“Be still,” he whispered to her, over and over, a soft sound, a soothing sound. He held her prisoner with one hand; with the other he smoothed the tears from her cheeks, caressingly . . . softly . . .
At last she lay still, shivering.
“Open your eyes,” he commanded quietly. She did, and in a daze she stared at him. He smiled at her, wistfully, ruefully. Then his eyes left hers, and his fingers trailed a path between the valley of her breasts, heavy and firm with the recent birth of her child. “I wish only to love you . . .” he whispered to her. “Never to hurt you . . .”
Elise had never known such a depth of misery. She wanted so badly to keep fighting him, to hold tight to Bryan’s memory. But she could not deny to herself that the tender touch of his fingertips upon her flesh was stirring desire within her. If he persisted, her body, grown accustomed to love and then denied it, would betray her, and in her heart she would have betrayed Bryan.
His mouth came to hers. She wanted to wrench away; he held her too dearly. His kiss was one of slow exploration, so very gentle . . . but firmly compelling.
His lips moved from hers, and he looked deeply into her eyes again. Then his dark head dipped low; he kissed the spiraling pulse at the base of her throat, and his lips drew a gentle pattern over her swollen breasts, down to her navel.
His touch, however it tormented her, was good. How strange! That first time with Bryan had been nothing but anger, pain . . . and a tempest of passion. And yet she had learned to love Bryan, and as inexplicable and elusive as it was, she could never explain now why she loved him so very much when she had once hated him . . .
She closed her eyes again, shaking violently. And she cried out in an anguished plea.
“Jalahar! Please . . . please, let me go, and listen to me!”
His eyes came to hers, somewhat suspicious, but curious.
“Yes?”
Elise swallowed hastily and gasped for a deep breath, praying he would care enough to listen to her.
“If you take me now,” she said hoarsely, “it will be by force. If . . . if you and Bryan meet in battle, and Bryan is killed, I will . . . I will come to you willingly.”
He was still for several seconds, slowly raising a brow. “I will fight you now!” she cried out. “I will fight you again, and again, until I faint from weariness, and you make love to nothing but an empty shell.”
“I might lose the battle,” he informed her dryly.
“That is your risk. War is always a risk. And yet men always fight.” He was silent, still staring at her. “Please, Jalahar! If you win, I swear by our Christ and the blessed Virgin that I will turn my back on the past, and come to you . . . willingly.”
He closed his eyes; a shudder racked his form. He slowly released her and rolled from the cushions, landing lithely upon his feet.
He strode to the door and paused at it, allowing his eyes to roam her length freely. Elise reached nervously for a sheet; he made a small sound that stopped her, and she lay beneath his scrutiny, aware that she had been granted incredible mercy. “I would at least know how you look, flesh upon silk,” he murmured. Then he reminded her curtly, “Willingly, Elise. It is a vow you will not break.”
He left her; she began to shake again, and then she hurried to retrieve her gown.
Gwyneth returned—very curiously—with Lenore. “Well?” she demanded.
“The battle . . . will be the outcome,” Elise said weakly. She hugged her infant closely to her and caressed the babe’s fine silk hair.
“You . . . bargained with him?” Gwyneth demanded.
“Yes,” Elise whispered.
Gwyneth was silent for several seconds. Then she said, “Dear Lord! That I had been born a blond!”
Neither of them slept that night, nor did they speak. In the morning, a kindly Arab matron took the babe very gently from Elise, and although Elise didn’t understand the words, she knew that the woman promised to care for the infant with all her love and power until she was turned over to a Christian nurse.
The day passed, with tension seeming to build along with the army outside the wall.
Night came again.
Tense and silent; night.
And then the dawn.
XXVIII
“Jalahar!”
Arrows, burning with pitch, had flown with the first golden streaks of day; catapults had hurtled sand and stone, and rams had battered against the gates.
All morning long, Gwyneth and Elise had listened to the sounds of battle: the shrieks and screams and cacophony.
The Moslems were fighters, defending what was theirs. The battle had been rough, and vicious.
