Crusader's Lady. Lynna Banning

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      ‘Then you don’t work hard enough,’ spoke a deeper voice at her right. ‘One day of service in this keep and you will beg for scraps.’

      ‘I am not hungry,’ she protested in a quiet tone.

      ‘Eat!’ he insisted. ‘Mangez!’

      The others took up the cry, like a chant. ‘Mangez…mangez…mangez.’ The noise made her head buzz.

      ‘Let’s have a look at you.’ The red-haired boy prodded her shoulder. Instinctively she pulled away.

      ‘O-ho, he’s a shy one! And bony, too,’ he said, pinching her arm.

      She jerked free, then leveled her gaze at each of the shouting boys, now rhythmically slapping their palms onto the table top. ‘Mangez…mangez.’

      ‘I will not.’ Inside she trembled with fear, but she would never let it show. Khalil’s training had taught her such control that she could endure a knife cut without flinching.

      ‘Oh, aye, you will eat,’ the deep-voiced boy next to her rumbled in her ear. He jabbed her in the ribs with his sharp elbow. ‘Mangez,’ he whispered. ‘Now! Or I will cram it down your throat.’

      Marc looked up at the sudden noise at the far end of the hall. Some chant or other at the servants’ table. He scanned the benches until he found Soray, seated between a chunky-looking lad and a half-grown stripling with a mop of silvery hair and a curved back. As he watched, the taller boy jammed his elbow into Soray’s side. Marc’s hand closed into a fist.

      The Templar grand master Giles Amaury leaned forward. ‘You were saying, de Valery?’

      ‘What? Ah, yes, the siege in Jerusalem. It goes badly for both sides. The Christian forces have scant food remaining, and the infidel has none, but he controls the water holes.’

      He watched the white-haired lad again drive his elbow into Soray’s side. Soray twisted away, then clenched both fists and rammed them hard into his attacker’s groin. Marc winced. He almost pitied the boy.

      The fat one on the other side edged away, then shot one hand out and flicked Soray’s cheek. In the next instant that boy, too, bent groaning over his belly.

      The other servants at that table fell silent. Then someone across from Soray reached to fill his wooden wine cup. But instead of drinking…

      The grand master tapped Marc’s metal trencher with his eating knife. ‘You are distracted, de Valery.’

      Marc jerked. ‘My lord Amaury?’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Soray deliberately dump his wine cup into the lap of one of the injured lads. God! Small though he was, Soray was both brave and clever; the lad would have made a fine knight.

      Giles Amaury paused to catch Marc’s eye. ‘And then that ninny Richard of England cut a swath through the enemy as if he were scything a wheat field. There were Christians among the Muslim ranks, but even so, he cut down every man. Christians!’

      Marc sent a covert glance toward the monk on Amaury’s other side. Richard’s head was bowed. The robe-covered arm did not so much as twitch, but the fingers of the extended hand drummed rhythmically against the table covering.

      ‘True enough,’ Marc said slowly. ‘England’s king may be a better leader than a statesman. But, faced with an ambush of mixed troops, only a fool would stop to separate out the chaff.’

      ‘The man is dangerous,’ the grand master shot. ‘A fool in fine armour.’

      Marc set down his flagon of sweet Cyprus wine with a clunk. ‘Richard may be many things, but he is not a fool.’

      The king’s fingers stilled. ‘I think, de Valery, that your young servant needs rescuing from yon table.’

      Marc strained his eyes but could see nothing further amiss. ‘I think not. The lad has declawed the lions, both of them.’

      Richard’s penetrating blue eyes sought his. ‘Look again.’

      It was an order, not a polite request. Marc understood at once. Richard would be private with the Templar grand master.

      ‘You are right,’ Marc amended. ‘Young Soray looks to be in need of…direction.’ In truth, young Soray had things well in hand, but Marc quickly excused himself and started across the hall toward the servants’ table.

      ‘De Valery!’ the grand master abruptly called at his back.

      Marc halted.

      ‘I would not wish you to roam freely about this keep. My servant will conduct you to your guest quarters.’

      A moment of silence, then the low murmur of voices resumed, the disguised king’s and the grand master’s. What mischief was Richard stirring up now?

      A paunchy, grey-haired man in a white surcoat appeared out of the gloom, sidestepping both hounds and refuse without breaking his stride. ‘This way, sir knight. Follow me.’

      Marc stopped at the servants’ table and spoke at Soray’s back. ‘Come on, lad. To bed.’

      Soray scrambled off the bench, resisting the impulse to throw her arms around her rescuer. ‘Oh, thank you, lord. Thank you!’

      ‘That tired, are you?’ he said, an edge in his low voice.

      ‘Oh, no, not tired,’ she blurted. ‘But I have been…quite busy here.’

      ‘Ah,’ said her knight. ‘Commendable aim you have.’

      She gaped up at him. ‘You saw?’

      ‘I saw.’

      Soraya flinched. His world, even the small part of it she had seen, was ugly beyond words, full of rudeness and noise and awful smells. She hated it.

      But she did not hate him. On the contrary, she was beginning to like him. He roared and grumbled, but he did not strike. He fed her, warmed her at his fire, protected her from angry merchants…even laughed at her remarks. Apparently he found her acceptable company.

      She followed him out of the great hall and up a winding staircase, the stone steps unevenly worn with long use. Up and up it went, curving always to her right. By the second landing, she was so dizzy she feared she would stagger off the edge. Blindly she reached out toward her knight, caught a handful of his tunic and held on.

      ‘Better than the tail of a horse, is it?’ he said over his shoulder. The amusement she heard in his rough voice made her grin.

      ‘Much better, lord,’ she said at his back. ‘A horse could never climb such steps as these.’

      He chuckled and shortened his steps. ‘But a horse has no need for guest quarters in a Templar keep.’

      They both laughed.

      On the next landing, the grey-haired man led them down a short hallway, through a wooden door that screeched on rusty hinges and into a small chamber with a single window cut into the stone wall.

      ‘Here СКАЧАТЬ