The Dark Crusader

by Jackie Ivie

  “Dark ones. The cause is lost, Your Excellency. Outremer overrun. Acre is the lone outpost still holding. France’s King Louis is being held for ransom. There are...few survivors.”

  “The pontiff must be inconsolable. I shall draft a missive to Pope Innocent IV.”

  Rhoenne nodded. Nobody said anything for a few moments. Cassandra continued her prayer, almost chanting the words.

  Please God. Please.

  She glanced up again toward the chairs. Quickly looked back down. A man and woman were in the center, sitting in the largest chairs. She assumed the man was Councilor Moroseni. He was part of the Great Council of Candia. There were several official-looking gentlemen on either side of the couple. In their purple robes lined with ermine, the councilor and his wife looked regal.

  “I have heard you are a ship owner,” the councilor continued.

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “And you prepare for a journey back to your native Scotia?”

  “That is my plan.”

  “I have also been informed that you are funding your own voyage.”

  “That is also correct,” Rhoenne replied.

  “And yet, you sought an audience with me? Are you desirous of capital for a business venture perhaps? You wish to expand into shipping? You wish sponsorship on a trading route?”

  Rhoenne’s lips twisted. Cassandra’s heart made the same motion. And then he said the words she feared.

  “I do wish sponsorship, Your Excellency. But not for me.”

  He held his hand out for Cassandra. She almost balked. Her feet didn’t want to move. Her limbs felt leaden. Her blood frozen. Somehow, she gave the direction and her hand moved. She put her fingers within his. His hand was so warm. So strong.

  Rhoenne drew her forward, separating them from the line of his men.

  “This is Cassandra.”

  More detested tears pricked her eyes. She shoved them back. Hardened her mind and begged the same condition for her heart. Her chest felt like a burning piece of coal centered it, sending out bursts of fiery flickers. Each beat throbbed through her, sending pain.

  “Cassandra,” the councilor repeated.

  She curtsied again and then looked up. The councilor’s eyes widened and his brows rose. All of the men on the dais sat taller, as if in concert. The councilor’s wife’s eyes narrowed and her lips pinched.

  And then a loud thumping interrupted everything. It resounded from the entrance doors, sending the same echo as happened from the other side. The officials above her all looked over their heads in that direction. Rhoenne swiveled, moving her with him. His men also turned.

  “Your Excellency, Councilor Angelo Moroseni! The Dowager Duchesse Lucia Zecchino begs an audience!”

  The man with the conical hat announced it. There was a small wizened lady beside him, leaning on a cane. She was dressed in pale pink silk, while her headdress and kirtle were ablaze with diamonds. The same stones glittered from about her neck and wrists.

  “Signor Pietro. This is highly irregular.”

  The councilor spoke. He wasn’t speaking in French, the recognized court language throughout western civilization. He spoke in Venetian. Cassandra hadn’t heard it since she’d learned it as a child. From her mother.

  “It is of utmost importance, Your Excellency!”

  “Very well. You may proceed.”

  The woman started toward them, the announcer fellow at her side.

  “My Lord Ramhurst,” the councilor spoke again to Rhoenne in the language they understood. “I beg a moment to hear this woman’s words. She commands respect. She is the sister of our duca di Candia, Stefano Guistiniani. You...understand?”

  “I have no objection,” Rhoenne remarked. “If you wish, we can return at a more opportune moment.”

  Cassandra’s spirit soared. Her heart raced. Her entire frame sagged with relief. And then the old woman ruined it.

  “No! He must stay. They all...must!” The woman may be aged, but her voice was strong. Autocratic. The old woman smacked the announcer fellow with a finger, then spoke to him in Venetian as well. “Stop fussing, Pietro. I’ll get there when I get there. You may count yourself in luck that I hadn’t gone into supper yet.”

  Titters of amusement wafted through the chamber, and were almost instantly silenced by her next words.

  “And bring some guards with you.”

