XXVI

XXVI

He lived in a world of shadow, where darkness and nightmares reigned. Sometimes he would be riding, his destrier tearing up great clumps of earth as they thundered along. He did not know why he rode or what place he tried to reach. The trail was laden with forest branches, and it seemed that it yawned before him, offering nothing more than a black chasm, a dark void to fill his life.

Sometimes light would penetrate his dream world. It would be early fall, and he would stand in a lush meadow. Birds would sing a gentle chorus, the breeze would whisk by, delicious and cool.

He would see her. Atop a dune, dressed in white. The sun would envelop her, and her hair would be a golden halo that spun in the breeze as she ran to him, smiling, arms outstretched, eyes as brilliant and beautiful as an azure sea. He would lift his arms to her, and he would start to run. But he was wearing his armor, and it was heavy. Every step became harder until he was groaning and screaming for strength, cursing God for making him useless when he needed to reach her to live.

At other times he would be able to move. He would climb the hill. But where Elise had been, he would find a horse, ready for battle. And when he looked, he would be blinded by a halo of gold, and he would shield his eyes. And his heart would stagger, for it would not be Elise mounted upon the horse whom he so craved, but King Henry, come back from the grave. Henry, before illness had ravaged and killed him. The king when he had still ridden tall and strong, when his features had displayed both his wisdom and his temper; when his eyes had been brilliant with justice and strategy.

Henry would lift a finger and point it at Bryan. His voice would not be that of a living man; it would be a cold and stuttering echo from the grave.

"You have failed me . . . failed me . . ."

He tried to open his eyes. It was no longer Henry he saw, but Henry's son, Richard the Lion-Heart. Richard would not talk to him; he would talk around him, as if he weren't even there.

"He is looking straight at me," Richard said.

"I doubt that he knows, Lion-Heart."

A strange man, very thin, in immaculate robes and turban, was staring down at him. The dark eyes decreed him old; his face, brown as a tree bark, was unmarred by the wrinkles of time.

"Stede! You cannot die! You must not fail me!"

Was it Henry who spoke, or was it Richard?

The shadows swirled around him. Elise was sitting on the horse, calling to him with tears streaming down her cheeks. The shadows threatened to swamp her, to take her away forever. She begged him, implored him, pleaded that he come to her.

And he could not; his legs were too heavily laden.

"Be gentle with her; be patient."

Will Marshal was standing at his side. "I cannot reach her!" he screamed. "Help me, Will! Help me!"

But Will faded into the shadow, and he was alone again. Henry's face, Richard's face . . . Elise's face . . . they passed through his mind until they became one, then faded. He was back in the forest, on his horse, racing toward the dark abyss. But now there was a pinpoint of light within it, a golden streak that drew him. It was a crown, a crown heavily laden with jewels. Then the crown blurred, and it was not a crown at all. It was Elise's hair, caught in sunlight and wind, shimmering copper and gold. And she was calling to him again, stretching out her arms, her fingers so long and delicate. She wore the sapphire ring, and that, too, caught the sunlight, forcing it to explode into a field of blue . . . and then shadow again. Shadows became the swirling sands of the desert, and the merciless sun with its burning heat. Elise was there again, but the sands made a wall around her, and when they cleared, she was gone.

"Elise!" He screamed her name. "Elise!"

"I am here!" she whispered to him. "I am here." And something cool touched his forehead. A hand gripped his, delicate, but firm.

"Elise!" he called breathlessly. "Don't leave me!"

"I will never leave you," she promised.

She was real; she held him.

He would dream again, and when the cold of the forest froze him, she would warm him with blankets and lie down beside him. When the desert sun burned him, she would cool him with cloths. Always he would call her name; always she would whisper that she was there, and she would hold him.

But then came the morning, when he opened his eyes and found that he was neither in the desert, nor in the forest. He blinked. His temple was thudding, and his throat was parched. He hadn't even the strength to lift his head. But he blinked again and looked around himself. White wall, sheer, billowing curtains. Cushions beneath him . . .

The palace at Acre, he told himself. Richard's stronghold. . .

He felt horribly confused, as if his head were filled with cobwebs. He closed his eyes and tried to think.

Then he remembered. Riding alongside his wife, wondering—his heart pounding like a boy's—what secrets she would whisper to him, barely able to endure the rest of the ride with the wanting of her. Would she lay her heart and soul at his feet, hold him and tell him that she loved him above all men, wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of their days together . . . ?

