He listened carefully, discerning three different footfalls moving toward him. There were three guards in the cell instead of two, upping the odds against him, yet he knew his lust for vengeance would see him through. The friends he had lost in the Lebanese mountains would soon receive justice.
Guy heard chuckling and lowered voices speaking directly above him, and knew the guards were looking down at him. Someone lightly kicked his leg, but he did not move, not even when the kick came harder the second time. Someone else slapped his face, and his head lolled convincingly to the side.
Thinking he was out cold, the guards laughed loudly now and began to talk among themselves, their conversation boastful and relaxed. It was his cue.
Guy seized the waterpipe next to him and swung with all his might, hitting one guard’s knees as he jumped to his feet. The man buckled and Guy swung again, shattering the pipe on the stricken guard’s head. The man fell heavily to the floor.
The two other guards came at him with their bare hands, for he had attacked so swiftly that they had not had time to draw their swords. Towering over them both, Guy grabbed the nearest guard by the throat and threw him against the wall. The man slumped senseless to the floor.
Unnerved by the sight of his fallen companions, the last guard uttered a short, guttural cry and made a break for the door, but he was not fast enough. Guy caught him by his belt and collar and hoisted him in the air, using the flailing man as a battering ram against the window’s iron bars. Blood and brains spattered upon the ledge, and the guard crumpled into a lifeless heap below the window.
Breathing hard and fast, Guy winced at the sharp pain in his shoulder as he bent and picked up a curved scimitar. The weapon was lighter than the swords he usually wielded, but just as deadly. He took care to slit the throats of the two other guards, a ruthless but necessary precaution, then he rushed to the door, his battle-honed instincts guiding his every move.
His immediate concern was how the hell to get out of the prison without bringing the rest of the guards down upon him. He peered around the door into a large cavernous room lined with many similar cells, but as far as he could tell they were dark and empty, no other guards in sight.
Clutching the scimitar tightly with both hands, he was about to step from the cell when he heard male voices. One belonged to the captain of the guards; the two others he didn’t recognize.
“Damn!” Guy muttered, backing into the cell. His hands were sweating where he held the sword, not out of fear but from the sheer exhilaration of battle pumping through him. He leaned against the wall and waited as the voices drew nearer, sweat dripping down the side of his face, the cords of his neck taut and his bare chest heaving.
The next few moments were a bright crimson blur. When two more guards rushed in the open door, followed by the alarmed captain, Guy reacted like a demon unleashed.
One guard fell instantly, clutching his abdomen as his lifeblood spilled between his splayed fingers, while the other guard fought Guy bravely before he, too, followed his compatriot into Paradise. That left the white-faced captain of the guards, who brandished his sword and circled Guy, awaiting his first move.
“Keys … and maybe you will live,” Guy demanded in halting Arabic, pointing his sword tip at the iron ring nestled in the captain’s sash. “Keys!”
Clearly astonished that Guy spoke his language, the captain shook his head fiercely. He cursed Guy to the high heavens as he continued to circle and better his stance, his scimitar flashing dangerously in the yellow lantern light.
“Then die,” Guy said harshly in his own tongue, any thought of mercy vanishing as fleetingly as it had come. By all the martyred saints, he had no time for this!
He lunged at the captain so suddenly that he took the man completely off guard. With little remorse he struck him through the heart and pinned him to the wall. “For Reginald Welles, you bloody bastard.” The man clutched at the blade, his face twisted in horror, on his last breath a rasping curse.
Guy didn’t even blink. He had been so cursed many times before. He wrenched the iron key ring from the bloodied sash and turned from the dead man’s glazed, unseeing eyes, not bothering to remove the sword. He looked at the wild sprawl of lifeless bodies around him, then down at his own bloodstained trousers.
He needed clothes.