  A line of soldiers formed behind the old woman and the man named Pietro. Cassandra saw Rhoenne and Henry exchange glances. Hands tightened on sword hilts. Rhoenne’s jaw clenched. A nerve pulsed out one side of his cheek. He dropped his gaze to hers. His look sent a whoosh of emotion straight through her that stunned. Frightened. Electrified. And completely spellbound.

  “Lord Ramhurst?” the councilor asked.

  Rhoenne released her gaze. Looked back up at the dais. That’s when Cassandra noted his men. They’d closed ranks, surrounding her and Rhoenne. Facing outward. They were already an impressive group. The threat they presented without a word of instruction was even more so.

  “Excellency?”

  Rhoenne answered him without a speck of emotion. He accompanied the word with a move to shift Cassandra behind him, holding her at his back with his left hand. His right hand never left his sword hilt.

  “You...would stay to speak with Her Grace?”

  “This is a request to converse?” Rhoenne asked.

  The old woman came to a stop before Rhoenne, planted her cane into the carpet between them with a sharp gesture. And then she used the support to lean back and glare up at Rhoenne. Pietro was at her side. A dozen or more soldiers backed her. She was almost exactly Cassandra’s height.

  “Your Grace, please. You are creating an international incident.”

  “There may be an incident, Angelo. But it will not be of my making.”

  The woman didn’t sound intimidated. Cassandra peeked around Rhoenne’s arm, caught the woman’s glance, and the look that crossed her face instantly nullified any threat. Cassandra had never seen anything so inquisitive and suspicious. But then the expression disappeared and she was once again glaring up at Rhoenne.

  “Who is this man?” the duchesse demanded.

  “This is the Earl of Tyneburgh. From the kingdom of Scotia.”

  Rhoenne recognized his name and the country. Cassandra felt him shift slightly. Straighten. His hand pulled her closer to his spine.

  “Are you certain? Did you verify it?”

  There was an audible gasp at the insult. Then murmurs and twitters from the listeners. Cassandra was grateful Rhoenne didn’t speak the language.

  “What, by the saints, would make you say such a thing?”

  “I’ll say a lot more than that, Angelo. I hear he just came from the east!”

  “Yes. He was crusading.”

  “So he says. Did you verify that?”

  The outcry at that outrageous statement was louder than her earlier one.

  “Your Grace!” The councilor was no longer calm. Or remotely amused. “You will keep your comments civil.”

  “Why does he have my granddaughter? Did you at least ask him that?”

  There was a swell of noise at the statement. Shocked cries. One might have even come from her. Cassandra’s knees buckled but Rhoenne’s grip held her upright. She snaked an arm about his waist for further stability. Focused on the carpet beneath them. Breathed in with quick gasps. Exhaled just as rapidly.

  “Your...granddaughter?” The councilor’s voice seemed a pale reflection of the surprise throughout the room.

  “That is a Votten. I would recognize her anywhere. Tell me I am wrong.”

  “I don’t see how—?”

  The councilor spoke, but the old woman interrupted him. “My daughter wed a Bulgar prince, Philip of Vottenavia. A very handsome man...with a particular color of hair. Pietro recognized it at a glance and came to fetch me! You must remember the wedding. You were there! I visited them once. They had three daughters. Some years back, we were informed t
he principality was overrun...by murderous savages. The entire family was reportedly...killed.” The woman’s voice trembled more than once. She sniffed, pulled her head back, and then continued. She had her accusatory tone back as well. “And yet now, this man walks into your audience chamber with my granddaughter, Perina, and you don’t even ask him how he came to possess her? No! Wait. Perina would be older. Madalena, perhaps?”

  “Her name is Cassandra,” Rhoenne answered.

  Oh, sweet Lord!

  He knew the language? He’d heard the insults the old duchesse had been hurling? And he hadn’t shown the slightest hint of it?

  Cassandra already knew how debilitating panic was. She recognized the symptoms. There was no Emin to smack his hands and shock her out of it. But there was the strong sturdy support of Rhoenne’s hand at her back, holding her against him. The heat that emanated from his body. The chill hardness of his belt against her forearm where she still held him.

  “But, of course.” The duchesse’s voice warmed markedly. “My youngest granddaughter. Cassandra Alexandria. Wait. You know her name?”

