“What?” Elise demanded, startled.
“It was Jalahar,” Mordred murmured. “He will come back.”
“Come back! You behave as if they will not be fought off! They will not be able to come back—”
Elise stopped speaking as she saw Gwyneth’s eyes sorrowfully upon her. She turned back to stare at the ensuing battle. Thank God! Bryan was still horsed! But there were Moslems everywhere.
“Elise!” Gwyneth’s scream awakened her to nearby danger once again. One of the white-clad desert warriors was stalking them, coming over the dune—smiling. His teeth were shockingly white against his swarthy complexion. He laughed, let out a cry, and vaulted down.
Elise had no chance to think. She lifted her dagger; it was too late for the Arab to stop his vault. He tumbled onto the knife, screaming his rage. Together they rolled across the sand. Elise experienced a minute of sinking terror, but relief flooded through her as she realized he had little strength left. If she just kept fighting, he would weaken . . . possibly die.
She fought him furiously, kicking, biting, punching wildly. His fist connected with her jaw, and she staggered, but desperation kept her going. She could hear Gwyneth screaming, and Mordred cursing out his helplessness.
But it was all right. The Arab’s arms lost their hold . . . she was almost free.
Freedom came at a high price. Just as she entangled herself, Elise looked up, across the dunes. Bryan was riding furiously toward her. He saw nothing in his way.
And then she began to scream in earnest, for the wickedly shining blade of a Damascene sword was whipping through the night. Bryan at last saw it and tried to veer; he was too late. The blade caught his side, and he toppled from his loyal destrier, spinning across the sand with the momentum.
“Dear sweet Jesus! We are lost!” Gwyneth wailed.
Elise was on her feet, racing across the dune. Bryan’s men seemed far away, cut off by the rise of another dune. But just as she had to reach Bryan, she had to rally them.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she ran to his side, but she screamed out orders. “Center and regroup! Rally, Christian warriors! All is not . . . lost!”
She did not see that they formed ranks again, nor would she ever know that her words had saved them from total defeat, that her golden-haired form, racing gallantly across the sand, gave them the spark of valor that they needed. She reached Bryan’s side and fell down beside him, grunting and crying as she tried to twist about his muscle-laden form. His eyes were closed to her; his face, so strong of contour, was ashen. Even the firm mouth, which was harsh in anger and tender in love, had gone white. Elise laid her head against his chest; he breathed! She found his pulse . . . it beat . . . but so weakly! Madly, she began tearing at her tunic and struggled with his dented armor, to find the wound and staunch the flow of blood. At last she found it: a gash the length of her foot. And the blood! So much blood! She pressed at it furiously, ripped more material with which to bind, and prayed fervently that she was managing to stop the flow.
She stopped abruptly in her efforts, stunned, when she saw that the tip of a long blade had been set upon Bryan’s throat. With horror she stared up—into the dark, hard, and haunting eyes of the Moslem who had wrested her from her horse.
“No!” she gasped, and only then did she realize that the night had gone silent. Not even the breeze whispered then. She looked around her and saw that the Christians and Moslems were at a standstill: the Moslems separating her and Bryan and the others behind the dune from the rallied knights. The tension was alive and vital, holding them all in a plateau as all nervously awaited the next movement.
The Moslem suddenly knelt down beside her. He touched the pulse at Bryan’s throat. Then he looked curiously at Elise. “His wound is bad, but he may live. Stede . . . my very worthy enemy. A man who cannot be felled by ten of my best swordsmen, yet he falls like a fly for a woman.”
Pain and panic welled in Elise’s throat.
“You will not . . . kill him . . .” she pleaded. “You are Jalahar—a leader, not a murderer.”
He rose. “Yes, I am Jalahar. And, no, I would not like to slay such a fierce and noble fighter when he lies upon his back. But as you see . . .”—his sweeping arm encompassed the Christian and Moslem armies who waited, deadlocked—“. . . we have reached an impasse. As for me . . . I am intrigued by the woman with the golden locks for whom this man of steel is so willing to die. You will rise, and you will come with me—ordering your troops not to hamper our escape. Then, golden woman, he will be allowed to live. If he is cared for . . . he will live.”
