by Amy Sumida
“Other languages for one,” she said in between bites of food.
“Hmmm,” Rannulf leaned back in his chair in consideration. “That could actually be beneficial.”
Ayla smiled again and reached for the wine but Rannulf stopped her. He grabbed her hand lightly and Ayla pulled back in shock. He picked up the long-necked, silver carafe and poured the wine for her.
“Thank you,” she said, surprised.
“Why did that shock you?” He filled his own glass again.
“I'm unused to being served by a man,” she lifted her chalice to her lips and Rannulf’s gaze followed. He stared at her mouth after she lowered the gold chalice and watched her lick the liquid off her full lips. “Is this normal for your people, then?”
“I…,” Rannulf blinked in confusion and looked back at her mesmerizing eyes. “What?”
“Men serving women, is that a normal occurrence?” Ayla frowned and wondered at his distraction.
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way,” Rannulf chuckled. “But yes, it is normal. It's one way that we show respect to women. It's called chivalry.”
“You show your captive respect then?” Ayla looked at him sideways. “Chivalry?”
“A man can show his strength through kindness,” Rannulf shrugged.
“What an odd thing for you to say,” Ayla scooped more stew into her mouth.
“You mean, for a barbarian killer?” Rannulf narrowed his eyes at her.
“Your words, m’lord, not mine,” Ayla hid her smile behind the chalice she suddenly raised.
“What would your words be, then?” Rannulf pressed.
“My words?” Ayla considered the question. “Murderer, rapist, thief, enslaver.” Rannulf’s hand shot across the table and gripped her arm.
“Be careful, m’lady,” Rannulf growled.
“You would prefer I lie to you?” Ayla cocked her head. “How like a man. Very well, how would I phrase it tactfully?” Ayla thought for a moment while Rannulf glowered at her. “Hero, lusty warrior, conqueror, victor.”
“I'm not a murderer,” Rannulf ground out. “The battle was a holy war, ordained by the Pope himself. The lives I took were in the name of God.”
“What kind of God requires the slaughter of innocents?” Ayla finished her last piece of bread and looked calmly at him.
“It was not a slaughter and your people are not innocents,” Rannulf took another steadying breath. Why couldn’t she just make him laugh again? She'd been so pleasant for a moment. “The Seljuks took control of Jerusalem and denied Christians their right of pilgrimage to the holy city.”
“So you lay siege to Antioch, of course,” Ayla’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“We needed to cast the Seljuks out of this territory completely,” Rannulf wondered why he was explaining war to a woman, “to eliminate their threat.”
“I see,” Ayla nodded. “What kind of threat do women and children pose?” Rannulf squirmed uncomfortably under her penetrating stare. Had he not asked himself those very questions, not so long ago? He hadn’t come up with any answers then, either.
“I don’t abdicate the killing of women and children and I did none myself,” he said softly. He looked out the balcony doors, remembering the horrible day they'd taken Antioch. The cold, unseeing eyes of thousands of children, stared at him accusingly. Those were the faces that would haunt him, those as well as the women. At least the children had received quick deaths. The women’s screams for mercy, still echoed in his head and brought shivers to his skin. How any soldier of Christ could be so cruel, was beyond him.
Ayla stared at Rannulf in concern. His eyes had a sudden glazed look to them and his skin had gone pale. Maybe there really was a heart inside the tough exterior. Ayla could only guess at the terrible things Rannulf had seen. She reached out and gripped his hand in sympathy, letting her guard down for a brief moment.
Unfortunately, a moment was all her soul needed to connect with his. Suddenly she saw, through his eyes, the atrocities of that night. She saw the bodies littering the streets, rivers of blood and crazed men cutting down anyone in their path. She heard the screams and even worse, the pitiful moans of beaten, abused women. She saw the church he'd entered for comfort and the woman with her daughter. She saw him save their lives and felt his bitter disappointment in his brethren.