He hadn't heard the Arabs until they were upon them. The battle had been so evenly met. He had fought, and fought well, until . . .

Until he had seen her. Under attack. Battling, striving, desperate . . . And he had been galloping toward her when the terrible pain had rent his side and he had fallen into blackness . . . and then into the dream world.

Elise!

But she had answered his call; just as he knew now that the dreams had been illusory, he knew that a woman's touch had been real.

Someone moved beside him and his heart filled with gladness. It took all his strength, but he managed to turn.

His heart plummeted, and confusion tore at his mind again.

Gwyneth, fully clothed, was leaning upon an elbow, looking at him with wonder.

"You're awakened, Bryan!" she cried. "Truly awakened."

He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. She leaped from the bed of soft down cushions and hurried to the water pitcher, quickly pouring a small portion into a goblet, and bringing it to his side. He was horrified to discover that he still couldn't lift his head. She had to hold his neck so that he could drink.

"What has happened?" he managed to croak to her.

She twisted her lip nervously without answering. "I must bring the physician, Bryan."

She hurried from the room. A moment later the sun-browned, old-young Arabic face from his dream was staring down at him pensively.

"You have beaten the infection, Lord Stede," the man told him in a pained, slow English. "But you must still fight for your health. You need sleep—the kind that is peaceful, and restful, and allows the body to heal."

"I want to know what has happened!" Bryan exclaimed. His voice was shaking; he sounded like a peevish and sickly child. The man ignored him, and made him drink more water. "Sleep; when you awaken again, you may talk some."

That was absurd! He would never rest. But his eyelids were so heavy; he was as weak as an old woman. He closed his eyes. And slept.

The Arab was there when he opened his eyes again. "Can you lift your head?"

Bryan nodded. It was difficult; it seemed to take all his strength, but he lifted his head.

"Surely your God smiles upon you," the Arab told him bluntly. "You should be dead."

"Who are you?" Bryan asked him.

"Azfhat Muhzid. Egyptian physician to the great Saladin."

"Saladin!" Stede exclaimed.

Bryan allowed his head to fall back to his pillow. The Egyptian smiled slightly, and spoke neither humbly nor boastfully. "It is to my expertise as well as to your God that you owe your life. Your English physicians—they are little better than butchers! They insisted upon bleeding you, when the blood had already drained from you like water into sand!"

"Then I thank you," Bryan said.

"You owe me no thanks. I was sent."

"By Saladin? Then our war—"

"It continues."

"Then how—"

"You will talk no more now, Stede. Your strength must grow again; you are like a child. With time, you will grow healthy. Tended, you will gain each day."

The Egyptian was leaving him.

"Where is my wife!" Bryan called after him.

Azfhat paused, then turned his head only slightly. "I will send the woman to sit with you."

Bryan allowed himself to close his eyes; his lids still felt preposterously heavy. But he did not allow himself to sleep. A great sense of unease had come over him. When he heard the door open, he forced his eyes to open again.

It was Gwyneth. She stared at him anxiously, then came to his side, sitting by his hip on the cushion.

"Where is Elise?" he asked her.

She moved her lips as if to speak, then hesitated, looking downward so that her dark lashes swept over her cheeks. "Bryan, the Egyptian said that you mustn't—"

"Where is Elise? What has happened to her? I must know! I called her . . . I had thought . . . Gwyneth! Tell me! She did not die! I know that she did not die. Before God, Gwyneth! Tell me what has happened!"

"Bryan . . ." Gwyneth sighed, swallowed nervously, then met his eyes. "Elise is at the Muzhair Palace."

His eyes closed in dismay. He knew his wife. She would have fought to the end, and God alone knew what the Arabs would have done . . .

"Blessed Virgin!" he muttered aloud. "She will try to stab someone, and they will—"

"Bryan, no! You mustn't worry. She went willingly—"

"Willingly!"

His eyes opened with such horror and pain that Gwyneth started speaking again, tripping over her words.

"Not in that way, Bryan. Their leader . . . Jalahar . . . held his sword to your throat. Your life . . . if she would come with him. She . . . went to save you."

Pain, far greater than any wound, more debilitating than any fever, swept through him.

"I would rather have died," he whispered.

"We would have all died," Gwyneth murmured.

