Pillars of Light by Jane Johnson Read Free Book Online Page B

whore?
    “Zohra?”
    Tariq’s hold on her relaxed and she sprang away from him, and there was Sorgan, her big, simple brother, framed by the doorway, half stooped beneath the lintel, his face creased in consternation. He looked from his sister to Cousin Tariq, whom he disliked, and his face darkened.
    Zohra stepped to his side. “Sorgan, perfect timing!” She squeezed his arm. “You can help me carry the food through.”
    Sorgan’s gaze swept the pastries, the piled flatbreads, the dishes of olives and hummus, the spicy salads and
baba ghanoush
, and puzzlement dissolved to a slow grin. He held his hands out for the tray.
    “Take it to the big salon,” Zohra told him, “and ask Baba and Cousin Rachid and the uncles to take their seats.” As Sorgan’s enormous fingers closed over the sides of the tray, she added, “Cousin Tariq is coming with you to make sure you don’t eat anything before you get there.”
    Sorgan’s gaze travelled up to her, hurt. Then he said, “Your dress is dirty.”
    Zohra looked down. Tariq’s hands had left sweaty imprints, unmistakable—on her breasts, at her crotch. Sweat stains were impossible to get out of silk, and her family could not afford to replace the kaftan. She glared at Tariq with loathing. “Even if you were the last man in Akka, I would never marry you.”
    “As if you will have any say in the matter, stupid girl.” Then he pushed past her, knocking her shoulder dismissively.
    She watched him stride down the corridor, a man complacent about his own position in the world, confident in his future. She thought of Nathanael, a hundred miles away in Jerusalem, gone without a word. And then she looked around the little kitchen, at allthe luxuries and care brought together for this family gathering—at the chicken steeped in expensive saffron, at the towering steamer full of
qidreh
, all evidence of her mother’s determination to impress her husband’s family. She thought of Jamilla’s trembling adoration for her brother, of oblivious Malek, caught up in a war waged by men, and felt as if she had stumbled upon a deep and terrible truth.
    That when it came to the world of men—with their weapons of iron and their quest for knowledge and power and gold and pleasure—the feelings of a woman weighed as light as feathers.

4
John Savage, cell in Bath Gaol

    NOVEMBER 1187
    I woke to find myself in prison, my head throbbing from the after-effects of my falling fit and de Glanvill’s brutality.
    Where the rest of the troupe was, I had no idea: Quickfinger, Little Ned, Hammer and Saw, Red Will, Plaguey Mary. Thinking of them made me miss them all keenly. It had all been going so well, but now it looked as if we would all hang. I sat there, tears pricking my eyes, trying not to cry.
    “John?”
    For a moment I thought I was dreaming, but when I looked up there was the Moor, alive, outside the bars of my cell! Shooting to my feet, I reached through and we clasped hands. I could feel the whole of my heart in my eyes. Then I remembered where we were.
    “For God’s sake, they’ll hang you, too!”
    The Moor laughed silently, his half-moon eyes merry with some unspoken secret. “Don’t worry about me. I am invisible.” He touched my face, suddenly solemn. His fingers were flames on my skin. “Your poor nose,
habibi
,” he said softly. “I am sorry, John. I tried to warn you to come away sooner.”
    “I couldn’t hear you.” It was half true.
    He pushed through the bars a flat loaf and a piece of hard yellow cheese.
    “Is this the condemned man’s last meal?” It was all too good to be true: the Moor, here, free, his hands full of gifts. Between bites I said, “Listen, here’s what I’ve been thinking—” I swallowed, coughed as the morsels went down the wrong way, and finally continued. “See here?” I pointed an inch or so above my Adam’s apple. “Give the hangman his price and tell him to place the knot just there. If he does it right it’ll choke me,