A Flame Run Wild

by Christine Monson

  Merchants and travelers often used that road, but nearly two days passed before she spotted a likely group of pilgrims accompanied by monks. Despite the clerical robes, she was slow to approach their band—monks were not always peaceful, and were usually armed. Some abbots were no better than robber barons, and ruthlessly raided their neighbors. She held her crossbow at the ready, cocked beneath her cloak. When she appeared, mounted on the barb, no one advanced to meet her. The band formed a tight phalanx behind a burly monk who towered above them on a roan destrier. Liliane halted warily before him and addressed him with her contralto voice lowered, "Good Brother, I journey to Massilia to join the Holy Crusade. May I ask your blessing and seek safe passage in your company?"

  The group eyed her dubiously, the big monk most of all. "You have my blessing and welcome, young sir, but you have more the look of one accustomed to gentle pursuits than to war," the monk said bluntly. "The way to redemption need not be taken by force of arms, but by worthy deeds. I beg you to reconsider, sirrah, and live to grow old in charitable works."

  Liliane was a trifle taken aback. This was no proselytizer who cast men off, young and old, bent and whole, to the hazards of the Holy Land with exhortations and threats of hell. "As you are a practical man as well as a holy one, good Brother, I am grateful for your advice; however, my way must lead to Palestine. I trust that Heaven will give me guidance and protection, and yet"—she uncovered the bow—"as you see, I do not propose to weary Providence with unnecessary effort on my behalf."

  The monk regarded the small bow with a wry smile. "Providence will be hard put to see you drop more than a quail with that quill."

  "Think you that force is preferable to accuracy?" Liliane gestured at a distant pine down the road. "Yonder mid branch is overladen with cones." Taking careful aim, Liliane fired a quarrel at the pine. A single cone was neatly severed from its limb and landed in the road mire.

  "I grant you that pine cones do not have the retaliatory ability of the Saracens," Liliane said quietly, "yet I believe that I will not be entirely useless to King Philip."

  The monk shrugged. "As you will. You may join us as far as Massilia. We journey to Avignon." He nodded at the crossbow. "Keep that where you can get at it."

  Liliane nodded. "That is advice I will readily take. Lead on to Massilia, good Brother, with my thanks."

  He waved her to a spot near the rear of the phalanx amid a cluster of women pilgrims. Meekly, Liliane accepted her assignment. One did not argue overmuch with giants.

  In three days, they came within sight of Massilia, a triad of small towns perched upon a rocky hill above the sea on the Gulf of Lions. The highest town was joined to the ship-dotted sea by a creek. To the south was the port of Les Catalans looking toward Cape Croisette, and below center was the Vieux Port. Brother Marcus, the huge monk, looked enviously at the cathedral rising above the narrow streets. "Yonder church is not long built and I would give much to see it," he commented to Liliane, "but the town is foul and methinks the wise course will be to pass it by. Road brigands pose less hazard than the streets of Massilia." He shifted his saddle. "We leave you here, then, young sir. Fare you well and may God look after you and the pine cones of Acre."

  Liliane laughed. "Thank you, Brother. May you one day see the Cathedral de la Major without risk of your neck."

  The big monk grinned. "I worry less for my neck than my virtue. Look to yours. Many a villain in Massilia will have use for a pretty boy."

  But the boy who waved the monk and his companions adieu was not the same fresh-faced creature who wandered the streets of Massilia a few hours later.

  No one paid attention to a slim, slight Berber in black aba with cobalt-lined haik. Once Liliane's pale hair was concealed by the haik and her brows stained, her dark-lashed amber eyes easily passed for Moorish. She kept the haik high over her face and she would acquire a tan within a few days of Mediterranean sun. If her choice of disguise was unusual, it was also, practical. She was not tall and strong enough to pass as a European soldier, but Christian Moors sometimes fought on the side of the crusaders. Being alien, they were not chatterers and held themselves apart from other Moors.

  Her Berber attire had been easily devised. The monk had been right: wet-eared pages were attractive game in Massilia. After sharp haggling, Liliane purchased a good scimitar and dirk in an armory, but kept the crossbow strung at her back. She also traded the bay barb for a deft gray Moorish mare that resembled the fine animal she'd left behind at Castle de Brueil. The mixture of coffee and grease staining her face and hands would last until a deep tan turned her into Jefar el din.

