by Cathy MacRae
He paid the stablemaster for a place for Beaudoin in an empty paddock, a bit of mash and hay, and a trough of water, then settled beneath a scraggly tree, wrapping his cloak about him. The lingering effects of the poison still plagued his body. The ride had exhausted him and if his horse needed an hour’s rest, more so did he.
They reached the coast at twilight. Though the hour was not late, winter’s approach had shortened the day. Phillipe dared not attempt the two weeks’ journey to Batroun on his own, nor did he wish to travel in the company of a large caravan, as all roads led through Antioch. Deception pained him, but Phillipe had determined a confrontation with his father must be avoided at all costs.
After a bit of haggling, he managed to obtain passage aboard a ship for himself and the horse to Tripoli, with the stipulation he board quickly and not cause the captain to delay his schedule. He led his reluctant beast over the dock planks to the loaded ship, wood creaking as the boat wallowed against the dock. Beaudoin balked at the hollow sound of his hooves on the wood, ears back, nostrils flared. He jerked his head against the pull of the rope and skittered backward as he gathered his haunches beneath him.
“Easy, Beaudoin,” Phillipe soothed. But the frightened horse paid no heed to his reassurances. With a frantic whinny, the beast reared, lifting his forefeet into the air. Phillipe clung to the rope in grim determination. Men shouted, waving their arms as though to drive the horse onto the ship.
“No!” Phillipe cried, but the men advanced, eager to help load the horse and be away from port.
One hoof slipped on the plank. He landed his front hooves with a force that shuddered the wood, and, with a panicked lunge, the beast leapt past Phillipe into the bay.
The horse bobbed quickly to the surface. He glanced about then struck out for a spit of land not too far distant which sloped to the water’s edge. Phillipe shoved past startled sailors and raced down the dock. He met Beaudoin as he surged out of the bay and raised his arms to ward off the spray of droplets as the horse shook like a big dog.
“Ye do not make this easy, my friend,” Phillipe chided the horse as he captured the trailing rope. “And I dare not wait for the next ship.”
He led Beaudoin back to the ship then wrapped his cloak over the horse’s head. The beast snorted but settled with only a single tap of a hoof against the boards. Phillipe’s glare kept the sailors at bay, and he walked determinedly down the wooden plank, giving the horse no time to reconsider. With a clatter of hooves and a brief toss of his head, Beaudoin made his way onto the ship. Phillipe retrieved his cloak then tied the rope to a cleat on the wall. He made certain hay and water were within reach of the horse, then strode to the rail as the ship set sail.
The inky waters passed swiftly beneath the ship’s hull. Moonlight glinted on the waves as though the hand of God had scattered diamonds across the sea. The ship had put into port twice, and the following morning would place Tripoli on the horizon. Phillipe chafed at the delays the stops had created, but five days aboard ship brought him to his destination much faster than travel by road. From the port city, Phillipe knew the road to Batroun even with his eyes closed. There, he would be safe.
By midmorning, he bid farewell to Tripoli and put his heels to Beaudoin’s sides. Two hours later, the forbidding walls of Mseilha Castle rose into view. Seat of the Baron of Batroun and where Phillipe had spent several years fostering, the ancient Roman fortification was more his home than any place else he’d ever lived. The day he’d learned the baron, Donal MacLean, and his children Alex and Arbela, Phillipe’s closest friends, were to leave for Scotland, was still clear in his mind. It scarcely seemed three years had passed.
Phillipe ducked his head as he rode through the castle gate, not wishing the guard to recognize him. There was only one man he trusted with his secret, and he hoped he still held his position at the keep.
It took a bit of coin to convince the guard at the door of the hall to send a message requesting an audience with Amhal, the baron’s steward. Phillipe waited anxiously, pacing beneath an orange tree in a shaded area of the yard. At last, a boy hurried from the hall, beckoning him to follow. Leaving Beaudoin tied in the shade, he entered the hall, winding through familiar passageways to the windowless room where Amhal attended the household accounts. He was instructed to leave his weapons at the door, and a guard checked him thoroughly before permitting him entrance.
