Black Lion's Bride Read online

  A woman's scream rent the air.

  It sounded from within the main avenue, a wide street that led to what was once an opulent Syrian palace, and now the nearly deserted headquarters of Richard's high ranking officers. The woman screamed again, shrieking a single word that curdled the blood of both Frank and Saracen alike . . .

  “Assassin!”

  Sebastian and Logan set off at once, skirting the crowd of dazed workers to reach the mouth of the avenue. “Shut the gates,” Sebastian shouted over his shoulder to a knot of soldiers who rushed to join him. “No one leaves the city!”

  Boots pounding on the cobble-paved street, he and the Scot raced toward the trouble. They did not have to get within a few yards of the palace to see what had happened. A frantic servant woman stood outside, jabbering hysterically and flailing her hands. At her feet in a pool of blood lay a Christian knight, one of the guards who had been posted at the palace gates when Sebastian left that morning to relieve his boredom by working on the city wall. The man's throat had been slashed--a savage attack delivered upon him not moments before, for his blood was slick and crimson, and still seeping out of his wound.

  “Did you see who did this?” he demanded of the woman, seizing her by the shoulders. She feebly shook her head, then dissolved into another fit of wailing. Sebastian released her, turning his head toward the crowd filling the mouth of the avenue. Several prayers were murmured to Allah, but the majority of onlookers seemed capable only of gaping at the scene in mute shock. “Did anyone see who did this?”

  A few heads uselessly shook in denial. Sebastian ground out a curse. He was about to turn away when something--or, rather, someone--in the crowd caught his eye. Enveloped in the knot of stunned spectators was a man of slight, wiry build. He might not have been noticeable amongst the others at all, for he was garbed as any other Syrian laborer: the same long white tunic, the same turban covered his head. But what separated this man in Sebastian's mind was the fact that his gaze was not on the fallen knight . . . but on Sebastian instead.

  He stared at him with piercing black eyes, cold eyes, lit with what seemed to be a morbid sort of amusement. Sebastian frowned and started toward him. Was this the same man who attacked him that night in camp--the same assassin who might have killed the king? He could not be sure. But this man had killed the palace guard; Sebastian could see the truth of it in the chilling, almost mocking, gaze peering back at him.

  “You, there,” he hailed in Arabic. “Come away from the others. I would speak to you.”

  The man smiled, but did not move to oblige. Several people around him began to back away, as if suddenly sensing there was evil in their midst.

  “What is it?” Logan asked when Sebastian's hand went to the hilt of his sword.

  “There, in the crowd. That man. Do you see him?” Sebastian started forward, and the grinning Arab took a step back, slipping farther into the throng. “The bastard's going to run.”

  The words were scarcely out of Sebastian's mouth before the man did precisely as predicted. He gave a taunting chuckle and then he was gone, ducking out of sight, his white-turbaned head blending in with the rest of the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.

  Sebastian lunged into a run, pushing his way through the tangle of stupefied laborers and servants. Logan was at his heels in no time, shouting orders to the handful of English soldiers to block off all exits from the city. A sea of turbans and white tunics spread out in all directions, a blurring expanse of colorless shapes, almost blinding in the intense light of the desert sun. Sebastian waded into the crowd, scanning the area like a meadowland hawk searching for the slightest movement in the reeds. He found what he was looking for near the periphery of the throng. The assassin had paused to catch his breath just beyond the city square. Hands splayed against the side wall of a merchant's home, he threw a glance over his shoulder, then took off once more down a narrow alley.

  “This way!” Sebastian called to Logan. “He's heading for the souk.”

  Ascalon's marketplace would be busy at this time of day, far more populated than the city square with its assemblage of workers. The souk was a veritable hive, churning with activity, as vendors having come to the city to trade food and wares set up shop along the narrow streets. They mingled and argued with villagers and folk from surrounding areas, filling the streets with the din of lively bartering, and the press and stink of hundreds of sweating bodies. Sebastian's elusive quarry might be able to hide among this larger crowd for a short while, but once chased into the enclosed area of the souk, with its maze of winding corridors and dead-end alleys, he was as good as a rat in a trap.

