A Flame Run Wild (35 page)

"If these people become hungry enough, they are going to go out looking for food. They do not have your expertise, so they are likely to be caught and questioned before being dispatched. They will talk about the tunnels and they will talk about you." She gave the scrawny ten-year-old a cool smile. "Understand?"

He grunted in philosophical agreement. "The menu tonight is scraps. What about the babies? These manless dams are dry as an old oasis, and you'll find no infidel wenches to suckle the brats."

The boy had a point. What was she to do about the babies? For a long moment Liliane was silent. "What know you of the Gilded Leopard?" she asked him thoughtfully, remembering the brothel to which Alexandre had brought her.

He smirked. "Not as much as I would like." The other boys laughed, and he acquired a glint in his eye. "You think old Xenobia, the madam, employs a few wet nurses, maybe has a girl or two caught out and just delivered?"

"Perhaps."

"She will want money and will betray us for an extra dirham."

Liliane smiled inwardly. At least, one among them was beginning to think in terms of the group. "I shall take care of the money. Blackmail can work both ways. The question is, can you or one of your cronies get past the gate tonight?"

He eyed her lazily. "Leave it to me."

That night, the urchins took to the high walls and rooftops like a troop of silent monkeys. Any food left unguarded in the courtyards "was fair game; olive and fruit trees were stripped of their last, topmost offerings; bundles lingering on pack animals were stolen.

Liliane had been right; the pickings were good since the Christians were in a mood to celebrate, and their own wine and supplies were readily distributed. While many of the victors were drunk and oblivious, there were many more who were often irritably belligerent. Any imagined slight, far less the impertinence of a thief, was enough to incite them to mayhem, so the children had to be particularly careful in their pilfering.

Three of them slunk through the rubble of the walls of the Accursed Tower into the Christian camp, only to find that the Gilded Leopard had been transferred to a more prosperous lodging inside Acre. After renegotiating the rubble, they invaded the windows of the upper floor of the new brothel, where they wheedled the prostitute sister of their leader, Raschid, into arranging a conference with Xenobia. A bit of parchment with the imprint of the Brueil signet, along with six silver dirhams, brought a cynical gleam to Xenobia's eye. "Mother's milk to feed a half-dozen babies, with payment to come, is it? The count's weach must have dropped a litter!" She grabbed Raschid by the scruff. "Who wants this? Where'd you steal this ring?"

Raschid glared back at her. "The gentleman that gave me this says you are to fill the tab with no delay or
Melek
Richard will have your fat ass with the gentleman's sword run up it."

She held him at slightly greater length with a wrinkled nose and a suspicious glare. "What does this gentleman look like?"

As certain as she that Liliane had stolen the ring, Raschid retorted, "Milord's got a cold eye and a quick sword, and he looks like a gentleman who would hang you up for hog bah." Why add that the man was also a Moor whose neck wasn't worth a clay pot?

Panting a little with the exertion of controlling the boy's squirming, Xenobia peered at him. Finally she nodded. "All right. You get what you need this time, but next time bring more money. We've just had a rise in expenses." By next time, she judged, I'll know what's what with Brueil.

Two hours before dawn, the urchins crept at intervals back into the cistern. They had brought back more than enough food to last for two days. Even the most apathetic of the group in the tunnels cheered a bit, and they all gave them a heroes' welcome. The boys who had made the expedition to the Gilded Leopard were last to return. Proudly they displayed a goatbladder full of mothers' milk to Liliane. Habib, earlier relieved to have been spared their dangerous mission, was now miffed that he had not been asked to accompany the scavengers.

Delaying only to praise them roundly, Liliane immediately set to feeding the babies. Their own stomachs growling with hunger, the urchins were obliged to assist with the feedings. "Come on, we're not amahs!" protested Raschid, as he grudgingly fed one of the wailing babies. Liliane could have relieved them of the chore, tired as they were, but she instinctively knew that they would now act with greater responsibility to the helpless members of the group. To save a life when one has previously acted selfishly marks a great shift in sensibility, particularly when that life is soft and defenseless. She fed Raschid herself when he had misgivings about putting his sleeping baby down. "The stone's too cold and dirty for it," he protested.

"You are quite right," she agreed. "Why not sleep with the little beggar? You can keep each other warm and, besides, he will want feeding again in a few hours."

"That's all right," the boy said stoutly. "I'm an owl, up all night usually." In moments, he and the baby were asleep.

And so it went for the next two days. On the third night, Liliane slipped four adults, Yasmin, and two infants across the wall with ship passage money. She also sent Habib, who was unpredictable and eager to go pilfering with the urchins. The infants had been given a little wine to keep them quiet.

