Black Lion's Bride

  Black Lion’s Bride

  by

  Lara Adrian

  (writing as Tina St. John)

  Black Lion’s Bride

  Author’s Edition eBook

  (c) 2012 by Lara Adrian, LLC

  First published May 2002 by Ivy Books, a division of Random House

  Original Print Copyright 2002 by Tina St. John

  Reissue Copyright 2012 by Lara Adrian, LLC

  eBook Published by Lara Adrian, LLC, 2012

  eBook Cover Illustration by Patricia Schmitt aka PickyMe

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Author.

  www.LaraAdrian.com

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Black Lion's Bride - Behind the Story

  About the Author

  A note from the Author

  Bibliography

  A sampler of Lara Adrian's other titles

  Midnight Breed Series

  Dragon Chalice Series

  Historical Romances

  Prologue

  Ascalon, in the Kingdom of Jerusalem

  May, 1192

  Quiet and moonless, the night stretched out over the desert like thick black velvet, a cloak of complicity for the slim figure that moved with cat-like grace along the maze of narrow alleyways crisscrossing the heart of Ascalon's slumbering city. Garbed in a form-fitting tunic and hose of ebony silk, head and face masked likewise save for the eyes, it seemed as though night itself had sprouted legs to steal through the war-ravaged, abandoned marketplace.

  The figure's pace was brisk but cautious as it rounded the corner of an ancient mosque then continued past a row of merchants' buildings and down another twisting avenue, each step lighting soundlessly on the cobbles and hard-packed sand of the street, the lithe limbs showing no sign of fatigue or uncertainty. The athletic form and flawless stealth indicated none of the strain that yet lingered from the week-long journey made on foot from the mountain fortress of Masyaf--a journey that had led here, to the desert port of Ascalon.

  To what would be a final glory or an ignoble end.

  For it was here that the leader of the Frankish infidels, Richard Coeur de Lion, had made his camp, and it was here that the savage king would breathe his last. He had offended many powerful leaders since coming to the Holy Land; there was no telling which of them might have paid to see him eliminated. And to the agent sent out to see the deed was done, the fida'i who now crept into position along the city's steep wall to observe the royal pavilion, it mattered not who had bought this death. Like Conrad of Montferrat a fortnight past, Richard of England would soon feel the lethal bite of an Assassin's dagger.

  Although the hour was easily closer to dawn than dusk, the king did not sleep. Camped on the plain among the other soldiers, Coeur de Lion's large tent glowed from within, the flicker of a single candle throwing shadows against the striped silk walls, betraying that fact that its occupant was alone, his bulky shoulders hunched over his desk in thoughtful concentration. As if to mock the very notion of danger, no guards stood sentry outside, nor in the immediate area. Richard's fearless arrogance was widely accepted; tonight it would spell his doom.

  With no time to waste, the fida'i sent a prayer to Allah then reached down to withdraw a virgin dagger crafted especially for this occasion. The curved blade slipped out of its sheath as silently as the footsteps that now carried the Assassin to within a few paces of the king's pavilion. Suddenly, from somewhere in the distance, a dog began to bark. Then the deep rumble of men's voices carried through the night, their Frankish words serious-sounding, but too low to be understood. Two knights had entered the camp from the opposite end, their broad shouldered outlines barely visible in the dark, their heavy boots crunching in the rubble that littered the ground as they made their way toward Coeur de Lion's tent.

  Concealed in the gloomy darkness, the Assassin watched, measuring the distance between victory and defeat, as King Richard lifted his head then started to rise from his chair. There was time enough to strike before the knights reached him. Self-preservation was of no concern; martyrdom was the Assassin's reward. But even more compelling than the promise of awaiting Paradise was the hope that this feat, might at last win the approval of Rashid al-Din Sinan.

  Feared by most as the mysterious Old Man of The Mountain, King of the Assassins, to the fida'i sent to Ascalon on this mission, Sinan was better known simply as 'Father.' It was his name, not Allah's, that the Assassin whispered before advancing toward the tent that enveloped Coeur de Lion's unarmed silhouette.

  * * *

  “I dinna suppose the king bothered to explain the urgency of this midnight summons, did he?”

  Sebastian, Earl of Montborne, and, more recently, officer to King Richard of England in the war against the Muslim infidels, gave a shrug to the soldier walking at his side. “The king is awake and he wishes to have reports of his troops. What more explanation is needed?”

  “Ach,” grunted his companion, a large Scotsman from the highlands of that wild northern region. “I might have known better than to complain to you, my friend. You and Lionheart seem to forget that we mere mortals require such things as food and rest to gird us for the next day's battle.”

