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Part VII - The Road to Awe and Wonder
-*-
The port of Jaffa was ancient and filled with well-worn, limp-sailed boats of all shapes and sizes. Most of the buildings facing the sea were in need of white washing, made dirty and dingy by the wind and weather, and broken down by the weight of years, though the small stone church still looked tidy. People dressed in flowing white or light-colored robes and turbans passed by or worked industriously in the glare of the noon sun. The harsh sun, stark rocky landscape and warm desert breeze were unfamiliar and exotic and so welcome that Alona felt tears prickle the corners of her eyes.
Jerusalem lay inland fifty or so miles from here through hostile territory, but they were close now, so close! She tried to imagine what she would find there, the miracles and glories and amazing sights, but her mind was taken over by an incoherent jumble of excitement and fear and all she could do was tremble.
Docking was more troublesome in Jaffa than it had been elsewhere: the dusky-skinned, robed port authorities inspected their papers and letters with suspicion, and demanded an entry fee so large that Jensen’s eyes bulged and he spent nearly an hour negotiating and arguing in a broken mishmash of Latin, Frankish, Greek, and Arabic until finally Alona pulled him aside and instructed him to pay the fee so that they could get off the ship at last. The portmaster, pleased by the collection of his fee, and liking Alona’s looks if the gleam in his eye was any indication, suggested that their party stay at a roomy, white washed residence at the edges of the city. The place had wide arched windows, mosaic floor tiles, and a lush, flowering garden at the back.
The proprietor, a fat fellow who spoke Latin fluently, took them on a tour of the place, spending most of the time in the garden pointing out specific plants and indicating the maze, which had taken many years to grow to fruition.
A little while later, after Alona washed up and donned a green and brown summer gown, she emerged from her room to find Jensen leaning against the wall, dressed and ready to go.
“My lady,” he said, smiling a bit in a way that made her heart lurch. “Your sightseeing wishes are my command.”
She took his extended arm, and together they strode out into the bricked streets. Jaffa was nowhere near the size of Rome, and the sidelong glances from residents, merchants, and armed men in the streets dampened her enthusiasm for exploration. Still, they made their way through streets tunneled out of limestone, stopping first at two churches, only to find that they had been converted into mosques when the followers of Muhammed had conquered the city some seventy years prior. Far more accommodating was the marketplace, filled with silks and veils and colorful clothes, and smelling of myrrh and frankincense and all manner of fine and exotic fragrances.
Alona bought a length of diaphanous gold veil-cloth, tinkling bracelets from a silversmith, and a pair of blue slippers with bells on them. They paused for a while to have a cup of tea and sweet dates while a trio of flute players made sprightly music. Afterward, they visited an apothecary and restocked their supply of creams, potions, medicinal teas, and bandages. The proprietor gave Jensen lengthy instructions of how to treat the ulcers on his soldiers’ feet and Cora’s dyspepsia, and they left. Tomorrow, Jensen would return to find news of their route to the Holy City, when he could enter the places where only men were welcome.
They returned to the inn then. At the bottom of the stairs, Alona tugged on Jensen’s arm. “Stay while I put away the goods. I want you to explore the gardens with me.”
“As you wish,” he said with a hint of fond exasperation.
She rushed up the stairs and set their purchases down in her room, where Cora and Hilda were both napping. She paused to run a brush through her hair and daub perfume behind her ears before meeting Jensen downstairs.
Together, they wove through the twists and turns of the maze, which was thick with flowering jasmine, leafy vines, and fragrant bushes like rosemary and sage. Birds darted from branch to leaf, chattering and singing, and the occasional rustle of the brush indicated that rabbits or other rodents lived in the shelter as well.
She felt almost giddy at being off the ship at last, and so near her goal, and with Jensen, so quiet and confident and strong. His reticence and confidence and strength suddenly bothered her for no reason she could identify, and she wished nothing more than to destroy his composure, to rumple him in the way that she felt rumpled and needy around him.
“Catch me if you can,” she said on a laugh, releasing his hand and dashing this way and that through the maze.
“Alona!” he cried, exasperated, then sighed and followed after, his footsteps heavy and his chain mail clinking as he walked, making it easy for her to hear from which direction he came and allowing her to adjust accordingly.
The maze was wondrous, the growth watered from a spring that bubbled forth from a huge fountain of Roman design somewhere near the center of the maze, its spouts fashioned to look like the gaping mouths of fish from which a nude young warrior clutching a bow in one hand bent low to catch.
She wound through the maze heedlessly, giggling at Jensen’s increasingly irritated cries for her until the delicate petals of what looked like pansies caught her attention and she paused to eye them more closely, allowing Jensen to catch up to her.
“Aha!” he cried, exultant. “I’ve caught you!”
She yelped and ran toward the exit, but he blocked her way. They chased each other around the small area, laughing, until he snagged her waist with his long arm and hauled her against his hard chest. They laughed into one another’s mouths, breathless and so close, and then the smile fell from Jensen’s lips and he bent his head and kissed her.
