by Jean, Rima
“Of course,” Marguerite agreed. “It’s completely safe.”
He smiled. “It is never safe, my lady. No doubt Saladin plans his attack as we speak. But you have always enjoyed a bit of danger, no? I will let you return to your target practice, and I will see you at dawn.” He bowed. “Lady Marguerite, Lady Sara.”
Marguerite pressed her lips together to keep from smiling—she would finally get to hunt. Zayn, on the other hand, felt heavy with fear. He hadn’t recognized her—yet. The more time he spent in her company, however… She did not want to go hunting with Earic Goodwin again. The last time was enough of a catastrophe. She feigned happiness for Marguerite, but she felt nothing good could come of this.
Nothing good at all.
…
The hunting party that greeted them the following dawn was large—larger than Zayn had expected. In fact, it was a royal hunting party, as King Baldwin himself was among the hunters, riding a beautiful black courser. His saddle was red and trimmed with silver, and his spurs were made of gold.
Zayn immediately scanned the knights in the party. Only two Templars were among them, and neither of them was Guy de Molay. She exhaled in relief; only Earic was her concern today. She turned away when one of the knights caught her looking and bared his stained teeth.
“Sara and I are not the only lady hunters,” Marguerite said to Earic, stroking the mane of her gray mare.
Earic twisted in his saddle to look behind him. He was dressed in the modest attire allowed by the Templars, a white linen shirt, the long tunic, dark breeches, and boots. He wore his sword belt and sword, and carried a hunting spear. He looks dashing, even as a warrior-monk. Zayn felt a heat flush her throat. Fair Boy had grown up nicely. “No,” Earic replied, “Lady Agnes of Poitiers enjoys the hunt as well, and I’ve heard she is quite good with the longbow.”
Marguerite smiled slyly at Zayn. “Not as good as Sara, I’d wager.”
“I can’t imagine that she would be,” Earic replied warmly, his eyes resting on Zayn for an uncomfortable moment. She could feel the sweat trickle down her back, between her shoulder blades. She was terrified he would somehow recognize her, and she willed him to look away. I am nothing but stone. He stared as though he might ask her something, but thought better of it. She relaxed her grip on the reins. She was safe—for now.
The hunting party left Jerusalem and the desert hills of Judea for the coastal woodlands. The air became humid, and Zayn could smell the sea, even taste it. The earth was as damp and salty as the air, and small trees, palms, and shrubs provided the wildlife with shelter. King Baldwin was eager to begin his hunt, and the party spread out. The king was trailed by his knights and kinsmen, trackers, beaters, falconers, attendants, saluki hounds, and a mule that carried footsnares, nets, spears, and javelins.
Soon Zayn, Marguerite, and Earic found themselves somewhat separated from the group. Marguerite and Earic were absorbed in conversation about the past, and Zayn rode beside them quietly, her eyes and ears on the woods around them. She admitted to herself that she half listened to their conversation as well, and she heard Marguerite ask, “So tell me about your training as a knight. Was it difficult?”
“For some, maybe,” he said, his eyebrow twitching upward, “but not for me. Of course.”
“Of course,” Marguerite agreed with pretended gravity.
“We learned many things. Horsemanship, marksmanship, wrestling, skill with the sword. Crossbow and longbow shooting, maneuvering and charging in conrois formation, jousting, running at the quintain. We spent a lot of time repairing our equipment and armor and caring for our horses.” He grinned. “And we prayed. A lot. Millions of Pater Nosters.”
“Have you fought in battle yet?”
“No,” he answered, looking away. “I cannot say that I am eager to, either.”
She looked at him strangely. “Why not?”
He seemed to contemplate before answering, “I am not eager to kill men, even if they are pagans and infidels. I have been bred to defend the Christian faith in the name of God, to believe that God wills it, and yet…” He trailed off, shrugging.
In her mind, Zayn heard the Franks’ cry: “God wills it!” Deus le volt! She’d heard it often in her lifetime, bellowed from the scarred lips of knights.
Marguerite said carefully, “I can understand your reluctance to kill, I believe.”
“Yes, well, you’re a woman. I am a man.” He chuckled. “You should see the kind of torment my peers inflicted upon me for saying so.”