  With a furtive look back as if to confirm he was still being followed, the assassin plunged deeper into the marketplace, wending his way past rug makers and silk traders, tipping vendors' carts and shoving women and children aside in his haste to get past.

  “The spicer's row. Go. Now!” Sebastian shouted to Logan, his abbreviated command sending the big Scot off to meet him at the intersecting avenue while Sebastian stayed fast on the assassin's heels.

  Battle rage pounded in his temples as he leaped over a spilled supply of silk fabrics that had been knocked over in front of him. Sebastian side-stepped a cursing vendor and drew his sword, ignoring the gasps of the commoners as he then ran up onto a row of tables to pass the confusion in the street. The assassin was but a few yards ahead of him now, his flight slowed by the mass of people browsing the market. He pushed his way through them, then skidded to an abrupt halt, for rising before him was a wall of stone that climbed some ten feet from the ground.

  A dead end.

  The assassin seemed to take the obstacle in stride, showing little concern that he was now all but caught. He chuckled as Sebastian drew near, then he tossed a quick glance to his left and spied a way out of his predicament. A curtain of colorful rugs hung suspended on a rope in the space between two buildings, marking a narrow alleyway that was the only means of escape from the blocked market street.

  Sebastian grinned as his quarry lunged and made a mad dash down the cramped corridor, for the path he was on now was another dead end. One that would first wind past the spicer's row, where Logan should be at any moment.

  No sooner had the Arab fled past, did the Scotsman emerge to join Sebastian in the chase. Together they covered the space of the slim alley, both swords drawn and at the ready, both men fueled by determination and the thrill of pursuit. They pushed the assassin farther down the corridor, allowing him no room to so much as think of attempting to slip past, forcing him to the eventual end of his run. He reached the wall that sealed off the street, then whirled around to face his pursuers.

  “It's over. You've nowhere left to go.” Sebastian growled the Arabic words, watching as the assassin looked to the left and right of him, his gaze flicking from the high wall of a building that hemmed him in at the left of the alley, to the baker's shop crowding from the right. Before him, Sebastian and Logan began to advance--small, cautious steps that brought them nearly within striking distance.

  The assassin reached down to pull his dagger.

  “Don't be a fool,” Sebastian warned. “I'll cleave you in two before you free it from the sheath.”

  The man hesitated, his dark eyes narrowing as though he saw the truth in Sebastian's threat. His lip curled at the corner and then he started to chuckle, a deep, guttural sound. “Frankish pig,” he spat in halting, thick-accented English. “Allah curse you all!”

  His laughter took on a maniacal tone and Sebastian considered the prospect that the man might be insane--or delirious perhaps, from the powerful drug the assassin sect was rumored to administer to its agents before dispatching them to their deadly tasks. Either way, he was dangerous, and Sebastian was losing his patience with the game. “You're coming with us,” he said, and started to close the distance between himself and the wild-eyed Arab.

  He had only lifted his foot from the ground--moving not even a half-pace forward--when suddenly the door to the baker's shop c
reaked open and a young Muslim woman walked out. She was paying no attention to where she was going, a bundle of flat breads and cakes in her arms, her face veiled to just below the eyes. With her gaze downcast as she stepped into the street, she walked unawares . . . directly between Sebastian and the assassin.

  “Go back,” Sebastian shouted, but it was too late.

  The woman screamed as the assassin seized her around the neck and shoulders, hauling her to him. Her baked goods tumbled to the cobbled pavement. She screamed again. Her wide, terror-stricken eyes--extraordinary eyes, the color of silver moonglow--stared at Sebastian from over the edge of her gossamer veil. When she tried to squirm free, the assassin wrenched her tighter against him. The blade of his dagger pressed into the silk that covered her throat.

  “Saadni,” she cried, her gaze rooted on Sebastian, pleading, desperate. “Help me, please!”

  “God damn it,” Sebastian grated savagely. “Let her go.”