  Rhoenne nodded.

  “Then why is it you didn’t bring her to me the moment your ship docked?” She had her insulting accusatory tone firmly in place again.

  “I was not aware of her lineage,” he returned.

  “And now that you are?”

  The entire room seemed to be waiting for his answer. Cassandra lifted her head. Snuck a peek at the duchesse.

  “I believe I’ll be requesting a private audience with the Councilor,” Rhoenne remarked. “And I may even allow you to attend...Your Grace.” He added her title after a moment, as if an afterthought.

  Oh my.

  Cassandra couldn’t keep the slight smile of pleasure to herself. Her lips failed at hiding it. She knew he was confident and forthright. Beyond bold. She watched as the woman claiming to be her grandmother regarded him.

  “Angelo!” The woman announced the name loudly, without taking her eyes from Rhoenne.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” The councilor replied from the dais.

  “You heard the man. Do you have time on your schedule for a private audience?”

  “Right now?”

  There was a general outbreak of hilarity through the room, some laughter. Chuckling. A swell of whispering. All of it almost immediately calmed. As if no one wanted to miss hearing what might transpire next. It seemed to relieve the tensions of moments before.

  “Don’t make me complain to my brother,” she replied. “You know how he hates that.”

  More rumblings of amusement filtered through the room.

  “Oh. I believe we can fit it in. Gentlemen? We shall repair to the green room.” There was a murmured remark, barely audible. “Yes. I know it only fits thirty. That is the point.”

  Soldiers moved around the duchesse and Pietro, giving a wide berth to where Rhoenne and his retinue stood. Their boots were perfectly cadenced as they stepped across uncarpeted floor at one side of the dais. Cassandra heard what sounded like doors opening. Shuffling that could be the officials on the dais departing. She stepped closer to Rhoenne and tightened her arm about him. She didn’t mean to. It wasn’t planned or orchestrated. His fingers pressed slightly against her back as he felt it.

  And her heart stuttered with joy.

  Stupidly. Unreasonably. It still happened.

  “Your Grace? You may bring Pietro. Lord Ramhurst? You will bring your men.”

  “And the lady Cassandra,” Rhoenne responded.

  “I wish to escort my granddaughter,” the duchesse announced.

  “I beg to differ,” Rhoenne responded easily. “The lady Cassandra will be attending with me. As I just specified.”

  “Angelo! Do something!” The duchesse smacked the floor with her cane.

  “This is my requested audience, Your Grace,” Rhoenne spoke up. “Not yours.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at Rhoenne. Her lips pinched tight. Her lined face even more aged-looking. And then she looked down at where Cassandra was hugged into him. Sighed. And nodded. She tapped Pietro, put a hand on his arm, and slowly shuffled past them, following the soldiers’ path.

  “Lord Ramhurst? If you will?”

  Rhoenne looked up at the dais to where the councilor must still be situated. He regarded the area for long moments. Then nodded. “We will be with you shortly.”

  “You won’t precede us?”

  “I said...we will be with you shortly. You have my word,” Rhoenne replied.

  Crowd noise started up. There was a buzz of sound as people discussed and gossiped over what had just occurred. Cassandra recognized it. The harem had just such a reaction whenever something momentous occurred. The sultan had ordered them to prepare. A woman had discovered she’d been blessed by Allah and was carrying the sultan’s child. A woman gave birth. Or if a truly handsome man was visiting the sultan.

  And then Rhoenne pulled her out from behind him, lowered his head, and matched his forehead to hers. All so he could look right into her eyes.

  And the entire world halted.

  She knew they were the center of attention. The crowd all about them watched. Listened. Scrutinized. It didn’t matter. There could have been quakes ravaging the earth, sea waves overtaking shores, landslides obliterating whole villages, and she’d have missed them. Cassandra was ensnared. Afloat. Rapt.

  “What the devil is going on?” Euan asked.

  She thought it was Henry shushing him. Nothing mattered save Rhoenne. And the question deep within his vivid blue eyes.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “My laird! Do you know what you are doing?”

