A Flame Run Wild (33 page)

Yes, Liliane thought with tears welling in her eyes, he could easily learn to hate me, too. That is one failure I could not survive.

Kiki clambered up Liliane's back and caressed her face. At her lack of response, the little creature peered into her eyes, then scrambled about to follow her blind, wretched gaze at Alexandre. Saida was kissing him. For a moment, Alexandre did not move, then just as his hand lifted, either to press her away or embrace her, Kiki uttered a furious, whistling shriek. She leaped upon the girl's shoulders, catching her by the hair and slamming an overripe peach against her back. With a scream of rage, Saida flailed out at the monkey. When Kiki scampered out of reach, chittering with fury, Saida jumped to her feet to grab a censer. Whirling it by the chain, she took aim at her tormentor. Before the flaming censer loosed, Alexandre swiftly rose and caught her wrist. "Will you burn the very tent with your rash temper?"

"He set the vicious creature on me!" Saida snarled, her pretty face twisted with rage as her finger jabbed past his arm. "Reprove your precious Jefar!"

Alexandre turned abruptly, a curt reprimand on his lips, but saw only Kiki hurling imprecations from an empty pillow. His precious Jefar had gone.

Chapter 12

~

The Fall of Souls

Acre

A
lexandre searched for Liliane for many days—so many that they ran together. Even the news that Acre was about to surrender gave him no joy. He combed the camp and searched the brothels without luck. He saw no sign of her on the beach by day, and if she were there by night, he began to mink she must have buried herself in sand. If Liliane had taken to the beach, he worried that she might have fallen prey to Saracen night marauders. She might now be lying in the stinking, common grave at the edge of the marsh.

Gradually, as his hope of finding Liliane faded, Alexandre came to believe that if she were not dead, she might have joined a northbound caravan or taken passage with one of the lateeners for southern Europe. Indeed, Alexandre hoped Liliane had gone, for the only plea she had ever made of him haunted his mind like a plaintive, never-ending whisper: "Do not cast me away in this wilderness. I fear I should never find my way back to you."

He had not only abandoned her, he had driven her away as surely as if he had struck her. He scarcely knew what had possessed him. Granted, he had been coldly angry and determined to show her that she might not tamper with his life as she pleased. As past slaps on the wrist had not daunted her, the demonstration had to be harsh, but he had not meant to go so far. He could happily strangle Saida, but the fault was his own. An explosion would inevitably have occurred between him and Liliane; Saida's flirtations had merely hastened it.

The days grew hotter, the mosquitoes unbearable, and still the city walls stood. The fighting became concentrated in pockets. Sappers fought toe to toe in the torchlight of their mole tunnels and in the great red sun; the crusaders fried in their armor as they held off Saracen attacks from the desert. Disease and fever swept the camp; one in five died. Hatred for those who kept resisting festered among the besiegers.

We are like a putrid boil on the land, Alexandre thought wearily. Like a sickness, we do not belong here. By all that is holy, I want to go back to the green fields and forests of home!

But it was less home he missed than Liliane. What if he never saw her again? Certainly, she would not return to Provence. What could she think it held for her now besides suspicious peasants, a seneschal who thought her a traitor and, when this infernal war was done, a husband who had no love for her?

He would probably never see Liliane again. That idea became a conviction, fixed in his brain like a dark obsession. He imagined her in a thousand places; in none of them was he at her side; in none of them, did she look at him with the trust and longing he needed from her. Her face was distant now, remote as one of the cold Alpine peaks that hid in the mists north of Castle de Brueil. He was alone again, more fearfully than he had ever dreamed. Without Liliane, he would be alone until he died. All Saida's allurements and contrivances for sympathy left him as untouched as trackless tundra. In the midst of this heat, he was encased in ice, preserved for . . . what?

Philip sought Alexandre's company often now that he drifted like an indifferent ghost about the camp. "Your friend Jefar has probably grown weary of this tedious business and deserted," Philip commented lightly. ' 'He may even have been the spy, your spy, who contrived to have you all captured." He put an arm about Alexandre's shoulders. "Come, do not be glum. I have missed you at my table. We must be more together."

"I am in disgrace," Alexandre replied tonelessly.

"Fa! Do you suppose I hold you responsible for that, raid fiasco? Leave scapegoats to Richard. He likes things neady tied; you were the knot, that is all. Acre will be sewn up in a day or two; then his pique will be forgotten. You will ride beside me as you have always done."

As I have always done, Alexandre thought dully. Forever and forever. "Thank you, sire. I want nothing else but to die in your service."

Philip eyed him sharply. "That is a two-edged remark. You are no use to me with your tail between your legs. What was this scurvy Jefer to you?

"A friend; perhaps better than I deserved."

"Leave what you deserve to me from now on." Philip's voice was flat. "You could do much worse than have a king for a friend."

"I am grateful for Your Majesty's interest."

"You had better be." Philip's light tone had returned. "Richard always goes for an enemy's throat. I can wait until the back is turned."

