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Marc wanted to kiss her so much he fought to keep his hands on the reins.
“Come with me to Venice,” he blurted. It was unnecessary to ask the question, but he wanted to say it aloud, hear the words of invitation hang in the air. There were a thousand other things he might also say…. Come with me to my bed. Come with me to Scotland, to my life.
But he could not. His first duty was to the king, not his heart. She held his gaze and with a jolt of warmth he realized they needed no words to know what the other was thinking. Their eyes said everything.
Praise for Lynna Banning
Loner’s Lady
“…poignant tale of a woman’s coming of age…”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Ranger and the Redhead
“…fast-paced, adventure-filled story…”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Wedding Cake War
“You’ll love Banning’s subtle magic with romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Angel of Devil’s Camp
“This sweet charmer of an Americana romance has just the right amount of humor, poignancy and a cast of quirky characters.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Scout
“Though a romance through and through, The Scout is also a story with powerful undertones of sacrifice and longing.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Crusader’s Lady
Lynna Banning
MILLS & BOON
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In memory of my husband,
Clarence Browning Woolston,
and my father, Lawrence E. Yarnes
With grateful thanks to Tricia Adams,
Suzanne Barrett, Marlene Connell,
Kathleen Dougherty, Kat Macfarlane,
Jane Maranghi, Brenda Preston, Susan Renison,
Gwen Shupe, and David Woolston.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
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.’
‘Save your advice for the men you command.’
Roger scuffed noisily out of the firelight, and Marc closed his eyes. God in heaven, he did not deserve such a friend. Not after Acre. Richard had ordered the massacre, but on that awful, bloody day a part of Marc began to die. The heads of two thousand hostages, women and children, as well as defenders, rolled in the blood-soaked sand outside the city. Richard had betrayed them, and then slaughtered them all.
A rustle whispered into his consciousness. Not a footfall, something else. Without thought, he felt for his sword.
The sound came again, closer. Behind him. ‘Who goes there?’
The silence stretched, so profound it seemed to scream. One of Richard’s heavy-booted minions? A servant?
An assassin?
Marc lifted the simmering pot off the fire, rose and grasped the hilt of his sword. He had just started to buckle the leather belt around his hips when a movement beyond the flames caught his attention. He stiffened, straining his eyes into the thick night.
Sensing a motion at his back, he spun, sword raised, just as a dark-swathed figure hurtled toward him. Instinctively Marc took a single step forward, and his blade caught the intruder in the throat. A cry, then the man pitched onto the ground at Marc’s feet and lay still.
Blood poured from the man’s wound, soaking the turban and the silk tunic, oozing over the dark fingers clutching at the torn throat. A Saracen. Probably a spy, this close to the Frankish camp.
A gurgling sound, then nothing. Marc bent closer. Almighty God, what had he done! The man was unarmed.
He turned away in self-loathing, covered his face with his hand. For a moment he thought he would vomit. A warrior’s slaughter in battle was his duty as a Christian knight, but striking an unarmed man, even a Saracen, was against the law of God. A whisper of sound brought his head up, every nerve on edge. Something—instinct or training, or perhaps the voice of God—made him twist back toward the dead Arab. A small form flitted out of the shadows and threw itself over the body, sobbing like a girl. So, the man had a loyal servant.
Again Marc turned away. The words of regret that sprang to his lips died the instant he opened his mouth. He need not apologise to a Saracen, much less to a Saracen’s servant.
He turned away, toward the fire, and suddenly a warm weight dropped onto his back. One thin arm crooked about his neck and the blade of a dagger pressed into his throat.
‘Qaatil!’ shouted a thin voice, choked with hatred. Before Marc could throw him off, the knife nicked his skin; a dribble of warm liquid ran down the neck of his tunic.
‘Taraka.’ He spoke in Arabic, but the boy did not let go. Instead he clung to Marc’s back, the hand gripping the dagger flailing to find a vulnerable spot. He grabbed the servant’s upper arm and twisted, hard.
With a yelp, the slight figure tumbled off and sprawled on the ground. The dagger skittered out of his fingers. A skinny hand grabbed for it, but Marc stomped his boot onto the blade, pinning it to the hard ground.
