come for the spark of life, the very thing that gives me the will to live. You know what it is that I need!”

Ajmal did. Everald was one of his very best customers and he had made a good deal of money from the man. Without another word, he went to the cabinet that contained an elixir of wine and honey, mixed with the powdered resin from the flower that most called the Flower of Mercy. There were other names for it, like afioon, but it also depended on where one was from. Every culture had a different name for it. It could take away a man’s pain, or cause him to sleep, or give him a sense of euphoria. It was a miracle to many, a curse to some.

Ajmal simply called it the Blessing.