And so Alexandre returned to the royal table, but Philip's last words haunted him. What if Liliane had not gone? What if she had been stabbed in the back by her uncle and cousin? What if one of the raiders sworn to silence had revealed her identity and so sealed her death warrant with the Signes? He went looking for Louis.

Ten feet from the Signes' tent, Alexandre met an impressive guard in the darkness of the hovel alley. He closed his hand unobtrusively about his dirk haft, ready to prick the man's kidneys should he prove difficult.

"Do not be hasty, my lord," murmured the big man. "I serve not the Baron de Signe. I am King Philip's man. His majesty doesn't think you ought to settle accounts owing for that raid just yet ... or anything else. He wants his nobles quiet and agreeable during the peace settlement. Diplomacy." His hand settled on his sword. "You know how it is."

Alexandre's lips tightened. Diplomacy might be diplomacy, but he suspected also that Philip, possessive as usual, did not want him to find Jefar. Philip knew something, but what?

Alexandre turned back to the royal tent. Philip was alone, ready for bed. He flopped back against his silken pillows with a careless air, but his eyes were wary. "So,
ami
, you are still wandering about tonight. Why so restless?"

"I am troubled by a question, sire," Alexandre said quietly. "I believe you have the answer."

Philip shrugged. "Possibly, but then I have never taken the divinity of kings seriously. Perhaps you should apply to the all-seeing Richard."

"Richard is not my friend."

"Ah." Philip smiled. "You are in a pickle. Friendship is blind."

SSI hope not, in this case. Jefar has left, taking something I cannot do without. Do you know where I may find him?"

"He is a thief?"

"No, he had more right than any to the thing he took. Mine is an errand of . . . persuasion."

"Did yon also seek out Louis de Signe tonight on an errand of persuasion?"

"I sought Jefer."

Philip casually lifted a goblet of ambrosia. "Jefar is beyond your reach."

Alexandre stiffened. "Where?"

"Saladin's camp." Philip's green eyes were gently mocking over the cup rim. "Why so shocked? Is it not natural for a Saracen to return to his own?"

"Did he go voluntarily?" Alexandre asked in a low voice.

"Oh, yes. He could scarcely wait to be gone. The pickets sighted him a fortnight ago heading into the eastern dunes." Philip's brows slanted wickedly. "Dare we hope we've found our traitor?"

"No," replied Alexandre, remembering the medallion of Almansor that Liliane had given him; she would be wearing it now. "Jefar would not have gone to Saladin for that."

Philip laughed sardonically. "Do you know him that well?"

"Admittedly, not so well as I thought." Alexandre bowed quickly. "I thank you, my sovereign lord. I am in your debt."

"Thank me by not going off on some harebrained ride to Saladin. He will not likely grant you amnesty a second time. If Richard has his way when Acre fells, any Christian in Saladin's hands will be flayed alive. Be resigned that Jefar el din has wearied of your company. Also be grateful that you are outside the walls of this wretched infidel city."

Alexandre did not answer and, as soon as he took his leave of Philip, he went to find his destrier.

* * *

Saladin watched Liliane as she stared across the sands in the direction of Acre. "Why return to Spain when your heart still lies in the desert,
Comtesse?
You have done little but gaze toward the city. Surely, if armies may contrive peace, a man and woman may not lose hope."

She looked at him gravely. "You have been most kind to receive me, Great Lord. When I return to the protection of Almansor, I shall tell him of your great generosity."

"Will you send no message to the
comte
?"

Liliane shook her head. "He might feel obligated to recover me. Far better that I simply disappear."

Saladin eyed her quizzically. "No price is too great for pride; so saying, men have warred since the beginning of time, and for that price shall Acre die."

"You are sure?"

"Tomorrow the crusaders will walk Acre's streets with blood beneath their feet."

"But you say the city is prepared to surrender, that the terms are agreed," she protested. "Why would Richard butcher what will be freely given him?"

"You who are so proud ask this?" Saladin reproved gently. "There is a roaring in your royal lion's heart. If he drowns Acre in horror, other Palestinian cities will quail before him. His task as conqueror will be simplified."

Liliane's lovely face went pale. "Surely he will release the women and children."

"Richard's men have been kept too long from their kill. They will not now dine with chivalry. He will give them their fill, so that they will follow him when he turns from Acre."

Wearily, Liliane closed her eyes. ''I helped Richard to this. Fought for him without faith, conviction . . . heedless for the morrow. I did it all for love, and for justice of old crimes, but love does not sanction all, and justice cannot make right new crimes." She was silent for a long time, then murmured, "I shall not return to Spain for a time,
effendi
. "

Saladin lifted a dark brow. "Then you have decided to return to the
comte
."

"No, I wish to go into the city . . . with your help. I lost my honor there, confused it. I wanted children badly once, and I owe the children that now play upon this earth some protection, at the very least I have sinned; both Allah and God are owed recompense."