Ayla gasped and pulled back, looking at Rannulf with wide eyes. She had never seen through another before. She hadn’t even known it was possible. That she had experienced such a wondrous thing with this Christian was unfathomable. There was a connection between them, whether she wanted to accept it or not. The Goddess must have brought them together for a reason.
Rannulf stared at her with trepidation. He wasn’t sure what had happened exactly but he'd felt something coarse through him, a sort of warm shivering sensation. Ayla was looking a little scared, which couldn’t bode well. Her eyes began to clear slowly and she reached forward and lightly touched his cheek.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. “Your battle wages still, doesn’t it, Christian?” Her voice flowed over him like an embrace.
His gaze locked with hers and he felt an immense pull to her. A single tear slid down her cheek as she withdrew her hand from his. She knew, he realized suddenly. Maybe she really could see straight into his soul. A shiver went down his spine as he thought of her seeing deeper into him than anyone ever had. Why wasn’t she repulsed by the things he'd done?
“Your war is not just with the Turks,” she continued, “but with your own people.”
Rannulf took a deep breath and then a gulp of wine. Her words should scare him much more than they did but her eyes held only sympathy and understanding. It was hard to fear kindness, especially in a woman, especially in this woman. He reached out and wiped the tear from her face.
“What just happened, Ayla?” He asked softly.
“I’m not sure,” she said honestly then she took a sip of wine herself. “I saw the battle through your eyes. I saw the woman and her child, in the church of your God.”
Rannulf inhaled sharply as he had confirmation of his suspicions. He shouldn’t have been so shocked. She had come to him in a dream, why wouldn’t she be able to see into his past? When his shock died down a little, he realized that he was relieved she knew. It seemed to elevate him in her eyes and although he knew he shouldn’t be, he was glad for it.
“That’s never happened to me before,” Ayla confessed. “I never ever knew it could be done.”
“What are you saying?” Rannulf was confused. “You didn’t do it on purpose? How did it happen then?”
“I would never try to invade your mind,” Ayla sat back. “Your private thoughts are private for a reason. If you want me to know them, you will tell me.” Ayla’s words calmed Rannulf’s worries and put him at ease.
“Then how?” He pressed her.
“I don’t know,” Ayla reaffirmed. “It seems that we melded in your pain. The gods are not always clear about why they do things. I must have needed to see that.”
Rannulf wasn’t pleased with all her Pagan talk but he did like the idea of melding with her. He smiled a little to himself as he realized he was too exhausted to attempt another seduction. The witch would have her way tonight. He looked at her and offered her his hand.
“The day has been long,” he said quietly. “It’s time to retire.” Ayla looked down at his hand with trepidation. “I am too tired for anything but sleep,” he reassured her.
She took his hand and let him lead her to the large bed. As he removed his clothing she looked away modestly. Then he was pulling on her kaftan. She pushed his hands away and removed only her sash and kaftan before climbing into bed. He smiled and decided not to pressure her tonight. He climbed under the covers and pulled her up against him.
Ayla stiffened in fear but he only nuzzled his face into her neck and fell asleep. She relaxed a little but soon she was faced with a new problem…how to find her own rest while he snored loudly in her ear. She sighed an
d tried to pry his arm free but his grip was steel. Finally she grabbed a pillow and stuffed it between their heads. Rannulf shifted a little but remained asleep. She laid back her head in satisfaction. Her last thought before she drifted off, was of Rannulf kneeling in regret, at the altar of Christ.
Chapter Eighteen
“My Lord Bohemund?” A soft knocking, accompanied the voice.
Bohemund groaned, rolled out of the magnificent bed and opened the door. John the Oxite stood there, smiling.
“Good morning, my lord,” John said. “I was wondering if you would join me in breaking our fast.” Now Bohemund noticed the servant girl, with a tray of food, behind John. His stomach growled and he waved them in impatiently.
The girl put the tray on the low, Turkish table and exited. John sat down on the couch and started drizzling honey on a piece of warm bread. Bohemund joined him at the table, rubbed his eyes sleepily, then reached for the mug of ale that had accompanied the food. He took a long swallow then sighed in delight. He so preferred beer to wine.