  After a half day of roaming the harbor port, Liliane discovered a real problem in her original plan to befriend Alexandre; he was quite unlikely to be open to making a new acquaintance. Only an idiot would be convivial in Massilia, a teeming hive of seamen and human vermin. Fights were rampant and the harbor bars and brothels were particularly vicious. Whores squalled from the windows and, if necessary, accommodated their clients in alleyways. Sailors, merchants, slaves and criminals of every nationality crowded the grimy narrow streets. On street corners Liliane saw North African Moors conducting auctions of terrified blacks, usually sold in groups to be resold elsewhere.

  Finding Alexandre's group was more simple than she'd imagined. The winter storms had ended and Philip wanted reinforcements. The crusaders' every move was discussed in the city and probably relayed to Saladin. Alexandre's men were housed with him and those of another French- noble, Lisle, in one of the largest inns near the waterfront. Three lateen-rigged ships had been collected for transport and idled at anchor while knights bought slaves to serve as hostlers and foragers. In Malaga, Liliane had seen that slaves were not worth the trouble. Besides, once in Palestine, they would run away at first chance only to be retaken by the Saracens, to whom they'd blab information the Europeans had chattered in front of them.

  Philip might be good at his profession, but she had heard that Saladin, outnumbered as he was, was better. He was well informed and a magnificent tactician. According to Alexandre, Philip rarely misjudged an opponent, yet his recruitment policies seemed careless and overconfident. His officers took in recruits with scant examination, often pressing into service street refuse who would be little more help at war than chickens. Liliane faintly smelled a rat, but was not sure where it hid. To find out, she applied for a position with the rat keeper.

  The sergeant Liliane approached for admission to Phillip's army was big and blundering, flatly disapproving of Moors in general, and the army in particular. When he demanded proof of her Christianity she produced from under her aba the Byzantine cross she'd purchased for such occasions. Unimpressed, he grimaced. "Trade your god and you'll trade anything."

  "All gods may be the same," Mar el din murmured, "but my parents-were Christian."

  "Can't go home for some reason, eh?" The sergeant grunted. "All right, sign here. The king'll take any man on two legs that doesn't spit on the cross."

  Just as she started to sign the recruitment roster, a shadow fell over the parchment. Glancing up, Liliane was dismayed and overjoyed to see Alexandre. What if he recognized her? She was almost relieved to see that his eyes were those of a stranger, a fighter who had warred with the Saracens. Skeptically, he eyed the cross about her neck, then said in good Arabic, "Your zeal is commendable, my friend, but you would be better off joining the blue-eyed Richard at Acre. He is more of a purist than our good King Philip. You would be less likely to have your throat cut in your sleep."

  "I sleep lightly, effendi," replied Liliane in Arabic. She made her voice low and husky. Her accent was Andalusian, but she doubted if Alexandre would recognize that fact.

  She was shocked when he did. "Where is your tribe? You dress like a Saharan Berber, but you are not Tuareg."

  "I have no tribe, effendi. Once my parents dwelled with the Berbers of the Siwa Oasis in Egypt, but they became outcasts after their conversion."

  "Your sisters and wives; are they Chr
istian, as well?"

  Aware that Alexandre's slight was deliberate, Liliane drew herself up with a flat-eyed stare. Moorish men did not discuss their women outside the family. "I have no blood kin, effendi. They were massacred with the Christians of Jabal Nefusa."

  Alexandre was unrelenting. "If you have a bone to pick with your people, take it up with Melek Richard. Personal blood feuds have no place in my lord Philip's plans." He shook his head at the sergeant and turned away.

  Liliane was perplexed. What was she to do now? She had not expected Alexandre to be more particular than the other nobles about recruits. Resignedly, she touched her forehead and left the inn. She knew better than to argue with Alexandre in military matters. She must find a way around him.

