Kitabı oku: «Crusader's Lady», sayfa 3

Chapter Six

The galley shuddered under Marc’s feet, and the two horses, tied to the thick rail, snorted and stamped their hooves to regain their balance. He smoothed his hands over Jupiter’s quivering hide and tightened the tether so he would not injure himself.

A seaman scampered up the mast to unfurl the single sail. On either side of the ship the rowers grunted and leaned into their oars. The vessel cut through the sea swells like a blade through a ripe melon.

Richard lounged at the far end of the desk on a makeshift pallet of hemp sacks that smelled of rotting fruit. ‘Stop pacing and get some rest, de Valery.’

‘I will not rest until we dock in Cyprus, God willing.’

‘The Templars will offer us lodging,’ Richard assured him with a crafty smile. ‘Especially when the good knights learn who now holds the island.’

Marc need not ask who. On his journey to Jerusalem, Richard had overrun Cyprus—fortress, vineyards, Templar bank and all. What the king wanted, the king took. ‘Why does control over that island matter more than a gnat’s dinner?’

The king’s gaze drifted to where the servant boy squatted next to a bowl of herbs and wine he was warming over an oil lamp. ‘I have my reasons.’

Marc grunted. Richard never did anything without a reason. He was a royal, and with Great Eleanor at his back, the king of England was invincible. Even his brother John feared him. But with Richard on crusade in Outremer, John’s meddling fingers crawled greedily into the honey pot that was England. Richard had to stop him.

The servant boy rose abruptly, dashed to the rail and leaned his head over it. The choked sound of retching made Marc’s own stomach clench. When the bout was over, the lad dragged his sleeve across his mouth and staggered back to Richard’s bedside. The turban wound about his head had loosened; strands of straggly dark hair were plastered to the pasty forehead.

‘Are you still seasick, boy?’ Richard’s meaty hand patted the thin arm.

‘Aye, lord. I do not like ships or sailing.’ The boy lifted the king’s head and tipped a few spoonfuls of the herb concoction past his lips. Richard grimaced, swallowed, grimaced again, and the boy settled the empty bowl beside the lamp. ‘Soon you will be well, lord.’

Again the lad rose and wobbled toward the ship’s rail. ‘I am in your debt,’ the king breathed at his retreating back.

Marc pressed his lips into a thin line. ‘I would have a care, were it my belly the boy dribbles his noxious mixture into.’

‘I’ve been guzzling his potion since afternoon, de Valery. As you can plainly see, I am growing stronger by the hour.’

It was true. For the first time in a month the ailing king rested peaceful as a babe, and the flush of fever no longer coloured his cheeks.

‘The lad has some skill in herbal brews,’ Marc allowed. ‘You have struck up some sort of bond with him,’ he continued carefully. ‘No doubt you are right—the boy wants only my life, not yours.’

‘Ah, yes. I want to keep him close.’

Marc jerked at the word. He could not say why he felt the least bit protective of the thieving little wretch, but he did. Nor did he trust the innocent look in the lad’s sea-green eyes. He would lay not a single farthing on the truth of anything the boy uttered. Still, he felt oddly protective of him.

Possessive, even.

‘The lad is my servant, not yours. I would like him to stay near me after all. If he manages to stop trying to attack me, he could come in useful.’

Richard’s eyes turned to steel. ‘You are impudent, de Valery.’

‘I am honest,’ Marc countered. He turned away to his own pallet. ‘As you well know.’

The sun dropped into the sea at their back, painting the cloud-splattered sky gold and then purple. Once more the lad left the rail, walked unsteadily to the king’s pallet, his face grey as moldy bread. Almost at once, he pivoted and raced back to the railing.

‘When the ship reaches Cyprus,’ Richard said casually, ‘we can turn the boy over to the Templars.’

Marc said nothing.

‘Good herbalists are always welcome in a warrior stronghold,’ Richard added.

Aye, so they were. Marc thought a moment, then dug into his canvas bag for the bread and cheese the boy had stolen in the village. Bless this food, Lord, and think not on how we came by it. While he sliced off slabs of cheese with his eating knife, he watched the lad hang over the side of the ship. By now the boy’s belly must be empty as a Greek’s wine jug.

Dusk fell, and still the boy retched. God, the lying little scamp was paying for his sins. He felt halfway sorry for the lad.