She froze, stunned by the drugging sensation of his soft wet lips on hers, enveloped in the warm feel of his body and the earthy, manly smell of him, so different from Geoffrey’s.
In the next moment her resistance melted and she sagged into him, clutching at his side and kissing him back with a hunger that surprised her.
He gave a pleased groan and wrapped his broad hands around her waist, pulling their bodies flush together. Her breasts crushed against his chest, and her belly pressed against the firm join of his hip and thigh.
They broke apart a moment later, panting into one another’s mouth, Jensen’s hands framing her face as he peered into her eyes, his own wide with longing and desire and distress. He released her and stepped back abruptly, making her stumble a little.
He ran the back of his hand over his mouth, his face twisting with something like agony, and with one stricken look at her, fled the maze in a rush.
-*-
Tristan was lying on the mat in the room that he and Jensen shared, just awakened from a nap and trying to summon the wherewithal to rise and see about his rumbling belly when Jensen burst through the door, looking wild-eyed and more distressed than Tristan had ever seen him.
“What has happened?” Tristan asked, sure that it was something terrible indeed.
Jensen barely glanced at him, just grabbed his knapsack and began stuffing clothing, tools, and his grooming kit into it violently, his jaw tight. When his bag could fit no more he snatched his bedroll and wadded it up into a ball instead of rolling it up carefully as he always did. He swung his belongings around to land with a thump against his back, turned toward the door, and froze.
Alona stood in the doorway, silent and pale, her hands clenched into tiny balls, an expression of ruin on her face.
“Tristan, leave,” Jensen rasped, eyes locking on her.
Tristan immediately got up and went out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. He stayed with his back to the door, though, and did not move off as he should have done. He wasn’t too proud to admit that his curiosity was stronger than his concern for Jensen’s privacy. Jensen’s and Alona’s voices carried clearly through the door.
“What, you’re leaving?” she asked, her voice high and tinged with disbelief.
“I think it’s clear that I can’t fulfill my contract after all. You can speak with Wyclef. He’s a bit rough around the edges, but he’s experienced and smart. He’ll see that you get to Jerusalem and home again unmolested.”
“I don’t want Wyclef,” she said distinctly, riding the edge between panic and anger. “I want you.”
Jensen said something indecipherable then, something low and desperate that Tristan both longed to hear and dreaded. The next words, though, were distinct.
“I’ll not have another leader for this expedition. You swore to Morden that you would see me to Jerusalem and home and I mean to hold you to your duty.” Alona sounded firm and determined.
Jensen’s response was quick and angry. “My contract depends upon my free will, not your whims, my lady.” His footsteps came near, then, and Tristan flew across the hall to avoid immediate discovery.
“Jensen!” Alona cried just as Jensen flung the door open. He stood in the doorway, his back to her. “Please,” she said, strained and soft.
A shudder passed through him, chased by an expression of hardened determination. He strode out the door and down the hallway past Tristan without a word or the slightest acknowledgement.
Tristan followed him at a distance without much thought. He had no purpose here without Jensen, and he meant to follow the knight wherever he went.
And follow he did, at a discreet distance, quiet and stealthy as Jensen walked up and down the narrow streets, seemingly oblivious to the curious glances of the locals, from whom he stood out on account of the style of his clothing and his height, both of which were unusual in a sea of short, robed citizens. It seemed, at first, as though he had a specific destination, but when the shadows began to lengthen and he was still walking along, Tristan began to doubt that he did.
At last, Jensen paused by the side of a warehouse. He leaned against the building, looking down at the dusty, well trod earth at his feet. His shoulders slumped and the anger that had propelled him forward seemed to drain away in one long draw, leaving him weary instead. Tristan came up beside him.
“You are persistent,” Jensen said after a moment, not looking up.
Tristan shrugged. “I have nowhere else to go.”
Jensen closed his eyes briefly, as though someone had told him a sad and impossible tale and it weighed heavily upon him. He swallowed, then said gruffly, “Nor do I, it seems.”
They began walking again, then, though this time they headed back to the inn. By the time they made it back night had fallen entirely.
Alona was sitting alone on a bench in front of the inn when they approached. Her swollen eyes and puffy cheeks revealed that she’d been crying. Jensen paused in front of her. The two of them stared silently from one to the other, and a whole conversation seemed to pass between them without the utterance of one word. Finally, Jensen gave a grave, slow nod and Alona acknowledged it with the downward flicker of her eyes.
Tristan followed Jensen inside to their dark room, and the two of them went straightway to their separate pallets and lay down to sleep.
Two dogs fighting in the street woke Tristan some hours later. He shifted on his pallet until he found a more comfortable position, and noticed the glint of Jensen’s eyes from the moonlight through the shutters. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, silent and unmoving.
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But you also said in your author's notes that the romance was not the point of your tale. I recently wrote something where the romance was also not the point. So in that respect I'm very much looking forward to the journey moving forward.