The Dark Crusader

by Jackie Ivie

  “Your head covering?”

  He moved the blade and pointed with it. Cassandra snarled and turned sideways to him.

  He huffed something that could be amusement while she fumbled with the combs from her ears and slid the piece from her head, wadding it into a loose bundle before dropping it. The slight thud of sound as metal hit metal sounded loud in her ears. She didn’t dare look to verify anything. She couldn’t tell if he’d heard, or if he suspected. She wasn’t warm anymore, either. She was exhausted. Dehydrated. Shaky. Weak. She only hoped she found the fortitude to grab the dagger before he tossed her from the tent.

  She heard rustling. Shadows moved on the tent wall. Cassandra turned her head to watch the eunuch stand, with what appeared to be the knight’s help. But that wasn’t possible. The man was evil. Crusader atrocities were legion. And then there was his earlier descriptions to her. He’d been wrong. She’d listened. He’d said he was feared. Reviled. He maimed and killed, without remorse or regret. She hadn’t believed it.

  She’d been naive.

  “Go. Eat. Rest. Stay from the others. They do not understand a half-man such as yourself. You’ll be called when needed.”

  Emin looked at her for verification. Cassandra met his glance for a moment and nodded before moving her focus back to the doorway. Emin bowed.

  “He will do as you say,” Cassandra said.

  “I know he will,” The knight answered.

  Emin backed out. The door material skimmed across his shaven head and then fell back into place. The knight spoke again, his voice holding what might be a humorous tone.

  “It works both ways, you know.”

  “What does?” she asked.

  “My knowledge,” he answered in Arabic.

  Her heart fell. The air thickened, becoming harder to breathe. The crusader hadn’t moved, but he’d gotten larger somehow. She wondered how it happened. And then she did something truly stupid. She moved her gaze to his. She realized the extent of her mistake as buzzing filled both ears. The other-worldly hue of his eyes held her captive. He was so very handsome. She wondered what he’d look like if he were shaven, his hair tied back from his face, his frame dressed in a blue silk tunic that matched his eyes....

  Oh no!

  What was she doing?

  Cassandra tore her gaze away and looked down, completely mortified. She’d been embarrassed when disrobing for him? There was no description for what she felt now. She regarded the puddle of palace drapery, the pile of glinting treasure, her own near-nakedness.

  “You have my thanks,” he said.

  Cassandra stiffened. “For what?” Stealing? The last word was unspoken.

  “You didn’t force me to make good on my threat.”

  “You didn’t wish to hurt him?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he answered.

  “Then you wanted to hurt him?”

  “I didn’t say that, either.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I am not fond of attending confession. Your obedience saved me from it. For that, I thank you.”

  She watched him reach for her collar with one hand, the other one lifted her girdle. He already had her armbands between his fingers. He hoisted and dropped his hands as if testing weight. Her riches looked small in his possession. Insubstantial. And then an even worse horror happened. She pulled in a shaky breath as her eyes filled with useless stupid tears.

  Oh no! She couldn’t cry now. Not now. No.

  He fished a bag from beneath his tabard and shoved her riches into it before secreting it back under his banner. Then he gathered her headdress, searching through the material purposefully, as if he knew she’d hidden something. It didn’t take him long to find the dagger.

  He may have glanced at her then. She couldn’t tell through the blur.

  “Was this for me?”

  She shook her head, using a tiny gesture.

  “Good thing. ’Tis of little use on a man, unless you hit a vital spot.”

  “It was...for me,” she whispered.

  He grunted a reply, and stepped away. Out of view. Cassandra didn’t move, not even to blink. That way the tears hovering at her lashes might somehow stay unshed and hidden.

  “You leave this tent and I will not stay your fate. You ken?”

  She didn’t know the last word, but understood the meaning. It sounded threatening. It was a stupid warning, too. He’d taken every choice from her.

  Even death.

  Chapter Four

  They hadn’t kindled a fire to warm the kettle of porridge. If they’d watered it down enough, it wouldn’t be an issue. Rhoenne didn’t know what they’d tossed into it this time. He didn’t much care, either. He’d eat what they had when they had it. They all did. That’s what a warrior did when on campaign.