  Sebastian chuckled. “And here all these months you've been trying to convince me that the Scots' blood ran thicker than the English. I wonder what your bonny bride would say to hear you now, bemoaning the loss of a few hours' sleep?”

  “Aye, my sweet Mary,” sighed the Scot. “She would doubtless give me a pretty scowl and say, 'James Malcolm Logan, I told you that you were mad to leave me to chase glory in that accursed place. Now get your fool's arse back home where you belong before I--”

  A movement in the distant darkness caught Sebastian's eye. He stopped walking, silencing his friend with a slight lift of his hand. “Over there,” he said when Logan, too, paused. He kept his voice to no more than a whisper. “Something moved behind that row of tents.”

  Without the moon to offer light to the camp, it was difficult to see anything beyond the pale shapes of the soldiers' tents and the dark, rising swell of Ascalon's crumbling city wall in the immediate background.

  Beside him, Logan was peering into the dark and shaking his head. “I see nothing.”

  “No,” Sebastian insisted, certain he was right by the sudden prickle of rising hairs at the back of his neck. “Somethi
ng--someone--is out there.”

  And then there was another shift of the darkness up ahead as a slender figure seemed to materialize from out of the gloom. Clad in black from head to toe, the intruder hunched low, creeping toward the center of camp with unmistakable purpose. Sebastian did not have to see the dagger that curved out of one fist like a deadly steel talon to understand what this intruder was . . .

  Assassin.

  “Blood of Christ!” Sebastian drew his sword and lunged forward. “The king, Logan! Go to the king!”

  While the Scotsman raced for the candlelit glow of Richard's pavilion, Sebastian's boots chewed up the space of earth between him and the Syrian agent of death. In the camp, some of the other soldiers had begun to rouse. They tumbled out of their tents and grabbed up weapons, alerted to the situation by Sebastian's shout of alarm.

  The ruckus must have taken the assassin aback, for he paused suddenly as if to assess the pending threat of capture. The hesitation proved costly. Sebastian headed him off and was fast on his heels as the would-be assailant turned and ran for the open city gate. If he let him escape to the labyrinth of Ascalon's streets and alleyways, Sebastian knew he would never find him.

  The assassin was slight of form, but quick. Sebastian was close enough that he could have cut him down with his sword at least twice, but the agile little bastard dodged away each time, scrambling out of his path like a hare fleeing a hound. The assassin had nearly reached the freedom of Ascalon's arched gate when he suddenly lost his footing, slipping in a patch of loose gravel. One leg skidded from beneath him and he started to fall. Sebastian hurled himself forward, reaching out with his free hand to grab the assassin's flailing arm.

  “Uh--no!” he shrieked, the thready voice pitched higher than Sebastian might have expected.

  A stripling youth, then, sent down from the mountains to kill a king? It seemed a ridiculous notion, but Sebastian had no time to consider it further.

  Without warning the assassin spun on him, and, in pure speed of motion, he hit Sebastian in the side. The blow was not the hardest he had ever taken, but it was swift enough to knock all the wind from his lungs. He lost his grasp on the assassin's arm and the lad broke away in a run. Sebastian followed, but quickly found he could not keep pace. His feet began to drag beneath him; his sword became a weight he could scarcely hold. He took a couple more steps, his boots scuffing in the sand as the assassin slipped around the corner of the city gate and disappeared.

  At his back, Sebastian heard the clank of weapons and the heavy beat of footsteps as a company of soldiers jogged up behind him. He had not realized he'd stopped moving until he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder.

  “Are you all right, Sir? “ one of the crusaders asked.

  Sebastian nodded his head and pivoted toward his men, trying not to let the effort that small movement took show in his face. “Lost my . . . breath.” Impatiently, he waved off the assisting hand one of the knights offered him, frustrated that he had let the assassin get away. “The bastard hit me, and I lost my breath. Leave me alone. I'll be fine.”

  A dozen guards stared at him in mute stupefaction, wide-eyed and astonished beyond words.

  “Jesus,” a young soldier managed to gasp.

  Sebastian looked down to where their gazes were rooted, and acknowledged the source of their concern with a grim laugh. At his waist, a large pool of blood soaked through the fabric of his tunic and down onto his hose, seeping out of him from a wound at his side. The little whoreson had stabbed him--quite efficiently, from the looks of it.

  It was no wonder the men gaped at him as if he were a ghost. In a few more hours, he likely would be.

  Chapter 1

  Three weeks later

  “You know, my friend, you might have saved the king and everyone else a great deal of effort and worry had you simply said you were determined to kill yourself one way or another.” Outfitted in chain mail armor from a morning spent in training, James Logan strode up to where Sebastian stood at the top of a wooden ladder, his bare back baking in the midday desert sun as he set a large brick into place on the partially reconstructed city wall. “A thousand able men employed to rebuild Ascalon's defenses, yet here you are, the king's right arm, half-dead but a fortnight past and out here working as hard as any man. You must have been drained of all good sense along with the blood you lost in camp last month.”

