Chapter 2

Summer 1192

The King's Crusade

The March to Jerusalem

"MARK YOUR TARGETS, BOWSMEN . Aim, fire!" Damian called out, his swirling sword a directive to the fine English bowsmen who had been directed throughout the caravan of Richard's march.

There was no denying by any man—any crowned head of Europe—that Richard, Coeur de Lion, was an exceptional knight, and a brilliant military tactician.

While the Emperor Frederick I of Germany had begun on the Pope's Holy Quest in 1189, Richard of England and Phillip of France had followed along the next year, going first to Sicily, where the two monarchs had spent the winter quarreling. Then they had moved on to Cyprus, where they had conquered. Damian had been with the King then, and when they came to Acre in the Holy Land, and he had been with Richard when his monarch had ordered his troops to take their positions for siege warfare. Richard's leadership was tacitly accepted by all the Crusaders there, and the victory had been stunning. Damian had led his own knights in one of the battles against men who had relieved the garrison, and when no new men or supplies were received, the garrison at last gave up the two-year siege. Richard had forced a surrender.

Damian had been heartily glad of it. Desert fighting was new to him, and to his men. The heat was oppressive, day after day when the sun rose blindingly into the sky, night after night when a sudden chill came to sweep away that dead heat created by the mesmerizing orb.

There was sand everywhere. Sand in his clothing, sand in his boots. So much sand. They were bogged down by it. Even as he slept, he felt the sand in his mouth. The snakes and insects were new and different here, and his men had to learn of just which to beware they laid their heads down at night to try to sleep.

And yet Damian was glad to be there, and whatever his thoughts were of the King, he admired Richard's abilities tremendously and keenly felt that his place was here. He knew that he was a good commander of men, just as Richard was.

Now, as they marched down the coast, determined on the final conquest of Jerusalem, they did so with a solid and well-ruled force of nearly fifty thousand men. Richard's fleet of ships followed them out on the water. Each day, they moved in short stretches, keeping tightly together.

The great Moslem commander and caliph, Saladin, kept troops hounding their inland flank, determined to break up the forces, seeking to and conquer the troops thus. But Richard was well aware of the strategy, and the troops were forbidden to engage in warfare with the harassers.

Richard's ranks remained unbroken.

But as Saladin's Turks launched a strong rear attack against the marching Crusaders, Richard at last gave his commanders a signal to attack. When the prearranged sound of the trumpet blared, Damian was ready. English crossbowmen had been dispersed throughout the ranks through all the long days of travel. Their arrows had kept the Turkish archers at a distance.

Now, the bowsmen heralded a mighty charge. Their arrows flew, and then the Crusader army turned in a massive and organized strike.

Damian let loose with a battle shriek, and then he, like the massive and colorful army of Europeans, set his heels to the flanks of his horse, and enjoined the overwhelming charge against the infidels.

Earth and sand flew beneath the thundering hooves of his mount and within minutes, he and the troop of light cavalry beneath him were bearing down upon a like group of mounted Turks. They were excellent swordsmen—Damian was well aware of their talent, as were his men. And once they had met, horses clashing together, animals shrieking in pain when caught by a blow intended for a man, the cries of the men ceased, and the more awful sounds of war could be heard: the clang of steel; the shuddering as steel fell upon flesh; the moans, and the cries of agony.

Dark faces appeared before Damian time and again. Surrounded, he stood tall in his saddle, using his sword to slash at the sudden multitude of enemies. One by one, they fell back.

Or died.

He had been cut on the forehead, and blood dripped into his eyes. He wiped it away quickly with the back of his hand, not daring to be blinded now for even seconds.

But a cry was going up. A Crusader cry. "After them! After them all!"

"Nay!" Damian commanded. He roared out the order again. "Nay! We are not to scatter! The King's command! We will not scatter, and be mowed down in turn!"

For a moment, he thought that he had lost control. But then the wildness left the eyes of the survivors, and he knew that his calming words had prevailed.

He blinked. The wound in his head was beginning to cause him an awful headache. There was something else he had learned from Richard, though. Never, never betray a weakness. And he was determined that he would not. "Let's see to our own dying and dead men. Allah will see to theirs!"

Later that night, when the battle was over, Damian met with the King and his other commanders in a great war tent spread out over the sand.

It had been an amazing victory. Perhaps seven hundred Crusaders had been lost.