The first expedition and the next the following night were successful. Then she ran into trouble. Not only did she not have enough money to secure aH the passages, some of the old people and one of the women were too panicky to attempt escape. The worst blow was the most unexpected. The urchins sent to the Gilded Leopard returned with no milk and ominous news.

"You had best not use the signet ring again," Raschid told her. "Its owner, the
Comte
de Brueil, has not been seen since the night before Acre fell. He is thought to be dead, and the French king is hot to find out how he met his end. Anybody flashing that ring is likely to be hanged. We would have been snagged, only my sister warned us off. A nobleman by name of Signe has been to the Leopard in the name of the king. He set men about the place to trail us back here in case we showed up again."

At the boy's last words, Liliane's terrible fear lifted a little. If Alexandre had been killed by the Signes, Louis would not be searching for the killer. He was trying to make sure that Alexandre was indeed dead, as well as clear himself of suspicion.

What could have happened to Alexandre? Had he somehow discovered that she had sought sanctuary with Saladin? Merciful God, what if he had gone to the Saracen camp? Her spirits plummeted again, but she was not given the luxury to worry about Alexandre. She had before her two babies past feeding time, eight intractable adults and seven children to get out of Acre. Xenobia must know the urchins were hiding somewhere, and she knew Acre well enough to make a sharp guess at their location if Louis were to press her.

They must leave the tunnels immediately, she thought. The sun would now be setting and dusk was brief. She could do little for the adults who refused to attempt escape, but she could persuade them to continue hiding in the tunnels until she and the others were sufficiently scattered to stand a chance of getting away. She rigged backslings for the babies and gave the two oldest children the last of her money and orders to board a coastal trading ship for Nahariya; hungry or not, the babies would survive a day's journey. She could only pray that the two wily urchins could be trusted to find them food and homes instead of ditching them.

The remaining five children solved their own housing problem. "The infidels are already becoming careless," Raschid told her. "We can stroll practically under their noses. We'll hang around another week or two and go back to business as usual."

Satisfied that everyone was organized, she sent them to gather up their small bundles of food and clothing. Predictably, when the older people saw that their mainstay was about to disappear, several of them changed their minds and decided to leave with the children headed for the ships. Liliane bit her lip as she waited for the laggards; thanks to Xenobia, time was running out. Finally, impatient with their arguing, she waved the children to divide and start down three different tunnels. "Your guides are leavings" she told the bickerers flatly and strode off after the first group. Hastily, dropping odds and ends, the dalliers shuffled after her.

A few minutes later, their small, unlikely parade came to a panicky halt. From up ahead came the occasional, dull knelling of armor and weaponry, a stealthy scrape of feet. The flicker of distant torches off the walls far ahead looked bright to their fearful eyes. Armed men were entering the mouth of their, tunnel. Louis must have discovered them; ironically, he had no ill will for a harmless lot of refugees, but would kill them all like errant field mice for the sake of discovering the one employing the Brueil signet ring. "Back!" hissed Liliane, then waved urgently to Raschid. "Take them through the small tunnel—the one you say leads to the back of the old mosque." She swatted him on the shoulder. "Quick! Be quick!"

He scampered off, the rest hurrying after him. Liliane followed, retreating as far as the big pit where the three tunnels met. Driven back from the other large tunnels as well, the other terrified groups were hovering there, uncertain of which way to go. She drew her scimitar, flicked it into the darkness. "The mosque, you! The bazaar, you!"

"But they're almost upon us!" a woman wailed.

"Hold your tongue and go!" Liliane snapped, her own nerves raw. She gave the woman's backside a whack with the flat of her blade that sent her full tilt down the small tunnel. The way would be longer and more treacherous than their original course. The old people would be stow; she must cover them for at least ten minutes to help them elude pursuit.

Although she had never pondered the precise moment of her death, she considered it now, With any luck, she might live another ten minutes; ten she was going to be eradicated like a cockroach and left in this dark hole to rot . . . unless Louis found her body. She only wished she could see his face when he discovered how she had fooled him and Jacques for so long. Unfortunately, he was going to have the last laugh. Her heart pounding in her ears, her hands slippery on the scimitar, Liliane turned to wait for the first attack.

