A Flame Run Wild

by Christine Monson

  Alexandre smiled. "Perhaps I should come along to guard your back."

  "No, you should stay here and look after the children. If I do not come back, it will be up to you to get them out." He issued orders with the superior authority of one confidently aware he has saved another's life. His head lifted. "And do not worry. If they catch me, I shall not tell them anything."

  Alexandre's smile softened. "I know." He tossed Raschid his dirk. "You may need this."

  Raschid thumbed the jewel-studded hilt, then ran his thumb critically along the fine blade. "Not bad. We Saracens make better, of course, but this will do." He thrust the dirk in his sash. "Douse the light." When the candle went out, he opened the door, letting in a breath of fresh air, then the block closed behind him with a whisper.

  Alexandre sat with Liliane and the children in the silent, stifling dark. A half hour passed; the air grew unbreathable again. He opened the block and peered into the darkness. Only rats rustled across the old mosque floors. Cautiously, he ventured out and checked the rubble at the rear of the building. Moonlight shone on the mounds as if they were dunes in the midst of the city. A scratch of stone sounded behind him. He whirled, his sword half drawn. "Hey!" came a rough, familiar whisper. "It's me. I've snitched a wagon. Bring your lady and the kids."

  Alexandre wasted no time. No doubt about it, Raschid was a marvel. Commandeering a wagon must have been as easy as conjuring up a flying carpet.

  "Got any place to take this bunch?" the boy queried when everyone was aboard his conveyance, a canopied contraption mounted on a ramshackle wagon pulled by a donkey.

  "My villa. I will drive."

  A few streets from the Street of Clouds, Alexandre jumped down from the driver's seat. "Take over, mon brave. I had better make sure we do not have company." He trotted toward the villa. Sure enough, at the villa gates Louis blustered with the remains of his cesspit crew. Yves was pale but determined. Atop the villa walls poised Brueil men-at-arms with crossbows.

  Using his rooftop route, Alexandre slipped into his bedroom, rapidly stripped and pulled on a loose robe. As an afterthought, he hastily dunked his dirty face in the washbowl and wiped it on his sleeve. Then he adopted a sickly appearance and wandered out upon the villa roof to peer down at the crowd in the street. Startled, they stared up at him, Louis's black eyes filling with confusion, then anger.

  "You are making a damned pest of yourself with your concern for my health, Louis," Alexandre called down querulously. "Enough racket is coming up to raise Lazarus. As you can see, I am up and about, so have the civility to be off."

  His face nearly black, Louis started to say something, then thought better of it. "My apologies, my lord," he gritted. "Perhaps you had best have a talk with your steward about using your signet ring to run up his dairy accounts. Tis likely to cause peculiar rumors."

  Alexandre casually held up his ring. "Never listen to gossip, Louis." He strolled from the rampart, leaving the muttering crew below to disperse. Looking down into his own courtyard, he summoned up three bowmen and a pikeman. He had redressed by the time they reached him. "Come with me."

  He led them over the roofs to where the cart waited on the street. "Escort this cart to the harbor at cost of your life. The occupants will embark to Nahariya. Draw no attention to yourselves and their boarding. You, pikeman, climb in; that pike is conspicuous."

  The pikeman pulled back the canopy, then started. Dark eyes stared at him in fear and hostility. "Milord," he stammered, "these are beggar brats!"

  "Each worth his weight in gold." Alexandre ruffled a child's hair. "The little ones will be wanting their milk before they leave. See to it." Then, with the children's help, he carefully eased out the limp form of Jefar el din, whose telltale fair hair had been discreetly retucked into the stained haik. Her white face fell toward his chest, and the children, eyed her with sad resignation.

  "Hey!" Raschid called as Alexandre started to turn away. "You forgot your dirk!" Reluctantly, he thrust it forth.

  "Keep it, but pry out the jewels, else they tempt unsavory characters."

  "Huh, these baubles will be better than an invitation to a party." Raschid grunted in derision. "I am as unsavory as they come." He grinned and flicked the dirk tip. "Point taken, though. A jewel or two ought to set me up with my sister and a few likely wenches. Pity that blonde of yours is not in business; she would be a plum draw." He sobered. "A man with any stomach to him would not mind wedding a woman like her"— his eyes narrowed sternly—"and if you have not, you ought. I shall be back in a week to see if she is all right."

