Soraya’s dirt-smudged face had never looked more beautiful.
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
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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