A Flame Run Wild

by Christine Monson

  Reluctantly, he told her. He had not heard everything through the tent wall, but he had heard enough. Alexandre, with Philip's backing and Richard's interest, was proposing a series of counterstrikes against Saladin, the first being scheduled for the same night, while the Saracens would be celebrating their near success in the day's attack. The aim was to disconcert and fatigue the enemy with night raids, using a small, quick-moving crack force like the Saracens' own raiding bands, a force that would not greatly deplete the main crusader army should it be destroyed.

  Liliane listened with growing depression. How like Alexandre not to want to endure the humiliating, 'slow ruin of another siege like that he had experienced in Jerusalem. He would rather fight than rot.

  Flanchard, the mercenary, led the many objections: the two main ones being that if Alexandre were destroyed, he would take with him part of the cream of the crusader forces, which they could ill afford to lose; also that he proposed to arm them with bows, light swords and scarcely more armor than jousting squires, which Flanchard considered to be a mad idea.

  " 'Tis more mad to weight men like elephants," Alexandre had retorted. "Elephants may be impressive, but they also make lumbering targets. We should be run down before we were well away from Saladin's camp."

  The council wrangled for nearly another hour, with most siding with Flanchard. They might have continued until this night's chance was lost, had Richard not ended the discussion. His invariably grudging patience and his love of daring aggressiveness decreed his decision. "Choose your force, Brueil, and arm them as you like, but take no man unwilling. Such an enterprise will founder upon any hesitancy."

  His dark eyes filled with irony, Flanchard rose. "If I may, Your Majesty, I should like to be first to propose my services to the count. If I am proved wrong about this venture, it still promises merit and adventure. If I am right, I confess a nagging, if perhaps fatal, wish to witness that justification."

  "You are welcome, Sir Derek," Alexandre replied easily. "I shall need a good second in command to Baron de Lisle who earlier volunteered his skill."

  Liliane was less sanguine. Alexandre liked Flanchard no better than she did. Flanchard was not to be trusted and he envied Alexandre's royal influence. His readiness to join the troop had not won him the lieutenancy he angled for, but he might attempt more devious ways to achieve that position . . . and more.

  The sand swirled about her and the page, stinging them. "I must go," the page muttered, wiping grit from his face. "If I do not, the lord who sent me will set up an uproar." He blinked at her, then frowned earnestly as he backed up the dune. "I wish you good fortune, my lady, in your enterprise. You are brave, but I wonder if you would not better serve your husband as wives are wont. With all respect, I know I should not want my wife running about in heathen garb and risking her neck and virtue!" :With that, he saluted her and took to his heels to resume his interrupted errand.

  After redonning her haik, Liliane raced home. With the haik cinched high about her face, she ordered a bath of seawater to rid herself of her dirt and fidgeted while two servants filled the copper tub. Stripping, she jumped into the shallow water but had scarcely submerged her dirty face when Alexandre entered the tent.

  He peered with alert fascination at her sleek form glistening beneath the water. The slender curve of her back rose gracefully above the surface. He trailed a finger along her backbone, and she snapped upright, improving his view considerably. "Fishing?" he inquired gently.

  She flushed. "No ... I am just dirty from the battle."

  Alexandre studied her tangled that of hair and the grayish patch of sandy dust about her face. "Odd, you pick up so much dirt beneath that haik. The only time you take it off is in the tent, isn't it?"

  At the cynical look in his eyes, Liliane suddenly realized her mistake. The dune sand had dusted her hair. A reasonable explanation eluded her.

  Fortunately, Alexandre seemed ready to let the question slide. Deftly, he plucked the slim bar of soap from the bath. "Shall 1 wash your hair?"

  Ordinarily the offer would have delighted her; now it made her squirm. With luxurious laziness, he silently lathered her hair, his strong fingers working against her scalp. At length, she relaxed in spite of herself and her head slipped back against his hands.

  Alexandre gazed down at the pale, enticing length of her. This softness, this fragile-looking desirable creature had fought at his side in battle. She bewildered him, frustrated him . . . fascinated him. How could any woman be so stubborn, so daring and heedless of her own safety, all supposedly in his behalf? He could not believe she loved him that much.

  Perhaps she was thinking of Diego, he reflected cynically. Diego was at the core of most of her restlessness and mercurial moods. Was she driven by some guilt over Diego, something she had owed aim or wrongly taken? Had Jacques somehow used her to bring about Diego's death?

