Rose

Lady Mamille de Rou, personal bodyguard to Eleanor, Queen of France, Duchess of Aquitaine, braced against the onslaught of wind and rain bombarding them from the stormy Mediterranean Sea. Deep gray skies matched the roiling charcoal ocean, making it impossible to distinguish day from night. She and the queen gripped the wooden rail with slippery gloved hands, the assailing gusts pushing them backward.

Up, down, back and forth, the Black Pine
dromont
rode the pitching waves. Mamie watched the hundred or so oarsmen keep the galley from tipping, taking on the sea with rhythmic strokes and brute strength.

“I heard one of the men say a rudder might be broken,” Mamie
shouted over the wind. Conversation required effort, unless she timed her speech with a lull in the gale.

“We have come this far toward Antioch. God will not let us drown now.” Queen Eleanor wore a confident expression. Her large eyes, pink cheeks, and a regal nose were haloed by an oiled-leather hood. “Is that a clearing?” The queen pointed to the heavy clouds, keeping her balance as another whitecap washed over the rail and onto the deck.

Water, a few inches deep, sloshed against the saturated leather of their boots, but it didn't matter. Mamie hadn't felt her feet in days.

“Non.” She squinted, hoping to see something besides gray sky. “You search for a miracle.”

Shoulder to shoulder at the side of the ship, the two women faced nature's fury. In the past year they'd persevered through harsh conditions as their caravan left France. What started as an adventure had become a struggle for survival as they reached Constantinople. Betrayal and the constant battering of the Turkish armies wore them down, but the pilgrims kept fighting. Not even the flood at Ephesus, where they'd lost men and supplies, had caused them to give up their quest toward the Holy Land.

As if she shared her thoughts, Eleanor said, “We will wrest Edessa back from Nur ad-Din, with Uncle Raymond's help. Then, Jerusalem.” She put a hand over Mamie's. “Victory, instead of these cursed delays. You will see,
mon fleur
.”

“Mesdames,” a voice bellowed.

Recognizing the scratchy tones of the captain's voice, Mamie
turned. “Yes?”

“Why are you out here? You should be below deck with the others.” He grinned, his teeth glistening white in his olive-skinned face. Dark eyes snapped with amusement, his damp hair in ringlets down his back and across his forehead. He wore a belted tunic, leggings, and boots, impervious to the weather. “Do you not notice the storm?”

“We need fresh air,” Mamie patted her belly. “I would rather
be wet than sick.”

“You, madame, are a sailor at heart.” He waited until Eleanor's
gazed shifted back to the sea before giving Mamie a languid wink which brought images of him, dark, her, fair—naked, entwined
on his bunk. All with a wink? Her body heated at what he might do with his hands.

She shook a finger at him, though the idea tempted. Her last lover, German Emperor Conrad, had been a true disappointment. A mix of ocean water and rain sprayed her face, leaving a salty residue along her eyelashes. It had been a week or more since she'd glanced in a mirror.
The captain must be feeling desperate
. “Are we in the way?”

They'd taken a position at the center of the galley, near the mast posts. It seemed the sturdiest section, with the least obstructed view of the ocean. Barrels of rainwater and apples were lashed to the inside walls.

“The wind is slowing,” he said. “The storm will be over soon.”

“Any sign of land?” Eleanor asked. Her cloak swept the deck, the hem swirling in dark pools of water that swished from side to side as the boat listed. They'd long ago resigned themselves to being soaked. It was better than enduring the stench of vomit below.

“No, Queen Eleanor. I will alert you as soon as I see a speck along the horizon.” He cleared his throat. “I apologize for the delay.”

Mamie held her breath, wondering what the queen would say. A three-day journey had turned into weeks.

“No need to apologize for being tossed off course. I am grateful
for your skills in seeing us through the storms.” Charming and efficient—Mamie should never have doubted the queen's diplomacy.
“All five of our vessels are still afloat?”

“Yes.” He crossed his arms as he studied them. “I am getting a bite to eat. Are you sure you want to stay up here?”

“
Oui
!” Mamie and Eleanor said in unison.