  "Point taken," Alexandre replied softly. He waited, watching until the cart rattled to the end of the street and rounded the corner. A few small, tentative hands waved from the canopy's back slit. His throat tightened as his eyes dropped to Liliane: If you must die, my love, you could have chosen no better cause, no better inheritors of all you valued in life. For these, Christ went to the cross with love and self-sacrifice. Who am I to judge, where He and you did not?

  He carried Liliane to the main gate of the villa, and with a terrible sense of loneliness, waited for the servants to admit them. She was so quiet—Liliane, who had rarely been quiet. She had been filled with energy, never waiting for events to shape her, but rather shaping them. Had she never seen a sword, she would have been a fighter. She had gone on fighting until she had been beaten down more by him than by any enemy. She had lived for justice, and he, whom she loved most, had given her little, for pride had been his icy, faithless paramour. Now, for the rest of his life, he might lie with pride and find it bloated, mocking company.

  The retainers were much startled and dismayed to see Jefar el din again. Having never trusted the Saracen, they also feared that Richard's favor would only decline further if Alexandre's harboring of Jefar were known. Yves fretted all the way up the stairs to the bedchamber. "If the Signes find out about this, they will squeal like pigs to Richard. They are just looking for something . . ."

  Alexandre ignored him. He laid his burden down on the bedchamber pallet. "Close the door and curtains," he ordered.

  With a sigh, Yves swept them closed and turned back to the bed to see Alexandre remove Jefar el din's haik. He gasped. "Mother of God! My lady! No, it's not possible! What demon has done this?"

  "Demon, Yves? You have scant knowledge of women if you underestimate their capacity to change themselves from one form to another. They will do it on a whim, for revenge, for love"— he stroked Liliane's cheek—"and this one has proven particularly willful."

  "Milady followed you from France." Yves sat weakly upon the end of the pallet. "When I think ..."

  "Do not think. And do not talk—to anyone. Liliane has saved my skin from the Signes more than once in Palestine; they would kill her if they realized it."

  Yves's homely little face became long. "In a whistle, they would." He flicked a glance at the blood staining Liliane's aba; from the expanse of the blotch, he feared that the Signes might be spared any future effort in dispatching their disloyal cousin. "Shall I send for a Hospitaler?"

  "No, he would report to Richard and the news would leak; even Philip must not know that Liliane is here. Send me Vincent; he's done enough patching and stitching in his time."

  Not enough for this, predicted Yves, but went along as he was bid.

  Vincent was equally unoptimistic. "I've done my best," he said quietly when he was finished tending to Liliane's wound, "but, my lord, the cut is deep. I doubt your lady will toe. Even a Hospitaler could not save her now, after such loss of blood.''

  "She will live," Alexandre said flatly. "Providence would not let me find her, only to have her die."

  Providence is mysterious, thought Yves, particularly when one presumes to know its course. He and Vincent discreetly took their leave.

  Alexandre tried to make Liliane more comfortable. She was beginning to stir restlessly as the pain of her wound penetrated her deep sleep. Though nearly as tall as he, she looked small now, as if shrunken in upon hers
elf. Nights without sleep in the tunnels had told upon her; anyone who saw her beauty now must do so through the eyes of love. She was pale with the sickly cast of ivory; her eyes were stained beneath with shadow.

  Alexandre was deeply troubled for want of a trained physician; but he knew that Louis would have the villa watched and be suspicious about the visit of a Hospitaler knight; also, Hospitalers commonly bled their patients, which from Alexandre's observation, commonly led to the patient's direct demise. Practical Vincent had better sense than the Hospitalers, but little knowledge of fine surgery. Liliane was still bleeding and in need of internal stitching beyond Vincent's skill. Also, in this climate, wounds festered quickly; a mere blister could turn deadly. With haunting doubts he would not voice aloud, Alexandre lay down beside Liliane and, for the first time since childhood, prayed.

  Exhausted, Alexandre fell asleep, only to awaken perhaps an hour later to feel blood seeping between his fingers. Liliane was so terribly still that he feared she was dead. She must have stirred violently for the bandage was partly dislodged. Fighting panic, he applied a new bandage; in less than ten minutes, it was nearly as sodden as the first. The wolfish phantoms in his mind now snarled like fiends. She was going to die! His prayers were as ashes, and no sun would rise for Liliane to end this dark night.

