A few hours later, Xenobia, the brothel madam, waddled along, the lower hall. The floor above thumped. She eyed Ajax. "Still at it, is he?"
The black nodded impassively.
I want a look at that Saracen girl, Xenobia decided. Either the Frenchie's been saving himself for six months or she's the finest piece in Acre. Silently, Xenobia made her way to the top of the stairs, then into the room next to the preoccupied couple. With a fat finger, she flicked a cheap tapestry back and peered through the small hole bored behind it. After a moment, she drew away. A blonde, she reflected, and no Circassian.
* * *
Saida was still sound asleep when they got back to the tent. After changing in Alexandre's tent, Liliarie gave him a lingering kiss. "Good morning, darling," she whispered. "We must be depraved again sometime."
"Wait," he murmured, catching her hand. Cool silver dropped into her palm. "You earned it. You could wilt a coconut tree." His kiss was both hard and soft. "I love you. Do not forget again."
"Perhaps I enjoy being a slow learner," she whispered against his lips. "May I have another lesson again at midnight?"
For a split second, she heard him hesitate. "Tomorrow night might be better." He nuzzled her ear. "A little sleep prevents cracked coconuts."
"I am sorry, darling; of course, you are right. But this time I shall use my earnings"—the silver jingled—"to buy my own veils."
After her tent flap closed, Liliane dropped wearily on her pallet. She might have known. He was up to something again.
* * *
That day, the siege upon Acre was more or less uneventful. The days of the city were numbered. The walls of the Accursed Tower were becoming a mammoth pile of rubble; elsewhere Christian sappers and catapults had dropped walls into huge heaps, now tensely guarded by Saracen bowmen. If Acre was to survive, Saladin must make a decisive attack. Richard's eyes were merry and relentless; this game of waiting was about to end with all the pieces his.
That night, Saida was a trifle less demure with Alexandre at dinner. Although careful not to annoy Liliane too greatly, she fixed her admiring eyes on Alexandre as if he were both Adonis and Hercules together. For courtesy's sake, Liliane and Alexandre spoke mostly in Arabic, but Saida did not intrude herself upon the conversation. At each of Alexandre's occasional witticisms, she giggled delightedly, her dark eyes flashing over her rose veiL She refused to eat until the "men" were done, then picked daintily at her food a little apart from them while Yves served coffee. When she was offered coffee, Saida took a sip, then made a face. "I am so sorry, but may I have a little honey?" Nearly a half cupful of honey later, she pronounced herself satisfied. As she drank her coffee, Alexandre tried to draw her out a little, but, casting a wary glance at Liliane as if afraid of her, Saida murmured only that she was an innocent girl of good family who had been stolen by desert raiders. She had been sold to one of Saladin's minor amirs who had been offered so generous a price by Idi ben Ibrahim that the amir had reluctantly sacrificed her.
Several holes yawned in that account, Liliane thought skeptically. Saida was most certainly a peasant, and raiders were more likely to prey upon the shores of Africa than their own lands. Saida's good family had likely been beggars, forced to sell an extra girl child. From what she had observed of Saida so far, she thought there might also have been trouble of some kind.
Alexandre seemed to entertain no such suspicions. With the easy charm that could prove so irresistible to females of any age, he was gentle with the girl. His appreciative gaze revealed that he was well aware that Saida was no child. Under the circumstances, Liliane felt uneasy.
The hour was growing late when Alexandre casually announced that he had an appointment with Phillip and that Jefar and Saida might as well go to bed. A quarter hour after he left, Liliane left Saida brushing her black hair and headed for Philip's tent. The royal pavilion was already dark. If Philip had not gone to bed, he was out. Alexandre was either meeting Philip elsewhere or diverting her on a goosechase long enough to be off on some errand of his own.
Running now, Liliane skirted the outer defense trench toward Richard's pavilion. The pavilion was still brightly lit with a small stir of activity. Several soldiers lingered by the surrounding campfires under the standards of six of the most important allied lords. A murmur of voices sounded from within the pavilion. She let out a sigh of relief. So there was a council; Alexandre and Philip were no doubt attending it.
