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.
Chapter Eight
The vast timber-roofed hall echoed with the clank of wine cups and orders shouted to the table servants by the single burly figure at the high table. Hounds lolled on the rush-covered floor, snapping up dropped tidbits of meat and bone. The din was deafening, the sounds so loud and ugly Soraya clapped her hands over her ears. Had these Templar Knights no fine carpets or cushions on which to recline? No timbrels or lutes to calm the soul?
She watched Marc follow a servant to the high table, the holy man at his heels. Both were seated on either side of a heavyset man with sun-coloured hair. Suddenly she stood alone in the great hall that stank of sweat and wine.
‘You there!’ a pimply-faced youth yelled in the Norman tongue. ‘Sit you at the end of the servants’ table.’ He pointed toward the back of the hall where a group of chattering boys sat at a trestle far back in the shadows. Some wore Arab-style tunics and head wraps. Others, younger and bareheaded, wore ragged shirts that hung down over skinny, hose-covered legs.
‘Merci,’ she managed. The air reeked of grease and offal, and as she seated herself on the long bench, her stomach erupted. No one paid her any attention! In the zenana she would have been cosseted with cool cloths and iced sherbet while slaves cleaned the floor. Here, the hounds made quick work of her disgrace.
She sank onto the rough plank bench and lowered her head. God help me to endure this hellish place.
Only the high table was covered with a cloth. The trestle where she sat was bare wood, stained and smelly from previous meals. The other servants were fighting over a haunch of roasted meat, knocking over wine cups and scattering a bowl of sugared nuts across the table.
‘Better get busy, boy, if you want to eat.’ The voice came from a chubby red-headed youth on her left.
She answered in the Norman tongue. ‘I do not wish to eat.’
‘Then you don’t work hard enough,’ spoke a deeper voice at her right. ‘One day of service in this keep and you will beg for scraps.’
‘I am not hungry,’ she protested in a quiet tone.
‘Eat!’ he insisted. ‘Mangez!’
The others took up the cry, like a chant. ‘Mangez…mangez…mangez.’ The noise made her head buzz.
‘Let’s have a look at you.’ The red-haired boy prodded her shoulder. Instinctively she pulled away.
‘O-ho, he’s a shy one! And bony, too,’ he said, pinching her arm.
She jerked free, then leveled her gaze at each of the shouting boys, now rhythmically slapping their palms onto the table top. ‘Mangez…mangez.’
‘I will not.’ Inside she trembled with fear, but she would never let it show. Khalil’s training had taught her such control that she could endure a knife cut without flinching.
‘Oh, aye, you will eat,’ the deep-voiced boy next to her rumbled in her ear. He jabbed her in the ribs with his sharp elbow. ‘Mangez,’ he whispered. ‘Now! Or I will cram it down your throat.’
Marc looked up at the sudden noise at the far end of the hall. Some chant or other at the servants’ table. He scanned the benches until he found Soray, seated between a chunky-looking lad and a half-grown stripling with a mop of silvery hair and a curved back. As he watched, the taller boy jammed his elbow into Soray’s side. Marc’s hand closed into a fist.
The Templar grand master Giles Amaury leaned forward. ‘You were saying, de Valery?’
‘What? Ah, yes, the siege in Jerusalem. It goes badly for both sides. The Christian forces have scant food remaining, and the infidel has none, but he controls the water holes.’
He watched the white-haired lad again drive his elbow into Soray’s side. Soray twisted away, then clenched both fists and rammed them hard into his attacker’s groin. Marc winced. He almost pitied the boy.
The fat one on the other side edged away, then shot one hand out and flicked Soray’s cheek. In the next instant that boy, too, bent groaning over his belly.
The other servants at that table fell silent. Then someone across from Soray reached to fill his wooden wine cup. But instead of drinking…
The grand master tapped Marc’s metal trencher with his eating knife. ‘You are distracted, de Valery.’
Marc jerked. ‘My lord Amaury?’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Soray deliberately dump his wine cup into the lap of one of the injured lads. God! Small though he was, Soray was both brave and clever; the lad would have made a fine knight.
Giles Amaury paused to catch Marc’s eye. ‘And then that ninny Richard of England cut a swath through the enemy as if he were scything a wheat field. There were Christians among the Muslim ranks, but even so, he cut down every man. Christians!’
Marc sent a covert glance toward the monk on Amaury’s other side. Richard’s head was bowed. The robe-covered arm did not so much as twitch, but the fingers of the extended hand drummed rhythmically against the table covering.
‘True enough,’ Marc said slowly. ‘England’s king may be a better leader than a statesman. But, faced with an ambush of mixed troops, only a fool would stop to separate out the chaff.’
‘The man is dangerous,’ the grand master shot. ‘A fool in fine armour.’
Marc set down his flagon of sweet Cyprus wine with a clunk. ‘Richard may be many things, but he is not a fool.’
The king’s fingers stilled. ‘I think, de Valery, that your young servant needs rescuing from yon table.’