XXV

XXV

"One . . . two . . . three . . . four!"

Elise knotted the last of her sheets together and stared out to the inner courtyard below her balcony. For a week she had watched the courtyard each night; she had learned that it was empty near the moon's highest peak. She assumed that the Moslems were all at prayer.

And tonight . . . she was ready.

She glanced over the railing one more time and stiffened her shoulders as she convinced herself that no one was about. If she could just get out of the chamber . . . she could hide in one of the supply carts constantly leaving with men and arms.

The space between her window and the ground made her dizzy, and she paused, shaking, afraid that she would lose her nerve. She had to try to escape, or else she would go mad. Elise closed her eyes tightly, then opened them. With renewed vigor, she tied the end of her "rope" to the foot of an iron planter and tossed the remaining length over the balcony. She held her breath for several seconds, but no one came; she couldn't hear a sound in the night.

Steadying herself one last time, Elise carefully gathered up the skirt of her gown—a silk creation given to her by one of Jalahar's women—and balanced her weight over the railing. She held tight to the sheet, praying that the wrought-iron planter was heavy enough to hold her weight. She swayed slightly, then whispered a little prayer of thanksgiving as her sheet-rope held tight. Twining her ankles around the slippery silk, she carefully began to climb her way down. Euphoria lit her eyes as her slippered feet touched the courtyard. She had done it! All she had to do was meld against the darkened building, work her way around to the front, and crawl into a cart . . .

"It is a nice evening for fresh air, yes?"

Elise started violently as she heard Jalahar's voice behind her. She spun around, ready to fight him, ready to run, but he just stared at her with his rueful smile and knowing dark eyes.

"Do not run, Elise," he told her softly, "or I shall be forced to call others to stop you." He lifted his hands fatalistically. "You will fight . . . you will hurt yourself—and possibly your child."

Elise exhaled, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She had seen Jalahar only once since he had brought her here, on her third morning in the palace. She had flown into a rage and attacked him, and discovered that his slimness was deceptive. He had not fought her in return; he had subtly twisted her arm so that any further movement on her part brought intense pain. Then he had politely informed her that he would not interrupt her solitude again until she was more receptive to his presence.

He extended a hand toward her. "Shall we walk back together?"

Elise walked on by him. His hand dropped to his side, but he followed her, and she could sense him clearly. His scent was that of sandalwood and musk, his footsteps were silent, yet he emanated an unnerving warmth. He always spoke to her quietly, almost sadly. She hated him for keeping her prisoner, but she had discovered that she couldn't hate him completely as a man.

A flight of narrow stairs led to her tower chamber. Elise climbed them silently, then waited rigidly for him to unbolt the lock. When the door drifted open, she strode into the chamber and back out to the balcony. Jalahar followed her. She didn't look at him, but she knew that he watched her as he sighed and pulled up her concoction of sheets.

"I do not care to divest you of covering; the nights are sometimes very cool. Rest assured that there will be a man beneath the balcony day and night."

Elise refused to give him an answer, and a smile twitched at the corner of his lips.

"Elise . . . that was a dangerous and foolish attempt at escape—to yourself, and to your child. I give you time because I believe you will come to me, and because of your child. But if you do not care enough to look to the welfare of your belly, I shall begin to wonder why I must. And perhaps I will decide that the only way to have you welcome my attentions is to see that you learn to enjoy them."

She stared at him and spoke at last, well aware that his words were a warning, and sensing that he would not threaten idly. "I will not attempt to leave by the balcony again," she told him stiffly.

Jalahar smiled, and his dark eyes glistened with amusement. "Were you a man, I would ask for your word of honor. Knowing your determination, I don't believe there is any way that I should believe you. I will just say that our future rests in your hands."

She started, swallowing, when he began to walk toward her. He laughed when she flattened herself to the balcony, and stopped walking. But he extended his hand and his eyes followed his fingers as they lit gently upon her hair, brushing disheveled strands from her temple. "Your midnight excursions are rough on your coiffure, Elise. Come, and I will brush it for you."

"I can brush it myself."

"But you would not deny me such a little pleasure, especially not . . . when I have news of your husband."

