Crusader's Lady. Lynna Banning

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      ‘I am his servant.’

      Marc released him. It made no sense. Was a Saracen servant so devoted to his master that he would commit murder on his behalf?

      ‘You are lying.’

      The boy tensed. ‘No, lord. I do not lie.’

      Marc shook his head. He knew a lie when he heard one. Still, he could not linger; the king awaited him.

      ‘Leave this camp, boy. I will see to the body of your master.’ He tramped out of the circle of firelight, the dagger still clenched in his fist, to the tent where Richard waited.

      Soraya crossed her arms over her waist and watched the tall knight stride off into the dark. He had a cold, hard look about him, a darkness in his face that frightened her. Not one word of regret, not even a prayer for the man he had struck down with his thoughtless blow.

      Shaking with sobs, she knelt at Khalil’s side and bowed her head. ‘Uncle, I swear to you I will avenge your death. And I will also complete your mission— I will make sure that Saladin’s written message is delivered to King Richard. But for both these tasks I must get your dagger back. God willing, I will do it this very night.’ She reached out and pressed her fingers over his eyelids. Choking back a cry of anguish, she straightened Khalil’s limbs and kissed both his cold cheeks.

      I cannot bear for the Frankish barbarian to touch you. I cannot allow him to lay you in the ground without the proper words.

      She stood up, her hands clenched at her sides. Tearing her gaze from her uncle’s body, she surveyed the camp. The barbarian had no tent, only a meager fire and one cooking pot. She peered inside the vessel. Surely a man so large must eat more than that little bit of noxious-looking paste!

      An iron helmet and a chain mail shirt were partially stuffed into a filthy hemp bag. Beside it lay a rolled-up blanket, secured with a leather belt blackened with age. Ugh. These Franks were worse than pigs.

      She lifted her head, listening. The knight would return soon. When he did, she would be ready. She must snatch the dagger away from him and strike before he could react. She would not give up until the miserable Frank lay lifeless beside her uncle.

      And as to her other quest, the message she needed to deliver? All in good time. She would see to that once she had retrieved her dagger and dealt with the man who had killed her beloved uncle. It would be difficult to demand her weapon back from the Frank without saying why she needed it—but she was to tell no one of the message except the king. She added more dung to the fire, carefully positioned the blanket before it and lifted it away in a prearranged signal.

      Marc made his way past a dozen campfires, noting how the knights he met backed away from him, neither looking him in the face nor speaking. Richard’s men had always been uneasy in his company; now they seemed to fear him, as well. Did his fury show that much?

      When he came to Richard’s large, crimson tent, he stuffed the dagger into his belt and reached for the silk flap.

      ‘Ah,’ an oily voice murmured at his back. ‘Marc de Valery. At last. I wager you will regret making the king wait.’

      Marc said nothing. He shoved past the surly knight, entered Richard’s tent and went down on one knee beside the cot.

      ‘Get up,’ the king rasped. The ruddy face, crowned with frizzy red-gold hair, was sweaty and flushed. Below the bushy moustache, the dry, chapped lips opened. ‘Come closer.’ It seemed to take all Richard’s strength to utter those few words.

      Marc edged forward on his knees. The still air inside the tent smelled of sour bedding. ‘My lord?’

      ‘Listen to me, de Valery,’ the king wheezed. ‘My strength fails me.’

      ‘Aye, lord?’

      Richard’s eyelids closed. ‘Tell no one what I say. Swear it.’

      Marc stared at the ailing monarch. ‘I swear.’

      ‘Lean down.’

      Marc bent his head, turning his ear close to Richard’s open lips. The king murmured a single sentence. ‘I must return to England.’ He raised one unsteady hand to rest on Marc’s shoulder. The heat from the man’s fingers seared through his linen tunic like a hot iron.

      ‘My brother John has made alliance with the French king. Philip wants Normandy— John wants my crown. I must go home. I need you to accompany me on the journey.’

      ‘If I do what you ask, my lord, you will die.’

      ‘I will not die, de Valery. You will see to that.’

      Marc sucked in air. He could not refuse. No one refused Richard of England unless he ceased to value his own life.

      ‘Very well, sire. I will do what you ask.’

      ‘Good,’ Richard uttered on a sigh. ‘Très bien.’

      ‘One question only,’ Marc murmured. ‘Why me?’

      The king gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Because,’ Richard said, ‘I trust you, even if you are half-Scot. You are a good man, de Valery.’

      Marc dropped his head to acknowledge the backhanded compliment. He would not bother to confess he was not the good knight Richard thought him. Not even close.

      He made to rise, but Richard’s limp hand stayed him. ‘One more thing.’

      Marc waited for the king’s breathing to steady.

      ‘Stay away from Leopold of Austria. He is blinded by his anger.’

      ‘Yes, my lord. I have known this. You should not have desecrated his banner as you did.’

      ‘You should have told me before now.’

      Marc said nothing. No Scot would dare accuse a German baron of perfidy. Richard knew that.

      It was past moonrise when Marc finished his preparations on the king’s behalf and returned to his small camp. The fire had burned down to embers. The cooking pot was stone-cold. He wasn’t hungry anyway, thinking of tomorrow and all the things that could go awry. Richard was shrewd, even calculating. But at times he acted on impulse rather than with the cool rationality of his father, Henry Plantagenet. It was worse with a fevered brain.

      He glanced toward the spot where the dead Saracen should have been and recoiled. The body was gone! He bent over the spot and found it swept clean.

      A shiver went up his spine. No blood stained the ground. No hoofmarks, or footprints. Did a Saracen ascend to Paradise so easily?

      Or had the Arab boy dragged his master away?

      He crossed himself in short, jerky motions. Perhaps the corpse had been spirited away by djinns. He fingered the jeweled dagger he’d stuffed under his belt. He had told no one of the slaying, not even Richard of England. The act made him sick to think on. But now he must look to the future and prepare to leave the camp tomorrow morning and journey back to England with Richard.

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