No Price Too High (2 page)

Melisande scrambled behind a boulder. An arrow struck it and ricocheted into the sand. She had little time. Where was her sword? She saw it beneath Sir Gerard. Running to him, she tugged on the sword. It was pinned beneath his bloody corpse.

She glanced up. More bandits inched from the shadows. If she did not free her sword, she would join her men in death. Triumphant shouts rang in the distance. Geoffrey! Was he safe? Would he send help? She shoved Sir Gerard's body off her sword.

She had trained for this horrible moment. If this were the way she would do her duty to King Richard and the Church, she must not hesitate.

The bandits were clustered at the far end of the valley. When she saw their arms lift, she ducked behind a boulder. The arrows flew toward her. She heard more shrieks.

“Geoffrey? Geoffrey, can you answer me?”

Her only answer was another screech in an English voice. She gripped the sword's hilt. She was a Hospitaller. She must face her foes.

Rising as far as her knees, Melisande inched around a dead horse. A group of bandits—infidel bandits she could tell by their curved swords—lurched toward her. She flattened herself behind another rock. Attacking five men would gain her nothing but death.

Her breath burned in her chest as the men stopped by Sir Gerard's corpse. One of the beasts jabbed his sword into him. Sickness lashed her when he held its bloody curve high.

Melisande's fingers tightened on her sword. The infidel bandits must be searching for gold. She uttered a desperate prayer as they continued toward her.

A shout rang against the stones. The men rushed away, their swords held high. They must be facing other enemies. Those enemies would be her allies. She must find a way to reach them, but how?

She heard a sound behind her. The footfall against the sand had been soft, almost swallowed by the wind. She stared at an infidel whose mouth was open with amazement.

Melisande leaped to her feet. She drove her sword into his gut. Vengeance was hers. Her triumph faltered when the man fell. She stared at the blood on her sword. Horror struck her. She had never slain anyone. Never …

Steel struck steel with an earsplitting clang. Melisande whirled. Two men faced each other across bare swords. Another bandit swung at a man who was dressed in robes as white as her gown. She flinched as the weapons met again.

“Beware! Behind you!” Melisande cried as the infidel drove the man toward a corpse.

The man teetered and fell backward. He tried to rise. A brutal blow knocked him to his knees.

“No!” she shouted.

Racing forward, she thrust her sword into the bandit's back. Her stomach twisted, but she offered her hand to the other man. When he stood, she stared up into dark eyes above the cloth that was drawn across his face to protect him from the driving sand.

“Who are you?” she asked in English, then in Frankish when he did not answer.

“Someone who is grateful to you for saving my life,” he answered in Frankish that bore an odd accent. He scanned the valley with the keen gaze of a veteran warrior. Since he kept his hands behind his back, she had no idea if he had blood on his sword to prove that.

“You must have a name.” She frowned. Emotions seared his dark eyes, but she could not guess what they might be.

He arched an ebony brow as his gaze swept along her with the intensity of a sage poring over a volume of old learning. Her fingers slipped on the hilt of her sword as sweat ran along her palm. She would not be daunted by this strong man. She had saved
his
life.

“Who are you?” she repeated more sharply.

“My name will matter little if we stay here.”

She nodded, unable to argue with such reason. “Follow me.”

When he grabbed her arm, Melisande gasped. “Do not be a fool!” he snarled over the rising wind. “What good will it do for you to die, too?”

“We must slay King Richard's enemies.”

“I shall not die for an English king.”

She jerked her arm away. “Then you are a coward!”

His eyes narrowed. “Me? How can you say that when you stand here as proof that Richard is the true coward.”

“King Richard is no coward!”

“No? He lets a woman fight in his stead.”

Melisande battled her fury. She should have let the infidel kill him. She swung her sword and laughed when he jumped aside.

He looked at the slash in his tunic. “Are you mad?”

“Do you swear allegiance to the Holy Crusade?”

“No.”

“Then you are no ally of mine.”

