the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

he stepped inside a wicket door, disappearing from sight. Altaïr cursed.
He had lost his target. Still, the castle was a hive of activity, and even
now the doors were opening, both gates swinging back to allow a
palanquin carried by four men to come out. It was clearly empty – they
were able to jog along quickly – and Altaïr followed them to the sundappled
harbour where they set down their burden and stood waiting,
their arms folded.
Altaïr waited too. He took a seat on a low harbour wall and sat with
his elbows on his knees, watching the palanquin and the waiting
servants, the merchants and fishermen, the beautiful ships rocking gently
in the wash, hulls knocking against the harbour wall. A group of
fishermen wrestling with a huge net stopped suddenly, looked over to
one of the ships and grinned. Altaïr followed their gaze to see a number
of women appear in the sheer silk and chiffon of courtesans and make
their way on to the harbour with self-conscious, dainty steps. The
fishermen leered and some washerwomen tutted as the women crossed
the dock with their heads held high, knowing exactly the attention they
commanded. Altaïr watched them.
Among them was Maria.
She was dressed as a courtesan. His heart lifted to see her. But what
was she doing? She had escaped Shalim’s clutches only to step back into
danger, or so it seemed. She and the other women climbed aboard the
palanquin. The servants waited until they were aboard, then picked it up
and turned with it, carrying it much more slowly than before, each man
bent beneath its weight, heading out of the harbour and, if Altaïr was
right, towards St Hilarion Castle. Where, no doubt, Shalim was already
rubbing his hands with glee.