A Flame Run Wild (31 page)

"Only a few words,
effendi
" she replied with careful shyness. "What I do not know, I invent. So far, none of these European gentlemen has noticed the confusion of the natives."

This time, Saladin and his amirs were the only ones who laughed. "Fare you well, then,
Comtesse
. Keep from battle hereafter, lest the natives more unhappily confuse you with these European gentlemen."

With little more ado, the Europeans were sent upon their way to Acre. There was little conversation until after their Saracen escort left them at the oasis. After the dust of their escort sifted down upon the eastern dunes, the raiders stirred uncomfortably in their saddles, pondering the evening's embarrassments.

"Well," a Breton said at last, "what are we going to tell their majesties about our ignominious capture?"

"The truth,'' Alexandre said flatly. "I led you all into a trap.''

"Good for you," Flanchard said with a malicious grin. "Own up."

The Breton gave him a cool look. "There might be more to profit if the traitor owned up. Our councils were closed; there were no servants, no guards present. Just us.''

Flanchard's face blackened. "If you are suggesting that I sold out, I shall cut out your lying tongue!"

"I am not naming names," the Breton returned calmly, "merely facts. Saladin, on the other hand, knew Jefar's name without asking." He paused to allow the significance to sink in. "Count de Brueil managed this affair well enough. He also could have left us to rot, but he did not, so we have no quarrel with him. We do have a bone to pick with a ratter."

Flanchard started to argue, but, noticing the unsympathetic looks on the raiders' faces, thought better of drawing attention to himself. He lifted a skeptical brow. "What about the
comtesse
?"

"I say we hold our tongues," said an English knight. "Milady fought bravely last night as she has done on many another occasion. More than one of us owes his life to her, and"—he nodded to Alexandre—"as our good Breton has pointed out, Count Alexandre has freed us all. Why thank our mentors with embarrassment?" He leaned upon his pommel. "I move we keep the countess's identity to ourselves. And as for the traitor, he is likely one of our troop. Perhaps the guilty one is an out and out traitor; perhaps he simply has a loose tongue. We must search him out, and not cause more confusion by starting gossip around the camp."

Flanchard scoffed. "How long do you really think a woman disguised as a Saracen warrior can be kept, secret? Women of birth are rarely permitted to accompany the army for good reason.
Comte de Brueil
should have made his lady's masquerade known at once and sent her back to France. Also, while he may have negotiated our release, he made a nasty mistake tonight that caused our capture. We left five dead men back in Saladin's camp. Their majesties must be informed and a new commander appointed."

"And everyone knows who wants that position, eh, Flanchard?" drawled the Breton. "Maybe you have got traitors and 'mistakes' mixed."

"Did not Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine follow King Louis on crusade?" put in Poitevin. "No one insisted she go home!"

As they debated, Liliane held her tongue. Every time she bad opened her mouth in the last several hours, she had brought nothing but trouble to Alexandre. Now both of them were on trial, a presently friendly trial, but one that would dictate their immediate and perhaps long-term future. She was also silent for another reason; she felt defeated. Louis de Signe was probably the traitor; while he had not managed to have Alexandre killed, he had damaged his reputation and military career. Alexandre was listening to his men argue as if only vaguely interested. He, too, must feel defeated, as much by her as by Louis.

The disagreement went on for some time; Derek and two English knights were the main dissidents. Finally, the question was settled in Alexandre's favor. While their majesties would be told of the trap, no accusations were to be made, particularly against Alexandre. Also, Liliane's identity was to be kept secret, to those effects, an oath was sworn, Flanchard being the last to grudgingly agree.

After Alexandre had politely thanked them and headed his destrier into the western desert, he said not another word all the way to Acre. The Saracens stationed on their route had been sent word by Saladin to allow the troop to pass. Amid hoots and catcalls of flanking Saracens, the raiders rode through their own defense works. Alexandre's face beneath his helm was pale with humiliation and anger.

