lad. I have never taken one.’
‘Never?’
Marc ignored the question. Now he felt the sharp prick of desire, and it brought another groan from his throat. ‘Come, boy. Hurry it up so the water will still be warm for you.’
The boy’s breath sucked in and again the gliding cloth halted on his shoulder. ‘For me!’
‘You said you bathed, did you not? Or is it just hands and face you wash?’
Marc drew the washing linen out of the boy’s hand and scrubbed his belly and his privates, then his legs and feet. Soray hunched beside the tub, his eyes on the floor.
Marc dunked his head into the tub and came up shaking off the water like a hound. He stood up, turned toward the boy and lifted his arms. Soray stared at the rivulets of water dripping from his hair onto his chest, but the lad did not move.
‘Well, towel me off,’ he barked.
The servant bit his lower lip and began mopping at Marc’s wet skin, careful to touch no lower than Marc’s waist. God, the lad was an innocent.
An irrational feeling of protectiveness washed over him. He must guard the lad from predators until he was old enough to…
Absently he took the linen towel from Soray’s hand and dried his torso, a scar making him think suddenly of his older brother.
‘Henry, my brother…’
Unaware he had spoken aloud, he blinked when Soray softly inquired, ‘What about your brother, lord?’
‘We are very close. We were fostered together, with my father’s older brother in France. Henry won his spurs when he was eighteen, and then he took time to tutor me in the tilt yard. I still bear this scar on my chest from a badly deflected blow. There was lots of blood and Henry laid me down on the grass and wept.’
‘You love your brother,’ Soray said quietly.
‘That I do. I pray nightly that I will see him once again soon, God willing.’
The lad moved away and stood with one hand on the door bar. ‘Shall I fetch a page to empty the tub?’
‘What? No, do not. Use the water, lad. Strip and soak yourself.’
Soraya’s heart skipped once and stumbled to a stop.
Strip herself? ‘I thank you, lord, but… I…’
The knight turned toward the huge curtained bed, and Soraya swore he was hiding a smile. She was dirty and smelly, but… She glanced down at the inviting bathwater. Oh, to soak the filth off her body.
But she dared not. Unless…
She studied the blue damask curtains tied back with a thick red cord, then let her gaze drift to Marc, who was nearing the bed.
‘I wish you a peaceful rest, lord.’ She waited, heard the whisper of the straw mattress as it took his weight.
‘Peaceful it will not be until our friend the holy man is safe in his…monastery.’
Soraya did not reply. Instead, she stood motionless, listening to the knight’s gradually slowing breaths. When air gusted out of his open mouth with a hoarse after-sound, she sneaked a final look at him.
He lay spread-eagled on the fur coverlet, arms flung outward, his mouth sagging open. Asleep, she prayed. She tiptoed forward.
‘Lord?’ she whispered.
No answer, only a grunt and more steady breathing.
She tore off her leather sandals, her tunic, her belt with the precious pouch of herbs and her bag of gold coins, well wrapped in silk to prevent their clinking. Last she stepped out of her wide trousers and unbound the headpiece and the strip of linen confining her breasts.
Keeping her back to the sleeping knight, she noiselessly slid first one leg, then the other, into the lukewarm water. She dropped to her knees, tipped her head under the surface and soaped her thick curls. Every few moments she craned her neck to watch the figure on the bed.
Yes, he slept on. She took her time sponging her body, then rose, stepped silently out of the tub and wrapped herself in the still-damp towel. Just as she moved toward the pile of garments she’d left on the floor, someone began pounding on the chamber door.
‘De Valery, wake up! Open the door!’
God save her, it was the holy man with the voice of thunder. She froze in the center of the room, afraid to utter a sound, afraid to move lest the knight wake and notice her. She hugged the linen towel tighter around her body and flinched as the pounding boomed again.
‘De Valery, I bring news!’
The knight on the bed groaned and flung one arm over his face. ‘In the morning,’ he muttered. ‘Go away.’
‘Open this door at once!’
De Valery rolled heavily toward the edge of the bed and raised his torso up on one elbow. Soraya spun away, putting her back to him. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him lurch off the bed and stagger, still half-asleep, toward the chamber door.
Her heart leaped. Her tunic and trousers and the strip of linen she used to bind her breasts lay directly in his path. Trembling with fear, she waited.
The groggy knight stepped over the pile of clothes and slid back the bolt. Just as the door scraped open, Soraya clutched the towel to her bosom, darted behind de Valery to snatch up her clothes and leaped onto the bed.
Huddling in the center, wrapped in the towel, she waited until the holy man pushed through the doorway, then hurriedly yanked one of the bed curtains closed. The damask hanging zinged along the wooden rod, screening her from view.
De Valery’s sleep-muzzy voice spoke. ‘What news?’ he demanded.
‘Something has happened.’ The monk was breathing so heavily Soraya guessed he had climbed the three floors at a run. Frantically she wound the linen strip around her upper body, and was just tugging her tunic over her head when she heard the holy man stride across the room.
‘Have you some wine?’
‘No.’
‘Well, get some, man,’ the monk shouted. ‘We must talk.’
‘Soray,’ the knight ordered. ‘Go down to the kitchen. Ask them to send up food and wine.’
She scrambled into her trousers, slid off the far side of the bed and scooped up her sandals. Then she ducked past the holy man and sped down the hall to the stairway.
On the way back up from the kitchen she heard men’s voices drifting along the corridor and she hid in a garderobe to listen.
‘He would sell it?’ one man grated. ‘To the Templars? But where would we get such a sum for the purchase?’
‘Look in your vault, Giles. More than enough gold is hidden there.’