"Bryan!" she cried out, her telltale emotion flaring brilliantly in her eyes. "Tell me. Does he live? Does his wound heal? What do you know? What was your source?"

Jalahar bowed slightly, indicating that she should move in. Elise hesitated only a moment, then returned to her room from the balcony.

She hated her chamber, but not that she had been given unpleasant rooms to occupy. To the contrary, she was imprisoned in luxury. Her room was vast; the east side was taken up by endless cushions of down, silk-covered and tented in sheerest gauze. The floors were warmed by plush rugs, the windows were covered with floating draperies in blue and green pastels. She had a delicately carved dressing table, brushes and combs of hammered silver, and a carved bath so deep she could almost swim in it. She had been supplied with a number of precious books, painfully, expertly copied by scholars, French translations of works by the famous Greek and Roman poets. Nothing that she could need or want was denied her—except her freedom.

And that was why she hated the chamber so. It was, no matter how luxurious, a prison.

"Sit!" Jalahar commanded her, indicating the stool before her dressing chamber. Nervously she did so, pleading with her eyes as they met his in the finely crafted, hammered-metal mirror. He met her eyes briefly, but he didn't speak as he picked up her brush and haphazardly plucked the pins from the bulk of her hair. It fell about her in a radiant splendor, and Jalahar picked up the tendrils with fascination, watching the gold and copper shimmer in the candlelight as he moved the brush in soothing strokes.

"Jalahar!"

She didn't want to beg him for information, but the threat of a sob was in her voice.

"He holds his own, so I have heard."

"He lives!"

"Yes, but . . ."

"But what?" Elise spun about in the chair, raising her eyes to his with torment and anxiety.

"They say he fights a fever. That is the case so often, you know.... It is not the wound that kills the man, but the fever."

Elise lowered her eyes, aware that they were filling with tears.

"He is a strong man," Jalahar told her. "He has the English King's best physicians at his side."

"They shall probably kill him if the fever doesn't!" Elise cried.

Jalahar was quiet for a moment, then murmured, "I will ask that Saladin send a physician from the East, an Egyptian man, one well acquainted with the desert fever."

Later she would find it absurd that the man who had abducted her from her husband was willing to do his best to see to her husband's life and health; at that moment, all that she could think about was Bryan, and it did not matter in the least that she discussed him with Jalahar—and that both men were natural enemies.

"An Egyptian?" she demanded.

"He is the best I know," Jalahar said softly.

"But will Richard accept him? Will he allow him to see Bryan?"

"Even your king respects the honesty of Saladin. Your king is stubborn, with misguided intentions, but he is not a fool. I will see that this man is sent to him."

Tears were blurring her eyes. She stared at her hands. "Will you . . . keep me informed?"

"Yes . . . if you will invite me in, of course."

"Invite you . . ."

He smiled at her through the mirror. "This is your domain, Elise."

She stared at his dark, dark eyes, so expressive against the burned bronze of his strangely refined features. His fingers, long and slender, rested against the gold of her hair. She shivered slightly, wishing he were fat and filthy and ugly. He was not. Even clad in his loose-fitting desert robes, he gave the impression of wired strength and agility. He was soft-spoken and gentle, a strange man indeed.

"This is not my domain. It is a pleasantly appointed . . . prison. You are my warder. Prisoners do not invite their warders anywhere."

"You must think of yourself as a guest. A good host does not enter upon a guest without an invitation."

"You entered freely enough tonight."

"Ah . . . but the circumstances were extenuating, wouldn't you say? I found I needed to be of service as an escort."

Elise stared at the dresser and spoke in a whisper. "You know that I would invite you anywhere . . . to learn about Bryan."

"Then when I have news, I will come back to you."

* * *

It was to be another week before she saw him again. She tried to read, tried to find some method to maintain her patience, praying to stay sane. As often as not, though, she paced the chamber.

Two women served her, both Arabs, both handsomely dressed and decked out in jewels. Elise found their costume curious for servants, until she discovered through the elder's smattering of French that they were both wives of Jalahar. She was astounded that he would send his wives to care for another woman whom he had taken in battle, but neither appeared to be offended by the action.

"By the laws of Allah, a man takes four wives." Satima, small and a little stout, told her.

"And Jalahar has . . . ?"

"Three. When the time is right . . . he will make you a wife."

