No Price Too High Read online

  He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the fight behind her. She did not turn. With one enemy to her back—if the nameless man were an enemy—and facing another, she had to worry about keeping her soul in her skin.

  With a shout of the king’s name, she lunged toward him. He fell back before her furious attack, then tumbled over a dead horse. Her blow hit the saddle as he rolled to his feet. He lifted his broadsword, victory on his face.

  She drove her sword beneath his raised arms. Steel struck bone. Astonishment on his face, the bandit collapsed.

  Melisande whirled. The nameless man had vanished. Coward! If their paths ever crossed again, she would see he paid with his life for insulting the king.

  An arm seized her at the waist, pulling her back behind a huge stone. She raised her sword, then froze when she heard a low laugh.

  “King Richard lets his ladies wear mail?” asked a low voice in Frankish with that peculiar accent which belonged to the man who would not speak his name. “Come with me.”

  “I cannot go. The others—”

  “You cannot help them if you are dead.”

  “I cannot leave them.”

  His lips twisted as he drew aside the cloth to reveal a square jaw and a neatly trimmed beard. “The ones here are beyond help. There is a way to reach the other side of the valley without being seen.”

  “Will you take me?”

  “Only because that is the direction I travel.”

  Melisande blinked at his lack of civility. She had heard much of the odd ways of Frankish knights, but—

  A rumble careened through the valley. The man grasped her arm. “Run!” he shouted.

  “Where? Why?”

  “If you value your life, run!” He shoved her toward the sunshine.

  She spun and stared at rocks that were rolling down the cliff. The man caught her hand, tugging her after him. She tried to keep pace. The mail coat weighed on her shoulders.

  “Hurry!” called the man.

  Reaching beneath her gown, she loosened the latches holding the mail over her shoulders. “I cannot run with this on. I must rid myself of it. One moment.”

  “You may not have—”

  Pain swallowed his warning before everything vanished into a darkness that was filled with the unending echo of Sir Gerard’s final shout of “Dieu le veult!”

  TWO

  Melisande woke to comfort she had not known since she had left Heathwyre. Lushness surrounded her and teased her, lingering in her dreams. A pulse of pain rumbled through her head, but softness murmured beneath her face.

  Each breath was scented with perfume, but a dull ache in her ribs warned that one might be bruised. She opened her eyes and scowled at the fabric stretched overhead like a pavilion. Her fingers quivered as she touched the wall. She was not lost in a dream. Where was she? She sought in her memory.

  Agony speared her like an arrow. The attack. The cry of victory being turned into screams of death. Blood and horror. Geoffrey? Where was her brother? She tried to think. She had fled with … She had no name for the man. Was he friend or foe? Had he been struck as well?

  She sat and moaned as she cradled her head. She had no idea where the line between ally and enemy was drawn. She must find out. She reached for her knife. It was gone—as was her mail shirt. She recalled undoing one side of it. Mayhap it had fallen among the stones in the bloody valley.

  Melisande looked around the tent, which was lit against the night. Elegant rugs covered pebbles, and pillows were gathered in the corners. Light came from a gourd-shaped lamp hanging from the roof, which rose in the center. Fabric was draped over the single door. A quick tug at the bottom of the wall beside her warned that the door was the only exit, for the material was too taut to move.

  She tensed at a soft voice. She looked over her shoulder. The woman was dressed like the infidel women in Tyre, save that her black veil had been pushed aside. Wrinkles were etched into her face.

  “Who are you?” Melisande asked.

  The old woman stared in confusion. When Melisande repeated the question in Frankish and in Latin, she quickly realized the woman either could not or would not answer her questions.

  The old woman held out a dish, and Melisande peered at a strange mixture of vegetables and meat. The old woman pantomimed eating. She might as well try the food. If this were her captor’s way of killing her, she would die. The method of her death should not concern her, only devising a way to escape.

  She dipped her finger into the bowl. With a cry, she pulled her finger back and stuck it in her mouth as steam rose from the bowl. Her eyes widened as spices sparkled on her tongue. She had never tasted its like.

  The old woman patted her hand before placing the bowl in it. She rose with the awkwardness of old bones and sat by the door. With her arms folded over her robes, she stared at Melisande.

  Melisande ate as she tried to decide what to do now. There was no fire in the tent, so the food must have been brought here. From where? What sort of place was this?

  She might have an answer if she had any idea of the nameless man’s fealty. He had no loyalty to King Richard, but he was no ally of the infidels who had attacked them. Who was he?

  As soon as Melisande finished eating, the old woman took the dish. She handed Melisande a dipper. Melisande sipped, savoring the water sliding along her throat. It tasted more succulent than the sweetest wine of Aquitaine.

  The old woman turned away, but Melisande grasped her black robes. “If you cannot understand me, find me someone who can,” she said in her sternest tone. “Where is the man with the white robes? He understands my language.”

  The old woman shook her head. Her gnarled hands drew her robes out of Melisande’s grip. Reaching beneath them, she offered Melisande a green bottle.

  “What is it?” Melisande asked.

  The old woman regarded her with a toothless grin and drew the cork. A flowery fragrance emerged.