The castellan rose from the chair behind the desk.
“The guard says ye bring word from Antioch.” Amhal’s gaze raked Phillipe’s tattered clothing. “I am listening.”
Phillipe glanced over his shoulder to the open door where a guard was clearly visible.
“I am no threat. May I speak in confidence, Sardar?”
Amhal hesitated then nodded, and the guard closed the door.
Phillipe straightened his slouch and brushed his matted hair from his face. “’Tis I, Phillipe.”
“My Prince?” Amhal stepped from behind his desk, eyes wide. “Many pardons, my lord.” He halted, blinking in bewilderment. “The reports of your death?”
“Only slightly exaggerated, I fear.” Phillipe’s laugh bore no humor. “No one knows of my escape. May I count on your discretion?”
“Of . . . of course.” Amhal backed to his chair and sat heavily, pointing Phillipe to another. “How may I be of service?”
Chapter Six
“I ask ye to guard my secret with your life.” Phillipe held Amhal’s rapt attention, marred only by a slight narrowing of his eyes. “I appreciate your loyalty to both my father and the Baron, but neither must know I live.”
“Might I ask why?”
“My death has already been divulged to my sire. The Bishop himself delivered my last rites. My father is under pressure from the Saracens in power in Egypt to the south, and Kayqubad, the Seljuk Turk Sheik, to the east. Both have been his allies, but he would lose everything if the Saracens side with Cilicia—which they are in danger of doing.”
Amhal nodded sagely. Alliances often changed with little or no warning, and with devastating results.
“Other than lodge a formal protest, there is naught for my father to do but attend my funeral—and I fear they will be denied him.”
“Can ye not present yourself to him? In secret? My lord, consider his pain at your loss.”
Phillipe grimaced. “I do not see what can be gained from it, even were I able to attain an audience with him without being recognized by others. I would incur the wrath of Baron Konstantin if he realized he had been duped, and those who helped me escape would die. Too many have already been sacrificed.
“A great war would be waged on my behalf. I would again be a pawn in the machinations of men scrabbling for more land, more wealth, more power.” He shook his head. “Nae, my old friend. I am well rid of the intrigue of this land. I have decided to travel to Scotland. My sword will pay my way. I will never again trade on my position as King of Cilicia or Phillipe, Prince of Antioch. The boy ye once knew no longer exists.”
Amhal fingered a quill laying on his desk. “Will ye speak to the baron?”
The question was a simple one, yet fraught with danger. Phillipe did not wish to embroil Donal MacLean in intrigues he could do nothing about, yet he craved contact with the family closer to him than his own.
“I will. Once I arrive in Scotland. But ’tis very important ye do not send word of any kind to him, or expect to hear from me once I have left here. A bit of parchment can go astray, an idle word repeated where it will do the most damage. This ye must promise.”
Amhal observed him for long moments. “Très bien. ’Twill be as ye wish. The Sea Falcon lies in the harbor and awaits only my word to set sail. She is the ship that carried the baron back to Scotland, and her captain knows the waters well. I can have ye out of the Levant by mid-morning tomorrow.”
Excitement rose in Phillipe as he allowed himself finally to hope.
“Have ye heard from them? Alex, I mean.”
Amhal nodded. �
�I received word that Lord Alex and his father, along with Lady Arbela and their aunt, had reached Scotland safely and would be sending ships back, establishing a trade route between the two countries and with several lands in between. Two such ships have arrived and subsequently returned to Scotland since, bringing us fine wool and bartering whisky along the way. We are pleased to send spices, silks, dates, and Damascus steel in return.”
He grinned. “The first missive gave a rather amusing account of pirates they encountered near Gibraltar.” He leaned back into his chair and launched into a memorized telling of the tale.
Phillipe grinned, pride warming his belly at the image of Arbela and her part in besting the pirates. Ah, mon coeur! Nothing frightens ye. Ye have the heart of a true warrior.