‘You said you were seasick once,’ Richard said without opening his eyes. ‘When you were but a boy, you told me. Tossing on the Firth of Dornoch in a coracle, as I recall.’

Marc swallowed at the memory. ‘True,’ he grated. ‘And when my brother Henry and I sailed for France for our fostering, our uncle said I looked green as river moss when we docked. Do not remind me.’

‘With the boy ailing,’ Richard continued with a chuckle, ‘you can sleep tonight without worry. He is too sick to plunge a dagger into your gut.’

‘Aye, that is true enough.’

‘Tomorrow though, when he recovers, I will have need of him.’

Marc blinked but did not reply. We shall see. King or not, the devious lad was Marc’s responsibility. And there was yet more, he admitted. Enemy or no, something in those green eyes pulled at him.

Soraya gripped the deck railing until her fingers went numb. The briny smell of the sea alone made her gorge rise; being tossed about on the blue-black swells was worse than dying. She flashed a look over her shoulder. Five more heartbeats and she would let go of the rail and try her legs.

The monk slept soundly, his breathing less raspy and his fever lessened, thanks to her tea of lemon balm and thyme. The other one, the knight de Valery, lay some distance away, but she could not tell whether he slept or not.

She watched the inky water below stir into a froth by the ploughing ship. Her chest muscles ached from throwing her stomach contents into the sea. She would not last in such misery until the ship reached Cyprus.

In Cyprus, once she felt better, she could get her dagger back and then disappear into the populace and search out King Richard. The people spoke her tongue, as well as the mangled French of the Normans, even Greek. Sometimes she wondered if Uncle Khalil had chosen her at the slave auction for her skill at languages. Certainly it was not for her beauty; six years ago, when she was but ten summers, even the promise of beauty was a hazy dream on the far horizon of her life.

She uncurled one hand from the smooth wooden rail and flexed her stiff fingers. Slowly she lifted her other hand and stood swaying on watery legs. If she could manage to reach the holy man, she could lie down on those foul-smelling sacks and rest. She had always felt somewhat uneasy around men, probably because of her years sequestered in the zenana, but the old monk seemed harmless.

She could not say the same for the knight de Valery.

Halfway across the deck she dropped to her hands and knees and ducked her head. The queasy feeling flooded through her; bitter saliva poured into her mouth. She clamped her lips tight shut and waited, controlling her breathing. After a moment she crawled forward, toward the sleeping monk, and then hesitated, remembering the knight’s words. Stay away from him.

It made no sense, but perhaps it would be better to lie on the other side of the holy man, near de Valery. And await her chance to seek revenge. Before this night bled into dawn, she would keep her vow and kill the Frankish knight.

Hunched on all fours, she reached his pallet, bent over him and surveyed the knight’s supine body. Already he slept like a dead man, his mouth hanging open, hands at his side. But he was very much alive. His chest and belly rose and fell at each breath.

The hilt of a small knife protruded from his sword belt. God be praised, she could do it now!

Carefully she placed one hand on his tunic, then slid it downward, fingering her way inch by inch over the linen. Warmth rose from his body. He snorted suddenly, closed his mouth and rolled his head to the other side.

When she calmed her heartbeat, she moved her fingers onto his worn leather belt and groped for the weapon. It was not her jeweled dagger, but it was a blade at any rate. God willing, it would do as well. She prayed it was sharp.

She waited, caressing the small metal hilt, matching her breathing to his. In. Out. Then another sleepy snuffle.

Very slowly she lifted the knife away from his belt and moved her hand upward, toward his unshaven chin. Eyeing his neck where the tunic gaped open, she drew the blade toward herself and tested the edge with her thumb. Should she plunge the point into the hollow at the base of his throat? Or slice sideways from ear to ear?

The Frank drew in an extra-deep breath and flopped one arm over his head. The cords in his neck rippled and then relaxed. Soraya leaned closer and raised the blade.

A pulse throbbed in his throat. She watched his heart beat and rest…beat and rest. She could not take her eyes off that faint flutter of life.

She tensed her muscles, drew her arm back to give her added force when the blade bit into the skin. His heart pumped steadily on. She listened to his breathing, watched the air enter his open lips and whistle back out. In…and then out.

She shut her eyes, enacted each step of the deed in her mind to prepare herself.

Now.