“I can’t believe you would stand for such torment,” she said.
“I don’t,” he replied with a smile. “And they torment me no longer, for fear of my fist.” He held up his right hand and curled his callused fingers into his palm one by one. Marguerite giggled.
Zayn smiled, too, ducking her head lest they notice. So Gerard de Molay did not break him. Her heart squeezed for him, in spite of herself.
Howls carried in the wind, and they knew the king was in hot pursuit of something, not too far away. Earic glanced at Marguerite. “Will you stay and wait a moment?”
“I want to come with you,” Marguerite insisted, tugging on the reins.
“Marguerite, this is your first hunt. I am responsible for your safety, as I am the one who invited you. Allow me to look ahead before you plunge into the chase.” Earic looked at her imploringly, and Marguerite could do nothing but agree.
“Hurry back,” she said as he led his horse into the bramble, toward the howling dogs. She looked at Zayn and frowned. “We wait, then.”
Zayn was about to say something, to agree with Earic’s caution, when she heard a crackle of branches, at first distant, but quickly growing louder. She reached for her bow, her senses tingling. The bushes nearby shuddered and something large and dark broke through the thicket, snorting and snuffling. The creature rushed past them in a wave of tall grass, and Marguerite wasted no time drawing her spear and spurring her mare into action. “Ha!” she yelled, her thin shoulders hunched, her veil and riding cloak fluttering behind her.
“My lady, wait!” Zayn cried, to no avail. The lady was off and running. Cursing under her breath, Zayn kicked her mare to follow. She heard a man’s voice call behind her and the galloping of a horse, and she hoped Earic had returned and was following as well. As she tore through the branches, she felt for the smooth wood of her spear with her right hand, her gaze following the flutter of Marguerite’s blue cloak, the silver and gold embroidery shimmering in the light that filtered down from between the trees. She pursued Marguerite into a small clearing with a shallow marsh, the hoofbeats of the horses dulled by the moist soil.
From between the blur of leaves and branches, she saw Marguerite lean forward with purpose, her spear lifted and pointing, her arms and legs tensed. Before Zayn spotted the boar, she heard it snorting from the cane brakes, and it was then that she saw its yellow eyes gleaming ominously. It emerged bellowing, charging with as much purpose as its hunter. Its stout, neckless body was massive and wrapped in black bristles. Yellowed tusks sprouted from the lower portion of its mouth, and smaller upper canines glistened from beneath its snout. By leaping sideways and thrusting its head upward, the beast would gore whatever blocked its path effortlessly with its ivory daggers, intent on surviving.
Zayn tightened her grip on the reins, fear rising from her belly. Marguerite was no match for this beast.
Within the blink of an eye, Marguerite’s cloak snagged the low-lying branches of a sycamore; with a lurch, she was yanked clean off her horse. The horse reared back as its rider fell with a nauseating splash into the marsh, her spear flung to the back and away. The boar, recognizing this fortuitous turn of events, lowered its enormous head and picked up speed, its tusks cocked downward toward its prey. How easily the tables had turned! Zayn heard herself scream an oath as she drove her mare forward, the handle of her spear slick with sweat. Her power streamed through her, and she refused to despair.
More as a matter of habit than o
f logic, she cast her spear aside and flipped a knife from each of her sleeves. She let go of the reins and drew back her arm. Seeing as how she was bouncing in her saddle, her aim would be something less than perfect, she realized, but she had no other choice in the matter. She could only try and keep her eyes on the quilled black hump of the animal as it charged through the cane brakes toward a fallen and scrambling Marguerite. With a silent prayer to a god—any god—she let the knives fly from her hands in succession.
As the blades left her, she reached for two others, at her ankles, not waiting to see if she’d hit her target. She heard Marguerite’s cry but could see only the flailing of her arms from between her horse’s legs and the dashes of mud as the boar leaped screeching in the marsh. Blindly, she flung another knife, bouncing, her horse threatening to throw her. Before it had the chance, however, she grabbed her dagger and flung herself down into the mud, screaming, “Marguerite! Marguerite!”