  Leering now, the assassin began to creep backward, inching away from Sebastian and Logan, toward freedom. The outlet to the spicer's row was only a few yards away, an easy escape. He held the woman before him as he went, all but daring Sebastian to make an untoward move.

  Logan hissed an oath. “We canna get to him so long as the bastard's using her as a shield.”

  “Think carefully, coward,” Sebastian snarled in Arabic, challenging the assassin's intent as he hedged nearer. He did not wish to bring further harm to an innocent bystander, but he was not about to back down now. “You're a dead man no matter what you do. Release the woman and my blade will be swift. Hurt her, and I promise you will suffer a prolonged, painful demise. The choice is yours.”

  “I leave it to Allah to decide,” the assassin replied, his voice deep and rasping as he took the last few steps that separated him from the arched corridor of the alleyway.

  “Please,” the young woman said in Sebastian's own tongue. That one word compelled him to meet her gaze, even when he knew it would be a mistake to risk taking his eyes off his quarry. “Don't let him hurt me. Please, help me--”

  She sucked in her breath when the dagger moved lower, sliding down the length of her throat to press ruthlessly beneath her breasts. Dragging her backward with him, the assassin moved farther into the shade of the covered alley. Try as he might, Sebastian could not tear his gaze away from the woman's. She was exquisite, an olive complected beauty with a mass of glossy raven hair, hidden beneath the modest veil that covered the heads of all respectable Syrian women. He could not see her nose or mouth through the silk that draped her cheeks, but their outlines were delicate, utterly feminine.

  And those eyes . . . Sebastian had never seen their like before. Quicksilver. Dazzling. They entranced him, and for a moment, he lost sight of everything else around him.

  The assassin took the opportunity suddenly presented. He released his hold on the woman and shoved her, hard. She cried out as she pitched forward in a violent fall. Sebastian's reflexes sent him into a lunge, catching her before she could hit the cobbles. When he looked up less than a heartbeat later, the assassin was halfway down the alley.

  “Look after her,” Sebastian ordered Logan as he stepped around the shaking young woman and resumed a determined pursuit of his quarry.

  This time, the cagey assassin was not so swift. Anger and impatience had given Sebastian a demon's speed that brought him onto the man's heels as they rounded the end of the alley. Easily within arm's length, he thrust out his hand and caught the assassin by the tunic, harshly swinging him down onto the dusty street. He did not hesitate for an instant to make good on his earlier threat; with a swift descent of his sword, he delivered a fatal thrust. Wide-eyed with surprise, the Arab clutched at the blade that protruded from his chest, convulsed, then went utterly still.

  Logan was still trying to assist the young woman to her feet when Sebastian cleaned and sheathed his sword, then returned to the other end of the alley. “You got him,” the Scot stated more than asked, likely reading the cold fact in Sebastian's gaze. “Was he the one from a few weeks ago, the bastard who would have killed the king?”

  Sebastian gave a contemplative shake of his head, recalling the events of that night. The fida'i who had crept into the English camp to kill the king had been slighter of form, youthful. A mere lad, if the shriek he gave when Sebastian caught him was any indication. The man lying dead in the spicer's row was older, wiry built but too substantial, his voice fully mature. They could not be one and the same; Sebastian was certain of it. “What about her?” he asked, glancing toward the young Saracen woman. “Is she hurt?”

  “Her ankle was twisted in the fall,” Logan answered, supporting her with the strength of his arm. “I dinna think she can walk on it.” As if to demonstrate the fact, she tried to take a step and nearly collapsed, sharply sucking in her breath and wincing in pain.

  “Go take care of the rubbish I left in the spicer's row. Maybe someone can tell us if they've seen the man before,” Sebastian ordered his friend. “I'll look after her.”

  With Logan's heavy gait pounding down the alleyway, Sebastian crouched before the woman to assess her damage. Lifting the hem of her shalwar, the loose-legged trousers worn by Arab women beneath their long tunics, he began to inspect the fine bones of her ankle. She flinched at his touch, drawing back sharply; no doubt an innocent maid, unused to a man handling her in such a fashion. He glanced up and was struck once more with the sheer beauty staring back at him.

