The Spymaster's Protection (42 page)

The pleasure was so intense, Gabrielle could barely stand it.
Her pelvic muscles squeezed around him like a fist, the pulsations as forceful
as any she had ever felt. The power of their joining drained Lucien at last,
and she felt the deep shudders that shook his whole body when he finally came.
Holding onto him as closely as she could despite the slick surface of his skin,
she absorbed every tremor that shook his large frame, wishing it could last
forever.

With their hearts pounding in rhythm with one another’s, she
laid her head on his shoulder, drained, spent, and wonderfully replete. After a
few moments, he swung her up into his arms, grabbed a handful of drying cloths,
and headed for her bedroom. When he reached her bed, he set her on her feet,
drew the damask covering down, and snapped out a sheet to cover the linens on
the mattress. Then he reached for her. They fell into each other arms, onto the
bed, and simply held one another.

“I wish we could be like this forever.” Gabrielle had promised
herself she would not get weepy, and she fought the desperation that threatened
to make her so.

“We will be like this forever, Gabi. Have faith. Everything
will be all right.”

Lucien lifted himself to stare into her eyes. As he did, he
stroked her cheek, then pushed his fingers into her wet tangled hair and kissed
her passionately.

When they finally separated their lips from one another’s,
Gabrielle reached out to caress his cheek, pushing her fingers into his beard,
which had grown a bit longer in the last few weeks. “You need a trim, I think,”
she pronounced with a sleepy smile.

“Would you do it?”

“I will, but we must let this oil soak in first, or it will
make your trimmed hair stick to you. Of course, we could bathe again.”

“I rather like holding you like this, all glossy and wet. We
slip and slide together nicely.”

She laughed. “It makes it hard to get a good grip.”

He stroked her hip, then curled his hand over her small waist.
“Ummm, it’s a challenge I enjoy.” His long fingers crept toward her breast,
then encompassed it, kneading and squeezing, cupping each perfectly.

“Lucien, I dread tomorrow.” She burrowed into his arms and
pressed herself against him. “I will not beg you to stay, though. I know you
must go. Just go knowing that I have never been loved like you have loved me,
and that I love you more than life itself. You are everything to me. I will
pray for you every minute you are gone.”

He captured her face and tipped her head up to look into her
eyes. “And you must remember that I have spent my life fighting. I am good at
it. I will return to you. I will do everything in my power to do so, Gabi. I
promise.”

Before he could see the tears beginning to rise to her eyes,
she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. “Oh, Lucien, go
with God.”

Gabrielle trimmed his hair and his beard later as she had
promised. They made love several times that night, sleeping little in between,
but not caring because it was their last night together, although Gabrielle
refused to think it was their last night ever.

Lucien loved her fiercely, tenderly, lingeringly. Each time it
was different. Each time it was another sweet memory to cherish and relive in
the separation that awaited them. There were no more words of fear or sadness
between them, just delight and sometimes teasing laughter. Actually, they
laughed a lot. Gabrielle suspected Lucien planned it that way to ease her
worries.

When morning came, they loved each other one last time, then
got up to bathe and dress. Gabrielle helped him carry his bags and his weapons
down the stairs. When they got to the courtyard, she walked with him to the
stables and waited as he saddled his Arabian steed. The sun was just peaking
over the walls of the palace. She handed him a satchel of bread and dried beef
she’d had the servants prepare ahead of time. When he tucked that into one of
his saddle bags, she handed him a gourd of fresh water. He hooked it over the
pommel of his saddle, then turned to her, ready to go at last.

But not before he took her in his arms and held her tight for
a long while. She held him back, stroking his hair.

“Stay safe,” he told her. “Remember I love you and I will come
back for you.”

Then he kissed her, capturing her mouth in a hard, silencing
kiss that told her as no words could convey how much he loved her.

When they broke apart, she reached beneath the bodice of her
gown and pulled out her mother’s necklace. Holding her hair aside, she lifted
it over her head. “Take this,” she said, offering it to him. “Wear it for
protection, for me.”