But then the gates had fallen.
The Christians had not ridden in; instead, a silence had followed the crumbling of stone and wood, and when the dust had settled, there had been a horseman in the gateway.
“Jalahar!”
The cry, vibrant and chilling, rose on the air once again. Elise, standing at the window with Gwyneth, began to tremble, and an ashen pallor touched her cheeks. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she sank against the wall.
“It’s Bryan!” she gasped out.
“Of course it’s Bryan,” Gwyneth retorted.
“But what is he doing!” Elise wailed “There . . . in the gateway, with no cover. Any fool could fly an arrow that would strike him—” She found strength and hopped back to her feet again, pushing Gwyneth rudely from the window. “Oh, Gwyneth! What is he doing?”
The last was a whisper, because she was shivering all over again, and her heart was pounding with both fear and pride. His destrier pranced, chafing at the bit. But Bryan sat straight, the breeze whisking his mantle about him in a crimson glory. She could not see his face clearly, but she could see his form: broad but trim, towering even in the saddle. He was heedless of the restless horse; his attention was focused upon the palace, and upon the challenge he had offered.
“Jalahar!”
Once again his voice rang out. Harsh and demanding, it was yet music to her ears. When she had last seen him, he lay near death. And now . . .
Her attention was torn away from Bryan as another horseman rode out to meet him.
Jalahar.
Twenty paces away, Jalahar stopped.
Both men rode warhorses. Both were clad in armor, and both carried naked swords.
“What is happening?” Gwyneth demanded.
“I don’t know!” Elise moaned. Then she added, “Shh! They’re saying something . . .”
Bryan had dropped his voice; Elise strained to hear the more quietly spoken words, but she could not. A third man on horseback joined them; it was Saladin.
“What are they doing?” Elise whispered when the horses suddenly swung about, then proceeded out the gate to be followed by the Moslems of Muzhair, chanting something that rippled across the air like heat rippled over the desert sands.
“They’re leaving!” Elise exclaimed. “They’re going out the gates together!”
Frantically, she swung from the window and raced for the door, throwing herself against it. The outside bolt remained secure. Feverishly, she barged at it again. “Help me, Gwyneth!”
Gwyneth came to her side, and together they charged the door. But the bolt was sturdy and solid, and all they received for their efforts were bruises.
“I can’t stand this!” Elise cried, leaning heavily against the door.
Gwyneth gasped, then sighed. “Elise, we cannot break the door. I don’t believe that a horse could break the door.”
“But they’re out there . . . and we don’t even know what is happening . . . Gwyneth, the last time I saw Bryan he was bloodied and wounded on the ground. Almost dying . . . I can’t let it happen again! I can’t! And Jalahar . . . it’s all so foolish!”
“Whatever they are about to do, you cannot stop them!”
“And I can’t stay here!”
She started to catapult herself against the door once again, but then stopped, spinning around in midstr
ide. “Gwyneth! The sheets! Grab the sheets!”
“The sheets!”
“Yes . . . we’ve got to tie them together and climb down. I did it once before, but Jalahar caught me—and told me he would station one of his men beneath the balcony. But he won’t be there now, Gwyneth. No one will be there because they’ve all filed out . . .”
As she spoke, Elise began industriously to tie sheets together.
“You’re going to kill us both!” Gwyneth protested, gazing over the balcony and clutching her stomach uneasily.
“Just help me tie them. I’m going; you can do whatever you like.”
Elise secured the tail end of the last sheet to the wrought-iron planter, jerking it hard and testing it. She hiked herself to the railing and knotted her fist tightly around the silk. Then she glanced at Gwyneth, closed her eyes for a moment, smiled nervously, and started over. She slid down the silk too quickly and landed hard upon the tile of the courtyard, but she staggered to her feet, then waved up to Gwyneth in triumph.
“Wait!” Gwyneth called anxiously. She paused, then drew in a deep breath. “I’m coming with you.”
“Hold tight!” Elise encouraged her. “I can catch you before you reach the ground—oh!”