‘Go.’ He gestured toward the shadowy edge of his camp. ‘I will not harm you.’ Without thinking, he spoke the words in the Frankish tongue.
‘I will kill you.’ The low voice replied with a tremor. ‘I will take revenge if it is the last thing I do on this earth. God knows I speak truly.’
A servant boy who spoke Norman French? ‘Who are you?’ Marc demanded.
The boy darted a glance at the dagger caught under Marc’s foot, flicked his gaze to the body of the dead Saracen and dropped into a crouch, his forearm still imprisoned in Marc’s grip. Tears streaked the lad’s dirty face.
Marc bent and scooped up the knife. The hilt was silver, beautifully incised, with a single jewel embedded into the metal. A ruby, big as a sparrow’s egg.
‘Where did you get this?’
The hunched figure twitched but said nothing.
‘Answer me!’ He slid his fingers down to the boy’s wrist and squeezed. ‘Where did you get this blade?’
The trembling servant glanced down at the dead Arab. ‘It belongs to me.’
‘And I am the prince of Samarkand. Speak the truth!’
‘I am no thief.’
‘So you say, boy. Where did you get this blade?’
‘It is mine, now.’ He glanced again at the body.
So, the Arab had been armed. A spy? It mattered not, since death now sat on the man’s chest.
But the boy mattered. The boy might be only half-grown, but the wiry young Arab had tried to attack him, kill him, even. Marc reached down, caught the neck of the youth’s dust-smeared tunic and yanked him upright.
‘Who are you?’ He expected the boy to cringe, but he straightened and looked boldly into Marc’s face.
‘I am… Soray.’
‘And who is that man on the ground?’
‘That is my lord. His name is Khalil al-Din.’
Marc tightened his grip on the tunic. ‘A servant? You are his servant?’
‘I am his servant.’
Marc released him. It made no sense. Was a Saracen servant so devoted to his master that he would commit murder on his behalf?
‘You are lying.’
The boy tensed. ‘No, lord. I do not lie.’
Marc shook his head. He knew a lie when he heard one. Still, he could not linger; the king awaited him.
‘Leave this camp, boy. I will see to the body of your master.’ He tramped out of the circle of firelight, the dagger still clenched in his fist, to the tent where Richard waited.
Soraya crossed her arms over her waist and watched the tall knight stride off into the dark. He had a cold, hard look about him, a darkness in his face that frightened her. Not one word of regret, not even a prayer for the man he had struck down with his thoughtless blow.
Shaking with sobs, she knelt at Khalil’s side and bowed her head. ‘Uncle, I swear to you I will avenge your death. And I will also complete your mission— I will make sure that Saladin’s written message is delivered to King Richard. But for both these tasks I must get your dagger back. God willing, I will do it this very night.’ She reached out and pressed her fingers over his eyelids. Choking back a cry of anguish, she straightened Khalil’s limbs and kissed both his cold cheeks.
I cannot bear for the Frankish barbarian to touch you. I cannot allow him to lay you in the ground without the proper words.
She stood up, her hands clenched at her sides. Tearing her gaze from her uncle’s body, she surveyed the camp. The barbarian had no tent, only a meager fire and one cooking pot. She peered inside the vessel. Surely a man so large must eat more than that little bit of noxious-looking paste!
An iron helmet and a chain mail shirt were partially stuffed into a filthy hemp bag. Beside it lay a rolled-up blanket, secured with a leather belt blackened with age. Ugh. These Franks were worse than pigs.
She lifted her head, listening. The knight would return soon. When he did, she would be ready. She must snatch the dagger away from him and strike before he could react. She would not give up until the miserable Frank lay lifeless beside her uncle.
And as to her other quest, the message she needed to deliver? All in good time. She would see to that once she had retrieved her dagger and dealt with the man who had killed her beloved uncle. It would be difficult to demand her weapon back from the Frank without saying why she needed it—but she was to tell no one of the message except the king. She added more dung to the fire, carefully positioned the blanket before it and lifted it away in a prearranged signal.
Marc made his way past a dozen campfires, noting how the knights he met backed away from him, neither looking him in the face nor speaking. Richard’s men had always been uneasy in his company; now they seemed to fear him, as well. Did his fury show that much?
