its collar and dragged it off her. The dog snarled and fought but the youth hauled it to the door and thrust it outside, where it could be heard barking fiercely.
Rosamunde ran to a corner of the hall and sat down on the stone floor, hunching her knees to her chest and hugging the terrified kitten. Tears trickled down her cheeks because she was frightened, and her hand hurt where the dog’s fangs had scraped her skin.
‘Are you hurt, little mistress?’
Rosamunde glanced up as the youth spoke. He was perhaps sixteen or so and handsome, with dark-blond hair and blue eyes. His mouth was wide and generous and there was concern in his eyes as he looked at her.
‘I thought he would kill my kitten,’ she said and wiped her hand over her cheek. ‘I’m not frightened for myself.’
‘Of course not,’ he said and smiled. ‘Did the dog’s teeth break the skin?’
Rosamunde showed him her hand. His fingers were gentle as they examined the red marks the dog’s fangs had made.
‘The brute has not drawn blood. I think you will not take harm from it.’
‘You were in time to save me,’ she said. ‘I thank you, sir. What is your name? Are you here because you’re going to the Crusades?’
‘Aye, that is my reason for being here.’ His eyes lit up. ‘It is a wonderful chance for me to win glory and fame, and perhaps a knighthood. My father will not join the King’s cause but I think it an honour.’
‘Shall you fight the Saracens? My mother says they are fierce fighters and many will die in a foolish cause.’
‘We fight for a holy cause, little mistress,’ he said. ‘Your mother does not understand that men will gladly risk everything for such honour and glory.’
‘I do not think I should like you to be killed,’ Rosamunde said, looking at him shyly. ‘You are so brave. The hound could have bitten you but you did not think of yourself.’
‘It was nothing. I knew the dog was too strong for you. He would not have stopped until he had the kitten and, since you would not let go, you could have been seriously injured.’
‘Raphael. Here to me, sirrah. I need you.’
‘My master calls me,’ Raphael said. ‘Sir Harold of Fernshaw trained me as his squire and I owe him allegiance. If it were not for him, I should not have this opportunity. Excuse me, little mistress. I have work to do.’
‘My name is Rosamunde,’ she whispered but she did not know if he heard her. ‘When you return to England, visit us again, sir. I shall be here waiting for you.’
The young man turned his head and smiled at her once more. Rosamunde’s heart raced, her breath quickening. She was only a child, but the men would be many years at the Crusades and by the time they returned she would be a woman.
Would Raphael remember her? She would never forget him but perhaps he believed her merely a child. His thoughts were only of the Holy Land and the adventures he would discover there.
‘Come back safely,’ she murmured as she stroked the kitten and kissed its soft head. ‘I shall not forget you, Raphael. One day I pray we shall meet again.’
Chapter One
In the year of our Lord 1193
‘Messalina! God help me …’ Raphael awoke from the nightmare, his body dripping with perspiration. Putting out his hand, he discovered that the bed beside him was empty and cold. He had been dreaming of his late wife, of the terrible day a few months ago when he’d discovered that she was dead, lost to him for all time. ‘Forgive me. I should have been there. I should have protected you, my dear one.’
He moaned as the agony swept over him. His beautiful, young and lovely wife was dead and it was his fault. She’d begged him not to leave her that fateful night, but he had unwound her soft white arms from about his neck and told her he must go.
‘This is war, Messalina. I have been summoned by King Richard to a meeting and must obey his orders.
Things do not go as well as Richard would have liked and we may have to leave the Holy Land without gaining all we came for.’
‘Leave? You speak of leaving, of returning to your own land?’ Messalina’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Will you leave without me?’
‘You are my wife. When I return to England you will come with me.’
‘What of my father? How can I leave him here alone to face his last years without his daughter?’
‘I shall speak to your father tomorrow when I know more of the King’s plans,’ he’d promised—but in the morning both his wife and her father were dead, murdered by renegade Saracens.
His guilt lay heavy on his conscience for he knew that he need not have attended the meeting but had gone because he wanted to spend a little time with the knights who were his friends that night. Messalina was beautiful and he had been fond of her, like a man might be fond of a spaniel puppy, but she had clung to him and wept, and soon after wedding her he had realised that he did not love her as he ought.
He was not sure why he’d wed her, except that her father had offered her to him, and her shy smile had been appealing to a young man flushed with success from fighting a holy war. He had rescued both her and her father from ruffians who had sought to rob the wealthy merchant, and their gratitude had been flattering. Jacob had begged him to give them his protection and take his daughter and her fortune as his reward. He had wanted to protect both Messalina and her father and now felt that he had betrayed them. Yet it was more than that. Perhaps he was not capable of giving the deep love Messalina had needed, but he had genuinely cared for her, and now that she was dead his guilt haunted him day and night.
Leaving his bed, Raphael found cold water in the ewer and washed his face and body. His skin was bronzed by the sun of the Holy Land, his muscles honed by years of fighting and training in the art of warfare. The scars he’d received in battle had faded with time. He was drying himself when the door of his chamber opened and his servant Janquil entered.
‘Yes?’ he barked and then checked himself for he alone was to blame for the betrayal of Messalina. Janquil held no blame of any kind. ‘There is news?’
‘We have discovered the goldsmith you seek, my lord. It is but a day’s ride across the border into Normandy.’
‘Then we shall leave as soon as the others are ready. I must settle this business and then perhaps I shall have peace.’
The squire inclined his head, his dark eyes inscrutable. Raphael knew that the man was part-Saracen and part-Jew, a combination that had led to him being reviled and spat upon by the people of Acre. His mother’s people hated him for being the son of a Muslim and his father’s people thought him unworthy to be one of them. His parents had lived as outcasts in their village and when they had died of a virulent fever Janquil had sought work in Acre. For some years he’d worked as a house servant to a wealthy Jew but when Saladin took the city his master had been murdered.
When King Richard recaptured the city, Raphael had found the young man shivering and ill, near to starving. He had taken him to his quarters, nursed him and fed him, refusing to give him up as a prisoner. Janquil declined to leave after he recovered, saying that his life belonged to Raphael.
When Raphael and his friends had decided to make the long journey back to England, Janquil had asked to accompany him.
‘My country is very different to yours. You may wish you had stayed here, my friend.’
‘My life is yours. If I cannot serve you there is no purpose for me.’
Raphael put the memories to one side. He had become wealthy in the Holy Land, as had some of his friends, but there was also a fortune in Normandy lodged with a Jew his late father-in-law had trusted. Jacob would expect Raphael to claim it; they had been friends,