by Jackie Ivie
Copyright © 2021 by Jackie Ivie
ebook 978-1-939820-92-1
Print 978-1-939820-93-8
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design & Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.
To Nancy, for everything you do and have always done for me.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Other Books By Jackie Ivie
About the Author
Chapter One
ad 1254
“Haraa’iq!”
Cassandra cracked open leaden eyelids and blinked. Flickers of red and yellow flames could be seen, but it was blurry. Indistinct. Dull throbs of sound filtered through the haze, adding sound to the sight. A shout of “Fire!” came again. Cassandra struggled to lift her head from the pillow. It was all too much effort. Her eyes shut again.
“Princessa!”
There was only who knew her royal title. Cassandra willed her eyes open, ordered her fingers to tense on the woven mesh surface beneath her. Nothing worked.
“Princessa! We must hurry! Quickly now! This is your chance. No one is looking! What are you waiting for?”
She focused blearily on the man who knelt beside her. Even if her mind ordered, it nothing responded. Shouts and all manner of screams grew louder, pricking her ear with fear-filled words.
“Hurry! To the tunnels!”
“It’s the kafirs! They’ve come!”
“How? And how many?”
“They’ve overpowered the guards! Quickly! Get to the tunnels! Everyone!”
Shouts resounded, more words about infidels, while continuous thumps from a gong reverberated through the floor. The last sent the slightest tingling sensation through her palm. Thank the Saints! She wasn’t completely numb...and it might not be permanent. Cassandra narrowed her eyes. Tried to think. From her vantage, she watched palace guards spill into the scene, adding to the pandemonium.
Palace guards?
In the harem?
They herded the women enmasse, along with children and slaves. It was now impossible to make out words in a plethora of languages amidst an uncountable volume of dialects. There was too much background noise. It all blending into a cacophony. Flames chased shadows that raced through the smoke-filled chambers. A span of material used for decoration fell, before turning unrecognizable as flames devoured it. The situation was dire. Cassandra struggled with her body. Uselessly.
“You must come! Now!”
The eunuch, Emin, spoke at her side again, his handsome face full of worry. Cassandra met his glance. Blinked.
“What is it? You don’t move.”
She managed a frown. He lifted his head away to look over his shoulder. They both watched as an incinerated section of palace ceiling fell into the pool, hissing and sizzling before sinking from sight. The sounds had changed, too. No longer could she hear the gong, screams, or shouts. Now there was the roar of flames, the crashing of destruction. The pool water bubbled and steamed, adding even more opacity to the scene.
“Selique? She did this?” Emin asked at her shoulder.
Cassandra managed a cough. It burned her throat but she welcomed the sensation.
“That one was spawned by the devil and nursed at a hog’s breast! You should know better than to have anything to do with her.”
She gave another smoke-filled cough.
“Here! I’ve a covering.”
He held one of the thick woven curtains that were used throughout the harem chambers. Cassandra had a hard time seeing him.
“E...min!” Her whisper hadn’t much sound. He knelt beside her again.
“Grant me permission to touch you.”
“Emin!” Another cough wracked her frame.
“I cannot touch you unless I have permission.”
Cassandra hadn’t much sensation in her body, but enough to feel the stone beneath her heating up. Flames licked at the very steps Emin was going to race down...and he talked palace protocol?
“Yes!” The word was hissed. Her throat hurt. Her lungs now pained. Actually, every aware portion of her body was painful.
He bent, deftly swaddled her in the curtain, hoisted her across one shoulder, and then he was running, his feet churning through flames and dancing past rubble. Upside-down, Cassandra watched it happen. Her head bobbed in vicious throbs of ache. Her shoulders swayed in concert. But then he stopped, rocking her outward and slamming her back. Her forehead smacked against him sending a pulse of pain through her temples.
“Where is it you think you are going?” A deep voice asked.
“There is...fire. There is a big fire!”
Those lessons Cassandra had given him were providential. Even said with an accent, she understood the broken Frankish words Emin used, matching their inquisitor’s language.
“Right of plunder goes to the victor,” the unknown male continued.
“Victor?” Emin asked.
“Aye. And that would be me. I am the victor. Toss your load in the wagon. Yes, that one. Don’t tempt fate, lad. I’ve a very hungry sword.”
Emin swung her. Cassandra got a glimpse of black-coated chainmail covered with a blood-flecked cloth and black hair. Then she slammed against something, and knew absolutely nothing.
Chapter Two
What was this? She’d overslept?
Consciousness came slowly, like a slight beam of light in the deepest cavern. Cassandra lay unmoving as she considered. She felt odd. Disembodied. A chance thought drifted up through the fog in her mind.
Had she been poisoned? Was that it?
