Crusader's Lady. Lynna Banning

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 him wait,’ Marc grumbled. ‘I am weary of killing.’

      ‘Spies are near,’ de Clare said in a low voice. ‘Take care to say nothing of interest to the Saracen.’

      Marc nodded. His friend rose and propped his hands on his sword belt. ‘You are too much alone, man. You eat alone, sleep alone. You would fight alone if the king would let you. But, my ill-tempered friend, I will not let you do that.’

      ‘Save your advice for the men you command.’

      Roger scuffed noisily out of the firelight, and Marc closed his eyes. God in heaven, he did not deserve such a friend. Not after Acre. Richard had ordered the massacre, but on that awful, bloody day a part of Marc began to die. The heads of two thousand hostages, women and children, as well as defenders, rolled in the blood-soaked sand outside the city. Richard had betrayed them, and then slaughtered them all.

      A rustle whispered into his consciousness. Not a footfall, something else. Without thought, he felt for his sword.

      The sound came again, closer. Behind him. ‘Who goes there?’

      The silence stretched, so profound it seemed to scream. One of Richard’s heavy-booted minions? A servant?

      An assassin?

      Marc lifted the simmering pot off the fire, rose and grasped the hilt of his sword. He had just started to buckle the leather belt around his hips when a movement beyond the flames caught his attention. He stiffened, straining his eyes into the thick night.

      Sensing a motion at his back, he spun, sword raised, just as a dark-swathed figure hurtled toward him. Instinctively Marc took a single step forward, and his blade caught the intruder in the throat. A cry, then the man pitched onto the ground at Marc’s feet and lay still.

      Blood poured from the man’s wound, soaking the turban and the silk tunic, oozing over the dark fingers clutching at the torn throat. A Saracen. Probably a spy, this close to the Frankish camp.

      A gurgling sound, then nothing. Marc bent closer. Almighty God, what had he done! The man was unarmed.

      He turned away in self-loathing, covered his face with his hand. For a moment he thought he would vomit. A warrior’s slaughter in battle was his duty as a Christian knight, but striking an unarmed man, even a Saracen, was against the law of God. A whisper of sound brought his head up, every nerve on edge. Something—instinct or training, or perhaps the voice of God—made him twist back toward the dead Arab. A small form flitted out of the shadows and threw itself over the body, sobbing like a girl. So, the man had a loyal servant.

      Again Marc turned away. The words of regret that sprang to his lips died the instant he opened his mouth. He need not apologise to a Saracen, much less to a Saracen’s servant.

      He turned away, toward the fire, and suddenly a warm weight dropped onto his back. One thin arm crooked about his neck and the blade of a dagger pressed into his throat.

      ‘Qaatil!’ shouted a thin voice, choked with hatred. Before Marc could throw him off, the knife nicked his skin; a dribble of warm liquid ran down the neck of his tunic.

      ‘Taraka.’ He spoke in Arabic, but the boy did not let go. Instead he clung to Marc’s back, the hand gripping the dagger flailing to find a vulnerable spot. He grabbed the servant’s upper arm and twisted, hard.

      With a yelp, the slight figure tumbled off and sprawled on the ground. The dagger skittered out of his fingers. A skinny hand grabbed for it, but Marc stomped his boot onto the blade, pinning it to the hard ground.

      ‘Go.’ He gestured toward the shadowy edge of his camp. ‘I will not harm you.’ Without thinking, he spoke the words in the Frankish tongue.

      ‘I will kill you.’ The low voice replied with a tremor. ‘I will take revenge if it is the last thing I do on this earth. God knows I speak truly.’

      A servant boy who spoke Norman French? ‘Who are you?’ Marc demanded.

      The boy darted a glance at the dagger caught under Marc’s foot, flicked his gaze to the body of the dead Saracen and dropped into a crouch, his forearm still imprisoned in Marc’s grip. Tears streaked the lad’s dirty face.

      Marc bent and scooped up the knife. The hilt was silver, beautifully incised, with a single jewel embedded into the metal. A ruby, big as a sparrow’s egg.

      ‘Where did you get this?’

      The hunched figure twitched but said nothing.

      ‘Answer me!’ He slid his fingers down to the boy’s wrist and squeezed. ‘Where did you get this blade?’

      The СКАЧАТЬ