Stephen had no idea how long he had been here or even whether it was day or night. There was a dim lantern in his cell, fuelled by a candle. One of the Templars had come in a short time ago to replace the candle and give him a couple of sips of water – not enough to quench his raging thirst, but enough to keep him alive. He brought with him a leather bucket so that Stephen could relieve himself but the man had not unchained him so the experience had been humiliating to say the least.
A while ago he had briefly thought that his torture might be coming to an end. There had been noises outside, a banging on his cell door and raised voices. He’d shouted out in a cracked voice but to his disappointment the mayhem had eventually subsided.
He had tried to question the Templar who tended him about what had happened, but the man had refused to say anything.
The tearing pain in his upper body was getting worse and, to relieve the pressure, Stephen took his weight on his legs again. He let his head fall forwards until his chin rested on his chest and then closed his eyes. It was unlikely he would sleep, but he hoped he might eventually pass out and the agony would subside for a while.
He heard the cell door open but he didn’t bother to raise his head or open his eyes; either it would be one of the Templars or Bernard come to gloat, he thought with weary resignation. Then he heard a gasp of horror that could only have come from a woman. ‘Edwina,’ he croaked through cracked lips, opening his eyes and forcing his head upright.
‘No. Not Edwina,’ said a soft melodious voice.
He saw an immensely beautiful young woman walking towards him. She looked like an angel but she couldn’t be because she had long dark hair and angels were always blonde, weren’t they?
‘Stephen, is that you?’ she said in a troubled voice. He heard her turquoise silk skirts swish softly as she walked towards him. ‘Can you hear me?’
A soft hand stroked his cheek.’ Yes, I hear you,’ he managed to gasp as she held a cup to his lips. It contained only cold water but it tasted better than the finest wine to him.
‘Not too fast, drink slowly.’ She drew the cup away before he’d finished all the water. Stephen was confused; there was a familiarity about her that he couldn’t explain. Brow wrinkling, he stared at her as she glanced at the rather agitated-looking Templar hovering in the doorway. ‘Release the prisoner from his chains.’
‘I cannot.’ The man anxiously wrung his hands.
‘You dare refuse me,’ she said imperiously, her dark eyes blazing. ‘Captain Amalric,’ she called out.
That name was familiar also. Stephen tried to remember but pain had muddled his thoughts, holding half-recalled memories trapped beneath the surface somewhere.
‘Princess,’ the Templar said fearfully, ‘there is no need for this. The master says this man is a heretic.’
‘There is every need,’ she insisted in a tone that allowed no dissent. ‘He is no heretic and if King Richard gets to hear of how you have treated one of his most loyal knights he will have you executed.’
‘Isabella?’ Stephen remembered the pretty dark-haired girl he had once known so well. ‘Is it you?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled affectionately at him. ‘I was very taken with you when I was young. Don’t you recall that I told you that I would marry you one day?’ Memories came rushing back to him while at the same moment she caught sight of the wounds on his back. ‘That swine whipped you as well?’
As she spoke, a tall good-looking, brown-haired man pushed the Templar aside and strode into the cell. ‘Amalric!’ Stephen exclaimed.
‘Yes, it has been a long time.’ His expression was full of concern. ‘Before they departed, your Turcopoles told me that you were here. Yet the Templars denied this and refused to reveal your exact whereabouts so I knew something was wrong. I searched the citadel and came to the conclusion that you might be in this cell. But they would not let me enter until the princess ordered them to do so.’ He stepped over to the hook that held Stephen’s chains in place. ‘I’ll lower them slowly.’ He glanced over at Isabella. ‘We need one of the men to support him; I doubt he’ll be able to stand alone.’
‘I’ll manage,’ she said determinedly.
‘No, Princess. You cannot hold him up alone,’ the Templar said, reluctantly moving to aid them. Bending, he removed the pins that held the manacles in place around Stephen’s ankles. ‘You hold him captain, and I will loosen the chains. Once the pressure is off his arms, I will release the manacles around his wrists.’
‘I will help,’ Isabella stubbornly insisted. ‘You cannot take his weight alone.’
