Queen Of Knights (25 page)

He leaped toward Eldwin, the dagger aimed at the knight's vulnerable side, but Gwendolyn had seen the surprise attack and brought her sword back in a quick move.

Gwendolyn's mind screamed its warning and she wind-milled her arms, moving the silver sword in an effort to stop the dagger's path.  Her sword nicked the dagger, and it passed her side harmlessly.  She stepped back quickly as Morgan dropped his dagger and again gripped his longsword with two hands.

When he blinked, Gwendolyn moved.  She gave herself no conscious directions; she merely let her body take over.  Morgan's blade was whistling in the air, but to her eyes, it barely moved.  Her own blade seemed to move by itself, pulling her arms along effortlessly.  The swords met, and Gwendolyn felt no resistance.  It happened suddenly, amid the screams of the people-Gwendolyn's blade passed through Morgan's, severing it in the exact center.

Without stopping, Gwendolyn followed the blade, turning under it, and bringing it around.  Again the silver sword met Morgan's metal, and this time his blade was severed at the hilt.

Before Morgan could raise his arm, the tip of the silver sword was at his throat, penetrating the maille and stopping only when it reached his skin.

Gwendolyn's arm trembled, and the power of the sword vibrated through her soul.  She longed to plunge the blade deep, but even with the advantage she had, she could not bring herself to murder anyone.  The battle was done, the fight ended, and the bloodlust that claimed her, eased.

Carefully, she withdrew the blade and held it toward Richard so that he would see she had not drawn blood in the finish.  But while she held the blade toward her king, her eyes never left Morgan's hate-filled gaze, still ready for any further treachery on his part.

"Well done, Sir Eldwin," Richard said, his voice not quite as steady as usual, but respect filling every word.

Morgan, upon hearing Richard, turned from Eldwin, and without the customary bow, walked silently from the field, his ears awash with the name of Eldwin pouring from everyone's lips.  When he reached his squire, he turned.  Rage shook him, and when the squire went to take the remains of Morgan's sword, Morgan lashed out, knocking the young boy off his feet.

Gwendolyn, standing before the king, saw none of that.

Her eyes held Richard's and she waited.  Gracefully, England's warrior king stepped down from the platform to stand before her.  A moment later, Miles was on one side of Richard and William Marshall on the other.

Richard spoke, but his voice was not loud.  "You are the victor, the champion of the tournament.  You have gained an earldom, but I am told you want it not.  Have you changed your thoughts?"

Gwendolyn shook her head once.

"You are different from any other I have known.  I have never met a man who turned down rank.  I have never seen a knight wield a sword as do you.  Sir Eldwin, although you turn your back on the prize, I proclaim that for as long as I live, should you but ask, the earldom is yours.  Kneel, Sir Eldwin of Radstock, and receive your victory boon."

Gwendolyn, her heart racing, knelt slowly, her hand still holding her father's sword.  Above her, Richard turned to Marshall and waited.  William Marshall lifted the long cushion on which rested the sword of state, the wide gold blade allowed to be held only by England's king.  Marshall, his lined features held immobile, offered Richard the cushion.

Taking the heavy sword into his hand, Richard looked down upon Sir Eldwin's bowed head.  "Remove your helmet," he instructed.

Gwendolyn took off the metal cap and placed it on the ground before her.

"I, Richard, King of England, Duke of Normandy, by the grace of God, and by the powers given to me by the people, and, in the name of God, with the spirit of knightly chivalry, and for the sake of England, do hereby proclaim Sir Eldwin of Maidstone, Knight Protector of Radstock, a knight of the Realm."

Carefully, aware of all eyes upon him, and with a respect he felt for very few, Richard Coeur de Lion lifted the gold sword of England and dubbed Eldwin.

Behind them an eruption of voices shattered the solemnity of the moment, but for the four principals, nothing would ever interfere with the magnificence of what had happened.  When Gwendolyn rose, her eyes did not stare at Richard, but fastened upon Miles.  She saw on his face a pride that made her eyes water and her heart stir.