Her muscles bunched. She ground her teeth together and bent forward, hand raised level with her head, and stopped her breathing.

To her horror she found she could not move. Some otherworldly force seemed to grip her arm and hold it motionless. Trembling, she sat back and lowered the knife. She could not do it. Lord have mercy. I cannot take this man’s life. I cannot.

She stared at the blade. An eating knife, for cutting meat and bread. A simple, small weapon. She could easily toss it into the sea afterward.

But she could not kill him.

She closed her eyes in disgust. Am I then such a coward? I have not the heart of the weakest harem slave, the most spineless beggar in the market square. Lord, let me die now in shame.

She turned the blade in her hand, pointed it at her own chest, then lowered it until the sharp tip scratched her tunic just below her sore ribs. Above her head, the rigging creaked.

She clasped her other hand over the hilt to drive it deep, sucked in a shuddery breath and held it. She must be strong.

A fist shot out and grasped her forearm. The knife went skittering across the desk, and a cry of despair rose from her lips.

‘You pesky fool of a boy,’ the knight’s voice hissed. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

‘I swore an oath,’ she said, trying not to sob. ‘I have failed.’

‘An oath!’ he snapped in a voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Think you that Allah hears an oath taken to commit a mortal sin?’

‘I swore not to Allah. I am a Christian.’

‘A Christian?’ For an instant surprise showed on his face, then was quickly masked. ‘All the more sinful,’ he growled.

Soraya rocked back on her heels. He thought she had intended to take only her own life! He was unaware of her original intent.

The knight rose up on one elbow, still gripping her wrist. ‘Do you imagine that God cares whether you live or die? What do you gain by sacrificing yourself? Honour? Wealth? Your name chiseled onto a stone in the desert?’

‘I gain self-respect.’ She spoke in jerky syllables, her voice clogged with hiccupy sobs.

He spat off to one side. ‘Self-respect.’

Soraya clamped her jaw tight to stop her weeping. Her body shook violently, her limbs twitching as if she had contracted the plague.

She dropped her chin to her chest and let hot tears drip onto her tunic. Think! What should she do now? The knight released her wrist, and she heard him exhale with a catch.

‘Aye, ye poor dumb lad. Come here.’ A strong arm reached to her shoulder and tugged her forward, and she tumbled against his hard chest. Overcome by her cowardice, she felt worse than seasick.

With a gentle hand he pressed her head against his warm neck. ‘Sha, sha, now. No one need know of your great failure.’

Soraya closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of his skin. He smelled of sweat and horse and a pungent spice, like cinnamon.

She swallowed, feeling a wash of heat course through her body. She wanted to taste him! Never before had she experienced such a strange feeling of excitement. Of…yearning.

She stiffened. He was a man. And a Frank.

She scrambled away from him, her heart beating like a caged bird inside her chest. Speechless, she stared into the knight’s face, watching his eyes harden, then narrow with distrust.

‘You are afraid of me.’

‘No, lord. Truly I am not.’’

‘You need not fear me, lad. I will not harm you except to protect myself.’

‘That is not why—’

But it was. She did fear him. More than any danger she had ever faced, this man threatened her. He was dangerous simply because he was a man.

No, not just a man. Her throat tightened. This man.

Chapter Seven

By the time the ship docked at Paphos on the western coast of Cyprus, Soraya could scarcely stand. Weak from retching, saddened by Khalil’s death and still stupefied at her inability to slay the knight de Valery, she clung to the railing watching the activity on shore.

Genoese merchants in flowing robes swaggered along the smelly quay, arguing with ship captains and food vendors. Templar knights with cross-emblazoned white surcoats surreptitiously eyed women who promenaded along the harbor walkway in provocative sheer caftans, their nails and cheeks painted red. Houries. The noise of the harbour gave her a headache. If she debarked, the crush of people at the dock would swallow her up.

‘Move on, then, lad.’ De Valery strode past her, leading his dark stallion toward the gangplank. ‘You will recover your sea legs by suppertime.’

Her throat convulsed. The thought of food made her nauseated.

‘Soray!’ the knight shouted at her from the top of the gangplank. ‘Make haste!’

Still, she could not let go of the ship’s rail. She knew little of this teeming place before her, full of unbelievers. She belonged in Palestine.

But in Palestine the man who sent the message she now carried for Khalil would kill rather than have it fall into the wrong hands. She glanced back toward her homeland and shuddered.

