“That is true.” Henry would agree with the devil himself if he could ease the torment from Alya’s face. Chest tight he stepped toward her. Her pain rippled through him as if it were his own. “But the news from Cairo is not good. There is a price on the head of all the Genovese merchants.”
She blinked at him. “Why?”
“I know not.” He held a hand out to her, then dropped it to his side. She was not his to touch. “People are angry. In their anger, they are not always mindful.”
Her breath hitched on a soft sob. “My father?”
“I am so sorry, my lady.” He wanted to say more. To tell her he understood the agony of losing those whom you loved. “If not already dead, your father has been targeted.”
Standing between them, Bahir glowered at him.
Alya crumpled.
Bahir caught her and hoisted her into his arms. “I will deal with this.”
Dismissed, Henry turned and stumbled up the ladder back into the daylight. Everything in him demanded he go back down and comfort her. Like a fresh gash through his chest throbbed the knowledge he had caused her pain.
Newt came up beside him. “Did you tell her?”
“Aye.” Reason shouted down his burning desire to be the one with her now. It was not his place. “Bahir is with her.”
“This is a bad business.” Newt shook his head. “And here we sit with a target on our foreheads.”
Not as long as he had breath. Henry strode to the railing. While his girl on the wall wept belowdecks, he could and would make sure nobody got near her.
* * * *
Alya sobbed but no tears fells. Tears might be a relief from the tearing agony within her.
Bahir continued to whisper that it might not be true. He would send a man to Cairo to find out for sure. Allowing herself a brief flicker of hope, she nodded her agreement at his suggestion.
“But we must sail with the tide.” Bahir assisted her out of her hijab and niqab.
The damp cloth clung to her wet face and nose, and made it impossible to breathe. Alya flung it away from her. “Then how will I know?”
“I will instruct him to follow us to Genoa.” Bahir picked up her hijab and smoothed it over a crate. “But it may be a while before he reaches us.”
In the meantime, her loss seeped, raw and angry within her. Her father. The man she loved above all others. Devoted, funny, loving, indulgent some had said, but her father.
And she had not allowed him to embrace her in parting. She had turned her back on him and climbed into her litter.
Another sob rattled through her. The pain grew so intense, Alya folded her arms about her middle and hunched over. It felt as if it would burst from her and tear her asunder.
Dear God. She should have turned and told him how much she loved him. Now she might never have the chance to do so again.
A long, low wail escaped her.
Bahir drew her to him, folding her in his arms.
Clinging to him with all she had, Alya dug her nails into his tunic. She pressed her face into his chest and cried.
* * * *
Despite Bahir’s protests, Alya spent most of her time on deck. Every morning she would wash as best she could with the water Bahir brought her, dress and go above deck. Huddling in the dark only made her more aware of the gaping hole inside her. She clung to the hope that Bahir’s man would deliver the news her father lived.
She kept her niqab in place but the temptation to throw it off and feel the cool sea breeze against her cheeks grew. The voyage forced her out of her worry for precious moments. The sea never looked the same any two days in a row. Going about their tasks with quiet competence, the sailors fascinated her. Coiling ropes, furling and unfurling the great, billowing sails, scrubbing down the deck. When not working, they sat in small groups, laughing and talking, some of them occupied with hand work, others playing games of dice and stones.
Then there was Henry.
Her gaze found him wherever he stood on the boat. The sun darkened his face, making his eyes appear otherworldly. Fine stubble covered his head now that he no longer shaved it. It caught the bright sunlight and glinted. Eyes of lapis and hair of gold, like the prized concubines in the sultan’s harem. She giggled a little at her own thoughts.
Her isolation wore on her. Glowering should anyone approach, Bahir stood always beside her. At home, she would have spoken with Nasira or one of the other maids, joined her friends at their homes for sherbet and gossip. Not that she had that many friends. She had always blamed Father for being overprotective, but now, perhaps, he’d had other reasons for keeping her separated. That he had been so hated because of his birthplace, she could not fathom. Her father was a good man, a kind one.
Stripped to a vest, muscle playing along his arms and shoulders, Henry coiled a rope at the front of the boat. Beside him, Newt perched on a barrel eating dried fruit. She had asked Bahir what a Newt was. A kind of lizard. What manner of man took his name from such a creature? As much as she would like to ask, she felt tongue tied around the Englishmen. They spoke often in their language, shutting her out of their world.
* * * *
Henry felt her gaze on him. She watched him often, striking eyes above the black of her niqab. Those eyes held shadows and he wanted to speak with her, enquire how she went on. Always, Bahir guarded her like a jealous dog.
Newt filled the long, warm days with news of home. It no longer felt like a part of him. He had left Anglesea as one man, and he no longer knew who returned to them. William had married a lady called Alice, and they lived in the north with their children. He tried to picture his middle brother as a father, bearing the responsibility of a demesne. A glib-tongued diplomat who eased his way through life with charm, William had been the carefree brother.
That Roger had married came as no surprise. Although Newt’s description of the fiery Kathryn whom Roger had wed had Henry shaking his head. Roger had married a woman who would rather be a knight than a chatelaine. He had pictured Roger with a serene, calm woman. Someone who could smooth the rough edges off his oldest brother. It seemed Roger had changed in the years since Henry left with his gut afire with visions of bringing the light of God to the dark heathens. What a naive boy he had been.
“Your father has stepped down from Anglesea in all but name.” Newt spat a date pip into the water.
Some things you could not change, and as much as he itched to cuff Newt for spitting, he did his best to ignore it instead. So far and no further Newt changed. The news from home Henry could not have predicted. That the father he had last seen as a strong, vital man, full of piss and vinegar had released control of his beloved Anglesea Henry could not fathom.
“Seems your mother wants to spend time visiting her grandchildren.” Newt chewed and spat his pip. “He’d thump anyone who suggested it, but I think your father was ready to hand over the weight of Anglesea.”
Perhaps. Father had been fighting one war or another since he was little more than a boy.
“Garrett functions as Roger’s right hand,” Newt said.
“Garrett.” Henry stopped and let that sink in. “Beatrice’s Garrett?”
“Aye.” Newt shook his head. “Could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw it. They get on, those two.”
“Huh.” Last he’d seen, Roger and Garrett were at each other’s throats. “And they sent you to find me?”
Attention on Alya, Newt nodded. “Imagine telling Beatrice she had to wear that lot?”
Henry