Elise stared at Jalahar with dismay rising in a wave of inner agony that was crippling. She gripped her stomach, fighting her tears as she hovered over Bryan. She could not leave him! She could not do as this Arab was demanding!
“Please!” she murmured, turning tear-filled eyes to Jalahar once again. His face remained impassive; he flicked his sword so that she was reminded of its razor’s edge.
The tears ran freely down her cheeks as she buried her face against Bryan’s chest, holding his unconscious form with all the love she had always been afraid to offer.
“I am waiting,” Jalahar reminded her.
She bit her lip, feeling the pounding of her husband’s heart beneath her. At last she raised her head and tenderly kissed his dirt-streaked face. He needed care. Every moment that she tarried cost him more. She loved him so much. It would be like dying to leave him; if she did not, he would surely perish.
Elise forced her tears to stop. She wiped her cheeks with cold defiance as she faced Jalahar again.
“One moment. I would leave him in the care of another.”
Yes . . . she thought, I will leave him in the care of another. Gwyneth. It is Gwyneth’s face he shall see when he awakens; it is Gwyneth who will nurse him, care for him . . . Gwyneth, while she . . .
Again she felt as if she would double over with the pain that razed her insides. But she had to do it . . . she had to. Or he would die.
At the dune she called to Gwyneth. The terrified Gwyneth showed her own courage as she gazed at Elise, then crawled from the dune to meet her, her eyes raking nervously over the Moslems as she approached Elise.
“Bryan . . . lives,” Elise said haltingly. “But he will not if he does not reach the best of Richard’s physicians . . . quickly. He is losing blood so quickly. It must stay staunched, the wound must remain bound . . .”
Her words started to break and falter. Gwyneth gazed from Elise to the still and silent Jalahar. “Elise . . .” she whispered blankly, and then the tears started to fall from her eyes. She embraced Elise, and both women were crying.
Elise tore from her, knowing that minutes—and Bryan’s blood—were draining away in the desert sand. “Go to him!” Elise whispered desperately, and, half blinded by the tears that obstinately remained in her eyes, she began walking toward Jalahar. She was tempted to fall to Bryan’s side again. One last kiss upon lips that were ashen and cold . . . but Jalahar caught her arm. Not cruelly; firmly. He directed her toward one of his men. She found herself lifted up on a horse.
“Speak to your men,” Jalahar told her quietly.
Elise swallowed, then raised her voice high. “Allow the Moslems to ride!” she shouted. “Else all will be a slaughter. I command you to continue on to the king!”
She heard the Moslems mounting their horses around her. Someone said something in that strange tongue; her horse was whipped; it reared up, then broke into a gallop. Instinct forced her to clutch the pommel, for all thought and feeling had gone dead.
She would only remember forever that wild ride across the sand with a distant vagueness; Jalahar did not stop until they had traveled a great distance, through all of which Elise had felt only as if she were entering a great gaping black pit of hell.
When they did stop, he came to her side. The moon now granted a slender light, enough to see silhouettes against the sand and sky.
“There—they continue to the ki
ng.”
Elise stared out across the desert. It was true. The knights were obeying her command; they trod slowly toward the northeast. The ever-present tears clouded Elise’s eyes; she could see that the pace was slow because two husky men carried the makeshift litter they had made for Bryan Stede.
“You love him very much?” Jalahar asked her curiously.
“Yes.”
“You will forget him.”
Life and spirit returned to her, and she spun about to spit at him. “Never! Nothing that you do will ever cause me to forget him. I am his wife, Jalahar . . . bound to him by God, bound to him by love. You will never change that.”
He smiled at her, flashing white teeth, somehow touching her with eyes that seemed strangely sad. Without anger, he wiped his cheek of her spittle.
