Crusader Captive (12 page)

Corpses of both defender and attacker littered the steep incline leading to the castle’s gates. Baking in the sun, many of the bodies were already black with flies. Added to that was the smoke from the still-smoldering funeral pyres. Jocelyn thought she’d become accustomed to the odor of death. Yet she had to draw her grimy sleeve over her nose and mouth to keep from retching.

Once inside the gates of Blanche Garde, the scene was somewhat less grim. Apparently the Saracens had surrendered shortly after the Templars had stormed the gates. They now had to be guarded from those who remained of the keep’s original Latin population. Understandably, the survivors wanted to avenge their dead.

It soon became clear that the Templars had prevented their wholesale slaughter and enforced a rigid discipline. Jocelyn saw evidence of their work everywhere. Sergeants in the distinctive black tunics supervised work parties cleaning away the debris of battle. Clerical monks inscribed the names of the living and the dead. Cooks had the ovens fired. Even the Grand Master’s own farrier was already at the bellows in the inner bailey, his face sweaty and red as he reshod warhorses that had thrown shoes during the battle.

But look as she might, Jocelyn caught no glimpse of Simon’s tall form among the knights restoring order to the keep. Her throat got tighter and her heart weighed heavier as she trailed the king, his mother and their entourage into Blanche Garde’s great hall.

A small gathering waited for them within. Two women stood off to one side, obviously summoned to attend the queen. The majority of the welcoming party, however, consisted of battle-stained warriors. The Grand Master of the Knights Templar stood at their head. Jocelyn recognized the thin, ascetic monk even before he detached himself from the group and came forward to greet Baldwin.

“Majesty.”

“Brother de Tremelay.”

The Templar cradled his bandaged right arm in his left as he and the king embraced. Only then did Jocelyn see the one she sought above all others.

“Simon!”

The glad cry burst from her before she could control it. The joy on Simon’s face more than made up for her impetuous outburst. He took an involuntary step forward. Then, to Jocelyn’s searing dismay, he caught himself.

His brow raised, Bertrand de Tremelay noted the knight’s reaction, but the oaths the Grand Master had taken so many years ago bound him as fast as any chains. He would not—could not, according to the strict rules of his order—have discourse with women. Nor could he allow any of his acolytes to do so. But he’d been a man much longer than he’d been a monk. No stranger to human emotions, he directed his gaze to that of the queen.

Melisande intercepted the signal. She nodded once, a mere tilt of her head, and let a sigh slip from between her lips. “These horrific hours have sapped me more than I realized. I fear I must…” She sighed again and pressed the back of her hand to her grimy brow. “I truly must have rest.”

Her son’s face paled under its coating of dirt and gore. With a bite to his voice, he barked out an order to the two women who stood off to the side.

“Take the queen and her ladies to the women’s bower. I would that they might rest and cleanse themselves.”

The two hurried forward and dropped into a curtsy before Melisande. They looked every bit as worn as the queen and the ladies who accompanied her. Jocelyn could only imagine what they might have endured while hostile forces occupied the keep. When the queen gave them leave to rise, the eldest of them issued a simple request.

“If you’ll come with us, Majesty, we’ll take you to the women’s solar. Lady Alys awaits you there.”

Before acquiescing, the queen turned to her son and issued a regal request. “I would ask that you come to me in due time so we might confer on the disposition of Blanche Garde.”

“Send word when you are ready, Lady Mother.”

Jocelyn hesitated. How could she quit the hall without exchanging so much as a word with Simon? As if reading her mind, Melisande paused a moment and gave him a weary smile.

“I would speak with you also, de Rhys. I will send for you later, after I’ve had time to confer with my son.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

His blue eyes went from Melisande to the woman beside her. Jocelyn hugged that brief glance to her breast as she trailed the queen and Lady Sybil from the great hall.

In the women’s solar they were greeted by a lady and two young girls whose swollen, red-rimmed eyes told their own tale. The lady was Alys, wife to the lord who’d held Blanche Garde in the queen’s name. She dropped into a deep curtsy and welcomed Melisande in a voice ragged with grief.

“Would that I could greet you in other circumstances, Majesty.”

The queen took her hands and drew her to her feet. “What of your husband?”

