Lynna Banning - Crusader's Lady

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 heartbeats and she would let go of the rail and try her legs.

The monk slept soundly, his breathing less raspy and his fever lessened, thanks to her tea of lemon balm and thyme. The other one, the knight de Valery, lay some distance away, but she could not tell whether he slept or not.

She watched the inky water below stir into a froth by the ploughing ship. Her chest muscles ached from throwing her stomach contents into the sea. She would not last in such misery until the ship reached Cyprus.

In Cyprus, once she felt better, she could get her dagger back and then disappear into the populace and search out King Richard. The people spoke her tongue, as well as the mangled French of the Normans, even Greek. Sometimes she wondered if Uncle Khalil had chosen her at the slave auction for her skill at languages. Certainly it was not for her beauty; six years ago, when she was but ten summers, even the promise of beauty was a hazy dream on the far horizon of her life.

She uncurled one hand from the smooth wooden rail and flexed her stiff fingers. Slowly she lifted her other hand and stood swaying on watery legs. If she could manage to reach the holy man, she could lie down on those foul-smelling sacks and rest. She had always felt somewhat uneasy around men, probably because of her years sequestered in the zenana, but the old monk seemed harmless.

She could not say the same for the knight de Valery.

Halfway across the deck she dropped to her hands and knees and ducked her head. The queasy feeling flooded through her; bitter saliva poured into her mouth. She clamped her lips tight shut and waited, controlling her breathing. After a moment she crawled forward, toward the sleeping monk, and then hesitated, remembering the knight’s words. Stay away from him.

It made no sense, but perhaps it would be better to lie on the other side of the holy man, near de Valery. And await her chance to seek revenge. Before this night bled into dawn, she would keep her vow and kill the Frankish knight.

Hunched on all fours, she reached his pallet, bent over him and surveyed the knight’s supine body. Already he slept like a dead man, his mouth hanging open, hands at his side. But he was very much alive. His chest and belly rose and fell at each breath.

The hilt of a small knife protruded from his sword belt. God be praised, she could do it now!

Carefully she placed one hand on his tunic, then slid it downward, fingering her way inch by inch over the linen. Warmth rose from his body. He snorted suddenly, closed his mouth and rolled his head to the other side.

When she calmed her heartbeat, she moved her fingers onto his worn leather belt and groped for the weapon. It was not her jeweled dagger, but it was a blade at any rate. God willing, it would do as well. She prayed it was sharp.

She waited, caressing the small metal hilt, matching her breathing to his. In. Out. Then another sleepy snuffle.

Very slowly she lifted the knife away from his belt and moved her hand upward, toward his unshaven chin. Eyeing his neck where the tunic gaped open, she drew the blade toward herself and tested the edge with her thumb. Should she plunge the point into the hollow at the base of his throat? Or slice sideways from ear to ear?

The Frank drew in an extra-deep breath and flopped one arm over his head. The cords in his neck rippled and then relaxed. Soraya leaned closer and raised the blade.