Gwyneth, too, slid along the silk—and Elise did try to catch her. They tumbled to the courtyard together, gasping for breath, but unharmed.
“Now what?” Gwyneth demanded.
“We have to get to the main gate.”
“But we’re in the back—”
“Gwyneth! You’ve been out of the chamber. Think! Which way? Where do we run?”
Gwyneth paused for a minute, then replied, “This way.”
The palace was a labyrinth of sculpted arches and hallways. Silent hallways now. Their footsteps clattered over tile and marble as they ran; they reached a dead end. “Around!” Gwyneth announced, and they started back. “I see the inner courtyard!” Gwyneth exclaimed.
A moment later they were passing through the inner courtyard, with its exotic plants and splashing fountains. Gwyneth paused, staring at one of the fountains.
“Come on!” Elise hissed, pulling her arm.
They raced on through the courtyard, but paused at the main entrance to the palace. A guard remained on duty, although they could see the battered and fallen gate, and, far out on the sand beyond it, the chanting crowd.
Gwyneth pulled Elise back; they both flattened themselves to the wall. “How will we get past him?” Gwyneth demanded.
Elise gnawed her lip, trying to think quickly. “We could both run . . . no, wait!” she whispered. A pair of carved ivory lions was stationed on either side of the first fountain. Elise dashed over to retrieve one, then ducked behind the door. She waved frantically at Gwyneth.
Gwyneth took a deep breath, then sauntered to the entrance, In full view, and just slightly behind Elise.
“Oh!” she screamed out helplessly, falling to the floor. As Elise had hoped, the guard turned, lowering his sword, and hurrying to Gwyneth. Elise moved silently behind him and raised the lion, praying her aim would be true. The lion hit the back of the man’s head with a dull thud, and he fell upon Gwyneth, causing her to scream again. “Get him off me!”
Elise helped Gwyneth roll the unconscious body of the guard to the side. Gwyneth was quickly on her feet, glancing from Elise to the guard.
“Let’s go!” Elise pleaded.
The gate seemed to be an endless distance away; swirling sand choked her as she ran, the morning sun blazed cruelly, and the desert chant seemed to rise in a frenzy. At the gate she and Gwyneth struggled to climb atop the rubble, but when she would have started down, Gwyneth stopped her with a startled cry.
She turned to see Gwyneth staring out over the heads of the amassed armies, Christian and Moslem, her hand clutched to her throat.
“What is it?” Elise demanded. Gwyneth didn’t answer. “What is it?” Elise screamed then ignored Gwyneth and clutched at a piece of fallen masonry to gain height again herself.
The armies had aligned on either side of a vast sand chasm; Saladin, donned in his full war regalia, sat at the center of the forces, his sword raised high in the air, beaming like a ray of lightning as the sun caught and reflected its steel.
Suddenly his sword flashed in the air, coming down, and from either side of the sand chasm came a sound like roaring thunder.
The horses were racing . . .
To the left, Bryan on his destrier.
To the right, Jalahar on an Arab stallion.
Elise could not move herself, or speak. She could only stare upon the spectacle with horror as the very ground seemed to quake with those clashing hooves, coming closer and closer . . .
It was a desert trial. Man to man. Honed to deadly perfection by the advent of armor.
Both contestants rode with their swords raised high, their bodies hunched low to their horses. It was like a tournament, but it was no game. Death was the cry that rose to the air—the Christians shouting the name of their knight, the Moslems chanting that of their own. The voices and the pounding rose and rose as the horses galloped madly toward each other, spewing dirt and sand in their wake. The swords glittered in the air; the armor cast off a silver sheen.
“No!” Elise screamed, closing her eyes instinctively as the horses met. The sun seemed to burn her, and rob her of strength; she was afraid that she would fall.
A cheer rose high about her and she opened her eyes with amazement. Neither man had been unhorsed. She started to breathe a sigh of relief; then dizziness swept over her again as she saw that they were returning to their fields to ride again.
“Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop it!”