He bowed and then walked toward the stern, taking the thin stairs down to the makeshift living area and sleeping quarters. The long ship normally carried supplies along the coast, but the promise of a king's fortune once they reached Antioch had changed the captain's cargo manifest. Smart captain.
Handsome face, sensual mouth
.

She'd gotten used to the grit of salt in the air, though it dried her tongue and made her thirsty. Keeping one hand on the rail, Mamie adjusted her stance to the rise and fall of the waves and uncapped the flagon of water she kept on a belt loop. “Queen Eleanor? Would you like a drink?”

Eleanor leaned a hip against the side of the boat. “Something hot would be wonderful,” she said, laughing.

“I have water.” Mamie smiled as she swayed the flagon by its neck. “Refreshing.”

“Hot spiced wine.” The queen accepted the boiled-leather container and took a swallow. “Ugh. Warm and no flavor. But I thank you.”

Another immense wave lifted the prow, causing the hull to shudder and creak.

“I hope I remember how to walk on land,” Mamie said, accept
ing the roll of the sea. “I wonder how Fay is faring. And Sarah.”

“My cousin has never done well on the water. And Sarah?” Eleanor lowered her voice. “The babe has made her ill since
conception. With Jonathon dead, I fear she's lost her will to survive.”

“Not Sarah.” Mamie held the queen's gaze, seeing the frustration and pain there.

“If we were in France or any civilized city, I would see to her proper care. But here my crown means nothing. God decides, while we humans wait. And pray.” The lack of food had sharpened the queen's cheekbones, Mamie noticed, as well as her view of the world.

“At least the king is feeling better.”

“Another one who doesn't like to sail.” Eleanor held up a palm. “Just a few drops. It won't be long now.” Shifting from her position overlooking the waves, Eleanor pressed back against a large barrel and faced Mamie, speaking in low tones, “I brought up the subject of battle once we reach Antioch, but Louis doesn't want to discuss it. He used to talk with me about strategy and planning.” Her eyes turned dark with sorrow. “I know he's
exhausted. And worried over how this damned pilgrimage appears
to Bishop Clairvaux and the pope. So he listens instead to Odo and Thierry, who urge him to pray. More praying won't change what's already happened. It's for us to see to the future.”

Mamie reached out for Eleanor's hand, their gloved fingers squeezing. Laughing, Mamie pulled back. “I'll add my prayers, if that helps.”

“Do you pray?” Eleanor's mouth twitched. “Sometimes I hear you humming instead of reciting the Lord's Prayer, my dearest Rose.”

“Sorry.” Mamie silently pledged her allegiance once more to Eleanor, as the queen used Mamie's code name. All five of her chosen ladies were named for flowers—flowers in the queen's garden, or guard.

With a great creak of the wood hatch just left of the mast, Fay appeared from below deck. Her slight stature belied lean strength, her graceful movements limber as an acrobat's. Her gray eyes held a spark of light that Mamie believed more holy than some of what she'd heard in church. That spark dulled as she neared them.

“She passed so quickly I could not get to you in time.” Tears spilled over, mixing with the spitting rain.

“Passed?” Mamie reached for the short sword hung in its sheath beneath her cloak, in response to a threat. “What are you talking about?”

Eleanor bowed her head, her shoulders shaking as she cried into her hand. “Sarah. Ah, Sarah.”

“Non.” An ache blocked Mamie's throat.

“Sarah is gone,” Fay confirmed, her cloak barely settled over her narrow shoulders. “The babe. Jonathon's death. Being ill—it was too much.”

“I should have sat with her,” Mamie said, her mind seeing and rejecting options. “I thought she would rally. She is a fighter.”

“Was.”

Unable to accept her friend's death—or the innocent baby who had died with her, Mamie paced the deck, ignoring the deep puddles sloshing over her ankles.
Sarah, stubborn and argumentative. Generous and strong.
They'd fought often in the past few months, compounding her guilt.

The wind slowed, allowing the stench of humans and fish alike to overwhelm the sea air. Mamie pressed her hand to her barren womb. She would not hurl. Would not cry. She stomped the deck, prow to stern, splashing as she went.

No Sarah.

No baby. How sad that she felt a sense of relief. Evil.
I am evil.