"But I have a husband!"

"Not to the laws of Islam."

The Arab women were disapproving of her lack of enthusiasm; as a captive, she should have been flattered to have the great Jalahar determined to make her a wife when she should have been no better than a concubine.

Elise fell into days of deep depression. Jalahar brought her no information; she worried endlessly about Bryan. It was true that fevers brought down the strongest men, and it seemed so long already.... How long could even his toned and sinewed strength hold out against a fever that ravaged relentlessly?

And if he lived . . .

Well, she had left him to Gwyneth's care.

She would roll into her vast bed of cushions and silks and cry. Gwyneth would at last have Bryan; she would be the fourth wife of a desert lord, imprisoned forever in chambers of silk.

There were long, long days and nights for her to think and ponder. She remembered Firth Manor and the day Percy had died; he had died trying to warn her . . . about Gwyneth. And now, she had actually given the woman her blessing to take her husband . . .

If he lived.

He had to live. It was better to think of him with Gwyneth than it was to imagine those indigo eyes closed forever, his heart no longer pulsing with life and vitality.

For two days she didn't eat; Satima finally cajoled her into doing so, reminding her that she would harm her child. Even then it was difficult to care; she had not felt the life within her yet, and it seemed so distant.

One morning, as she stood staring blindly up at the gauze netting over her bed, she heard the door creak open. She thought little of it: Satima or Marin bringing her a tray of breakfast fruit and fresh bread. "Just set the tray down," she murmured distantly.

"Ah . . . no, I will sit with you while you eat! You must eat, you know."

It was a different voice. Elise turned around to see another woman, very petite, fragile, and lovely. Her eyes were dark and enormous, her features were sweetly heart-shaped. She stared at Elise with a smile that made her uneasy.

"Who are you?" Elise asked her.

"Sonina. Come, yes? I have selected the sweetest dates for you . . . bread fresh from the oven. Please? You must eat," Sonina cajoled.

Elise didn't feel at all well. She rolled from the tangle of the cushions and stood, offering Sonina a distracted smile as she walked out to the balcony. What was happening? Why hadn't Jalahar come to tell her about Bryan? He couldn't be—

"You die!"

She spun about as the words were screamed, stunned to see the fragile beauty flying at her like an arrow, her hand raised high in the air, her fingers gripped hard around a jewel-encrusted dagger.

Elise screamed instinctively, ducking and bolting about in time to save herself from a blow. She whirled about again, ready to fight. When Sonina came at her again, she struck the girl's arm hard, forcing the dagger to slide across the floor. When Sonina began to pound on her with fury, she doubled up and caught the Arab woman's wrist, amazed by her own strength.

"Stop it!" she screamed to the panting Sonina, who still tried to claw at her face.

"You should have eaten the dates!" Sonina hissed back.

A ripple of fear slid along Elise's spine. "They were poisoned, weren't they?"

"Yes! Yes! And I will kill you yet!"

"Why?"

"Jalahar! I will not allow you to replace me."

"I have no desire in the world to replace you—and Jalahar already has two other wives!"

"Them!" Sonina twisted her lips into a snarl of scorn. "They are but two old crows! I am the one he comes to! The others care for his children—and his whores."

Elise reddened despite herself. "I'm not his whore, Sonina, nor do I wish to be his wife. I have a husband. If you wish to get rid of me, help me! Help me leave—"

The door burst open. Satima swept in, accompanied by a husky guard. Satima pushed past Elise and grasped Sonina by the hair, railing furiously at her in Arabic. Sonina shouted back, but the guard grasped her about the waist and hauled her, kicking, from the room.

"She will not disturb you again," Satima said.

"Don't eat the dates," Elise said dryly.

Satima glanced at the tray of food, needing no further explanation. "Sonina is in a pique. Jalahar returns tonight, and his message requested that you see him after he has bathed and dined."

Elise lowered her eyes.

"Yes, I will see him," she said.

* * *

Jalahar came to her chamber late. She had been pacing the room for hours, and when the door opened, she ran to him.

"Please tell me, have you heard anything?"

Jalahar did not keep her waiting. He watched her as he spoke, and she wondered what he found so intriguing about her face.

