A Memory of Love (20 page)

Rhonwyn
practiced her swordplay with Sir Fulk beneath an open awning on the shady side of the camp. Those who passed by and saw her assumed that the two knights were both men, for Rhonwyn's long hair was hidden beneath her mail coif. The high summer's heat made it difficult to drill for long periods of time without cessations for rest and water in between the exercises. It was during one of those short respites that the alarm rang out in the camp.

“Quick, lady, I must take you back to your tent,” Sir Fulk said nervously.

“Nay,” Rhonwyn responded, “this is our chance to meet the infidel in battle, Fulk! With the French negotiating a truce, when will we have another chance?”

“But when we reach Acre, we will battle for Jerusalem, lady. There will be time then,” Fulk responded hopefully.

“Faugh! We cannot be certain of that,” Rhonwyn said. “Neither of us has bloodied our swords yet, and you know had not my lord been ill, we would have by now! Come on! To horse, Fulk! To horse!” Then she ran off toward the pen where the animals were tethered.

For a moment Fulk hesitated. He knew that he ought to go to the tent and tell Edward de Beaulie, but if he did, the skirmish would likely be over and done with before he even had time to find his own mount. The infidels harassed the crusaders several times daily, but they never remained long enough to engage them in serious battle. His decision made, Sir Fulk ran after Rhonwyn. It was not fair that she have all the fun.

At the horse pens, his squire had already saddled both her horse and his. Mounted, they charged through the maze of tents to where they could hear the sounds of action. Sir Fulk had to admit that his lady was absolutely fearless. She charged eagerly into the fray with a fierce war cry, her sword slashing right and left as she attacked her opponents.

It was so exhilarating, Rhonwyn thought as she fought the enemy. She had never before known such incredible excitement. There was a faint red mist before her eyes, and while she knew she felt fear, she was not afraid. Her skills would see her through, for she knew she was a more than competent warrior. She could almost hear Oth in her ear, directing her every move as if he had been right by her side. Her foes gave way before her, and she almost laughed aloud with her elation. Around her the English and the French seemed energized by her ferocity, and the infidels were suddenly aware of a new attitude in the enemy. This was no mere skirmish. For the first time this was a real battle. Rhonwyn could hear Fulk beside her, for he had a tendency to hum beneath his breath when he fought. Her sword plunged into softness, and she focused to see the shocked look on her victim's face as he fell from his horse to die on the sand beneath Hardd's hooves. A howl went up from the infidels. The casualty had obviously been someone of import.

She was overwhelmed with sudden surprise.
She had killed a man!
This was no mock battle. This was bloody reality, and the cries of the wounded and dying assailed her ears now as they had not before. Her sword arm fell, and in that moment Rhonwyn found herself surrounded by black-bearded infidels. Her instinct for survival rose up, and she attempted to fight her way out. Sir Fulk howled a battle cry as he came to her aid.

Rhonwyn was not certain how it happened, but she and her companion were completely cut off from the other crusaders. The infidels seemed intent on moving them away from any and all aid. One reached out and yanked the reins from her gauntleted hand. Then the troop galloped off, Rhonwyn in their midst, Sir Fulk in wild pursuit. Even in possession of her sword there was no chance to defend herself. She considered slashing the reins free from her captor, but she was so tightly wedged in the middle of them there was no room to fight her way out. She had no choice but to go along.

It had been late afternoon when the battle had begun. But now it was dark. The terrain was rough, and Rhonwyn noted their direction was toward a range of mountains in the near distance. When they finally came to a halt, the infidels pulled her from her horse and took her weapon. Sir Fulk was hauled from his mount and disarmed as well. Pushed to the ground, they were told by one of the infidels, “Sit,” in hard, rough tones as he pointed to a spot near some rocks.

“Say nothing,” Sir Fulk whispered to her.