Upon arrival in the camp, Alexandre went immediately to make his report to Richard and Philip. Liliane returned to his tent to glumly await him. She was fairly certain that Richard would make a rousing fuss, but hoped that at the end of the roaring, Alexandre would not be blamed for the raid's failure. Alexandre's tactics had been shrewdly planned and she suspected that Philip would have his own suspicions about Louis's part in the trap. Despite these glimmers of encouragement, Liliane had time to think hard and long about what bitter things her husband might have to say upon his return.

However, Alexandre did not return; he briefly paused by the tent at sunset to leave his mail and accoutrements with his armorer, then disappeared again into the camp. A little while before dawn, he returned, very much drunk and disinclined to discuss anything.

Three days passed much in this fashion, until Liliane became greatly depressed. When Alexandre did not return one night, she could bear the confinement no longer. After thrusting a scimitar through her sash, and sweeping the striped mantle over her aba, she fought the temptation to go looking for Alexandre and went for a ride on the beach. The full moon was low over the dunes and the beach nearly white with its rising glow. No enemy could approach her unnoticed for a mile.

Enemy. Who in Acre was her friend? To Alexandre's raiders, she was a freak; to his friends and compatriots, a turncoat; and to Alexandre, a source of shame. As the mare wandered down the beach, Liliane began to cry. She slid off the mare and stood weeping at the surfs edge. So sunk in misery was she that at first she did not see the rider coming quickly toward her. Upon hearing the hoofbeats' dull thud in the sand, Liliane whirled to remount, then saw the rider was a crusader knight. He called and waved to her. " 'Tis Derek Flanchard, Countess. You have no need for alarm."

Liliane was not alarmed, but she was certain Flanchard was up to no good. No oath would bind him to secrecy about her identity; he probably wanted payment for his silence. He dismounted and,'leaving his destrier, came to meet her. "I hope I do not intrude, my lady, but when I called at your tent and one of your castellans ventured that you had come this way, I was concerned for your safety." His voice was solicitious. " 'Tis a lovely place but some distance from protection."

"As you may have observed these last months, sir," Liliane replied quietly, "I have little need of protection."

He laughed. "Aye, that is true enough. I have never encountered a woman like you, and have thought much of your beauty and daring these past days. Such a woman must have a brain, as well. A pity your husband does not fully appreciate you; he seemed much angered by your presence in Saladin's camp."

"Do you seek milord to reprimand him?" Liliane countered dryly.

"No, I came to offer him a proposition, but now I am much more pleased that he is not by your side. No man likes to have another man about when he encounters a beautiful lady."

When he moved to kiss her hand, Liliane firmly withdrew it. "You must seek my husband in camp, Sir Knight. I have no wish to hold conference with you alone. Please do me the courtesy of leaving me."

He made no move towards his destrier. "Come now, why so cold? Are you afraid I shall reveal your secret? I promise you, I have given my oath, and if you are kind—"

"Kind, sir?" Liliane's voice acquired an edge. "You have never been a friend to my husband, yet I have been courteous to you; for more than that, you must not look."

"But I do," he replied softly. "I look for much more than that. I have a fair influence with King Richard, and you are a rich and beautiful woman. Surely you would wish me to give a good account of your husband lest he lose his good name."

"Alexandre does not owe his good name to you," Liliane said curtly, "and he has friends. You would do well to be truthful and leave the rest to God.''

"If I am truthful, I must not lie about your identity, my lady. A dishonorable oath has no validity before God. You must have grave reason to keep your sex a secret. What is a stray wife to Richard, after all? To Philip?" He watched her. "Shall I unburden myself of my sinful oath to Philip?"

She sighed in defeat and exasperation. "Why be coy, Flanchard? What do you want?"

"Gold. Six hundred dinars, to be exact. The extra hundred is for the head price I was dunned." He smiled in the darkness, his teeth moonlit-white against his dark beard. "Mostly, I want you."

"Settle for the gold," Liliane said coldly. " Tis all you will ever get, whatever you bray to Philip."