“Dead. With our three sons. They…they fought to hold Blanche Garde most valiantly.”

“I doubt it not,” the queen said gently. “And you? Your daughters? Were you ill used?”

“No,” the woman said wearily, “but we have not been allowed to leave this chamber. Tell me, how do the rest of our people fare?”

“Come, let us sit and I will tell you what I know.”

The telling afforded Lady Alys little succor. Her neck bowed and her shoulders drooped with sorrow as the queen related the information she’d pieced together since the start of the attack. By the time she finished, Lady Alys and her daughters were awash in tears.

Jocelyn kept busy for the next few hours assisting Lady Sibyl in seeing to the queen’s needs. Those included washing, eating, and ordering the personal possessions recovered from the camp. Luckily, several of the queen’s trunks and chests had been stored in a separate tent and were found intact.

Once Melisande was rested, the queen sent word to her son that she was ready to speak with him. Before he arrived, she dismissed everyone from her presence.

Jocelyn used the respite to go in search of Simon. She wished desperately to hear from his own lips how he’d fared during the battle. To her bitter disappointment, she learned he’d ridden out with the Grand Master.

Frustrated, she sent pages in search of Sir Guy. Only after Sir Guy had confirmed that the men of Fortemur were being well cared for did she take time for herself. Thus she was robed in a borrowed gown with her hair freshly washed and rolled into a net when the queen sent a page with instructions that she desired the lady Jocelyn’s presence.

The midafternoon sun blazed down mercilessly outside, but servants had draped oil-soaked cloths over the bower’s windows to block the smoke and stench of the battlefield. The queen was seated at a sewing table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She looked once again a queen in a bliaut of fern green trimmed with gold embroidery. The bright color did nothing to lighten her somber mood, however, as she gestured Jocelyn to the seat beside her.

“I have spoken with my son. Since Blanche Garde was part of my dower, it is mine to dispose of as I will. I have decided, and Baldwin concurs, that I should assign it to the Templars since it was they who saved the keep.”

Jocelyn certainly couldn’t disagree. Such a gift would only be a small measure of gratitude for saving both a king and a kingdom. Yet dread curled in her stomach. She sensed… Nay, she knew with unquestioned certainty where the queen was leading.

“The king says the Grand Master has nothing but praise for de Rhys. According to de Tremelay, he was at the front, right in the thick of things. He also says your knight saved his life.”

Her knight. The choice of words tore at Jocelyn’s heart as Melisande continued.

“And I, of course, can personally attest to his courage. The man saved my life, as well.”

The horror of the night just past invaded the room and held both women in its cruel maw. Never, as long as she lived, would Jocelyn forget the sight of that fireball ripping through the queen’s blue-and-silver tent. Or Simon, wreathed in flames, stumbling from what could well have been Melisande’s funeral pyre. So she wasn’t surprised to hear the queen had discussed suitable recompense.

“My son and I have discussed how to best reward him. One option is to leave him here, in charge of Blanche Garde after I grant it to the Templars.”

Jocelyn’s chest contracted with equal parts pride and dismay. For a newly inducted Templar to be given such a charge was unheard of. Most had to serve a probationary period of a year or more, living as a humble, barefoot monk in a cloister when not fighting in the field.

That the queen and her son would so condition their gift of Blanche Garde was an incredible honor. And one that would steal Simon away from Jocelyn forever. Burying that base thought, she spoke from her heart.

“Such a reward is no more than he deserves, Majesty.”

“I agree.”

“Then…” She had to fight to keep the hollowness from her voice. “Then it’s done.”

“Mayhap,” the queen said slowly. With a tilt of her head, she turned the subject. “Let us talk of you for a moment. We must needs still find you a husband.”

“At least it won’t be Ali ben Haydar!”

The retort slipped out before Jocelyn could stop it. The fierce satisfaction that came with it filled some of the hole in her heart.

“No,” Melisande acknowledged with a twist of her lips. “It won’t be Ali ben Haydar. My son informs me the emir’s head now decorates a pike.”

This time Jocelyn didn’t even try to bite back her fierce exclamation. “I hope the crows peck out the traitorous bastard’s eyes!”

“So do I, girl. So do I.”

