The Spymaster's Protection (38 page)

“Come sit on my lap again,” Lucien murmured once she was done
ministering to him.

“I will hurt you. You should lie in my lap.”

He was sitting in a corner with his back to the wall and
laughed softly. “You will not hurt me, and I do not want you sitting on this
foul straw. Come here, my sweet.”

She did, gingerly settling on his thighs. He angled her
sideways, into the crook of his arm, then pressed her head to his shoulder.
“Now, sleep. I will protect you from the dark and…. the rats.”

“It is not so bad. There is no one screaming in helpless
agony.” She heard him chuckle again, but he did not comment. “And I am here
with you. Even if they leave us here to die, we do so together, entwined as
lovers for all eternity.”

“Go to sleep, Gabi. All will soon be well,” he patiently
advised as he laid his head against hers, marveling at her unshakeable courage.

CHAPTER
19

Every muscle in his body screamed in protest the moment Lucien
opened his eyes on what he assumed was day three of his imprisonment. The fact
that Gabrielle was no longer draped across his lap brought him to instant
alertness. Searching for her in the dim cell, he found her at the door again,
peering through the opening that allowed only a faint light to filter in.

“Gabrielle, what are you doing now? Get away from that door.”

At the end of the hallway, it widened into a large circular
chamber that was used as the interrogation room. Torture room was more like it.
From his cell, one could see what occurred there, and he didn’t want her
witnessing any of the daily horrors. The fact that they had been mercifully
saved from them since her arrival was a blessing he gave thanks for.

She glanced restlessly over her shoulder at him. “I need to
ask one of the guards to escort me to the garderobe.”

He nearly laughed at the way she was wiggling, trying very
hard to be lady-like about it.

“They will only tell you to relieve yourself into the drain.”

She looked at him horrified. “That thing on the ground I was
going to drop my necklace into?”

He simply nodded grimly. “Aye, Gabi, that is what it is used
for.”

“But who knows what may crawl up it! Oh, I cannot.”

She sighed in exasperation, and Lucien could just imagine her
inspecting the grated drain hole. One part of him hated that she had to suffer
this, and another wanted to break out laughing.

“I will just walk around the cell a little,” she finally
decided.

He was about to tell her to barter her eating knife for a trip
to the garderobe when he heard the pronounced footsteps of more than one guard.
“Gabi, come here,” he ordered as he pushed up stiffly, using the wall to rise
to his feet.

She obeyed him instantly, for she had seen the soldiers coming
down the hall. There appeared to be half a dozen of them, and they were headed
their way.

The door burst open with a blinding shaft of torchlight just
as she scuttled behind Lucien. “Get out here, infidel son of a whore, and bring
your strumpet with you!” The Arab who had been administering Lucien’s
interrogations
growled the order, but he was immediately censured by another soldier, who then
stepped into the cell. Lucien had not seen him before, but he appeared to be of
higher rank than his jailer.

“Lady de Châtillon, the sultan sends his deepest apologies,”
the lead soldier announced. “You and this man are to come with me.”

Gabrielle and Lucien exchanged puzzled looks but stepped
toward the officer. The jailer brought out a pair of manacles for Lucien, but
the officer pushed them away with a sharp command for the man to step back.

Lucien took Gabrielle’s hand and followed the man who was
obviously of some rank out of the cell. The two jailers fell in behind them.

As they walked down the hallway, Gabrielle heard many of the
prisoners in the cells on either side of them murmuring among themselves.

“Lady, forgive our crudity,” one of them shouted in French.

“Treat her well,” another yelled out to the guards in Arabic.

Gabrielle looked at Lucien, as confused as he was about what
was going on here.

They ascended one stairway after another until they were on
the top floor of the citadel. The leader separated from the rest and told
Gabrielle to follow him. The other two were given directions in Arabic to take
Lucien to a chamber in the opposite direction.

Gabrielle called out in Arabic for them to halt. “Where are
you taking him?” she demanded. “He is injured and in need of attention.”

“And where are you going with the lady?” Lucien also demanded.

