A Flame Run Wild (25 page)

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Saladin attacked at dawn. The first bronze light needled across the far dunes, swelling like a subtle veil over the desert, casting away the shadow of night to split the crusader encampment with its haphazard geometries of canvas tents and skeletal huts. Prom the dunes sifted dark-faced riders in trickles of milky sand with foot soldiers sliding almost beneath the slim-legged mares' hooves. Once the first wave was clear of the dunes, it furled into a trot, then a gallop gathering momentum and rolling swiftly toward the yet drowsing camp.

A few early-rising hostlers set up the first cry of warning. Pelting back to the camp with their strings of invaluable mounts, they howled loudly. Tent flaps flew open and men tumbled nude into the alleys. Cries resounded about the camp, echoed by the rising clamor of the enemy.

Alexandre threw the sheets back and ran into his own tent for his chain mail and weapons; As he dragged on his clothing and armor, he yelled to Liliane, "Stay here! If they break through, hide as long as you can!"

She swiftly tugged on her own tunic and ran to him. "But what then? What if they overrun the camp?"

White-faced, he buckled on his sword. "Then make a quick end, my love. Christian women are naught to the Saracens but butcher's meat and slaves." He caught her to him and kissed her harshly. "If they get this far, you will know I have gone before you. ... I love you, for this earth's stay and any heaven or hell beyond. You will never lose me, whatever shapes eternity." Another hard kiss bruised her mouth, then he was gone.

Liliane felt a stifling fear and loneliness as if the encampment about the tent had sunk into the sand, leaving no human behind. Only steel-armored shells remained to fight, horribly animate as skeletal warriors sown by the dragons' teeth of Jason's legend. A horrid din had been raised outside, the tent walls writhing and jerking with the frantic movement of the men racing to the trenches. As she looked from the tent, Acre's mounted war machines pounded the camp, and the ground shuddered with the impact of great stones. The air hissed with Greek fire. Most of the camp was out of range of the fire, but dawn's rising breeze was beginning to blow brisk. A few tents were aflame like torches ready to spread.

Liliane knew from close experience with the Spanish Moors that Alexandre did not exaggerate the grimness of her fate should the attacking Saracens prove victorious. Beauty would gain her nothing but prolonged, hideous humiliation before the inevitable end. Most Arabs would not defile themselves by raping an infidel, but some were not so particular. Alexandre was also right about her being safer in the tent, but she had no intention of cowering in hiding while so many braved the fight. She would be useful on the line and, if humanly possible, to Alexandre. He would not die, if she could help it.

The ragged front ranks were already engaged with the charging enemy, the bulk of the defenders spilling in to block the main onslaught. Later, Liliane remembered little of the next hours, only her sickening fear and disgust and weariness. Unknown faces were severed masks, howling and demonic, surging forward, falling back, the shriek of steel raking through cries and screams.

For a time, she could not find Alexandre; when she did, he was near Philip, swinging his sword with a methodical deftness that seemed music next to the frantic hacking about him. His lean face, was white, his jaw set. A scarlet handprint of blood masked half his face and his surcoat was blood-soaked at the hem. She slipped and slithered to him, men set her back to his in time to ward off a dervish whose manic, slashing attack unnerved her. The froth from the dark tattooed figure's mouth spattered upon her face, as did his blood moments later when his fever to kill her proved too hot. His guard became careless and one of Alexandre's castellans cleaved him from behind.

More and more Saracens spilled over the ditch to be pitched off and pushed back. Liliane was soon in awe of Alexandre's skill. No movement was rash or wasted; he had a surgeon's deadly control. Quickness was his edge, cold patience his deceptive lure. Philip, too, had lost his indolence. His green eyes narrowed, he was as vicious as a baited wolf. He and Alexandre were eerily alike now; they seemed a natural pair. Liliane wondered that two men so often similar on the surface could be so inwardly different.