They had cut down seven thousand Turks.

It was a night when congratulations were in order. No king was more supportive of his knights when victory lay in his hands than Richard, and so there was feasting and entertainment.

Saladin's people were not without their dissidents; no army traveled without a scattering of camp women behind.

And that night there was a multitude of rewards for the weary men. Sweet dates abounded along with grapes and the sizzling meat of goats and lambs. Wine flowed freely into the Crusaders' chalices. Musicians played, a discordant combination of European and strange, sad desert melodies.

There were the jugglers, the animal handlers.

And the women.

Ah, the women of Allah.

Dark-skinned beauties who moved to a unique, haunting call within their souls. Dancers who whisked and swayed their hips from side to side.

Dancers with huge almond-colored and almond-shaped eyes, eyes that haunted and beckoned. Eyes that promised the most unusual and exotic pleasures to the senses.

Leaning upon a violet-dyed pillow, Damian closed his eyes for the moment, feeling the pulse around him. The exhilaration of the day passed suddenly from him. He was a Christian knight, and he would die, just as the Templars or others in the Holy Orders of knighthood, for his King and for his God.

But he felt no special venom for these people of Islam. Here in the Holy Lands he had discovered them to be a people fascinated with learning. They were often soft-spoken, and they cared for their sons and daughters as did any men. Like the King, Damian had studied their architecture, and he had learned a great deal from the walled cities and fortresses they had seen. As well as the beautiful tilework and delicate works and moldings within. Sometimes it seemed that these "infidels" were far more civilized than the men of the country he had left behind. In England, all these years after the conquest, Saxon and Norman still fought and struggled, French was spoken at court—by God, the King himself barely spoke English!—and the knights and barons were ready to go to battle over any small stretch of land.

Ah, but land was power. And these were turbulent times. As fair a king as Richard might be, his heart lay with his Angevin possessions, Aquitaine and Tours, not with England. He was King of England—but he was ruler of a far greater empire.

"Damian!"

A soft whisper aroused him, and he looked up. Affa had come down on her knees beside him. She was one of the dancers, and had been a gift to Richard from a sultan near Acre after that city had been taken.

Affa had not seemed to mind. She danced with pleasure, with a flush to her cheeks, with an excitement. And all the while there was something soft and very feminine about her.

He smiled. She was very beautiful, with her long jet hair and big eyes and voluptuous veils of deep crimson and soft lilac.

"Aye, Affa!"

Her fingers moved across his arm, delicate, like the brush of a butterfly's wings. Soft, seductive. "I will wait for you tonight?"

Why not? Affa and some of the girls who had come here before her had taught him secrets he had not known himself. "Come to me now," he teased her gently, but she shook her head.

"The golden King will call you. I have heard it He has already left the feasting behind and is seeing his men. Something has happened. Someone has come in from the ships. He is distressed, so they say. Angry. And I have heard that he does penance frequently before the Christian God for the things that he does when he is angry."

"Well, he is not angry with me," Damian assured her, but he rose, his curiosity piqued.

If someone had come from the sea, he might well have brought messages from home. A sudden pang seemed to touch Damian's heart. He was homesick, he realized.

Yet they were so close to Jerusalem! He couldn't wait until they had taken the city.

"Shall I come later?" Affa asked, looking up at him.

"Aye, do …" Damian began. Then he paused, wondering just what was going on with Richard. It might be a late night. And his head was still pounding from the headache caused by his wound. Tonight, despite all of Affa's considerable talents, he wanted to sleep alone.

He stroked her cheek. "Nay, sleep tonight, little one. Something must be amiss. I might be very late."

He left her then, and the rest of the revelers who remained in the huge tent upon the sand. Striding out into the night, he looked up at the black velvet sky just in time to see a shooting star. It seemed to fall toward England.

"An omen, my Lord Montjoy," came a soft voice.

Damian spun around, startled. His senses were usually so keen, he could hear the lightest footfall, even on the desert sand.

But he had not heard Ari Abdul come upon him that night.

Like Affa, Ari had been a gift to Richard after the fortress at Acre had fallen and the local sheiks had been determined to salvage what they could of their lives, dignity—and treasure.