The officer answered both of them. “My men are taking your
companion, my lady, to the sultan’s doctors to look after his injuries. You are
being taken to the harem, for a bath and clean clothing.”

Gabrielle stood her ground. “I want to go with Latif.”

The officer smiled. “The sultan knows that is not his name,
mi’lady. And do not distress yourself, you will be reunited soon.”

Gabrielle gave Lucien a long look. They really had no choice,
except to do what was asked and see where it all led. Because the lead soldier
had been unfailingly courteous, she decided he, at least, could probably be
trusted. She wasn’t so sure about Lucien’s guards, but she could only hope they
meant him no harm, at least not yet.

+++

Gabrielle had never been in a harem before, but it was
everything she had imagined. Richly colored silk pillows were piled everywhere,
laid atop polished tiled floors and thick Persian carpets. The stone latticed
windows emitted bright rays of sunlight, and their sheer silk draperies billowed
with the midday breeze. Precious sandalwood and myrrh incense burned in small
brass bowls next to large ones filled with oranges, dates, and nuts. Cushioned
divans upholstered in rich brocades were scattered about the large square room.
Several surrounded the marble pool Gabrielle was soon ushered into by two
female attendants.

Submerged up to her shoulders in hot water, she sat back
against the stone wall and silently watched both women attend to her bath. One
was a pretty young woman of indeterminate age. She had not nothing since
Gabrielle had been given into her care, and she assumed the woman was a slave.
Mesmerized by the unexpected luxury, Gabrielle let the woman lather her hair,
then rinse it. She refused her assistance when the young woman offered to wash
her body, much preferring to do that task herself. While she lathered and
rinsed, the other woman, older and darker-skinned arranged a change of clothes
of their charge.

Never in a score of years would Gabrielle have thought Lord
Saladin would treat Reynald de Châtillon’s wife to such luxury. She dearly
hoped Lucien was being treated similarly. Once they had left the dank darkness
of the dungeons, she had seen that his body was much more badly bruised and
beaten than she had been able to discern in his cell. It quickly became obvious
that he had suffered a great deal of physical abuse at someone’s hand. Thank
God, she had come when she had! Now it seemed her plan had not gone as awry as
she had originally thought.

After her bath, Gabrielle was instructed to lie down on a low
cloth draped table, where she was rubbed down with exotically scented oil. When
that was done, she was left alone to rest for a while. Despite her concerns,
she closed her eyes and almost immediately dozed off. The night spent in
Lucien’s prison cell had been anything but restful.

When she opened her eyes, she found the older woman waiting
for her with an arm full of new clothing. Gabrielle rose off her perch and
allowed the servant to dress her. Within moments, she was arrayed in a
beautiful pair of loose silk trousers, a long beautifully patterned silk tunic,
and incredibly soft kid slippers.

After being guided to a brocade covered bench in front of a
highly polished metal mirror, the serving girl brushed Gabrielle’s hair until
it dried, then draped a sheer gossamer Mediterranean blue veil over her head.
Gabrielle drew it across her nose and mouth and tied it into a loose knot
beside her ear. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she drew in a
startled breath. If these clothes were a gift from the sultan, as they appeared
to be, she was held in very high regard. He had arrayed her exquisitely, but
why? As Reynald de Châtillon’s wife, she should not merit such extravagant
treatment.

The sultan was known to treat those captives he wished to
ransom well, especially women and children, but she had never anticipated being
treated this well.

When she was escorted from the room by the slave girl, the
officer who had delivered her to the room reappeared to escort her down the
hall and stairway. She assumed she was going to meet either the sultan or one
of his amirs. She ardently hoped she would also soon see Lucien. She turned to
the man beside her and asked in his native tongue about him.

“He is awaiting you.”

Relief eased the tension in Gabrielle’s shoulders. They
traveled the length of an open columned arcade. It paralleled the immense
outdoor yard of the citadel three stories below. It appeared that the upper two
floors of the garrison were kept available for the sultan or other important
men of rank.