“So, Priest,” Bohemund finally said. “What is it that makes you seek me out at first light?”
“Oh, I was wondering if you had spoken to your man yet, about Ayla,” the priest smiled again. He looked much better than he had the day before although his eyes still had dark smudges beneath them.
“Ayla?” Bohemund frowned in confusion. “What do you want with the witch?”
“I asked you yesterday, if I could speak with her,” the priest reminded him. “You said if her new master approved. As I am unaware as to his identity, I had assumed you would speak to him on my behalf.”
“Rannulf Auvray owns the woman now,” Bohemund waved his hand dismissively. “They are in Ayla’s quarters. I’m sure if you ask, he’ll allow you to see her.”
“Wonderful,” the priest beamed.
“You desire her?” Bohemund asked abruptly. He couldn’t understand why the man was so insistent on speaking with the woman.
“My Lord, I am a man of God!” John straightened and frowned at Bohemund.
“Yes, yes,” Bohemund waved at him again. “So then, why do you wish to see her so badly?”
“Frankly, I miss her,” the priest admitted. “She is very intelligent and it's rare that I speak with her and learn nothing. You should engage her in conversation occasionally, Count. Then you would know what I speak of.”
“I have no need to be schooled by a heathen woman.” Bohemund was aghast that an Orthodox Patriarch would suggest such a thing. “Have you no fear for your soul? She’s a witch.”
“I have more faith in God than that,” John smiled again. “Ayla doesn't scare me, nor do her old gods. The true god is mightier and will always prevail.”
“You don't think her evil will taint you?” Bohemund frowned at the ever-smiling priest. Did the man never stop grinning?
“How could her beliefs taint mine?” John did finally stop smiling a moment, to look at Bohemund in confusion. “It's not a disease, m’lord”
“But her magic,” Bohemund tried again. “Do you not fear that she will bewitch you?”
“Ayla is a genuinely sweet woman,” John said. “She would never bewitch someone into changing their beliefs. In fact, one of the very principles of her faith is tolerance and a desire for understanding others. She loves to talk about our religion and debate its qualities. Her questions are often just as enlightening for me, as they are for her. In truth, my faith is only empowered by her.”
“You have some strange ideas,” Bohemund had never heard a priest talk like that before. Most were completely intolerant of other religions.
“Yes,” John was back to laughing. “I guess they would seem strange to some. This land is full of people with different beliefs. Some fight, others learn to tolerate. The ones who tolerate, live longer, happier lives, I find.”
“But is it not our duty to defend our faith?” Bohemund asked. “Is that not why I’m here? In fact, you would still be enslaved, if not for us.”
“My lord, I mean no disrespect,” John said slowly. “But I would not have been imprisoned in the first place, had Yaghi-Siyan not been informed of your approach.”
“So you don't think we should be here?” Bohemund was shocked.
“Your crusade is sanctioned by the Pope himself,” John said tactfully. “It's not my place to judge. I was simply defending my principle of tolerance. I rejoice that Antioch is in Christian hands. I just wish there had been a less violent way to win her.”
“That is the only way I know,” Bohemund became pensive. “War is something I can understand; diplomacy is more Rannulf’s strong point.”
“Rannulf?” John asked. “The soldier that the men whisper about? The one you gifted with Ayla?”
“Yes,” Bohemund frowned. “The men whisper about him?”
“I’ve heard very interesting stories about the man,” the priest confirmed. “They say he was born to a camp follower, in the middle of a great battle. That Death himself welcomed him from the womb and granted him the gifts that made him into a great warrior.”
“Well,” Bohemund laughed, his foul mood suddenly lightened. “That’s actually partially true. He was born on a battlefield to a whore but you’ll have to ask him if Death truly welcomed him into life. I have a feeling Rannulf might not be as amused as I by the story though. He worked hard to become a knight and I don’t think he’d appreciate Death getting all the credit.” Bohemund laughed again. “Besides, the man prefers to prevent battles with that silver tongue of his rather than join them.”