  Especially a losing one.

  This, the seventh crusade, led by King Louis IX of France, was especially egregious, as if doomed from the start. There had been some warning two years prior when they’d started. The region they’d invaded was fraught with defeat, mainly due to Mamluk soldiers. Mamluks were former slaves, ruled by a slave-king. Hardened. Extremely disciplined. They won nearly every battle. The crusaders should have retreated months ago, before King Louis had been captured, and the men under Rhoenne’s command decimated.

  They hadn’t a prayer of reaching Acre, the only crusader stronghold left in this miserable country. That meant once proud, well-equipped knights had been reduced to men slinking through the nights like common thieves, intent on escape and survival.

  The ragged band of mercenaries that tagged along didn’t share those goals. They were in it for the money.

  And yet somehow - when Rhoenne least expected it - God had favored him.

  Finally.

  And now, thanks to the woman, he needn’t waste time bartering their plunder for passage back home, either. In his bag, he had the means to bribe their way onto a ship, and leave these godforsaken shores. All he needed was the direction.

  And a little luck.

  Henry, his closest man, looked up as Rhoenne exited the tent. The knight reclined against one of the wagons, one hand resting lightly on his sword hilt, as though bored. The eunuch was curled into a ball at the knight’s feet, his head and shoulders covered with Henry’s cloak. The wagon created a defensible nest and a well of shadow, demonstrating the servant had chosen well. Rhoenne twirled the little dagger as he walked toward them. He nodded a greeting. Spoke in Gaelic, the language of the Scots.

  “Trouble?” he asked.

  “Piddling.”

  “How small?”

  “Some of the mercenaries. One small victory, a spot of plunder, and...there you have it. Trouble. Na’ much for handling pain, either.”

  “Pain?”

  “I dinna’ stop any from deserting, if that is your question.”

  Rhoenne considered him for long moments, until the knight elaborated. “Oh, verra well. Cease that. None perished.”

  “We lose any?”

  “Ramhurst? Nae. We are still six.”

  Six. When they’d started with forty of the best knights from the French court and eight men from his clan. Rhoenne shoved the disgust back into the pit of his belly where it sat, pounding inexorably. As usual. He was used to it.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  “Nae.”

  “Come. Join me. We’ll both partake.”

  Some of the men slept. Rhoenne stepped over cloak-wrapped bodies as they circled the camp center, keeping a watchful eye on his tent and the eunuch’s recumbent form. Henry snagged a bread loaf from a dented basket without breaking stride. Rhoenne didn’t know who’d thought to pilfer the palace kitchens, but he was grateful. Bread was a welcome change. Freshly cooked bread was ambrosia.

  Their approach didn’t go unnoticed. Two Ramhurst knights, and a like number of mercenaries, stood beside the food cart. Rhoenne caught some curious glances. He returned them with his usual stare. The offenders went back
to their meals. Henry tore the bread loaf in half as they arrived, handing one to Rhoenne. He scooped out the center, smashed it into a large bite, and was chewing on it as he filled the bread bowl with fare that had actual chunks of meat in it.

  “We have salt?” he asked.

  “Most definitely.”

  Someone tossed the salt bag. Seasonings and spices were pleasant surprises from this crusade. As was coffee. Rhoenne fished out a pea-size lump of salt. Crushed it atop his meal. Used the little dagger to stir then shovel porridge into his mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly in order to avoid tasting. Today, that was unnecessary. There were cooked mutton chunks mixed in with the gruel. Some bits of date. Perhaps even berries. That was a welcome change. He wiped the blade on his tabard and stuck it in his belt. He was swallowing a mouthful of soaked crust when Henry spoke again.

  “You’ve worked up a healthy appetite. Care to enlighten me?”

  “On what?”

  “You have the lone woman in camp. Surely there is some tale to relate. Some...advice to give, perhaps?”

  Rhoenne ignored the knight’s wink. Took another bite of his soaked bread bowl. Chewed it. Swallowed. “I still wear my armor, Henry,” he finally replied.

