for himself. The king was attacking a city he knew he could not hold. Was this interminable siege of the high stone walls just for show? Was Richard merely playing out the slaughter to best Philip of France and the German baron, Leopold of Austria?
He studied the slight figure of the Arab boy, asleep where he sat before the dying fire. There was a time when he himself had been as foolhardy and brave as that lad. And as innocent of the ugly side of life.
At dawn, he rolled over, reassured himself the dagger was still secure at his back and came to his feet. The boy sat tipped to one side, snoring lightly. Let him sleep. He and the king would be gone before the camp awakened.
He let his warhorse nibble a handful of the grain he had hoarded, pulled on his mail shirt and blue overtunic and flung the heavy leather saddle upon the animal’s broad back. When he had buckled on his sword belt and turned to mount, he found the boy grinning at him from atop the horse.
‘Get down,’ Marc ordered.
‘I will not, lord. How am I to attend you if I do not ride with you?’
‘I do not need a servant.’
‘Not true, lord. You need me. I assure you, I am no ordinary servant.’
A harsh laugh chuffed past Marc’s lips. That was obvious enough. ‘Get down,’ he repeated. ‘Now.’
The youth tilted his frame to one side, slid sideways and dropped gracefully to the ground. How, Marc wondered, had he managed to mount the huge animal in the first place?
‘Where do we ride?’
‘I ride south. You can go to the devil.’
The boy hissed in a breath. ‘Surely you would not wish it so!’
Marc clenched his jaw. ‘You are an outspoken brat. Ill-mannered and stubborn.’
‘Aye, lord. I am stubborn, I admit it freely.’
‘Go!’ Marc roared the word hoping to frighten the boy. Instead, the lad sent him a look designed to charm devils.
‘Where shall I go, lord?’
‘You can go to the latrine,’ Marc said with a jerk of his chin. ‘That way. Go.’
The boy scampered off in the direction Marc pointed. When he was sure the lad had not doubled back, he secured his sword belt, tucked his canvas utility bag behind the high-backed cantle and mounted his warhorse.
With an odd niggle of apprehension, he stepped the animal forward, toward the prearranged meeting place with the king.
Chapter Three
Soraya did not go to the latrine. She crept behind a hillock where she was hidden from view. Then she picked her way back among the sleeping camps and already bustling servants toward the knight’s camp.
Yawning Frankish squires sharpened swords or scrubbed chain mail shirts with handfuls of wet sand, paying her scant attention. But her soft massa al-khayr to the Arab servants brought a quick smile and a polite ahlan.
It always surprised her that Arab slaves were common among the Franks, taken as spoils of war and traded back and forth by the victors like sacks of grain. But then she herself had been acquired by Khalil in much the same manner. She had been captured as a child by Arab raiders and taken from her mountain homeland across the sea to a sheik’s harem. At least they had educated her well, but she was happy to leave when Khalil bought her at the slave auction when she was but ten summers.
The Frankish camp was a filthy place. Flies buzzed everywhere, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the smell of unwashed bodies and horse dung. At one camp she managed to snatch a fragrant ripe pomegranate from a fruit basket, then gradually worked her way toward the largest of the tents. Made of crimson silk instead of rough canvas, it was easy to pick out among the myriad of smaller ones; a scarlet-and-gold pennant fluttered from the top. If only she could deliver her message now, but it would have to wait. She had to recover Khalil’s dagger. She looked around for her quarry, then halted suddenly. The Frankish knight was approaching from the opposite direction, a scowl on his sun-darkened face. He led his huge horse by a worn leather bridle, and Soraya frowned. Already she had learned that he allowed none other than himself to mount the great black beast. She would not soon forget his look of pure fury when she’d scrambled into the saddle ahead of him.
She watched him with curiosity. He was tall and well muscled. The man was pleasing in some way; perhaps it was his voice, rich as honeyed syrup. Or his eyes.
Pah! It mattered not. He would be a dead man by nightfall.
He strode toward the large tent, his gait slightly uneven, perhaps from an old wound. His warrior’s body must be battle-scarred, and that heavy chain mail shirt and leggings would weigh as much as she did.
Franks were foolish indeed. Arab warriors wore mail, as well, but it was lighter and their horses were smaller and faster. Besides, the Arabs purposely rode mares because when the mating scent was upon them, they wreaked confusion among the heavy Frankish stallions. A great many warhorses had been slaughtered in battle and still the invading Christian armies failed to realise their error.
The knight veered left, away from the great tent of red and gold, and she ducked out of sight behind a smaller, tattered canvas structure to watch him. She would snatch the dagger and then find the king. That was almost as important as avenging Khalil’s death.
The knight skirted several cook fires and made his way to a cluster of boulders two dozen paces from the camp’s perimeter. Soraya circled around and darted forward to the opposite side of the tumbled rocks, crouched low and cautiously peered through an opening.
The first thing she saw was the hindquarters of another horse, a lesser animal than the knight’s beast but well accoutered. The leather saddle was plain but polished to a soft gleam. The wool under blanket was adorned with embroidery and decorative leatherwork detailed the harness. The stirrups were smooth pieces of curved black iron.
On the animal’s back sat a cowled religious man. A monk. Was then ‘her’ Frank—she snorted at the designation—a Templar knight? A Hospitaller? Such knights wore white surcoats with a four-sided red cross sewn on the front, but no such cross emblazoned the knight’s blue surcoat.
He was not a religious, then. Good. It would be harder to slit the throat of a servant of God…
The monk raised his hand in greeting, and the Frank inclined his sun-streaked dark head in response. So, he respected the holy man. The two men exchanged a few words in low tones, only one of which she heard clearly. Jaffa. Then the knight turned away to mount his horse.
She understood at once. They were leaving the camp, riding south to the port town of Jaffa. If she would kill the Frankish knight and retrieve the dagger, she must go with him! She must move now! She would think about how she would come back to the camp and deliver the message to the king later.
She bolted from her hiding place, skittered the few paces to where the Frank stood and threw herself on the hard ground at his feet. ‘Lord, forgive your miserable servant, but I could not find what you commanded me to bring you.’
The tall knight glowered at her without speaking. Soraya dared not look up until she heard his voice.
‘And