"If you enter Acre as a Moor, you will pay with your life. You will either be regarded as one of us or as a traitor. If you survive our judgment, you will not survive Richard's forces. Are you prepared to pay so great a price for your confusion?"

"Shall I spend a lifetime in Spain remembering Acre?" Liliane smiled faintly. "I take the coward's way,
effendi
. Short memories, long sleep."

"Does one sleep in the lap of Allah?" he mused. "I wonder. Somehow, I think that cowards do not rest easily, that crime without conscience merits a more merciful end." His gaze followed hers toward flie doomed city beyond dunes already somnolent under the setting sun. "I will see you enter Acre, if that is your wish, but once the sun rises, not even I can help you leave again."

"I understand."

"Can you swim?"

"Yes."

"Then you will enter the city with tonight's swimmers through the drainage ducts. You will be taken to a house where you will be safe. Do not speak outside that house or you will be killed as a spy."

Liliane laughed softly. "I thought my Arabic accent had improved."

His laughter matched hers. "Pride deludes us all."

"Who are the swimmers?"

"Because I must know what passes behind Acre's walls, messengers swim to and fro like fish each night." He sobered. "Tonight, they carry only news of approaching death."

"I am sorry,
effendi
," she said quietly. "I have helped to cause so much pointless waste."

"War is always waste," he said briefly, with the first touch of bitterness she had seen in him. "We who rule Allah's creatures are the greatest of His fools. How blithely we assume that His patience is eternal."

* * *

The desert was silent, the stars high and still. On just such a night, the Christ child was born, mused Alexandre as his horse labored through the high dunes. God's peace was as distant, Liliane as distant, as if they dwelt upon one of those glimmering mysterious stars. He must get her away from Saladin before dawn, when Acre's gates would open to rape, massacre and pillage, and when Liliane would be left to Saracen retribution. There were four hours now to sunrise. So much damage had been done—how could he persuade her to leave with him in time?

Suddenly the dune was mounted by ten riders descending from both sides of him. Urging his horse to gallop, the destrier slid in the sand, losing its footing as if scrambling through deep butter.

The Saracens closed swiftly in on him. Rising in the saddle to steady himself against the destrier's stumbling, Alexandre drew his sword. "I wish to see Saladin!" he shouted. He might be a dead man, but he was not yet cold.

Just as he braced himself for their attack, a shout reached him. "
Le Comte
de Brueil
?" At his muffled, startled affirmation, a Saracen cried, "Follow us!"

Across the desert they led him, not toward the camp of Saladin but to the oasis. Puzzled, he dismounted to greet the tall Saracen waiting for him. "I am Sheik Faroud," the Saracen informed him. "You have come seeking your
comtesse
?"

"I have," Alexandre answered slowly, eyeing the grim, surrounding faces of his escort.

"Look for her in Acre," replied the sheik, "but come no nearer to our camp. Saladin himself can take no responsibility for your safety this night."

"In Acre?" Alexandre's spirits soared. "The countess has returned to the camp?"

The sheik gave him a pitying look. "She is within the city."

Alexandre went white. "That is suicide!"

The sheik shrugged. "As Allah wills. Who can explain the workings of women's minds."

"But where is she in the city?" Alexandre asked, desperate.

"Where no one will find her until dawn." The sheik's flat stare told Alexandre that he would get no more elaboration. The Saracen bowed. "You would be wise to make haste, milord. My men are in short temper."

Being in a less suicidal frame of mind than his wife, Alexandre speedily took his leave.

What now? Liliane was as far beyond his reach as if she had gone to the moon. As he rode, black images of what the morrow would bring loomed in his mind. He had to find her! He had to retrieve that mischievous, beautiful girl who had bewitched him in the forest of his demesne. He could see Liliane now, lightly poised with her fishing spear over the trout stream. She had been playing then, had gone on playing until the games had turned deadly and even she had been appalled by them. And when she had tried to escape those terrible games, he had turned his back on her. In bleak desperation, he had been forced to turn to an enemy. Had Saladin sheltered her out of regard for his old friend, Almansor, or had he seen a way to avenge himself upon a pair of Christians who had helped bring about the fall of Acre? Whatever Saladin's reasoning, Liliane was in deadly peril.

As soon as he reached camp, Alexandre went to his tent. He roughly shook Saida awake. Her arms went predictably around his neck, and he firmly pried her loose. "Tonight, little desert cat, I have better prey for you than a common knight." He lifted her chin. "How would you like a powerful king to adorn your pillow?"

Saida looked startled, then delighted, but within seconds her smile became a frown. "Richard? But he is—"

"Richard is not the lover for you. What think you of Philip?"

She smiled slowly. "He is very handsome." Her forefinger began to twirl a dark curl at her shoulder. "Is he generous?"

"If he does not pay you, I will." Alexandre gave her a feral smile. "What say you?"

"Let me but comb my hair."

He pulled her to her feet. "Leave k. The king is hot."