She could not go back. Perhaps even now an assassin was tracking her down to slit her throat in some shadowed alley. She sucked in a lungful of hot air that smelled of fish and thought she would be sick again.

‘Soray!’ His sharp tone cut through the cottony feeling inside her head and she stumbled forward.

‘Aye, lord, I am coming.’

De Valery tramped halfway up the gangplank, grasped the neck of her tunic and dragged her forward. ‘Hold on to Jupiter,’ he instructed. He thrust the animal’s brushy tail into her hands. ‘Now, lad, move!’

She took a single step, wobbled off to one side and would have tipped into the sea had she not accidentally stumbled against the horse’s hind end. By some miracle the beast did not strike out with his rear hooves, and she staggered after the animal, acutely aware of the knight’s quiet laughter.

So, he was amused at her plight, was he? He would be less amused if she tossed up her stomach contents onto his mount’s beautifully plumed tail. Better yet, on his blue surcoat.

Her head spun as he stalked beside her.

‘Steady, now. Move quickly, boy. We must not lose sight of the…monk.’ He stretched out his long legs and tramped down the walkway so fast Soraya could not keep up.

She loosened her grasp on the destrier’s tail and sped up her pace until she could touch the animal’s withers. Biting her lip, she gazed at the stallion’s saddle. Without thinking she flexed her knees, sprang upward and dug the fingers of both hands into the coarse hair of his mane. She clawed her way up into the saddle and clutched at the high pommel. Her brain reeled from the effort.

‘God!’ the knight muttered under his breath. ‘You are part mountain goat.’

‘Nay, lord, I am part lioness.’

Instantly she saw her mistake.

De Valery’s face tipped up to look at her, his eyes questioning. ‘Lioness? Not a lion?’

She shook her head quickly to cover her lapse. ‘You know nothing of such matters,’ she blurted. Another mistake, this time much worse. A servant did not contradict his lord.

He narrowed his sea-blue eyes. ‘Nothing, you say?’ His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. ‘What do I not know, besides the impudence of a servant boy?’

His shadowed gaze caught hers and held it. With all her will she tried to look away, but she could not. It was as if he conjured away the noisy market-place, the cries of hawkers, the shouts of seamen until her senses swam in a giant cocoon of silence.

‘I did but mean…’ Her dry tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She looked away to the left where a huge fortress loomed, built of grey stone with crenellated walls and square towers. Some great lord must live there, watching over his ships.

‘I see more than is apparent,’ he grumbled. ‘Things are often not what they seem, and Saladin is a master of such tricks.’

‘The Christians, too, use tricks.’

‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘The Christians, as well.’ He looked at her oddly. ‘Not only have you an agile tongue but there is a quick intelligence hidden under your dusty head covering. How is it you were a mere servant to your uncle?’

The horse sidestepped to avoid a ripe melon escaping from a nearby cart, and Soraya swayed in the saddle. Dizzy, she clapped her hand over her mouth. She did not want to answer his question, so feigned sickness.

‘Can you see the monk?’ he asked.

‘Yes, lord.’ She spoke through her fingers, tight against her lips. ‘He stops to mount his horse, and now rides on toward that fortress ahead.’

‘Good.’ Marc had feared the impulsive, headstrong king would pursue some military diversion in the city. Instead it appeared that Richard would seek shelter. God, he would bear close watching. A healthy Richard was harder to reason with than an ailing Richard. And there were those who would not weep to see him dead.

‘Keep your eyes on him, lad. He can be more slippery than an oiled mackerel.’

‘Yes, lord. But if I may respectfully suggest, if you mounted we could move faster.’

Marc grunted. ‘If I mounted, you would then walk?’

The lad fell silent. Hah! Marc guessed the boy would rather concede the matter than climb down from his hard-won perch on none-too-steady legs.

Marc reached for the water skin, uncorked the vessel and took a long pull, then handed it to the boy.

‘I dare not drink, lord. I fear I will not keep it down.’

‘Better that than die of thirst. Such an end is not pretty.’

A drawbridge manned by an unseen guard blocked entry into the fortress. Marc stopped some paces away as a voice boomed from the narrow window slit in the square stone gatehouse. ‘Who seeks entry at the gate of the Templar knights?’

‘A friend,’ Marc called. ‘A knight of the Scots and a holy man of God.’