The first unwary fellow rounded the corner to catch the length of her blade across his throat; before he saw her lethal shadow, the next stumbled across the body of the first and raised his broadsword across his face almost as a reflex. His counterstroke numbed her hand, but then she was alone as her opponent prudently retreated from the gloom. His torch had fallen into the mire and darkness had closed again like a blanket. A sound to her right from the second tunnel made her whirl. A pike slammed down toward her collarbone. Desperately, she countered and went to her knee with the force of her assailant's blow. Rolling, she spun and jabbed for his crotch. Not sporting, she reflected grimly, but then she was not built for fending off broadswords. Another hiss sounded in the dark by her ear. As she chopped wildly, she heard a shriek.

This was not going to last ten minutes, Liliane thought dismally, and she was not going to be the winner. Her only advantage was in being more accustomed to the dark than Louis's men. Nearly a week spent feeling her way about the pitchy cesspits had given her the sensitivity of a bat. What she did not see, she heard. A slight reverberation from a distant wall told her as much as if it were daylight in there. What matter? Once Louis knew his men were discovered, more torches would arrive. Once the third tunnel was penetrated, she could not possibly hold them all off. Should she retreat to a point where the interstice narrowed?

Liliane's deserate effort to think clearly was abruptly cut off by the clash of swords in the third tunnel which led from the central pit she defended. What the devil was going on? Wild ideas flew across her mind. Had the Saracens rejected the peace treaty and invaded the city? Did she have allies? But who would help her? Certainly not the Saracens. A sword sheared at her from the darkness and she leaped back. The dull glow of torchlights advanced. She scrambled back to evade another swipe that drew sparks from the stone. She caught a flare of torches down the second tunnel, a glimmer around thrashing silhouettes in the third. Her allies, whoever they were, would be quickly cut off and surrounded if she could not provide them room to retreat.

Bracing herself to block the men moving down the first two tunnels, she moved forward again, but slipped on crumbling rock and fell against the side of the pit. Hot steel entered her side. All her muscles burning in her arm and chest, she lifted her scimitar to ward off the next blow, but her wrist seemed to melt against it. The blackness became horribly complete.

Chapter 13

~

The Single Thread

Sewers below Acre

July 1191

I
f Alexandre had not fallen at that moment, Liliane would have vanished into memory. He came to this realization almost as he tripped backward over her inert body and deflected the sword blow that would have decapitated her. As it was, the descending blade nearly severed his ear. Only his unkicking boot and his bouncing off the stone wall kept him temporarily in one piece. He slammed upward with his sword, heard a gurgling grunt and, with an effort, fended off the heavy falling body of Louis's man, who had struck down Liliane.

He might never have known that his convenient cushion was Liliane, but for the smoothness of her face against the back of his neck and a long strand of hair that had escaped her
haik
. Even then, she might only have been some strange female corpse. Jerking himself up, he looked down and caught a glimmer of red-gold reflected in the advancing light of the glittering torches. His heart seemed to stop suddenly, to have searched for her so long and fruitlessly, then find her so unexpectedly, so' horribly in this clammy hole, stunned him into shock.

Was she dead? he wondered in swift panic at her stillness. No! He had not known who defended the other tunnels, only that the defense had broken and that he must fall back. Figures loomed above him and he slashed mindlessly, as viciously as a cornered animal. For blind moments, he could think of nothing but driving them away from her, hacking at them, destroying them. The attackers faltered as if confronted by a demon, the torch-bearing rear guard scattered by thrashing elbows and crushed feet. Yelps sounded as clothing and hair were singed.

Then a howl, hideous, hollow and terrifying, filled the cisterns as Alexandre sounded his fury. Those accustomed to sapper fights might not have hesitated, but these men were not used to fighting underground. Dark, dank tunnels filled with hellish din and fire were most intimidating. They fell back to regroup.

In that brief moment, Alexandre swept up Liliane and ran blindly, with no idea of where he was going in the strange black place. The cistern maps he had examined in Philip's tent had not included this ancient system. Over and over, he slammed into walls and columns, and painfully scraped his head and shoulders on corners. He heard the pound of pursuing feet, the pulse of blood running from his ear down his neck, echoes everywhere. His heart was straining, bursting.

Then abruptly, he slammed into hard, rubble-scattered dirt and fell with Liliane to the ground. He had taken a wrong turn, come up against a cave-in. He forced himself to lie still, fight off the panic that shrieked in him, brought back the mind-melting horror of being strangled in black water with his face shoved bloodily against a mammoth mountain of stone, its grave slab inexorably crushing down on him. At this moment he was barely aware that he was lying against Liliane; he could only recall the terror he had known when trying to swim under the Acre wall in search of her. He must have gone mad for a time in that water-filled tunnel, for there had come a time when he remembered only black ghouls plucking at him; huge, black worms coiled about him, trying to cover his face, trying to drag him down into their watery hell. When he'd come to sanity again, starlight was dim on his face from a cistern opening. He was clutching a narrow ridge of stone in the crumbling mortar, and his lungs were choked with water. Nearly a half hour passed before he could clear his lungs and summon the strength to drag himself up to the surface.