Staying in the shadows, Liliane lingered about the outskirts of the fire, hoping to hear something about the council. She was shortly rewarded, but not in the manner she expected. "Well, they have gone again with cockleshells for helmets and willow wands for smacking those damned mosquito heathen away," a routier rasped to another man over one of the fires. "Flanchard may be a devil, but he's right. That Frenchie's a raving idiot; may the blackies take his skin tonight."
Liliane's heart went cold and numb. Alexandre had gone out upon a second raid with Louis at his back.
* * *
Nearly killing her horse, Liliane managed to catch up with Alexandre's rear guard two miles past the oasis and halfway to the Saracen camp. Slowing to keep her distance, she kept well behind until the camp was sighted. The raiders split in two wings in preparation for an attack. Not knowing which wing was led by Alexandre, she followed the right flank. The Saracens had scattered guards along the outstretched arms of the camp, but the center, where they thought no sane attack could occur, was left open. Most of the fires were merely coals, the teats dark. Saladin's pavilion was a distant glow of gold and blue at the center of the camp, its pennants drooping in the still night air. The moon was fuller tonight, the sky cloudless as usual, so the raiders dismounted at a distance, leaving the hostlers to lead in their mounts to mass inconspicuously with the Saracen strings. If Alexandre gets out of this one, it will be a miracle, Liliane thought miserably.
All she could do was wait well beyond the hostlers as Alexandre's men streamed silently into the camp. If she joined the attackers, she would probably be mistaken for a Saracen m the dark and get herself skewered. Too many minutes passed. She saw the hostlers grow restless in the bright silver light; fey also sensed that something was wrong. Liliane slipped from her horse and slithered along the dunes out of the hostlers' sight. She threaded into the silent camp, then abruptly crouched as she spotted a raider leaving a tent, then three more coming from another tent to investigate a scarlet pavilion near the camp fringe. They made no sound, nor was there any sound from any tent they had entered. Moments later, they hurried from the scarlet pavilion; from their erratic movements, Liliane sensed their bewilderment. She eased back the flap of the tent nearest her. The tent was empty.
Then, as if from a ring of hideous hyenas, a howl arose about her, curdling her blood. From the moonlight danced a thousand Saracens, their scimitars brandished furiously high and triumphant. Her heart in her throat, Liliane pulled out her own blade. The trap was closed; there would be no escape. She longed to see Alexandre one last time, but time was already gone. With any mercy, he would die thinking her safe.
The howl rose higher and sheer terror swept over her, but Liliane stood her ground along with the other raiders caught near her in the trap. The Saracens swept forward, and she braced herself, her face white. Just as the first Saracen came down on his opponent, a cymbal crashed and an abrupt hush fell upon the Saracen host. Heads turned, then the mass parted. A tall, turbaned Saracen dressed from head to foot in white walked calmly through the gap. "Do you surrender, Christians, or resign yourselves to massacre?" he called in cool, clipped French.
"Death before your heathen mercies!" shouted a raider. "We shall die on our feet, not flayed out for the ants!" His sentiments were shared by all the crusaders. Saladin had once personally beheaded a captured crusader knight and given the knight's men to his headsmen.
"If you surrender, you will be taken as hostages. Then your fate is up to your master, Melek Richard.'' The tall man smiled faintly. "If he proves indifferent, y
ou will be subjected to no indignities and will be cleanly beheaded. Does that suit you?"
"Why should we believe you?" called a knight. To Liliane, he sounded like Derek Flanchard. "The Saracens we left dead on our last raid could not have inspired you to generosity."
The Saracen's smile flattened to a humorless line in his bearded face. "You are not forgiven; you are merely more useful alive than as hyena fodder."
"King Richard will not bow to you to save us," retorted the first knight. "You are wasting your time."
"I hope not"—the smile flickered again, grim this time—"and so should you."
There was silence, then Derek Flanchard spoke. "On whose authority do you make this offer?"
The Saracen glanced at him. "On that of Saladin; more exactly, my own."
"In that case, agreed."
Quick protest arose among the Christians. "What the devil? Never!"