  Her last memory of him for eternity would be his desertion. ... He sank to his knees, feeling nothing, her lax wrist caught in his hand as he slumped against the bed. His mind blackened as the stain upon the bed linen widened. Her pulse was fading. She was going . . . where?

  Shall I go before thee to that unknown? He wondered in despair. Shall I await thee with some candle burning to light thy way? He groped for the oil light upon the stone, then for the dirk, only to remember it was gone. Where was his sword? His fingers white on the clay lamp handle, he rifled the room for his sword with increasing impatience. I must find it, he thought tensely. She is leaving so quickly . . . where is the damned thing? It has always been ready enough to snatch a life! Yves . . . blast him, Yves must have taken it!

  With a raging cry on his lips, he jerked open the door curtain ... to see Raschid and a wizened Saracen. Raschid held up the dirk to show a gap in the jewels of its handle. "Old Ahmed does not work cheap on an infidel, but he is worth a small ruby. I thought you might be needing a physician, so I brought him in the cart."

  Alexandre stared at them for a moment, then stepped back into the bedchamber. "Liliane is bleeding to death," he muttered vaguely, "and I have need of my sword. Yves has it. If you will excuse me, I must find him."

  Raschid and the old man exchanged looks, then the physician went directly to the bed. "Never mind, I'll fetch your sword," Raschid soothed Alexandre, catching his arm as he started to leave. "You stay here. Ahmed may need your assistance." He propelled Alexandre toward the bed; then scurried out of the room to find Yves.

  Yves was sitting morosely in the kitchen, applying himself to a large wine fiacon. "Have you got your master's sword?" Raschid demanded in gutter French.

  "Who the hell are you, you dirty twerp?" slurred Yves over the flacon.

  "Im not a drooling drunk neglecting his duties," Rase hid cut back.

  "Who's neglecting his duties?" Yves unsteadily waved Alexandre's sword with a regal air. "Everything is in control."

  "Good lad," Raschid approved archly. "I suppose you can even boil water."

  "Naturally."

  "Then apply yourself to a pot, man! Your lady is in need of it." He strode off.

  When he reached the master bedchamber, Raschid cast a sharp look at Alexandre, who hovered at Ahmed's elbow while he plied his needle. Alexandre had a curious air of calmness now, which Raschid was not sure he liked. He smiled at Alexandre reassuringly. "Yves is cleaning your sword. When you want it, just sing out and I'll bring it up to you."

  Alexandre's patient eyes seemed to reply: You lie, but I can wait.

  Raschid moved to the bed. Standing at Alexandre's side, he divined the cause of his uneasiness. Alexandre's body held the tension of an arrow ready to be loosed from a bow. "How does it go?" Raschid murmured to the physician.

  Ahmed fixed a grim red-rimmed eye on him. "Would you care to put a dirty finger or perhaps milord's toe on my suture knots? I have so much assistance I cannot concentrate. Please take this edgy young gentleman for a walk."

  "We must humor the old man," Raschid gently advised Alexandre, taking his arm. Alexandre did not resist and followed him quietly out onto the upper patio overlooking the sea. "Have you slept? Eaten anything?" Raschid inquired of him. Alexandre merely looked at the water, "I see." Raschid waved down at the gate guard. "Tell your Yves to send up wine by way of our good doctor. Hear that, Ahmed? We shall have wine with the special spices I brought." The only reply from the bedchamber was a grunt.

  Raschid heaved himself up on the wall to smile reassuringly at Alexandre. "Your lady may get well, yet. Old Ahmed's stubborn as a goat. I learned long ago to pay him in advance; then he will lie on nails rather than lose his patient. A matter of professional pride. . . ." He went on chatting until the wine arrived. He poured a gobletful from the pitcher and handed it to Alexandre. "Come on, it will do you good. You may have a very sick patient to look after during me next week or so, you know. You cannot help her if you are laid out flat."

  Indifferently, Alexandre drank. Less than a quarter hour later, he was flat on his back. Fleetingly, before he passed out on the rooftop, he remembered that Mohammedans did not touch liquor. Old Ahmed the goat and Raschid the liar had drugged him. Not only that, they kept him drugged until Liliane took a turn for the better.