The cistern well had opened into the bazaar, deserted after midnight except for a few prostitutes and ribalds. He'd crawled into the shelter of the shadows from the abandoned stalls, and huddled shivering and choking on blood and water. When he'd held his shaking hands a few inches from his eyes, he'd seen that most of his fingernails were either split to the base or torn away completely. His face was puffed raw from grinding against stone.

His cut, swollen lips tasted of blood. He felt like butcher's meat, a naked, vulnerable child. If someone had touched him, he was sure he would have flown into fragments like a shattered crock.

With the gratitude of a blind man restored to sight, he'd gaped fixedly at the stars' pinpricks of light. He could breathe boundless air, smell the stench of refuse and fellow humans. A wildly affectionate sense of brotherhood enveloped him like a warm cloak. After a time, he'd realized that he was perspiring from shock. The image of Liliane danced elusively before his eyes, then faded. He'd fallen asleep.

He'd awakened to find a bony dog sniffing and licking the raw flesh of his face. Dazedly, he shoved away the dog, who snarled then slunk away. He had not thought any dogs would be left in Acre; this one must have been tough, ready to make breakfast of his corpse. He grimaced at the thought of his wrecked face, then winced. It was the morning of the surrender, a few refugees, wanting to stay ahead of the crowds and see the ceremonies at the gate, were beginning to filter through the bazaar.

He painfully got to his feet, every muscle screaming. His brain beginning to function again, he felt for his sword; it was still strapped across his back. He was faintly surprised it had not been filched by a ribald; but since his body had hidden the weapon, the bazaar riffraff must have thought he was a beggar. Strings of passersby were staring at him. If he'd had a shred of humor left, he would have given them a ghastly, mocking smirk. Stiffly, he fell in with the group, which edged away. He ignored them. Sooner or later, Liliane must appear at the gate if she placed any value on her life. Bleakly, he wondered if she did care what happened to her.

For hours, Alexandre had lurked by the gates, but saw no sign of Liliane in the heavy crowds. The crowds thinned and, under the high sun, the gates closed ominously. Sick with dread, he retreated into the city where he mounted an abandoned dwelling overlooking the wall adjoining the right side of the gate. The ditch where a band of Acre's wailing inhabitants had been massed was beginning to fill with bodies as Richard's executioners slit throats, turning the living into sprawled dead, fodder for flies. Desperately, he sought a glimpse of Liliane, but at this height, could recognize no one with certainty. His raw fingers locked in the geometric screen, Alexandre watched the chivalry of England, France and Jerusalem butcher nearly two thousand men, women and children.

Screams and dull red blood trickling in the dusty streets told the fate of hundreds more who had not wanted to leave their homes for the scorching desert. Bitter tears of hatred seared his face. Let Liliane be mercifully dead, he thought fiercely, that she may not see what she fought for. . . . His head slammed against the screen. No . . . God be merciful and keep her alive! Let not her beauty be sunk in this obscenity!

Finally, the mass in the ditch was still. Alexandre was not quite sure how long he'd clung to the screen; perhaps his mind had retreated into blackness again, this time as a refuge. His private, lonely hell was better than the one that multiplied like the facets of a fly's eye. In his hell he heard a hollow, primal wail as if the very desert beneath the city screamed in horrid, anguished warning. The building' beneath his feet heaved and trembled, as did the screening beneath his fingers; but perhaps the shaking was only his mind, for when he braced to be swallowed by some cataclysmic upheaval, he found all was still. The air was still. His mind was still. Nothing was going to happen.

Perfumed death rose through the sunlight with a nauseous pervasiveness, like a slow caress across his face. Once, not far from here, he thought bitterly, men like this had raised a stench like this in Jerusalem. Part of the guilt is mine, his mind added miserably, for I helped make possible the destruction of these helpless wretches of Acre.

Alexandre's black despair was broken by the sound of feet moving quickly. The gates had opened to the victors, who were now taking possession of their spoils. He unlatched the screen; being found now would require him to answer too many difficult questions. Besides, he might kill the first European he met.

He left the tower and went far enough into the city to elude the first invaders. Upon reaching the Street of Clouds, a narrow byway of rich villas rising high above the wall that blocked out the sea, he took up a position in a house on one corner of the street's entrance. There, he awaited his steward, Yves.