‘What names?’ the voice barked back.

‘Marc de Valery and…’ He hesitated. Would Richard reveal himself once safely inside these walls? If so, Marc would be caught in a lie.

‘…and a monk lately come from Jerusalem. Simon the…hermit.’ He ignored the king’s choked protest behind him.

‘Hermit, indeed,’ Richard muttered. The boy, Soray, twisted in the saddle and shot an interested look at the cowled figure.

‘He is not a hermit, then?’ the lad whispered. ‘I thought him one of those chosen by God.’

‘You think too much,’ Marc replied in a cold voice. Not only was Richard not a monk, he was most assuredly not a holy man. Not a man loved by the crusading barons from France and Germany.

‘Yes, lord, that is true, I do think too much. I think about the moon and the stars, about the water that bubbles out of the desert, about—’

‘Enough! Think instead where we shall sleep tonight if we are not welcomed by the Templars.’ He eyed the gatekeeper’s shadow behind the narrow window. ‘We are godly men. We seek shelter and permission to hear mass in your chapel.’

‘Christians, then,’ came the voice. ‘Of Rome or Constantinople?’

‘We speak the words of God in humble Latin, not in Greek.’ Behind him, Richard snorted in impatience and stepped his horse forward. ‘Tell the fool we demand admittance. Tell the grand master that the conquerer of—’

Marc wheeled and gripped the king’s arm. ‘Quiet!’

Richard glared at him, his face reddening. ‘You overstep, de Valery.’

‘I am commanded to protect your person. It would be well to follow my lead.’ Richard was brave, but he was arrogant. No wonder Leopold hated him.

‘Ha!’ the king shot. ‘I am leader here.’

‘It matters not who leads,’ Marc asserted, ‘but who survives. Let me negotiate our entrance, lest you nettle yon keeper. Warm honey works better than cold demands.’

Richard sat back in his saddle. ‘Ah, the honeybee has a sting! Very well, de Valery, proceed.’

But already the grinding of the drawbridge over the wide moat sounded in their ears. The king turned his head toward Marc and grinned. ‘You win. This time.’

Marc stifled an oath. Richard was more boy than man at times. How he loved a jest, a game of skill, even quarrelling with his sworn protector. How was it England had survived two generations of Plantagenets?

He led Jupiter forward over the heavy oiled planks, paused while the portcullis ratcheted noisily upward with the clanking of metal chain, then advanced into the outer bailey. Richard followed, mercifully silent for a change.

Once inside, the groaning drawbridge rose and the toothed portcullis wheel rattled its way twice around. Marc waited. He could smell the stables, the harsh scent of hot metal wafting from the smithy’s shed.

De Valery peered up at her. ‘Still seasick, are you, boy?’

She nodded, feeling tears sting against her upper lids. Her eyes burned when she retched so she knew what was coming. She clamped her lips tight together.

Just when she felt her control beginning to slip, squires tumbled out the inner gate, followed by four mounted knights armed with steel-tipped lances.

‘What in God’s name…’ Marc pulled his horse forward to shield the unarmed monk, then rode forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘Hold!’ The monk stood up in his stirrups and raised one arm above his head in an imperious gesture, as if he expected to stop the setting of the sun. A bold move for a man of God.

‘Devil-blessed fool of a man,’ the knight admonished. His eyes glittered like two blue jewels.

The monk swore. ‘You are worse than Becket. Once appointed archbishop, he thought he was king.’

‘Aye,’ muttered the Scot. ‘Beware of honest men.’

The monk spit out a laugh, but sank back in his saddle once more. ‘So it would seem. An honest man would guard a life in spite of its owner. Your pardon, de Valery.’

Marc threw him a hard look and allowed the armed knights to form an escort around them. One of the men gestured, and the monk dismounted. They were moving toward the wooden steps leading to the heavy-timbered fortress when suddenly the holy man halted.

‘Do not send the servant boy to the kitchen,’ he announced. ‘He comes with us.’

Soraya saw the muscles in the knight’s jaw tighten. Before he could speak, she clambered off the destrier and slipped in between the monk and de Valery. They moved forward, the knight in front of her, the monk behind, until the armed guards wheeled their mounts away.

Squires came and took their horses away to be cared for, then the three of them clattered up the steps and were swallowed into the cold grey walls of the keep.