He was a curious man, a very old one, Damian was certain, but his olive skin was not nearly as wrinkled as it should have been, nor was he stooped or slow in any way. A slight rim of blue tinged his large dark eyes, hinting at a vast age, but it was more than that bluish-gray tint that seemed to proclaim him old. There was a curious sense of destiny and wisdom about him that could only come from the passage of years. He always seemed a fascinating creature. Despite the heat or dirt that might surround them, he was always dressed in white robes that stayed immaculately clean at all times.

"Good evening, Ari," Damian replied, determined not to be drawn into the man's curious web of enchantment.

"It's a beautiful night, here in the desert," Ari replied. He gazed idly toward the direction the star had taken. "I think you will miss it just a little bit."

"Will I?"

"Yes. You will be going home soon, Lord Montjoy."

"You are mistaken, Ari. I will stay by the King's side. Jerusalem must be taken."

"Jerusalem will be taken. But you will not be here."

Damian wanted to be amused. Instead, he felt a faint and annoying sensation of unease. "Just where will I be?" Damian said, then silently damned himself. Why was he playing along with this game?

Because he'd seen too many things that Ari had said come true, he told himself. The man was a complexity.

He was a Moslem fascinated by the Christian religion. He could add fantastic sums in his head in a matter of seconds. He knew the stars in the sky just as well as he knew the layout of the land, and his talent with herbs and chemistry was amazing. Damian had seen him heal wounds that should have proven fatal to many a Crusader.

Ari bowed deeply, and then smiled. "I will be with you."

Damian sighed. "And just where will I be."

"England. England. Far away where the grass is green. Where the great pillars of rock stand tall at Stonehenge. Where—"

"Ari, I am not going home. Not until Jerusalem is conquered."

"The wedding will be magnificent!"

Damian sighed deeply. He had been betrothed at birth, but she had died in his very arms, and he had no intention of thinking about wedlock again, not for some time.

"Ari—"

The man closed his eyes, and the desert seemed to grow very still. Despite himself, Damian was listening, amazed at what the man could do with his voice, then somewhat transfixed by the cadence of it.

"She will be enchanting, a child of the water. Her eyes will be aquamarine, rippling like the sweetest clear water. Her hair will fall like liquid sunshine, pouring out upon your hands. Her—"

Ari stopped, his eyes popping open as he stared, dismayed, at Damian.

"What? All right, Ari, come on, what?" Damian demanded.

"I see darkness," Ari murmured.

"So do I," Damian muttered. "It's nighttime!"

Ari shook his head. "I see darkness, a great pit of darkness. Only the slightest ripple of red light is there, a fire, dying low. It just touches upon her hair. She is innocent, but …

"But betraying you."

"Jesu!" Damian ground out irritably. "You're seeing some wife I do not yet have betraying me in the darkness? Ari, it has been a long day—"

"He is the one in darkness, masked, like a devil in the night. He has swept her up, for there is tumult all around her; she creates it as she moves, passionate for the causes of others. They'll come after her, again and again, seeking more than beauty, seeking fortune and position, and all material things."

"A real damsel in distress," Damian muttered, tiring of the conversation.

"But none can take the greatest treasure. It must be given."

"And what is that?"

"Don't you know?"

"Ari, I know that I have to see the King, and I do not care to keep Richard waiting."

Ari's eyes were closed again. "She is ivory and roses. A scent so sweet, skin so soft. I see her naked, cloaked only in the richness of her hair. I see her upon the darkness of fur; see the curve of her mouth; the liquid beauty of her eyes; the length of her legs; the soft, sweet, supple thighs—"

"Ari, if you can't produce her in the next twenty minutes, I really don't care to hear any more about her," Damian said with a touch of humor. But he was disturbed. Ari was good. Really good. He had almost pictured the woman as Ari spoke.

A dark shuddering swept through him. He found himself furious with this woman who would betray him. He didn't even know her. And he had no intention of wedding any woman at this time.

And still …

He had felt the most curious sensation again. As if he knew the girl the Arab described.

He gritted his teeth. He was fighting ghosts in his mind!

"You'll have to take care. Take care of the masked man when the time arrives," Ari warned him.

"Ari—"

"Good night, my great Lord Montjoy," Ari said, bowing deeply.

Then, just as he had come, he silently disappeared into the darkness of the desert night once again.

Damian swore softly, then started out for Richard's tent with long strides.

One of Richard's scribes stood at the entry; "My Lord Montjoy!" the man said tensely. "I was about to come for you."

Damian arched a brow and walked past the man. "I am here now."