Guy quickly stripped the guards and donned garments that were not too bloodied: a voluminous pair of ankle-length pantaloons, a tunic, an overgarment with a wide belt, and a braided shoulder mantle. The clothes were a bit small for him, but he hoped that in the dark no one would notice either that or any telltale splatters of blood. Last, he slid on a pair of short leather boots, the only thing that fit him properly, and wound a long scarf around his head, securing it with a black double-ringed cord.
He picked up another highly polished sword and looked at his reflection in the famed mirrorlike Damascus steel. With his thick, dark beard and borrowed robes he could easily pass for an Arab on the moonlit streets—if no one asked him any questions. His poor Arabic would get him into trouble the minute he opened his mouth. He needed Leila’s help …
Clutching the precious key ring in one hand and the scimitar in the other, Guy left the cell and its silent, staring dead. He shut the door, hoping to stave off any curious guards for at least a while, and began to search for a way out of the prison. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he spied a bolted door which appeared to face the same direction as his cell.
Guy lifted the bolt and pushed on the door, but it was locked. He began fitting key after key into the rusted keyhole, all the while keeping a cautious lookout over his shoulder. He tried another key, and then another, with still no success.
“Come on … come on,” he whispered, cold sweat beading his brow. Finally one of the keys grated in the lock and the door swung open in squeaky protest. A strong breeze snatched at his robes as he stepped into the sweet freedom of the night, tense elation pulsing through his veins.
He tossed the key ring to the ground and tucked the scimitar into his belt, then shut the door and went directly to the wall he had virtually memorized during his captivity. He followed the ragged young boy’s recent example and began to scale the rough-hewn surface, counting brick by brick. By the time he reached the flat roof, he was straining from exertion, his right shoulder on fire. He hoisted himself over the edge and lay down on his stomach, gasping in great lungfuls of the cool night air.
When he had caught his breath, Guy rubbed his eyes and looked out over the myriad rooftops of Damascus. The ancient city was hauntingly beautiful in the pale moonlight, but he had no time to think of that now.
He had to find Leila. She was his only way out of this godforsaken place. With her command of Arabic, surely she could get them safely through the city gates and on their way to Acre.
Guy began to crawl silently to the opposite side of the building. Even if there was the remotest possibility he might escape this city on his own, he’d be damned if he would leave without her. He could never live with himself, knowing he had left her behind in Saracen hands. To do so would be to disgrace his chivalric oath which demanded that he defend his fellow Christians against the cruelty of heretics and infidels.
And if anyone’s plight had touched him, it was Leila’s. He would find her and help her escape, or gladly die in the attempt.
Guy reached the other side of the roof and looked down into the narrow deserted alley below. He climbed down the wall just as before, brick by brick, until his feet touched solid ground. So far, all was well.
He walked onto a main street, his robes fluttering around his legs, and turned left, heading away from the accursed prison. He kept his head down when passersby drew close, but to his relief he was attracting no curious attention. He hurried along the dark winding street, for it was past sunset, not stopping until he came upon a bent old man who was closing up his fabric shop for the night.
Guy knew that if he said too much he would give himself away. “Sinjar Al-Aziz,”
he muttered gruffly, clearing his throat and coughing. He was counting on the physician being as renowned as Leila had said he was, otherwise he would never find the right house.
The old Arab studied him through dimmed eyes, then pointed down the street, uttering a string of directions that Guy barely understood. When the man finished speaking Guy nodded graciously, his heart beating hard against his chest as he continued walking eastward along the same street.
So the physician Al-Aziz was a famous man, Guy thought, amazed and encouraged when each of the three passersby he stopped next was able to direct him further along his way. No one seemed in the least bit surprised that he should be asking about him; perhaps they simply believed he was seeking some medical treatment for his feigned cough.
At last Guy came to a narrow side street with elegant one-story houses built alongside the northernmost wall of the city. He could hear rushing water beyond the walls; it sounded like a fast-flowing river. The last man he had spoken with had said the home of Al-Aziz was the fourth one from the corner. Guy would know it by the intricately carved brass plates upon the door.
