“Drop her down,” Eve directed him. “Thomas will catch her.”
“Thomas?”
“My friend … an Englishman and a fellow Christian. You may trust him with your life.” Eve lovingly touched Leila’s cheek one last time, kissed her, then watched dry-eyed and silent while Guy carefully released her into Thomas’s waiting arms.
“What’s in the wagon?” Guy asked Eve as Thomas drew back the canvas and settled Leila on the planked floor next to the seat, wrapping her in what looked like a heavy, white shroud.
“Corpses.”
A chill shot through Guy, the one word explaining the overpowering stench emanating from the wagon.
He laughed shortly and looked heavenward in disbelief. Now they had a pile of dead bodies to protect them if the soldiers drew too close. Perhaps their rotting friends even clutched swords in their rigid fingers!
“Trust me, my lord, you and Leila will be safe,” Eve insisted softly, as if reading his mind. “I would not wantonly risk my daughter’s life, nor yours. Thomas is a friar from our church in Bab Touma, the Christian quarter, and one of only two such men allowed in the city. It is his job to transport dead Christian slaves in his wagon to the cemetery several miles outside the city walls.”
“But what if we’re stopped along the way and the wagon searched? “
“I can assure you, Lord de Warenne, no Moslem will defile himself by touching such a cargo. Just remember to keep very still and all will be well.”
Guy swallowed hard, looking from the waiting wagon to Eve. “Then it is farewell, my la—” His words died on his lips at the sound of angry male shouts carrying across the silent rooftops from the direction of the governor’s prison. “I believe my absence has been discovered,” he said dryly, his expression grim.
“You must go. There is no more time to waste,” Eve urged, her eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. She pulled a small velvet bag from her wide sleeve and handed it to him. “Jewels … emeralds, diamonds, rubies. They should see you safely home to England. Guard her well, my lord. I have entrusted my heart’s dearest joy to your care.”
“I swear on my life that Leila will come to no harm,” Guy vowed, stuffing the bag in his sash. As he quickly lowered himself from the roof, Thomas guided his feet so he could jump down on the wagon bench.
“Lie down beside her, my lord,” Thomas directed him in a hushed voice. “I’ll tell you when we get close to Bab Charki so you’ll know not to make a sound.”
“What is Bab Charki?” Guy asked, gritting his teeth from the terrible odor assailing him as he took his place on the hard wagon floor.
“The Gate of the Sun. It’s one of the city’s main gates and heavily guarded, but we’ll have no problems if you hold your breath and play dead when we reach it … just in case the guards decide to check beneath the canvas.”
“I think I can manage,” Guy muttered, jerking his hand away when he accidentally touched the wrapped, bloated corpse next to him. “What are the odds that they might check?”
“Hopefully slight. We have some very ripe souls in this wagon that should keep them away.
Guy had to swallow hard after that comment. As Thomas tucked a heavy linen shroud tightly around his prone body and then over his head, he heard Eve fervently whisper above him, “God go with you.”
“And with you, brave Lady Eve,” he answered, the world around him growing darker still when the canvas was drawn over them and pulled taut.
The wagon jerked into motion, the iron-rimmed wheels clattering loudly when they turned from the dirt alley onto the paved side street. Guy rocked back and forth, bumping into Leila on one side and the corpse on his other, all the while breathing through his mouth and not his nose. It helped … a little.
Funny, he thought, beginning to believe he was living some bizarre and macabre nightmare. He hadn’t even asked what was to happen once they reached the Christian cemetery. Perhaps he and Leila were to walk all the way to Acre.
After what seemed a very long time, he heard Thomas hiss to him through the canvas, “We’re almost to Bab Charki, my lord. Say a prayer the lady doesn’t talk in her sleep.”
Guy tensed as the wagon ground to a halt and harsh male voices surrounded them on all sides. He lay totally still as the canvas was thrown back and the men cursed, drawing in sharp, disgusted exhalations of breath. It was obvious the guards were getting a full whiff of his putrid companions.