“Any word since?” He attempted a casual question though he was desperate to know more of the girl he’d admired since the day he’d arrived a mere boy at Mseilha Castle. He and Alex, her twin, had been closer than true brothers, yet the stubborn girl with a gift for strategy and story-telling held a special place in his heart. The fact she was an accomplished warrior only added to her charm in his eyes.
Amhal nodded. “Aye. The Baron continues to build his shipping business.” He leveled a look at Phillipe. “Lady Arbela has wed a Scotsman.”
Phillipe’s breath left him in a rush. He blinked, trying to bring his tilting world back into order.
I had no right to expect otherwise. She was ever a friend, a sister. Naught more—except in my heart.
“I thank ye for your time and your tales.” Phillipe attempted a ghost of a smile. “I am certain she and Alex are embracing their new lives in Scotland.”
He rose and inclined his head to the castellan. “If ye have a spare cot where I might rest, I will prepare for my journey. Might I trouble ye to care for the horse I arrived on?”
Amhal stood and bowed deeply. “It will be as ye ask. Que Dieu soit avec vous, my lord.”
Phillipe returned the blessing. “May God be with ye as well.”
* * *
Phillipe stared at the ceiling. Blue and white mosaic tiles glimmered in the pale moonlight, cool and restful. But sleep eluded him. Images of his youth looped through his mind. Donal MacLean’s wisdom, Alex’s subtle jokes, Arbela’s brash confidence.
Arbela had wed a Scotsman.
Had she fallen in love? Or had she become a pawn much as he had? Would Donal have ensured she would be cherished, that her husband would not break her spirit?
Damn! He should have been the one to nurture her, encourage her, feel pride in her accomplishments. Their last meeting had been bittersweet, a parting of friends who had no hope of ever becoming more.
I am to be crowned king of Armenia through marriage to Zabel—the daughter of the man who once attempted to stab my sire in the back . . ..
Arbela’s reply had meant to be encouraging. She hadn’t understood the depth of his despair.
Phillipe, this could be a chance to create greater unity in the north . . . I know ’tis not the future ye’d hoped for, but ’tis a significant task yer father puts before ye. . .. The fate of many will soon rest in yer hands.
But, Arbela, ’tis ye I love.
Only then had she realized his true regard for her.
He’d kissed her, then sent her away to face the portentous news that her father was returning to Scotland to take his place as Chief of the MacLeans. He’d watched her choose life in Scotland among her family against the life she knew in the Holy Land.
And not once had she indicated she returned his love.
Unless he considered the fact she did not plunge a dagger into his belly for daring to kiss her. But perhaps he’d taken her by surprise.
Already his plan was changing. He did not think he could bear seeing her as the wife of another man. Still, the baron’s ship sailed for Scotland on the morrow, and it was as good a choice as any. The route was plagued with pirates and other dangers, and a ready sword would be welcome on any such vessel.
Would he seek Donal MacLean when he arrived in Scotland? Phillipe had changed his mind on the matter at least a dozen times in the past hour. How could he let Alex believe he’d died, imprisoned in Cilicia for a crime he didn’t commit? And yet, if he allowed himself the contact, would he be able to leave and make a home for himself where he had no expectation of seeing Arbela—and her husband—again?
What would he have to offer if she hadn’t wed? The knife edge of despair slid painfully through him. He’d deceived the church. He’d lied, offering another’s body in exchange for his own. The bishop had declared him dead; had released Zabel from her vows of matrimony.
Was he becoming his father? Phillipe could not control the speed of his heart. Bohemond IV had supported the church—but had skirted the Pope’s displeasure only by shifting alliances as required. Phillipe’s grandsire had been excommunicated after his third marriage, though Sybil had possibly bewitched him, for she was reputedly a sorceress—and certainly a spy for Saladin.