"I order you to surrender and you will obey," Flanchard cut back. "I am the commanding officer present, as the Count de Brueil seems to have most fortunately made his escape." The last was sardonically contemptuous, but Liliane was too relieved to feel angry. "Throw down your swords," ordered Flanchard. "If worse comes to worst, what are a few ants, after all?"
Surmising that Flanchard had never been to a Saracen picnic, Liliane reluctantly tossed down her scimitar.
With the twenty captured raiders, she was taken to a tent and bound to the poles. She had been virtually unnoticed until now; Saracens and raiders alike stared at her with hostility. Nearly an hour passed in glum silence, then six Saracen guards came for the raiders. Roped together, they were led to Saladin's tent.
Despite the tent's fabulous silks and tapestries, the great Saracen leader was seated on a simple prayer rug with several of his pashas similarly placed on either side of him. A brass hookah wafted a faint, exotic scent through the censer-lit gloom.
"Greetings. I regret the necessity of disturbing you at so late an hour," Saladin said politely. "Will you have coffee?" In some bemusement, the knights accepted tiny cups of rich coffee. Hesitating at first, they finally began to sip the sweet stuff as they tensely awaited the explanation for their summons; it was soon in coming. "I regret"—Saladin spread his hands apologetically—"that our original arrangement has altered somewhat."
"I knew it! You treacherous devils cannot be trusted!" An English knight sprang angrily to his feet. Coffee splattered over the gorgeous carpet. Two guards sprang forward.
Saladin raised a hand and calmly waved away the guards. "Your distress is understandable, but only Allah knows what breezes of fortune may blow from moment to moment. In this instance, the greater fortune falls to your enemies, yet take heart, for you are not altogether neglected. Your numbers have been increased by a most precious prize that adds to your worth both to me and to Melek Richard. " He nodded to a eunuch. "Bring in the Count de Brueil."
Liliane's heart sank to her toes.
A moment later, Alexandre entered the tent and, ignoring his suspicious men, made a faint bow to Saladin. "Great lord."
Saladin nodded. For a moment, he studied Alexandre's cool face, then those of his rebellious men. "Please be seated, Monsieur le Comte. Will you take coffee?"
"Thank you." As if taking his ease with Philip, Alexandre settled on the rug.
"You are an extraordinary man, milord," observed Saladin. "It is a rare commander who sacrifices himself for his men."
The knights looked aback, and Flanchard cast his gaze at the tent swag overhead.
"I led these knights here, Lord Saladin. Why should I not lead them back?"
"Why not, indeed?" Saladin smiled faintly as he stirred his coffee. "Still, you might have made your escape with thirty men. Your losses could have been far worse."
How does he know how many men Alexandre led here? wondered Liliane. Unless . . . Her musings were abruptly cut off as she glanced up and saw that Alexandre had noticed her. His eyes had gone almost black, his face rigid. She fixedly began to study the carpet.
"I have lost no one yet," replied Alexandre as mildly as if she had disappeared.
"That is true," conceded Saladin. Then he added a trifle ominously, "It is also true that your head is worth more than all the others put together."
"Then why not take my head and return my knights to King Richard intact? He will gladly pay their ransom."
"Why should I not take all your heads and skim Lionheart of the cream of his knights?"
"Because your honor would then be as dry and cheaply bartered as goat curds. I came to you freely, unarmed. Will you discredit yourself when your reliability may soon frame your bargaining position with Melek Richard concerning the surrender of Acre?"
"Acre still stands."
"Another day, perhaps," Alexandre returned carelessly. "The day after that, the hyenas may scour the place."
"Take this mad dog's head, effendi," spat the amir on Saladin's left. "He barks when his tail should be between his legs."
"Mad he may be, but cur he is not," Saladin replied mildly. "Have you no tolerance for courage?"
"This Brueil caused the deaths of eighty Saracens by stealth and butchery! Most were killed in their beds!" the amir protested furiously. "What valor is this! Having given the wolf the sheep's hide, shall we give him the sheep as well?"
