by Lara Adrian
Fallonmour seemed in no hurry to consider it. “My orders are to apprehend the woman. That's what I intend to do.” He took a step forward, motioning to the other knights to follow his lead. They moved en masse, crowding them against the lip of the river ledge. “Now, are you going to assist me in this endeavor,” Fallonmour asked, his voice echoing above the roar of the water below, “or will you defy me?”
The muscles in Sebastian's arms tensed beneath Zahirah's fingertips. She felt his right arm flex as he gripped his sword tighter, preparing himself to strike against one of his own.
Allah, help her, but she could not allow him to do it. She could not permit him to sacrifice any more than he already had in his association with her. She would not let him lose anything more when he had given her so much.
Wrapping her arms around him as far as she could reach, she embraced him with every ounce of devotion in her heart. She rose up on her toes to put her mouth near his ear. “I love you,” she whispered. “Sebastian, I will always love you, my lord.”
She released him and took a small step back.
“Zahirah,” he said, and pivoted his head over his shoulder as she shrank away from him. “Zahirah, be careful--”
She looked over that sheer drop of rock and at the surging black water below, and told herself it was the right choice. Her only choice, if she wanted Sebastian to have a chance at a happy future.
“I love you,” she said, emotion choking her throat.
And then she turned and stepped off the ledge.
* * *
“Zahirah, no!” Sebastian reached out to pull her back, but she was gone.
Gone.
Nothing but empty space behind him, and the impossible idea that Zahirah had just willingly flung herself into that void. He was vaguely aware that the knights had moved in to crowd past him along the edge of the cavern shelf, staring over it, stupefied at what they had just seen. His heart was hammering in the hollow cavity of his chest, his mind screaming in torment, limbs numb with shock.
Slowly, as though in a dream, he heard Fallonmour call for someone to seize him, and he realized that he was standing at the very edge of the cliff now. He had tossed aside his sword. A hand clamped around his forearm as if to forcibly take him, and he shook it off with a roar. He looked down into the abyss of rushing surf below, trying to see if he could spy her somewhere in the water, yet praying he would not.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Blackheart break from the other knights and skirt down along a narrow decline in the side of the sheer wall of rock. Like a hound on the scent of fresh blood, he was going after her. Sebastian could not let him get to her first. He had to save her, if he could.
Tearing his surcoat to free himself from the grasping, gauntleted hands that tried to hold him, Sebastian pushed away from the side of the ledge and plummeted into the river below.
He fell fast, and hit the water like a stone. His chain mail pulled him down, below the racing current, which roared all around him like a raging, thrashing beast. He struggled with the added weight of his armor, commanding his limbs to move, to raise him up above the surface. He broke through, and, gulping in a mouthful of air, he began to search the water for some sign of Zahirah. Above him on the ledge, the soldiers had decided to look for her outside, someone guessing that the receding tide would eventually wash her out to the shore, dead or alive, as it had the man they found that morning.
Sebastian did not want to give up. He called her name, looking for her, feeling for her, diving down as deep and as long as he could, holding his breath until his lungs wanted to burst, and opening his eyes to the churning salt water that was too wild and too dark to provide any answers.
The current dragged him with it, no matter how hard he fought its pull. Relentlessly, it beat him against the rocks, thwarting his every move as it sucked him toward the mouth of the cave, toward daylight, and the immutable conclusion that he had just lost Zahirah for good.
* * *
Zahirah came out of the water, clinging to the side of a rock and gasping for air. The river had carried her swiftly, like driftwood caught in a tempest, ushering her nearly to the mouth of the cave. Her tunic had torn on the jagged walls of the tidal inlet, a shredded piece of it snagging on a tooth-like rock and holding her while the water rushed all around her. The current rose up over her face, filling her nose and mouth, and while she worked to free herself from the tether, her groping fingers found a crevice in the stone.
Like the corner of a building, the sheer-rising wall bent around, creating an alcove where the water pooled peacefully, tucked away from the angry roil of the tide. She pulled herself into that alcove and followed its deep cleft, listening as the soldiers shouted in the cavern outside and the current raced past without her. She had not expected to live, but life swelled strongly within her, and so she pulled herself out of the water and lay on the flat surface of the stone she clung to, waiting while her burning lungs filled with air.
After a few moments, she could breath without gasping. Her limbs could move again. Her head urged her to run. Dripping wet and shivering from the chill of the water, she got up onto her feet and stood . . . and then she saw him.
Blackheart.
He was not twenty paces from her in the alcove, a dark shadow in a place where everything was black. His sword was down at his side, unsheathed and menacing. Zahirah stared at him, this harbinger of death, and found she could not move. She would not ask him for mercy; she had no reason to believe he would grant it. And so she simply watched him, waiting for him to charge at her in a bloodthirsty rage, or save himself the trouble and call her out to Fallonmour and the other Franks.
He had his chance when someone yelled to him from outside the cave. “Sir Cabal! Are you there? Have you found any sign of the woman?”
“Aye,” he answered back, his voice flat and emotionless. “I found her.”