  And what was she up to now, with that startled blush that had greeted him when he found her in the tub? She had taken the haik off and not by accident, or she would not have fumbled for an explanation. He could think of only two reasons why she might have doffed the haik; either she had not wanted to look like a Moor or she had wanted to reveal herself as a woman . . . perhaps to a man—Richard or Philip? Jacques? A lover?

  Alexandre almost hoped she had been playing spy again. Her pleading with Richard to send him home could only lead to public embarrassment. And what if she had entreated Philip? He could imagine the price the Mr and lecherous Philip would demand of her. Alexandre forced that unpleasant idea from his mind.

  Tonight he was riding out on a dangerous mission from which he might not return. As Liliane could expect little more than indifference and a skimpy escort back to France from Richard, her only protector would then be Philip. Banishing depression again, Alexandre resolved to make the most of the next brief hours with her; the last thing he wanted was to quarrel.

  Her slippery hair was soft, like heavy silk in his fingers, her body white where the aba had hidden it from the desert sun and the eyes of men. His eyes. Sometimes he almost went wild imagining her bare under the voluminous aba . . . when no man knew but himself of its treasures, when all of them, reduced to prostitutes and buggery, would have been sick with desire for her. And she was his, so long as he could hold her.

  He gently corded Liliane's wet hair about her neck and kissed her. Her tongue was pink, her nipples damp and rosy above the water, her lashes a swallow's wings closed over the high curves of her cheeks. He traced her elegant jaw, the shells of her ears, her throat and collarbones to her slender shoulders. Then he lifted her to him, bare and wet, and placed her upon the rug. Soap still glistened in her hair as he made love to her. Languorously, he kissed her armpits, pressed her breasts high to meet his lips and teasing tongue. He licked water from her navel, from her lower belly. She sighed as he moved lower still. He delighted in her pleasure, the quick response he could draw from her. These soft cries were his, this secret gateway to love. Her hands caught almost hurtfully in his hair and in turn he became merciless in his demand of her.

  Only when Liliane begged for him, did he open his clothing and release his own arousal, sinking into her with slow luxury. She fitted to him with such delicious, maddening tightness that the slightest movement excited him to bursting. She was a whirlpool drawing him deeper into liquid desire. She shuddered, moaning past control as he quickened. A shattering tremor shook them, quaked in outward running splits that opened in a scarlet-streaked disorienting chasm of passion.

  The glow snaked about their bodies, racing through their veins to blaze white-hot as if the desert sun had exploded there.

  Alexandre, thou splendid liar, Liliane thought yearningly in the slow cooling aftermath. You fill me with life, even as you show yourself to death. With lips and limbs of flaming desire, you destroy me as if you would raise a phoenix in my place. What new creature do you think to leave behind you? What value is any life to me if you are gone from it?

  Alexandre left her
asleep with the lingering brush of his kiss faintly stirring her hair behind her ear. She sighed, flung out a hand as if reaching for him. He did not touch her, waiting silently for her to sink into sleep again. The tent was so dark he could scarcely see the curve of her cheek, but just now he clearly remembered her intent profile as she had perched over the stream in Provence the first day they had met. She had been waiting, so beautifully deft when she moved at last to capture her fish. She had more patience than he, and perhaps more certainty of what she wanted. Over the years, his own wants had grown simple. He wanted her, peace, children. Tonight, those simple hopes might be ended. When had his future really been different? Philip invariably allowed him to go home just long enough to believe that he might not be recalled to war. Since returning to Palestine, he had walked with death at his shoulder . . . and Liliane, lovely, defiant and courageous, at his right hand.

  "Aye," he whispered. "You will be a match for anything, my sweeting. My golden hawk has claws enough for Philip, Jacques and the whole pack. Fare thee well, my love. Vaya con Dios."

  A short while later, Alexandre, Flanchard, Louis, Lisle and thirty horsemen silently crossed the siege ditchjhat separated the camp from the desert. The moon was a sliver, the dunes scarcely discernible in its cold glow. Overhead the stars hung as brilliant as the Eyes of God that the Saracens called them. The camp was still, a jumbled mosaic of pale canvas, sharp-edged and temporary, while the dunes were smooth, curved and endless. Most of the riders, unused to wearing only chain mail and helmets, were fidgety. Their light swords and bows seemed flimsy, and the destriers were bemused by the lack of weight on their broad backs. The desert was cool now, almost chilly, with nothing to break the wandering wind. Somewhere over the Mediterranean, a storm was rising.