He tried to lift himself from the bed. "We must mount up. We must take the palace. Perhaps . . . perhaps we can still get there in time—"

"No! Bryan, no!" Gwyneth protested, her lovely eyes laden with sadness as she pressed him back to the pillow. God's blood! He couldn't even fight Gwyneth's strength.

"Bryan!" she cried. "It will do no good. Richard's forces have been pounding at the palace day after day. It has withstood all this time—"

"All this time!" He gasped. "How long have I lain here?"

"Almost two months, Bryan."

"Two months!"

He closed his eyes. Two months. Elise! No nightmare could rival this agony. His mind clouded with images of his wife . . . her pale ivory skin, sleek and soft as silk, beneath the bronzed hands of the desert infidel . . .

His eyes flew open. Gwyneth emitted a small sound of fear at the wildness in them. "Bryan—"

"I . . . must get . . . to her . . ." he said softly.

He managed to stand. But then he fell, crashing hard on the ground. Gwyneth screamed, and suddenly there were many hands to pick him up and set him back upon his invalid's bed.

* * *

In the days to come, he learned an unwilling patience. The anguish did not leave his heart or mind, but Gwyneth said one thing that kept him pinned to his bed.

"Bryan, you will never see her again, nor will you be able to help her, if you die yourself."

So he ate broth and drank the physician's disgusting concoctions of ox blood and goat's milk. As the days passed, he could lift his head, and then he could sit up.

Gwyneth remained at his side, and as he strengthened, he started to watch her, grateful for her care.

"It was always you, wasn't it?" he asked her softly one day. "I cried for Elise, and you answered."

"We thought it best. You seemed to believe that I was Elise, and so . . . I held you."

He raised a brow to her. "Held me only, Gwyneth?"

She laughed a little uneasily, then stood and moved around the room, straightening things rather than meeting his eyes.

"You were very sick, Bryan. But once you tried . . ." She stopped her nervous wandering and stared at him, as if she were a little amazed herself. "When you could barely open your fevered eyes, Bryan, you were still lecherous!" She laughed ruefully. "And once I thought . . . I don't know what I thought. When I came out here with Elise, I didn't know. I didn't know then what I would do if the opportunity ever came about. Even the night when we were attacked . . . Elise came to me. She asked me to look out for you. And she knew, she knew then that she would be taken, and that I would be left with you. I can only imagine what that cost her. But still . . . still there were times when I was glad in my heart, because I had wanted you so badly!" She smiled, pausing ruefully. "Percy and I . . . we didn't have a bad marriage. But he always knew how I felt about you. I'm certain the night he died he tried to warn Elise about me. I lived that night because of Elise. My son . . . Percy's son . . . is alive because she came out to us. I owed her so very much, but I still wanted you. I didn't know until now . . . when I could have had you, that something resembling honor lurked in my breast, after all. I have held you, I have lain beside you. I could have soothed you . . . but no more."

Bryan smiled at her and stretched out his hand. She came to him, taking it, and sat beside him once again. His smile faded and his grip tightened. "I have to get her back, Gwyneth. She is the strongest part of me."

"You have to get well," Gwyneth told him.

"I will."

* * *

The Egyptian physician, Azfhat Muhzid, came to see him daily. He was often a cynical man, but polite in the strange way of the Easterner; he was quite pleased with Bryan's progress, even if he preferred not to be questioned.

But Bryan at last became insistent, and Muhzid answered him with a sigh. "I was sent here by Saladin—at the request of his nephew, Jalahar."

"Jalahar?" Bryan demanded quickly. "Why would Jalahar do such a thing?"

The Egyptian hesitated, then shrugged. "I would think because his hostage pines for you; he wished to please her. The best gift he could present to her was the news that you lived."

Bryan clenched his teeth hard together and swallowed. Again! She bargained for his life . . . and he lay here . . . helpless . . .

He said nothing more to Azfhat; to Gwyneth he raged against Jalahar, despairing over the fate that Elise suffered because of him. Gwyneth, who had seen Jalahar, and knew as only a woman could that Jalahar would be a man to stir the blood and inspire devotion, wisely refrained from telling Bryan that she doubted Elise would suffer much at his hands.

Bryan slugged a fist so hard against the wall that she feared he had cracked his bones. He turned to her, pain and confusion lacing his indigo stare. "Why?" he demanded. "Why has he taken her when he has endless women, when he can but snap his fingers and have anything that he wants?"