It was not just she who had been knighted; it was also he, for Gwendolyn now knew one truth of the priestess's: Miles and she were one.  They had been since the beginning of time, and would be for all eternity.

Book III

Of the Crusade of Richard Coeur de Lion,
and of the Treachery of the Dark One

Chapter Sixteen

MILES
urged his horse to run smoothly along the half-sand, half-rock ground.  He was in the lead of a small group of knights who were scouting ahead of the main column of Richard's army.

He had not been told to do this, but chose to in order to get away from the loud voices and stench of fetid, unwashed bodies, so he could regain some small grip on his sanity.

He had never imagined in his wildest dreams the reality of the crusade he had embarked on.  The hot September sun of Palestine beat down upon his armor-shielded body, as it had for many months; yet he did not feel its draining effects, or hear the voices of the knights behind him, as he lost himself to the thoughts of what had passed since arriving in Sicily.  For more months than he wanted to remember, Miles had been following Richard, wondering what more could possibly happen.  The crusade had begun with delays and deceit and had continued in just that way.

They had been stranded in Italy for a year, treated like dirt and vermin, until Richard was forced to capture and subjugate the Sicilian city of Messina, wasting valuable time and men.  Once this had been accomplished, Richard's and Philip's army had been able to rest and replenish its supplies.

In the spring, Miles had watched Philip, ill since the start of the campaign, sail with his men to Tyre, and from there on to Acre.  He, along with Richard and the English army, went on to take the financially valuable island of Cypress before joining the French monarch.

Everything about the crusade had shaken and sickened Miles: the unnecessary slaughter of innocent people, the bloodthirst which seemed to hold the knights captive.  He had known this war was to better the chances of Christianity, but after seven months of watching the senseless brutality of both sides, he had come to doubt not only the benefit of religion, but found himself questioning the validity of life, itself.

All the horrors Miles had heard about in stories of past Crusades, he became a part of.  The atrocities which had always been laid at the feet of the Saracens, he witnessed being done by the supposedly chivalrous Christian knights with whom he rode.  He had known there would be no mercy shown from the lesser knights in their efforts to increase their own coffers with the legitimate gains of war.  But he had not expected to see the same greed from the nobility he had fought with and known all his life.

These dukes and knights had changed when they'd set foot upon the soil of the Holy Land.  They had become ruthless to the extreme; their greed exceeded only by their hunger for killing.

Even Richard had reached new heights of bloodlust at Acre and had brought shame to the side of the cross.  When Saladin had not produced the ransom as quickly as Richard had demanded, Richard had put to death twenty-six hundred Saracen knights.  Not even Saladin had been so bloodthirsty.

Miles had argued futilely that Richard should not do this thing, for never had Saladin taken the lives of his prisoners without first giving ample time for ransom.  And, in fact, there were many known instances when, because of the inability of a prisoner's family to raise the ransom, Saladin had reduced the sum so that the knight was able to gain freedom.

"But look at the cost!" Richard had declared.  "Part of the ransom was the knights' pledge of parole to leave the Holy Land and return home."

"Sire, I can only repeat that what you are about to do is wrong," Miles had argued.

"We cannot feed them! We cannot let so many stay among our midst.  We must rid ourselves of them.  Tomorrow, at midday, if Saladin does not present the ransom, they must die."

Richard's words were echoed by the half-dozen members of his staff.  Miles had wanted to fight, to argue until he won his points, but when his eyes had swept across the faces of the men gathered in the king's tent, he knew he could not win.  Morgan's tight-lipped smile taunted him, and Miles knew the man had gained Richard's ear in this matter.  The next day, as the sun beat down upon the city of Acre, Richard cold-bloodedly slaughtered the prisoners, ending the negotiations that had begun with Saladin after Philip, who had grown progressively sicker, had returned home.

