Set to Flame (Flame Series) (2 page)

Garrick’s plan to take over Fenton couldn’t have gone better for them.  Lord Landry had become
lax through the years and believed no one would dare oppose him.  So no one was watching for the attack when it came.  Within hours the old Lord was dead and the whore’s son held his property.  Marcus’s property.

Seeing Garrick in battle was awe inspiring.  Marcus had left Fenton when he was six to serve as a
page and begin his training as a knight.  Yet the skills he learned in all those years could not compare to what he saw in Garrick that day.  He fought brutally, killed quickly.  He was a man who fought no other way but to win.  Marcus believed if Garrick had lived during the ancient times he could have stood along and kept the Persian army out of Sparta. 

After the battle was won Marcus found Garri
ck in the chapel, down on a knee before the alter weeping.  It was then Marcus decided to stay with the whore’s bastard for he was a man who knew what he wanted and the strength of will to get it.  Marcus had nowhere else to go, no one else to align himself with and it seemed like it was all preordained the two men come together.

It wasn’t long before Marcus learned the full extent of Garrick’
s ambition.  After taking two more pieces of land King Henry took notice and summoned him.  Garrick had gained his opportunity and after talking with the king promised to deliver all those opposing him to his dungeon.  Rather quickly the dungeon began to fill and it was rumored the executioner’s arm would grow weak by the end of the day after delivering so many judgments.  Word had a way of spreading so now most of the kingdom knew of the Fenton Bastard, and wanted him dead.

“He barely breath
es,” Halvor argued.

Sir
Halvor Blakemore was a big man, sent by Henry to train Garrick’s army and lead them under the bastard’s direction.  They were skeptical of Henry’s knight having any loyalty to a man such as Garrick until they met him.  Halvor, the oldest son of a man whose debts not only saw him killed but all his land stripped from him, had to find his own way in the world.  With the position commanding Garrick’s army he seemed to find his place and was proud to serve a man such as The Bastard.

“None of us will be breathing if we stay here.  We do not have enough men with us to defend ourselves against even a small number.” 
Halvor knew this, that was his job after all but he could not see beyond the man lying on the pallet, his shallow breaths and pale skin told them he would likely still die.

“How do we move him without killing him?”

“The men will have to carry him.  A horse will jar him too much.  The only way is to carry him on a stretcher.”

“I don’t like this,”
Halvor stated but it sounded to be his last objection.

“I don’t either, but it is our only chance.”

For two weeks the 20 men took turns carrying their leader back to Fenton.  Garrick was so close to death’s door one day seemed no different than the last.  The blade had cut deep but was stopped at the crucial moment before cutting into the artery that would have ended all hope of saving him.  When they finally arrived at Fenton he was placed in the master chamber and Marcus saw that he was cared for as well as the king himself would be. 

~   ~   ~

September 1189 Westminster, England

Garrick never considered there would be a point when his conscience would get the better of him.  He had no basis for right or wrong.  He had heard some of the teachings of God, knew some people believed if they did bad things they would go to hell.  He couldn’t imagine anything being worse than what his life had always been so perhaps somewhere in the back of his mind he assumed he had already served his time in hell.  Now as he stood in front of King Richard, the honor of knighthood just bestowed upon him he wondered if perhaps the price had been the catalyst that would send him back to a different hell. 

He wished Richard had never heard of him, had given the task to someone else.  Once King Henry had appointed his son Richard as heir apparent it was only a matter of time before the son
would kill the father.  Was it betrayal when Richard had come to him and offered that title for one simple task?  Wouldn’t the sin first fall onto the son?  He knew the king had set his own death into motion, he thought the man a fool that he did not see the same.  The choice was a simple one to make.  Anger the man who would eventually be king, or be the one he depended upon and would reward? 

The K
ing dismissed him and as Garrick exited the chamber Marcus fell into step beside him.  He wanted the man to tell him he told him so, because Marcus had warned the deed would not be so easy.  Yet he had not heeded his advice, only plunged blindly forward.  He could see no other direction to go because he would never go backward.  He knew he wanted the man to offer some hint of confrontation to have an outlet for the anger he had for himself.  But he knew Marcus and knew he never would. 

“May I be the first
to congratulate you Sir Garrick?”

Garrick’s feet nearly
faltered to hear it upon the lips of Marcus.  He had no response so continued on, out to the courtyard and on into the town.  He had no destination but Marcus followed at his side.  He wondered, not for the first time, how long the man would do that.  He was a good man, had learned the difference from right and wrong, good and evil.  He and Halvor was helping turn Garrick’s army into a well oiled, fighting machine.  Garrick couldn’t imagine undertaking these campaigns without Marcus, he knew he would not have survived without him. 

