The Dark Crusader

by Jackie Ivie

  Against the back wall a small wooden chest rested, large enough to sit on, or place a tray atop. A thick roll of material was beside it. The floor was covered with a rug in shades of gray flecked with black. There was nothing more.

  Cassandra’s lip lifted. If this was the extent of their dyeing, weaving, and woodworking skills, she probably looked like a creature of myth, wrapped as she was in drapery with vivid peacock blue tones about her face followed by every shade of green, yellow and then orange, until it ended with a dark red in the puddle at her feet. It wasn’t supposed to be used as clothing. The strands were too thick, the weave stiff. It was scratchy, smelled of smoke, and completely unsuitable for clothing.

  And she wouldn’t part with it for anything.

  The door flap swished as it lifted. Cassandra turned to face him. Her legs wobbled, but supported the move. She couldn’t do a thing about her pulse.

  He should have designed his tent with more height. The top of his head grazed the material, lifting it as he entered. It set him free as he reached the center. Cassandra instinctively backed a step. Dimness made him loom threateningly large. It also turned his expression into something sinister. He folded his arms, and regarded her silently for several moments.

  “Parlez vous Francais?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Bien. You may begin,” he said.

  She’d already heard the impressive range of his voice, but in his tent, it stunned. Deep. Full. Menacing. Cassandra jerked. The palace drapery didn’t hide the reaction.

  “With…what?” She had to clear her throat mid-question. Her voice wasn’t strong or imperious. It hurt, too.

  “Who are you and what is your value?”

  “I’m...no one.” Value? What did that mean? In this world, women had little value. Surely he knew that.

  “I didn’t quite hear that.”

  Cassandra sought enough moisture to lick her lips but had to forego it. Dark dots danced through her vision. She watched them fade and dissipate as she looked up at him. Despite lack of sustenance, a night of drugged sleep, and an obstruction in her throat, she thought her words had been audible. And the tent wasn’t large. He couldn’t help but have heard her words.

  “I said—”

  He put up a hand, stopping her. It almost reached where she stood. Cassandra backed another step. She didn’t know how much area she had left behind her. It probably wasn’t much.

  “Before we go another moment into this, let me give you some foresight into your situation.”

  He untied the knot at his throat and pulled his cloak off, folded it as though it was freshly laundered, not stained and filthy. Tossed it onto the trunk. Cassandra watched him in silence.

  “I do not like games. I never have. I suggest you cease playing them.”

  She didn’t know how to answer, so she pressed her teeth on the tip of her tongue and waited. He lifted an arm into the space between them and slipped straps from metal spikes along the bottom of his wrist, opening a gauntlet that reached his elbow. He pulled one finger loose, then another, until he had the glove off. He flexed his hand as if the leather had stifled.

  “Let’s begin again. Who are you, and what is your value?”

  Cassandra forced her feet to stay precisely where they were and locked her knees. He needn’t know how they shook. He removed his other gauntlet. It didn’t diminish his size. He was immense. Either hand could close about her throat with little effort. And squeeze the life force right out of her.

  “Your answer?” he prompted.

  “I...I am nobody, and—”

  The hand he put up to stop her this time was bare. He clenched his jaw and his eyes narrowed. Lush black eyelashes shadowed his eyes. The shadow reached his nose as he lowered his chin. Cassandra swallowed audibly. This was horrid. And her wits were deserting her.

  “My name is Rhoenne Guy de Ramhurst. I am known as the Dark One. Perhaps you have heard of me.”

  Cassandra shook her head.

  “’Tis said I’m feared. Reviled. I give no quarter. Expect none. I take. I maim. I kill. Without remorse. Without regret. I have no emotions. I could give you to them.”

  He motioned with a head jerk over his shoulder, denoting the camp outside. She gasped. One side of his mouth lifted, as if he found it amusing, but only enough to waste half a smile.

  “Or I could keep you in here. With me. Safe. And un-accosted.”

  “By you, as well?”

