Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 4

Fatigued from a nearly sleepless night, Zahirah was wide awake before the dawn. She listened from the sanctity of her chamber as the knights in the palace stirred, the metallic jangle of armor and the tick of spurs on tiled hallways telling her that the company of soldiers were departing for their day's activities. She could only pray their brutish captain was gone with them, for if she never faced him again it would suit her quite well.

Assuring herself of her rightful scorn, Zahirah crossed the room to see about the commencement of her escape. She reached for the latch on the tall chamber door—at the very moment a soft knock sounded from the other side. She leaped back, her right hand instinctively searching out her dagger, which rested snug against her belly, held in place by the drawstring waistband of her trousers, and concealed by the shapeless length of her tunic.

“Who is there?” she called, ready to draw her weapon and use it if the coarse crusader thought for one moment she would be fool enough to let him near her again.

“It is Abdul, mistress. I have come to offer you a light repast.”

Zahirah exhaled a sigh of frustration. Next to the heathen known as Sebastian, the last thing she needed was his well-meaning servant delaying her with his doting. She would take what he brought her and quickly dismiss him, she decided. Gripping the latch, she opened the door and met his smile with a small nod of greeting. “Thank you, Abdul,” she said, then frowned when she noticed that he carried nothing in his hands .

“My master has requested that you join him in breaking his morning's fast, mistress. Come with me, I will show you the way.”

She would do no such thing! To share a meal with a nonbeliever was to pollute her Muslim purity; she would rather starve first, especially after her encounter with him last night. Ignoring the servant's outstretched arm, Zahirah remained where she stood, bristling from the top of her veiled head to the open toes of her sandals. “My humble thanks for bringing me his invitation, Abdul, but you may tell your master that I have respectfully declined. His offer is—” She bit her tongue, harnessing the urge to call it grossly presumptuous. “—his offer is most hospitable, however, I haven't the appetite to dine with him. Tell him I wish to spend the morning in prayer.”

Abdul blinked at her, then dipped his head and awkwardly cleared his throat. “He instructed me to wait until you were ready, mistress.”

“Did he.” Zahirah could hardly comprehend the audacity of the man. And with the loyal servant standing there, fully intent on observing his Christian master's orders to wait her out, her hopes of a neat escape from the palace that morning scattered like dust in a desert sandstorm.

“Very well,” she relented crisply, “then I suppose you should take me to him.”

She stepped out into the corridor, and, with Abdul shuffling to get ahead of her, Zahirah marched up the same hallway she had navigated in the dark a few hours before, then followed the servant down a wide colonnade that cut a mosaic-tiled path to an interior courtyard.

Doubtless one of many such pleasure gardens secreted in the palace grounds, the rectangular enclosure was a feast for the senses. More than a dozen tall palm trees shaded the area, the light breeze sifting through their fronds carrying with it the fragrance of countless flowers that bloomed in large clay pots and in carefully tended beds. A bulbul chirped from somewhere above Zahirah's head, its bright morning song echoed by the soft trickle of a fountain located at the center of the courtyard .

“Good morrow, Lady Zahirah. I am pleased you decided to join me.”

Decided, indeed , Zahirah scoffed inwardly. She turned away from the pleasing beauty of the garden with some reluctance, glancing to where the crusader lounged, his big frame garbed in a dark tunic and hose, and dwarfing the carved stone bench on which he sat. Spread upon the table before him was an assortment of fruits and flat breads, the sight of all that delicious-looking food setting Zahirah's stomach to growling.

He rose, indicating the empty bench opposite him at the table. “Come. Sit.”

“All due respect, my lord, but I would rather not.”

At his post near the entryway to the courtyard, Abdul pointedly cleared his throat. Zahirah ignored the less than subtle signal to submit to the Frank, her cool gaze trained on the arrogant captain in reproach.

“You are upset about what happened last night,” he guessed, resuming his seat when her rigid stance made it clear she would not be joining him. “I expected you might be. I had hoped I might make it up to you in some way.”