Although it had grown eerily quiet in the marsh, Zayn stumbled knee-deep into the thick, murky water, her heart thudding in her ears, her skirts dragging between her legs, brandishing her dagger. She followed the sound of gasping to see Marguerite, the whites of her eyes bright in a face coated with mud, rolling from side to side, grasping her thigh. A mound of bristles bobbed facedown before her, three knives protruding from between its head and shoulder blade. Zayn drove her dagger into the boar to ensure its death. Then she stumbled forward, grabbing hold of Marguerite’s shoulders. “Did it pierce you?” she asked through gasps.
Marguerite nodded wordlessly, her face pinched. The mud around her was stained with blood. Earic’s voice, his horse splashing in the mud, behind Zayn. “God in heaven,” he groaned, sinking down beside Marguerite. He tried to lift her into his arms; she cried out in pain.
Zayn quickly pulled her blades from the boar and leaped out of the marsh, toward the sound of approaching horsemen. “Lady Marguerite has been injured!” she cried. “Make haste!”
The men pitched a tent and carried Marguerite, laying her down on a cot. The king’s own physician had come, and he began tending to her wounds immediately, unrolling a flap of tent for privacy. Zayn slumped to the ground beside the tent, listening to Marguerite’s groans and whimpers. She was grateful that King Baldwin had come on the hunt, for without the king there would be no royal physician. Maids offered her wet cloths with which to clean herself, but Zayn waved them away, uninterested in anything but Marguerite’s injury.
The boar she had killed hung by its feet, and several knights and barons complimented her on the kill. She thanked them, her voice hollow, saying that her lady’s welfare was all that mattered. Marguerite cried out, her voice muffled, and Zayn sat up, tearing the grass with her muddy hands.
“She would not be alive, were it not for you.” Earic held a cup of spiced beer out to her, his face drawn and streaked with mud. She accepted it, feeling sorry for him. He sat down in the grass beside her, letting out a great sigh. “’Tis all my fault.”
“No,” Zayn said softly, shaking her head nervously. “My lady is a willful young woman. It is nothing you did.”
“I shouldn’t have left the two of you alone.”
“You couldn’t have known—”
“Still,” he interrupted, scowling. “I was foolish to invite her, to put her in harm’s way. I will never forgive myself. Neither will her mother, Lady Melisende.” She felt him tilt his head to look at her, and her innards quivered. She brought the cup to her lips in an effort to hide her face. “By God, Lady Sara… Where did you learn to throw knives like that?”
Zayn choked on the bitter drink. He’d seen her throw knives! Her mind raced. What kind of a lady learned to throw knives? “I threw nothing but my spear,” she said hoarsely. “Then I stabbed the beast with my dagger.”
His eyes locked with hers as he pulled one of her small, glinting blades from his pocket. His lips barely moved. “This is yours, I believe?”
She could hear the ocean’s waves crashing in her head. Her limbs tingled. She would not break his gaze. “Be very careful, Fair Boy,” she said, her voice deadly.
The tension was broken by the physician, who pulled back a flap of the tent and looked directly at her. “My lady Marguerite asks for you.” He looked at Earic. “She asks for you as well, Brother Earic.”
Earic turned away first. “How is she?”
The doctor nodded. “The wound is deep, but it should heal well, God willing.”
Earic held open the flap, allowing Zayn to step inside before him. Marguerite was pale, with mud encrusted on her clothes and under her fingernails. Her gown was pulled down over her leg, covering her injury. She smiled upon seeing Zayn and Earic. “What a mess,” she groaned, a delicate pink tinting her cheeks. “I’m sorry I rushed off after that horrid animal. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Marguerite’s gaze rested on her lady-in-waiting, and Zayn felt as though she were falling into their chartreuse depths. “Sara, how can I ever repay you for saving my life?”
Zayn frowned. “Repay me? You owe me nothing, my lady. I love you like a sister. I thought nothing of it, coming to your aid.”
Marguerite reached out and grasped Zayn’s brown hand in her white one. “You must teach me how to shoot and ride like that, Sara!”
Willing herself not to look at Earic, Zayn replied, “Of course, my lady. But you must promise to be more careful in the future.”
“And can you forgive me, lady, for leading you to danger?” Earic asked, looking much like the little boy Zayn remembered.