Amalric positioned himself on the other side of Stephen and placed a supportive arm around his waist. As he felt the chains loosen a shade, Stephen could not stop an anguished groan escaping from his lips. Stepping forwards, the Templar reached up and undid the manacles around Stephen’s wrists. His arms dropped limply down and, as the blood flowed into his tortured limbs, the pain returned, different but just as excruciating. He tried to remain upright but his knees sagged, yet Amalric and Isabella held onto him, just managing to bear his weight.
‘Princess, you should not be doing this,’ he gasped.
‘Nonsense,’ she said as she helped Amalric lower Stephen onto a straw-stuffed mattress that one of her soldiers had, just at that moment, dragged into the cell.
For a minute or two, Stephen almost lost consciousness as they positioned him carefully until he was lying prone on his stomach. Vaguely, he heard Amalric curse under his breath as he examined the lash marks on Stephen’s back. ‘Princess, we will have to get someone from the infirmary to attend his wounds.’
‘No. They’ll not lay a hand on him. I’ll tend him myself,’ Isabella said. ‘Send one of the men for the necessary supplies.’ She sank to her knees beside Stephen. ‘And you, Amalric, inform Master Bernard that I wish to speak with him urgently.’
Once her men had departed, Isabella glared at the Templar who still lingered in the doorway watching her. ‘Get out of my sight if you don’t want to endure the wrath I intend to bring down on your master’s head.’
Now that his limbs were not being tortured, a measure of clarity was returning to Stephen’s mind. Previously the pain had driven all thoughts of modesty from his mind but now it returned in abundance. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled in embarrassment.
‘For what?’ She crouched close to his face as she reached for the remains of the cup of water she had left on the floor.
‘For being naked.’
‘And a most stimulating sight it would have been,’ she whispered seductively. ‘If I had not been more concerned with your well-being at the time.’
‘Isabella –’ he strained his neck to look up at her ‘– are you flirting with me?’
‘What, here, in this cell? I might do so if we were in more comfortable surroundings.’ She trailed a gentle finger down his back, carefully avoiding the lash marks, until she reached his unmarked buttocks. ‘Even like this your body is beautiful, Stephen. You have grown into a remarkably handsome man.’ She moved even closer so that he could feel her warm breath on his cheeks. Her hand rested on his buttocks. ‘You were way too skinny and rather gangly-looking when I first met you.’
‘And you were but an irritating child if I recall correctly,’ he said as she kissed his cheek. ‘Now you have grown into an extraordinarily beautiful woman.’
Edwina’s dreams were more like nightmares because her bed swayed from side to side and jolted now and then, while she felt incredibly hot as if something was burning her face. Yet when she awoke, silence and darkness surrounded her. Then she saw campfires and dark figures moving about before she was taken aback by a strange face looming over her. ‘Bashir, she is awake.’
‘What’s happening?’ She sat up. Her head felt fuzzy, her stomach decidedly queasy and the skin on her face was hot and tight as if it had been burnt by the sun. Fortunately she was clad quite demurely in a long shirt and loose-fitting breeches. Yet no one could think she was a boy now as her h
air had come loose from its plait and fell around her shoulders and down her back.
‘Don’t you remember?’ The man called Bashir squatted beside her and she recognised him as the Turcopole who had captured her in the oasis only a few days ago – or was it days? She couldn’t quite recall. She put a hand to her head. ‘The last thing I remember is being in Sarak.’
‘The commander of the fortress ordered us to escort you back to Acre. You’ve been ill and you slept all the way so far.’ He grinned and his teeth looked very white in his suntanned face. ‘You make quite a convincing boy, my lady.’
‘And the comte?’ she asked.
‘He remains at Sarak to help plan the defence, so the commander Bernard le Motte said.’ He frowned. ‘Somehow I did not quite believe him and I never laid eyes on the comte before we departed, which I found troubling. There was another man who questioned me about him and you. He wore a uniform I did not recognise. Do you think something might be amiss?’
‘I don’t know.’ She was confused, her brain was not working properly and she was finding it quite difficult to think logically. ‘What should we do?’
