“Nor am I, Hassan,” Kamal said, “though women in Europe are vastly different than they are here.”
“Women who understand guile are the most dangerous of creatures, here or in Europe. To trust a woman is folly.”
“Even if the woman is one’s mother?”
“Ah, that is different, and yet not different. I am pleased that you are bred to two cultures, highness. It gives you wisdom that is mysterious to a Muslim. I feared you would not be accepted by our people. Yet I see you, a young man, rendering justice that men twice your age accept without question.”
“Sometimes I feel very old, Hassan. Not particularly wise, just weary from what I have seen.”
“You are a young man, highness. I pray that your life is not cut short as was your half-brother Hamil’s. He was an excellent sailor, at home on a ship as he was on land. I still cannot believe that he fell overboard during that storm.”
“The Koran teaches us to accept such tragedy as Allah’s will, Hassan. You are tired, old friend. And I weary you with useless talk.”
Hassan waved a bony hand, and stared toward the heavy tapestry that draped from ceiling to floor on the opposite wall. “Remember that vengeance is for men, highness. A woman’s vengeance knows no honor.”
Kamal grinned suddenly. “I should have reminded my mother that if it were not for this hated earl and his countess, I would not be on this earth.”
“Such logic is not convincing to a woman, highness.” Hassan rose slowly to his feet and bowed deeply. “Do you wish to retire now?”
Kamal sighed. “Yes. There is much to consider.”
“May Allah guard you,” Hassan said, and walked silently from the chamber.
Chapter 5
Naples
A wispy fog swirled from the bay, curled over the docks, and crept through the narrow streets of Naples. Three men, shrouded to their feet in thick black cloaks, huddled against the side of a building in a crooked alley, waiting. One of them, by far the oldest of the three, eased his narrow shoulders around the corner of the building and stared through the murky fog down the street.
“Quiet, lads,” he hissed. “He’s coming, but not alone. There’s someone with him.”
“Give us some sport,” another of the men said. He spat neatly toward a mangy cat that was pawing a pile of refuse.
The Comte de la Valle negligently twirled his beribboned cane as he listened to his friend Celestino Genovesi.
“Gesù,” Celestino growled, “it’s as black as a pit in hell. You tempt fate, Gervaise. I’d feel uneasy walking here during the day, what with all the riffraff hanging about.”
“Stop whining,” Gervaise said. “As for its being a black night, it will give you practice for when you leave this earth.”
“You’re a cold-blooded bastard, Gervaise. I still don’t like it.”
“Why not think about that lovely little morsel you shared in tonight?”
Celestino, a paunchy young Italian nobleman with crispy chestnut side whiskers, shuddered in distaste, knowing Gervaise could not see his expression. He said only, “With four of us taking the little whore, she quickly lost her desire to please.”
“Perhaps next time you will be first,” Gervaise said, sounding bored. “She did whimper quite prettily. That must have pleased you, Tino.” He shrugged his elegant shoulders. “She was paid for her services. The gold I placed into her grimy little hand was the amount her father demanded. It was overpayment, I think, for her maidenhead.”
The silence was suddenly rent by coarse shouts. “Get ’em, my lads. Break their heads.”
Three black shadows flew from the alleyway. Celestino howled in startled fear. Gervaise, Comte de la Valle, quickly drew the dagger at his belt and tossed aside his useless cane.
“Fight, you fool,” he shouted at Tino. “You cannot run from the scum.” He lunged at one of the men, his dagger slicing downward toward his breast. He felt his arm suddenly wrenched behind his back in a grip that made him gasp. The man who held him had twice his strength. He struggled in silence, Celestino’s howling cries ringing in his ears. Like a damned girl. He closed his eyes when he felt the point of a knife touch his bare throat. Merde, he thought very precisely. To die at the hands of wharf rats bent upon robbing his purse.
Gervaise heard another yell from the gloom. He whirled about to see a man hurtling toward them, his sword glistening silver in the swirling fog. For an instant he was held immobile, watching the figure lunge toward one of the thieves. The man dodged his sword, then shouted at the top of his lungs, “Away, my boys. Away.”
The three thieves disappeared into the darkness as if they had never existed. Gervaise calmly sheathed his dagger and brushed off his sable-lined cloak.
“For God’s sake, Tino,” he growled toward his friend, who was leaning against the side of a derelict building, vomiting into the street, “get hold of yourself.”