He looked ready to argue, but she forestalled him with a shake
of her head and he relented. “I will wear it under my shirt, next to my skin.
You will be with me.”

It was enough, or at least, she told herself, it was. She let
him go, taking ahold of his hand one last time after he swung up onto his
horse. He bent down and caught her lips yet again time as she reached up on her
toes. It was as sweet as the one before it had been passionate.

“Go with God, my heart,” she repeated blowing him a final kiss
as he turned his horse, looked over his mail clad shoulder one final time, then
headed to the gates.

The queen came walking across the yard as Gabrielle started
toward the palace. “Come break your fast with me, my dear friend,” she offered,
extending a hand. “We can give each other comfort this day, and maybe on a few
yet to come.”

CHAPTER
21

The small Crusader castle of Sephorie was situated several
miles west of the encampment Saladin had established at Cafarsset, below the
Sea of Galilee. The Christian army had been mustering at the springs south of
Sephorie for weeks. By the end of June, it numbered over 20,000 men, awaiting
additional troops from Antioch, as Prince Bohemond had promised.

The castle itself was a perfectly square keep, surrounded by a
high defensive wall, not far from a tiny village that was consequently
overwhelmed by the massive influx of Christian soldiers.

The king and his barons had come from Acre two days ago, upon
hearing that Saladin was sending small sorties across the Jordan River to raid
and ravage the region around Nazareth. To the north, Tiberius was also under
assault. Saladin, had crossed the Jordan from his position on the Golan bluffs,
the day the king had arrived.

Yesterday, at dawn on the first day of July, Lucien and his
scouts had reported several reconnaissance units in the area, checking out the
strength and position of the Christian force. By late morning, Saladin,
himself, had drawn near Sephorie in an attempt to entice King Guy and his army
out of their defensive, well-supplied position.

It had been a tense moment, but in the end, King Guy had
headed Lucien’s advice to stay put, for the ex-Templar had earlier discovered
that the sultan had a partial division ready to cut off any return to the
springs at Sephorie should the Christians be foolish enough to venture out to
fight.

Then later that morning, word had come that the sultan had
launched an all-out attack on the town of Tiberius and the skeleton garrison
there.

Lucien and his men had gone in for a look and discovered that
the wily sultan had placed a large number of his men and his siege engines
along the road into the garrisoned town.

With the lake on one side and the sharply embanked hillside on
the other, flight from Tiberius became impossible. The town, the few fighting
men still stationed there, and Lady Eschiva, who had refused to leave her home,
had no hope of breaking free.

By nightfall, Lucien had returned to Sephorie with the
devastating news that the town had fallen, and that the defenders, along with
Count Raymond’s brave wife, had retreated to the hilltop castle, where they
were continuing to repel the sultan’s army.

It was this dire state of affairs that assembled the barons in
the room of Sephorie’s great hall that evening. Lucien sat in the semi-circle
around the king, tired and dusty from three heavy days of scouting in and
around the enemy lines. He had half a dozen good men to assist him, but it had
hardly been enough. Saladin had troops positioned everywhere, even though he
and his main army were still on the high ground at Cafarsset.

The Templar Grand Master had spoken not a word to him since he
had arrived. Against the king’s wishes, he had sent out his own Templar scouts,
of which he had put Brother Conrad in charge. Lucien had trained his friend
well, and for the most part, he and his men assisted rather than hindered
Lucien’s efforts for the king. Away from the Grand Master, Brother Conrad
conversed with him, but in the presence of his brethren, he obeyed the order by
de Ridefort to shun all contact with the disavowed ex-Templar.

All the barons and their leading knights were assembled in the
hall with the king, Prince Bohemond of Antioch being the exception. The two
Grand Masters were also present, along with Brother Conrad, as the newly
appointed Templar Intelligence Officer, and all of the officers from both
orders. Also present were the two bishops of Acre and Lydda, Archbishop
Heraclius of Jerusalem, having declined the offer to escort the Holy Cross into
battle. In all, there must have been three score or more men seated around the king.

