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.
She watched the knight’s chest rise and fall with his steady breathing. She must do it. She had pledged her word to God. She tossed another, larger stone.
Marc flicked one eyelid open, then instantly snapped it shut. The boy still sat by the fire, his slim body hunched over his knees. Asleep, probably. Or watching him. Waiting.
The large ruby embedded in the Saracen dagger hilt chewed into the flesh of his back, but rather than roll over and ease the annoyance, he would endure. A blade secured under him was a blade that could not be used against him.
God have mercy, he had killed the Saracen in unthinking haste, and the ease with which he’d done it stunned and ashamed him. He felt sorry for the slave boy opposite him. Unending warfare ate away a man’s soul, poisoned his spirit. It had to stop. He couldn’t stomach another killing, not even of a servant.
He shifted uneasily, stretching out his legs. God, the longer the struggle for Jerusalem, the less human he became. Week after week Saladin’s warriors encircled the Frankish camp arrayed outside the city gates. Before them naught faced Richard’s army but stone walls. If the Franks moved their camp north or south, the Saracens again surrounded them once night had fallen. It had been thus for months. The battle for Jerusalem was a stand-off.
The butchery on both sides was beginning to make no sense. Richard did not covet Jerusalem for himself. The king was attacking a city he knew he could not hold. Was this interminable siege of the high stone walls just for show? Was Richard merely playing out the slaughter to best Philip of France and the German baron, Leopold of Austria?
He studied the slight figure of the Arab boy, asleep where he sat before the dying fire. There was a time when he himself had been as foolhardy and brave as that lad. And as innocent of the ugly side of life.
At dawn, he rolled over, reassured himself the dagger was still secure at his back and came to his feet. The boy sat tipped to one side, snoring lightly. Let him sleep. He and the king would be gone before the camp awakened.
He let his warhorse nibble a handful of the grain he had hoarded, pulled on his mail shirt and blue overtunic and flung the heavy leather saddle upon the animal’s broad back. When he had buckled on his sword belt and turned to mount, he found the boy grinning at him from atop the horse.
‘Get down,’ Marc ordered.
‘I will not, lord. How am I to attend you if I do not ride with you?’
‘I do not need a servant.’
‘Not true, lord. You need me. I assure you, I am no ordinary servant.’
A harsh laugh chuffed past Marc’s lips. That was obvious enough. ‘Get down,’ he repeated. ‘Now.’
The youth tilted his frame to one side, slid sideways and dropped gracefully to the ground. How, Marc wondered, had he managed to mount the huge animal in the first place?
‘Where do we ride?’
‘I ride south. You can go to the devil.’
The boy hissed in a breath. ‘Surely you would not wish it so!’
Marc clenched his jaw. ‘You are an outspoken brat. Ill-mannered and stubborn.’
‘Aye, lord. I am stubborn, I admit it freely.’
‘Go!’ Marc roared the word hoping to frighten the boy. Instead, the lad sent him a look designed to charm devils.
‘Where shall I go, lord?’
‘You can go to the latrine,’ Marc said with a jerk of his chin. ‘That way. Go.’
The boy scampered off in the direction Marc pointed. When he was sure the lad had not doubled back, he secured his sword belt, tucked his canvas utility bag behind the high-backed cantle and mounted his warhorse.
With an odd niggle of apprehension, he stepped the animal forward, toward the prearranged meeting place with the king.
Chapter Three
Soraya did not go to the latrine. She crept behind a hillock where she was hidden from view. Then she picked her way back among the sleeping camps and already bustling servants toward the knight’s camp.
Yawning Frankish squires sharpened swords or scrubbed chain mail shirts with handfuls of wet sand, paying her scant attention. But her soft massa al-khayr to the Arab servants brought a quick smile and a polite ahlan.
It always surprised her that Arab slaves were common among the Franks, taken as spoils of war and traded back and forth by the victors like sacks of grain. But then she herself had been acquired by Khalil in much the same manner. She had been captured as a child by Arab raiders and taken from her mountain homeland across the sea to a sheik’s harem. At least they had educated her well, but she was happy to leave when Khalil bought her at the slave auction when she was but ten summers.
The Frankish camp was a filthy place. Flies buzzed everywhere, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the smell of unwashed bodies and horse dung. At one camp she managed to snatch a fragrant ripe pomegranate from a fruit basket, then gradually worked her way toward the largest of the tents. Made of crimson silk instead of rough canvas, it was easy to pick out among the myriad of smaller ones; a scarlet-and-gold pennant fluttered from the top. If only she could deliver her message now, but it would have to wait. She had to recover Khalil’s dagger. She looked around for her quarry, then halted suddenly. The Frankish knight was approaching from the opposite direction, a scowl on his sun-darkened face. He led his huge horse by a worn leather bridle, and Soraya frowned. Already she had learned that he allowed none other than himself to mount the