  “That must have been difficult,” Henry replied.

  One of the men chortled. Another bit off a laugh. Rhoenne took another bite of crust. Chewed.

  “Is it that bad?” Henry prompted.

  Rhoenne swallowed, speared his man with a sidelong glare that usually garnered him silence, if not solitude. “What?”

  “Your woman trouble.”

  “Have I ever had woman trouble?”

  “Only with the quantity of them we continually need scrape off of you. Ceaselessly. Although, since there are more than enough for all, it is a chore I cannot rue.”

  The knights snickered. Rhoenne narrowed his cheeks in thought. “I think you’ve spent too much time at the French court.”

  “You were there as well,” Henry pointed out.

  “True,” Rhoenne shrugged. Took another bite. Chewed. Had it swallowed before Henry spoke again.

  “You should allow me to assist you with your latest burden. Surely the woman is hungry?”

  “I do na’ ken. Nor do I care.”

  “Then allow me to provide her with a meal.”

  “Nae.”

  “Her servant can, then. I’ll have him—.” Henry stopped mid-sentence at Rhoenne’s head shake. “Not even him?”

  “I do na’ trust her.”

  “When did you ever trust a woman?”

  Rhoenne grunted. Pondered it while Henry waited. “Good question,” he finally replied.

  “So...in the meantime, you’d see her starve?”

  “Cease pestering. I will see to it.”

  “You? Personally?”

  Rhoenne smirked. “Oh. Good. You do listen.”

  “She must be comely...this woman.”

  Rhoenne’s shoulders fell. “Henry FitzHugh.”

  “I am eaten up with curiosity and you are my best source of information. Her servant is useless.”

  “You pestered him, too, did you?”

  “Only because I know how close-mouthed you are. It is a Ramhurst trait. Or so, I’ve been told.”

  “Did we steal any spirits?” Rhoenne asked, changing the subject.

  “They do na’ drink such. We have beer, though. Here. Hold this. I’ll fetch you a draught.”

  Henry held out his half-eaten bread bowl. Rhoenne looked down at the skim of grease congealing atop it, looked back toward his tent.

  “I can fetch it myself.”

  “Well...ask something of me. I am your closest man. I trained and fought for the position. I stand ready to serve. And yet I am ignored. For hours, it feels.”

  Rhoenne blew a sigh. “How soon can we reach a town with a seaport?”

  “A seaport? That depends.”

  “On...?” he prompted waving a hand for emphasis.

  “Many things. The path, for one. Euan and Grant are on that assignment as we speak. They should be back afore sunset. Mayhap sooner since they’re nae longer afoot. Horseflesh makes a vast difference. In the meantime we must assess our situation. We have wares now. Lots of wares. Travel with wares takes time. Wagons cannot go as quickly as a horse can. Speaking of...horses require rest. Waterholes. Grazing. In hindsight, taking so much might not have been in our best interest.”

  “Your reasoning?” Rhoenne asked.

  “Our victory creates issues, my laird. We now have wares to transport. Horses to feed and water. Not only will both slow us down, but we are now a target. Beyond all that of course...is the matter of the woman.”

  “Yes. The woman.”

  Despite everything, Rhoenne’s tone altered. He was afraid it was noticeable. Henry’s next words verified it.

  “This is interesting. I may have to factor in even more time.”

  “For what?”

  “Your apparent interest. In yon woman.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  “Allow me to go visit her.”

  “What good will that do?” Rhoenne asked.

  “It will do me a lot of good.”

  The Scots about them snorted. Rhoenne’s expression went blank. He had the last of his bread bowl swallowed before he answered. “Finish your meal. We’ve provided enough entertainment this morn.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get some beer.”

  Rhoenne was already halfway to the cask, easily spied on a wagon bed, due to the three men prostrate beneath it, snoring drunkenly.

  “What about your woman?” Henry whispered the words at his side.

  Rhoenne frowned. “She is not my woman.”

  “Best not let anyone hear you say that. Claiming her is the lone thing controlling them...and protecting her. You ken?”