  He took a step toward her. Cassandra backed until there wasn’t space left. Two steps. That’s all she’d had. She leaned into a tent, making it bow slightly with her weight. She wondered if it would be able to support her if she fainted.

  Fainted?

  Her back stiffened. She may be facing death, but she was still the Princess Cassandra Alexandria, youngest daughter of a Vottenavia prince. She had little use for fainting. She’d never been weak. It was against family. Creed. It was against everything she’d endured in the eight years she’d been a prisoner.

  Unfortunately, it was exactly what her entire body was suffering right now.

  He hadn’t come any closer. The knowledge helped. She replayed his words through her mind. He didn’t play games. He had no emotions. He didn’t care what happened to her. Wasn’t that what he’d said?

  He spoke again, forestalling her thought process.

  “You worry without cause. I have need of a woman, I take one. You? I don’t need.” He smirked. “Or want.”

  Oh no.

  If he said another word, she was going to cry. Cassandra fought the emotional onslaught, tightening every muscle at her command. Tighter. Tears wouldn’t gain anything save disdain, and probably get her tossed from the tent. And they were senseless. He didn’t need her? He didn’t want her?

  So much the better!

  Another emotion filled her. One she recognized. It fed anger into her blood and strength through her limbs. She narrowed her eyes, sent back any thought of tears, and regarded him as he was her. Without expression. Without emotion.

  “Ah. Good. We finally understand each other,” he remarked.

  She nodded.

  “So answer me. Who are you?”

  “Cassandra Alexandria. Of the kingdom of Vottenavia.”

  “You are not one of them?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why does the eunuch find you of such value?”

  She shrugged, lifting the drapery. The jeweled breastplate she wore moved beneath it. She watched his glance flicker there before returning to her face. If anything, his expression hardened further.

  “I am the sultan’s favorite,” she lied.

  “Were you now?”

  She nodded.

  “No longer.”

  “You killed him?” she asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “He isn’t dead?”

  “I didn’t say that either.”

  “Is he...a prisoner?”

  “I don’t take prisoners.”

  “Then what am I?”

  “A mistake of nature,” he answered.

  “My...she must have hurt you terribly,” Cassandra answered, without one iota of forethought.

  She didn’t see the move but it wouldn’t have mattered. He had her throat in one hand and had lifted her. The dots were back, larger and darker than before. She’d been right about his hand encircling her throat. She knew she’d also been right with her comment. Some woman had hurt him. She could tell it by a flare deep in what had to be the most intensely blue eyes she’d ever faced.

  Strange.

  Death was supposed to possess black eyes.

  Cassandra closed hers and swallowed despite the pressure on her throat. He lowered her until the tips of her toes touched the rug. And then he waited. Unmoving. She pulled in a breath that shook, eased it out, and opened her eyes. The dark blobs in her vision slowly cleared away. She almost wished for them back. He was so close she could see each individual lash, especially since he had his head
lowered until their noses almost touched.

  “Undress,” he said.

  Her eyes went wide and her gulp against his thumb couldn’t be missed.

  “Now?” she asked with a whisper of sound.

  He moved his head down, and then back, before returning to looking at her.

  “Will you...bargain for it?” she asked shakily.

  His face hardened. He opened his fingers with a rough gesture, freeing her. Then he spun. The door flap shifted, and he was gone.

  Chapter Three

  Cassandra moved to the trunk before her legs collapsed. Every limb shuddered, her heart raced like a caged thing, her eyes smarted with instant tears. She had moments. She daren’t waste them. She needed a weapon. Anything lethal. She wasn’t going to be ravished. She’d die first.

  Her body still wasn’t functioning properly. She pushed crumpled stiff drapery down beneath her arms, ignoring where it scraped skin. Shoved his discarded cloak aside. His trunk wasn’t locked, but the clasp gave her trouble. Several heart-pounding moments passed while she worked and twisted the metal. And finally, the hasp dropped open and she flung the lid back.

  It rocked back to smack her fingers.

  That hurt.

