He cursed under his breath. No one save Richard’s mother, great Eleanor, had ever been able to reason with the king. To settle his unease, he began to sift handfuls of fine grey dust through his fingers. Had he not sworn to obey the king, Richard would never have ventured outside his tent.
But the king followed his own impulses, regardless of his barons’ arguments. Night after night Marc listened at the noisy council in Richard’s tent and kept quiet. Only when the king asked him a direct question did he venture an opinion, and while Richard listened at length, in the end it always went Richard’s way.
The Lion Heart could do no wrong. Thus far Richard had rolled his seasoned, heavily armed warriors over the Saracen forces with bloody success; in the eyes of his followers, the man was more god than king.
Until now. Marc eyed the motionless form stretched in the shade beside his horse. This was a fool’s plan. A king’s fevered whim.
A sharp cry brought his head up. The servant boy darted through the village gate and raced toward them at such speed he looked to be skimming above the ground. Another cry, this time a gutteral shout, and then Marc saw the reason why the boy ran.
Two—no, three—merchants tumbled through the gate, arms waving. ‘Thief!’ the first man shouted. ‘Stop him!’
The panting boy dashed up to where Marc rested in the olive grove and stopped short. In the next instant he dropped to his knees, jerked up the hem of Richard’s voluminous monk’s garb and wriggled underneath. The robe twitched once and was still.
Scarcely three breaths later, the first merchant puffed to a stop before him. ‘Did you see that boy?’ he said in Arabic.
‘Boy?’ Marc replied in a lazy voice. ‘The skinny one who trampled through our resting place without a by-your-leave?’
‘That’s the one. He stole a loaf of bread and—’
‘And a round of cheese,’ the second man added as he limped to a stop. The third merchant, tall and sallow with one drooping eyelid, gasped for air but said nothing.
Marc idly sifted another handful of dust through his fingers. ‘The boy is gone,’ he said in the same nonchalant tone. ‘Into the olive grove. No doubt at this moment he is scampering on down the hill.’
The merchant swore an inventive oath. Marc understood its earthy implications, but he did not smile.
Two of the men then dashed into the grove. ‘We shall catch him at the crossroads!’ one yelled.
But the third man, the tall, silent merchant, eyed Marc’s black warhorse, then gazed at Richard’s prone body. Slowly he walked toward the ragged, motionless figure on the ground and prodded at the monk with the toe of one boot.
Chapter Four
King Richard sat up partway, propped himself on one elbow and signed an exaggerated cross over his chest. ‘Yes, my son?’ he said to the merchant in a pious voice. ‘Do you wish to confess?’
The man’s eyes blinked. ‘Allahu alukhaim.’
‘There is no god but Allah,’ Marc translated. The merchant backed away, then turned to follow the other two into the olive grove. When the turbaned men were out of sight, Marc spoke, directing his words to the moth-eaten habit on the ground.
‘They are gone, boy. You can come out.’
The wool robe shuddered and the disheveled lad emerged, a delighted smile on his face. ‘I thank you, lord.’ From inside his dust-smudged tunic he pulled a flattened loaf of bread, a dirty-looking hunk of cheese and a handful of dried herbs, which he dumped into a small leather sack at his waist.
‘Aha.’ Marc scowled at the youth. ‘You are a thief after all.’
‘Oh, no, lord.’ A disarming grin lit the boy’s face. ‘Say instead that I am a very skilled borrower.’
Richard chuckled. ‘I say the lad has wit and an enterprising spirit. Considering our situation, de Valery, you may be thankful for such qualities.’ The king straightened, then stood and clapped the boy’s shoulder. ‘You may ride with me, lad.’
The boy blanched.
Marc laughed until his eyes watered. With quick, sure motions the lad stashed the bread and cheese in Marc’s supply bag, grabbed a handful of Jupiter’s thick mane and wrestled himself up into the saddle.
‘Where do we travel now, lord?’
With a sigh, Marc again hauled the youth down off his horse, mounted in his place and lifted the small-boned frame up behind him. ‘There.’ He motioned ahead. ‘To the sea.’
‘Ah!’ The youth jerked in a hissed breath.
Richard climbed onto his sway-backed horse. ‘Pray God there is a ship waiting.’
A ship! Soraya caught her breath in a squeaked-out gasp. A ship that wallowed on the water while filthy men crawled over it like scavenger ants? Her blood turned cold. She prayed to God a ship was not waiting!
She was not afraid of a great many things, but being tossed about on the water was not one of them. She only vaguely recalled such a voyage, but the memory of the experience still haunted her. Her stomach roiled at the thought of standing once more on a ship’s deck.
And, she realised in growing horror, she was getting farther and farther away from Jerusalem and the English king.
She must devise some way to lay her hands on a weapon and end this miserable Frank’s life at once. Twisting her head slightly, she eyed the scabbard hanging from the knight’s belt. Could she slip the sword out? Yes, that might work. Perhaps when he next dismounted. She would ask for a swallow of water. Then, when his attention was diverted to his horse, or the saddle, or the water skins…
Yes! When he reached for the water…
The monk’s rough voice spoke behind them. ‘Look ahead, de Valery.’
‘I see it.’ The destrier stepped up its pace.
Soraya stretched her neck as high as she could to peer over the rise, yet could see nothing but sand and more sand. But when they reached the top of the hill, a cooling breeze brushed her face and all at once there lay the sea ahead of them, smooth as a porcelain plate and so blue the dancing light made it look bejeweled. It was so bright she couldn’t look at it for very long.
And in the harbor—God preserve me!—boats bobbed on the water. Hundreds of them! Fishing vessels. Canopied barges. Arab dhows. Ships with rows of oars and sails and men crawling up and down the masts.
Her mouth went dry. She ducked her head, restudied the position of the knight’s scabbard. It hung at his belt just so, and if he turned to his left, away from her…
The horse moved forward a few yards and halted. ‘Climb down, boy.’
Soraya slid off the destrier’s back so fast she lost her balance and stumbled onto her knees. She clenched her teeth at the holy man’s raspy laugh, and just as she started to scramble to her feet, the Frankish knight grabbed the front of her tunic and heaved her to a standing position. She stood so close to him she could see the beads of sweat on his upper lip.
His glance strayed to the water skins. Now was her chance. She inched her hand toward the protruding hilt of his sword. Focused on the skins, the knight turned away to his left just as her fingers closed over the cold steel.
Lord be praised. She did not have to drag the heavy weapon from its leather covering; the knight’s own motion away from her tipped the scabbard and separated it from the sword she gripped. Then he pivoted toward her, opening his mouth to speak.
Foolish man.
She wrapped both hands around the hilt and heaved the tip of the blade into the air. Lord, but it was heavy, like a great iron sewing needle balanced over her head.
Now.