“But you will forget him. I can be gentle, and I can be patient. From the moment I saw you, golden one, my heart clouded my mind. You will bear me many children, children of my strength, of your beauty and pride. And when you hold them, you will learn to forget the valiant Stede.”
Elise started to laugh. “You will have to be very patient, Jalahar. Very patient. I already carry a child. Stede’s child.”
His smile didn’t falter. “I have already told you that I am patient. I can wait.”
“I will kill you if you try to touch me. If not, I shall kill myself.”
It was Jalahar’s turn to laugh. “You will not kill me, Stede’s woman. Nor do I believe that you will care to take your own life. I will force nothing from you . . . until you are ready to be forced. And you needn’t fear for your child. I am not a murderer of children.”
Elise continued to stare at him, fighting for composure. Dismay and confusion swept through her; despair and desolation gripped her.
She wanted to drop to the sand and cry until she created a pool of water that could drown her and ease the pain in her heart. She wanted to die . . . but she didn’t want to die. Because Bryan’s child was all that was left to her, and she had to believe that Jalahar would never hurt her child.
“Come . . .” he told her, spurring his horse around. He reached for her reins; she was too dispirited to care.
“What do they call you?” he asked her.
“Elise,” she answered tonelessly.
He reached out and touched a tendril of her streaming hair, as fascinated as if he held true gold.
“Don’t be afraid, Elise,” he said softly, his French smooth and strangely soothing. “I will not hurt you. More likely,” he added ruefully, “I will revere you.”
They continued plodding along the rolling sands. At last they reached the high white walls outside a towering and exotic palace.
“Muzhair,” he told her.
A man shouted for entry. Massive, heavy gates began to open, and they entered a courtyard that was prepared for warfare and siege with catapults, crossbows, and rams. Elise swallowed back the tears she had finally staunched as the heavy gates closed behind her.
Jalahar pointed to a window high in a tower.
“Your chambers,” he told her softly.
She said nothing, and there was nothing but silent misery in her beautiful eyes when they met his.
“I will leave you at peace,” he promised her. “Until . . . your child is born.”
Still she made no reply. “You are my hostage!” he snapped at her suddenly. “My prisoner, my possession. I offer you the finest care, the finest quarters. You say nothing.”
She smiled at last. “If you mean that you will leave me at peace, then I am grateful. But if you seek to give me something, give me my freedom. I love my husband. I will never be able to give to any man, for I have given my heart and soul to him. He would understand that, Jalahar. He had learned that there are things that cannot be taken, only received—when given.”
Jalahar laughed. “That may be, Elise. That may be. But perhaps I will content myself with what I can take. And time . . . time, lady, changes many things. Perhaps you will forget his face.” Jalahar sobered. “And perhaps . . . he will die. What then, Elise?”
She didn’t answer; the tears had sprung to her eyes again.
Jalahar clapped his hands; two silk-clad girls appeared, and he muttered something to them in the language that seemed so foreign and strange to her ears.
Jalahar dismounted from his horse and lifted her from hers. “Welcome to Muzhair, Elise.” He prodded her toward the girls. “Sleep well. Tonight . . . you may do so at peace.”
She made no effort to speak or fight as the girls led her to a high-arched entrance. Jalahar called something out, and Elise turned listlessly back to him.
“I do not believe that Stede will die. I will see that you hear how he fares.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
It was ridiculous to thank a man who had abducted her.
But Bryan lived . . .
In the confusion, in the fear, in the despair, she had to cling to that fact. She had done the only thing that she could.
Bryan still lived . . .
XXV
“One . . . two . . . three . . . four!”
Elise knotted the last of her sheets together and stared out to the inner courtyard below her balcony. For a week she had watched the courtyard each night; she had learned that it was empty near the moon’s highest peak. She assumed that the Moslems were all at prayer.
And tonight . . . she was ready.