"If we profit by preserving the flock to a safe haven, why not?" With a gentle gesture, Saladin silenced the amir's next outburst and turned his attention once more upon Alexandre. "My lord, for one hundred dinars each, you shall have the freedom of yourself and your men and safe conduct to Acre." Then his gaze flicked to Liliane and chilled. "One, however, I must retain. An enemy may be forgiven; a traitor, never. Jefar el din will remain for suitable punishment."
Like a spring uncoiled, Alexandre leaped to his feet. "I thank you for your great generosity, Lord Saladin, but Jefar el din is an honorable Christian and my friend. I will not abandon him to unjust treatment."
"No honorable man rejects Allah having known His light, and then turns against his kindred," replied Saladin flatly. "Be happy you leave with your Christian lives. Jefar el din must answer to ourjustice; your interpretation of Koran law is irrelevant."
Alexandre stepped forward in desperation. "You do not understand ..."
Saladin waved the guards to flank Liliane. "Shall I take your friend's head before your eyes?"
The game was up. Liliane, starkly aware of the executioners breathing down her neck, wasted no time in conceding it before Alexandre did anything rash. With alacrity, she hauled off the haik. As her pale hair spilled to her waist, the men stared, open-mouthed.
"What means this!" demanded Saladin. "Who is this woman?"
"My wife," Alexandre croaked dully. "As the keeping of a castle seemed to her too tedious, she would follow me to war."
A dazed grunt came from somewhere in the group, then a trickle of mutters and laughter. The laughter grew, particularly among the Christians who had observed Alexandre's "friend" in many an unladylike situation during the Acre campaign. The tension of the meeting found exaggerated relief. The tent fairly ballooned with laughter.
"God's blood, Brueil," Derek Flanchard cried at length, his eyes streaming with tears of hilarity, "do you know how many of us vowed you had gone over the gate to find a boy for a bedmate!"
The roar of laughter that met that statement made Alexandre turn so angrily scarlet that even the Saracens caught its drift; knight and enemy alike made him their butt of amusement. For long minutes, he stood frozen, enduring their careless mockery, then his eyes sought out Liliane.
As pale as Alexandre, Liliane knew that he would never forgive her."This time she had gone too far. "My lord had naught to do with my coming to Acre!" she cried in Alexandre's defense. "He bade me stay in France!" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew dismally she had made another mistake.
Flanchard was deliberately audible over the racket. "Le bon Dieu, the man seeks to command a troop when he cannot govern his own wife!"
Saladin, noticing that Alexandre's severly tried temper was reaching the snapping point, decided matters were getting out of hand. If the hostages were returned wounded to Acre, Richard would never believe his knights accountable for their own injuries in a roaring fight. "Hold, Messieurs! Count de Brueil and I have made a bargain. You would be wise to take advantage of it before I have cause to reconsider." He clapped his hands, summoning his guards. "You will be escorted as far as Wadi Mas, and there given your weapons. Bach of you is pledged to return me a head price of one hundred gold dinars by tomorrow's dawn." He glanced at Alexandre. "I presume the ransom is reasonable?"
Alexandre bowed stiffly. "You are generous, Great Lord Saladin. "
"Also, you will make no further raids upon my encampment."
"Agreed."
"By all?" Saladin's dark eyes intently scanned the knights, who were relieved to be let off so lightly and squirming to be gone.
As one, the crusaders nodded.
Saladin smiled faintly. "May your honor prove your bond. Today, Comte de Brueil thrust his head under my scimitar for you; tomorrow shall tell if you were worth his trouble." His head inclined slightly toward Liliane. "Madame la Comtesse, my commendations; not only have you extraordinary courage, you have afforded us all a welcome and charming diversion."
Unsure whether to bow or curtsy before the Saracen lords, whose amusement had settled into disapproval of an unveiled woman in their midst, Liliane awkwardly ventured a salaam. "Insh'allah, Saladin Effendi. "
"You speak Arabic, Comtesse?" Saladin was now watching her a little too alertly. He might think twice about letting her go if he thought she might have overheard information in his camp that would interest Richard and Philip.
"Only a few words, effendi" she replied with careful shyness. "What I do not know, I invent. So far, none of these European gentlemen has noticed the confusion of the natives."
A Flame Run Wild Page 27
