Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 6

Sebastian's expression must have been dire, for the Arab servant paled a bit as he stared up at him. “Is this your notion of a jest, Abdul? I warn you, I see no humor in it.”

“Master, I do not jest. By her brother's word, Mistress Zahirah has been disowned. She is here at your mercy now, as your bri—”

Sebastian halted Abdul's tongue with a glower. “That's ridiculous.” He refused to accept that in defending Zahirah that morning, he might have unwittingly tied himself to her. “She must have other kin somewhere that will take her in,” he told Abdul in a clipped tone. “Find out who they are, then see that she is delivered to them without delay.”

“As you wish, master.” The manservant started to say something more, then shook his head. “I shall have her removed from the palace at once.”

“What is it?” Sebastian asked, seeing the note of doubt in Abdul's eyes. “You think I am wrong to do this?”

“No, master. I would never question your judgment. It is not my place.”

“However . . .” Sebastian prompted.

Abdul hesitated for a moment, as if still uncertain he should voice his opinion. “It is just that I fear for what might become of her should she be forced to leave, master. Arab women are very proud, you see. They value honor above all—even their own lives. Many would rather suffer death than the shame of repudiation. ”

“Repudiation?” Sebastian blew out his breath in frustration. “This is an army camp, Abdul. It's no place for gentle maidens, particularly maidens of Muslim faith. I'm certain Lady Zahirah will fare better, and doubtless be far happier, once she is back with her own kin.”

Abdul bowed. “Of course, master.”

Everything that was logical urged Sebastian to simply walk away and have done with the matter. He knew he could count on Abdul to carry out his instructions despite any personal reservations. As for Zahirah, in the short time he had been around her, Sebastian had seen hints of her inner strength. She did not strike him as the sort of woman to cave to antiquated notions of pride and dishonor. And if she was, how was that any of his concern?

Against his own will, he pivoted his head to look back into the room where she yet remained. She stood across the distance of the large chamber, paused before the tall, open windows. Her back was turned to the doorway, spine held rigidly erect. Prideful as she awaited news of her fate.

“Damnation,” Sebastian swore softly.

“Master?”

He turned his head back and met Abdul's expectant gaze. “Just remove the lady from my chamber for the time being. I reckon it can do no harm to give her peace for the rest of the day. I'll explain the situation to her myself later this evening, to be sure she understands.”

Abdul inclined his head. “Very well, master.”

~ ~ ~

The conversation taking place in the corridor was kept in confidential tones, but with a measure of concentration, Zahirah was able to discern some of what was said. By Allah's shining grace, the palace servant, Abdul, had taken it upon himself to act as her defender with his boorish master, explaining how he had bound himself to her by paying Halim for her hand. The Frankish captain seemed as repulsed by the idea as she was, but her mission depended on his acceptance of the fact, and she could not have hoped for a better ally than the unwitting Abdul. If his appeal did not sway the Frank to let her remain at the palace, she suspected nothing would.

She tried to dismiss the knot of trepidation she felt at the thought of spending any amount of time in the captain's presence. She could still see the surprise, then the thunderous displeasure, in his gray-green eyes when he found she had been installed in his private chambers. She had been shocked to find herself so quickly at the killing end of his broadsword, even if he had borne down on her out of a warrior's sharp-honed reflex.

There had been no mercy in that thrust, only hard determination, and unerring control that stopped the blade a mere hair's breadth from meeting its deadly mark. Her throat still felt the chill of his blade, and she knew the day would come that she would feel that cold bite again.

Allah willing, she would first know victory over the hated Franks and their king.

It was that thought alone that moved her to smile as she turned to face Abdul, who entered the chamber without his Frankish master. Outside in the hallway, the heavy boot falls of a clipped, long-legged stride echoed on the tiles of the floor, fading away with the captain's cool departure.

“Will you come with me, mistress?” asked Abdul, looking a bit awkward despite his kind expression. “My master believes you will be more comfortable elsewhere.”

Zahirah lifted a brow. “Has he told you to turn me out, Abdul?”

“It was his wish that I give you peace for the rest of this day,” the servant answered, making an obvious attempt to set her at ease.

She was not sure she should fully trust his kindness, but when he gathered up the prayer mat and pillows he had provided her with, then ushered her to the door, she followed willingly. He led her to another chamber, located on the same stretch of hallway, not a dozen paces from the captain's expansive quarters. It was smaller than those princely chambers, but every bit as bright and clean, furnished simply with a silk-covered bed, and a long divan that sprawled elegantly beneath a large window, shuttered from the heat of the sun with a grate of intricate iron latticework.

Abdul turned and caught her smiling as she took in the room. “It pleases you. I am glad, mistress.”

She did not like the way he called her that. Mistress. It made her feel as if she belonged here, as if she were somehow a part of this place, the way he seemed to be.

How could this Arab man, who appeared to lack no measure of intelligence or good sense, deign to serve a Frankish lord? He did not wear the garb or tattooed markings of a slave, nor, by the absence of a striped zunnar sash at his waist, had he converted to the heathen faith of the Western armies.

“You are a free Muslim,” she said as he unrolled the prayer mat and turned its head toward the East.

“I am, mistress.”

“Does it not bother you to serve those who deny Allah's Law?”

Her question was bold, perhaps overbold, coming from a woman. Abdul straightened, turned to face her. She searched his eyes for anger but found none there, nor in the gentle smile he offered her. “It bothered me more when our defending armies swept through Ascalon not a year ago,” he said, pain still raw in his voice. “The city, you see, was razed to keep out the Franks.”