With the failure to negotiate further with the Moors, Richard had decided upon a two-fold plan of attack to free the Holy City.  The first part was to ride toward Jerusalem in an effort to free the city.  The second part was one of ongoing parley with Saladin, to try and negotiate a peace that would save them both.

Richard had advanced the plan of offering his sister in marriage to Saladin to secure this peace.  But Miles, along with several of Richard's advisors, had thought this unlikely.

So at present, no negotiations since Acre had come about, and Richard's army was advancing deep within the hold of the Saracens.  They were en route to Jaffa, to rest and replenish the army's supplies, before going on to Jerusalem, and the final confrontation between Christian and Moslem.

Miles shook himself free of his memories and reined in his horse.  Spread out beneath him was the valley he had come to scout.  Gazing down upon the bleak land, his eyes swept across its barren surface.  Yet he saw that this valley, as most of the land of Palestine, was a strange mixture of sand and growing life.  Although the valley itself was made of sand and rock, the hills rising along its flanks were filled with a multitude of trees.

A feeling of dread and wrongness held Miles in its grip, but he could find nothing to substantiate it.  He looked closely at the hills, but saw no flicker of life within them.  Yet the air seemed heavy with warning, a warning he could not understand.

"My lord, the valley looks peaceful," Arthur said in a low voice, reminding him of where he was.

Miles did not reply; instead, he again looked at the valley they must cross on their way to Jaffa.  On the other side was the small town of Arsuf, the only place they might find resistance before reaching Jaffa and the sea.  But on this warm September afternoon, Miles saw nothing out of the ordinary and, shrugging away his doubts, signaled the men back to camp.

As Miles rode, he wished Valkyrie were here, flying high and wide, looking for any hidden Saracens.  But neither the golden eagle nor Gwendolyn was here, so Miles willed away the thoughts that tore through his mind to threaten his very existence.

Perhaps it was because he was fighting with himself that he did not see the lone rider, wrapped in a dark mantle, emerge from the rocks behind the small group.  No man saw this other, and while Richard's knights returned to the sprawling camp, the single man rode swiftly into the valley.

While Miles reported to Richard, the other rider rode deeper into the level valley, until he reached a predetermined spot and stopped his horse.  He dismounted, and when he had done so, threw the mantle over his shoulders to reveal a broad, powerful body.

Then, Morgan of Guildswood waited, his dark eyes never once staying still, his hand never straying from the hilt of his sword.  A few minutes later, five riders in flowing burnooses broke from the cover of the trees and rode their wiry horses to where he waited.

Morgan watched the newcomers dismount and carefully inspected each of them.  His unfaltering gaze swept each of them from boots to face, and noted well the long curved scimitars they carried.  After another moment of silence, one man stepped close to Morgan and spoke.

"You have asked to speak with me.  Do you wish to join with us, embrace the true faith, and accept Allah as your God, and Muhammad as his prophet on earth?" the Moor asked in perfect French.

"There is no true faith except in one's mind.  I have not come to join you, only to offer you something," Morgan stated, drawing himself straighter in front of Saladin.

"You believers of Jesus are a strange breed.  I could cut your throat right now and have one less infidel to bother me."

"And you would be one step closer to losing Jerusalem."

"You would help me keep it?" Saladin's voice dripped with sarcasm.  He had dealt with many Frankish knights in his life and had found few of them to be honorable.  Saladin was a man used to leadership, and one of his traits was an inherent ability to know the type of man with whom he spoke.  He knew this knight standing before him was not honorable, yet necessity made him listen.

"No, but I want this damned war over.  I do not want to wait until all eternity ends before I return home.  I have lands to rule, and matters that must be accomplished."

"So?"

"So, I make you an offer.  I will give you Richard's plans so that you will be able to thwart them."

"Why?"

Morgan held himself still under Saladin's increased scrutiny.  He was unafraid of the Saracen, confident that he would leave this meeting alive and with what he sought.