‘If he does not follow us to Acre in a couple of days, I will find his friend Martin. He can speak to King Richard and have more men sent back to Sarak to discover the comte’s whereabouts. In the meantime my only concern must be you.’ He handed her a goblet which one of the other men had just given him. ‘The brother who tended you said that this would help clear your mind when you awoke.’
Edwina took the cup and cautiously sipped the contents, which had a remarkably pleasant flavour. ‘Thank you.’ She was still smiling at Bashir when she heard a faint, rather high-pitched scream followed by anguished shouts.
‘Saracens!’ Bashir sprang to his feet. ‘Stay here,’ he said to her then glanced at his companion. ‘Guard her well.’
As he ran off, Edwina tossed aside the goblet. Even the word ‘Saracen’ caused a shudder of fear to rip through her body, suppressing all the questions about Stephen that still filled her mind. She peered into the darkness, just able to see dim figures fighting each other as she heard angry shouts and swords clashing against swords. Occasionally, she saw a brief flash of light as moonlight caught the slashing blades. Soon, the sounds of battle were intruded upon by the anguished screams of the wounded.
As chaos continued around her, she looked at the Turcopole left to guard her. ‘Give me a weapon,’ she begged.
Wordlessly, he tossed her a small sharp dagger. It was not what she had expected, a sword would have been better. Perhaps he was right – she knew how to use one but she was a far from proficient swordfighter. Grasping the dagger firmly, she rose a little unsteadily to her feet just as she saw two dark menacing figures running towards her.
‘Run,’ the Turcopole hissed as more figures followed them. He stepped protectively in front of her. ‘It’s your only chance. Find somewhere to hide.’
He sounded determined but the tension in his voice told her he feared that all was lost. Judging by the many dark shapes she could see, the Turcopoles were greatly outnumbered and had little or no chance of survival.
Edwina turned and ran, stumbling over the uneven ground, slipping now and then on the sandy soil. If only she could try escaping with shoes on instead of always in bare feet, she thought, her terror tinged by insane amusement. She was forced to slide to a halt as two men unexpectedly stepped in front of her. Realising she was virtually surrounded, she anxiously tried to dart around them. But one managed to grab hold of her and jerked her roughly towards him. Lashing out wildly, her blade sliced into his forearm. He gave a grunt of pain but didn’t let go, just wrestled the dagger from her grasp and clamped his fingers around her throat. Gasping for breath, she struggled as his grip slowly tightened.
‘Wait!’ she heard his companion say in Arabic and to her relief the grip lessened enough for her to take a few strangled breaths. ‘Bring a torch,’ he shouted to one of his men, who was busy with some of the others examining the dead and wounded.
Fortunately it was too dark for Edwina to see what was happening properly but she heard a man moaning in pain, then there was an unpleasant gurgling sound followed by silence. Clearly they wanted no prisoners and no one left alive. Filled with terror, she tried to close her ears to the terrible sounds of slaughter. Suddenly, her captor threw her to the ground and she crouched there unsure whether it would be better to die or survive.
Edwina blinked nervously as a torch was produced and the flickering flame was held close to her face. ‘By the will of Allah,’ she heard one man say, ‘a woman, with hair like spun gold.’ He touched her face and she felt blood from the wound she had inflicted drip onto her cheek. ‘We will take her back to Nasir al-Din.’
10
Isabella waited anxiously in her room. It should be time by now. Vespers was long gone, darkness had fallen and the brothers had recently celebrated compline – the last mass of the day. Now the citadel was eerily silent and no one was walking the empty corridors, although there were still guards on the outer walls. She hoped that she was right about all the Templars being asleep as she opened the door and peered out into the dark corridor.
She had been tending to Stephen for three days now. He was strong and was recovering swiftly. The lash marks had crusted over and were starting to heal. Even so the zealous Templar Bernard had refused to free him and they’d had a number of heated discussions during which she had drawn on her rank and regally demanded that he free Stephen. Still he had refused, claiming that he only owed allegiance to the pope, the grand master and to a lesser extent to his king Guy de Lusignan. Stephen was safe enough for now but she doubted he would be when she left Sarak. Then Bernard would start abusing him again. She had contemplated using force to get her way but she didn’t have enough soldiers with her to defeat the entire Templar garrison.