“I remember,” she said. “Ascalon burned for seven days and nights.”

Abdul nodded vaguely. “I had a wife and young son then. My boy was sick, so his mother tended him while I was out assisting the wounded near the docks. Our house, along with the others on our street, was set afire by Saladin's forces. The wind was high that day, and the blaze swept quickly; my family had no chance to escape the flames. They perished within moments. ”

“Peace be upon them,” Zahirah whispered, a blessing that fell simultaneously from Abdul's lips.

“I could have left Ascalon, like many others did after the fires, but this city is my home. I was born here. By Allah's grace, it is here I will die.”

“But to live here, in a Frankish army camp,” Zahirah said, still unable to reconcile the notion in her mind. “Surely there are other places . . . other means.”

“Oh, it is not as bad as that, mistress. These Franks are no different than any other men of war, be they Muslim, Christian, or another faith. There is good and bad in the hearts of all men. Here I have found mostly good. You will see.” He laid a gentle hand on her arm, startling her with the unexpected contact. “My master, Lord Sebastian, is among the finest, most noble men I've ever known. I fear his bark might have you believing differently.”

Zahirah was tempted to say that she did not know enough about him yet to believe anything, nor did she have any particular inclination to know him. But she would play along with this game for now, if it might win her some valuable insight into the habits of his king. “Your esteem must be shared by the English king, for him to have placed your lord Sebastian in charge here.”

Abdul nodded. “From what I have seen of him, Richard of England holds few men in high regard. His trust is hard-won and easily lost.”

“I have heard the same said of his promises.”

“And his mercy, mistress,” the servant cautioned with a sober glance. “If I may give you a word of advice: endeavor to keep yourself out of the king's eye. He likes pretty things, and he takes what he likes.”

Zahirah accepted the warning with a grateful nod of thanks. “Does he stay here when he is in Ascalon?” she asked, taking care not to sound too deliberate.

“The king is often on the march, but he keeps chambers here in the palace. My master says he is expected to return within the week.”

“Where in the palace does he stay?” Zahirah pressed. “So I may know what areas to avoid. ”

Abdul smiled reassuringly. “Stay close to my master and you will be safe wherever you are, mistress.”

It was not the answer she wanted, but to probe further would likely rouse the servant's suspicions. She watched as he finished settling her into the chamber, readily agreeing when he suggested she probably needed to rest a while in private. She was not tired, but she pretended to doze on the bed when Abdul at last took his leave.

With the servant gone to other tasks and his overlord nowhere to be seen, Zahirah slipped out of her chamber and padded off down the corridor. She would no doubt have precious few opportunities to learn the layout of the palace; she had best make the most of every one.

Her exploration led her first down a long hall that passed above one of the many enclosed courtyards. She moved with care and haste along the open-air gallery, taking note of the knights training at their war games below.

He was there among them, too—Sebastian. He surveyed the activity from the shade of the arcade, his heavy muscled arms folded over his bare chest, his dark brows knit into a scowl. Amid a courtyard ringing with weaponry and arms, thick with a swarm of fighting men, it was he who commanded her gaze. Just standing idle as he was, he radiated raw male power, and not a little fury. Indeed, his presence filled the wide space the same as it filled her senses.

A young serving woman seemed to feel likewise. Dark-haired and lovely, she sauntered across the courtyard to bring him a cup of wine. She wore no veil to mask her desirous look, nor did she feign the slightest degree of modesty when the captain reached out to brush her bare cheek with his hand. It was a casual touch, but the woman's giggle was full of meaning.

Had he a lover in her, then? Zahirah wondered.

She felt a dart of scorn for the idea, but quickly shook it off. Let him have a dozen lovers—whatever diversions kept him occupied and out of her way would suit her very well. Refusing to see how long it took the woman to entice him away, Zahirah ducked low and moved hastily to the end of the gallery walkway.

She found the empty harem after navigating a series of winding corridors. The many apartments and common rooms were eerily vacant, some rooms stripped of their rugs and tapestries while others had been left untouched. She passed the bath house and eunuchs' quarters, the kitchens and gazebos, noting which rooms opened into hallways—her mind automatically cataloging possible hiding places and escape routes. There was nothing in this section of the palace that indicated the king might stay there, but Zahirah did find something of interest when she peeked inside a chamber that had likely belonged to one of the sultan's wives.

At the center of the far wall was a pair of lattice-work doors. They opened onto a covered balcony that overlooked the city, and, not much farther beyond, the endless blue of the ocean. A cooling breeze blew off the harbor to skate across the graduated rooftops of the palace, which must have been a favorite spot for the women of the harem.

One of those flat roof terraces was accessible from the balcony. Zahirah walked out and swung her legs over the edge to scoot out onto the roof where the sun was bright and warm. She sat down on the smooth tiled surface and breathed in the cleansing air of her homeland, her eyes nearly hurting for the beauty of the day Allah had created.

Here, under the cloudless Syrian sky, there was no darkness. No terror or death.

Here, alone with her God, she did not have to hide who she was—or what she was. Her mask could fall away and Allah would still be there, accepting her, smiling down upon her with the warmth of his infinite benevolence. Sometimes, it was enough.

Sometimes, she could only weep .

As was her private ritual from the time she was a little girl, Zahirah removed her veil and tipped her face into the sun. Next she rolled up the arms and hem of her tunic, then did the same to the legs of her silk trousers.

She lay back on the roof terrace, her skin exposed as much as she dared, then whispered to the heavens, “Heal me. Allah, please . . . heal me.”