This Gwyneth felt safe in answering. "Her coloring is very unique to an Easterner, Bryan. You should have seen him the first time he looked at her. He was—" Gwyneth cut herself off uneasily.

"He was what?" Bryan demanded tensely.

"Fascinated," Gwyneth finished weakly. Bryan seemed to accept her word; he began to rant in fury again. But "fascinated" was too tame a description of what she had really meant. There had been something deeper about the Moslem lord that night, something that made the situation far worse. Elise was not just a pretty toy to him; it seemed that in seconds she had captured his heart.

It was a pity that she wasn't blond herself, Gwyneth thought wryly. She wasn't terribly sure she would have minded if Jalahar had swept her up on a horse and raced her across desert sands to be ravaged in an exotic palace.

Yes, it should have been her.

Because Bryan was in love with his wife; nothing would ever change that. And there was no doubting Elise's love for Bryan. Poor Bryan! She had never seen such a powerful man so ravaged by loss.

She tried to speak to him soothingly; she tried to tell him that Jalahar was so fascinated by Elise that he would do nothing to make himself more the enemy in her eyes. She was probably well cared for and left alone.

Gwyneth didn't think that either of them believed it, but they were words that Bryan pounced upon as a dying man grasped at life. She would never fall completely out of love with him, so she was glad that she could soothe him.

* * *

Azfhat left the next week. He told Bryan that only his own will could take him forward from there. They parted friends.

* * *

In another week Brian could stand. He began to work painstakingly, exercising slowly but tediously. He worked his hand muscles and his toe muscles from the bed; he stretched and flexed his legs. When he could stand and walk again without faltering, he thundered into Richard, striking his fist down on the battle maps that lay before his astounded sovereign.

"You sit here idly, Your Grace, while the enemy holds my wife! I demand that something be done!"

Richard stared at him in astonishment, his Plantagenet temper soaring. "Stede, I am joyed to see you well, and the fact that you have lain at death's door all these weeks keeps me from ordering you into the nearest tower! You forget to whom you are speaking!"

Richard's threats were frequently bluster. Bryan determined to keep that in mind. "I do not forget; you are my king, and I serve you well and with loyalty. But I wish to know what is being done."

Richard looked at Bryan, then waved a hand, dismissing the scribe who sat in the room taking notes. When the little fat man had waddled away, Richard sat back in his chair, studying Bryan as he idly drummed his fingers on the table.

"I have done everything humanly possible," he told Bryan with a sigh. "We continue to thunder at the gate of Muzhair; I send messages weekly to Saladin. There is nothing else that I, or anyone, can do."

"There must be! Pull in more men—"

"Dammit, Stede! There are no more men! That snake of a monarch Philip has pulled out! The Austrian knights are worthless under Leopold! I'm doing my best to hold what I have—"

"There must be a way, Richard! You are not doing everything possible . . ."

"Stede!" Richard thundered, standing. Bryan was gaunt from his illness, but he still rose an inch over the king, and Richard detested that inch. "Sit down!" he grumbled to his knight. "I despise looking up at you, and you know it. And I made you, Bryan Stede. I gave you your castles and your lands—and your wife. I can break you if I choose. Now sit down, and listen to reason."

Bryan sat, but he leaned across Richard's table. "Grant me this, Your Grace. Allow me to lead the men against the palace again. Allow me to take the knights from Montoui, and the knights from Cornwall. And let me hand-pick the others. We will manage to storm the palace. We will—"

"Bryan!" the king said sadly, shaking his head. "I will be heartily glad to put men beneath your command again. I attended special masses to pray for your recovery—because I need men like you. But I will not put an army into your command until you regain your strength. Until I see the knight who out-jousted all others—who was able to unhorse me! When that day comes, Bryan, I will give you all that you need. You have my solemn vow. Christ's blood, man! Don't you think that I would move both heaven and earth to get her back if I could!"

Bryan started, surprised by the tension and sincerity in the king's voice. He had been expecting Richard to tell him that he could not interrupt the great Crusade for the sake of one woman. Richard's knights had a habit of remaining tactfully silent, but anyone close to the king knew that any licentious comments regarding women were for show; he approved of only one female, and that one was his mother.

"You mean that, don't you?" Bryan queried.

"Of course!"

"Why?" Bryan asked, before thinking.

Richard glanced at him, as startled as he. "You don't know?"

