Crusader's Lady

‘Boy?’ Marc replied in a lazy voice. ‘The skinny one who trampled through our resting place without a by-your-leave?’

‘That’s the one. He stole a loaf of bread and—’

‘And a round of cheese,’ the second man added as he limped to a stop. The third merchant, tall and sallow with one drooping eyelid, gasped for air but said nothing.

Marc idly sifted another handful of dust through his fingers. ‘The boy is gone,’ he said in the same nonchalant tone. ‘Into the olive grove. No doubt at this moment he is scampering on down the hill.’

The merchant swore an inventive oath. Marc understood its earthy implications, but he did not smile.

Two of the men then dashed into the grove. ‘We shall catch him at the crossroads!’ one yelled.

But the third man, the tall, silent merchant, eyed Marc’s black warhorse, then gazed at Richard’s prone body. Slowly he walked toward the ragged, motionless figure on the ground and prodded at the monk with the toe of one boot.

Chapter Four

King Richard sat up partway, propped himself on one elbow and signed an exaggerated cross over his chest. ‘Yes, my son?’ he said to the merchant in a pious voice. ‘Do you wish to confess?’

The man’s eyes blinked. ‘Allahu alukhaim.’

‘There is no god but Allah,’ Marc translated. The merchant backed away, then turned to follow the other two into the olive grove. When the turbaned men were out of sight, Marc spoke, directing his words to the moth-eaten habit on the ground.

‘They are gone, boy. You can come out.’

The wool robe shuddered and the disheveled lad emerged, a delighted smile on his face. ‘I thank you, lord.’ From inside his dust-smudged tunic he pulled a flattened loaf of bread, a dirty-looking hunk of cheese and a handful of dried herbs, which he dumped into a small leather sack at his waist.

‘Aha.’ Marc scowled at the youth. ‘You are a thief after all.’

‘Oh, no, lord.’ A disarming grin lit the boy’s face. ‘Say instead that I am a very skilled borrower.’

Richard chuckled. ‘I say the lad has wit and an enterprising spirit. Considering our situation, de Valery, you may be thankful for such qualities.’ The king straightened, then stood and clapped the boy’s shoulder. ‘You may ride with me, lad.’

The boy blanched.

Marc laughed until his eyes watered. With quick, sure motions the lad stashed the bread and cheese in Marc’s supply bag, grabbed a handful of Jupiter’s thick mane and wrestled himself up into the saddle.

‘Where do we travel now, lord?’

With a sigh, Marc again hauled the youth down off his horse, mounted in his place and lifted the small-boned frame up behind him. ‘There.’ He motioned ahead. ‘To the sea.’

‘Ah!’ The youth jerked in a hissed breath.

Richard climbed onto his sway-backed horse. ‘Pray God there is a ship waiting.’

A ship! Soraya caught her breath in a squeaked-out gasp. A ship that wallowed on the water while filthy men crawled over it like scavenger ants? Her blood turned cold. She prayed to God a ship was not waiting!

She was not afraid of a great many things, but being tossed about on the water was not one of them. She only vaguely recalled such a voyage, but the memory of the experience still haunted her. Her stomach roiled at the thought of standing once more on a ship’s deck.

And, she realised in growing horror, she was getting farther and farther away from Jerusalem and the English king.

She must devise some way to lay her hands on a weapon and end this miserable Frank’s life at once. Twisting her head slightly, she eyed the scabbard hanging from the knight’s belt. Could she slip the sword out? Yes, that might work. Perhaps when he next dismounted. She would ask for a swallow of water. Then, when his attention was diverted to his horse, or the saddle, or the water skins…

Yes! When he reached for the water…

The monk’s rough voice spoke behind them. ‘Look ahead, de Valery.’

‘I see it.’ The destrier stepped up its pace.

Soraya stretched her neck as high as she could to peer over the rise, yet could see nothing but sand and more sand. But when they reached the top of the hill, a cooling breeze brushed her face and all at once there lay the sea ahead of them, smooth as a porcelain plate and so blue the dancing light made it look bejeweled. It was so bright she couldn’t look at it for very long.

And in the harbor—God preserve me!—boats bobbed on the water. Hundreds of them! Fishing vessels. Canopied barges. Arab dhows. Ships with rows of oars and sails and men crawling up and down the masts.

Her mouth went dry. She ducked her head, restudied the position of the knight’s scabbard. It hung at his belt just so, and if he turned to his left, away from her…

The horse moved forward a few yards and halted. ‘Climb down, boy.’

Soraya slid off the destrier’s back so fast she lost her balance and stumbled onto her knees. She clenched her teeth at the holy man’s raspy laugh, and just as she started to scramble to her feet, the Frankish knight grabbed the front of her tunic and heaved her to a standing position. She stood so close to him she could see the beads of sweat on his upper lip.

His glance strayed to the water skins. Now was her chance. She inched her hand toward the protruding hilt of his sword. Focused on the skins, the knight turned away to his left just as her fingers closed over the cold steel.

Lord be praised. She did not have to drag the heavy weapon from its leather covering; the knight’s own motion away from her tipped the scabbard and separated it from the sword she gripped. Then he pivoted toward her, opening his mouth to speak.

Foolish man.

She wrapped both hands around the hilt and heaved the tip of the blade into the air. Lord, but it was heavy, like a great iron sewing needle balanced over her head.

Now. She would crash the weapon down and split his head right between those two puzzled blue eyes. She aimed for his nose and drew in a breath of resolve.

With a surge of strength, she extended the blade over her head as far back as she could and willed the cutting edge down for the killing blow.

Chapter Five

The first thing Soraya became aware of was the sound of laughter. Men’s laughter. Deep voices whooping out guffaws of hilarity.

She opened her eyes. What was she doing flat on the ground?

The knight’s sword lay at an odd angle, just out of her reach. Had she brained him and then fainted? Surely not. She never fainted. The women in the harem had taught her a trick to prevent such a breach of manners. Had that been so long ago she had forgotten?

She spat out a mouthful of grit. ‘What happened?’ Her tongue felt thick as a caliph’s chair cushion.

‘Far less than you expected,’ the holy man said with a chuckle. ‘Certes, I have not enjoyed such a joke since I left England.’

Joke! Speechless, she glared up at the two sets of blue eyes peering down at her. Two sets. So she had not killed her knight. The last thing she remembered was lifting the sword over her head, raising it higher…higher…

She recalled that it took every ounce of strength she possessed. And then what?

Her knight bent forward and hauled her upright by one arm. ‘What do you think happened?’ he growled. ‘The weight of my sword unbalanced you. You toppled over backward.’

He scowled at her while the holy man alternately coughed and chuckled. The look of black fury on the knight’s face sent a cold chill up her spine.