"The Egyptian treats Stede. He still fights the fever, but the fever lessens, so we hear. He has come to consciousness once or twice, and the Egyptian says that he will live."

Elise was shaking so badly with relief that she sank to the carpet, as her legs were too weak to hold her. She pressed her palms to her cheeks, as if to hold onto consciousness herself.

Jalahar reached down to her, lifting her up again. "I have brought you good tidings. But now, you are my hostess. You will entertain me."

Panic must have filled her eyes, for he laughed. "I take nothing that you do not give, remember?" He clapped his hands and the door opened. Two servants brought in a low, curious table, and began to set carved pieces upon it. Elise glanced to Jalahar.

"Chess," he told her, walking to the table and picking up one of the pieces to enjoy its beautiful workmanship with the sensitivity of his hands. "Most unusual workmanship. It was a gift to my father from the then King of Jerusalem. A Christian king. Do you play?"

Elise nodded and sat on a cushion. "You will move first," Jalahar told her, and she did so.

Pawns were taken; knights and bishops fell. "You play well," Jalahar told her.

"I will win," she told him.

He smiled. "That is unlikely. For I will play you until I do win."

The game continued. Then he said, "I hear that you had an interesting morning."

Elise shrugged coolly. "Your wife tried to poison me. Then she attempted to stab me."

"She will be punished."

"Why? She doesn't want me here any more than I wish to be here."

"A wife does not go against her husband's will."

"Then you would not want me for a wife, Jalahar; I believe in my own will."

His hand paused upon a game piece and he gazed at her, a twinkle glittering in the depths of his eyes, his lip curving just slightly to a smile.

"I do not remember suggesting that you should be my wife," he said politely.

She didn't know why she flushed. "It is Sonina's fear," she told him.

He shrugged. "You will not worry about Sonina."

"I do not wish you to punish her," Elise said. She moved a piece and looked at him again. "I believe you will find that you have no move left. The game is mine."

Jalahar stood and bowed slightly to her. "This game I concede. We will play again a week from now."

* * *

Elise learned to survive through the long days by concentrating on two thoughts. Eleanor, Queen Eleanor, who had given her so much in care and affection, had been a prisoner for sixteen years. She had been treated harshly at times, denied the simplest of pleasures. She had emerged as strong and proud as ever.

She had learned how to wait . . .

The thought of sixteen years almost sent Elise spiraling into despair again; her second thought kept her from doing so.

She had to remain healthy, bright, alert. All that she might ever have of the man she had come to love with every depth of her being was their child. For the babe, she would endure.

Jalahar came every week. She learned that Sonina had been sent back to her father. Elise was indignant, but Jalahar was firm.

"My household is a peaceful one. A woman who would stab or poison another is not one I wish to have in my bed. I fight my battles on the field, against men."

Elise faltered at her game, moving her queen haphazardly as she retorted to him.

"Then you do not want me here, Jalahar, for I would readily kill you for my freedom if I had the chance."

"Would you?"

With the swift move of a pawn, he took her queen, and left her in checkmate. Elise barely noted the game, but she gasped when Jalahar suddenly sent the table and the pieces crashing across the floor. He stood, jerking her from the cushion on which she sat until she pressed against his chest, staring into his eyes.

"I will give you my dagger," he told her, pulling a lethal blade from his belt and pressing it into her hand. "Take it!" He ripped open his robe, exposing the flesh and muscle of his chest.

Elise, stunned by his action, began to back away from him, the pearl-handled dagger clutched tightly in her palm. He kept advancing on her, daring her with his dark eyes flashing.

"Stop, Jalahar!" she cried. "I will stab you!"

"Will you?"

He reached out and grabbed her hand, bringing the blade of the dagger against his flesh. He exerted a pressure that forced her hand down, drawing blood in a thin, crimson line.

"Stop!" Elise screamed again, wrenching her hand from him. Hysterical tears rose to her eyes, and she stumbled away from him once more, this time tripping upon the silk cushions and pillows of her bed. She fell upon them, and her eyes widened in panic as he smiled, and lowered himself beside her, resting on an elbow as he watched her.

Elise rolled from him and drew herself against the wall, facing him, meeting his eyes.