Yet the wagon stayed put and Guy began to sweat, fearing the worst. Had Leila moved? Had he? His fingers itched to reach for his sword, but that would surely give them away.
Suddenly the canvas was tossed back over them and the wagon wheels began to creak and turn again. Overwhelmed with relief, Guy willed himself to relax.
The wagon rumbled on, bumping over countless rocks and deep ruts in the road. Guy’s only clue that they were a safe distance from the Gate of the Sun came when Thomas muttered vehemently, “Damn bloody heathen, may the devil skewer them all on his fork and toss them into hell’s fire!” Then the friar gave a strange laugh, between a grunt and a chuckle. “If you don’t mind me saying so, my lord, me being a man of God and all.”
“Not in the least,” Guy replied, grateful for Thomas’s levity. He felt his spirits rising despite the stench. He had seen plenty of dead men in his day, but lying this close to moldering corpses was stretching the limits of his endurance.
To get his mind off his own discomfort, he wondered how Leila was faring. Now he firmly believed he and Eve had done the right thing to drug her. No woman could have endured such a ghastly experience without being reduced to frantic tears.
“This is the place,” Thomas said finally, loud enough for Guy to hear. “You can get up now, my lord.”
Guy couldn’t throw off the shroud and tear away the canvas fast enough. He leaped from the wagon and gasped in great breaths of fresh air. “Where are we?” he asked hoarsely, his eyes watering.
“Three miles south of Damascus, just past the cemetery. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way to the camp.”
“What camp?”
“Bedouin traders. Desert nomads. They camp outside the city, preferring their camel-hide tents to any inns Damascus has to offer. We must buy horses if you want to reach Acre swiftly, and the Bedouins possess the finest Arabian steeds in the land. We’ll leave the lady here—”
“No. She goes with me.”
Thomas shook his head firmly as he covered his bald scalp with a pointed hood. “If those traders catch one glimpse of her, no amount of precious jewelry will fend them off, my lord. Beauty such as hers is rare and worth a sultan’s price. They’ll kill us both to have her. She must remain in the wagon. Believe me, no one will come near the dead.” The friar went so far as to grab Guy’s arm, insisting, “Come. We must hurry. The guards will set out looking for me if I don’t return to Bab Charki within a few hours.”
Guy glanced at the wagon and decided to trust Thomas’s judgment. After all, William Gervais had been murdered by such ruthless men. Guy had no desire to share his miserable fate.
“Very well,” he said. “We will leave her here.
“Most wise, my lord,” Thomas murmured, walking with him toward the red glow of distant campfires. “When we reach the Bedouin camp, keep silent. I will bargain for the horses.”
“An easy task. My Arabic is pitiful.”
The friar chuckled, then quickly sobered. “We will buy two strong mounts in case one goes lame along the way. The journey from here to Acre will take you a full day, perhaps longer, even if you travel swiftly. You would do well to ride directly southwest following the ancient caravan routes to the coast.”
Guy nodded, his hand moving to his wide sash as they neared the first low-slung tents. “Lady Eve gave me jewels—”
“Those are for your journey,” Thomas interrupted, patting a pocket in his dark brown robe. “Majida gave me an emerald necklace when she found me at the church. It will amply cover the cost of the horses, which, knowing these t
raders, will be excessive.” His voice fell. “Here they come. No more talking, my lord.”
Guy recalled Eve’s heavy necklace and surmised that was the one the friar now possessed, but his thoughts quickly turned to the danger at hand as they were approached by a dozen silent Bedouins. He followed the friar’s lead and stopped, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. It was all he could do not to reach for his sword. These desert men in their coarse sheep’s wool robes were as menacing as any Arabs he had seen, their dark eyes cold and suspicious.
Brusque greetings and many words were exchanged between Thomas and the Bedouins, whose guarded expressions gradually became shrewd and calculating. Guy was amazed when large tasseled pillows were brought from the nearest tent for all of them to sit upon. He lowered himself warily, while one of the traders issued a string of sharp commands to bareheaded slaves standing nearby.