When he came to Richard’s large, crimson tent, he stuffed the dagger into his belt and reached for the silk flap.
‘Ah,’ an oily voice murmured at his back. ‘Marc de Valery. At last. I wager you will regret making the king wait.’
Marc said nothing. He shoved past the surly knight, entered Richard’s tent and went down on one knee beside the cot.
‘Get up,’ the king rasped. The ruddy face, crowned with frizzy red-gold hair, was sweaty and flushed. Below the bushy moustache, the dry, chapped lips opened. ‘Come closer.’ It seemed to take all Richard’s strength to utter those few words.
Marc edged forward on his knees. The still air inside the tent smelled of sour bedding. ‘My lord?’
‘Listen to me, de Valery,’ the king wheezed. ‘My strength fails me.’
‘Aye, lord?’
Richard’s eyelids closed. ‘Tell no one what I say. Swear it.’
Marc stared at the ailing monarch. ‘I swear.’
‘Lean down.’
Marc bent his head, turning his ear close to Richard’s open lips. The king murmured a single sentence. ‘I must return to England.’ He raised one unsteady hand to rest on Marc’s shoulder. The heat from the man’s fingers seared through his linen tunic like a hot iron.
‘My brother John has made alliance with the French king. Philip wants Normandy— John wants my crown. I must go home. I need you to accompany me on the journey.’
‘If I do what you ask, my lord, you will die.’
‘I will not die, de Valery. You will see to that.’
Marc sucked in air. He could not refuse. No one refused Richard of England unless he ceased to value his own life.
‘Very well, sire. I will do what you ask.’
‘Good,’ Richard uttered on a sigh. ‘Très bien.’
‘One question only,’ Marc murmured. ‘Why me?’
The king gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Because,’ Richard said, ‘I trust you, even if you are half-Scot. You are a good man, de Valery.’
Marc dropped his head to acknowledge the backhanded compliment. He would not bother to confess he was not the good knight Richard thought him. Not even close.
He made to rise, but Richard’s limp hand stayed him. ‘One more thing.’
Marc waited for the king’s breathing to steady.
‘Stay away from Leopold of Austria. He is blinded by his anger.’
‘Yes, my lord. I have known this. You should not have desecrated his banner as you did.’
‘You should have told me before now.’
Marc said nothing. No Scot would dare accuse a German baron of perfidy. Richard knew that.
It was past moonrise when Marc finished his preparations on the king’s behalf and returned to his small camp. The fire had burned down to embers. The cooking pot was stone-cold. He wasn’t hungry anyway, thinking of tomorrow and all the things that could go awry. Richard was shrewd, even calculating. But at times he acted on impulse rather than with the cool rationality of his father, Henry Plantagenet. It was worse with a fevered brain.
He glanced toward the spot where the dead Saracen should have been and recoiled. The body was gone! He bent over the spot and found it swept clean.
A shiver went up his spine. No blood stained the ground. No hoofmarks, or footprints. Did a Saracen ascend to Paradise so easily?
Or had the Arab boy dragged his master away?
He crossed himself in short, jerky motions. Perhaps the corpse had been spirited away by djinns. He fingered the jeweled dagger he’d stuffed under his belt. He had told no one of the slaying, not even Richard of England. The act made him sick to think on. But now he must look to the future and prepare to leave the camp tomorrow morning and journey back to England with Richard.
The hair at his neck prickled. Marc half turned, straining to listen. Outside the circle of firelight he could hear someone breathing.
He drew his blade and plunged toward the sound.
Chapter Two
Marc closed his fingers around a smooth, silk-covered arm and yanked the Saracen boy out of the shadows. ‘What are you doing here? I told you to go.’
‘Do not touch me!’ a high, angry voice yelled. ‘Release me at once!’
‘Answer me!’ Marc gritted through clenched teeth.
The small turbaned head came up. ‘I kept watch over my uncle.’
‘And where is your uncle now?’ He gave the boy a single hard shake. ‘Perhaps he rose up and walked to Paradise?’
A slap stung his cheek. ‘Do not insult him. No one walks to Paradise.’