"Because if you know Richard’s plans, you can stop him long enough to force him to negotiate and join with you in a truce.  The war will end, and I will be able to return to my lands."

"And to your great ambitions.  What do you want in return?" asked the ruler of the Moslem world.

"I want one knight captured—not killed.  And I want your word that there will be no ransom accepted for this knight.  I want your solemn promise that this knight will be held, even after the war is ended, and that he will fare no better than a slave!"

"Why?"

"The reason is not your business.  Your benefit by doing this should be enough of an answer," Morgan stated brashly.

"You would accept my word on this?" .

"It is said you keep your word."

"Unlike you infidels, when a Moslem makes a promise, it is his duty to keep it."

"Then you agree?"

“I agree," Saladin replied, willing to accept whatever help necessary to end this war that was draining his lands of both wealth and people.

"Then speak the words." Morgan stared at Saladin and waited.

"I swear, by Allah the merciful, and Muhammad his prophet!" Saladin clapped his hands, and without issuing further orders, a blanket was spread on the sandy ground.  Food was placed upon it, and for the next hour, Morgan talked and Saladin listened until Morgan had nothing else to say and the audience drew to a close.

"And the knight you wish taken?"

"He rides near Richard, always." Morgan took out a rolled sheet from his waist and handed it to Saladin.

The King of the Moors opened the vellum and gazed at the crest drawn upon it.  He studied it for a moment before looking at Morgan.  His expression was one of dark thunder, and Morgan felt the first shred of fear since the meeting had begun.  "I have seen this one fight.  Be gone!" he ordered fiercely.

Morgan left then, mounting his horse and riding from the valley.  He did not care what Saladin said, only that he would do what was necessary.  Morgan's plans would go ahead, and when he returned to England, his power would be increased immeasurably.  That, and the agreement he'd made with Prince John before leaving England, would produce all he wanted.

But behind him, Saladin and his men waited.  They watched the Frankish knight ride away, and after he was gone, Saladin held up the drawing.

"He is evil," whispered Borka-al-Salu, the grand vizier to the king.

"But his evil will help us."

"Oh Master, Right Hand of Muhammad upon this earth," Borka intoned solemnly, using only one of Saladin's hundreds of titles, "you have said time and again, that if all the Franks were like this one, we would not be at war." When he spoke, his finger pointed to the crest of Radstock which Saladin held in his hands.

"I know.  But I would do what is necessary to end this futility."

"It is wrong.  It will not go as you think.  You have made a bargain with the devil." The grand vizier's eyes sparkled brightly as he gazed at Saladin.

"Enough!"

"No, Revered One, take my head if you must, but heed my words.  A pact with that spawn of hell will not win you the seat of paradise you seek.  Do not do this thing; the stars have spoken to me that it will tempt fate and bring hurt to our land."

"I have given the Frank my word," Saladin said in a low voice .

“As Allah is my judge, I pray you do not suffer because of it."

"As do I," Saladin replied, remembering the two brief times he had faced Miles of Radstock.  Of all the knights he had fought against and of all the reports he had received, only this knight stood out, both in his fighting, and in the gallant way he treated his enemy.

Saladin had spies everywhere, and he knew that when Richard had ordered the deaths of his people in Acre, only this knight had stood against it, and when the slaughter had taken place, he'd not lifted his sword to strike a single Moor.  Saladin, despite all his fierce thoughts and hatred of infidels, respected this man, and his heart was heavy with what he must do.

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The sun bore down on Richard's army as it traversed the valley.  They were on the primary road leading to Jaffa and would reach the town of Arsuf by nightfall.  From there it would be a short journey to Jaffa, where green and bountiful lands met the sea, and Richard's army could rest and re-provision for the attack upon Jerusalem.

Miles rode next to the king, his eyes constantly darting this way and that.  He was uneasy, but only intuition held him so, as there was nothing concrete for him to see.