  Melisande touched the top and rubbed her fingers together. The scent was as sweet as the rose garden at Heathwyre.

  The old woman mimicked pouring out some of the oil and rubbing it onto her skin. She closed her eyes.

  Melisande gathered her feet beneath her. Before she could move, the old woman opened her eyes, pointing to the bottle. Her smile vanished, and the fervor in her eyes was a match for the nameless man’s.

  Sitting back on the pillows, Melisande tilted the bottle and brushed the oil onto her hand. Coolness eased her sand-scored skin. Dirt ground into it was soaked away as her hand began to glisten. Tears welled into her eyes. How could she enjoy this when her brother might be dead or dying?

  Melisande shoved the cork back into the bottle. “Take it away.”

  The old woman repeated the motions of rubbing the oil into her skin.

  “No.” When the old woman did not take the bottle, she set it on the rug. She drew her knees up and leaned her chin on them as she fought tears. If she had not insisted on riding for Acre, Geoffrey would be safe.

  The old woman tried to shove the bottle into Melisande’s hands.

  Melisande folded her arms. “I don’t want it. I want someone who will speak to me.”

  “Will I do?”

  The old woman prostrated herself on the rug.

  Slowly Melisande came to her feet as she stared at the man who had refused to tell her his name. He was alive … and dressed in robes of scarlet and purple that would befit a prince. An infidel prince, she realized with horror. No Frank had ever donned flowing robes that were bloused into soft boots rising to his knees. His head was draped with fabric tied back with a sash as bright as the purple one at his waist, but his long hair, which was as ebony as his beard, brushed his shoulders.

  His smile could not soften his face, which was as sternly carved as the cliffs. As she was caught by his jet eyes, which possessed an arrogance dimming even her brother’s, she noted the breadth of his shoulders beneath the robes that moved with sinuous grace as he walked toward her.

  He p
aused as he passed the old woman and spoke what must have been an order. She rose, put her hand to her forehead, and bowed before scurrying away. He did not look to see if the tent flap dropped back into place, warning of his easy expectation that every order would be obeyed.

  He bent to pick up the bottle and held it out. “This is pleasing.”

  “The truth would be more pleasing.”

  “How do you fare?”

  She touched the aching spot on her skull. “It is nothing that shall not heal. I believe you repaid me in full by saving my life … sir.” She was not certain what title he was accustomed to. He wore his power with the ease of a man who had borne it all his life.

  “I will admit that it was easier to save you when you did not contradict every order I gave.”

  “You cannot fault me for distrusting a man who will not speak his name.”

  With a chuckle, he motioned for her to sit.

  Melisande hesitated, then lowered herself into the nest of pillows. She kept her feet ready to vault her up, although she doubted he would give her the chance to flee.

  He squatted so that his incredible eyes were level with hers. When he smiled again, his teeth contrasting with his sun-burnished skin, it was the triumphant grin of a cat that has secured its prey. She wondered if her voice had withered away, for she could not utter the questions plaguing her.

  “Few of those who call this land home speak the language of the Franj—”

  “The what?”

  “The Franj.” He smiled. “Here in the hills, that is what we call Franks and any other Crusader. I suspect from the way you speak that you are English.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your name is—”

  “One I would exchange for yours.”

  His hand whipped out, and he grasped the hair at her nape. “I wish to know your name now.”

  Terror threatened to choke her. “I am Lady Melisande, daughter of Marlon Chapeleine, the Earl of Heathwyre, vassal to his royal highness Richard, king of England.”

  “Earl of Heathwyre?” His dark eyebrows arched. “Why does a man of such rank allow his daughter to travel here?”

  “I came to be with my father and brother.”

  “What is your brother’s name?”

  “Geoffrey Chapeleine.” She winced as his fingers tightened in her hair. “He is also known as Lord Beornet.”

  His eyes widened. “I trust you speak the truth.”

  “I have no need to hide my name. It brings me no shame.” She drew away, startled when he released her. “If you will restore me to my brother and our companions, I shall see that you find yourself richly rewarded.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible. My brother is not without gold or influence.”

  He dropped pillows on the floor near where she sat. He reclined, but she was not fooled. He was coiled as tightly as a snake ready to strike. Rearranging his loose robes about him, he regarded her without emotion. “I assume you were traveling with your brother when you were ambushed by Abd al Qadir.”

  “Abd al Qadir?”

  His chuckle was icy. “The leader of the hill bandits, milady … Melisande, did you say?”

  “Yes, Melisande.” She watched his expressive mouth twitch and knew he had not forgotten her name.

  “Was it your brother who led you so foolishly toward Acre, Melisande?”

  She stiffened at his easy use of her given name. “I think it would make this conversation more comfortable if I had a name to call you.”

  “Why do you think of such things when I wish to speak of your brother?”

  “What of Geoffrey?”

  “Was he with your group of travelers?”

  “Yes, he would not allow me to travel unprotected.” She would not reveal how her brother had hesitated.

  “You seemed quite capable of protecting yourself, far more than your companions.” His smile vanished. “They, like your brother, are dead.”

  Melisande stared at him. Was this another taunt?