  Recruitment stations had been set up at several points along the waterfront. Many sergeants kept at hand a preaching friar and holy relic under embroidered cloth to make the oath of allegiance more binding. Liliane went to a station at the mouth of La Joliette creek and reapplied for enlistment. This time she received little argument. With a triumphant smile, Philip's newest soldier strolled to the marketplace to purchase a few items for her kit.

  The market was bustling. Oriental rugs and brass, weapons from Spain and foreign souvenirs were sold outside the ship chandleries and food stalls. For the sea crossing, Liliane bought flat pita bread and felafel, lemons, dates and an eggplant puree called ganoush. She also found extra tallow to maintain her dark complexion, a striped wool blanket, medicinal herbs, a metal water flask and a small bowl. Finding a vacant spot, she seated herself in the Moorish style and ate some of the felafel, fresh fruit and wilted endive. While she ate, she tried to think of a way to approach Alexandre.

  Just then, a female monkey danced down the overhead awning of a high window and hung upside down to grimace at her. Liliane held out a bit of pita bread. The monkey peered at it for a moment, then leaped down and sidled toward the bread. When the small creature would not take it from her fingers, Liliane let the bread drop. The monkey grabbed the bread and ate it. Then, with a sidelong, bright-eyed look at her, he began to roam curiously among her purchases. Suddenly the creature snatched the bright bowl and tried to make off with it. Liliane, who had been watching to make sure the monkey stole no fruit, tossed the bedroll over it. Forced to drop the bowl to scramble free, the monkey raced off screeching across the market. Liliane laughed. The little beggar was a trained thief, taught to steal shiny objects that might be gold or silver.

  Still pondering the problem of Alexandre, Liliane continued to wander the market. Near dusk, she noticed the monkey again. This time the audacious creature was picking pockets. Just as Liliane started forward to warn a plump gentleman that he was being relieved of his pouch, she was struck by an inspiration of how to employ the monkey's dubious talent. She darted a quick glance around, hoping that she would not encounter a confrontation with its owner. Just as the monkey's paw darted out for a snatch, she sidled up behind it and grabbed it by the scruff. When the creature gave a horrible screech and tried to bite her, Liliane gave an apologetic smite to the startled man. "A thousand pardons, Monsieur. This mischievous creature is not yet resigned to becoming a pet for my eldest son."

  The plump man blustered, "Then you should keep better control of him."

  "Be assured"—Liliane gave him an obsequious smile—"I shall."

  Liliane then took the monkey, which she named Kiki, to a campsite outside of town. She could not abide the idea of sleeping in one of the city's grimy inns. For two days, she soothed the half-starved monkey and spoiled her with food until Kiki realigned her loyalties; the capricious monkey also learned a couple of new tricks.

  The day before the crusaders were to set sail, Liliane returned to Massilia with Kiki perched on her shoulder. Kiki wore a tether in case she proved troublesome. Upon reaching the market, Liliane tested Kiki at an orange stall. The animal had become extremely wary after being twice caught, but she soon returned with an orange. Liliane rewarded her with a fig, then quietly returned the orange to the stall as they passed into the Street of Angels.

  The next time she unfastened the tether, Kiki performed beautifully and returned promptly. Kiki was a little too prompt for safety, Liliane decided as she stroked her and gave her another reward. The monkey must learn not to make a beeline for Liliane. Magpies, ferrets, parrots and monkeys were often used as theives, usually to be eventually caught and punished cruelly for their innocent loyalty to their masters. And Liliane had no wish to lose a hand under Moorish law if Kiki were apprehended in Palestine.

  She set up watch outside Alexandre's inn. When he emerged with Lisle, she followed them at a safe distance down to the harbor. There the pair stood for some time looking out over the bustling harbor, watching the dockworkers load the ships for debarkation at dawn. After the two men parted, Alexandre continued alone to a dockside inn which specialized in spicy couscous. Liliane waited until he left the inn at nightfall, then followed him into the winding street that led back to his lodging. The streets were still crowded, and at an intersection, Liliane pointed out Alexandre to Kiki, jingled the money in her coin pouch and let her go. Kiki scampered off through the crowd and in minutes was back with Alexandre's pouch. Liliane swept the monkey up onto her shoulder, then strode off after Alexandre. She had to trot two street lengths to catch him. Although Alexandre had not seen the culprit, he had felt the pouch go and was feasting about for the thief. Liliane approached him as he followed a suspicious-looking pair up a side alley.