  The horses' hooves left great pocks in the dunes as they climbed. Almost instantly the pocks filled at the wind's ghostly hands, and on the caps of the dimes the streaming sand blew in pale shifting threads. Alexandre's big black led the way, his master's slim body supple as a reed as they negotiated the undulating sands. Lisle came next, then Flanchard, with the rest fanning loosely behind. Three scouts ranged well ahead.

  In perhaps a half hour, the scouts sighted Saladin's camp and waited for the raiders to catch up to them. The camp was a dark, sprawling octopus of tents, the largest capped with pennants bearing the Saracen crescent. "We will take that long left-handed arm with the fat tents," Alexandre ordered. "Split and go in on both sides. Take no loot, but quietly kill every Saracen you find. Retreat instantly at the trumpet's call and ride to the wadi east of Acre, then you ten"—he designated the far riders on his right— "fan to the south and be prepared to harry and delay the enemy for the rest to ride on to Acre." He looked at Lisle. "My lord, you, with Flanchard as your second, will lead the main body to Acre. Milord de Signe and I will be with the harriers."

  Alexandre could feel Louis's eyes on him. Louis was well aware that the harriers had the most hazardous assignment. Alexandre smiled grimly at him. He had not deliberately chosen Louis to bait the Saracens, but he would have no regrets if Louis was skewered and no longer able to harass Liliane. He only wished that Jacques was available; that one was a plump worm to dangle before Saladin's army!

  Like deadly, vengeful spirits, they entered the Saracen camp with only the whickers of tethered horses to greet them. Quietly slashing the canvas tents, they turned long rows of sleepers into blood-stained bundles that would never move again. Cries rose as the canvas was jostled and ripped. An isolated scream rose up to the moon, then another. Clatter sounded as the rest of the camp was aroused. Men poured from their tents, slashing in retaliation. The swords' rise and fall quickened to swift, urgent hacking. Minutes later, Alexandre raised a smeared gauntlet and the clarion called out over the slaughter.

  In moments the raiders were remounted and pounding to the west, leaving behind a furious uproar. The Moors appeared on the horizon just as the raiders split. Louis was one of the first to veer off, Alexandre among the last. The pounding of pursuing hooves and the cries of revenge rose like the beat of a racing, bursting heart. The visibility was short and the sensation was that of a hideous, rushing mirage, overwhelming all in its path.

  Two riders veered after Alexandre, as another part of the Moorish band pursued the rest of the harriers. Alexandre wheeled to meet the pair as they closed in on him. Digging in his heels, he spurred forward. To his horror, his right stirrup broke. With a fierce wrench at his ankle, the girth snapped, pitching him sidelong onto the sand. Alexandre hit hard, rolling, the gritty spray biting his face and blinding him. Stunned and disoriented but still clutching his sword, he leaped awkwardly to his feet, only to have the wrenched ankle cave under him with a burst of pain. He stifled a curse, gasping as he forced himself upright again. A shouting rider loomed from the darkness, slicing down-at him. Reacting with blind instinct, he desperately blocked the attack with the flat of his Wade, twisted his wrist to slide steel on steel and thrust high to make contact with an armpit. The Saracen shrieked and pitched forward, his flying weight dragging Alexandre backward off his feet. The Saracen, far from dead, was up first. His sword arm useless, the Saracen shifted his blade to the other hand. Awkward and frantic to end a disadvantaged fight quickly, he sliced and went wide. In seconds, Alexandre's sword found his attacker's stomach. An instant too late. The thud of hooves filled his skull as the second horseman leaned out in space, javelin poised, its point trained on Alexandre's breast.

  Then the Saracen leaned forward at a grotesque angle. He hurtled off the horse, a feathered quarrel buried at the base of his skull. In moments, another Saracen galloped from the darkness. Alexandre tightened his grip on his sword as the rider charged him. As he drew back his sword to meet the assault, he heard his name unbelievingly. "Alexandre!" The Saracen reined in with a flurry of sand and extended a hand down to him.

  "Le bon Dieu! What the . . . ?"