"You haven't the instinct for murder," he told her softly. He rolled with a sudden, lithe movement and kneeled before her couch. His knuckles grazed her cheek. "Would it be so very hard to love me?" he asked her. His lips touched hers; she wanted to twist from them but could not, as she was pinned to the wall. But the touch was not cruel, or forceful. His mouth was warm and tasted of mint, gently persuasive upon hers. The kiss was light, scarcely more than a whisper against her lips. And then he was staring at her once more.

Elise trembled, torn and ravaged by the sweep of her emotions. She parted her lips to speak, then remembered that she still gripped his dagger in her hands.

She brought it between her own breasts.

"Perhaps I cannot take your life," she told him, "but I can take my own."

A flash of anger darkened his eyes. He slapped the dagger from her grasp with a blow so stunning she cried out as she watched it spin across the floor.

"Am I so abhorrent to you that you would really kill yourself and your child?" he demanded in a cold fury.

Tears filled her eyes. "No," she whispered to him. "You are not abhorrent to me. But I . . . I love my husband. Can't you understand that?"

He reached out for her and she flinched, not because she feared that he would harm her; she feared his gentleness. "I am not going to harm you, golden girl," he told her softly. "Just hold you. Don't fight me."

He pulled her down to the pillows beside him and held her. She felt the soothing caress of his long fingers across her cheek, through her hair. Elise closed her eyes, and her shivering gradually subsided. His words were true; all he did was hold her.

And as she lay, she smiled bitterly through tears of aching remorse. Once, she would have killed to escape . . . from Bryan. She would have gladly seen him strung and swinging by a rope. Once . . . but she had been a different woman then, or perhaps it was because she had only been a girl until she had come to know him, and to understand the depths of ecstasy and despair that loving could bring. Jalahar . . . was so very different from Bryan. Slim, dark, a Moslem, a desert prince. Born to different ways, a different God.

But she had learned from Bryan that there were many ways to look at a man, and that Jalahar possessed qualities that she could not help but respect. And Bryan had told her once . . . that first night . . . so long ago, another world now, that no meeting of the flesh was worth dying for. She had no desire to die; Jalahar had not forced her to that test.

And, no, she did not abhor him. She would fight him; she would have to fight him if he ever forced her. But she was frightened. Very frightened. Bryan had given her so much of love; he had opened the uncharted path to her senses and her heart, and she was very afraid that loneliness and her fear would leave her vulnerable to the very tenderness Jalahar displayed.

He spoke then, moving his hand with idle fascination over her hair, as if he had read her mind. "Would it be so very hard to love me . . . as you love Stede?"

"I cannot say," she told him, "because I do love him."

Jalahar was silent for several minutes. He leaned back, resting his head upon an elbow as he stared into the misted gauze above them.

"What if he were to die?"

"You promised me that he would not!" Elise cried.

"No man can give that promise. But it is not his injury and fever of which I speak." He looked at her. "He will come after me, you know. It will take time; he will need to regain his strength—unless he comes in a wild temper, in which case he will definitely die. We will meet on the field. One of us must kill the other."

"Why?" Her eyes were as brilliant and liquid as the sea as she stared at him. "If you care for me, Jalahar, let me go."

"I cannot," he told her simply.

He rose, straightening his robes, then bowing to her with a sad and rueful smile twisting his lips.

"I must leave, or else chance breaking my vow. I will see you soon."

* * *

He came each Thursday; there were no more outbursts of violence between them; most frequently they played chess. Sometimes he asked that she read to him, and sometimes he would stumble through her attempts to teach him English. Elise began to pick up a few words of Arabic, and when he asked to brush her hair, she no longer attempted to refuse him. It seemed such a small thing, and she would always see his dark and brooding eyes upon her and know that he practiced a great restraint. Sometimes she would feel herself shiver at his touch, and she wondered what would happen if the day came when he lost patience.

The week when she knew that the Christian world would be celebrating Christmas was exceptionally hard for her. She had grown accustomed to the endless days passing so tediously that she looked forward to Jalahar's visits with delight. She had shaken herself from despondency, determined to maintain her health and give birth to a strong, lively child. Jalahar talked to her too little of Bryan, but he had told her that the fever had at last broken, and that Bryan lived. He did not talk to her about the Christian-Moslem war; and, most often, she was afraid to ask. She prayed that Bryan would not ride when he was weak . . . easy prey for death.