"Ah! Montjoy!" the King boomed out.

Something was bothering Richard. He paced the room, still clad in mail beneath a white tunic with a bloodred cross emblazoned on it. Something surely bothered him if he had not changed from his stained battle clothing.

Richard was an impressive king. He was very tall, with a head of golden hair and a handsome, ruggedly chiseled face. His eyes were a soft blue, a color that added a touch of warmth to an otherwise fierce countenance. By nature he was fair-minded, except sometimes in the excesses of war, and when he felt he had been too brutal or cruel in his pursuits, he did extreme homage to God. The King paused suddenly in his pacing, slamming a fist on the table where maps of the region had been strewn, but where now, atop those maps, lay all manner of letters.

Damian waited, watching Richard. The King's anger was not directed at him.

"Aye, Your Grace? What is the problem?"

The anger suddenly seemed to vent from the King, and he sat down hard on a camp chair behind the portable map table and sighed, and then lifted his hands. "Longchamp fell from favor. I set my brother to watch over my country in my absence. After all, if I die, then John shall be King."

"There is your nephew," Damian reminded him. Though Geoffrey, the next eldest Plantagenet brother, was dead, he had a son living in Brittany.

Richard indicated the cross-legged chair across the table from him. Damian sat, waiting for the King to continue.

Richard did so.

"Leave an empire like this to a child?" Richard said, then shook his head. "Politically, that would be a disaster. It would mean war. Civil war. John is not without his followers!"

Damian kept his silence. Of course, John Plantagenet—Lackland, as he was often called, since it seemed that the family goods had all been given away before his birth—did draw in his fair share of support.

In truth, he could no longer be called Lackland. He had been given an heiress, Avisa, as his bride. She had brought him tremendous wealth.

She despised him. He hated her.

No matter. The lands gave him power. And, Damian thought, John was a far more intelligent prince than either of his parents had ever realized. Perhaps he even had some qualities that would make him more fit than Richard to govern England.

The main quality being that he was in England, liked England, and intended to stay in England.

"I mean him to be King," Richard said, then added hastily, "Unless, of course, Queen Berengaria and I should produce an heir to the throne."

"Of course," Damian agreed.

Again, that powerful Plantagenet fist swung and hit the table.

"But not while I'm still alive, damn it! God's blood, Damian, I try and try and try to be fair to that brother of mine! Why does he defy me at every turn?"

"All men like power, Your Grace," Damian said. "Especially those born of kings. Prince John has his virtues. And he has his abilities."

"You would imagine he would steal my crown if he could."

Damian hesitated, then shrugged. He had thought things much better before when William Longchamp had been left regent of England. William had believed in the law.

But Richard had left John with too much power, and William had lost his hold on the government. Now John was holding the power.

A dangerous situation.

"John would take your crown without a second's thought, Your Grace," Damian said bluntly.

Richard nodded. "So my brother has his virtues and his sins. And those must be held in check." Richard hesitated a moment. Then he said quietly, "That's exactly why you're going back to England."

Startled, Damian rose quickly to his feet. "But we are nearly in Jerusalem!"

"Aye, that I know," Richard said flatly.

"I have been one of your most able commanders. I have been hard by your side. I have helped to give you this victory!" Damian told Richard heatedly, his hands braced upon the table as he leaned close to the King.

Richard held his ground.

"Aye, you have often been at my right hand. But the news from England distresses me more and more. Too many nobles are growing far too powerful. They would all be kings unto themselves. John aligns himself with some of these men. It is a dangerous situation. Damian, you have helped me with this battle here against the infidels. Now you must help win another. A different battle."

"Why must it be I?"

"Because Damian Montjoy, Count Clifford, is a respected knight. A man who served my father first, then bowed to the legality that I was his heir, and honored me as King. John knows that you are just. And that you are powerful. You can meet him as a great baron of England. You can carry my authority. And …"

Damian gritted his teeth and sank down to his chair again. There would be no further argument. Certainly no argument that he could win. The King's mind was set.

"And?" Damian pressed, his tone still hard.

"You go back as more than one man."

The expression in Damian's silver-gray eyes turned wary.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I know that the woods in England are often peopled by outlaws. I mean that I'm not against outlaws, not when they serve my purpose."

"Do you accuse me of being an outlaw, Your Grace?"