  Henry’s hissed whisper wasn’t loud, but enough to break Rhoenne’s eye contact with her. His eyelids closed. Small lines crinkled at the edges of his eyes. His breath deepened. His upper lip lifted in a snarl. He raised his head from her and turned to Henry. Annoyance crossed his face. He looked grim. Cassandra should have matched the emotion, but she still trembled in place, encased in a blissful aura so vibrant, she could almost see it.

  “What?” he finally asked from between clenched teeth.

  “That woman is the sister of their duca!” Henry still whispered, even with an adding emphasis.

  “She is?” Euan sputtered.

  “We need to take this into the hall,” Rhoenne replied in a soft, deadly serious tone.

  “Agreed,” Henry replied.

  “But...we speak in Gaelic,” one of the Montvales spoke.

  “That does na’ matter, Iain! You are in a place of governance. No language is safe. And this is an audience room with great sound quality. Add to that the surfeit of listeners about us!” Henry still whispered, but it was rapid and intent.

  “Oh,” someone answered.

  “Are you ready?”

  It took a moment to realize Rhoenne spoke to her. Cassandra jerked. Shook her head to clear it. And looked up at him again.

  “Do na’ make me carry you. Please? I have created enough court scandal for one evening,” Rhoenne remarked beneath his breath.

  “One evening?” Henry huffed. “I think you’ve earned that position for the next year or so, my laird. Mayhap longer.”

  “And isn’t that your fault?”

  Henry looked up at Rhoenne. Rhoenne looked at his man. Cassandra looked from one to the other.

  “The hall,” they both said in unison.

  Rhoenne put his arm out for Cassandra. The moment she put her fingers atop his forearm, they were moving. He was so big. So solid. So intense. She skipped beside him without thought.

  They were expected. Soldiers lined both sides of the door. More stood in the hall outside. The door to the audience chamber shut behind them. Henry approached the man wearing the biggest hat.

  “Is there an antechamber we may make use of? For a moment or two?”

  The man tipped his head slightly. Considered. Then turned and opened the door behind him. The group filed in. Henry and Euan first. Rhoenne bringing Cassandra.
The others followed. Henry started speaking the moment the door closed behind them.

  “I do na’ ken your issue, Ramhurst!”

  The words were not whispered. And they were angered.

  “His issue with what?” Euan asked.

  “That woman!”

  “Which one? The auld crone?”

  “Mind your tongue! She is the sister to the duca!”

  “So? What does she want with us?” Euan asked.

  “She does na’ want us. She wants Cassandra,” Henry retorted.

  “She does? Why?”

  “Because she is her granddaughter!”

  There was a collective intake of air from several of them. “Her granddaughter?” someone asked.

  “How do you ken this?” Euan asked.

  “Because I listened!”

  “You understand their tongue?”

  “Of course. ’Tis na’ that difficult. We’ve been selling and trading on the market, Euan. If you do na’ ken the speech, you do na’ get good prices. You get poorly treated, and disrespected. The Cretan Greek they also speak is the harder one to pick up. If you spent time with trade rather than filling your belly and flirting with women, you’d ken the language, too.”

  “I do more than flirt with them,” Euan replied defensively.

  A couple of the men chuckled.

  So, that’s how Rhoenne knew Venetian.

  Cassandra’s gaze strayed up to him. Her fingers still rested on his forearm. He hadn’t removed them. And she wasn’t willing to release him at all. He wasn’t watching the men conversing before him. He was watching her. He had his eyes narrowed. His lips pursed. She glanced back down before her blush showed.

  “You are telling us that auld woman is Cassandra’s grandmother?”

  “Aye.”

  “Doesn’t that make Cassandra, uh...what? Niece to the ruler, the duca fellow?”

  “Grand-niece,” one of them interposed.

  “It gets worse,” Henry continued

  “How is any of this bad?” Euan asked.

  “Cassandra’s father is—I mean was – a Bulgarian prince!”

  “Truly? She’s a...princess?” Euan voice was an even higher pitch than normal. “But this is astounding. Is there a reward somewhere for her return?”