Through a giant stone arch, they passed into a beautiful
pleasure garden. It was not overly large, but it had been planted with all
manner of exotic flowers and potted palms. Stone benches and small fountains
invited one to sit and linger. On the other side of the central stone path that
wound through it, they turned left and entered yet another long passageway.
This corridor was not open to the courtyard below. At the end of it, they
entered a richly furnished private sitting room, adorned with stone latticed
windows that let in patterns of sunlight which dappled across the patterned
blue tile floor.

The three men seated on silk covered divans in the center of
the room rose as she entered. Behind them stood four massive black bodyguards.
Gabrielle identified Lucien and quickened her step. She noted that he had been
sitting next to the sultan and another man of high rank. Before them, there was
an assortment of fruits and nuts and a gold tray bearing a ewer and four golden
goblets set atop a low round wooden table. To her amazement, she also saw a
small bowl of chipped ice next to the large golden jug.

She and Lucien appeared to be the honored guests of the great
Sultan Saladin.

When she got to Lucien’s side, she noticed that he too had
been bathed and perfumed, dressed in clean trousers, tunic, and robe. Though,
he wore no head covering, his hair and beard had been washed and trimmed. She
could see that someone had attended to his injuries. He looked at her with as
much surprise in his eyes as she felt.

Despite Muslim tradition, she reached for his hand. Within the
warm strength of his, hers was cold and trembling. He gave her hand a squeeze.

Though Gabrielle had never seen Saladin, she recognized him by
his stature and his dress. He wore the yellow cap and white shawl over it that
he was often described as wearing. His close-fit, heavy gold brocade tunic was
clasped down the front and fell over knee-high boots made of the finest
leather. He wore no beard, but his thick moustache was as black as a raven’s
wing. Beneath his equally dark brows, deep brown eyes assessed Gabrielle with
noticeable interest and appreciation.

Under his intense appraisal, she felt the color creep into her
cheeks. Dropping her eyes, she bowed her head and waited for him to speak to
her, relieved that her veil covered half of her face.

“Madam de Châtillon,” the sultan said at last. “I am al Nasir
Salah al Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub.” All that was given in Arabic, then he switched
to perfect French, startling Gabrielle with his knowledge of it. “Your people
call me Saladin.”

Gabrielle immediately dipped into a bent kneed bow. When she
straightened and raised her eyes to him, she could see that her deference had
amused him. She had never expected him to be such a tall, lean, handsome man.
Beneath his dark mustache, his lips curved into a half smile, one that matched
the congenial glimmer in his dark eyes. Gabrielle understood, after meeting
him, why he had become such a great leader among his people. There was a powerful
charisma that emanated from every inch of him. He radiated authority and
command.

Turning to the man standing beside him, Saladin introduced
him. “This is Muzaffar al Din Gökböri, lady, one of my most esteemed generals.”

Beside her, she heard Lucien murmur quietly, “The Blue Wolf.”

Ah, the Blue Wolf. Gabrielle had heard of him by that title.
The Blue Wolf was one of Saladin’s most trusted and feared commanders. A Turk
by origin, he had been born the son of the governor of Irbil, in northern Iraq,
in Khurasan. He and his father had first fought for the great Zangi, then Nur
al Din. This man had then defected to Saladin and served him loyally ever
since. For several years, he had been the governor of Harran in Edessa,
northeast of Antioch.

Gabrielle had heard Reynald mention his name frequently, and
she had overheard her father talk about him even more frequently. For some
reason, Armand reserved a particular hatred for the Blue Wolf. It seemed to
stem from his days living in Antioch with her mother. Gabrielle recalled asking
her mother about the man after her father had hit Simone when she had mentioned
him. The strangest look had come over her mother’s face as she had told
Gabrielle that the Blue Wolf was one of the greatest warriors in the kingdom, referred
to by his people as the Lion of the Desert. Gabrielle remembered thinking it
strange that Simone would refer to an infidel as a great warrior. It had all
been so long ago, she had nearly forgotten about it.

She saw that in the ensuing silence, General Gökböri was
staring at her even more intensely than the sultan had, his dark eyes focused
on her facial features in particular. It didn’t seem to matter that she was
partially veiled, he studied every feature, even those lightly screened by her
sheer head scarf.