Phillipe sought the silent guidance of his once-foster father, a man who’d been a firm follower of the chivalric code, a man who’d defended the church even at the risk of his own life, warred against the Saracen, protecting his land at Batroun and the passage of pilgrims and merchants from all who preyed upon them. Donal MacLean had been generous with his wealth and encouraged the kind treatment of all who came to him in need. Phillipe couldn’t think of a man who’d triumphed over evil as brilliantly. And Phillipe had, for a time, been as his son.
Phillipe had failed him. He’d used the rites of the church to achieve his freedom. As he’d stared at the rotted straw on the floor of the dungeon, it had seemed only right to fight for his life. But what had it cost him?
Streaks of pearl and pale gold slowly inched their way through the open window, and the pre-dawn breeze fluttered the tapestries. With a grunt of relief, Phillipe shoved the coverlet aside and strode to the basin where a pitcher of water awaited, pushing aside his dark thoughts. He washed his face and hands, removed the linen tunic Amhal had given him after his bath the night before, and dressed in clothing more befitting the rigors of travel.
Amhal had assured him his new clothes were similar to those the baron and Alex had worn when they left for Scotland and should cause him less concern than his accent and sun-darkened skin. Even more of a stranger than he’d been in Cilicia despite his marriage to the queen, he would be out of place, a foreigner in Scotland.
The tunic and slender, thick trousers were worn soft in the right places and fit him well. Amhal had insisted on replacing his sword with one of Damascus steel, the blade straight in the European way, not curved as was the local preference. For the first time in years, his head was covered with a serviceable metal helm, not bound beneath a turban, and his feet were shod in the sturdy leather boots of a warrior, not the brocade slippers of a man striding the carpeted floors of royal apartments.
He broke the end from a loaf of bread as he traversed the main hall and paused long enough to take a deep draught of mulled wine. A few people sat at the trestle tables, but Phillipe quickly averted his face to avoid being recognized.
He stepped into the outer yard. Wind surged around him, bringing a storm from the north to taint the morning. His cloak flapped like the laden sails on a ship. The scent of rain filled his nose, though none had yet fallen. A crack of thunder sounded just seconds behind a flash of lightning, and dark clouds rolled overhead, hiding the rays of dawn.
Amhal hurried to his side, his long tunic rippling about his lean frame.
“My lord, the weather will delay the ship. The captain will not set sail against wind battering the harbor.”
“Not to mention the lightning,” Phillipe added on a resigned sigh. The wind’s power increased, picking up bits of sand and scattering it about the yard. Phillipe raised the edge of his cloak protectively over his neck and the lower part of his face, leaving only his eyes showing beneath his helm and no opportunity for the sand to settle beneath his clothin
g.
“Be at the docks as soon as the storm has passed, my lord. Captain Benicio will await ye, but he is impatient to be gone. Forgive me, but I have told him ye are a kinsman, eager to travel.”
“I am not insulted ye claim me as kin, Amhal. I am forever in your debt.”
“May your wait not be long, my lord. Que Dieu soit avec vous.”
Phillipe inclined his head. “God be with ye.”
Amhal bowed then returned to the keep, the marks of his sandals in the dust of the yard immediately swept away by the wind. With a crack of thunder, the skies opened up, dousing Phillipe in a deluge of rain. He darted toward the town, not wishing to chance encountering any in the keep who might remember him.
He took shelter in a doorway until the storm passed, his patience waning long before the rains ceased. He reached the docks as the sun dipped over the western horizon. Locating the Sea Falcon, he introduced himself to Captain Benicio.
“’Tis never a bad thing to have an extra sword on board.” The captain squinted upward as dark clouds dispersed overhead. “And this damned storm cost me two of my regular crew who I was told shipped out on another vessel this morning despite the weather. Fortunately, I have been able to pick up two sailors seeking passage across the Mediterranean to Gibraltar, so we shouldn’t be short-handed this portion of the voyage.”
The swarthy Italian grinned, eyes sparkling, his skin dark from years at sea. “Of course, I’m inclined to do what I can to accommodate Amhal, though El Falcone doesn’t ship many passengers these days. Ye may be called on to help when needed.”
