Dragon Tree (22 page)

Tamberlane
felt a vein throb in his temple and turned away with an
unintelligible murmur. He was halfway to the door when the sound of
boots on the landing outside stopped him. He could hear Roland’s
voice protesting the uninvited interruption and, in the split
second before he whirled and met Amie’s horrified gaze, he heard
Odo de Langois’ unmistakeable bark of laughter.

“Unless your
master is wenching, I see no reason why he would not take a last
sup of wine with me.”

“Good my
lord—!”

“Out of the
way, pup.” The door was shoved open and Odo strode into the
chamber, his fist clutched around the neck of an ewer, his other
hand holding two richly tooled silver goblets.

“There you
are, Dragonslayer! My oaf of a squire was finally able to locate
the ass that carried my personal service and look you here... a
small token of my appreciation for your hospitality.”

He brandished
the goblets before setting them down, the glare from the fire
sending pinpoints of light off the silverwork.

Odo's eyes
swept around the chamber, probing into every shadowed corner.

“I am not
interrupting anything, I trust?”

Tamberlane
looked behind him, seeing nothing but the fire, the empty bed with
its undisturbed coverings, the barrel of water steaming lazily
before the fire. His hand uncurled from the hilt of the dagger he
wore at his waist, but it did not stray far.

“I was just
about to bathe.”

“Ah yes, I’d
heard you monks were fastidious with regards to cleanliness and
godliness. Do not let me disturb you,” he added, waving the hand
with the ewer. “Partake while the water is hot. I will sit here and
regale you with tales of my errant boyhood while your squire stands
over me with a sword to ensure I do not stare too long or hard at
your bare buttocks.”

The crude jest
was punctuated with another coarse bark of laughter. It ended on a
broken chuckle as Odo spied the chair by the fire and the stool
beside it, and the platter of victuals on the table.

He filled both
goblets to the brim and passed one to Tamberlane, his dark eyes
narrowed. “Your continued good health, sirrah.”

Tamberlane
accepted the goblet, raised it to his lips, but did not do more
than moisten the tip of his tongue with the bold Rhenish plonk. He
doubted the wine itself would be tainted with anything, but there
was always the possibility of the goblet having been rubbed with
some tincture. Unwarranted suspicions? Perhaps. But Tamberlane’s
instincts leaned always toward caution and had rarely led him
astray.

Odo de
Langois, conversely, emptied his goblet with gusto and indicated
the barrel of water with another wave of his hand. “A waste of good
hot water.”

Tamberlane
smiled wanly. “I am pleased to share a sup of wine with you, my
lord, but I prefer to do my bathing in private.”

Odo grunted
and walked casually across the room. “I’ll not keep you then.” He
poured another measure of wine from the ewer, not troubling to
disguise the fact that he was openly looking around the large
chamber. “Rather plainly furnished for a lion of the desert.”

“As I said
before, my needs are few.”

Odo pursed his
lips and strolled past the foot of the bed, his eyes searching
where the shadows were darkest. He was on the verge of turning back
to the door when he spied movement behind a heavy panel of curtain,
a shivery movement not caused by any draft in the still air of the
room.

“I have known
some Templars over the years,” Odo murmured, taking a casual step
toward the window. “They drape themselves in the mantle of poverty
yet those mantles are of the finest silk. They drink from gold
vessels, their walls are adorned with fabulous tapestries and
trophies collected from the glorious battles they have fought in
the name of their God. They are bigger moneylenders than the Jews
and do so with full impunity, paying no scutage to the crown and
believe they are bound only to the church to answer for their
actions.”

“If you are
attempting to convince me to make my penance and rejoin the Order,
my lord, your arguments are poorly vested.”

“I am merely
pointing out that flying in the face of the king’s law might become
second nature to a man accustomed to answering only to God. The
laws pertaining to chattel and marriage for instance, might be set
aside in exchange for a tear and a mewling plea for sanctuary.”

As he said the
word sanctuary, he reached out and yanked the brocade panel aside.
He was broad enough across the shoulders to block Tamberlane’s
view, but there was no mistaking the shock in his voice as he
stared at the figure huddled against the wall.

