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.
The hair at his neck prickled. Marc half turned, straining to listen. Outside the circle of firelight he could hear someone breathing.
He drew his blade and plunged toward the sound.
Chapter Two
Marc closed his fingers around a smooth, silk-covered arm and yanked the Saracen boy out of the shadows. ‘What are you doing here? I told you to go.’
‘Do not touch me!’ a high, angry voice yelled. ‘Release me at once!’
‘Answer me!’ Marc gritted through clenched teeth.
The small turbaned head came up. ‘I kept watch over my uncle.’
‘And where is your uncle now?’ He gave the boy a single hard shake. ‘Perhaps he rose up and walked to Paradise?’
A slap stung his cheek. ‘Do not insult him. No one walks to Paradise.’
God, the little brat had struck him!
‘Where is he, then?’
‘I signaled my kinsmen, using your firelight. They came in secret for the body, took him away on a horse.’
‘Why did you not go with them?’
The youth dropped his head, flicked a glance at the jeweled dagger in Marc’s hand, then stared at his leather sandals. Marc tightened his grip on the slim arm. ‘Why?’
The boy set his mouth in a tight line and did not respond. Then, quick as a cat, he wrenched his arm free and his small hand made a grab for the dagger. The blade sliced into the boy’s thumb, and he cried out.
Marc collared him, dragged him over to the fire and pushed him down beside it. ‘Here.’ He tossed down a bit of linen he kept under his tunic. The boy wrapped it around his hand but said nothing.
Marc nodded. ‘I see.’ He squatted a few feet away and hid the knife behind his belt. ‘You stayed behind to attack me.’
No answer. The boy stared into the glowing embers.
‘You have courage, I will say that.’ Still no response.
‘Look at me!’ Marc ordered. With his fist he tipped the scarf-swathed chin up. Eyes the colour of the sea, pale green and hard as jade, met his.
Something kicked inside Marc’s chest. ‘You have strange eyes, boy. Arabs are dark.’
‘I am Circassian, not Arab. But I was brought up among Arabs. I know their ways.’
Marc studied the boy for a long moment. ‘Unwind your headpiece.’
The layers of silk slowly fell away until Marc could see the boy’s visage. True, he was not Arab. His skin was the colour of cream, the features fine, almost delicate, the nose long and straight. A mass of unruly black curls sprang to life when released from under the turban.
Again a jolt under his ribs snapped his nerves taut. The youth was handsome, almost feminine in his movements. He watched the thin shoulders hunch against the cold wind. The lad had tried to stab him, but he had neither the skill nor the strength to accomplish the deed. Disarmed, he was no longer a threat.
‘Are you hungry?’ he snapped.
‘Yes, lord….’
Marc reached for the cooking pot, scooped up three fingers of the congealed mess, then handed