"Accuse, never, Damian. What a word. I simply demand that you go back, and preserve my kingdom in my absence. You will be instructed further on all the events that have occurred over the past months. Then you will carry my seal, and my power, and return to place my brother in checkmate upon this weary game he plays!"

"This assumes I have great power," Damian commented. "And the lands and means to sustain it."

Richard stood and walked across the room. "Aye, it does. I did not mean, of course, to send you home without compensation for what I ask."

Damian arched a dour brow. "Um. You will grant me some withered and aging crone who is as wealthy as Midas?"

Richard laughed loudly, his good temper quite suddenly restored. "That is not at all what I had in mind!"

"No wife?" Damian inquired politely. It really made no difference to him. Once he had found the perfect woman. Fate had cast them together.

But then fate had cruelly swept them apart.

Now his marital status meant little to him.

Except for land. And land was power. And Richard was in a bargaining mood.

"I have a lady in mind," Richard said, drumming his fingers on the table. "Not old and withered in the least. Wealthy, incredibly wealthy." He leaned close to Damian. "And in sore need of a husband from my camp—quickly. For in my absence, so it seems, my brother has dangled her before another to gain his support and aid."

"And she is?"

"Young and fair. Some dub her the most beautiful lady in all Christendom. And she is in deep trouble, so it seems, for John will try any trickery against her. The man he intends her for is none other than Raymond de la Ville."

De la Ville. He was famed for his cruelty and debaucheries. Damian hated the man, just as he had hated his father before him.

Who was the woman? Damian felt a growing curiosity.

"A name, Richard," he insisted.

"Katherine, Countess of Ure."

Damian started. Kat de Montrain? Jesu. The mere thought of the woman still heated his temper.

For a moment that anger cooled.

Mentally he calculated the woman's worth. She was tremendously wealthy.

She was more. Much, much more.

Richard had said that he condoned certain outlaws.

Did he know that the very heiress he was busy promising to Damian was out in the woods, causing havoc?

Or could he possibly know that the girl would not be pleased in the least to see Damian, even if he did come to rescue her from some other awful fate.

She was rich and she was beautiful, Richard gave no lie there.

But as a wife …

She was willful and headstrong, certainly a problem. Never the chatelaine that Damian would require, obedient and talented in the running of great estates while a knight was about a man's business.

"Well?" Richard demanded.

What did it matter? Damian wondered for one bleak moment. There were women like Affa in the world to fill a man's needs when his heart lay empty. Wives brought property, and Kat de Montrain, Countess of Ure, would do that.

And, he decided dryly, any woman could be tamed.

Any woman at all.

And more so than most women, Kat de Montrain needed to be tamed.

He stood and stretched out his hand. Richard clasped it.

"I am always your servant," he promised Richard.

The King smiled.

"For home then, Montjoy!"

"Aye, Your Grace, I am for home."

He started to leave the King's tent. Richard was bent over his maps once again. "Damian!"

"Aye, Your Grace?"

"If you should see the likes of these outlaws, be they legends or men—you know, this Robin Hood character, or the … er, Silver Sword—be sure to give them my best regards. In secret, of course."

Damian nodded. "Aye, Your Grace."

He walked out into the night.

Damn Ari. The man had been right. He was going home.

He inhaled sharply, remembering the Arab seer's words.

Darkness, and betrayal …

By Kat de Montrain. The beauty with her aquamarine eyes and swirling, golden-blond hair to defy the very fire of the sun …

And anger seized hold of him suddenly. It didn't matter that she barely knew him.

That she despised him.

She was his betrothed, and he would not be betrayed.

Actually, there was a challenge to the arrangement. Maybe he deserved Kat de Montrain.

He smiled slowly. And maybe Kat de Montrain deserved him. Oh, aye. There would be certain compensations here!

Ruefully, he remembered telling Robin that Richard would find Kat a husband.

He had simply not imagined that it might be he!

It was late. He stormed into the tent where many of his men lay sleeping. He could not take them all. Only his closest retainers.

"Home!" he roared, awakening them suddenly. "My friends, we are for home!"

And suddenly, he was anxious.

England awaited him. England, and bandits and princes and traitors …

And a woman.

A wife.

Ah, Saladin's best cutthroats could hold little challenge when compared to the other!

Yet who would prove most dangerous? he wondered.

The Prince, the bandits, the traitors …

Or the woman, the wife?