He was standing outside the brothel, looking at the lopsided sign. 
“Buy you a whore?” he asked Marcus.

“You could get a higher standing woman with such a
lofty title by your name,” Marcus advised him. 

Garrick did not turn but shook his head, his hand unconsciously going to his throat, feeling the raised scar there.  “You want one or not?”
he asked irritably.

He felt Marcus’s gaze turn to him, study him before finally saying, “Lead the way Sir Garrick.”
  He sounded almost reluctant but Garrick could think of no better place to find a woman.  Here they knew what they had to do to earn the coin.  It was business, no complications, no deceptions and no one got hurt.  Garrick reached for the door but paused and turned back to Marcus. 

“On second thought, perhaps you would be more comfortable in another place.”  Garrick did not make it a question and Marcus
came up short to study him.

“This is as good a place as any,”
Marcus replied warily under his scrutiny.

Leaving the door Garrick took the two steps back to stand in front of
Marcus.  Marcus was taller by a couple inches, a little larger in build, broader across his chest.  His eyes squinted in a scowl as he looked down on Garrick, a grayish blue that stood out against the dark brown of his hair.  He appeared to have aged a great deal since first riding into his camp two years ago.  Two years seemed such a short time to have made it as far as he had and it showed in the lines on Marcus’s face.  The first day Garrick noticed the cleft in his chin, the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled and now he didn’t do it as often.  Perhaps it had been too much too fast because the world seemed to be spinning out of control.

“
Why are you here?” suddenly he wanted to know.  Not why Marcus was there at the brothel with him but why he was there at all. 

“You offered to buy me a whore,” Marcus said with a smile and a hand on his shoulder that tried to turn him around.   
His cheeks were gaunter as was his entire body since joining Garrick’s ranks.  Garrick had been gaining weight, filling out but it seemed as if Marcus was slimming down amongst the abundance. 

“I don’t mean the whore,” Garrick snapped.  “Why are you with me?  Why don’t you leave and go somewhere else?”

The seriousness in Marcus’s eyes fled and the look of amusement lit them and he smiled, it was a strained one but still a smile.  “You’re the Bastard and now you’re a knight.  I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Garrick had no response.  Marcus was born of privilege, of wealth and power. 
On his face now was the expression of someone who had no concern of losing the game.  Of falling so far down the best he could hope for was a dirt floor, leaky roof and maggoty food.  His devil-may-care attitude was evident on his face and Garrick was angered he had to have a man with no sense of pending doom tied to him.  “Go away.  I do not need you.”

A frown crossed Marcus’s face before he offered a slight nod.  “Watch your back,” then he turned and
walked away.  He felt concern, maybe even fear, that Marcus was walking away from him not only tonight but forever.

By the time Garrick left the brothel the dawn wasn’t far from marking the sky.  One whore was not enough to appease his needs or was it his anger?  There wasn’t enough drink either to stop his mind from turning over and over with the decisions he had made recently.  It seemed as if each
dark memory was determined to return to him tonight.  From killing a king to watching his only squire dying on the battle field it all seemed to be flashing inside his mind.  A sound came from the alley and Garrick turned to see an older man, barely more than a skeleton hunched over a pile of refuse.  He watched him for a minute as the man mumbled to himself.  He ate what he found with his grimy hands but it was obviously not enough to fill that empty pit inside his stomach.  Why would Garrick second guess himself when everything he did took him away from being that man eating garbage?  He watched the man for another minute then straightening he raised his head and walked away.  Regardless of what came, he chose his path and it was the one he would walk to the end.

~  
~   ~

1191 Third Crusade The Holy Land

Marcus sat in the shade of the tent, the stifling heat had made the army’s drills that morning exhausting.  From his position with the sides of the tent rolled up in the hopes of catching a breeze he saw Garrick leave the king’s tent.  He paused outside and looked to the sky.

When the messenger had arrived to inform Garrick the king wished to see him, Marcus had tried to be optimistic.  He went so far as to suggest the king wished to reward him.  They both knew such a thing was not possible.  The last reward had been Garrick’s knighthood.  Since then all they had done was fight along with the rest of Richard’s army.

Garrick turned and moved in Marcus’s direction.  As he made his way toward him he watched how people turned to watch Garrick warily.  They moved away cautiously, no one dared look directly at the man, not even Richard’s most seasoned men.  He was like a god among mortals, his power was feared his abilities respected.