“What manner
of devilry is this?”

Ciaran slipped
his dagger out of its sheath, concealing the hilt in his palm and
the blade against his forearm.

“Come out of
there,” Odo said with a snarl, his back to Tamberlane. “Come out
into the light, woman.”

Wearing
urchin's clothing and with her hair sheared and darkened,
Tamberlane was halfway confident Amaranth could fool a guardsman at
twenty paces. But up close, with those searing violet eyes and
soft, bow shaped lips, she would not deceive a bloodhawk like Odo
de Langois longer than it took him to blink.

“All the way
into the light, damn you!” Odo turned at the same moment Inaya
stepped out from behind the shadow of his broad frame, her sari
loosened and half off one bare shoulder. Her head was bowed and her
black hair spilled unbound over the side of her face that bore the
scar, covering it.

Odo gazed
across the room at the former Templar monk and started to laugh.
"By God, Tamberlane, you are a sly bastard. Acquired a taste for
Saracen nectar while you were in the desert, did you?”

He reached out
and plucked at the silk of Inaya's sari, pulling it tight to show
the outline of her breasts. "I don't suppose you would care to
share a little of this?" He glanced back at Tamberlane and grinned.
"No, I don't suppose you would. Ah well." He drained his goblet and
slammed it down on the small table before striding back to the
door.

"I bid you
good night and adieu as well. You will be relieved, I'm sure, to
hear that we will be leaving at first light. I'm told a courier has
arrived from the Prince Regent which demands my immediate
attention. Once again, I offer my apologies for disturbing your...
bath."

He left amidst
renewed gusts of laughter. A moment later Roland appeared in the
doorway, his face pale, his gaze flicking between Ciaran and
Inaya.

"I could not
stop him, my lord. Short of drawing a sword and running him
through—which I sorely wanted to do—I could not stop him
entering."

Tamberlane
waved away the apology and resheathed his knife. "Follow him. Make
sure he does not turn around on the stairs and come back, and if he
does, I give you leave to hack out his liver."

"Aye, my
lord."

Behind him,
Inaya had turned away to adjust her silks and gather her hair into
its usual tight twist. After casting slowly around for more hidden
surprises, Ciaran crossed to the prayer niche.

Lifting a
corner of the altar cloth, he saw a large rounded eye peering back
up at him. How the girl had squeezed herself so impossibly small as
to fit under the altar was beyond his comprehension, but he lifted
the cloth higher and moved to one side as Amie unfolded her arms
and legs and inched her way out to stand trembling before him.

In the next
instant, she was in his arms. He had no clear idea if she had
reached for him or he had reached for her, but she was there. Her
face was pressed into his throat and her arms were around his
waist.

Ciaran’s hands
flexed, the fingers curling and uncurling with a lack of steadiness
that was as foreign to him as the slender warmth of a woman in his
arms. Not knowing what else he was expected to do to offer comfort,
he drew her closer against him. He pressed his cheek into the
tousled mop of soft curls, and felt, in those few moments, as if
all the burdens that had been weighing him down for the past three
years, had been lifted away.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Amie lay in
the dark, listening to the sound of her heart beating in her ears.
It was a distinct thud, now slow, now fast, dependant upon which
memory of the day’s events were spinning through her mind. The
fastest thuds, those over which she had no control, occurred when
she thought of how close she had come to being discovered in the
prayer niche. The linen had been sheer enough that she had seen Odo
de Langois’ splayed legs and the firelight shining between them.
She had expected at any moment to see the cloth snatched away, her
arm grabbed, and her body thrown halfway across the floor.

The thumping
of her heart slowed measurably when she remembered the look of
surprise on Tamberlane’s face. He had stood in the same place as
Odo, only when he lifted the cloth, he did so gingerly, the
disbelief and surprise etched clearly on his face. Amie could not
have said what had sent her tumbling into his arms afterward, but
it was this memory, this unaccustomed sense of feeling safe in his
embrace that periodically slowed her heart to soft, curiously
mellow thuds... thuds which quickened again when she remembered she
was in his big bed, surrounded by his scent, by his most personal
possessions.