Inevitably, Alexandre noticed her and the cold patience in his eyes became fury. His attention was fortunately distracted, for at that moment three castellans to his left went down almost simultaneously. Saracens drove endlessly over the embankment. Alexandre's sword slid beneath her arm up into a Saracens diaphragm, lifting him slightly before he dropped. Liliane's scimitar sliced across his neck and her small shield crashed hard against her shoulder as the second Saracen swung his light mace at her head and missed. Alexandre saved her life, for she was too tired to move fast enough. She was a liability not only to herself but also to him. Let the attack end soon, she prayed. How could the Saracens keep coming with so many already sprawled dead in the trenches? Then Philip closed in with them to seal the gap, his green eyes dancing and teeth bared in a feral grin. "Hurry the bastards!" he yelled, "To the squealing devils!"

Liliane was amazed and appalled. Hurry the enemy? They were lucky to hold the Saracens off! And yet like a changing tide, she, Alexandre and the defenders swept forward, urged by Philip's blazing audacity. Richard's rank was already pushing back the Saracens; now Philip's rank added its strength. The Saracens pressed back, but more weakly now, their counter-surges gradually ebbing until, impossibly, the front was empty. Something like silence filled with wafting cries of wonder and jubilation sifted through the moans of the wounded in the trenches.

Spent, Alexandre leaned on his sword. With a glimmer of fatalism, he surveyed the battered line of the retreating enemy. "They will be back. If not tomorrow, then soon enough."

"Not today, though," retorted Philip. When Alexandre said nothing, Philip gave him a brief slap on the back and went to find Richard.

Liliane read Alexandre's mind. How many tomorrows might they withstand such attacks? Before this one, they had already lost more men to disease than the enemy blades and bows. Many had died en route to the Holy Land and each day drained them more, for the stagnant marsh spread pestilence through the camp. The peak of the summer's heat was upon them, and the earth was like a hot brazier, the sun unrelenting as a vulture. Liliane looked across he lines' curve where Philip, his gauntleted hand outstretched, was triumphantly greeting Richard. But for the magic of these two men and the steady courage of those like Alexandre, the Christian army might have been slaughtered today.

Alexandre's harsh voice broke in on her thoughts. "You disobeyed me."

"You needed me," she replied quietly, then waved her hand toward the disorganized masses that wandered about them with dust- and blood-streaked faces. A few men slumped upon the bank; some were mortally wounded. "They needed me."

"You gave your word.' Almost idly, he scooped up a handful of sand and threw it across the ditch. "And your sworn word is not worth that!" His booted foot nudged a dead Saracen. "I was fighting men today, not your murderous relatives. I do not need or want you here. You have betrayed your vow." Rimmed with red, his blue eyes seemed faded. "In France, we agreed to trust each other, but in too short a time I have learned one thing: I cannot trust you."

She paled. "Is that all you see? Not that I love you?"

"What love can endure without trust?" His voice became a hard whisper. "My needs, my hopes are nothing to you. You still live for Diego, dead needs, dead hopes. I need a home and a love to whom I may return—some delusion of hope that one day this kind of life may be over. When I see you here, stained with the stench and horror of this place and the war I hate, I know nothing but despair. ..." When she put out her hand, he dully knocked it aside. "No, keep away. Just now I cannot bear to look at you." Bending, he wiped his sword on the aba of a dead Moor, then headed tiredly toward the pennants gathering about the kings' standards.

Heartsick, Liliane watched him go. His anger had gone deeper than she could ever have imagined. He had spoken so little of Diego and little more of how his love for Philip was now tied to her. This intertwining of their loving, warring spirits had grown complex. Her love had been straightforward, couched on solid admiration and the desire of one young passionate being for another. Her adoration and childlike awe, her dependence and idealism had all been given to Diego. She had once woven fairy tales about the long-vanished Jean but none about Alexandre. He was real and vital and she loved him with her whole soul . . . yet . . . did she?

Was he right in saying that too much of her still belonged to Diego? She knew that she had become Alexandre's icon as well as his fleshly paramour. Though he knew her faults, he still idealized her, and today however good her reasons, she had plunged that ideal into all he abhorred and nearly despaired of escaping. The ideal might be unrealistic, but it was all he had left. It would be long, if ever, before he was able to banish the memory of her amid the butchery of this day.

