drawbridge manned by an unseen guard blocked entry into the fortress. Marc stopped some paces away as a voice boomed from the narrow window slit in the square stone gatehouse. ‘Who seeks entry at the gate of the Templar knights?’
‘A friend,’ Marc called. ‘A knight of the Scots and a holy man of God.’
‘What names?’ the voice barked back.
‘Marc de Valery and…’ He hesitated. Would Richard reveal himself once safely inside these walls? If so, Marc would be caught in a lie.
‘…and a monk lately come from Jerusalem. Simon the…hermit.’ He ignored the king’s choked protest behind him.
‘Hermit, indeed,’ Richard muttered. The boy, Soray, twisted in the saddle and shot an interested look at the cowled figure.
‘He is not a hermit, then?’ the lad whispered. ‘I thought him one of those chosen by God.’
‘You think too much,’ Marc replied in a cold voice. Not only was Richard not a monk, he was most assuredly not a holy man. Not a man loved by the crusading barons from France and Germany.
‘Yes, lord, that is true, I do think too much. I think about the moon and the stars, about the water that bubbles out of the desert, about—’
‘Enough! Think instead where we shall sleep tonight if we are not welcomed by the Templars.’ He eyed the gatekeeper’s shadow behind the narrow window. ‘We are godly men. We seek shelter and permission to hear mass in your chapel.’
‘Christians, then,’ came the voice. ‘Of Rome or Constantinople?’
‘We speak the words of God in humble Latin, not in Greek.’ Behind him, Richard snorted in impatience and stepped his horse forward. ‘Tell the fool we demand admittance. Tell the grand master that the conquerer of—’
Marc wheeled and gripped the king’s arm. ‘Quiet!’
Richard glared at him, his face reddening. ‘You overstep, de Valery.’
‘I am commanded to protect your person. It would be well to follow my lead.’ Richard was brave, but he was arrogant. No wonder Leopold hated him.
‘Ha!’ the king shot. ‘I am leader here.’
‘It matters not who leads,’ Marc asserted, ‘but who survives. Let me negotiate our entrance, lest you nettle yon keeper. Warm honey works better than cold demands.’
Richard sat back in his saddle. ‘Ah, the honeybee has a sting! Very well, de Valery, proceed.’
But already the grinding of the drawbridge over the wide moat sounded in their ears. The king turned his head toward Marc and grinned. ‘You win. This time.’
Marc stifled an oath. Richard was more boy than man at times. How he loved a jest, a game of skill, even quarrelling with his sworn protector. How was it England had survived two generations of Plantagenets?
He led Jupiter forward over the heavy oiled planks, paused while the portcullis ratcheted noisily upward with the clanking of metal chain, then advanced into the outer bailey. Richard followed, mercifully silent for a change.
Once inside, the groaning drawbridge rose and the toothed portcullis wheel rattled its way twice around. Marc waited. He could smell the stables, the harsh scent of hot metal wafting from the smithy’s shed.
De Valery peered up at her. ‘Still seasick, are you, boy?’
She nodded, feeling tears sting against her upper lids. Her eyes burned when she retched so she knew what was coming. She clamped her lips tight together.
Just when she felt her control beginning to slip, squires tumbled out the inner gate, followed by four mounted knights armed with steel-tipped lances.
‘What in God’s name…’ Marc pulled his horse forward to shield the unarmed monk, then rode forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Hold!’ The monk stood up in his stirrups and raised one arm above his head in an imperious gesture, as if he expected to stop the setting of the sun. A bold move for a man of God.
‘Devil-blessed fool of a man,’ the knight admonished. His eyes glittered like two blue jewels.
The monk swore. ‘You are worse than Becket. Once appointed archbishop, he thought he was king.’
‘Aye,’ muttered the Scot. ‘Beware of honest men.’
The monk spit out a laugh, but sank back in his saddle once more. ‘So it would seem. An honest man would guard a life in spite of its owner. Your pardon, de Valery.’
Marc threw him a hard look and allowed the armed knights to form an escort around them. One of the men gestured, and the monk dismounted. They were moving toward the wooden steps leading to the heavy-timbered fortress when suddenly the holy man halted.
‘Do not send the servant boy to the kitchen,’ he announced. ‘He comes with us.’
Soraya saw the muscles in the knight’s jaw tighten. Before he could speak, she clambered off the destrier and slipped in between the monk and de Valery. They moved forward, the knight in front of her, the monk behind, until the armed guards wheeled their mounts away.
Squires came and took their horses away to be cared for, then the three of them clattered up the steps and were swallowed into the cold grey walls of the keep.
Chapter Eight
The vast timber-roofed hall echoed with the clank of wine cups and orders shouted to the table servants by the single burly figure at the high table. Hounds lolled on the rush-covered floor, snapping up dropped tidbits of meat and bone. The din was deafening, the sounds so loud and ugly Soraya clapped her hands over her ears. Had these Templar Knights no fine carpets or cushions on which to recline? No timbrels or lutes to calm the soul?
She watched Marc follow a servant to the high table, the holy man at his heels. Both were seated on either side of a heavyset man with sun-coloured hair. Suddenly she stood alone in the great hall that stank of sweat and wine.
‘You there!’ a pimply-faced youth yelled in the Norman tongue. ‘Sit you at the end of the servants’ table.’ He pointed toward the back of the hall where a group of chattering boys sat at a trestle far back in the shadows. Some wore Arab-style tunics and head wraps. Others, younger and bareheaded, wore ragged shirts that hung down over skinny, hose-covered legs.
‘Merci,’ she managed. The air reeked of grease and offal, and as she seated herself on the long bench, her stomach erupted. No one paid her any attention! In the zenana she would have been cosseted with cool cloths and iced sherbet while slaves cleaned the floor. Here, the hounds made quick work of her disgrace.
She sank onto the rough plank bench and lowered her head. God help me to endure this hellish place.
Only the high table was covered with a cloth. The trestle where she sat was bare wood, stained and smelly from previous meals. The other servants were fighting over a haunch of roasted meat, knocking over wine cups and scattering a bowl of sugared nuts across the table.
‘Better
