“I have never heard greater nonsense,” Eleanor said, raising her head to look at the man. “If the devil himself would save someone I loved, I would do it.” Wisely, Geoffrey Parker held his tongue.
As for Eleanor, she was now oblivious of them and all their muttering. “Nay, Chandra,” she said at last, raising her head, “I cannot leave my lord.” She shuddered, wiping her hand across her mouth. “I tasted the poison. It was awful, like decaying flesh.”
Chandra quickly poured her another goblet of wine. “Here, Eleanor, you must wash out your mouth again. I don’t like it that you can even remember the taste of that horrible poison.”
Jerval and Payn shoved aside the bickering physicians. Chandra helped Eleanor to her feet, and they watched silently as the two men vigorously rubbed Edward’s arms and legs.
“By all the saints,” Payn said, “he should not remain unconscious so long.”
Eleanor sat beside her husband and lightly slapped his face. “My lord,” she whispered. “Please, my lord, open your eyes. Come back to me. I refuse to tell our little daughter about you. You must see her for yourself. Open your eyes else I will be very distressed.”
Edward’s fair lashes fluttered. He heard Eleanor’s voice from afar, vague and distant, and he was suddenly frightened that she needed him. He heard her voice again, closer now, and with a great effort, he forced his eyes to open. He felt light-headed, and the wound in his arm was a raging pain, so great that he clamped his lower lip between his teeth to keep from crying out. When he focused his gaze, it was not Eleanor he saw above him, but the dark-seamed face of Sir Elvan, the Templar physician.
“Hold still, sire.”
Sir Elvan nodded to Jerval and Payn. They sat on either side of Edward and held him firmly.
Edward scarce felt the knife plunging into his flesh. He heard Eleanor telling the physician to go more easily. He wanted to soothe her, to tell her he didn’t feel much of anything, but no words came to mind. A fiery liquid followed the path of the knife, and Edward lunged upward with a cry of agony.
“Payn, hold him!” Jerval shouted. It required all their strength to keep Edward down as Sir Elvan opened the wound still wider and poured more of the dark liquid into it.
Sir Elvan slowly straightened. “The poison should have bubbled up from the wound. It may have worked so rapidly that my remedy will have no effect.”
Jerval smiled toward Eleanor. “I believe, Sir Elvan, that there is no poison because the princess sucked it from the wound.”
Sir Elvan’s expression did not change. He looked at Eleanor, still speaking to her husband, stroking her palm over his forehead, her black hair straggling about her pale face.
“My lady,” he said very gently, “I believe you have saved your husband’s life. Well done. You are very brave.”
Edward heard his words, and gazed up vaguely into his wife’s face. She was smiling.
“I am so blasted weak. Damn, but this is ridiculous.”
“And ill tempered, and impatient to be well again,” Jerval said, standing over Edward. “At least you are no longer worried about making out your will.”
“You make my neck sore, Jerval. Sit down.”
Jerval sat. “Eleanor is suckling her babe and will return to you soon.” Jerval smiled suddenly, his white teeth gleaming. “Now, sire, both you and I owe our miserable lives to our wives.”
“Aye,” Edward said slowly, “it is a strange and daunting thought.” His brows lowered. “Why did you not stop her? The poison could have killed her.”
“It did not occur to me to stop her. Indeed, I believe if anyone had tried, she would have killed him.”
“That is likely true,” Edward said, and smiled. “She has been like a clucking mother hen, just as Chandra was when you were wounded at Nazareth.” He shook his head. “Geoffrey Parker now meets with Sir Elvan daily, to learn from him. At least he will return to England with something.”
Jerval looked at Edward steadily, saddened at his bitterness.
Edward laid his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. “I wonder what would have happened had King Louis not died. He would have added another ten thousand men to our cause.”
“As pious and well meaning as Louis was,” Jerval said quietly, “he still fancied himself a leader of men—”
“Which he was.”
“Not in battle. It would have been up to you to lead our armies in battle, sire, not Louis. I wonder, after seeing all the bickering among Christians here, if all would have gone as we hoped.”