  With an exhaled curse that brought a twinge of pain from the healing wound at his side, Sebastian pivoted his head to look down at Logan. “I didn't come to Palestine to die,” he said as he spread some mortar onto the wall with his trowel and reached for another brick. “No more than I came here to sit idle in a sultan's confiscated palace, supervising repairs to a city that will likely be razed by Saladin before we lay the last brick.”

  Logan chuckled as he positioned himself near the base of the ladder, leaning his shoulder against the stone wall and grinning up at Sebastian from under arched chestnut-colored brows. “The king had to know the Black Lion of England would bristle at the notion of being caged--even behind gilded bars. Like it or nay, my friend, those were his orders when he left to march on Darum.”

  “I don't like it,” Sebastian confirmed in a growl. “I came here to fight. As it seems I am unable to do that at present, I will at least make myself useful. Why don't you do likewise and pass me another bucket of mortar while you're down there?” He scooped out the last of the thick clay muck, then dropped the empty vessel into the Scot's waiting hands. “In any event, I mean to return to campaign as soon as the king is back from Darum. After nearly a month of inactivity here in Ascalon, I expect I can tolerate another couple of days.”

  “Then you haven't heard?” At Sebastian's answering frown, Logan blew out a sigh. “Richard has decided to delay his return. He goes to the Valley of the Wells, to seize a castle held by one of Saladin's emirs. I learned of it myself just this morning. Seems one of the men got the news from a supply ship that met the king down the coast a few days ago.”

  Sebastian cursed roundly. “Has he gone mad?” Ignoring the stares of several workers who turned their heads in his direction, he threw his muddy trowel to the ground, then came down off his ladder to confer with his lieutenant. “We should be saving our energies for Jerusalem, not squandering our few remaining troops on more petty raids and caravan robberies.”

  Logan shrugged. “You'll get no argument out of me. But with so much wealth to be gained from plunder, mayhap Richard has forgotten that his reason for coming to Palestine was to liberate Jerusalem from the infidels.”

  “He also forgets that his arrogance is winning him no esteem,” Sebastian said, retrieving his tunic from the ladder rung he had draped it over earlier that morning. He shrugged into the airy white linen shirt, too fast, for in his haste, a jolt of renewed pain sliced through him. If he ever caught the devil who lanced him open that night, he would take great pleasure in returning the favor. Slowly. “The king is making powerful enemies on both sides of this war,” he continued, slanting Logan a confidential glance. “At least one of those enemies means to see him dead.”

  “'Twas Richard's opinion the attack that night was an isolated incident--a crazed Muslim acting on his own volition, was his guess. He doesn'a believe he's in any specific danger.”

  Sebastian scoffed. “Neither did Conrad of Montferrat until the night two assassins, dressed as monks, accosted him on the street and stuck their daggers in his heart.” He picked up his sword and baldric and began to buckle the wide leather belt around his waist.

  Frustrated from a combination of heat, thirst, and now this news of the king's latest military whim, Sebastian abandoned his work and started for the well at the center of the city square. Logan fell in behind him. “'Tis rumored that Conrad's murder was bought with Richard's coin. Leastwise, that was the tale the assassins told upon their capture.”

  “A tale, all right,” Sebastian replied. “Conrad and Richard were hardly enamored of each other, but they had finally come to te
rms. I was there when the king decided that Conrad was to be his replacement in Palestine should affairs in England call him home before Jerusalem was secured. He's gained nothing with Conrad's death, save the added knowledge that the crusade's success or failure now rests solely on him.”

  “Aye, but I wager the infidels found much cause to celebrate, having one less Christian leader to contend with,” Logan suggested wryly. He pitched his voice low as he and Sebastian neared the crowded square. “You don't suspect Saladin's had a hand in any of this, do you? Could he have conspired with the Old Man of The Mountain to see both Conrad and Richard eliminated?”

  Sebastian considered the idea for a moment, his attention focused on the throng of English soldiers and turbaned Syrian laborers taking rest and refreshment at the well. “Assassination seems too cowardly a tactic for a man of Saladin's honor,” he answered, then shook his head. “However, the sultan has been pushed into a corner many times, and if we are to start counting King Richard's enemies, I warrant no one can be above suspicion.”

  At the officers' approach, a young boy hopped down from the ledge of the well where he had been seated, serving water to the other men. He filled two cups from the spring-fed reservoir, then rushed forth to offer them to Sebastian and Logan, his smile eager, dark eyes shining. Halfway across the small distance, he suddenly froze.