“Take nothing of the food or drink they may offer you,” Thomas whispered in an aside, clearly distrustful of their hosts’ overt hospitality.
In the next instant Guy did just that, shaking his head curtly when a tray laden with figs, dates, and honeyed almonds was held before him. The Bedouin seated next to him looked slightly affronted, but they were all distracted by the shrill neighing and snorting which filled the air and echoed from the sloping hillsides surrounding the camp.
The light from the campfires and smoking torches illuminated the wild and colorful scene as prancing Arabian horses led by barefoot slaves were paraded in front of the gesticulating and highly vocal traders. Guy watched Thomas choose two magnificent black stallions, the same ones he would have picked if it had been his decision, then the real haggling began. He guessed the deal was drawing to its conclusion when the friar rose to his feet and pulled the emerald necklace from his pocket, holding it up to the firelight.
A breathless hush fell over the traders as their eyes riveted on the glittering green stones. One by one they touched the necklace, weighing it in their callused palms, though none went so far as to take it from Thomas, who seemed to be extolling the jewels’ matchless quality. At last the Bedouin who seemed to be the leader gave a signal, and the two black stallions were saddled and led forward.
“Mount one of the horses. Quickly,” Thomas said, still holding on to the necklace.
Guy did so, reveling in the sensation of having a powerful animal beneath him again. He wondered fleetingly what had happened to the huge roan destrier he had brought with him from England and then left in Acre when he journeyed to Anatolia. Trained to perfection, Griffin had far surpassed any other war-horse he had ever owned. He hoped Edward had shipped the animal back to England along with the rest of his knights’ descriers.
Thomas mounted the other horse, and only then did he hand over the necklace to the Bedouins’ leader. As the traders clustered excitedly around their priceless acquisition, the friar jerked on the reins, veering his mount in the opposite direction. “Ride, my lord!”
Guy dug his heels into the stallion’s sides and rode after the friar, his mount catching up in a few forceful strides.
“Do you think they will reconsider?” he shouted over the thunderous sound of hooves striking the earth.
“They’re a crafty, avaricious lot,” Thomas shouted back. “Best to get back to the wagon and then on your way!”
Guy searched the darkness and some of his tension eased when the wagon came into view. He pulled up hard on the reins and dismounted at a run, holding his breath against the horrid stench as he gathered Leila’s limp body into his arms. Mumbling a quick prayer for the departed souls who had protected them, he remounted and settled her in front of him, waiting impatiently while Thomas tied the other stallion’s braided reins to his saddle and handed him a blanket.
“For the lady. The night is cold,” the friar said, grasping Guy’s wrist. “God grant you both a safe journey.”
“You have my eternal thanks, friend.”
Then Thomas stepped away and Guy kicked his mount, holding Leila tightly as the stallion snorted and broke into a hard gallop, the other horse cantering five feet behind them. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the Bedouins were in pursuit, but he saw only vast darkness, the friar and his wagon already faded from view.
Guy gave out a laugh of pure exhilaration. His powerfully muscled thighs hugged the saddle, his hands sure upon the reins as he veered the charging stallion to the southwest, toward Acre and freedom.
With the wind whipping at his billowing robes and wild euphoria streaking through his veins, he had never felt so alive … or so protective. The heat of Leila’s body was like a hot brand burning against his chest, reminding him of his sworn obligation to see her safely to England.
By all that he held true and sacred, he would not fail her!
Chapter 8
Leila’s head was pounding mercilessly when she opened her eyes. She immediately threw her arm over them, crying out at the blinding sunlight that had pierced her brain. With her head now hurting all the more, she trembled with nausea and lay very still, dazedly hoping the sickness would pass.
It did not. She rolled over, her eyes squeezed shut and her hands groping at thin air, and vomited. When she was finished she lay still, dangling over the edge of something soft that smelled of musk. The heavy fragrance made her sick again, this time so wretchedly that she thought her stomach would burst from the heaving pain. With her head upside down, she felt warmth rushing to her face, but she was too weak to move.
