She scrambled to the monk’s side, clutched the coarse wool robe with both hands. He leaned down to her, but the Frankish knight snagged the back of her sopping tunic and slid her backward across the wet deck until she rested at his feet.
Soraya bit down on a scream. He would kill her now. He would have let her drown but for the holy man’s interference. She glanced up in a kind of stupor, her eyes stinging from the seawater, her attention held by his hard gaze.
The holy man and the knight exchanged a long look, and then the knight yanked her upright before him. She cried out at the stabbing pain in her ribs, but when his dark, glittering eyes met hers she gasped with fear.
‘Do not hurt me.’ She tried to speak with authority, but her voice trembled. ‘I am but a small and humble creature of God, and—’
‘Hush,’ he snapped. ‘While you are on this ship, you are to remain quiet and out of the way. And stay away from me. I trust you not. And avoid him, as well.’ He tipped his head to indicate the monk, who was turning away.
‘Yes, lord. I will serve you well, I promise.’
‘Your word is false,’ he said. ‘I need no servant. Especially one who has twice proved quick with a knife. And he—’ the blue eyes flicked to the monk ‘—needs no boy. Do you understand me?’
Soraya gaped at him. She understood nothing, but the intense light in her knight’s gaze warned her of some danger. Yet why would he be concerned? She was his sworn enemy.
The ship lurched under her feet. A sickening dizziness brought her hand to her mouth, and suddenly she didn’t care what the knight was saying. She was going to be sick.
Chapter Six
The galley shuddered under Marc’s feet, and the two horses, tied to the thick rail, snorted and stamped their hooves to regain their balance. He smoothed his hands over Jupiter’s quivering hide and tightened the tether so he would not injure himself.
A seaman scampered up the mast to unfurl the single sail. On either side of the ship the rowers grunted and leaned into their oars. The vessel cut through the sea swells like a blade through a ripe melon.
Richard lounged at the far end of the desk on a makeshift pallet of hemp sacks that smelled of rotting fruit. ‘Stop pacing and get some rest, de Valery.’
‘I will not rest until we dock in Cyprus, God willing.’
‘The Templars will offer us lodging,’ Richard assured him with a crafty smile. ‘Especially when the good knights learn who now holds the island.’
Marc need not ask who. On his journey to Jerusalem, Richard had overrun Cyprus—fortress, vineyards, Templar bank and all. What the king wanted, the king took. ‘Why does control over that island matter more than a gnat’s dinner?’
The king’s gaze drifted to where the servant boy squatted next to a bowl of herbs and wine he was warming over an oil lamp. ‘I have my reasons.’
Marc grunted. Richard never did anything without a reason. He was a royal, and with Great Eleanor at his back, the king of England was invincible. Even his brother John feared him. But with Richard on crusade in Outremer, John’s meddling fingers crawled greedily into the honey pot that was England. Richard had to stop him.
The servant boy rose abruptly, dashed to the rail and leaned his head over it. The choked sound of retching made Marc’s own stomach clench. When the bout was over, the lad dragged his sleeve across his mouth and staggered back to Richard’s bedside. The turban wound about his head had loosened; strands of straggly dark hair were plastered to the pasty forehead.
‘Are you still seasick, boy?’ Richard’s meaty hand patted the thin arm.
‘Aye, lord. I do not like ships or sailing.’ The boy lifted the king’s head and tipped a few spoonfuls of the herb concoction past his lips. Richard grimaced, swallowed, grimaced again, and the boy settled the empty bowl beside the lamp. ‘Soon you will be well, lord.’
Again the lad rose and wobbled toward the ship’s rail. ‘I am in your debt,’ the king breathed at his retreating back.
Marc pressed his lips into a thin line. ‘I would have a care, were it my belly the boy dribbles his noxious mixture into.’
‘I’ve been guzzling his potion since afternoon, de Valery. As you can plainly see, I am growing stronger by the hour.’
It was true. For the first time in a month the ailing king rested peaceful as a babe, and the flush of fever no longer coloured his cheeks.
‘The lad has some skill in herbal brews,’ Marc allowed. ‘You have struck up some sort of bond with him,’ he continued carefully. ‘No doubt you are right—the boy wants only my life, not yours.’
‘Ah, yes. I want to keep him close.’
Marc jerked at the word. He could not say why he felt the least bit protective of the thieving little wretch, but he did. Nor did he trust the innocent look in the lad’s sea-green eyes. He would lay not a single farthing on the truth of anything the boy uttered. Still, he felt oddly protective of him.
Possessive, even.
‘The lad is my servant, not yours. I would like him to stay near me after all. If he manages to stop trying to attack me, he could come in useful.’
Richard’s eyes turned to steel. ‘You are impudent, de Valery.’
‘I am honest,’ Marc countered. He turned away to his own pallet. ‘As you well know.’
The sun dropped into the sea at their back, painting the cloud-splattered sky gold and then purple. Once more the lad left the rail, walked unsteadily to the king’s pallet, his face grey as moldy bread. Almost at once, he pivoted and raced back to the railing.
‘When the ship reaches Cyprus,’ Richard said casually, ‘we can turn the boy over to the Templars.’
Marc said nothing.
‘Good herbalists are always welcome in a warrior stronghold,’ Richard added.
Aye, so they were. Marc thought a moment, then dug into his canvas bag for the bread and cheese the boy had stolen in the village. Bless this food, Lord, and think not on how we came by it. While he sliced off slabs of cheese with his eating knife, he watched the lad hang over the side of the ship. By now the boy’s belly must be empty as a Greek’s wine jug.
Dusk fell, and still the boy retched. God, the lying little scamp was paying for his sins. He felt halfway sorry for the lad.
‘You said you were seasick once,’ Richard said without opening his eyes. ‘When you were but a boy, you told me. Tossing on the Firth of Dornoch in a coracle, as I recall.’
Marc swallowed at the memory. ‘True,’ he grated. ‘And when my brother Henry and I sailed for France for our fostering, our uncle said I looked green as river moss when we docked. Do not remind me.’
‘With the boy ailing,’ Richard continued with a chuckle, ‘you can sleep tonight without worry. He is too sick to plunge a dagger into your gut.’
‘Aye, that is true enough.’
‘Tomorrow though, when he recovers, I will have need of him.’
Marc blinked but did not reply. We shall see. King or not, the devious lad was Marc’s responsibility. And there was yet more, he admitted. Enemy or no, something in those green eyes pulled at him.
Soraya gripped the deck railing until her fingers went numb. The briny smell of the sea alone made her gorge rise; being tossed about on the blue-black swells was worse than dying. She flashed a look over her shoulder. Five more