Rhonwyn nodded. She knew as well as her companion that their captors had no idea she was a woman. They were given a small round flat bread and a cup of brackish water to share between them. When they had eaten and sipped the water, reserving a bit for later, Fulk spoke once again.

“Sleep. I will take the first watch, lady.”

Rhonwyn nodded and closed her eyes, but sleep was not easy. They had to escape before much longer. As it was they were going to be hard-pressed to find their way back to the crusaders' encampment.
And Edward.
He was going to be absolutely furious with her. She would be fortunate if he didn't send her back to England immediately. She knew now that Fulk's had been the wiser path. She should have let him escort her back to her tent when the sounds of action had come to their ears.

What would happen if the infidels discovered she was a woman? She shuddered to even contemplate. Rhonwyn felt tears welling up behind her closed eyelids, and she struggled to force them back. If she allowed herself to give in to her fears, she could not think, and she had to think if she were to come up with a plan of escape. Sir Fulk was a good fighter, but he had no skill for tactics. Then to her surprise she actually dozed, but for how long she didn't know. Fulk was shaking her awake.

“We are moving on, lady,” he said softly.

“It is night,” she whispered back.

“There is a moon, and it is cooler to travel at night,” he replied. “One of them speaks the Norman tongue. Get on your horse before any of them gets too close to you.”

“We must escape,” she said desperately.

“How?”
His tone was bleak.

Rhonwyn mounted her horse, sitting despairingly as her wrists, still covered by her gauntlets, were lashed together to her saddle's pommel. She glanced over to Sir Fulk to find he had also been bound in the same manner. They rode on through the night, stopping only when the sun was high in the heavens. Again they were fed flat bread and a cup of water between them and told to sit beneath a rock overhang that sheltered them from the burning sun. Below them Rhonwyn could see the plain and the sea, but nowhere did she glimpse the city of Carthage or the crusaders' encampment.

“What will happen to us?” Rhonwyn murmured low to Sir Fulk.

“The one who speaks our tongue says knights are frequently ransomed, lady,” he replied. “They are impressed with your fighting skills and say they are taking you to their leader in hopes he may convert you to Islam and to their side. They say you are too great a warrior, and none could pay the price of your ransom.”

“Jesu!” Rhonwyn swore softly. She didn't dare ask what would happen if, or when, they learned she was a woman.

Sir Fulk knew what she was thinking, but there was nothing he could say that would be of comfort to her. If he had known this was going to happen, he would have killed her himself rather than let her end up in some infi-del's harem, which was where she was certain to be taken. He had heard enough talk around the camp to know that fair-haired women were considered a great prize among the infidels. “We had best rest, lady,” he said low. “We are sure to ride again once night falls and the moon rises.”

Rhonwyn nodded. If she could retain the secret of her identity, there was just the slightest chance she might be returned to where she belonged, and Sir Fulk, too. She glanced a moment at her companion. He was just twenty, a stocky man of medium height with sandy hair and warm brown eyes. His family lived across the Severn from Haven. Edward had known Sir Fulk his whole life. He had been very brave to follow after her, but perhaps it might have been better if he had returned to the camp to raise the alarm that she had been captured. Sir Fulk had followed his instincts and not his head, but then so, too, had she, Rhonwyn thought ruefully.

They rode the nights through, resting in the daytime. The infidels gave her and Fulk water only once during their travel. At the end of their day she got more water, but even so she did not get enough to satisfy her thirst. Her thoughts were constantly of Edward. Was he all right? Would he ever forgive her this folly?

At the completion of their fourth night of travel they came through a narrow pass with sheer rock-lined walls to a green and verdant valley. Before them was a blue lake, and at the far end of the lake lay a small and gleaming white city. The infidel who spoke their tongue was riding next to them.

“Cinnebar,” he said, and nothing more.