Instead she had decided to provide the tools to let Stephen help himself. Recalling the uncanny ability he’d had with locks when she had known him years ago, she’d had Amalric fashion a pair of lock picks which Stephen now had in his possession. If he managed to get out of his cell, as she hoped, he should be reaching her room soon. Here he would be safe at least until she and Amalric figured out a way to smuggle Stephen out of the fortress. Bernard would not dare demand to search a royal lady’s room and Amalric knew that he and his men were watched constantly so they could not be implicated. Once Stephen was found to be missing, during the ensuing chaos, Amalric intended to creep out of the fortress and plant evidence which would lead them to believe that Stephen had escaped via the small postern gate, which was used to bring in supplies.
At last she heard a faint noise and she turned to see Stephen, clad in a tattered pair of breeches and a shirt, running towards her. ‘Quick,’ she whispered, filled with relief. She pulled him inside her room, shut the door quietly and slid the heavy bolt in place.
‘The lock was an easy one once I had the tools to pick it.’ He grinned as he placed the two metal picks on a low chest.
‘No one saw you escape?’
‘As luck would have it, the Templar on guard was asleep.’
‘There was no luck in that, Stephen.’
He inclined his head. ‘I am amazed by your talents, my lady.’ Stephen glanced around the room, smiling when he saw the silk throws, pillows and other fripperies. ‘I see that you do not travel light.’
‘Does any princess?’ Isabella had deliberately worn her most provocative gown. It was very low cut and the silk clung to the curves of her body like a second skin. It had been a gift from Humphrey who liked lovely things. Even if he had not been interested in bedding her, dressing her beautifully had been of paramount importance to him. She was certain that Conrad wouldn’t notice if she dressed in sackcloth, yet she could feel Stephen’s eyes casually perusing her body and she hoped he liked what he saw. He was a remarkably attractive man and, as he looked her up and down, she felt her nipples tighten and a pleasant warmth fill her stomach. Was this the instantan
eous sexual attraction that sometimes turned into love? It was something she had never felt before.
‘To be truthful I am not acquainted with many princesses,’ he said with a teasing smile.
She knew that if she closed her eyes right now she would be able to see him naked as she had a couple of days ago. Even while witnessing his pain and distress, she had been moved by the sight of his muscular body and generously sized sex. She had to admit that she had also been highly aroused even if she had also been a little ashamed of her feelings at the time.
‘I thought you would wish to wash.’ She pointed to a basin of water. ‘It should still be reasonably hot.’
‘I suppose a bath is impossible?’ he asked with a smile so wicked it took her breath away and turned her legs to water.
‘Have you ever met a Templar who confessed to enjoying bathing?’ She laughed. ‘Most likely they consider it sinful as they appear to do most other things. They are far more devout than the nuns in the convent where my stepsister, Sibylla, was raised. Master Bernard would most likely have a fit if I demanded enough hot water to bathe in. He only endures my presence here and is most eager to be rid of me.’
‘And no doubt your concern for my welfare infuriates him.’ Stephen walked over to the basin. ‘Yet your arrival here proved to be my salvation. Would you mind if I removed my shirt to wash?’
‘Mind!’ She looked at him in disbelief. ‘You were naked when I first laid eyes on you again, so a bare chest will not upset my feminine sensibilities.’ She could not tear her eyes from him as he ripped off the filthy tattered shirt, which she would not have expected even a peasant to wear. Isabella watched entranced as he wiped his face, then his chest and under his armpits. Her imagination ran riot, creating sensual visions that made her body ache with desire for him.
He had such firm muscles and taut golden flesh, while his stomach was flat and most probably near as hard as iron. Just recalling the sight of his manly parts made her feel extraordinarily light headed. ‘Do not put that back on,’ she said as she looked in disgust at his filthy shirt. ‘Amalric has left you some of his clean garments. They may be a little tight but they will suffice. However . . .’
Templar Prize Page 18
