Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 31

Ascalon, Three Months Later

September, 1192

“They're loading the last ship, my friend. With any luck, we'll be moving out within a few hours.”

Sitting in his favorite garden courtyard of the Ascalon palace for what had been the first time in more than three months—for what was certain to be the last time—Sebastian looked up and met Logan's gaze. “Have they started on the wall yet?”

“Aye. They're knocking it down as we speak.” The Scot shook his head. “All that work building it up at Richard's command, only to tear it down on Saladin's.”

“Just one part of the treaty signed between them,” Sebastian said as he picked up his wine goblet and stared into the deep red bowl. “Ascalon has seen centuries of demolishment and repair. She'll rise to thrive again.”

“You're going to miss this place.”

It was not a question, and Sebastian was not inclined to answer. He was going to miss Ascalon, miss all of Outremer for that matter. It was a harsh, brutal land, nothing like his homeland, but it had its own beauty. And it would always have her.

Zahirah.

He said her name in his mind, as he had done a thousand times since the day she vanished into the blackness of his darkest day. He had thought of her constantly in the three months since, took her memory and his love for her with him into battle when Lionheart and his troops left Ascalon to march on Beit-Nuba, Acre, and Jaffa. He won back his rank and his king's trust during those final campaigns, but it seemed a hollow victory, knowing Zahirah was gone.

And he could not imagine leaving Outremer without her.

“I'm heading down to help the men with the wrecking,” Logan said, pulling him out of his thoughts. “The sooner they pull down those walls, the sooner I can be back home with my sweet, bonny Mary. Why don't you ride down with me, my friend?”

“You go on ahead,” Sebastian said, setting down his cup of wine. He was not yet ready to leave the tranquility of the courtyard. He could almost feel her there, almost hear her voice again, smell the perfume of her skin and her glossy hair. He could stay there forever. Maybe he would.

“Go on,” he said when Logan stood there, staring at him as if he knew the direction of his thoughts. “Go on. I'll be right there.”

The Scot nodded, doubtless not believing him, then he turned and left.

He had been gone but a few moments when another knight came into the courtyard and interrupted. “Beg pardon, Captain, sir, but there's a group of English pilgrims arrived outside, requesting passage with us to England. Shall I send them in?”

Sebastian gave the knight a careless, affirmative wave of his hand. He had been entertaining requests such as this for days now, ever since the word had spread that King Richard and his army were moving out of the Holy Land. This most recent group, half a dozen men and women, had come all the way from Jerusalem, according to the knight as he showed them into the courtyard. Their long gowns were dusty from the road, their gnarled wooden staffs standing tall and brittle, like bones left to bleach in the desert sun. There were four men in this little group; they stood at the front of the party, their wide-brimmed pilgrim's hats tattered and sweat-stained.

Behind them were two women, one slender and petite in her pale blue garb, the other a matron, with a round ruddy face that framed kind brown eyes and a serene smile. She seemed protective of her meek companion, who kept herself hidden behind the men, her covered head down, gaze averted. Sebastian guessed it was the other woman's daughter, but there was something peculiar there—something that made him come up from his seat on the bench, staring a bit harder than was seemly, willing her to look up so he could see the face she seemed determined to hide.

“You've all come from Jerusalem,” he said, addressing the man who stood at the fore of the group, though his gaze kept straying to the woman behind him. “It is a long journey to make, and you've reached us just in time. Our last vessel leaves for England today.”

“Aye,” agreed the man. “'Twas a long trek, and a gamble, but we were hopeful, and we had God on our side. Actually, 'twas at the suggestion of our young sister that we came here at all, my lord. She said that Ascalon was a pearl in God's crown, and I must say she was correct. 'Tis a fine city, indeed . . . “

The man went on, but Sebastian was no longer listening. He took a step forward, watching the young woman shift nervously behind her companions. She fidgeted with a loose thread on her modest gown, and then, as if she could bear the weight of his gaze no longer, she lifted her head and looked at him.

Sebastian's heart soared to his throat. “My God. Zahir—”

She smiled, as if trying to bite back her joy and failing. She gave a small shake of her head. “No, my lord, I am not she. My name is Gillianne. It is a pleasure to meet you . . . to see you, Sebastian.”

Ignoring the looks of astonishment and confusion from the others, Sebastian crossed the space of the courtyard. He went to her and embraced her, and her pilgrim companions disappeared without his notice, taking their leave as if they understood the meaning in this moment. “God . . . God,” Sebastian said, kissing her, rejoicing in the feel of her, almost disbelieving that she could really be there, alive, in his arms once more. “I thought you dead. I searched for you in that river, and everywhere I've been since then. I thought you had drowned, or that Blackheart—”

“No,” she said, pulling back to look at him. “He didn't tell you, then? No, I don't suppose he would have told anyone what he did that day.” She gave a soft laugh. “He could have killed me, but he let me go. I don't know why; I've wondered all this time. Maybe he pitied me. Maybe he understood that the person I had been, the person Sinan had created all those years ago, was in fact dead and drowned in that river.”

“I owe him everything for sparing you,” Sebastian said, smoothing his hand over her face, realizing just then how faded her tan had become in the months since they had been apart. In a few more months, it would be gone completely, returned to the porcelain color she had been born with. “What happened to you?” he asked, still finding it hard to credit that she was there, standing before him, whole and hale. “Where have you been? Where did you go?”

“To Jerusalem,” she said. “I went there to start over, to finish the pilgrimage my parents began when I was a babe . . . and to wait for you. I thought eventually the army would march there, and that maybe I would see you again.”

Sebastian shook his head. “The king's health grew worse as we campaigned, and there has been trouble back home with his brother. We never made it to Jerusalem. Richard and Saladin agreed to a peace treaty before we were able to march on the city.”

“I know,” she answered. “And when I heard that some of the king's men had returned to Ascalon, I knew—well, I hoped—that you might be among them. Sebastian, forgive me, but I could not stay away. I have missed you so.” She caressed his cheek, her fingertips like silk against his skin, her silver eyes tender and loving. “There is just so much to say . . . .”

He took her hand and placed a kiss in her palm. “We'll have a lifetime to say it now,” he said, his heart swelling with love for her. He knelt down before her, holding her hands in his. “My lady, my love . . . come back with me to England. Be my bride in truth.”

She smiled down at him, laughing through her tears. “Oh, my lord. I thought you would never ask..”