He paused just past the third house and looked up and down the dark, quiet street. Good. No one was coming. He could see the polished brass door on the next house, and his heart seemed to beat all the faster. He had found it! Now, how was he going to get inside? Certainly not by the front door, where any armed guards inside might see fit to carve him into little pieces …
He looked up at the flat roof, carefully weighing his next move. The windowless front wall was high, but he was probably tall enough to reach the ledge if he jumped for it.
Guy did just that, grimacing at the pain that shot through his shoulder and right arm. Ignoring it, he pulled himself up, swinging his leg to the side and over the ledge. In the next instant he was hugging the roof’s tiled surface, where he craned his neck and got his bearings.
From what he could tell, the house was very large and divided into two main sections, with multileveled roof terraces here and there and large, lit spaces which must open into courtyards. All he had to do now was find the harem.
He crept across the roof, listening for any light, female laughter. If this physician was so wealthy, surely he had dozens of women to pleasure him. Thinking of Leila among that number, he felt anger sweep through him, fueling his furtive search.
He kept low, sometimes stealing on his hands and knees, until he reached the first terrace. All was still and silent; no one occupied the white gazebo. He moved around it and came to a courtyard, his eyes widening at the sight of a stout, silk-clad woman reclining below on a central divan while what appeared to be slave women scurried around her bearing silver trays laden with food and drink. The richly dressed woman’s tone was sharp and commanding as she clapped her hands, and Guy shuddered, frowning.
Probably a wife … and a most unappealing one at that, he guessed, watching for any sign of Leila among the many slaves.
Long, tense moments passed, and still he did not see her. Growing impatient and beginning to doubt his chances of finding her, Guy crept past a trellised terrace toward the farthest corner of the house, then stopped again when the roof opened into another courtyard lit by softly glowing lanterns. He crouched there, his gaze sweeping the lush, green interior, but it was empty.
He sat back on his haunches, a hollow ache of despair welling inside him. It was an emotion that rarely afflicted him, and he didn’t like it at all. Yet as he considered his next move, he couldn’t seem to shake it.
Maybe Leila wasn’t here. Maybe Sinjar Al-Aziz had several homes in Damascus, one for his wives and one for his concubines. He had heard stories of such practices among the small Moslem population in Acre. If that was the case, the odds of finding her were dwindling indeed, and he was fast running out of time. Surely his escape from prison would be discovered soon, if it hadn’t been already. Once the alarm was raised he would never get out of the city, whether she was with him or not
Guy froze, his breath catching at the sight of a petite, dark-haired woman entering the courtyard. Dressed in rose-colored silk, she paused by a marble couch, her head bowed, the gold embroidered edges of her translucent veil hiding her face from view. He heard her sigh, and his heart seemed to stop at the plaintive sound. Then she slowly lifted her head, revealing an exquisite profile …
Leila!
Guy jumped from the roof and landed as silently as a cat upon a grassy mound at one end of the courtyard. He stole up swiftly behind her, his footsteps masked by the babbling stream. The last thing he wanted her to do was scream. He caught her around the middle and pressed his hand over her mouth.
“Leila, don’t fear,” he whispered soothingly as she struggled against him. “It’s Guy de Warenne. I’ve come to help you … to take you with me.”
His voice had the desired effect, for she seemed to go limp in his arms, and for a fleeting moment he thought she might collapse. Holding her close, he turned her around to face him, her features hidden by his towering shadow. As he removed his hand and gently tilted her chin toward the lamplight, his stomach suddenly sank into his boots.
“By all that is holy, you’re not Leila!” Guy was so shocked that he released his hold on the woman and stared stupidly at her. From her glossy black hair to her tiny feet, she was a close replica of Leila, but she was older, by twice as much, though the years had not marred the ethereal loveliness of her face and delicately curved figure.