  "Effendi, " she called softly, "I must speak with you."

  Without stopping, Alexandre shot her an impatient look. "I told you, take your case to Melek Richard. Now, begone."

  "I believe yours is the trouble, effendi. " She shot a glance ahead at the two characters who had now turned with unpleasant interest. "A matter of a pouch."

  Alexandre, also noticing the pair ahead, halted. "Not here. Come with me."

  They retreated, the ruffians following. Alexandre headed up another alley, then, nodding to Lilian to take a shadowed doorway, pressed himself into the shadowy recesses of the one opposite. Kiki scampered up onto a crumbling balustrade. The two ruffians, their knives drawn, entered the alley.

  Liliane's heart began to pound. Only once had she been faced with the prospect of killing a man. A Moorish raiding party had attacked a band of Diego's castellans with whom she had been riding to Cadiz. As Diego had not been present to protect her, she soon realized why he had taken the precaution of teaching her to protect herself. The castellans had been outnumbered, the fight brief but vicious. Although beaten off, the raiders had driven away two mules loaded with supplies, and they might have taken her as well to please their amir. She had been terrified and clumsy in the fighting, but she had learned never to merely injure an opponent; doing so had nearly gotten her strangled. She learned that killing was the best defense.

  Now, when the moment came in the Massilia alley, her knife did in neatly under the scoundrel's fifth rib without a sound. Her hunter was dead before he knew that his game had reversed. Alexandre dispassionately wiped his own knife on the other thug. "Now, what about the pouch?"

  Liliane swallowed hard, not looking at the dead men. "Shall I explain in a less compromising spot, effendi?"

  Alexandre nodded grimly. He led Liliane to his inn and waved to a table in the common room. Liliane sat gratefully, her knees still weak. The killing had been so quick, so quiet ... so horribly impersonal. "Brandywine?" Alexandre asked, probably noticing that she was pale under her brown face stain.

  Liliane declined his offer. "My habits are still Moslem, effendi."

  "And eminently practical in a hot climate." Alexandre waved away the innkeeper approaching with a bottle of his best rotgut. "So. You are. . ."

  "Jefar el din."

  "And what do you have to tell me?"

  For answer, Liliane dropped his pouch of gold on the table. Kiki chattered excitedly.

  In an instant, the pouch disappeared under Alexandre's cloak. H
is voice came hard. "Where did you get it?"

  "I noticed two men, not the ones we dispatched, following you. I thought they meant mischief but they passed into a brothel. At that point, a boy picked your pocket and I sent Kiki to relieve him of his booty. Unfortunately, in that time, you had fixed on the pair in the alley."

  With skeptical perusal of Kiki, Alexandre took a couple of coins from the pouch.

  "No, effendi. I do not want your money."

  "See here," Alexandre said quietly. "Whatever your pet's part in this, I will not admit you to my banner. With all respect, I have fought Saracens too long to relish one at my back in battle ... or in the street. You handle yourself well. You will find a place . . . but not with me." He rose and pushed the coins across the table. "Take the gold and Allah give you luck."

  "Keep your gold, effendi," Liliane replied coolly. "I do not kill for pay but to survive. Honor also can be a luxury." She lifted Kiki to her shoulder. "May you have a safe passage to Palestine."

  With narrowed eyes, Alexandre watched Jefar el din leave. Something was very familiar about this Berber fellow with his proud, graceful carriage and walk. He was not quite effeminate, but the use of his hands . . . Alexandre could not pin down his memories. He certainly did not believe the street tale. The Berber had probably put the monkey up to nipping his money just to make another try at joining the army. Moors were masters of deceit and particularly enjoyed gulling infidels. Yet . . . there was something steady about Jefar el din. He had noticed the Berber's distaste at being obliged to kill the thug, yet he had done so without quailing. He was determined, too, with none of the false obsequiousness many Moors practiced on Europeans they privately despised. Alexandre had a feeling that he would run into Jefar el din again.