They rode onward, conscious now of other paths all leading to a single wide paved road. They passed a heavily ladened camel caravan as they went. A farmer and his son drove a large herd of goats ahead of them. A smaller caravan came behind them, the sweet-smelling spices it carried perfuming the air. It was all so fascinating that for a brief time her fears left Rhonwyn, and she looked about her with interest. She would have quite a tale to tell Edward and the children they would have one day.

The traffic into Cinnebar now waited patiently at the city's gates for the portals to be opened this morning. As the sun rose over the eastern hills a great creaking and groaning was heard as the ironbound double doors were slowly pulled open to admit the travelers and commerce that stood outside. Identities were carefully checked, but their armed and mounted party was quickly waved through. The city's streets were narrow and twisting. They appeared to be riding upward, and at last they came out into a wide square before a great marble palace. Again their identities were perused at the entry, and then they were motioned inside. They rode into a small courtyard. The ground beneath their horses' hooves were of perfectly matched squares of black and white marble. The captives were aided in dismounting, their bonds slashed free.

The Norman-speaking infidel came to their side. “This is the palace of Rashid al Ahmet, the mighty caliph of Cinnebar, may Allah bless the names of his antecedents and his descendants in equal measure. Your fate is in his hands, but he will be eager to learn of the great Christian warrior, the slayer of his brother, who was considered the finest man-at-arms in all of Cinnebar. Come! Follow me!”

Rhonwyn had blanched at the infidel's words, and Sir Fulk's mouth fell open in surprise. They looked at each other in desperation, and then followed their guide into the palace. Once inside, they were brought into a small, attractive chamber. Water was brought so they might wash the dust of the road from their face and their hands. Plates of newly baked flat bread, sliced fruits, and a hot clear beverage smelling of mint were carried in to them, and then they were left alone for the first time since their capture.

“Do not eat,” Sir Fulk advised her. “It could be poisoned.”

Rhonwyn picked up a curved slice of melon and began to chew it eagerly. “If it is, I will die a quicker death than the one I face for having slain the brother of this caliph. We might as well eat, Fulk. Besides, I don't believe the food is tainted. They have not kept us alive this long to poison us now.” She picked up a piece of flat bread and began to chew it. It was warm from the ovens and delicious. The beverage, too, was excellent, sweet and aromatic. She had never had anything like it before.

Her companion considered her words, and then began to eat as well. When they had finished, they washed their hands and face in the silver basin again, and then seated themselves to wait. The chamber was very quiet. Fulk considered how he was going to protect Rhonwyn. When it was discovered that she was a female, and she most certainly would be exposed very soon, he truly feared what was going to happen to her. And without a weapon he was utterly helpless to aid her. Had he a weapon, he should slay her so that she would not have to suffer the indignity of being ravaged by her captors. Perhaps, however, they would be so outraged at a woman having killed the caliph's brother, they would simply and quickly behead her. He prayed silently for such a merciful outcome.

The door to their chamber opened without warning, and the Norman-speaking infidel was there. “Come,” he said. “The caliph is giving his weekly morning audience.”

They arose and followed after him through the cool marble corridors of the palace. Two ebony-faced guards stood on either side of a pair of tall, wide bronze doors. They wore cloth-of-gold balloon pants, gold medallions shaped like hunting leopards hung from gold chains around their necks and onto their chests, and silver tipped spears carved from pure onyx were clasped in their hands. Without a word they swung open the doors, and the trio walked through into the caliph's audience chamber.

The room was square. The pillars that rimmed it were of green and white marble decorated at the bottom and top with carved gold bands. The floors were white marble covered in thick blue carpets. Tall censers shaped like lilies burned aloes, and polished wood torches burned fragrant oil. At the far end of the room Rhonwyn saw a low carpeted dais upon which a man sat cross-legged. She could tell he was tall and slender with a long face and nose. He wore a short, well-barbered black beard about his mouth and chin. His beringed hands, which he seemed to use to punctuate his speech, were elegant and slim. He was dressed in a simple white robe, and upon his head was a small turban.