“Ah, a well spoken man is a great friend to have,” John acknowledged. “They also say he is completely fearless because God has blessed him with invulnerability.”
“Invulnerability?” Bohemund really started to laugh. “When you meet him, be sure to ask to see the scars from the arrows we had to pull out of his back. The only reason the witch lives, is because she healed him. She practically brought him back from death.”
“Well, maybe he is just simply blessed.” The priest was smiling again.
Chapter Nineteen
Rannulf felt like he was blessed by God. He was curled up against a very warm, silky body that smelled like Heaven. When he opened his eyes he was certain of it. God was in a good mood today. Ayla’s face was softened by sleep, her long, dark lashes rested on her smooth cheeks, then fluttered as she awakened.
Ayla looked over her shoulder at Rannulf and gasped. She would have bolted straight out of bed, if he hadn’t tightened his grip on her. She took a deep breath and calmed herself a bit then tried to pull free again.
“Is there something you wanted, my lady?” Rannulf whispered in her ear.
“Yes,” Ayla snapped. “I want you to let go of me.”
“What is it that requires your immediate attention?” Rannulf nuzzled his face in her neck and sighed.
“I…I,” Ayla stammered.
“Well, if you can’t think of anything,” Rannulf grinned broadly. “I have something that requires attention.
“What are you talking about?” Ayla looked over her shoulder at his grinning face, then gasped when he pressed his need into her bottom. She renewed her struggles and he regretfully let her go. She stood, staring down at him accusingly, until the servant girl knocked on their door, proclaiming the arrival of their breakfast. Ayla opened the door for her and stepped aside so she could take the tray to the table.
Breakfast was simply warm bread, honey and a bowl of fruit. The girl had also brought a mug of ale for Rannulf and some coffee for Ayla. She emptied the tray and then left quietly. Ayla sat down to eat, trying desperately to ignore Rannulf, who was getting out of bed stark naked.
She tried to concentrate on spreading the honey over the bread. Pick up the knife, dip it into the honey, look at those incredible arms…no, stop that! Pour the coffee, spoon in the sugar, what a magnificent chest! No! She gave herself a mental shake, she would just sip her coffee. She would not stare any lower than his…oh, sweet Goddess! L
ook away, look away!
Rannulf couldn’t hold back his laughter any more. He filled the chamber with it and Ayla’s eyes shot up to his, guiltily. When he finally caught his breath, he went over to his trunk, which had been delivered the day before, and pulled out a pair of breeches.
“I had better cover up before you attack me,” he chuckled again and found a tunic.
“I was merely curious,” Ayla defended herself. “I’ve never seen a naked man before.” She turned back to her breakfast, determined to really ignore him this time.
“Would you care for another look, m’lady?” Rannulf’s voice was soft in her ear and his sudden nearness startled Ayla so much, that she spilled her coffee.
She let out a long stream of curses in Turkish, then looked back at him in disgust. Rannulf was not at all chastised, in fact he started another bout of laughter. He finally settled down on the couch next to her and reached for the coffee pot.
“Would you not prefer the ale?” Ayla offered him the mug.
“No,” Rannulf poured himself a cup of the strong Turkish coffee. “I’ve grown a liking for this drink.” He sipped at the warm, dark brew and sighed. Then he reached for the bread. It was a good accompaniment to the coffee. “It truly does have restorative properties.” He cocked an eye at the spoon next to her cup. “I thought you said spoons were unnecessary?”
“For the stew,” Ayla said. “I didn't say we never used them. What else would we stir the coffee with?” Rannulf laughed then pointed at the bowl of golden brown crystals.
“What is that?”
“Sugar,” Ayla pushed the bowl and spoon to him. “Have you never tried sugar?”
“No,” Rannulf frowned and lifted the bowl to smell it.
“It's sweet, m’lord,” Ayla laughed and handed him her cup to taste. He smiled at her unexpected offer and tried a sip of her drink. His eyes opened wide.
“It’s delicious,” he exclaimed. “But what is it? It almost has the consistency of salt.”