“Behind you!” He knocked her sword aside and pushed her away in the same smooth motion.

She fell into the sand. Raising her head, she dropped back when she heard a sword slice the air above her head. It struck another blade.

Melisande jumped to her feet. The man in the white robes faced another of the accursed bandits. How many of the loathsome creatures had joined this ambush? Another infidel appeared out of the swirling sand. She grabbed her sword with both hands and ignored the ache along her tired arms.

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the fight behind her. She did not turn. With one enemy to her back—if the nameless man were an enemy—and facing another, she had to worry about keeping her soul in her skin.

With a shout of the king's name, she lunged toward him. He fell back before her furious attack, then tumbled over a dead horse. Her blow hit the saddle as he rolled to his feet. He lifted his broadsword, victory on his face.

She drove her sword beneath his raised arms. Steel struck bone. Astonishment on his face, the bandit collapsed.

Melisande whirled. The nameless man had vanished. Coward! If their paths ever crossed again, she would see he paid with his life for insulting the king.

An arm seized her at the waist, pulling her back behind a huge stone. She raised her sword, then froze when she heard a low laugh.

“King Richard lets his ladies wear mail?” asked a low voice in Frankish with that peculiar accent which belonged to the man who would not speak his name. “Come with me.”

“I cannot go. The others—”

“You cannot help them if you are dead.”

“I cannot leave them.”

His lips twisted as he drew aside the cloth to reveal a square jaw and a neatly trimmed beard. “The ones here are beyond help. There is a way to reach the other side of the valley without being seen.”

“Will you take me?”

“Only because that is the direction I travel.”

Melisande blinked at his lack of civility. She had heard much of the odd ways of Frankish knights, but—

A rumble careened through the valley. The man grasped her arm. “Run!” he shouted.

“Where? Why?”

“If you value your life, run!” He shoved her toward the sunshine.

She spun and stared at rocks that were rolling down the cliff. The man caught her hand, tugging her after him. She tried to keep pace. The mail coat weighed on her shoulders.

“Hurry!” called the man.

Reaching beneath her gown, she loosened the latches holding the mail over her shoulders. “I cannot run with this on. I must rid myself of it. One moment.”

“You may not have—”

Pain swallowed his warning before everything vanished into a darkness that was filled with the unending echo of Sir Gerard's final shout of “
Dieu le veult
!”

TWO

Melisande woke to comfort she had not known since she had left Heathwyre. Lushness surrounded her and teased her, lingering in her dreams. A pulse of pain rumbled through her head, but softness murmured beneath her face.

Each breath was scented with perfume, but a dull ache in her ribs warned that one might be bruised. She opened her eyes and scowled at the fabric stretched overhead like a pavilion. Her fingers quivered as she touched the wall. She was not lost in a dream. Where was she? She sought in her memory.

Agony speared her like an arrow. The attack. The cry of victory being turned into screams of death. Blood and horror. Geoffrey? Where was her brother? She tried to think. She had fled with … She had no name for the man. Was he friend or foe? Had he been struck as well?

She sat and moaned as she cradled her head. She had no idea where the line between ally and enemy was drawn. She must find out. She reached for her knife. It was gone—as was her mail shirt. She recalled undoing one side of it. Mayhap it had fallen among the stones in the bloody valley.

Melisande looked around the tent, which was lit against the night. Elegant rugs covered pebbles, and pillows were gathered in the corners. Light came from a gourd-shaped lamp hanging from the roof, which rose in the center. Fabric was draped over the single door. A quick tug at the bottom of the wall beside her warned that the door was the only exit, for the material was too taut to move.

She tensed at a soft voice. She looked over her shoulder. The woman was dressed like the infidel women in Tyre, save that her black veil had been pushed aside. Wrinkles were etched into her face.

“Who are you?” Melisande asked.

The old woman stared in confusion. When Melisande repeated the question in Frankish and in Latin, she quickly realized the woman either could not or would not answer her questions.