Thus were the twisted politics of this much fought-over land, Jocelyn thought. Christian or Muslim, knight or king. It mattered not. They were allies one moment, enemies the next. Would it ever change?

In her heart of hearts, she feared it would not. A hundred, nay a thousand years from now blood would still stain these sands. Such was the nature of man that what one had, the other wanted. It was not faith that drove them, but power and wealth and riches.

As if in echo of her cynical thoughts, the queen heaved a tired sigh. “Now,” she said heavily, “we must consider the emir’s successor.”

Jocelyn’s head snapped back. Dear God and all the saints! Surely, surely, Baldwin and his mother did not still look to Damascus to help them hold their borders.

“Please,” she begged. “Tell me you do not think to give me to one of the emir’s sons.”

The hesitation before the queen replied was so brief she might have almost imagined it. Almost.

“No, we don’t think to give you to one of ben Haydar’s sons. Those with any power have made it known their loyalties lie with Saladin.”

And if they had not? Rebellion bubbled hot and furious in Jocelyn’s veins. After all they’d been through, all they’d endured! She could not believe the queen would still use her as a pawn. Her mouth had set tight when Melisande put a finger under her chin and tipped her face to the light.

“Do not look daggers at me, child. I’ve not forgot what you and your knight did for me this past night.” She waited for the words to sink in before continuing. “This de Rhys. He’s more than proven himself worthy of you. And of Fortemur. We could give you to him.”

Like a mace swung with all the force of a warrior’s arm, surprise knocked every rebellious thought from Jocelyn’s head.

“Majesty!”

The explosion of joy behind the breathless reply told the older woman all she needed to know. Sighing, Melisande released her chin.

“So it’s as I thought. It was de Rhys who took your maidenhead, not Geoffrey de Lusignan.”

There was no point in lying now.

“It’s true. I did lay with him. Not by his choice, I must add.”

When the queen lifted a startled brow, Jocelyn shrugged. She was beyond shame now.

“Simon was taken by pirates on his way to Outremer, Majesty. I purchased him in the slave market at El-Arish and offered him a choice. His freedom in exchange for one night in my bed.”

“You did not!”

“I did.”

“And he agreed to this infamous bargain?”

“Reluctantly.”

The queen regarded her with no little surprise and shock for a moment longer, then burst into laughter. “Ah, lady. I’ll wager he shed his reluctance with his trews.”

An answering grin tugged at Jocelyn’s lips. “Indeed he did.”

For a brief moment, they were just two women sharing the kind of jest only another female could appreciate. All too soon their merriment faded, and Melisande’s expression grew serious.

“I would have this matter settled before I return to Jerusalem. Do you want de Rhys, or no?”

“I do.” The admission came without thought or hesitation from deep within Jocelyn’s innermost being. “I long for him more with every breath I take.”

Like a shimmering desert oasis, the idea that she might wed Simon hovered in her mind. She clung to it for precious seconds, letting it fill every corner of her soul. She could see them walking Fortemur’s ramparts together. Discussing what percentage of the taxes should go to defense and what to Yule or Easter entertainments for her people. Celebrating the birth of strong sons, loving daughters. Then, like the illusions that led many a desert traveler to despair, the tantalizing visions turned to dust.

“I want him,” she said with a raw ache in her chest, “but I can’t ask him to forswear himself.”

Melisande blinked in surprise. Clearly she hadn’t expected this response.

“Are you speaking of his pledge to join the Templars?” she asked. “That’s easily enough remedied. I will talk to my son and have him inform the Grand Master that—”

“Please, do not.”

Throwing herself out of her chair, Jocelyn knelt at the queen’s feet. She’d disappointed Sir Hugh. She’d used Simon ruthlessly to her own deceitful ends. She would not, could not, allow the queen and her son to do the same.

“De Rhys holds his honor above all else. It’s what makes him the man he is. I would not take that from him.”

The queen’s face softened. Sighing, she looked long into her ward’s eyes. “Are you sure, girl? This is your life we speak of, and his.”

Jocelyn didn’t look away. “I’m sure.”

Melisande didn’t speak for several moments. She had to have guessed how much those two simple words had cost. Sympathy swam in her eyes as she stroked Jocelyn’s cheek. Then, as they must, the heavy burdens she’d lived with all her life came to the fore.