“What did the king want?” Marcus asked from his reclined position in the only chair in the tent, his boots off, his feet propped on a wooden crate.  Beside him was a small table with a tray of goblets and a
tankard.  Marcus picked up his cup and drank the last of the wine from it.

“What the king always wants,” Garrick said moving his feet from the crate and taking a seat on it.  Marcus turned
and poured himself another goblet full and one for Garrick as well then handed it to him. 

“Who are we to kill?” Marcus asked taking a long drink fro
m his cup.

“No one just yet.”
  He pitched his voice low so anyone passing by could not hear.  “Richard thinks Lord Damien LeForte might have interests linked to Prince John.”

“
LeForte was Henry’s commander,” Marcus responded with surprise.

“
LeForte is well liked by many of the lords and barons so the king could not remove him from his position,” Garrick explained.

He drank from his cup as he watched Marcus.  The other man’s lips pressed into a firm line and his eyes grew hard. 
“LeForte is a competent commander, which is why he was favored by Henry.”

“
Richard is a fool,” Garrick said with a great deal of vehemence.  “He has placed me directly under LeForte’s command.  I am to keep an eye on him and report anything suspicious to the king.”

“What if
LeForte is loyal?”

“It will not matter to Richard. 
LeForte was among the forces that kept Richard from gaining Henry’s crown.”

“
So why this cat and mouse game?” Marcus asked picking up the tankard and refilling both their cups.

Garrick shrugged taking a drink.

“To king’s and their foolish endeavors,” Marcus said raising his goblet.  Garrick mirrored the toast and both drank. 

Chapter 2

Two months later

The scrape of a foot was like an attack inside his head as one of the other prisoners adjusted his position.  Marcus refused to open his eyes for he knew the pain that awaited him in that simple act.  He willed sleep to bring him back into its dark tendrils of oblivion.  It did not disappoint.  It swooped down upon him with black wings and lifted him above the pain.  It carried him to a place beyond the dungeon and the tortures he was yet to confront and on into the dark nightmares of his mind.

He awoke to the broken silence.  The cell was shrouded in shadows.  One single torch burned in the corridor, easier to accommodate the guards who came and went regularly to get a knight and, to later, return his tortured body for another.  He turned his head toward Garrick, the last man to be returned.  The pain that shot through his skull threatened to blind him, for a moment the edges of his vision darkened, and he felt the need to curse himself for the weakness inside that made him yearn for the darkness.  Oblivion was far easier than what they faced here in the dungeon of Emir Ghalib.

The Emir wanted the position of King Richard’s next attack.  It would be quite the advantage for the Emir when it came to gaining favor with Sultan Saladin.  Only the commander knew the
Lionheart’s location and the role of the Emir’s men was to identify that commander.  Marcus’s eyes could barely make out Garrick chained two men to his right.  Marcus had remained strong until they dragged him back to their prison.   The man had been dragged unconscious back to them.  Even the man Marcus believed to be etched from stone appeared broken.

Now he watched for signs of life from Garrick who had been beaten and whipped. The swelling of his face made him nearly unrecognizable.  Marcus found himself wondering if he had been beaten first or whipped.  He had seen that his back appeared to be filleted when the guards returned him.  He had seen the blood that covered him.

Marcus craved to see the mighty Emir brought as low as the men who waited within his prison.  Craved it like a man dying from thirst craved water.  They would not have that opportunity, for the Emir would never consider lowering himself to the filth and desperation of such a place as this.  He had no need, for the men who served under him would get the information they needed and he could pass it on to the Sultan.  All that had to be done was for just one of the knights to be broken.  It would only be a short time he knew, before the agony brought it forward for they were only human.

Sir Damien
LeForte, commander.  That was the secret they protected.  Marcus almost laughed at fate.  Garrick had been sent to lay the path to kill LeForte and now they protected him.  Once they found out who their leader was Ghalib’s men would use the others against him.  Marcus did not know Damien well enough to venture a guess whether he would give up his king.  So far he had not but Marcus could not see the man’s face who sat across from when they had dragged Garrick in.  Was it worth it to save his beloved king?

The young squire Devlin coughed in his sleep.  Did the cough awaken him?  The day they dragged the young man from the chamber was the day this terrible dream Marcus found himself in would turn into a nightmare.  How could he sacrifice the young man’s life for such a secret?  Disclosing their commander’s identity would sentence the rest of them.  How could he point a finger to Damien in hopes of saving the youth, how could he not?

“It’s her,” the barely audible whisper came from Halvor next to him.