Seated between Count Raymond and Lord Ibelin, Lucien listened
as the Lord of Tripoli and Tiberius argued against marching to rescue his
wife’s holding fifteen miles to the northeast.

“This is clearly what Saladin wants, sire,” Raymond informed
his liege lord. “At this time of the year, in the fierce summer heat, the army
and our horses will lack sufficient water resources along the way. By the time
we reach Tiberius, if we reach it, for we could very well become trapped
somewhere from here to there, our men and animals will be too weak with thirst
to fight.”

“You would refuse to defend your gallant wife?” Gérard de
Ridefort challenged Lord Raymond. “Why even your sons think it foolhardy to
leave her to Saladin’s brutal mercies!”

Lucien found it ludicrous that Gérard de Ridefort would want
to defend a woman, let alone one he had ordered from Raymond’s own hall two
months past. And he knew that Raymond’s sons were reconciled to leaving their
mother to defend their home. Their father and he had convinced them that
Saladin would not harm her or their families in case of defeat.

“My wife will be fine, de Ridefort, and this is simply a ploy
on the sultan’s part to draw us out into the open, then cut us off from vital
resources. Did not Sir Lucien report that was exactly what they intended this
morning at dawn when half of Saladin’s forces lay hidden, awaiting our move
away from here. I tell you, sire, the sultan wants to draw us out and cut us
off, probably split our army apart, as well.”

The king sat with his fingers steepled under his chin,
listening to the count. Lucien could see that Raymond had his partial agreement
already, and that many of the barons agreed with his wise strategy, as well.

Not so de Ridefort or his contingent, of which Reynald de
Châtillon, the whoreson, was one. He sat across the half circle from Lucien,
next to his equally detestable father-in-law, Armand Chaumont. As of yet, they
had had only one confrontation, but Lucien was sure there would be more. Let
him bring it on, he thought, wishing to have at the bastard.

“Lucien de Aubric is no longer my Chief Intelligence Officer!”
the Templar Grand Master refuted loudly.

“No, but he is mine, de Ridefort,” the king rebutted angrily.
“Without his very commendable intelligence, we would not know how many we are
up against, who their leading commanders are, where their scouts are
positioned, and most important of all, where they would launch their assault on
the kingdom. We have a fighting chance because of the information he has
gathered for us these past months.”

“He has sided with that traitor next to him and met personally
with Saladin and the Blue Wolf, for God’s sake! Plus he has been conducting a
public affair with my wife!” Reynald de Châtillon shouted out his accusations,
thrusting to his feet and pointing a finger at Lucien. “How do we know we can
even trust the information he brings us? By God, he’s one of them! He’s a damn
half-blood! He probably makes regular visits to the sultan’s camp to inform him
of our every move.”

“That is not so!” Brother Conrad burst to his feet in a fit of
outrage and defended his friend. “I have been shadowing him these past few
days. He has not come close to the sultan’s encampment, except on his belly to
spy on them.”

Lucien glared at de Châtillon. Having heard all of this
before, he simply raised his middle finger above his knee, telling the bastard
exactly what he thought of his attempt to slander him. Gabrielle’s husband
responded with an enraged curse that was as verbally crude as the gesture
thrown his way. With a snort of contempt and a derisive half-grin , Lucien
shook his head.

“I do not consider Lucien de Aubric a traitor, and I will hear
no more accusations of such,” King Guy pronounced. “He has given me a full and
satisfactory account of his imprisonment in Damascus and his meeting with
Saladin. As for wives and mistresses,” the king added, sending Reynald a
sharply reproving look. “They are personal matters, and have no bearing on the
decisions we must make here, tonight.”

“All that aside,” Count Raymond exclaimed. “I recommend we
maintain our defensive position here, at Sephorie, where we have sufficient
water and feed. We also have a clean path to the coast and the Royal City, if
need be. We can maneuver here. A defensive posture will give us time to await
Prince Bohemond’s reinforcement of troops.”

“That bastard’s as traitorous as you are, Raymond!” de
Ridefort called out. “We cannot depend on him for assistance. His promise is an
idle one, at best.”