“That won't be necessary,” she replied, steeling herself to his obvious attempts at politeness. She did not want to think what Abdul might make of their conversation. Despite his endeavor to appear disinterested, his gaze now fixed on a point high above his turbaned head, she suspected there was little the servant did not know about the goings-on in the palace.

His foreign master seemed equally attuned.

“How fares your ankle today?” he asked, stabbing a chunk of melon on the end of a narrow knife and eating from the blade like a savage. “It must be markedly improved; I couldn't help noticing when you came in that you have taken off your bandages.”

“Yes,” Zahirah answered, having all but forgotten about the wrappings she had cut away a short while before Abdul's arrival at her door. After all, she'd had no true need of them, and she had wanted no hindrances when she made her escape from the palace. On second thought, perhaps there would be no call for risky escape tactics, now that it was plain to him that she was well on the mend. “My ankle is much better today, my lord. In fact, that is what I came to tell you. I thank you for your . . . hospitality, but I've no wish to trouble you further. I should like very much to be on my way as soon as possible.”

“Understood,” he granted her with a slight tilt of his head. “We can leave as soon as we are finished here.”

Zahirah's heart slammed against her ribcage. “We, my lord?”

“You and I,” he replied. “Abdul has already seen to the horses and supplies.” A casual look toward the servant garnered a obeisant nod of confirmation.

“I don't understand,” Zahirah blurted. She took a step forward, hands fisted at her sides, her head ringing with the ramifications of what he proposed. “Certainly, you cannot mean to accompany me when I leave here?”

“Indeed, I do. Despite what I may have led you to believe last night, I am a man of some honor, my lady. It would be a smirch to my vows of chivalry did I not see you safely delivered to your home.”

She stared at him in mute frustration, unsure of what to think, let alone what to say.

“You do have a home somewhere, do you not, Zahirah?”

“Yes, but, I—” She struggled for excuses, anything to dissuade the man from his course. “My lord, I assure you it is not necessary for you to bother. I am perfectly able to go on my own.” At his questioning frown, she rushed to explain. “My village is in the mountains, you see. It is a great distance from here, and it is remote. What few roads there are can be very difficult to travel—”

“All the more reason for you not to go alone.”

“But, my lord—”

His smile was unwavering. “I insist.”

Zahirah was about to sputter another moot refusal when the sound of raised voices carried down the length of the long corridor. They were too far away to discern the cause of the argument, but there was no mistaking that at least one of the men was Arabic—and hotly combative. Amid the disturbance, a palace servant rushed frantically into the courtyard. The small man executed a quick bow to the Frankish captain, who had since risen to his feet, watching as the servant then turned and whispered something in Abdul's ear.

“What is it?” questioned the dark lord.

“There is a man at the gates, master. He is quite agitated, I fear. He is demanding that he see his sister at once.”

“His sister?” The captain pivoted, fixing a pointed look on Zahirah.

“He says he will not leave until he sees her, master.”

“Then by all means,” he answered, still staring at her, a faint scowl pinching his brow, “have the guards show him in.”

Abdul's clipped order sent the other servant dashing back up the corridor. Zahirah could only stand there, praying that her heretofore unknown brother was in fact Halim, come to aid her after all. She breathed a sigh of relief to hear the fida'i's voice booming in the hallway, and had to marshal a rather satisfied grin as he appeared before her a moment later, escorted by the beefy knight who called the captain his friend.

“This is your brother?” asked the captain.

Zahirah nodded, then raced forward to embrace Halim as if to demonstrate her affection. She could not have been more stunned when he raised his hand and struck her hard across the face.

“Whore,” he spat acidly as she stumbled to her knees. “You are a disgrace!”

Cradling her burning cheek, Zahirah stared up at him in utter shock. She could not believe what he had just done, nor could she fathom how this degradingly violent display would help get her out of the palace. But all it took was one glimpse at the genuinely heated look in Halim's eyes, and she knew that his purpose in coming that morning was not to help her out.