“I remember so clearly feeling that God himself laid the cross of his holy cause upon me,” Edward said slowly, “that I was to be the instrument of his hand, to free his land of the Saracens. Even after hearing of Louis’s death, I still believed that I was chosen to take Palestine.”
“It was the thought and belief in all our minds.”
What was he to do? Edward wondered silently, the pain of his spirit making his wound as nothing. “God knows we have tried,” he said aloud, “but with a thousand men, we have achieved so little. Sometimes I feel the hideous desire to pray to God to rain destruction upon all the sanctimonious Christians who have refused to leave their comforts and come to our aid.”
“The Holy Land is thousands of miles from most of Christendom, sire. It no longer holds the promise of great wealth, or even the promise of freedom for God’s people.”
“Aye, that’s true, but still, when I think of King Hugh, him and his miserable barons, snug and safe in Cyprus, I want to kill the lot of them. And our sainted King Louis’s brother, King Charles of Sicily—a ruthless, ambitious man, our Charles. I think he schemed only for control of the trade routes in the Mediterranean. I begin to believe that God has forsaken His land. We came with such hopes, like children who look only to God for succor.”
“Acre would have fallen had we not come.”
Edward said quietly, “Acre will fall, Jerval. It is but a matter of time. And when Acre does fall, the damned Venetians and Genoese will be slaughtered. I wonder if they will realize that it was their own greed over the control of Palestine that brought them to their end?”
“No, probably not,” Jerval said and fell silent. He knew well that even Edward’s near death had brought only mendacious letters of concern from Christians in the Holy Land. There was nothing more, never anything more. Duty to God and to Edward was a grave cross to carry.
“I have given it a lot of thought,” Edward continued quietly. “What I sought to accomplish was a child’s dream. I see clearly now that all we can hope for is a temporary halt to Sultan Baibars’s mad desire for the rest of Palestine. I have heard it said that Baibars fears me.” He laughed, bitterly. “Why, I cannot imagine. He probably believes that confronting me would bring the rest of Christendom to my aid. He seeks a treaty, Jerval.”
“A treaty? I did not know, sire.”
“You are the first I have told. I think he grew restive at my delay and took a chance that the rulers of Christendom would simply mourn my death with pious prayers, as they did King Louis’s. Had I been gracious enough to succumb to the assassin’s dagger, Baibars would have gained what he wanted with no effort at all. Do you know that the bastard had the gall to send me his profound regrets that an assassin had nearly killed me, an assassin he, naturally, knew nothing about?”
“By God, I would like to stick my sword through his miserable belly.”
“Save your anger, my friend. If I guess aright, he is even now taking advantage of my weakness to gather an army to attack us. It is sound strategy, I must admit. I need you to lead our troops, Jerval. I have no wish to be forced to negotiate a treaty with Baibars without an army.”
“We have men scouting to the north. We will know soon enough if and where the Saracens are gathering.” Jerval turned questioning eyes toward Edward. “You have decided upon the treaty with Baibars, then?”
“Aye, I have decided. Our failure will be a grave disappointment to my father.”
&nbs
p; “You have accomplished more than your great-uncle, Richard,” Jerval said.
“My great-uncle—the Lionheart—what a fantastical man he was. I believe he was driven by the lust for adventure and battle.” Edward added, his voice infinitely weary, “I was driven by God.” He raised his eyes to look at Jerval. “It seems that neither is enough.”
Amaric watched the Lady Chandra as she paced outside her tent, awaiting news of the battle. He had not liked being assigned as her personal guard so that Lambert and Bayon could join the battle. He wished she would at least go back into her tent, so he could find some shade and return to his dice without the sun beating down on his head.
They both looked up at the pounding of a horse’s hooves. Amaric moved closer to his lady, saw that it was Sir Eustace de Leybrun, and eased away again.
“Eustace,” Chandra said, her voice cold, for she wouldn’t ever forget what Beri had told her about him.
“Chandra, thank God I have found you so quickly. I must speak to you.”
She automatically took a step toward him, her heart pounding. “What is it, Eustace? Come, tell me, quickly, what has happened?”