“Shhh, my lord! You will bring my husband’s entire household down upon us,” the woman admonished him in English, looking up at him with eyes that were without fear and glistening with unshed tears. “‘Tis truly a miracle! You are safe … and you are here! God has answered my prayers more abundantly than I could ever have hoped.” She stepped back, her gaze sweeping over him. “You have grown into a man, a knight. The last time I saw you, you were one of Ranulf de Lusignan’s young pages and could barely lift a sword.”
Guy felt as if he had stumbled into a dream. Perhaps the opium had affected his brain! He was afraid that if he spoke a single word this beautiful woman, the courtyard, everything would disappear, and he would find himself in prison again, awaiting death.
“Come.” The woman tugged urgently on his arm with what felt like a flesh and blood hand. “We cannot talk here. Curious eyes and flapping ears abound, always ready for mischief. Come with me, my lord. Please, we must hurry.”
Strangely, Guy did not protest. He went with her to a narrow archway just off the courtyard, ducking his head as she led him into a softly lit room. He took his eyes from her for an instant, his widened gaze cautiously circling the opulent interior decorated in gold, silver, and precious stones. He had never seen such luxury!
“You are safe here, Lord de Warenne, at least for a while,” he heard the woman say, the sound of his name shattering the bewildered haze that had settled over him.
His eyes fixed on her face and he grabbed her arms, as slender and delicate as water reeds. “Are you a witch, a sorceress, or an unearthly vision? How do you know the name de Lusignan?”
“I am none of those things, I can assure you, good knight,” she answered, her gossamer veil slipping from her hair as she shook her head. “You seek my daughter, Leila. She told me about you many days ago when you were first captured. I am Eve Gervais. Mayhap you remember me, though you were only a child.”
Guy’s hands slid from her arms and dropped to his sides. Eve Gervais. Surely he was seeing the phantom of a woman long thought dead. “Eve … wife to William Gervais of the Welsh Marches? You left for the Holy Land twenty years ago and—
“Never returned,” Eve finished quietly. “Yes, I am she.”
Astounded, Guy searched her face, wondering how he could not have seen it. Leila’s mother! The two women were as physically alike as only mother and daughter could be.
“What of William?” he asked, though he immediately sensed her answer from her fleeting expression of sorrow.
“Dead these many years.” She swep
t a slim hand around her lavish surroundings. “I have since been blessed with another husband, Leila’s adopted father. The physician, Sinjar Al-Aziz.”
Guy was dumbstruck, his mind reeling.
God’s blood, then Leila was no slave! She had lied to him. Why? Perhaps she was no Christian either, regardless of the zunnar around her waist, though it was clear from Eve’s words that she herself practiced the true faith. Yet she was married to an infidel …
“Ah, there is so much I could tell you, my lord, but time is our enemy this night,” Eve said urgently, breaking into his thoughts. “My son, Roger Gervais. Is he yet alive? You and he were both pages under Ranulf de Lusignan, who became Roger’s guardian when we left for the Holy Land. You were friends.”
Guy felt as if a fist had just slammed into his gut. He had been so caught up in everything Eve was telling him, he had not even considered her maternal connection with Roger Gervais.
Friends? Yes, he and Roger had been friends … once.
That had changed eight years ago when they were forced to take sides in a barons’ rebellion that threatened to tear England apart. Roger chose to ride with Simon de Montfort, earl of Leicester, the grasping Norman traitor who lusted for the English throne, while Guy fought for King Henry alongside his son, Lord Edward.
It was an irreparable rift that had ended their close friendship. After the royalists lost the Battle of Lewes, King Henry became a hostage while Edward and many of his knights, Guy among them, were imprisoned in Kenilworth Castle.
Guy felt his palms grow sweaty and a tightness gather in his chest from just thinking about Kenilworth’s dungeon and the tiny windowless cell where he had been held captive for over a year. All thanks to Roger Gervais. While Guy was left to die in prison, Roger forcibly seized his lands in both Surrey and Wales. Twenty odd Gervais knights took up residence in Warenne Castle, and one even became his wife Christine’s lover.
Captive Rose Page 8