"I think not." His arm shot out and he pulled her roughly to him, his hand spilling the
haik
to hook in her hair. Struggling, she kicked him, but her pointed boots were too soft to do damage. She tried to scream and he yanked her hair so hard she thought her neck must snap. "Go ahead, scream," he urged breathlessly. "You will be ignored as some whore fighting with a customer." He jerked at the aba. "You will say nothing, and you will pay me in the morning!"

"Let her go, Flanchard," came a deadly voice behind them, "or I will stab you in the back!"

Flanchard spun, his arm locked about Liliane as he drew his sword from across her back. A dark familiar figure was silhouetted against the pale sand and shimmering stars. "Brueil! How now, I did not hear you come up." He sounded almost gleeful.

"You were preoccupied with trying to rape my wife." Alexandre was standing tensely, his sword drawn. His destrier wandered toward the surf. "Take your hands off her."

Liliane saw that he was stone sober. Everything was drained from him but an urge to kill.

Being dangerous himself, Flanchard knew the signs, if not the emotion, that now made Alexandre more lethal than any man in Acre. Love was alien to Flanchard; although greed was not, and he knew when to loosen his grip on a woman lest the cost of keeping her prove more than he wished to pay. In this case, he also thought wise to free his sword arm. He eased Liliane away.

"It was not rape, Brueil," he said easily. "Your countess invited me here out of some notion that I might break my oath and reveal her charade. You have neglected your lady of late for the taverns, and she was more than willing to bargain her favors to keep her secret. When she saw you coming, she made a show of protest."

Liliane wanted to claw his eyes out. "You miserable liar! Alexandre has but to question our castellans to learn that you followed me here unasked!"

"But when you invited me to your tent, Countess, I did not suspect you had a more private rendezvous in mind," Flanchard countered lightly. "Naturally, I was forced to inquire of the castellans where you had gone."

Liliane jerked her aba up over her shoulder. "Alexandre knows I would sooner embrace a pig than you, Flanchard! You waste your breath."

Flanchard eyed Alexandre. "I think not. A jealous man has a ready ear, does he not, milord?"

"As a guilty man often has a ready tongue," retorted Alexandre. "Quick to accuse all but himself. You have not only laid hands upon my wife, but slandered her. Defend yourself."

"Readily, milord." Flanchard leaped forward, his broadsword swinging at Alexandre's neck.

Fast as he was, Alexandre was faster. The swords met with a nerve-jarring clang over the subtle song of the peaceful surf. The men became a swirl of light and shadow, their weapons flashing sparks as they clashed. Whereas Flanchard was deadly cold, Alexandre was hot, and the fight became savage.

Gone was Alexandre's usual patience in battle; he was vicious and unpredictable, a hurtling, relentless comet to Flanchard's falling star. Flanchard was bigger, more broad and powerfully expert with a blade, but without armor, Alexandre was faster than Flanchard, and he lacked Flanchard's confidence in armored protection. Alexandre had to be fast and accurate or die. Hacking mightily, Flanchard edged him into the surf, bent on slowing his footwork. At length, his strategy worked.

Liliane muffled a cry as her husband went down in the wet sand. Flanchard lunged in for the kill—meeting Alexandre's blade point in his gullet as Alexandre hooked his foot wide about his foe's ankle to pitch him forward. Splurting blood, Flanchard toppled across Alexandre's chest, his eyes staring startled into the count's. His mouth gaped in an effort to protest, but his coughing gasp was choked off by the gurgle of blood in his throat. He died even as Alexandre thrust him away, leaving him twitching in a receding wave.

When Liliane ran forward, Alexandre rose and caught her arm. "Leave him to the tide. 'Twill save explanations to Richard and feed the crabs."

"I am not concerned for Flanchard, but for you," she said anxiously. "Are you hurt?"

"Nay," he said caustically. "I am a man of iron. Only the sea's rust can make me falter; that, and a wife who weaves destruction about her like a winding sheet."

"You know that I did not encourage Flanchard!" she protested.