Anticipation slammed through his chest along with a great degree of shame for his actions the night before.  She brought water to quench their thirst and food to chase away their hunger, but it was never enough.  He had taken an extra drink, more than his part the night before.  He had seen her sudden scowl and felt her censor of his actions, her judgment even.  He heard it then, the steady yet nearly imperceptible patter of her feet in their light slippers as she moved closer.  He craved to know who she was, but she refused to let them talk to her, nearly fled the first night when Damien persisted.  So now they said not a word, accepted her gifts and found comfort in the brief moments she visited each night.

She was there, the key slid into the grated door, the lock turned with a small clink and she was pushing the door open. 
I’m sorry,
his mind screamed at her. 
That’s not the kind of man I am.
  He wanted her to see this desperately, but he wasn’t sure why because he did not know who this angel of mercy was.  Or was she an angel at all?

The water and the food sustained them, prolonging their suffering here in this prison.  Wouldn’t that make her a monster?  The torch light streaked through her ebony hair reflecting until it appeared to catch fire.  Her eyes were the brightest green Marcus had ever seen.  They slanted upward on the outer corners giving the woman a decidedly feline appearance.  Marcus had never seen a woman as intriguingly beautiful as she.  She always came alone, in richly made
nightdresses, this one seemed to shimmer with each movement she made.  It was similar to the first gown of black he had seen her in with matching slippers peeking out from beneath the hem, but this one was white. 
What in God’s name was she thinking?
He couldn’t help but wonder why she would wear white into a hell hole like this.  Her cloak was tied tight at her throat, but he could still see the glimmer beneath, and he wanted to touch her.  Not to feel the lovely fabric but the irresistible woman beneath. 
What am I thinking
, he asked himself.  He couldn’t have a desire for this woman while chained in presumably her relative’s prison.  Her husband’s?

He could smell her, the fresh scent of flowers hung in the air around her, sweet and tantalizing, mingling with the musky smell of sex.  Tonight she paused first at
LeForte, gave him bread he raised to his mouth and ate carefully.  Marcus envied him, his control while Marcus’s mouth would have watered had it not been dry as the desert.  She gave Damien something else and he craned his head to see, could it be meat?

Marcus knew he would be last in line for the bread and water. It would be his punishment for last night.  He saw her delicate hand pat the leg of their leader.  The man
who never faltered, who was stronger than all of them combined accepted her comfort before she moved on to Cyrille.

Damien’s brother,
Cyrille, was two years his junior and Damien’s replica.  Marcus often had to concentrate on the faces of the brothers to be able to tell the two apart.  Where Damien was serious and cautious his brother was cocky and impulsive.  This was the key to telling the difference.

Despite the situation they found themselves in, it was hard not to look at this woman as anything but the beauty she was.  He saw it in
Cyrille’s gray-green eyes as they fell over her from head to toe, his lopsided grin Marcus had never seen on the other brother’s face broke through the hunger and fatigue.  Her back was to Marcus now in the poorly lit cell, her body shrouded in the folds of the cloak.  Only the back of her ebony head was visible.  Yet the sway of the cloak and movement of head all heralded the grace of this angel.

Next to
Cyrille was his squire Devlin, uncomplaining he sat shackled along with the grown men.  Marcus still did not know how the boy had managed to be captured.  It was the circumstance that filled Marcus with the most dread.  The angel true of heart gave the boy more of everything, and there was not a man in the chamber watching who begrudged him.   
Get him out of here
, Marcus’s mind screamed at her.  The kid had no place in a hell such as this.  Why wouldn’t this woman take him away?  He wanted to ask her but was afraid she would leave and never return.  She moved on.

She studied Garrick who was oblivious to his surroundings.  He watched her swallow and
hesitate before turning away from him.

Then the woman was to
Halvor next to Marcus, and he got his first close look at her this night.  She was stunning.  The white cloth only seemed to add to the tilt of her cat eyes and gave a stark contrast to her cloak and hair.  She squatted and bent forward.  The fabric of the cloak fell away from her long leg.  He could see the outline of her thigh, to her knee where the material was gathered and down her calf to disappear again in the fabric.  The brawny man wasted no time consuming his part and then she was before him, squatting in front of him, her scent assaulting him to the point it made the darkness of the dungeon disappear and all that mattered was that she was here.  When she bent forward with his bread, the cloak opened to reveal the neckline of the gown and how deep it was.  The gown was less a garment to slumber in and more of a garment to entice in.  How Marcus craved to touch her.  Just once, in order to see if she was real and made of flesh and blood.