  “I express my sympathies,” he continued.

  She choked. “They all are dead?”

  “More bodies were counted than there are fingers on your hands.”

  “Did one have hair as red as mine?”

  “All heads are red, Melisande, when covered with blood.”

  Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer. She trembled as she imagined telling her father that his only son was dead. Mayhap Father would return to Heathwyre and marry his young mistress and have another legitimate son. She squared her shoulders. “Witness my vow, if you will.”

  “Vow?”

  “I vow to see those who slew my fellow Hospitallers die before I do.”

  He withdrew a knife from his sash. When he rocked it between them, she saw it was her knife. “That is a powerful vow, Melisande.”

  “It is one I intend to keep.” She hesitated. “If you wish to fight beside me, I shall see you are rewarded.”

  “How?”

  “My father is a wealthy man.”

  He reached toward her and fingered her sleeve. “This is simple cloth for the daughter of a wealthy man.”

  “I set aside fine fabrics when I took a Hospitaller’s vow.”

  “You have many vows to fulfill, Melisande.”

  “Do not mock me.”

  He drew her sleeve toward him, his gaze holding hers. She gasped when she heard one thread, then another snap. She seized his wrist to jerk his hand away. With a terse laugh, he forced her arm back toward her breast.

  She screamed when he shoved her into the pillows. She raised her hand, but he caught that hand as easily and held it away. Slowly he straddled her, his knees pinning her gown to the pillows.

  “Do you know why you live?” he murmured.

  “Let me go!”

  “And if I choose not to?”

  She stared up at him in horror. This man was warrior-strong.

  His dark eyes glittered with amusement as he repeated, “Do you know why you live?”

  “Because I killed my enemies before they could kill me,” she spat. “They are your enemies as well. Why are you treating me like this when we can join forces to repay them?”

  “You have no forces, Melisande.” He released her sleeve and brushed her hair back from her eyes, tilting her face toward his. “Only you to stand against the hill bandits.”

  “But if we were to join together—” She flushed when he shifted so his knee brushed her leg. Lightning seared her.

  “An intriguing invitation,” he murmured, “but you are a Hospitaller, and I am … not.”

  Frustration sliced through her once more. “Who are you?”

  “I will tell you after you have considered my words.” He combed his fingers through her hair, lifting one strand from her shoulder. He looked over it to capture her eyes anew. “Before you negotiate for the strength of my arms and my allies, consider why you alone survived the attack.”

  “I told you. I killed my enemies first.”

  “Didn’t you think it odd that thieves were defeated by a woman who fights with a toy sword?” He did not give her a chance to answer. “All but you were slain for the gold they might have been carrying and their weapons and mounts. Why? Because, Melisande, you were too valuable to slay.”

  “Valuable?”

  “Abd al Qadir likes to steal pretty women to sell as concubines or slaves.” Sitting, he laughed. “That you are pretty is, of course, his opinion. I prefer my women smelling sweet instead of horseflesh and dirt.”

  Melisande pushed herself up so that she could sit. “Do not let me keep you from their much more pleasant company.”

  “I thought you would wish not to be alone with your loss.”

  Grief threatened to consume her, but she submerged it. “The time for mourning is when I have avenged my brother’s death. Abd al Qadir is no friend of yours, for you killed his men with satisfaction. Why not assist in my vengeance so you may have yours as well?”

  “I t
hought you came here to free Jerusalem.”

  “My loyalties to my family must come before my vow to the Church. My father told me that before he sailed here.”

  “To Tyre?”

  “He is with King Richard’s men near Acre.” When he gave her a cold smile, she returned it. “Do not try to make me think I have given you information you did not possess. The siege has been going on for too long for anyone not to know.”

  “I would be wise not to underestimate you, Melisande. Let us relax and speak honestly.” He motioned to his own legs stretched far out into the room.

  “What I wish to know of you is your name.”

  “My enemies call me Renard du Vent.”

  “You are Renard du Vent?”

  Lord Vaudrey’s warning resounded through her head. The fearsome bandit left his prey dead. Why had he shown her clemency? Horror threatened to choke her. If he intended her to become his concubine—for his words about the other bandits might have been to taunt her with his own plans—he would learn that Melisande Chapeleine would die before ceding her will to him.

  “I should be proud that the English have heard of me,” he said, smiling.

  Whoever had named him had chosen aptly. He possessed a fox’s cunning, and she did not doubt he could attack and disappear with the speed of the desert wind. “Your enemies have given you that name. What do your friends call you?”

  “Why would you wish to know when the anger in your eyes suggests you are no friend of mine?”

  She rose, unable to sit when he twisted words as easily as a knight twisted a lance. “I need an ally who knows these hills. I offer you the chance to share in my victory, Renard Du Vent. Do you have the courage to ride with me to avenge my brother’s death?”

  Picking up the bottle of oil, he came to his feet. His head brushed the top of the tent; and she realized that when they had fought the bandits, he had crouched.

  He opened the bottle and took her hand. She jerked her fingers away. With a smile, he poured oil onto his palm. The sweet scent swirled through the tent as he ran a single finger through the oil and reached toward her face.