Before he answered her, Eustace’s gaze flickered toward Amaric.
“Oh, God, something has happened to Jerval? He is wounded, isn’t he?”
He nodded his head, not meeting her frantic eyes. “He has been wounded, Chandra, badly, and sent me to fetch you. I have already sent the physicians ahead, for the fighting is over. Quickly, get something to cover your head. The ride will be hard. We must hurry.”
When Chandra came out of the tent but moments later, she saw Amaric standing by her horse. He tossed her into the saddle and jumped astride his own destrier.
“Amaric will help me protect you,” Eustace said. He brought his mailed hand down upon her palfrey’s rump, and the mare broke into a gallop.
“He will be all right,” she said, looking straight ahead. “He will.” She refused to think anything else. She dug her heels into her palfrey’s sides and lowered her head close to the mare’s neck.
They rode north toward Caesarea, keeping the inland sea but a mile to their west. They had ridden but half an hour when she heard Amaric call out behind them, “Sir Eustace! The fighting was to the north. We are headed east.” Chandra looked to her left, for she had not noticed they had lost sight of the sea.
Eustace drew in his destrier and waited for Amaric to rein in beside him. Chandra turned her mare, frowning. She saw Amaric slide to the ground from his horse’s back. Eustace, smiling now, was rubbing his blood off a dagger. She stared at him in shock, and then at Amaric, sprawled dead upon his back.
She realized so much in that moment. She’d been a fool. He’d tricked her, using Jerval.
He grabbed her palfrey’s reins and pulled her in.
“What is going on, Eustace? By God, what have you done?”
“So you have finally come out of your daze, Chandra. Well, no matter now—we will soon be far from Acre.” He sent a quick gaze toward Amaric. “There will be no one to say what happened to you, save me.”
“You bastard. Jerval isn’t wounded at all, is he?”
Eustace laughed. “Your precious husband is well.”
She weaved in her saddle with relief. Then she heard Beri’s words again. He’d taken her, and with little effort. She’d been a fool. She said slowly, thinking frantically, “But what is it you mean, Eustace? What are you saying?”
He laughed again and sat back in his saddle. “I will have to tell Jerval that his stubborn wife insisted upon joining him, and that Amaric and I, fearing for your safety, rode with you to protect you. How sad that we were attacked by Saracens, and only I will be alive to tell of it.”
She hadn’t strapped her dagger to her thigh, something she always did, except this time, because she was so frightened that she could scarce think at all. Here she was with a man who had betrayed her, and she had no weapon, nothing at all. This was madness. He was an English knight. He was Jerval’s kinsman. “But why? What have I ever done to you? Or Jerval? Neither of us has ever harmed you.”
“You think not? Well, it doesn’t really matter, for I will be rich.”
“What do you mean?”
CHAPTER 29
“My dear Chandra, you and I are going to the camp of al-Afdal, one of the primary chieftains of the Sultan Baibars. He heard of you from one of the Saracen soldiers who escaped from the Neva Pass. The man described a beautiful creature who fought like a man, all white-skinned, with golden hair. Al-Afdal gained a fortune from the looting of Antioch, and he is quite willing to share it with me, once I give you to him. Truly, this isn’t due to hatred of you or Jerval. I want all the wealth he will provide me for delivering you to him.”
“You are a fool, Eustace. The Saracens have no honor. He won’t give you anything except a knife through your heart. Call a halt to this madness whilst you have a chance of coming out of it with a whole hide.”
Eustace raised his hand to strike her, but drew it back. “Nay, I don’t want to bruise your lovely face. Your new master would not like that.”
Chandra dug her heels into her palfrey’s sides, but Eustace held fast to the reins. “That was your one try, Chandra, and your last. I know all your tricks, so you needn’t waste your time trying them on me. You have no weapons. You stand no chance against me. If you try to hit me, I’ll break your damned arm.”
She spat at him, full in the face. He stared at her for a moment, wiping her spittle from his cheek, before he smashed his mailed fist into her ribs. She doubled over in pain, and heard him say, “I told you only that I would not mark your face, Chandra.”