  Cassandra stifled the instant wash of tears and dove into the contents. He had garments on top, fashioned in the same dull shades as his tent. Some folded. A few squashed into balls. She rifled them, searching for something solid. Anything. And quickly! Her fingers closed on a hard object, pulled it out, and nearly flung it aside in irritation. It was a wooden crucifix, plain and smooth-edged. Worthless as a weapon. She shoved it back in, pushed more material to the sides, and found treasure.

  It was a dagger. She pulled it out clumsily, uncaring if it sliced anything. Success hit as a rush of heat, followed by a wave of thrill. The hilt was fashioned to resemble entwined vines...or perhaps it was snakes. It was ornate, almost feminine. That proved his people possessed some skill in metalworking. The blade was thin and extremely sharp.

  Her evaluation of the weapon didn’t take but a moment. Time was too precious.

  She wove the weapon’s blade into the back of her girdle with one hand, while the other pushed down on the mess of items in the trunk. She shut the lid, tried once to re-clasp it before giving up. A toss sent the cloak back where he’d put it. Then she stood, pulled the drapery back into place about her, and turned to face the doorway. She had one gasped breath of time before the door material was shoved inward.

  It wasn’t the knight.

  Emin stumbled and fell to his knees. Bent forward, his forehead pressed to the floor rug. He looked weak. Completely cowed. Light glimmered on his bald bowed head as the door flap fell into place behind the knight.

  There wasn’t much room in the tent and their captor’s presence somehow overtook it all. He stood just inside the door, lifting the roof with his height. He’d crossed his arms. Spears of daylight percolated through the loose weave of the tent, each one dancing with dust motes. The light showcased the riveting quality of his eyes, and something far worse. Something unexpected and completely unwelcome to Cassandra.

  He was handsome.

  Excessively so.

  Despite years in seclusion, Cassandra had experience with male beauty. The Mamluk Sultanate was full of handsome men. She’d actually seen some. The harem had latticed walls with numerous small openings. Men often visited the Sultan’s court. Whispers would fill the harem if a handsome man was spotted, and the women would all rush to peek, including her. Not that she cared, but she’d learned early. Just as unusual coloring drew attention, unusual behavior did the same. So she’d looked. Evaluated. Tittered over handsome men.

  But this man eclipsed them all.

  And that was grossly unfair.

  If the man sensed her train of thought, he didn’t act it. He didn’t give her any sign of any kind. He simply regarded her as if he had nothing better to do. It was unnerving. He just stood there. Waiting. Long moments passed. The light strengthened, heralding a day of oppressive heat. Emin shifted with a scuffling noise. The sound of her pulse got louder and faster in both ears. And still nothing happened.

  “I...don’t understand,” Cassandra finally spoke.

  “And you don’t listen.”

  She couldn’t stop an instant flash of ire. She tried to hide it with a practiced move, lifting a shoulder enough the jeweled piece at her bosom shifted. She watched his glance shift to her breast movement for the barest moment. His cheeks looked darker again. That was interesting. He pretended to be made of stone, but his flush might have just betrayed him. Sensual interest was something she knew...and could use.

  “You seek to play games?” he prompted.

  Cassandra shook her head.

  “Oh. I misspeak. You call it bargaining.”

  He uncrossed his arms and slid a hand down his thigh. She watched him flip a leather thong loose to pull a large knife from its scabbard. She couldn’t look away. He held the blade out, twisting to send flashes of light from a wicked, serrated edge. It made her hidden dagger resemble a sewing implement. He glanced down at where Emin crouched between them. Back at her.

  “Last chance,” he remarked.

  “He means nothing to me,” Cassandra lied. “He’s a servant. A half-man.” She made her words as insulting and sarcastic as possible. She couldn’t prevent the tremble that accompanied them, though.

  “Is that so?”

  He bent to lift Emin’s forearm. The move pulled Emin from his hunched position. The eunuch didn’t even look up.

  “I will start with a finger. When he runs out of them, he loses toes. Then, I shall start on limbs. You understand me, yet?”

