The servant had cooked the fowl the knight brought back with him and now she nibbled on a leg, tossing the scraps to the dog. Then she stood and shed her tunic; she hesitated for a moment, then shed her chemise too and slipped into the bed beside the Scottish knight. The desert air turned cool once the sun had fallen, and she snuggled against him for warmth, quickly dropping asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
...They, too, retired
To the wilderness, but ’twas with arms.
—Paradise Regained
Kenneth awoke slowly. He had been dreaming of the beautiful Lady Joan, the king’s cousin. Since first laying eyes upon her, he had been in love with the beautiful noblewoman, with a love as hopeless as it was fervent—what chance had he, after all, with a kinswoman of the Lionhearted?
His dream became superimposed upon reality. He grew faintly aware of the feel of naked female flesh close against his body, and for a time in his dream it was Joan whom he held in his arms, turning now toward her and gently beginning to stroke the curve of her back, the voluptuous hill of her hip. In his mind’s eye he saw her pale yellow hair falling across his shoulder; her eyes, as blue as the Scottish sky on a spring morn, gazed lovingly up into his.
Gradually sleep fled, the dream faded; but the reality of naked warmth in his arms, of womanly flesh against his flesh, these remained. He opened his eyes, half sitting up as he did. For a moment he looked with bewilderment at the woman with him. Certainly she was not Lady Joan, for this creature’s hair was black, her complexion swarthy, and her eyes green. At first he could not think how she had come to be here; there was a dull ache in his head. Had he drunk too much—a rare occurrence—and picked up one of the whores from the followers’ camp, so rare an occurrence it had never happened before?
He put a hand to his head and, feeling the bandage there, memory flooded back to him. “Elaine.” He whispered her name.
She looked pleased that he remembered. “Does your head hurt?” she asked.
“Only a little,” he said. “You are skilled with your medicines.”
“I am skilled at caring for a man’s needs,” she said, a smile curving her lips.
He realized then, belatedly, why she had asked about his head. For a moment he thought again of Lady Joan. But that love was afar indeed, while this reality was very near. And she was very desirable too, in a ripe, overblown way. Her breasts, bared for his inspection, were like those big, delicious melons they had discovered in this foreign land, and looked as sweet.
The ache in his head was only a dull throb, after all, not enough to dampen a man’s spirit; and as close as they were, as naked as they were, she was as aware as he that he was in every other way sound of limb.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“They call me The Falcon,” he whispered. He lowered his mouth to hers. Her arms came up about him and her thighs parted in an ageless gesture of welcome.
* * * *
Later she brought him breakfast—some cold roast fowl and some fruit that she had stolen from the followers’ camp. He ate with gusto and while he ate she hummed to herself and mended a tear in his undertunic. She hadn’t been so content in months; she knew herself well enough to know that she was never really satisfied without a man to fuss over. When her father had been alive, caring for him had filled the need to some extent, and of course there had been lovers.
She had been honest in telling the Scotsman that she was no virgin. She liked a bout of lovemaking now and again as well as any man, but she liked one man as a lover, and she liked to be able to care for him in every way—preparing his food, mending his clothes. In short, she wanted a husband, but none of the men she had met had suited her that far—none until now, anyway.
When he had eaten and dressed, he came to where she was sitting at the door of his hut. “I’ll take you home,” he said.
She shrugged and said, “There is no need. I can stay here and care for you.”
He looked down at her for a moment. The feel of her body beneath his was still fresh in his memory, and he was tempted to agree; the memory was so pleasant.
But it was useless to confuse physical desire with love, and however futile, he loved another. To take this lusty gypsy girl for his woman would be false to both of them.
“I’m sorry, Elaine,” he said, touching her raven hair with the tips of his fingers. “It would not do.”
At first she was hurt and confused, then angry. “I can find my own way,” she said when he again offered to return her to her own camp, and she flounced off with her head held high. He watched her walk away, his eyes following the swing of her wide hips, and was nearly tempted to call her back and tell her he had changed his mind.
Before he could do so, though, a messenger approached the Scottish camp, his eyes looking about him with an air of disapproval.
“I come from His Grace the Archbishop,” he said, “with instructions to bring to him a knight from this camp, the Falcon, as he is known.”
“I’m Sir Kenneth,” the knight replied, surprised that so august a person as the archbishop could have need of his services. “Sometimes called the Falcon. What does His Grace want with me?”
The messenger, hardly more than a lad, gave a shrug of his shoulders and said, “I’m to bring you to the Council of Princes. They aren’t likely to confide their plans in me.”
“You more than I,” Kenneth thought, but aloud he said, “Let’s go then.”
He was brought in short order to the tent in which the Council of Princes commonly met. A wide ring of open ground was kept around the tent and guarded by several sentries who seemed to know the messenger, as they were not hindered in their progress.
The archbishop waited just inside the vast tent. A throne, larger than any used by King Richard, was placed there for him, although at the arrival of Sir Kenneth and the messenger he was standing and pacing to and fro.
The boy showed Kenneth inside and then, with no word, disappeared, leaving the knight in the presence not only of the archbishop but of the many sovereigns of the crusade, who he could see seated about the tent.
Kenneth dropped to his knees before the archbishop.
“Are you the knight they call the Falcon?” the holy man demanded.
“I have been called that. Sir Kenneth, a Scots knight, at your service, Your Grace.”
“Rise, Sir Kenneth,” he said, “and be at ease. We have heard good report of you and stand in need of your services.”
Kenneth was duly awed, not only by that unexpected remark but by the very presence of the holy man. This was the same William, Archbishop of Tyre, who had in part instigated this Third Crusade and who had blessed King Richard and Philip Augustus at Vezelay. He was a striking figure of commanding aspect. Kenneth had been told that in his youth William was very handsome, and even in age he was hardly less so. His episcopal dress was of very rich fashion, trimmed in precious fur and surrounded by a cope of elaborate needlework. On his fingers he wore rings worth a good barony, and the hood that he wore unclasped and thrown back, for it was stifling in the tent, had gold fastenings.
He had a long beard, now silver with age. He was served by two youthful and handsome acolytes, one of whom, in the Eastern fashion, held an umbrella of palm leaves over the archbishop’s head while the other fanned him with a fan of peacock feathers, their brilliant colors winking in the sunlight coming through the opening of the tent.
“I will serve in any way I can, Your Grace,” Kenneth replied, proud that he had been deemed worthy of such an honor.
“There lives