As she turned her head to hand him the water skin he saw the bruise on her cheek.  He froze, staring at it.  Who would mar such a face of perfection?  He raised his shackled hands, his fingers reaching for her face but she drew away.  He sat there with his hands outstretched before letting them fall back to his lap.  He drank the last of the water then she was gone.

~   ~   ~

Alena stared at the woman in front of her.  She had no ready answer for the stain on her white gown, or the smell of the earth that clung to it.  She did know Gulshan, Ghalib’s second wife who stood before her, was the most jealous of all his women.  She would stop at nothing in order to be rid of her husband’s favorite new concubine.  She could have him, Alena thought.  She had no desire to be here, no desire to be anyone’s concubine especially some old goat with cold fingers and feted breath.  The Emir had acquired three more women since one of his guards had taken her from her bed in Jerusalem three years before when the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem fell under the mighty power of her new master.  No matter how many times Ghalib raged at her she could not accept a master, at least not the man who butchered her family.  Yet she remained the man’s favorite despite her resistance, it only seemed to invite his desire all the more.  Or maybe he thought one day she might actually concede. 

“
Ghalib visited me in the garden,” Alena said spitefully.  “I am surprised it did not get more stains from the grass.”

The woman turned a fierce glower upon her. 
Alena tried to sympathize with the woman.  A second wife did not wield the power of the first and this one received no respect from any of the women.  Despite her wicked nature, Alena thought she was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen with her perfect olive skin and doe brown eyes.  She was intelligent, well educated and was one of the only two people who spoke Alena’s language.  Her heart shaped face and full lips on a curvaceous body made her a stunning woman, but she was vain and cruel, to which Alena could not sympathize at all.  She tried to avoid all the women, wives, concubines, aunts and cousins alike.  Some refused to leave her be, but none of them sought her out for companionship.  When Ghalib entered the privacy of his harem, he looked for Alena, a fact she despised more than any of the other women, she would bet her soul.  Yet, they found fault with her and hated her for it. 

Now she was grateful for the solitude.  It was the only way she could help the English soldiers in the Emir’s prison. 
Ghalib sought answers he would eventually get, the soldiers would die and none of these things she could stop.  She could insure their suffering was less by taking them food and water.  Not much, but all she could do. 

The door banged open and in
strolled the barbarian.  Alena did not know the man’s name after all this time, but he was the one who usually retrieved her, sentencing her to another unpleasant and revolting romp in the Emir’s bed.  He said not a word, she did not even know if he could talk.  The only time she saw him was when he had his hand clamped around her elbow, or was trussing her up in a bag, taking her to her master.  What a bitter taste that word made.

He flung her veil at her, and she flung it back.  His eyebrow raised, and a small, cold smile crossed his lips.  He gave her one more chance, when she had first come here she had been too ignorant to take that chance, now she did not hesitate.  She gently took the headdress from the man and carefully donned it.  Through the corridors, she was led to the stately rooms of the man she hated beyond all others.  She stood on the threshold her eyes seeking out the man she loathed. 

“Alena dear,” he said coming out of one room with two of his men swirling about him as they adjusted his robes.  “I must postpone our time,” he said, as if breaking the news to one of his wife’s, who would be crushed.  “But I will make it up to you,” he said taking her chin in his hand and tilting her face upward.  He smiled down at her as if they truly were lovers.  “I will send Phillip to take you back,” he said, leaving the room without a backward glance, and she was alone in his opulent room.

She waited only long enough for the sound of footsteps to subside before she was out the door.  The prisoners were kept behind the palace, and it was in this direction she moved.  She didn’t know why she felt compelled to help these men and one boy.  No one had ever come to help her, even now she was a prisoner here,
she just didn’t wear the irons.  She entered the balcony that over looked the outer courtyard.  Prisoners were moved from the prison to the left of the courtyard toward the building in the middle and back again.  She guessed the building in the middle housed the torture chamber for the prisoners.  She had spent a fair amount of time walking the grounds, at first Ghalib thought it was a sure way to gain her favor.  He soon enough realized their turns around the palace did not soften her at all so the journeys became less and less, but she already had a clear idea of what and where things went on in the palace.  A movement caught her eye and she watched one of the men being dragged from the prison.  It was the man who had taken too much water a couple of nights ago.  A man whose remorse was visible from the very moment of his weakness and she wanted to reassure him, tell the knight he was no less a man.  But she had to keep her distance.  She did not want to know any of them. 
Please not there, please not there
, she chanted in her head and groaned with frustration when they entered the small building.  She wondered what the Emir wanted from those men but knew she would never find out for the man would never confide in a lowly concubine even if it were to earn him her favor.