Silk Road (2 page)

He whispered something; a name perhaps, but it was unintelligible.

‘William,’ the abbot murmured, ‘I can hear your confession now.’

‘My confession?’

‘You will be absolved of all sin and this night you shall see our Blessed Saviour.’

William smiled, a ghastly grin that chilled the abbot to his soul. William, who had come to them in such mystery, would leave them now in the same manner. ‘Water.’

The abbot lifted his head and moistened his lips from a wooden bowl. So cold in here. William’s breath rose to the ceiling in a thin vapour, like a spirit leaving the body.

‘The Blesséd Saviour will not see me.’

‘You must make your confession,’ the abbot repeated, anxious now that it be done before the soul was taken.

‘I see the Devil. He warms the brands for me.’

The abbot felt a thrill of dread along his spine at his invocation of the Beast. ‘You have lived a holy life. What do you have to fear from Beelzebub?’

William raised a hand from the bed, touched the sleeve of the abbot’s robe. ‘Come closer,’ he said. ‘Come closer and I shall tell you . . . precisely . . . what I have to fear.’

Acre to Aleppo
1259–1260

Fergana Valley

in the Chaghadai khanate of the Tatar

the Year of the Sheep

S
HE HAD ALWAYS
dreamed she could fly.

She imagined that the earth was laid before her, as in the eye of an eagle, could feel the updraughts of the valley in the sweep of a wing, could believe for that moment that no silver bond tied her to the earth . . .

Khutelun reined in her horse, turned her face to the north wind, the cold burning her cheeks. The snow peaks on the Roof of the World had turned a glacial blue in the late afternoon sun. Below her, in the valley, the black yurts of her tribe huddled like thieves on the brown valley. Nothing stirred on the plain. She was alone up here, alone with the great silence of the steppes.

This is my birthright, on the back of a good horse, my face burned by the wind. But if my father has his way I will be given to some upstart boy who will give me his babies and have me tend his yurt and milk his goats and I will never ride at the head of my father’s
touman
again. I am born to the wrong sex, with the heart of a stallion and the tail of a mare.

If I had been born in the body of a man I would be the next khan of the high steppe. Instead my consolation is that one day one of my sons will rule the high grasslands. Even for this I must one day go to pasture with a man.

The thought of submitting herself made her feel sick inside.

Of course she wanted children of her own. She also hungered for the physical comfort of a man, and lately she had listened to the lewd chatter of her married sisters with more than a passing
interest. But to take a husband – though she knew that one day she must – would consign her to his yurt forever.

Her father had found a new suitor for her, the son of a khan from north of Lake Baikal. It was her father’s duty and it was also good politics. But as a Tatar woman it was also her right to refuse, as she had done many times before. This time, however, she had made a bargain with him. If he found her a boy who could prove he was worthy of her by besting her on horseback, then she would submit to marriage.

It was not outright refusal.

She heard a faint cry and looked up, saw a falcon flick its wingtips in the face of the wind.

Look at her brothers. Gerel was a drunkard and Tekudai had the brains of a goat. They could not match her in wits, or in spirit.

I was born to be more than a receptacle for some man’s seed.

She made a promise to herself then, shouted it to the Spirit of the Everlasting Sky. But her words were lost on the wind.

K
HUTELUN’S FATHER
, Q
AIDU
, had made his camp that winter in the Fergana Valley, below the Roof of the World. Black crags rose into the sky on every side, like the fists of the gods, the slopes below dotted with silver poplar. To the north, a high col cupped a dark lake. Above it loomed the ridge called The Woman is Going Away.

The night before he had placed the headless bodies of two white goats on its crest. To win the challenge, Khutelun, or her suitor Jebei, must be first to place one of these carcasses at the door of his yurt.

Everyone had gathered to watch the spectacle: the men in their fur coats and felt caps; the women clutching snot-nosed children. There was an eerie silence. Breath from a thousand mouths rose in the still morning air.