Bryan shook his head. Richard smiled, a little ruefully. "She is my sister. Half sister, but Henry's blood as sure as I."

Bryan felt his jaw fall, his mouth gape. He was certain he looked like an idiot sitting there, but he had never been more astounded.

And then it all made sense. The tears she had shed for Henry; the night in the storm. The ring . . . the sapphire ring that had once convinced him that she was a liar and thief.

And her face! The gold and copper hair. My God, but he had been blind. Her hair was like a Plantagenet banner! He should have known, he should have realized. Even the dream tried to tell him so, the dream when he had seen Henry, Richard . . . and Elise.

Even the legend, he thought, a wistful grimace tugging painfully at his mouth. Even the Plantagenet legend, that of Melusine's blood, giving fire and beauty and magic to the race. Magic, oh yes, haunting magic. Not evil. Just a beauty so great that it induced a love to bind a man for all his life. He had touched her once, just as that long ago Viking descendant had touched Melusine. Once . . . and had come to know that it would never be enough. That he would want her, need her, love her all his life . . .

He closed his eyes, filled with belated remorse. He had grappled her from her horse, trussed her about . . . and if he hadn't raped her, he had forcefully seduced her....

And all because she was Henry's daughter, determined that he know anything but the truth....

He should have known! When she lost her temper, she was wild. Just like Henry. Like Richard . . . she would fly into danger, risk her own fool neck when she was furious and determined. So many times he had thought that she reminded him of someone! He had ridden at Henry's side for years, and now he had been at Richard's side. He had been blind.

And that night . . . that dark night of sudden violence and heated passion that had changed his life . . . her life.... It might never have been, had she but trusted him . . .

"Why?" he whispered out loud, unaware that he spoke.

"She never told you, eh?" Richard said, then sighed. "Perhaps she felt the secret should die with the few who knew. My father told me about her when we were already at odds with each other. He had made some type of a deathbed vow to her mother that she be raised as legitimate nobility. But Henry never could deny what was his. He told her somewhere along the line. My mother guessed, but God bless my mother! She never felt rancor toward any of Father's bastards. She dotes on Geoffrey . . . but back to the point. Father might have been trying to turn my inheritance over to John, but I think that even he knew that John was a young boy, not to be trusted. I am all that stands between John and the crown. If I die . . . and if John knew . . . Elise could pay. John bears bitter grudges. And even Elise was given more than John as she grew up. She had Montoui. It is a secret that should be kept, Stede. If . . ."—Richard paused unhappily, then became brusque—". . . if we are able to get her back. If you were to have children, they might even suffer at John's hands, if you and I were no longer able to protect them."

Bryan stood, wavering slightly. "I will regain my strength, Your Grace. And I will hold you to your vow to see that I lead the men I choose."

Richard watched him leave the room. Bryan teetered back to his bed. He slept for an hour. He ate every bite of the food that Gwyneth brought him, and started exercising again. His toes . . . how absurd it would have once seemed to exercise his toes. But his toes led to his feet, his feet to his legs . . .

And he would stand again without wavering, he would walk, and he would wield a sword, and he would fight.

If he could just control the pictures in his mind! But when darkness settled at night, his imagination betrayed him. Jalahar! The Arab was muscled and trim, an exotic, intelligent man. What if Elise had gone with him because she was fascinated by his bronzed and swarthy looks, fascinated by a desert prince . . . ?

He clenched his teeth together. It made him writhe with fury and agony to think of her in the arms of another. He could picture her so clearly. He could reach out and almost touch her image, almost feel the softness of her flesh, the silk of her hair as it spilled about her in glorious disarray . . .

He tried to close his mind to the agony while he allowed the anger to grow. Fury could build strength. And he wanted her back. He was willing to fight for her; he would die rather than lose her.

* * *

Every day he worked. Stretched upon the floor, he pushed himself unmercifully, regaining the hardness in his belly. He pressed upon his arms . . . slowly at first, tiring after a matter of minutes. But as time passed, determination won out, and he could push his weight tirelessly from the floor for minutes without end.

He moved out to the courtyard, and started with his sword again. Swinging, plunging, hacking. His destrier was half wild from the idle months; Bryan had to learn to ride him all over again.

There were days when he would grow dizzy, and have to retire, but those days came less and less frequently.