The old woman held out a dish, and Melisande peered at a strange mixture of vegetables and meat. The old woman pantomimed eating. She might as well try the food. If this were her captor's way of killing her, she would die. The method of her death should not concern her, only devising a way to escape.

She dipped her finger into the bowl. With a cry, she pulled her finger back and stuck it in her mouth as steam rose from the bowl. Her eyes widened as spices sparkled on her tongue. She had never tasted its like.

The old woman patted her hand before placing the bowl in it. She rose with the awkwardness of old bones and sat by the door. With her arms folded over her robes, she stared at Melisande.

Melisande ate as she tried to decide what to do now. There was no fire in the tent, so the food must have been brought here. From where? What sort of place was this?

She might have an answer if she had any idea of the nameless man's fealty. He had no loyalty to King Richard, but he was no ally of the infidels who had attacked them. Who was he?

As soon as Melisande finished eating, the old woman took the dish. She handed Melisande a dipper. Melisande sipped, savoring the water sliding along her throat. It tasted more succulent than the sweetest wine of Aquitaine.

The old woman turned away, but Melisande grasped her black robes. “If you cannot understand me, find me someone who can,” she said in her sternest tone. “Where is the man with the white robes? He understands my language.”

The old woman shook her head. Her gnarled hands drew her robes out of Melisande's grip. Reaching beneath them, she offered Melisande a green bottle.

“What is it?” Melisande asked.

The old woman regarded her with a toothless grin and drew the cork. A flowery fragrance emerged.

Melisande touched the top and rubbed her fingers together. The scent was as sweet as the rose garden at Heathwyre.

The old woman mimicked pouring out some of the oil and rubbing it onto her skin. She closed her eyes.

Melisande gathered her feet beneath her. Before she could move, the old woman opened her eyes, pointing to the bottle. Her smile vanished, and the fervor in her eyes was a match for the nameless man's.

Sitting back on the pillows, Melisande tilted the bottle and brushed the oil onto her hand. Coolness eased her sand-scored skin. Dirt ground into it was soaked away as her hand began to glisten. Tears welled into her eyes. How could she enjoy this when her brother might be dead or dying?

Melisande shoved the cork back into the bottle. “Take it away.”

The old woman repeated the motions of rubbing the oil into her skin.

“No.” When the old woman did not take the bottle, she set it on the rug. She drew her knees up and leaned her chin on them as she fought tears. If she had not insisted on riding for Acre, Geoffrey would be safe.

The old woman tried to shove the bottle into Melisande's hands.

Melisande folded her arms. “I don't want it. I want someone who will
speak
to me.”

“Will I do?”

The old woman prostrated herself on the rug.

Slowly Melisande came to her feet as she stared at the man who had refused to tell her his name. He was alive … and dressed in robes of scarlet and purple that would befit a prince. An infidel prince, she realized with horror. No Frank had ever donned flowing robes that were bloused into soft boots rising to his knees. His head was draped with fabric tied back with a sash as bright as the purple one at his waist, but his long hair, which was as ebony as his beard, brushed his shoulders.

His smile could not soften his face, which was as sternly carved as the cliffs. As she was caught by his jet eyes, which possessed an arrogance dimming even her brother's, she noted the breadth of his shoulders beneath the robes that moved with sinuous grace as he walked toward her.

He paused as he passed the old woman and spoke what must have been an order. She rose, put her hand to her forehead, and bowed before scurrying away. He did not look to see if the tent flap dropped back into place, warning of his easy expectation that every order would be obeyed.

He bent to pick up the bottle and held it out. “This is pleasing.”

“The truth would be more pleasing.”

“How do you fare?”

She touched the aching spot on her skull. “It is nothing that shall not heal. I believe you repaid me in full by saving
my
life … sir.” She was not certain what title he was accustomed to. He wore his power with the ease of a man who had borne it all his life.

“I will admit that it was easier to save you when you did not contradict every order I gave.”

“You cannot fault me for distrusting a man who will not speak his name.”

With a chuckle, he motioned for her to sit.