When Mamie returned to the barrel, Queen Eleanor rested
her forehead against Fay's. “Thank you, Cuz. For sitting with her.”

“The captain wants me to sew her into a sailcloth shroud and”—she cleared her throat—“lay her to rest in the sea. Louis and Odo passed by Sarah's berth as the captain helped me with her. The king offered to say a prayer for her soul, but Odo, the hunchbacked old crow, reminded the king that Sarah was unwed and pregnant.” Fay whispered out of grief, not secrecy, “A sinner whose soul is lost to us.” She sniffed. “The captain stepped in, offering to say a few words since the king's chaplain will not.”

Eleanor ground her back teeth. “Hypocrites. Damned fools.”

“What can we do, besides cry useless tears? I will make Odo sorry he said anything. Starting with a candle flame at his toes and burning my way up.” Mamie curled her hands into fists.

“You two are driven by passion and anger,” Fay said. “What we need is to take a deep breath and exhale.” She did so. “Now how will we dispose of Sarah's body?” Fay returned to her tears. “Mother Mary's bones. I do not want to say good-bye to another friend.”

Mamie lifted her head from their small circle, catching the king's advisor, Odo, watching from the shadow of the mast pole. Pointing at him, she held his gaze until he turned and scurried away. Rat.

“I will say a prayer for Sarah's soul and that of her babe,” Eleanor raged. “I dare anyone to stop me. A woman's road in this life means nothing but what we make of it. And time is short,
oui
? Too short for Sarah, God bless that unfortunate soul.”

“That is a sound plan. Mamie, will you ask the captain when we should, er . . . and how?” Fay paled, drawing her cloak close to her body as a current of cool wind whistled over the rail. “And after we are through, I beg you to take some rest and a bit of broth for yourselves. You both have seen us through the storm with your vigilance.”

“Sickness lives in the dank, confined air. I will stay on deck until we reach Antioch.” Eleanor gave the sky another glare. “And we will reach Antioch. I will take some broth in our tent.”

Queen Eleanor, Mamie, and Larissa, the queen's peasant-born handmaiden, stayed in a small tent covering two cots and their trunks near the front of the ship, below the forecastle and
the empty space for the Greek fire catapult. Eleanor had gotten the idea from seeing how the captain had a sturdy tent over his berth near the stern. Fay and Sarah had preferred to sleep below deck.

“I will share my cot with you,” Mamie said, putting an arm around Fay's shoulders. “If you want to be with us now.”

Fay gave a firm nod. “
Merci
. It will be cramped . . .”

“I do not mind. We can sleep in shifts, if it is too uncomfortable.”

“You are a true friend.”

Mamie thought about how she'd left Sarah to Fay's care. “No, you are the one with the compassionate heart.” She paused. “I'll find the captain.”

“Mesdames!” The captain's shout from the opposite end of the ship resonated as if he were right next to her. “Wait for me?”

“He found you,” Fay said, wiping her eyes. “He asked about you, which is why he was there with me for Sarah at the end.”

“I look like a crone.” Mamie refused to let her mind settle on Sarah.

“You do not,” Fay said, shaking her head. Her light brown hair, loose from its braid, tumbled down her shoulders to the backs of her knees.

“My cheeks are dry as snakeskin.” Mamie peeled off a glove and touched her face.

“Some rose oil and you will be as good as new.”

“Lady Mamille,” the captain called, a brown hat resting precariously on his black curls. He carried a dark brown cloak over his arm. “Lady Fay. Queen Eleanor. Allow me to offer my condolences on the passing of your friend. I can say a prayer, if it serves you.”

Queen Eleanor drew herself up, tall, proud. “I will do so. However, your generosity warms my faith in humanity.”

The captain whipped the cloak over his shoulders, looking more respectable than he'd been in his tunic and boots. “I am sorry to rush you, but I cannot keep her body on board. The sooner we perform the ceremony, the better.”

“Of course.” Queen Eleanor's lips paled. “Let me get my prayer book.”

The captain gave a single nod. “Lady Fay, I had my crewmen sew the shroud, since they are experienced. I hoped to save you further pain?”

Fay pressed her hand to her heart. “Thank you. I was uncertain
how to bear it.”