“Oh, Earic.” Marguerite sighed, letting her head fall back against a cushion. “None of this was your doing. It was all mine.”
As they played games of draughts and backgammon, waiting for King Baldwin to return from his hunt, Zayn excused herself to retrieve a cup of wine for her lady. She emerged from the tent into the noonday sun, the air thick with the sea. A tendril of black hair escaped her veil and crimped from the humidity. Earic’s presence had turned into the nightmare she’d dreaded. And now that she’d called him “Fair Boy…” She thought frantically, running through her options. I could send word to Masyaf…but then they would likely kill him. Her mind balked at the idea of another Assassin murdering Earic. They would likely be cruel and prolong his death to make him suffer.
As she held out her lady’s silver cup to the attendant carrying a jug of wine, members of the king’s party began returning from the woods. Having refilled the cup, she turned to go back to the tent. Two hounds, their tongues dry and lolling from their mouths, brushed past her, whimpering for water. A feline cry made her pause and look back, and she froze when she saw the three royal cheetahs slink toward her, tied by a long rope to their master.
Bashar smiled at her. “We meet again, Lady Sara,” he said, his voice grating on her nerves. He pronounced the word lady with irony, as though he would laugh were they alone. “I hear Lady Marguerite had a frightful accident this morning.” He clicked his tongue, feigning concern, his eyebrows knit together.
The tips of her fingers blanched against the cup she held. “Yes, but she will recover well in time.”
“Inshallah,” Bashar whispered so that the Christians wouldn’t hear him. “I hear, too, that had you not killed the beast that attacked her…”
“I did not know you had come on this hunt with us, Hakim,” Zayn said, her voice more abrasive than she’d intended.
Bashar’s smile widened, his eyes hardened. His voice was the same one he’d used with her back at Masyaf, when he’d held the knife to her back in the marketplace. “You only know what I want you to know, my lady.”
“As wonderful as it is to talk with you, Hakim,” Zayn said between her teeth, “my lady awaits.”
“Lady Sara,” Bashar said as she turned away, taking a step toward her. His voice was low now, and all pretenses had faded from his face. “You endanger us with your acts of heroism. Your behavior is unwise. Remember who she is. Remember that, were she to understand what you are, she would have you kil
led in an instant.”
Zayn had frozen in place and now turned to smile wanly at the cheetah keeper. “Go in peace, Hakim,” she said, then turned and strode back to Marguerite’s tent, the wine trembling in its cup.
Chapter Thirteen
The attendants and ladies cowered in the shadows, trying to melt into the stone walls and disappear. Zayn did not blame them; she herself was longing to escape Marguerite’s bedchamber, where the restless lady and her imposing mother glared at each other.
“I have a mind to take you back to Ramla,” Lady Melisende said, her mouth set in a tight line, the tendons of her neck taut with anger. Like Marguerite, she had the beautiful copper hair and fair skin, but unlike her daughter, Melisende was plain, lacking Marguerite’s cat-like green eyes and delicate features. She wore a richly embroidered gown and a thick silk barbette wrapped over her hair and under her chin. A coronet sat atop her head, on her veil. “Clearly you are incapable of being at Court—”
“Mama, it’s not true!” Marguerite seethed, trying to sit farther upright on her bed. Her injury had fouled her temper; she was confined to her bower until it healed well enough for her to walk again. “I admit that what I did was foolish. But it is not cause to remove me from Court.”
“You are a most obstinate child,” Melisende snapped. “I should have never allowed any of this. The archery lessons, the riding lessons. What nonsense!”
Zayn stiffened. Surely Lady Melisende didn’t plan on dismissing her? After all, she was the one who had taught Marguerite the archery. Unfortunately, Lady Melisende was more West than East, even though she had spent most of her life in Outremer.
“And I certainly hadn’t anticipated that Earic Goodwin would return so soon to Jerusalem,” Melisende continued. “Like a bee to honey, he found you straightaway, didn’t he?”
Marguerite’s eyes blazed. “Mama, Earic is my good friend. He—”
“The two of you are wasting your time.” Lady Melisende paced to the window and crossed her arms. “He is a Templar. You are an Ibelin, and as such, heiress to the Lordship of Ramla. The man who marries you—”