And while Bryan worked, Richard carried on his holy war. He would push along the coastline, always nearing Jerusalem, always being pushed back. Coastal towns fell to the Crusaders; Jerusalem eluded them.

In March Richard came to the courtyard, fresh from battle. He watched Bryan work, and he was glad to see that his knight's broad shoulders were filling out with hard muscle again; his waist was trim and tight, his arms bulging. A new scar stretched around his waist, but already it paled. The wound had not been nearly as serious as the fever it had caused.

"You will try me!" Richard commanded.

Bryan was puzzled, but then he shrugged, and he and Richard entered into swordplay.

On and on around the courtyard they parried, thrusting, swiping . . . gaining, retreating, meeting each other blow by blow. But then the king caught Bryan's sword; it spun in the sky and fell to the dirt.

Richard smiled at Bryan. "You're almost ready," he told him. He stepped closer so that his words could be heard by his knight alone. "We both know that the Lord Stede, at his best, can take a sword even from his king. The day that you take my sword from me, I will know that you are ready."

Richard, pleased with his victory, continued on to the palace. Bryan picked up his sword once more, and went back to work.

* * *

It was the first of April when Richard summoned Bryan to his council chamber. Bryan entered, surprised to see a slight Arab standing before the king. Richard had not risen. From his chair he indicated the man contemptuously and spoke to Bryan.

"He comes from Saladin in response to my last message. I wanted you to hear his words."

The small Arab looked from Richard to Bryan, then back again. The towering, muscle-bound warriors made him very nervous, especially since he knew that they would not like his reply.

"Speak up, man!" Richard ordered.

The little Arab shuffled his feet and bowed. "The great Saladin regrets to tell you that he has no authority to order a lesser prince to release a hostage of war."

"Hostage of war?" Bryan snapped derisively.

The little Arab looked his way, deciding that the dark-haired knight was the more dangerous of the men, albeit one was the English King. "Yes, English Lord. The hostage Elise is kept well, in noble surroundings. She is served food prepared by the emir's own chefs, and nothing is denied her." The knight continued to stare at the messenger in a way that made him wet his lips once more. "The physician who attended you, Azfhat Muhzid, is at her side daily—"

He broke off as he saw Bryan's frown, then heard the knight's fury. "Physician! Why? Is she ill? Hurt? What has been done to her?"

He had been wise to have feared the dark knight, for now the man crossed the room in what seemed to be a single step; he picked the little Arab up by the neck of his robe, his fingers closing in around his throat.

"Tell me! What ails her? Is she hurt? What did he do to her?"

"Nothing, nothing! You are strangling me! I beg of you, set me down. I am nothing but the emissary!"

Richard clamped his hand on Bryan's shoulder. "Put him down," the king said quietly, responding to the dazed fire in Bryan's eyes. It was apparent Bryan was totally unaware that he was about to kill the man.

Bryan shuddered, the wild light faded from his eyes, and he set the man down. The Arab choked and coughed, and rubbed his neck—but then he began to speak very quickly.

"She is well! Very well! Azfhat attends her only because she is with child."

Bryan stood dead-still, staring at the messenger, longing to reach out and strangle him—merely for the news he had been forced to bring. He could not kill Saladin's messenger; he would risk the life of every Christian held prisoner by the Moslems.

He turned on his heel, feeling as if he had been turned to molten stone. Leaden footsteps carried him back to his chamber—ironically, the same chamber he had shared with her that first night when she had come to him in the Holy Land . . .

He sank down to his knees, pressing his temples with his palms to try to still the pain. He could no longer deceive himself that Jalahar had let her be. Jalahar had probably taken her night after night, imagining a son born with her golden coloring....

A sound escaped him; something that was not a scream, not a cry, but a wail of man's deepest agony.

Gwyneth came rushing into the chamber; she fell to her knees before him, anxiously grasping his shoulders. "Bryan! What is it? Has the wound reopened? Are you ill? What—"

He looked up into her eyes, laughter flowed from him, hearty and deep. Too hearty; it mocked the anguish that darkened his eyes.

"She carries his child!" he exclaimed to her, and his laughter, self-scorning, rose again. "Blessed God! I have lain these nights in torment, wanting her, needing her . . . and she carried his child!"

Suddenly he saw Gwyneth's beautiful dark eyes filling with tears before him. Gwyneth . . . who had cared for him, loved him. Gwyneth, who he had so easily left for Elise!