No one heard her; if they had, they wouldn’t have cared. Elise started climbing down the rubble again.
“Elise!” Gwyneth called after her. “Come back! You can’t go any farther—”
Elise gazed back toward her, not really seeing her. Her eyes were wild with anxiety and horror. “They have to stop . . .”
She turned and raced into the crowd. She jostled and pushed her way through the throng of Arabs. They glanced at her with nothing more than irritation; their attention riveted to the field.
But they did not part easily for her. She heard a roar begin again, and then the thunder of the ground. The horses were racing madly down the sand again, charging toward each other with flaring nostrils and flattened ears; sweat foamed along their sleek bodies.
“Stop!” Elise screamed half hysterically.
The glittering swords rose and fell; the crowd went mad. Elise barged past two fat men to get near the chasm.
Both men were down, rolling in the sand, reaching quickly to retrieve their swords. Their horses wandered from the action as Jalahar and Bryan stumbled to their feet.
She could see neither of their faces, for they both wore faceplates beneath their helmets: Bryan . . . in the coat of arms that proclaimed him Duke of Montoui, Earl of Saxonby, Lord of the Coastal Counties; Jalahar . . . his armor scrolled in the ancient and elaborate carving of his desert peoples.
They were both standing, both fighting for balance, to clear their minds from the clash of unhorsing each other . . .
They raised their swords again, and the battle on foot was under way. Elise watched for a moment, mesmerized as steel clashed with steel. Bryan was the larger man, taller, broader of shoulder; both men were agile. Both could attack with strength, dodge and parry. The battle took them veering toward the crowd, which quickly moved back, giving way. Bryan caught Jalahar with a stunning blow across the helmet; Jalahar’s sword skidded past Bryan’s chest, denting the armor.
“No!” Elise whispered, aware that the men about her were pleased with the battle. Two worthy opponents fought; warriors to be respected, admired. To die, to become the dust and ash of legend . . .
“No,” she whispered again to herself. When she had last seen Bryan, he had lain broken and bleeding. Ashen.
She had been taken away from him. Forced to live without
him just when she had learned the wonder of living with him . . . and loving him. If he died, she truly did not think she would have the will to live . . .
But as her eyes twisted to Jalahar, so did her heart. He could have practiced cruelty. He had never been anything but tender. And long ago she had learned how badly it hurt to love someone . . . if that love was not returned.
Jalahar’s sword glittered brilliantly in the sun as it made a sudden swipe, sending Bryan’s sword flying from his hand. Elise screamed, but the sound was deadened by the crowd.
Jalahar’s triumph was short-lived; Bryan retaliated instantly, bringing his elbow down to slash Jalahar’s arm, and sending that glittering Moslem sword to lie in the sand beside his own.
A flying leap by Jalahar brought the two men together, grappling bare-handed in the sand under the weight of their armor.
Elise’s eyes blurred. Then she saw Saladin again, sitting on his mount and watching the battle as it raged. He did not chant or cheer as the others did; he sat calmly, only his remarkable eyes registering emotion—a calm acceptance.
Elise broke through the crowd, racing to him, throwing herself hard against his leg for his attention, her eyes beseeching his as they turned to her.
“Stop them! Great Saladin! You must stop them! Only you can do anything, only you . . . please, Saladin! I beg you!”
He shook his head at her sadly. “They have chosen to save the blood of others by fighting each other; it has been agreed that all go in peace at the outcome. They fight for their honor, and men such as they are willing to die for that honor. It is their right. I cannot take that right away from them.”
“There is no honor in death!” Elise protested.
Saladin reached from the saddle to cup her chin lightly in his hand, and he was touched by the tormented eyes that sought his like twin gems of heaven. “You truly did not wish this, did you, girl?” He sighed. “One might have thought you a witch or a temptress, yet you are innocent of malice. It is no fault of yours; but men must fight, and Allah must rule the outcome.”
Elise jerked angrily from his touch. “Allah! God! When men are fools, they must be stopped by other men . . .”
Blue Heaven, Black Night Page 51