Liliane followed Alexandre to the pennants and stood at a little distance. Philip and Richard were elated, expansive; King Guy was noticeably less so. Conrad of Monferrat, Lisle, Alexandre and other nobles of Philip's court waited restlessy like stallions fired to racing peak, then reined back before their hearts burst. Derek Flanchard, a mercenary knight Who had come to Acre with Richard from Cyprus, stood with a half smile at Richard's elbow. Dark-eyed and dark-haired with gray at the temples, Flanchard had a drowsy ease that was deceptive. Alexandre, having known Flanchard from the Flandrian campaigns, had described him to her as being the sort of man who thrived on fighting. He was charming enough at peace, but in battle he was in his element—a handsome wolverine loosed to slash and kill.

Of Richard and Flanchard, Liliane preferred Richard's forthright brutality. Flanchard would have been a murderer for hire had he not been a mercenary. He was the sort that had appeared at times seeking employ from Diego. The pay was the lure for these men, the killing field no matter but in evading the gallows. Diego taught her to recognize such wolverines. He always "tested" them against Pedro, who was wickedly quick with a mace. Rarely in Diego's domain did a wolverine escape burial for employment in an enemy's squadrons.

Suddenly, Liliane realized that Flanchard's smile was for Alexandre, who was speaking to Philip so quietly she could catch only a few words. Then, the last phrase carried. "Will Your Majesties hear a private proposal?"

"Of course," Philip agreed quickly.

She stiffened. Was Alexandre about to reveal her secret and send her back to France? The two of them headed for Philip's tent, a knot of men-at-arms threading after them. Behind her, she heard Flanchard observe mockingly to Richard, "That one has lost his taste for war. Let us hope he does not weaken his monarch's stomach as well."

Her loathing for Flanchard doubling, Liliane turned, a sharp rebuke on her lips. Richard spoke before she could open her mouth. "Brueil may take no more joy of this enterprise, Flanchard," he snapped, "but he will not shirk it, and King Philip is not for your gauging; hereafter, guard your remarks."

Flanchard subsided, but Liliane knew his cynical tongue would soon rattle again. She did not dare follow Alexandre and Philip when they rejoined Richard and went to his lion-emblazoned pavilion. An eavesdropping Moor about a royal tent was too reckless even for her. She retired to watch the tent at a distance. Biting her lip, she waited tensely. At length, a noble came to the pavilion's opening and summoned pages from the royal retinues. After a short exchange, the pages scurried off through the camp. Her skin prickled. Something was happening and Alexandre had set it in motion. She intercepted a page, the same one who had seen her shoot Jacques's assassin. "Have you not a message for me, young sir?"

The page looked startled. "Indeed, I have not ..." Under Liliane's penetrating gaze, he fumbled, "King Richard bids all the lords and knights to attend a meeting in the royal pavilion in an hour."

"Thank you," Liliane replied mildly. "I perceive my royal rank relieves me of that obligation." She strolled off through the camp. Outwardly, she wore the impassive face of most Moors who mingled with the Christians; inwardly, she was in a nervous quandary. In one way, she was relieved that Alexandre had withheld her identity; no meeting of lords was necessary to dispatch her to France. Why was the council declared? She knew better than to attend. Converted or not, no Moor was admitted to high war councils.

When Alexandre briefly returned to his tent to clean up for the council, she tried both to make peace with him and relieve her curiosity but was met with stony impassivity. He would discuss nothing but a change of linen. His mind seemed preoccupied with more than their quarrel on the battlefield. His continuing anger was understandable but his secretivity indicated that he was initiating something in which he wanted her to take no part— something dangerous.

After his departure, Liliane hastened to Richard's pavilion. Knights and lords were slowly filing into the tent. She spied Philip's young page standing with a group of courtiers outside the entrance. When the council began, he sat down with his back to the tent to while away what might be hours of debate.

Thoughtfully, Liliane watched the boy as she waited in the shelter of the surrounding tents. From his position, he must be hearing more than a little of the conference. When the sun reached two handspans from the western horizon, the council ended. Most of the council members departed, but Alexandre, Philip and several other nobles lingered with Richard. A senior courtier said something to the page as the boy rose and stretched. The page nodded and set off at a trot into the camp; the courtier must have sent him on an errand.