Zahirah swallowed hard, wishing the current had dragged her under as had been her plan. Only her death would satisfy the king, and only her death would give Sebastian a chance to gain back that which he had lost because of her. Her heart heavy with regret, she stared at the knight called Blackheart and waited for him to give the reply that would seal her fate and Sebastian's along with it.
To her astonishment, he did no such thing.
He stood there, looking at her much the way she was looking at him, and then he simply turned and walked away. His voice boomed over the pounding surf outside as he told his companions, “The assassin is dead.”
Chapter 31
Ascalon, Three Months Later
September, 1192
“They're loading the last ship, my friend. With any luck, we'll be moving out within a few hours.”
Sitting in his favorite garden courtyard of the Ascalon palace for what had been the first time in more than three months--for what was certain to be the last time--Sebastian looked up and met Logan's gaze. “Have they started on the wall yet?”
“Aye. They're knocking it down as we speak.” The Scot shook his head. “All that work building it up at Richard's command, only to tear it down on Saladin's.”
“Just one part of the treaty signed between them,” Sebastian said as he picked up his wine goblet and stared into the deep red bowl. “Ascalon has seen centuries of demolishment and repair. She'll rise to thrive again.”
“You're going to miss this place.”
It was not a question, and Sebastian was not inclined to answer. He was going to miss Ascalon, miss all of Outremer for that matter. It was a harsh, brutal land, nothing like his homeland, but it had its own beauty. And it would always have her.
Zahirah.
He said her name in his mind, as he had done a thousand times since the day she vanished into the blackness of his darkest day. He had thought of her constantly in the three months since, took her memory and his love for her with him into battle when Lionheart and his troops left Ascalon to march on Beit-Nuba, Acre, and Jaffa. He won back his rank and his king's tr
ust during those final campaigns, but it seemed a hollow victory, knowing Zahirah was gone.
And he could not imagine leaving Outremer without her.
“I'm heading down to help the men with the wrecking,” Logan said, pulling him out of his thoughts. “The sooner they pull down those walls, the sooner I can be back home with my sweet, bonny Mary. Why don't you ride down with me, my friend?”
“You go on ahead,” Sebastian said, setting down his cup of wine. He was not yet ready to leave the tranquility of the courtyard. He could almost feel her there, almost hear her voice again, smell the perfume of her skin and her glossy hair. He could stay there forever. Maybe he would.
“Go on,” he said when Logan stood there, staring at him as if he knew the direction of his thoughts. “Go on. I'll be right there.”
The Scot nodded, doubtless not believing him, then he turned and left.
He had been gone but a few moments when another knight came into the courtyard and interrupted. “Beg pardon, Captain, sir, but there's a group of English pilgrims arrived outside, requesting passage with us to England. Shall I send them in?”
Sebastian gave the knight a careless, affirmative wave of his hand. He had been entertaining requests such as this for days now, ever since the word had spread that King Richard and his army were moving out of the Holy Land. This most recent group, half a dozen men and women, had come all the way from Jerusalem, according to the knight as he showed them into the courtyard. Their long gowns were dusty from the road, their gnarled wooden staffs standing tall and brittle, like bones left to bleach in the desert sun. There were four men in this little group; they stood at the front of the party, their wide-brimmed pilgrim's hats tattered and sweat-stained.
Behind them were two women, one slender and petite in her pale blue garb, the other a matron, with a round ruddy face that framed kind brown eyes and a serene smile. She seemed protective of her meek companion, who kept herself hidden behind the men, her covered head down, gaze averted. Sebastian guessed it was the other woman's daughter, but there was something peculiar there--something that made him come up from his seat on the bench, staring a bit harder than was seemly, willing her to look up so he could see the face she seemed determined to hide.
“You've all come from Jerusalem,” he said, addressing the man who stood at the fore of the group, though his gaze kept straying to the woman behind him. “It is a long journey to make, and you've reached us just in time. Our last vessel leaves for England today.”
“Aye,” agreed the man. “'Twas a long trek, and a gamble, but we were hopeful, and we had God on our side. Actually, 'twas at the suggestion of our young sister that we came here at all, my lord. She said that Ascalon was a pearl in God's crown, and I must say she was correct. 'Tis a fine city, indeed . . . “
The man went on, but Sebastian was no longer listening. He took a step forward, watching the young woman shift nervously behind her companions. She fidgeted with a loose thread on her modest gown, and then, as if she could bear the weight of his gaze no longer, she lifted her head and looked at him.
Sebastian's heart soared to his throat. “My God. Zahir--”
She smiled, as if trying to bite back her joy and failing. She gave a small shake of her head. “No, my lord, I am not she. My name is Gillianne. It is a pleasure to meet you . . . to see you, Sebastian.”
