Crusader's Lady

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Jerusalem, 1192

Marc drew the wool cloak about his shoulders and leaned toward his campfire with a weary groan. He no longer cared if it was night or day, if the desert was sun-scorched or wind-whipped, his belly full or empty. Each day brought him closer to not caring whether he lived at all.

The sun dropped toward the dry hills of Syria like a great gold coin, burning its way across the purpling sky. Usually he welcomed the smoke-coloured shadows that gathered around his camp each evening, but not tonight. He drew in a lungful of dung-scented air. Fifty steps to the west, the king’s banner of scarlet and gold fluttered weakly in the dying wind. Were it not for Richard, this hated crusade would be over.

A boot scraped against the ground near him. Marc cocked his ear and reached an aching arm for the sword lying at his side.

‘No need, my friend,’ a hearty voice called. ‘It is but Roger de Clare.’ The muscular young man, a forest-green surcoat covering his chain mail shirt, squatted beside Marc’s fire.

‘What news, de Clare?’ Marc muttered.

‘None. The king is worse. The servants are lazy. The scavenger birds are hungry. All this you know.’

Marc nodded without smiling. ‘Saladin himself sends a healing medicine for the king. At least that is what our spies report.’

Roger tipped his head toward the edge of Marc’s camp. ‘They also report Saladin’s men lurk in the shadows beyond our firelight and listen to words best left unspoken.’

The whole camp knew Richard lay in his tent, sweating with fever, attended by knights and servants. Saladin, as well, knew where Richard and his warriors lay. Every move the Frankish army made, the Saracen leader seemed to know in advance.

Roger cleared his throat. ‘The king sent word he would speak with you.’

Marc groaned. ‘Again. No man in all Christendom ignores so much good advice. I will go later. I have not yet eaten.’

Roger glanced into the crude metal pot hanging over Marc’s fire. ‘Small loss, it would appear.’

Marc nodded. Roger de Clare never minced his words, as did other Norman knights. That was one reason Marc tolerated him. Other Normans, with their greedy gaze on Sicily, Cyprus, even Scotland, could go to the devil.

‘Will the king die, do you think?’ Roger asked.

‘I doubt it. Lion Heart is well named.’

Again Marc leaned toward his fire. The bowl of boiled grain looked unappetising, but it was all he had.

‘Join me, Roger.’ He gestured toward the bowl of food. ‘I grow weary of eating alone.’

Roger glanced at the warming wheat mixture. ‘I think not, my friend. Your cooking pot would not feed a hungry rabbit, let alone a friend. And…’ The young man hesitated. ‘Richard waits.’

‘Let him wait,’ Marc grumbled. ‘I am weary of killing.’

‘Spies are near,’ de Clare said in a low voice. ‘Take care to say nothing of interest to the Saracen.’

Marc nodded. His friend rose and propped his hands on his sword belt. ‘You are too much alone, man. You eat alone, sleep alone. You would fight alone if the king would let you. But, my ill-tempered friend, I will not let you do that.’