  “I am na’ dense, withal your opinion to the contrary.”

  “Actions speak louder than words, my liege...and your actions speak plenty. There is a woman in camp. One. We did na’ even see any women last eve. Actually...we have na’ seen one in so long a time, I forget. So. There is a woman in our midst. Alone. You do na’ seem to want her. You think the others don’t take note?”

  “They have to go through me first.”

  “Aye, and afore that, they must get through me. I guard your back. Why else would I forego a delicious meal and my rest in order to watch the morning sun rise on your tent door?”

  “To say nothing of whetting your insatiable curiosity about the woman.”

  Henry sighed. “You know me too well. So. Tell me. Is she comely? Spare of flesh or voluptuous?”

  “Henry.” Rhoenne lowered his voice ominously. It usually worked.

  “I need this information for my assessment. We’re in a land that trades in humans. A woman has value. A comely one will fetch a verra nice price at the slave market.”

  Recollection of how he’d left her flashed through Rhoenne’s skull without reason or an iota of warning. He banished it as his tankard filled. “She is comely enough, I suppose.”

  “You suppose?”

  Rhoenne grunted.

  “You are na’ sure? What does that mean?”

  “It means I am cautious. Nothing more.”

  He spent the next few moments draining his tankard. Henry was waiting for him to finish. He was refilling it before the knight spoke again.

  “Cautious? You dampen all sense of triumph, Ramhurst! We happened upon a small, lightly guarded palace last night. Without plan or forethought, the attack we mounted was somehow victorious. We now have all manner of goods to sell. Enough to buy passage from these god-forsaken shores! You also managed to acquire a woman. I would ask why you, but I already ken. Women have but to see you and they adhere like warm porridge does to the belly. Yet, what do you do with such good fortune? Preach caution. I vow we cannot be from the same clan.”

  “That palace belonged to the Mamluk sultan.”

  “So?”

/>   “The woman is from his harem.”

  Henry whistled beneath his breath. “Harem? Did you say—harem?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well. That explains everything. She has obviously ravished you. No wonder you are out-of-sorts.”

  Rhoenne choked on his next swallow. The beer burned his throat. “Will you pull your mind from the bed sheets for a moment and use your head!”

  “Just tell me it was pleasurable. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Will you cease?”

  “I’ve heard the tales of these harems, as have you. She probably has all manner of knowledge on tupping. Sensual pleasures. Orgies.”

  Henry’s eyebrows lifted suggestively several times. Rhoenne closed his eyes. Reopened them. Scowled.

  “I did na’ touch her.” An instant remembrance of her throat in his hands made his scowl deepen. “Much,” he added.

  “You are inhuman. Somehow, you were gifted with a harem woman. Such a gift was bestowed without warning. Out here...in the middle of nowhere? I add now that you have the only tent for privacy. And you claim you did na’ even touch her?”

  “Women mean nothing to me. You ken as much.”

  “Ramhurst—.”

  “Actually, I misspeak,” Rhoenne interrupted. “They mean trouble. Nothing but trouble.”

  “I have already offered my services to assist.”

  “’Tis nae jest. You listen but you do na’ ken. She is from the Mamluk sultan’s harem, I tell you! That is the issue.”

  “I still do na’ ken.”

  “He will come for her!”

  “Is she truly so beauteous?”

  Rhoenne scowled. “The trouble is na’ her face and form but her treasure.”

  “Treasure? You mean she’s a maid? Well, why dinna’ you say so earlier?” The knight licked his lips. “This improves her value immeasurably.”

  Rhoenne grabbed the smaller man’s shoulder with his free hand and bent close enough he could hiss words through set teeth. “Must you twist every word I utter this morn?”

  “Forgive me. I admit to a bit of jubilation over our victory, a loosened tongue, and an intense interest in your woman, which – now that I ken she hails from a harem – has only been sharpened. ’Tis my duty to assess and advise, my laird. Gathering facts is a necessary part. Despite my attempts at levity, that is what I have been about this morn. I vow it.”