Ignoring the looks of astonishment and confusion from the others, Sebastian crossed the space of the courtyard. He went to her and embraced her, and her pilgrim companions disappeared without his notice, taking their leave as if they understood the meaning in this moment. “God . . . God,” Sebastian said, kissing her, rejoicing in the feel of her, almost disbelieving that she could really be there, alive, in his arms once more. “I thought you dead. I searched for you in that river, and everywhere I've been since then. I thought you had drowned, or that Blackheart--”
“No,” she said, pulling back to look at him. “He didn't tell you, then? No, I don't suppose he would have told anyone what he did that day.” She gave a soft laugh. “He could have killed me, but he let me go. I don't know why; I've wondered all this time. Maybe he pitied me. Maybe he understood that the person I had been, the person Sinan had created all those years ago, was in fact dead and drowned in that river.”
“I owe him everything for sparing you,” Sebastian said, smoothing his hand over her face, realizing just then how faded her tan had become in the months since they had been apart. In a few more months, it would be gone completely, returned to the porcelain color she had been born with. “What happened to you?” he asked, still finding it hard to credit that she was there, standing before him, whole and hale. “Where have you been? Where did you go?”
“To Jerusalem,” she said. “I went there to start over, to finish the pilgrimage my parents began when I was a babe . . . and to wait for you. I thought eventually the army would march there, and that maybe I would see you again.”
Sebastian shook his head. “The king's health grew worse as we campaigned, and there has been trouble back home with his brother. We never made it to Jerusalem. Richard and Saladin agreed to a peace treaty before we were able to march on the city.”
“I know,” she answered. “And when I heard that some of the king's men had returned to Ascalon, I knew--well, I hoped--that you might be among them. Sebastian, forgive me, but I could not stay away. I have missed you so.” She caressed his cheek, her fingertips like silk against his skin, her silver eyes tender and loving. “There is just so much to say . . . .”
He took her hand and placed a kiss in her palm. “We'll have a lifetime to say it now,” he said, his heart swelling with love for her. He knelt down before her, holding her hands in his. “My lady, my love . . . come back with me to England. Be my bride in truth.”
She smiled down at him, laughing through her tears. “Oh, my lord. I thought you would never ask..”
Epilogue
The King's Court at Westminster
April, 1194
“I wish we hadn't come. What if he recognizes me? This may prove to be a terrible mistake.”
Sebastian reached down and took his wife's hand in his as they entered the great reception hall of the royal castle in London. Usually unflappable and composed, Gillianne was trembling. “Don't be worried, my love. It's been nearly two years since those handful of days in Palestine. Much about you has changed, save your stunning beauty.”
Gillianne smiled at his praise, her pale ivory cheeks flushing as pink as the brow of the sleeping babe she cradled in her arms. She had borne Sebastian a son just two months ago, and motherhood suited her well. While her tan had faded along with her accent since she had been living at Montborne, there were certain aspects of her life before that she had maintained.
She was still every bit as fierce and stubborn as the tigress that had so captivated Sebastian, always ready to debate with him about philosophy and faith and the finer points of shatranj. She had fire and wit in equal measure to her beauty, and Sebastian never tired of the pleasure of her company. She charmed and fascinated him, and he was the proudest man in the room to have her on his arm.
“Relax, my love,” he whispered beside her ear. “Now that Richard is returned to England, he will expect to meet the lovely lady I wed while he was indisposed.”
Indisposed was something of an understatement. Richard had been waylaid by his enemies on his return from the Holy Land, abducted and held for ransom in Austria for these past two years. His ransom had been steep, paid in part by taxes and levies, and a rather sizable donation from the Earl of Montborne in exchange for license to marry a beautiful but dowerless orphan he had fallen quite in love with on his return from Crusade.
Sebastian's brother, Griffin, and his wife, Isabel, along with their growing brood, had accompanied Gillianne and him from Montborne to bestow their praises on the king and renew their pledges of support. Together the group of them took their places in queue to await their approach to the dais where Richard and his vener
able mother, Queen Eleanor, sat greeting their subjects.
The court was full to bursting with nobles and courtiers, but one gaze reached Sebastian's through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds. It belonged to Sir Cabal, the knight Sebastian could no longer think of as Blackheart, his formidable nom de guerre. The two men exchanged glances, and Sebastian gave him a knowing nod.
The dark knight returned the gesture, but then his attention was snagged by a lovely blond lady who stood at his side, her belly big with child. She clung to his arm the way Gillianne clung to Sebastian's, her gaze as loving and warm as that which Sebastian enjoyed each time his wife looked upon him.
Curious, Sebastian leaned over to his brother. “Who is that woman there with Sir Cabal?”
Griff lifted his head and peered discreetly in that direction. “Ah, that is Emmalyn of Fallonmour.”
“Fallonmour?” Sebastian asked, taken aback as he looked again at the love shared between them. “The earl's widow?”
Griffin's lady wife spoke up in answer. “Garrett's widow,” Isabel confirmed, smiling, “but more recently, Sir Cabal's bride.”
Before Sebastian could express his astonishment, he and Gillianne were escorted to stand before the king. He bowed low; beside him, Gillianne dipped into a deep curtsy. “We thank God you are back, sire. Your country has missed you.”
“Rise, rise,” said the king. “Let me have a look at you, and this lovely treasure which I understand you found en route from the Holy Land.”