Rather, he had come to ensure she stayed.

“What, by God, is the meaning of this?”

The captain charged forward to assist her, but Zahirah held him back with a shake of her head. “Please, don't. I'm all right,” she gasped brokenly, coming to her feet of her own accord.

The captain's voice rolled like thunder, deep and angry. “No man strikes a woman, be he a brother or nay.”

“Sebastian,” warned the other knight from behind Halim. “Have a care, my friend. This isna our affair.”

“Like hell it's not,” the captain growled in reply. He leveled a chilling glare on Halim and switched from his own language to Arabic. “This woman was nearly killed in the souk yesterday. What sort of family does she hail from that would send her brother here, willing to beat her senseless without affording her the benefit of explanation?”

“What explanation can she give?” Halim shot back. “There is nothing she can say. Any decent woman would have preferred death to what I see before me here. A woman soiled by your kind is worth nothing in my eyes. Less than nothing!”

Zahirah stood between the two men, staring at the blanket of thick grass at her feet. She was well aware of the trap Halim was baiting for Sebastian. That he had come to her defense so readily was all the information the fida'i needed to know precisely where, and how, to strike. Halim would use her in whatever way he deemed fitting—subjecting her to whatever insult or injury that was required to make sure the crusader kept her firmly under his protective wing.

Once a queen in this game of intrigue, Zahirah found that she had suddenly become a powerless pawn.

“If anyone bears cause for shame today, it is you,” charged the captain, playing into Halim's practiced hands. “Your sister is every bit as chaste and innocent now as she was when I found her in the souk.”

Halim gave an unconvinced grunt. “I am to believe that you brought a woman of her considerable beauty into a den of heathens and no one touched her? You must think me a fool. ”

“I think you are a man who is bent on jumping to groundless conclusions. I give you my word, no one touched this woman. She has dishonored herself not in the least.”

Halim scoffed. “As if I would accept the vow of a Frank.” Wrenching Zahirah's arm, he hauled her toward him. “If her virtue be intact, I would see it for myself—here and now.”

“Halim!” she shrieked in bald horror. She pulled against his iron hold on her arm, but it did not give.

Behind her, the Frankish captain's sword flew out of its scabbard with a hiss of grating steel. “You will do no such thing, sirrah. I'll not have this woman further humiliated by your filthy slurs, or your presence. Release her. Now.”

“And leave her to service you and your men without bringing me any return for the bother she's been to me? I think not.” Halim tightened his grip on her arm. “Her looks should fetch me a pretty price at the slave market—”

“I don't think you hear what I am telling you, sirrah. The lady goes nowhere with you. Not today, or any other day. As you are a man who clearly values money more than the word of your own blood kin, then here—” He reached into his tunic and yanked a pendant free from his neck. The gold medallion glittered in the sunlight as it sailed across the courtyard to Halim. “That should more than pay for your troubles. Now be gone from my sight, unless you mean to give me the pleasure of removing you myself.”

Halim did not argue. He curled his hand around the long chain of gold, slanting a look of cool triumph at Zahirah as he released her and turned to go.

“Halim,” she whispered, catching him by the arm and chagrined to hear a note of true fear rising in her throat. “Please. Don't leave me here.”

He paused to look at her, and although Zahirah doubted that he cared if any of the other men heard him, he pitched his voice low for her ears only. “If you fail in this, I will kill you. Do you understand? You have gotten only what you deserve, Zahirah. I'm certain you will make the most of it.”

She knew he spoke true, knew that he did this to her now for many reasons, not the least of which being the fact that he held her responsible for his brother's death. She scarcely flinched when he reached out and tore off her veil—one final humility, the baring of her face to other men in the room.

“Congratulations, Captain,” Halim called in a caustic, thick-accented attempt at lingua franca . “She's all yours.”