Crusader Captive Read Free Page B

He didn’t recognize the device on them, nor the coat of arms carved into stone above the gate of the outer barbican.
    When they passed through the gates and crossed the drawbridge, he acknowledged grimly that the fortress well deserved its name. Fortemur. Strong walls. It had those aplenty. And guardsmen, as well. He glimpsed pairs of lookouts in the dozen or more towers interspaced along the walls, while more pikemen in red-and-black tabards patrolled the walks between.
    The towers were of a unique design that owed as much to the East as to the West. Almost like the minarets that called the infidels to worship. They gave the massive keep an almost fanciful air that belied its well-ordered defenses.
    Its outer and inner curtain walls were spaced well apart, he noted. Gardens and orchards flowered in the low-lying land between them. They would feed the defenders during a lengthy siege. Until the outer curtain was breached, at least. Then, Simon surmised, the defenders would open the sea gates and flood the orchards to keep attackers at bay.
    He gave the yards the same reluctant approval. Both inner and outer bailey teamed with activity from the dovecote to the farrier’s forge to the kitchens that pumped the tantalizing odor of roasted meat into the air. Simon’s stomach cried for a slice of whatever sizzled on the spits as the troop halted by the stables and the lady slid from her saddle.
    She spared him only a glance before throwing back her hood and issuing a low order to her lieutenant. “See him fed and bathed, then bring him to my solar.”
    Simon barely heard her. Although the silken veil still covered most of her face, he couldn’t help but gape at the thick braid draped over one shoulder. It was so pale a gold as to be almost luminous. Like winter sunlight shimmering on a frozen lake. Simon had never seen the like.
    With some effort, he dragged his gaze from her to her lieutenant. He’d shoved back his hood as well. The man’s weathered face owed more to age than the sun, Simon now saw. Silver tinted his hair at the temples. And the scar running from his ear to the neck of his tunic bespoke a man who’d engaged in more than one battle. Some, obviously, with the female he now faced.
    “Do you want him with the wrist cuffs on or off?” he queried in a voice tinged with unmistakable disapproval.
    She directed her attention to Simon and raked him again from head to foot. As he had on the auction block, he stiffened under her assessing look.
    By the bones of Saint Bartholomew, she was a forward wench. The kind whose bold glance would have raised an answering response from him in other times, other circumstances. He’d bedded his share and more of saucy maids and painted, panting ladies before his father’s dying vow had bound him to a life of poverty, obedience and chastity.
    Yet he’d never encountered a female such as this one. Strong enough to ride for hours without so much as slumping in the saddle. Strong-willed enough to issue orders to the battle-scarred veteran who awaited her command.
    “Off,” she told him. “But you have my leave to subdue him if he offers violence.”
    “He’d best not.”
    Simon knew the gruff response was more for his benefit than hers. She knew it, as well. She turned away with a nod, then swung back.
    “Be sure to bring him to me by way of the tower stairs.”
    “I will.”
    Simon’s gaze followed her as she lifted her skirts and stepped around the offal inevitable in a stable yard teeming with horses, swine and chickens. She had a fine-turned ankle, he couldn’t help but note before he faced her lieutenant once again.
    “I am Hugh of Poitiers,” the man informed him. “Once in service to Eleanor of Aquitaine. For these past two decades and more, I am sworn to the holder of these lands.”
    “Who is he?”
    “She.” Sir Hugh tipped his head to the retreating female. “Lady Jocelyn is my liege.”
    Simon’s glance whipped to the lady, then back again. “She