Long, agonizing minutes dragged by before she dared open her eyes again. She did so very, very slowly.
The first thing she saw was something bright red, and she thought she had vomited blood. She screamed long and loud, the stoicism she had developed after years of medical training evaporating at the terrifying sight. Other people’s blood was one thing; her own was an entirely different matter.
“May the heavens protect us, what a screeching noise you are making!” Leila heard a woman shout in Arabic as she drew a ragged breath and prepared to scream again. Two hands gripped her shoulders, hoisting her up and then pushing her back upon the soft surface, but she could not see for the hair streaming over her face.
“I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding!” she cried, hot frightened tears mingling with her black tresses as she tried frantically to wipe the whole damp mass from in front of her eyes.
“No, No, no, you’re not bleeding. Here, let me help you,” the female voice said soothingly, a musk-scented palm pushing the offending hair aside. “There now, that’s better.”
Leila blinked through her tears at the young woman staring down at her, her forehead crinkling as she tried to place the unfamiliar face.
The woman was Arab and perhaps only a few years older than herself, with beautiful eyes rimmed with kohl, a generous red mouth, and thick black hair falling below her shoulders. Her clothes were elegant, a white linen thob and sirwal that accentuated her lovely olive complexion, yet the cut of the woman’s blue brocade vest was unlike any style Leila had seen in Damascus.
After a futile moment, she gave up. She had never seen the woman before.
Leila’s gaze swept the room with its tapestried walls and spare yet luxurious furnishings. It, too, was wholly unfamiliar. She had no idea where she was, nor could she remember
“Someone drugged me she suddenly recalled in a hoarse whisper, her head aching at the effort. She had gone to her mother’s apartments … Both Eve and Majida had acted so strangely. Then she had heard footsteps and that awful sponge had covered her mouth, reeking of opium and henbane. No wonder she felt so sick.
Leila looked down and noted she was still wearing the same lavender silk clothes, though her linen robe was missing and her hair was upbraided. She also noticed for the first time the raised bed on which she was lying, the soft mattress set atop a square wooden frame with stout corner posts, and the crimson coverlet pulled up to her waist. She touched the cool satin, her eyes darting to the side of the bed and the disgusting puddle on the carpeted floor.
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Relief filled her, mixed with chagrin at her foolishness. It was the red coverlet she had seen, not her own blood. She slumped back upon the propped pillows behind her and wiped the silly tears from her face with the white linen sheet.
The woman also looked down at the carpet, frowning. She clapped her hands, and a young slave girl appeared in the room, her dark oval eyes wide and curious as she studied Leila.
“Please clean up this mess, Hayat, and stop your staring.”
The slave girl bobbed her head and disappeared, returning in a moment with a basin filled with water and linen rags. Leila watched silently as the woman walked with sensuous grace to the other side of the bed and sat down while the slave girl knelt on the floor and began to scrub the soiled carpet.
“My name is Refaiyeh,” the woman said, her friendly smile revealing even, white teeth.
Refaiyeh. Leila could swear she had heard that name before, but where? Her mind was still so fuzzy.
“Where am I?” she demanded shakily, trying to sit up. Another wave of queasiness forced her back upon the pillows, and she crossed her arms over her stomach. “I don’t know you … why am I here?”
Refaiyeh did not readily answer, busying herself instead with pouring a goblet of water from a tall, crystal pitcher. She offered it to Leila, her expression kind. “Drink this. It will make you feel better. Whatever Guy drugged you with must have been very powerful. You’ve been asleep for almost two days counting your journey from Damascus.”
“What are you saying?” Leila blurted, pushing the goblet away so roughly that water spilled onto the coverlet. Her mind spun as she stared at the spreading stain, an unsettling thought niggling at her. Had the woman said “Guy”?
Refaiyeh shrugged her slender shoulders and set the goblet on the inlaid copper table by the bed. “You’re overwrought, Leila, which is understandable after what you’ve suffered—”
Captive Rose Page 10