She glanced over the railing one more time and stiffened her shoulders as she convinced herself that no one was about. If she could just get out of the chamber . . . she could hide in one of the supply carts constantly leaving with men and arms.
The space between her window and the ground made her dizzy, and she paused, shaking, afraid that she would lose her nerve. She had to try to escape, or else she would go mad. Elise closed her eyes tightly, then opened them. With renewed vigor, she tied the end of her “rope” to the foot of an iron planter and tossed the remaining length over the balcony. She held her breath for several seconds, but no one came; she couldn’t hear a sound in the night.
Steadying herself one last time, Elise carefully gathered up the skirt of her gown—a silk creation given to her by one of Jalahar’s women—and balanced her weight over the railing. She held tight to the sheet, praying that the wrought-iron planter was heavy enough to hold her weight. She swayed slightly, then whispered a little prayer of thanksgiving as her sheet-rope held tight. Twining her ankles around the slippery silk, she carefully began to climb her way down. Euphoria lit her eyes as her slippered feet touched the courtyard. She had done it! All she had to do was meld against the darkened building, work her way around to the front, and crawl into a cart . . .
“It is a nice evening for fresh air, yes?”
Elise started violently as she heard Jalahar’s voice behind her. She spun around, ready to fight him, ready to run, but he just stared at her with his rueful smile and knowing dark eyes.
“Do not run, Elise,” he told her softly, “or I shall be forced to call others to stop you.” He lifted his hands fatalistically. “You will fight . . . you will hurt yourself—and possibly your child.”
Elise exhaled, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She had seen Jalahar only once since he had brought her here, on her third morning in the palace. She had flown into a rage and attacked him, and discovered that his slimness was deceptive. He had not fought her in return; he had subtly twisted her arm so that any further movement on her part brought intense pain. Then he had politely informed her that he would not interrupt her solitude again until she was more receptive to his presence.
He extended a hand toward her. “Shall we walk back together?”
Elise walked on by him. His hand dropped to his side, but he followed her, and she could sense him clearly. His scent was that of sandalwood and musk, his footsteps were silent, yet he emanated an unnerving warmth. He always spoke to her quietly, almost sadly. She hated him for keeping her prisoner, but she had discovered that she couldn’t ha
te him completely as a man.
A flight of narrow stairs led to her tower chamber. Elise climbed them silently, then waited rigidly for him to unbolt the lock. When the door drifted open, she strode into the chamber and back out to the balcony. Jalahar followed her. She didn’t look at him, but she knew that he watched her as he sighed and pulled up her concoction of sheets.
“I do not care to divest you of covering; the nights are sometimes very cool. Rest assured that there will be a man beneath the balcony day and night.”
Elise refused to give him an answer, and a smile twitched at the corner of his lips.
“Elise . . . that was a dangerous and foolish attempt at escape—to yourself, and to your child. I give you time because I believe you will come to me, and because of your child. But if you do not care enough to look to the welfare of your belly, I shall begin to wonder why I must. And perhaps I will decide that the only way to have you welcome my attentions is to see that you learn to enjoy them.”
She stared at him and spoke at last, well aware that his words were a warning, and sensing that he would not threaten idly. “I will not attempt to leave by the balcony again,” she told him stiffly.
Jalahar smiled, and his dark eyes glistened with amusement. “Were you a man, I would ask for your word of honor. Knowing your determination, I don’t believe there is any way that I should believe you. I will just say that our future rests in your hands.”
She started, swallowing, when he began to walk toward her. He laughed when she flattened herself to the balcony, and stopped walking. But he extended his hand and his eyes followed his fingers as they lit gently upon her hair, brushing disheveled strands from her temple. “Your midnight excursions are rough on your coiffure, Elise. Come, and I will brush it for you.”
“I can brush it myself.”
“But you would not deny me such a little pleasure, especially not . . . when I have news of your husband.”
“Bryan!” she cried out, her telltale emotion flaring brilliantly in her eyes. “Tell me. Does he live? Does his wound heal? What do you know? What was your source?”
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