  “What is your name?”

  “Zahirah,” she answered quietly. An exotic name for an exotic woman.

  “I'm not going to hurt you, Zahirah. There is no reason to be afraid.” She nodded faintly and Sebastian returned his attention to her injured leg. Her skin was light bronze and buttery smooth, warm against his fingers as he carefully probed for signs of breaks or swelling. He could feel neither, only the velvety softness of her bare skin and the delicate formation of her limb. He moved her foot, holding her small, sandaled sole in his palm and pivoting the joint. He applied only the slightest pressure, but still she cried out.

  “It's not broken,” he said, “but if it pains you so, it should be soaked and wrapped.” He released her ankle, then came to stand. “Do you live nearby, Zahirah?”

  She gave a faint shake of her head, blinking up at him from beneath heavy black lashes. “I am . . . only visiting for the day.”

  “Is there someone here in Ascalon who can look after you? A friend, perhaps? A relative?”

  Another timid denial. “There is no one, my lord.”

  Sebastian let out a sigh as he considered his options. There was no one to take her to, no place that he could bring her where she might find help among her own people. And he could not very well leave her standing there in the street, not when he was partly to blame for her misfortune. But the last thing he needed was to be charged with the welfare of an injured young innocent, no matter how comely she was.

  As if she sensed his reluctance to assist her further, the young woman lowered her gaze. “My humble thanks for your kindness, my lord. Peace and blessings be upon you.” She took a small step away, moving gingerly and biting her lower lip as her slight weight shifted onto her left foot. Her stifled cry was more than Sebastian's chivalry could bear.

  “God's bones,” he growled, reaching out and scooping her into his arms. “You're coming back to the palace with me.”

  Chapter 2

  Zahirah clung to the dark crusader as he swept her up off her feet and began the winding trek back through the streets of the busy souk, toward the opulent palace in the heart of the city. She was trembling, hardly able to catch her breath for the way her heart was racing when she thought about everything that had just happened. The attack on the palace guard. The ensuing chase into the market and the crusaders' cornering of the apparent madman in the alley outside the baker's shop; Zahirah's capture and subsequent rescue. Now this: her deliverance to the headquarters of the Frankish invaders--escorted through the heavily gua
rded gates by one of their own.

  It had all gone precisely according to plan.

  Perhaps not everything, she amended with a momentary twinge of regret. Jafar's death had not been part of the design, but her fida'i accomplice had been too arrogant, acting careless beyond his experience. Zahirah herself had been careless not a month before, when she had the opportunity to kill the famed English king in his tent and failed. The mistake had cost her, but not again. Like a serpent hiding in the oleander, she would lie in wait for her chance to strike. And this time, Richard the Lionhearted would not see her coming until he felt her deadly bite.

  Zahirah turned her veiled face into the crusader's thick-hewn shoulder, hiding her eyes from the handful of Saracen servants who stared as she was carried into the mosaic-tiled entryway of the palace.

  “Fetch me a basin of cool water and some strips of dry cloth,” the Frankish captain ordered one of the gawking slaves, speaking in their own Arabic tongue, his deep voice reverberating against Zahirah's ear where it rested at his chest. “And tell Abdul I need him to prepare one of his teas--something to alleviate pain.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  With the servant's feet padding off in the opposite direction, the crusader delivered Zahirah down a long corridor that opened into a spacious apartment chamber. Sumptuous cushioned divans were built into alcoves that burrowed into the high-ceilinged, frescoed walls. From the entrance, the wide floor stepped down gradually to where a large rug spread out, the resplendent crimson-and-gold weave running the full length and width of the rectangular room. At the far end of the hall, carved marble pillars supported a musician's balcony that sheltered beneath it a raised platform and pillowed seating area that would have been reserved for the sultan, were he still in residence. Sandalwood and myrrh scented the air, traces of harem perfumes that clung to the tapestries and bolsters even though the chamber apartments were some long months abandoned.