  Amber eyes flashed in a flawless face. "Hurry! Others are behind me!"

  "Liliane! You spying little witch . . . !" Wasting no more time on his startled fury, he vaulted onto her gray mare. "Come on, to camp!"

  She spurred the mare forward. "We shall never reach Acre carrying two! The pursuit's too close!"

  "Then head northwest. There is an oasis where we can try to hide until they are past."

  They were surrounded by the starlit night, the sand-shifting wind and the mare's labored breathing as it struggled up the dunes. Though Alexandre said nothing, Liliane could feel his tension and anger. If they survived, she was in for trouble. Except for the dunes glimmering about them, they could see nothing beyond fifty yards. That meant they had to keep fifty yards between themselves and the Saracens to remain unseen. She feared that the jingles of the mare's bridle bit might carry; the desert had an uncanny way of sometimes swallowing sound, sometimes magnifying it. Just now, they were beginning to hear the gallop of many horses closing from the east. Liliane urged the mare to hurry, but it was already straining. If they did not find the oasis soon, they would be run down. At that moment, the mare tripped, pitching them both forward to roll down a dune. Stunned, they rolled to evade the thrashing horse. As it floundered up, Alexandre scrambled to his feet to catch its rem. Trembling, the mare slid down the base of the dune and limped to a halt.

  "The devil," Alexandre hissed. "She has taken a wrench." He slapped the sorrel on the rump to send it lurching off, then caught Liliane's hand and dragged her after him. "Come on, run!"

  "What about the mare?" she gasped. "Good horses are worth their weight in gold in Acre. She will cost a fortune to replace!"

  "Which would you rather give up, a sack of gold or our skins?" he retorted. "We might as well try to conceal an elephant from the Saracens out here. The mare will head for the nearest water. We may be able to find her at the oasis."

  Liliane had to concede his point. The hoofbeats were closer now, coming in waves that sometimes seemed to recede before they grew inevitably louder. Then, abruptly, they became thunder.


  He thrust her toward the shadow of a dune. "Down!" The flat of his hand hit her squarely in the small of the back. She went down on her face in sand. A split second later, Alexandre landed atop her. She started to fight to clear her nose and mouth from the sand, then lay still as if she were shrinking. Hoofs threw stinging sand against her ears and cheeks. With bated breath, she waited for the horse to stumble and fall, waited for the next mount to pound them into bloody mush. . . . The ground shuddered beneath them, deafening them so that when at last Alexandre pulled her up, she scarcely realized that the Saracens were past.

  Without a sound, Alexandre limped over a vast dune that swelled leviathan under the dim moon. The dune receded and another swelled. On and on they stumbled until she merely clung doglike to Alexandre's belt. Then, painfully, her forehead and nose connected with his mailed back. "There," he whispered. "See it?"

  Liliane dimly saw a dull, silvery glimmer; a moonlit gleam. From what? Nothing lay in this desert but the hot sand beneath their feet. A pale female was the desert by night—undulating curves and sand whispering into the wind like a woman's hair. At dawn, the sun would rise like the shield of cruel Mars, and they would wander at the mercy of both the broiling heat and the Saracens. The desert would become a Medusa with the deadly embrace of a hundred stinging serpents. Only now the desert was virginal, free of the envy of gods.

  Alexandre caught her arm. "Are you all right? You look faint."

  She smiled a little at his anxious tone. "I can keep going, but you must not let me stop to breathe so much; it goes to my head."

  He gave her hair a little tug. "That gleam you see in front of us is the oasis, so we have not far to go now. Make no noise. Saladin may have left us a few surprises among the oasis palms."

  Alexandre was silent for a moment, staring down at her. He touched her hair again, then fanned it lightly out to catch the wind's whisper. Like a golden spiderweb, it floated and fell, fragile, as if lying upon the water's surface before it sank. "The desert becomes you," he murmured. Then he drew her into his arms. His leather breastplate was cold, his arms hard, yet she felt only his heartbeat, the warmth of his mouth. They might have had the desert, the whole world to themselves. Danger, reality, all was merely an echo. She clung to him tightly, as if Acre had never been, as if the Saracens might not swarm upon them in moments. Not moving, their embrace held dancing and music, and they felt young as they might never be again. The desert threatened death but yielded life, as well. Their kiss was sweet, defiant.