a surge of strength, she extended the blade over her head as far back as she could and willed the cutting edge down for the killing blow.
Chapter Five
The first thing Soraya became aware of was the sound of laughter. Men’s laughter. Deep voices whooping out guffaws of hilarity.
She opened her eyes. What was she doing flat on the ground?
The knight’s sword lay at an odd angle, just out of her reach. Had she brained him and then fainted? Surely not. She never fainted. The women in the harem had taught her a trick to prevent such a breach of manners. Had that been so long ago she had forgotten?
She spat out a mouthful of grit. ‘What happened?’ Her tongue felt thick as a caliph’s chair cushion.
‘Far less than you expected,’ the holy man said with a chuckle. ‘Certes, I have not enjoyed such a joke since I left England.’
Joke! Speechless, she glared up at the two sets of blue eyes peering down at her. Two sets. So she had not killed her knight. The last thing she remembered was lifting the sword over her head, raising it higher…higher…
She recalled that it took every ounce of strength she possessed. And then what?
Her knight bent forward and hauled her upright by one arm. ‘What do you think happened?’ he growled. ‘The weight of my sword unbalanced you. You toppled over backward.’
He scowled at her while the holy man alternately coughed and chuckled. The look of black fury on the knight’s face sent a cold chill up her spine.
‘I can explain,’ she said quickly. ‘Truly, I—’
‘Don’t even try, boy. Your intent was plain enough.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘Silence!’
Soraya shrank away from him. His voice was like thunder when he was angered.
‘Let him be, Marc,’ the monk said. ‘As we have just observed, he is too puny to do much harm. Mayhap he is a better cook than a swordsman.’
‘Oh, indeed yes, lord.’ Soraya grasped at the straw the holy man offered. ‘Not only can I cook, I can prepare healing herbs for your fever and for your catarrh.’ She tried not to grin. ‘From the market-place in the village.’
The monk studied her for a long minute. ‘Very well,’ he said at last.
Her knight frowned at the holy man. ‘But my lor—’
‘What is it, de Valery?’ the monk snapped.
Soraya started. The holy man’s voice was even worse than thunder.
‘My lor— Father,’ de Valery pursued. ‘I ask you to consider the danger.’
‘Danger of what?’ the monk scoffed. ‘The boy wishes to kill you, not me. Anyway, he can do you no harm.’
The knight stepped close to the holy man and said something in a low voice, but the monk shook his cowled head. ‘I order him to stay with us,’ he said in a loud voice. With a hint of laughter he added, ‘In God’s name.’
De Valery clamped his lips shut, wheeled and tramped off toward for the harbor, leading his warhorse.
‘The only question for you, boy—’ the monk chuckled under his raspy breathing ‘—is, are you seaworthy?’
The ship was waiting, as Richard said it would be the night the king had confided his plan. A Genoese merchant ship. God’s blood, Marc thought never to see such a welcome sight. He had always expected to die somewhere in the desert of Syria, and now, in the bustling harbor before him lay hope in the shape of curved timbers roped to the quay and swaying gently with the tide.
He gazed at the vessel so long his eyes watered. He was going home. Out of this desert hell to the heather-carpeted hills of Scotland. He would see his lady mother once more. And, if God had shielded his brother Henry from the infidel, one day soon Marc would dandle Henry’s sons on his knee.
It fell to Henry, as the oldest son, to carry on the family name and govern the de Valery lands. Marc had never resented it. He had never wanted land or titles or riches such as other second sons coveted. His years in Outremer had taught him well: life itself was more precious than wealth.
He loved Henry. Admired him. Shared with him a bond no woman would ever understand, certainly not Jehanne, who waited for Marc at Rossmorven Keep. When he returned from the Crusade, he would marry his betrothed, as arranged by their parents many years before, and get a son on her. Perhaps many sons.
Ah, God, he had thought his chance to roam the hills and heal his wounded soul would never come.
With a start he realised Richard was speaking to him. ‘De Valery?’
Richard cleared his throat and began again. ‘We will not wait for nightfall. We will board now. Come.’ The king moved his mount forward, toward the ship. ‘Bring the boy.’
The lad went still as a post. ‘Oh, no, lord. Onto a ship? That I cannot.’
Marc turned toward the stricken voice. God almighty, the boy’s face had gone white as goat’s milk.
Richard twisted in the saddle and peered down at the servant. ‘Why can you not?’ he inquired sharply.
Soraya froze. If she wanted to avenge Khalil’s death, as she had sworn, she must board this ship. If she wanted to retrieve the dagger, as she knew she must, she had to board this ship. She shut her eyes tight.
‘Move!’ the holy man growled. ‘Do as you are told.’
Her thoughts tumbled in her brain like drunken butterflies. She could not bring herself to walk onto the ship.
But she must. An oath bound her mortal soul.
Ahead of her, the monk dismounted, led his horse to the rough wooden gangplank and clattered up onto the ship. The Frankish knight pivoted and sent her look of such disgust Soraya shut her eyes. When she opened them, two bare-legged seamen sprang onto the dock and began untying the thick mooring ropes. A sail went up and the ship shuddered to life.
Her quarry was leaving! She could not let him escape, and besides he still had the dagger.
Without pausing to let herself think, she raced down the quay and leaped from the edge of the dock. Her fingers scrabbled at the ship’s splintery wooden deck and the next thing she knew cold seawater was closing over her head.
So, she was to die then, her soul condemned. She opened her mouth, gulped in water. Breathe! You must breathe!
She bobbed to the surface to see hands reaching out for her.
‘Vite! Vite,’ a voice yelled. A rope sailed out and dropped onto the water. Soraya struggled toward it, looped it twice around her waist and held on tight.
Men towed her toward the ship. Her body bounced and scraped along the wooden siding until she flopped onto the deck and lay like a beached fish, spitting up seawater.
A swarthy, black-haired man stalked over, drew back his boot and kicked her hard in the ribs. He shouted something in a language she did not recognise, but when the holy man advanced and spoke some words in the same language, everyone fell silent. To her, the monk uttered a single sentence. ‘Come. It is not your fault.’
She scrambled to the monk’s side, clutched the coarse wool robe with both hands. He leaned down to her, but the Frankish knight snagged the back of her sopping tunic and slid her backward across the wet deck until she rested at his feet.
Soraya bit down on a scream. He would kill her now. He would have let her drown but for the holy man’s interference. She glanced up in a kind of stupor, her eyes stinging from the seawater, her attention held by his hard gaze.
The holy man and the knight exchanged a long look, and then the knight yanked