She lifted her
head and searched the shadowy expanse of the chamber. The night
candle was burning excruciatingly slow. She could swear the wax had
not melted at all the last few times she had checked and there were
still several lines to burn through before the early hour of Prime.
Inaya was sleeping on a pallet beside the bed and the warrior monk
was seated in a wide X chair placed before the fire, one long leg
stretched out, the other bent at the knee.

He had not
moved since the last time Amie had looked, nor the time before
that. He had his chin propped in one hand, a wine goblet in the
other, and were it not for the glitter of the flames reflecting
pinpoints of light in his eyes, she might have thought he was
asleep.

Beside him,
within arms reach, was his sword. Roland was keeping vigil in the
small antechamber outside the door. Tamberlane had assured her she
would be safe here for the night and she had no reason to
disbelieve him.

“You should be
trying to sleep, my lady.”

His voice came
out of nowhere, causing a pulse to jump in her throat. He hadn’t
turned, hadn’t glanced in her direction, and the movement she made
had been minuscule at best.

Amie sat all
the way up. She wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them
to her chest, her gaze drawn to the bright orange flames licking
across the fire log. “How can I sleep knowing he is under the same
roof?”

Tamberlane
shifted just enough to ease his weight from one hip to the other.
“He would not dare intrude upon my chamber again. Once, he could
blame on the amount of wine he consumed; twice would be inviting a
sword in his gullet."

“Do you think
he believes I am not here?”

“We will know
come morning. If he leaves without turning to look over his
shoulder, then he is leaving to search elsewhere for you. If he
looks back, it will mean he thinks you are here, he simply has not
been able to find you yet.”

“Either way,
I... I must leave this place, Lord Tamberlane. I must. Surely you
must know that now."

He expelled a
slow breath and took a sip of wine from the goblet. “I know nothing
of the kind. But the choice is yours to stay or go. You are not a
prisoner here."

Amie stared
into the fire and clasped her arms tighter to her knees. Earlier,
while Tamberlane had adjourned to the anteroom to quietly discuss
matters with Roland and Marak, she had bathed the dirt and
lingering stench from her skin. The mud along with the last of the
walnut stain had been washed out of her hair and with the ends
turning naturally upward as they dried, her face was now surrounded
with a soft cloud of glossy yellow curls. She was not yet
accustomed to the absence of weight and ran her fingers frequently
through the curls, a recurring gesture that sent spikes and whorls
standing upright on one side of her face or the other.

“You never
asked me if it was my intention to murder him when I struck him
with the candlestick."

“It is not my
place to ask, nor is it necessary for me to know.”

She was silent
for a long moment... a moment in which he turned his head to look
directly at her. “But if you wish to tell me, Amaranth, do so with
the knowledge that I am no more a priest than I am a cabbage
farmer. I no longer have the power to cleanse any sins that may be
burdening your soul. Indeed, my own sins have yet to be fully
expunged in the eyes of the Holy See." He raised his goblet with an
airy gesture and drank again. "Thus, if it is the solace and
absolution of a confessor you seek, you would do best to seek it
elsewhere.”

He had used
her name without conscious thought, and by all sense of logic and
common sense it should not have sent such a strong flutter down
Amie’s spine. But it did. He had also addressed her in Norman
French instead of Saxon English, a silent nod to her recently
discovered bloodlines.

There was
something else in his voice tonight—a blurred edge to the words
that made Amie glance to the hearth beside him where the flagon of
wine caught the flickering light from the fire. Odo had always
turned the cruellest when drinking. The wine sharpened his tongue,
turned his words to daggers. It hardened his body which made her
own go tense and cold inside with fear.

She saw
nothing of the drunken beast in Tamberlane. He was mellow, to be
sure. His dark hair was fallen over his brow in a silky wave, his
face looked somehow softer, as if a decade of deeply etched lines
and angles had been erased. There was no threat in the way he held
his body; it was stretched out in an effort to find some comfort in
the hard chair.