Before attempting the city walls, he had given Yves instructions to take a house for him on this street. Yves and his retainers were not long in coming, for the best houses would fall to the first arrivals. When Alexandre stepped into the street, Yves blanched. "Mother of God!" he exclaimed, raising his spear. "What foul spirit are you!"

As the rest of the retainers took aggressive stances, Alexandre gave a hollow laugh. "Have I so changed in a space of hours that you do not scent one of your own wolf pack?"

"My God!" Yves gasped in mingled relief and horror. Behind the steward, bows were hastily scraped, but the retainer's eyes, found and uncertain, never left Alexandre. "My lord, we feared you dead."

"And why not?" Alexandre's voice was cold and light. "Make ready the small villa at the street's end. Steal whatever is lacking from the other houses. Take any weapons." His orders were given tonelessly, absently. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Go look in the ditch of Acre dead for Jefar el din. If you find him, bring his body here." Then he walked up the street toward the house he had chosen.

The steward and retainers stared at one another, still not completely convinced that they had found their master. This stranger spoke good French, but his face was bloody clay; it might have belonged to anyone, and yet . . . who but Alexandre de Brueil would have wanted the heathen remains of Jefar el din? Upon this evidence, they finally managed to accept the ravaged figure as their own.

For the rest of the afternoon, Alexandre sat upon the awning-covered roof of his new villa, looking out to sea. Occasionally, he answered a query from Yves, but never did he look at anyone. He waited for a scrape of the villa gates, the return of a litter bearing what remained of Liliane. He had not the courage to confirm her death himself. He knew with great certainty that if he descended into that carrion, his wits would desert him forever, to find her there would be an end as final as an arrow through his skull. At sunset, he sensed.Yves behind him. "Well?" he murmured.

"My lord, all is ready. Will you dine now?"

"Dine?" He had not eaten since noon of the previous day, yet not even a murmur of hunger disturbed his stomach. "No. Celebrate among yourselves." He paused. "What word of Jefar el din?"

"Naught, my lord. I sent two men who found no sign of him there or upon the field. That is not to say he is not dead. Before the men began to search, the guards had already thrown many corpses into the marsh."

Alexandre watched the flickering of the last red light on the water. It had long ago occurred to him that he might never know what had happened to Liliane; might never know whether she was dead or alive. That terrible uncertainty would be his punishment for the rash episode with Saida that had driven Liliane from him. Already the uncertainty was unbearable. "Leave me, Yves. I will see no one else tonight."

After Yves had gone, Alexandre waited until the last glimmers died from the sea and dusk was murky, then he rose in a single motion. In a few minutes, the rooftop was empty. Alexandre crept catlike over the tiled parapet of the neighboring house and vanished into Acre's labyrinth. He searched for Liliane but found only soldiers bent on making revelry, pillaging and finding whores. Drunken quarrels were rampant; street fights erupted, the sergeants blind to the disorder. In a few days, Richard would hang a few troublemakers to restore order, but that night the men were given no restraint A few inhabitants who had escaped the afternoon slaughter were dragged from their hiding places and put to the sword. Women were raped and likewise dispatched.

Alexandre's absence from the villa did not go unnoticed. Yves, uneasy about his strange, depressed mood, crept to the rooftop an hour or so after darkness had fallen. After worriedly checking the cobbles on the street below, Yves searched the master bedchamber, then the rest of the villa. The guards confirmed that Alexandre had not left by the gate. Alexandre's peculiar behavior coupled with his disgrace in Richard's court might bring the whole household into difficulty. Yves called the servants together. "In the next day or so, admit no one to the villa and say the master is out, whether or not it is true."

"What if a summons comes from their majesties?" a hostler inquired.

"Say the count is ill with a shaking fever. No prudent soul who cares for his own health will demand proof."

Alexandre returned by dawn, but during the next few days, he pursued the habits of a vampire, spending his days hidden from the sight of man, his nights prowling the city and eating almost nothing. Yves and the household became convinced he was losing his mind.

During that time they had a few callers, who left swiftly upon being told of Alexandre's ailment. A page sent from Philip inquired every morning after Alexandre's health. On Thursday, they received a caller less diplomatic: Louis de Signe; Signe refused to be turned away without seeing Alexandre.

"I come upon a private matter," he insisted. "It is most important."

Signe was the last person Yves wanted to admit to the house. Courteously, but firmly, he refused. "If you like, milord, I shall relay your message to the count when he is improved."

Louis scowled. "You would do well to grant me audience now, you presumptuous peasant. Delay upon this matter will cost your master ill, and you worse."

Yves spread his hands in Gallic helplessness. "What can I do, milord? I have my orders."