  Three days is a long time for a man to stay drunk; even Yves lacked that much ambition. Though he fussed and fumed about the presumptuous usurpers in his household, he delivered soup with the regularity of an hourglass and went back to brazenly bullying Philip's page, whose inquiries had grown tiresomely pressing.

  On the fourth morning, Alexandre awoke with the sun is Ins eyes and his own stench in his nostrils. When he groggily thrust himself up on his elbows, his head screamed like a stabbed gull. With a moan, he fell back down. The padding of sandaled feet sounded by his head. He shuddered and grabbed at an ankle. Raschid danced neatly out of reach. "Good, you're up and about. You look fit enough to be hanged."

  "If I ever get my hands on your miserable throat," Alexandre whispered hoarsely, "I am going to throttle you more surely than any rope." He rolled over and vomited, scarcely able to lift his head high enough to keep from choking himself. When he was done, he took a deep, unsteady breath, then abruptly, harshly remembered. "Is Liliane . . . ?"

  "See for yourself."

  Alexandre dragged himself to his feet and wove to the curtain which was half open to admit a breath of sea air to the sickroom. Liliane lay quietly, her chest gentry rising and falling. "She's asleep," Alexandre muttered unevenly. He absently rubbed the stubble at his jaw; from his beard length, he guessed that three, perhaps four days had passed.

  He stumbled forward to take Liliane's hand as if it might break in his fingers; her hand was warm. She stirred, her stupor beginning to lift. Very soon now she would awaken. "Sweet God," he whispered. "Sweet God, bless that toad, Ahmed, for eternity."

  "What about me?" prodded Raschid, lounging in the doorway.

  "You, I am going to strangle with silver gloves and send to pimp for houris who will make you the richest guttersnipe in heaven."

  Raschid laughed. "I want a melon-titted fat one for myself."

  Alexandre started to laugh, too, then his expression abruptly altered. He retched again, in dry heaves. "Why," he muttered at last, "when there are a dozen more gentle drugs he might have used, did Ahmed have to poison me?"

  "He made the selection at my request. A man whose gut is miserable cannot concentrate upon losing his mind."

  "You damned, diabolical ..." Alexandre held his aching head. "I owe you more than my life, Raschid. I am not rich, but I shall try to give you whatever your greedy, magnificent heart desires.
Name your reward."

  Raschid grinned as he watched Liliane stir again. "Oh, do not worry. You can afford it." Without more ado, he sauntered to the bed, leaned over it, and placed a leisurely, precociously expert kiss on Liliane's lips.

  For several moments, Liliane did not move, then her eyelids flickered and slowly opened. Dazedly, she stared up at the boy. "What . . . was that for?" she queried with a faint smile.

  Raschid winked, "To demonstrate the advantages of embracing a man rather man a sword, Madame. I hope you have learned your first lesson." Giving an elaborate sigh, he inclined his head toward Alexandre. "With my deepest regrets, this retching, unwashed lout of a Frenchman must conduct the bulk of your studies." He lifted her hand and kissed it. "Au revoir, Madame la Comtesse. A pity we did not meet in your youth." With a flamboyant bow and superior smile for Alexandre, he departed.

  "In your youth," Alexandre murmured dryly, "he was dragging his diapers and teething on whores' ankles."

  He had meant to make Liliane laugh, but she did not. She had not even looked at him. Then slowly her head turned and her lovely eyes met his. "It was you ... in the tunnel."

  "Like your laggard but faithful wolfhound." He took her hand. "Saida is gone. I gave her to Philip. She was quite willing to go to his bed, having never known mine. She is with him yet, if he has not tired of her."

  "As you have tired of me," Liliane whispered. "Duty is dry fare when one has known feasts." Her hand lay lax in his.

  "Do you think I searched all Acre, from the minarets to the very sewers, for you out of duty?" Alexandre kissed her fingers. "Can you imagine how delighted I was to hear that the prestigious Brueil signet was being used to buy milk at a whorehouse?"

  "Are the children, safe?"

  "They are now in Nahariya." His voice lost its forced levity. "You saved many innocent lives, Liliane. Even Raschid is grateful, for once in his cynical life."

  "You saved us. I owe you thanks," she replied faintly.

  "Give your thanks to Raschid." He told her of being lost in the cisterns, of the cart and old Ahmed. "Never was there a kiss more unselfishly earned than the one Raschid claimed, and little enough reward for all his brave service."