Jebei’s escort mounted their horses and waited, a little way off. Their broad-shouldered Mongolian ponies stamped their hooves in the dawn cold.

Jebei himself had the body of a man but the face of a boy, and his quick, untidy movements betrayed his nervousness. His father watched him, frowning.

Qaidu strode from his yurt, went to his daughter and placed a hand on her horse’s mane. She was tall and slim for a Tatar, but the slenderness of her body was hidden under her thick coat and boots. She wore a fur-lined cap and there was a scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth so all that was visible was her eyes.

‘Lose,’ he whispered to her.

The dark eyes flashed. ‘If he deserves me, he will win.’

‘He is a fine boy. You do not have to ride your best.’

Her pony stamped its foot in excitement, eager to begin.

‘If he is as fine a boy as you say, my best will not be good enough.’

Qaidu frowned at her defiance. Yet he wished Tekudai or Gerel had inherited some of her spirit. He looked around at the silent, bronzed faces. Most of the women were smiling at his daughter. They wanted her to win.

‘Whoever brings me the goat has their will!’ he shouted and stepped back.

Jebei nudged his horse forward so that he stood head to head with Khutelun. He smiled and nodded at Qaidu. He thinks he can win, the old man thought. He does not know my daughter.

Qaidu raised his right fist in the air. When he brought it down the race was under way.

A hard gallop through the crowd, then out beyond the yurts, towards brown hills dusted with white. Jebei stood in the stirrups, riding hard, the wind in his face. His pony’s hooves drummed on the frost-hard plain. He looked over his shoulder, saw Khutelun’s horse veer suddenly away; in moments it was two hundred paces distant, heading towards the steepest slope of the mountain.

He wondered if he should follow her. The broad shoulder of the col loomed above him. He had decided on the cleanest way up the ridge when he walked the course the previous day. Too late to change his mind now. What was the girl doing? Perhaps she had chosen a longer way; it must be her strategy to ensure he would win. He kept straight for the col.

She did want him to win. Didn’t she?

Khutelun grinned as she imagined Jebei’s confusion. Really, he had no choice. If he followed her now he would put himself behind her in the race and he could not close the gap between them unless her horse fell. What else could he do but keep to the obvious course?

She rode around the spur towards a defile in the cliff called The Place Where the Ass Died because of the steepness of the slope. Her horse’s hooves slipped on the loose shale. She urged him on. She
knew his pumping heart and sinewy muscles were equal to it. How many times had she ridden this path before, in other races, for sport?

Poor Jebei.

K
HUTELUN PICKED HER
way back down the mountain, the carcass of the goat hanging limp from her right hand, bloodying her horse’s flank. Jebei sat astride his own black mare, waiting for her, a grin on his face. So he had followed her after all. It was immediately clear to her what he planned to do. He thought she was weak and that he could wrestle the goat from her, here in the defile, where no one could see them.

She reined in her horse.

They stared at each other. ‘You are not as stupid as you look,’ she said to him.

‘Would it be so bad to be the wife of a khan?’

‘I am the daughter of a khan. I am content with that for now.’

He held out his hand. ‘You may be swifter on horseback but you are not as strong. Do you think you can pass me with your burden?’

Her shoulders sagged in defeat. She had not thought he would have the wits to trap her this way. She walked her horse forward and held out the kid’s carcass.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Before I take my prize, I must know what I have won. After all, I have never seen your face. Perhaps I might not want your goat.’ The women of the steppe were not veiled, for they were Tatars before they were Mohammedans, yet she had always taken care to keep her scarf of purple silk coiled around her face, both to irritate and intrigue him. He waited as she reached for the silk with her free hand and pulled it aside.

He stared at her. ‘But you’re beautiful,’ he said.

Beautiful, she thought; well, so men tell me. A worthless gift for a Tatar princess. Beauty is the gift of submission.

‘I’m also stronger than I look,’ she said and with one fluid movement of her right arm and hips she swung the bloodied carcass of
the goat into his face and knocked him out of the saddle. He lay groaning on the frost-hard rock.