God, the little brat had struck him!
‘Where is he, then?’
‘I signaled my kinsmen, using your firelight. They came in secret for the body, took him away on a horse.’
‘Why did you not go with them?’
The youth dropped his head, flicked a glance at the jeweled dagger in Marc’s hand, then stared at his leather sandals. Marc tightened his grip on the slim arm. ‘Why?’
The boy set his mouth in a tight line and did not respond. Then, quick as a cat, he wrenched his arm free and his small hand made a grab for the dagger. The blade sliced into the boy’s thumb, and he cried out.
Marc collared him, dragged him over to the fire and pushed him down beside it. ‘Here.’ He tossed down a bit of linen he kept under his tunic. The boy wrapped it around his hand but said nothing.
Marc nodded. ‘I see.’ He squatted a few feet away and hid the knife behind his belt. ‘You stayed behind to attack me.’
No answer. The boy stared into the glowing embers.
‘You have courage, I will say that.’ Still no response.
‘Look at me!’ Marc ordered. With his fist he tipped the scarf-swathed chin up. Eyes the colour of the sea, pale green and hard as jade, met his.
Something kicked inside Marc’s chest. ‘You have strange eyes, boy. Arabs are dark.’
‘I am Circassian, not Arab. But I was brought up among Arabs. I know their ways.’
Marc studied the boy for a long moment. ‘Unwind your headpiece.’
The layers of silk slowly fell away until Marc could see the boy’s visage. True, he was not Arab. His skin was the colour of cream, the features fine, almost delicate, the nose long and straight. A mass of unruly black curls sprang to life when released from under the turban.
Again a jolt under his ribs snapped his nerves taut. The youth was handsome, almost feminine in his movements. He watched the thin shoulders hunch against the cold wind. The lad had tried to stab him, but he had neither the skill nor the strength to accomplish the deed. Disarmed, he was no longer a threat.
‘Are you hungry?’ he snapped.
‘Yes, lord….’
Marc reached for the cooking pot, scooped up three fingers of the congealed mess, then handed over the bowl. ‘It is cold, but it fills the belly.’
The boy did likewise and made to hand it back, but Marc pushed it away. The youth gazed at him, his strange green eyes assessing, then quickly devoured the rest.
Marc watched him. What should he do with the boy, who was now busy scouring the inside of the empty pot with a handful of sand? Send him back to his people, he supposed.
God, what was he thinking? The fate of the young Arab did not matter; Marc and the king would be gone before morning.
He rose, tramped over to his hemp supply bag and yanked out a ragged blanket. Bundling it into a ball, he tossed it to the boy, who stared at Marc with wary emerald eyes.
‘Nights in the desert are cold, Circassian.’
The smooth, pale forehead creased into a puzzled frown. ‘Yes, lord. I know. Shukren, lord. Mercez.’
There was something strange about this lad. For one thing, he spoke both Arabic and Norman French. And for another, eyes that color were rare, even for a Circassian. Eyes that mysterious made him feel…restless. Aware of something he could not name.
For the rest of the night he would sleep with his sword at his side and make sure the dagger was secured under his body. He did not trust the boy.
She would never understand these Franks. This one in particular, with those eyes blue as lapis lazuli and his gold-streaked hair. There was a darkness about him that made Soraya shudder. He had killed Khalil, yet he gave her his blanket.
She wrapped the coarse wool about her shoulders and dropped her head onto her raised knees. But she did not shut her eyes. Instead, she tipped her head just enough to watch him settle himself by the dwindling fire. He had strong features, but his eyes were shadowed, his mouth a harsh line.
No matter. She had but one purpose now—to avenge her uncle’s murder and then carry out their assigned mission for Saladin. By dawn this knight would be a dead man.
She shut her eyes.
A spark exploded and she jerked her head up and peeked at the knight on the other side of the guttering flames. Sleeping. Or so he appeared. Firelight heightened the strong jaw, the cruel mouth.
She flicked a pebble at his head, striking his chin, but his closed eyelids did not quiver. Her dagger was pinned beneath his long body. She prayed he would shift in his sleep so she could snatch the weapon and plunge the blade into his throat.