He grabbed her, crushing her to him. His lips came down on her savagely, and his hands roughly roamed her body, remembering a path of beauty he had roamed long ago.

She started at the savagery of his kiss; but then she returned it. And suddenly they were both rolling on the floor, tearing the clothing from one another. He felt no subtlety; no finesse. She needed to be loved as badly as he needed to love....

But when he rose over, about to take her like a stableboy would a peasant wench, the anger in him suddenly died. He withdrew, shaking as he sat beside her, holding his head between his hands again. This could not ease the heartache in him. Or cure him of desire and longing. It only wronged this woman who did not merit his anger or his violence. To whom he could not give his love, for it was already taken.

"I'm sorry, Gwyenth. I almost—I'm so sorry. You do not deserve . . . this."

She was silent. Then she began to gather her clothing about her again.

"Bryan, you needn't apologize. I would have willingly seduced you a number of times, had I had your attention. Perhaps . . . perhaps I am a little sorry that I cannot heal the real scar you carry. But . . . Bryan . . ."

"What?" He gazed at her, still feeling wretched. She had loved him; he had wanted only to use her. Revenge against a pain she had not caused. And he had learned the agony of loving . . . he would add to that pain for another.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Did this messenger say that . . . that Elise carried Jalaha's child."

"What do you mean?" Bryan asked tensely.

"A physician seldom attends a woman at such a time . . . unless she is near giving birth." Gwyneth laughed dryly. "Seldom even then, but if Jalahar considers her special . . . Bryan . . . hasn't it occurred to you that the child might be yours?"

He stared at her pensively for a minute, then was on his feet, fumbling into his clothing. He raced for the door.

"Where are you going?" Gwyneth queried anxiously.

"To catch the messenger!"

* * *

He caught up with the little Arab as the man plodded slowly along on the trail leading from the town. The Arab flinched, cringing in his saddle.

"Don't fear, man of Islam! I've no intent to harm you. I want to know more. When is the Christian woman's child due?"

The Arab remained distrustful and nervous. He shrugged and answered carefully. "I am not exactly sure; I do not see her. But I believe it must be soon, for Azfhat remains at Muzhair."

The little man froze in fear, certain that he had given the wrong answer, terrified that the dark, towering knight truly intended to kill him this time. For Bryan reached for him, but then laughed heartily and astounded the man by kissing him on both cheeks.

Truly the Christians were madmen.

"Thank you, my friend! Thank you!" Bryan cried, and as he rode away, he threw a handful of gold coins into the sand.

The Arab dismounted from his horse in amazement. Then he shrugged again, and grinned broadly as he began to dig the gold out of the sand.

Allah worked in mysterious ways.

* * *

In Richard's palace at Acre, Gwyneth had hurriedly repaired her clothing, and was preparing to depart on her own impulse. She gathered a few belongings, then rang for a servant to bring her a quill and parchment.

She quickly began to scratch out a note:

Bryan, I am going to Muzhair. They will allow me in, for I am a woman alone. This might sound insane, and you might doubt my motive, but I wish to be with Elise. She might well need a friend, and that I intend to be. If God truly sits in heaven, and if things are ever righted, you will have your wife, and your child, again. I will never tell Elise anything. There is nothing to tell her in truth; you love her too dearly to love another. As your friend, I beg that you never say anything to her. She will believe that you are lying—but she will want you to lie. I love you, and I love Elise. I pray that I am doing the right thing; I know that I wish to stand beside her and give her whatever aid that I can. Do not worry about me; you know that I always land on my feet. Gwyneth

She set the note upon his pillow and smiled sadly. Then she hurried from the chamber, determined to catch Saladin's messenger, so that she might find her way to the Moslem leader, and then to the home of his nephew.

* * *

Bryan returned to the palace in rare good humor. He strode on light feet to Richard's council chamber, and even awaited the page's announcement before barging in on his king.

When he was allowed entry, he walked determinedly to stand before the king. Richard glanced at him with a brow raised in expectation.

Bryan pulled his sword from his scabbard and laid it before Richard.

"I am ready to best you, Your Grace," he challenged.

Richard stared at him a long while. Then he grinned slowly, and stood.

"I believe we can arrange for an empty courtyard. It wouldn't do, you know, for men to see the Lion-Heart drop his sword. They believe that I am invincible."

Together they went to the courtyard. No one knew what passed there, but the sharp clanging of swords rose high on the air.