She licked dry lips with a drier tongue. Tried to open her eyes. If this was death, it wasn’t what any of the religions prophesied. More likely this was the aftereffects of drugging. She’d been drugged by a jealous rival. Could Selique’s assassin even now, be approaching to check on his handiwork...a blade held ready to plunge into her unguarded back?
This wasn’t like her. She should react, not simply somnolently ponder things. Nothing felt normal but she’d have an easier time puzzling it if the creaking and rumbling noises would cease. She’d never felt so disoriented. Vulnerable. Stupid.
Her stupidity amazed her, adding bitterness to recollection. She’d attended sup with Selique. There hadn’t been an option. No one declined the current favorite. So Cassandra complied, spent the time in complete attentiveness, murmuring platitudes, vacuously smiling and chatting, playing with the food; pieces of cheese, figs, morsels of perfectly seasoned mutton. But she’d been foolish. She’d sipped at the woman’s juice!
Selique was the sultan’s favorite and the woman jealously guarded the position. She had nothing to fear from Cassandr
a. She wanted an escape from the silken prison, not further imprisonment. As one of the more unusual women in the harem, she always kept her hip-length, magenta-streaked hair under concealing head-scarves, her eyes downcast, her features hidden...most especially her pale, unblemished skin. Yet, despite every effort to the contrary, she’d caught the sultan’s eye.
And from that moment, she was on borrowed time.
Emin had told her such a thing was her destiny. She was too beautiful. She was bound to attract the sultan’s favor. Beauty was a curse she’d rather not suffer. It wasn’t her fault she took after her father. Spoken as the most handsome man in the Asen II kingdom of Bulgar, he’d wed a Candia Duchy princess from the island of Crete, been granted a small principality on the very edge of civilization, given the duty of protecting the civilized world from barbarians. He’d built a castle. Fortified the town.
And died trying to hold it.
Cassandra gasped.
What in the heavens was wrong with her?
Nothing was gained from remembering the slaughter that brought her into a Mamluk Sultanate’s harem, turning her existence into one of alertness. Tension. Hiding. Trying to escape the notice of powerful women and jealous shrews, where gossip destroyed, a small move could be perceived as a slight, innuendoes carried penalties, and any meal might be the last.
Like last night...
Wait.
Something more than a drugging had happened. Something immense.
Cassandra frowned. Searched her memory. It seemed surreal. Had there been an attack by Western crusader knights? Was it possible Emin had actually helped her escape in the confusion that followed? Just when every filmy piece of material she’d been given to wear felt like iron bands?
But - if that were the case - why did it feel like she was in physical bondage right now?
The moment she thought about it, every portion of her body began throbbing with ache. Cassandra tried shifting position. The drapery material was wound tightly about her, and her right ankle was locked in a twisted position. A bejeweled anklet bit into skin. She tried again to move. This time she gained a sharp pain through her head and a chest that burned with gasped breaths. Nothing else changed. She was imprisoned by dead weight, each gasp pulled through hair strands. That was strange. Her hair had been braided and secure beneath an ornate headdress. She squirmed and shimmied. Groaned and wrestled. If she could just get an arm loose, she’d brush hair from her face. Then maybe, every inhalation wouldn’t be florid with heavy perfume.
The situation was untenable.
Carpets and silks and all manner of other items smashed until her lower legs spiked with each heartbeat. Cassandra set her teeth and squirmed for long sweat-inducing, heart-pounding moments, succeeding only in wedging herself between two unyielding bolts of material and the wooden slats of a wagon side. That was a trade-off. Despite the continual throbs of cramped limbs and scented hair that infused each breath, she had access to fresh air. She inhaled as deeply as allowed by the mass surrounding her.
And endured.
The night lengthened, bringing chill and dry, dust-filled air. Cassandra slept when she could, doing her best to ignore aches that multiplied, along with the emptiness of her belly, and overwhelming thirst. This wasn’t freedom. This was just another prison, walled with treasures and wagon slats.
And time wore on.
They continued through the night. The sky was a lavender shade when she next woke. Cassandra forced open eyes drier than any desert. She was exhausted. Numbed. Semi-conscious. That’s why she missed her opportunity when the wood shimmied and stopped moving. Wheels were wedged. The animal that had pulled the cart was unhooked. She heard muffled banging and clanging, more than one guttural oath. Sounds of horses whickering.
This couldn’t be her fate. She was not slated to die of thirst surrounded by plunder from a palace. Someone else could lie amidst riches, her body dry and wizened and mummified...but not her. And such thoughts were absurd. Surely they would check the cart. Check their plunder. Catalogue items.
It grew lighter, the sky taking on a pre-dawn hue. The goods about her felt somehow heavier. Cassandra closed her eyes, prayed for oblivion again. And that’s when she heard them.
“My laird. A moment?”
A cultured voice spoke near her feet, startling her. He spoke a language she’d learned from a Celt woman in the harem, but with a strange dialect. That made translation challenging but not impossible.
“One moment? From you?”
The response sent an undeniable reaction. Her heart leapt, her eyelids snapped open. Her throat tightened. It was the man who’d claimed victory. She recognized his voice instantly.
“We’ve a new man in camp. With a wild tale. Says there is a woman with us. In that cart.”
“A woman?”
“‘Tis unlikely. I ken. There’s no wench within leagues of this purgatory. Can’t be.”
“Bring him here.”
Heart-pounding moments of time passed before Emin next spoke in his high-pitched voice. Rapidly. Emotionally. He used the Frank language. He wasn’t proficient, especially when agitated. The words were jumbled and hard to follow. The cultured-sounding man translated.
“Well. You heard him. Still claims he brought a woman. From the harem.”
“Check.”
Carpets were lifted, weight displaced. A bolt of fabric rolled across her, one was removed from her side. Cassandra shakily hauled in a deep breath, grimacing as it hurt. She didn’t have a choice, however. Staying hidden meant death. Somehow she managed to swivel toward them, sitting hunched over. The drapery shifted just enough she could see.
Dawn lit the area, sending fingers of golden light through the hills. It touched on the top of a spike-tipped tent before filtering onto the group of men she faced. Most wore hoods, their faces shadowed. It didn’t hide their started expressions. Unpleasant shivers raced up her spine and over her scalp, adding to her misery. Her heart thumped erratically throughout her chest. She hadn’t a hint of moisture with which to swallow. Each blink scraped while her eyes watered defensively. Every breath hurt. Long stray strands of hair stuck to her face. She might have brushed them away if she wasn’t swathed in drapery, and if her limbs obeyed. Then again, she might just pull more of her braid loose. She wasn’t veiled, but most of her face was covered.
They weren’t all crusader knights, although some wore armor beneath tabards that carried the cross emblem. They all looked filthy. Weary. Blood-covered. Armed. She couldn’t tell quantity. This was bad. She faced a motley crew of death dealers and she couldn’t even move?
One of them cleared his throat. “My laird?”
“Silence.”
She knew the leader instantly. He regarded her from their midst, without expression. He stood taller by at least a hand span. He’d shoved his hood back. She hadn’t been mistaken earlier. He had lengthy black hair. Ends of it caressed his shoulders. His facial hair was a match, all of the black making his eye color unavoidable. They were vivid blue. Ice blue. Cold. And hard.
He turned his head to look down at Emin. The eunuch had always seemed immense but not when placed beside the blue-eyed man. He might have spoken but the leader forestalled him.
“No man steals a woman.” An arm toss was sent her direction as if clarity was needed. “They are to use and discard. Those are my orders. For a reason. Now...you have given me a problem.” He pulled in a large enough breath it lifted his torso before he let it back out with a gust. He sent commands as he turned away. “Henry. Take her to my tent. You,” he gestured at Emin. “Come with me.”
She wasn’t given the option of walking. That was pure luck. She wasn’t capable. Sensation was returning to her limbs and with it came unbelievable pain. Spikes of agony speared her as one of the knights pulled her across a bolt of fabric and slung her over his shoulder. Cassandra gritted her teeth, but a cry escaped. The man didn’t even break stride. She railed at herself. She couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not now. Not w
ith freedom so close! She had to be a worthy negotiator. Strong. Flexible...yet imperious. She’d always plotted escape. She had it already planned and paid for. An attack on the summer palace was providential, the chaos perfect.
If only she’d had the sense to keep from drinking Selique’s juice!
All was not lost, though. By some stroke of fortune she wore her most impressive jewelry, a headdress, golden collar, matching girdle, armbands and anklets. She’d donned them for the sup. Just a portion was enough to buy her and Emin’s freedom. She had bargaining to do, her wits to keep about her. Some luck. She needed more than an aching body that resembled sand-putty. It wasn’t an auspicious way to think on her next move.
It wasn’t much of a tent, either. Nothing resembled a sultan’s tents. Those had been the size of palace gardens, constructed of dyed textiles, the floors covered with skins, soft pillows and rugs. They were divided with opaque, filmy curtains into smaller areas, for privacy...to house the chosen women, such as Selique.
Or Cassandra.
She shivered involuntary. The knight didn’t seem to notice. He tilted sideways to set her down. Her legs were still afire as blood returned, but they didn’t buckle. He didn’t wait to find out. He simply let her go and backed out. A dark length of material fell over the doorway closing her in, and that’s when she got her first look at what a leader of these men called a tent.
An unlit blackened samovar sat at one side of the door. Weak daylight percolated through coarsely-spun, dun-colored walls. There was no decoration to soften or mute the uneven texture. Cassandra wondered if the weave was intentionally worked roughly, or if it was simply the mark of poor workmanship. Not that she cared. Either way, the effect was dull, drab, and uninspiring.