  Ice shot through her veins. Her face lost color. She rocked in place, amazed she still stood. Emin was so used to stifling emotion he didn’t betray a speck of it. The tent still reeked of fear.

  “Wait.”

  Cassie pulled her arms free of the drape and lowered it from her head, revealing the small gem-encrusted circlet above her head. She felt, rather than heard, the knight’s indrawn breath. She couldn’t hear anything over Emin’s words, spoken in rapid Arabic.

  “No, Highness! Please? Whatever it is he has requested of you, do not do it! I am lower than camel dung. I am nothing!”

  “Emin, cease. Now.”

  Cassandra’s tone stopped further pleas. She pushed the drapery off her shoulders. It was stuck in places with sweat and smoke-grime. Near her waist, she found an edge, plucked it loose with nerveless fingers, and slowly spun free. It took two rotations. The drapery unwound and she dropped it, forming a mass of fabric at her feet. She looked down at what she’d just revealed. Everything was crystal clear, completely focused. She didn’t even have her hair to hide behind.

  Gold armbands encircled both upper arms. The same metal formed the filigree collar that ended just beneath her breasts. It was inset with multi-colored gemstones in a floral motif. The bottom edge was a series of points with a jewel dangling from each tip. They were fashioned to dance about, catching and reflecting light with every move she made...including the act of breathing. The girdle at her hips was even more spectacular. Flashes of color refracted throughout the tent as light touched on her.

  Cassandra took a deep breath, looked up to face him...and found she couldn’t. The tent behind him was safer. She didn’t want to see his reaction or even if he had one. The pieces had been created and designed for a singular purpose - to enhance. The collar caressed and defined her bosom, the girdle did the same to her hips, and that piece contained more gems, more gold, and much larger gems that dangled from the points at her thighs. The pieces had been fitted to her measurements.

  Exactly,

  He grunted. She couldn’t tell if that was a sign of pleasure or not. She took it as further command and lifted an arm, touching the catch of an armband. The metal sprang loose. She held it while unfastening the piece from her other arm. Gathered both bands in one hand. Held them out to him.

  “Drop the
m.”

  She did. They bounced and rolled, one ending up beside Emin. The other circled to a stop near one of the knight’s boots. Cassandra reached behind her neck for the collar clasp next and snapped it open. Pulling it forward released her breasts. The collar had defined and supported her. The gossamer material she wore beneath it was useless. His lips might have tightened, but his beard hid the motion and she was doing her best to focus elsewhere. She lowered her arms and dropped the collar onto the floor beside Emin. It made a slithering sound as links slid onto the rug floor.

  She didn’t wait.

  The girdle had three clasps at the back of it. She worked them with one hand while the other pulled the dagger free. She swayed and bent, hoping the snapping of each clasp disguised how she laced the blade into the material that flowed from her headdress. It was the lone option. The dagger was priceless right now and the skirt material would tear with any weight. She was hot with a full-body blush, while icy shivers ran her frame. The combination made her fingers clumsy. Once she lost this girdle, she’d be almost fully exposed. Near-naked. Vulnerable. The skirt was comprised of little more than sheer panels, layered and slit throughout.

  “Princessa! Please! I am not worth this!”

  Cassandra jumped as Emin interrupted, his burst of words high-pitched and filled with emotion.

  “Emin. Cease. He knows.” Cassandra touched her glance to the knight momentarily before skidding it away.

  “You told him?” Emin asked.

  “I told him nothing. He knows you mean something to me. He knows I won’t allow him to hurt you. He’s using it. I would, too. Mourning will not change it.”

  She was too late. Emin began lamenting in a litany of moans about his failure to protect her. He was wailing when the knight shook him, using the arm he held. Emin didn’t stop until the knife blade was at a finger. The knight didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

  Cassandra dropped the girdle from nerveless fingers onto the swath of drapery at her feet. It landed with a slight thud. “There,” she announced. “It’s done.”