And she wondered frequently what he was doing. Was Gwyneth at his side? Did she comfort him? Knowing how Jalahar's touch stirred her, she could not hate Bryan if he accepted whatever comfort Gwyneth could offer. Gwyneth should have been his wife. He had known her long before he had known Elise. No, she could not hate him if he reached for comfort. She could only endure the pain of wondering.

Jalahar himself seemed quiet and somber when he came to her two days before Christmas. He had ordered wine for her—which the Moslems did not drink—as a concession to her Christianity. The chess board was set up, but neither of them gave much attention to the pieces.

Jalahar idly moved a castle, keeping his eyes upon the board. "The Egyptian has returned to service at Saladin's side," he told her. He raised his eyes. "And Stede was seen in the courtyard of the palace at Acre, working with his sword."

Her fingers were shaking so badly that she could not pick up her chess piece. She clenched her hands into fists in her lap and stared at them. "He has completely recovered, then?"

"So it appears. My informant tells me that he is pale and gaunt, but that he walks straight and tall."

Jalahar stood and began idly pacing the floor, picking up a curio here and there. Elise felt him behind her. His fingers touched lightly upon the top of her head.

"There is much controversy over you, golden girl. The English King sends messages constantly to my uncle, Saladin. He demands that Saladin return you to him."

"And what . . ."—Elise moistened her lips—" . . . what does Saladin say to our king?"

She felt his shrug. "Saladin has asked that I give you back. He tells me that you are just a woman, that we fight a war for greater purpose."

"And . . . what do you say to Saladin?"

"That which I say to you . . . that I cannot."

"What does Saladin say then?"

His knuckles brushed over her cheek, and he lifted her chin so that he stared down into her eyes.

"This is my domain. My palace. We fight toward the greater good, but in such a matter, my uncle cannot tell me what I must do."

He did not smile, but studied her features. He released her and walked toward the door. "Tonight," he said quietly, "I tire of the game. It makes me impatient. And I am weary."

He paused, brooding as he stared at her once more. "Your child comes in April?" he asked.

Elise felt color flood to her cheeks. "Yes."

"That is not such a long time," he said. "You must start to think about what you will do."

"Do?" Elise repeated vaguely.

"He will be welcome here," Jalahar said bluntly, "but will he not be Stede's heir? You must decide if you wish to keep your child, or give him to his father."

Elise moistened her lips, wrenched by a new pain . . . and a tearing sense of fatalism.

In all the time . . . the long weeks that had become months . . . she had never accepted that it could be forever. She could not be expected to give up her child! Not the babe who had finally begun to move, to exist so strongly in her heart. But could she keep him from his father? She had wanted a child so badly in part for herself... and in part for Bryan. A son was perhaps the one truly worthy thing she could give him.

"Stede is still here . . . in the Holy Land," she whispered.

"Do you think this war will continue forever? Or that the Christians will ever subdue us completely? Already King Philip of France has left—to return to his own lands. Not even the determination of the Lion-Heart can hold out forever. Stede will ride against me, yes. He will demand his wife and child, and if it is your wish, the child will be given to him. But, then, perhaps he will not demand the child. Perhaps he will believe that it is mine. Tell me, Elise, did he know that you were carrying his child?"

Her face had gone a frightening shade of white. "No," she whispered.

Jalahar shrugged. "Then perhaps you will wish to keep the child. He will be loved here, for it will be my wish."

Jalahar at last pushed on the door. Elise leaped to her feet, calling him back.

"You said that you must meet Bryan in battle!"

He paused, smiling. "And you will hope that your knight kills me? He will need more than love and desire to battle my forces. For months they have tried to tear down my walls. They have not succeeded. And . . . if he comes for me now, as I told you, he will die. He is still too weak to fight a fair battle. I would not want to kill him at such a time, but in defense, I should be forced to. If you wish him to live, you must pray that he does not desire you unto death."

Jalahar closed the door behind him.

Elise stared after him, fearing the future as she had never feared it before. She felt too numb to cry, but when she brushed her cheeks with her fingers, she found they were wet with the silent tears of defeat.