“You will not succeed, Eustace.” She was panting, trying to get back her breath. Her ribs pulled and ached. “Jerval will not believe you. He will find out what you did, and he will kill you.”
“Did you not listen, my lady? The direction in which your captors lie will, unfortunately, be miles from where I lead your husband. Ah, the riches I will gain. And the joy of knowing that you will part your white legs for your heathen master the rest of your life—or until you lose your beauty and he tosses you away.”
“You cannot do this. Even you. Beri told me to be careful around you. By God, she was right.”
“Beri. I will see that she pays for that. Now, enough talk, Chandra. I wish to be farther away from Acre. You will ride with me, else you will feel my dagger in your breast.” He brought his hand down again on her palfrey’s rump and forced her to a gallop beside him.
They rode due east, and the ground turned hilly and brittle beneath the horses’ hooves. It seemed like hours to Chandra before Eustace jerked on her palfrey’s reins and pulled his destrier to a halt. “We will take our rest here.” His eyes scanned the surrounding countryside, then turned back to her.
He saw it in her eyes. She was readying herself to leap on him. He drew his dagger. “You try it and I will slit your throat and bedamned to the wealth.”
She believed him. Later, she thought, later she would catch him off guard.
Graelam de Moreton rode toward Acre to give Edward word of his victory in the company of one of his men-at-arms and his squire. Edward would be quite pleased with the outcome of the battle. They had attacked the ill-prepared Saracens as they gathered themselves for a final blow after the attempted assassination of Edward, and had scattered them easily.
Graelam stretched his tired bones in his saddle, and looked inland, away from the sun-reddened sea. He saw a riderless horse cantering toward them and frowned, recognizing Amaric’s horse. For a long moment, he held his destrier still, his dark brows lowered. He knew that Jerval had ordered Chandra never to leave the camp without a guard. Without another thought, he ran the horse down and reined him in. He saw a drop of blood on the saddle.
What in God’s name had happened? He turned to his men. “We ride east until we find Amaric.”
It was Albert, Graelam’s squire, who spotted Amaric’s body on a flat stretch of ground, his legs c
overed with sand by the desert wind. There was a clean stab wound in his chest, and his sword was sheathed. Graelam raised his lifeless arm. It was not yet stiff in death.
“Albert, ride back to Sir Jerval. Tell him that we found Lady Chandra’s guard murdered.” Graelam studied the ground for several moments. “There are two horses riding to the east. Tell Sir Jerval that we will follow and will leave a trail for him. Quickly, man.”
Graelam swung onto his destrier’s back, wondering why in God’s name Chandra could not be like the other ladies and remain safe in the camp until her husband’s return. Had she been so reckless as to demand that Amaric accompany her to the battle site? No, wait. They were traveling east, not north. Perhaps Jerval’s proud lady had not been at fault. He smiled faintly at this thought as he dug his heels into his horse’s belly. There was but one other person with her. Had she been taken against her will? Damnation, he owed her his life, and it displeased him to owe his life to a woman, even the fierce maiden warrior of Croyland. It was time to repay his debt.
* * *
“Off your horse, my lady,” Eustace said. “We wait here.”
Chandra didn’t move. “This is madness, Eustace. We still have time. Take me back.”
He laughed, and picked a fingernail with the sharp tip of the dagger. “Not mad, my lady, never mad.” He paused a moment then, and looked at her. “ Besides the riches I will have, I will also have the memory of your lovely body, a very lovely body that you once denied me. Since you are not a virgin, it makes little difference how many men plow you before you become al-Afdal’s sole property.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, even smiling at him. He frowned, but she moved very quickly, one eye on that dagger of his. She leaned over in the saddle and drove her fist into his jaw. More from surprise than from pain, Eustace reared back and dropped her palfrey’s reins. Chandra scooped them up, and with a wild cry she sent her horse into a frenzied gallop.
Eustace’s powerful destrier quickly overtook her, his shadow huge and black against the moonlit rocks. She gave a cry of fury when his thick arm closed about her waist and lifted her off her palfrey’s back. She fought him with all her strength, but he simply held her against him, squeezing her ribs, squeezing, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe.