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other man. When he stood, she stared up into dark eyes above the cloth that was drawn across his face to protect him from the driving sand.
    â€œWho are you?” she asked in English, then in Frankish when he did not answer.
    â€œSomeone who is grateful to you for saving my life,” he answered in Frankish that bore an odd accent. He scanned the valley with the keen gaze of a veteran warrior. Since he kept his hands behind his back, she had no idea if he had blood on his sword to prove that.
    â€œYou must have a name.” She frowned. Emotions seared his dark eyes, but she could not guess what they might be.
    He arched an ebony brow as his gaze swept along her with the intensity of a sage poring over a volume of old learning. Her fingers slipped on the hilt of her sword as sweat ran along her palm. She would not be daunted by this strong man. She had saved his life.
    â€œWho are you?” she repeated more sharply.
    â€œMy name will matter little if we stay here.”
    She nodded, unable to argue with such reason. “Follow me.”
    When he grabbed her arm, Melisande gasped. “Do not be a fool!” he snarled over the rising wind. “What good will it do for you to die, too?”
    â€œWe must slay King Richard’s enemies.”
    â€œI shall not die for an English king.”
    She jerked her arm away. “Then you are a coward!”
    His eyes narrowed. “Me? How can you say that when you stand here as proof that Richard is the true coward.”
    â€œKing Richard is no coward!”
    â€œNo? He lets a woman fight in his stead.”
    Melisande battled her fury. She should have let the infidel kill him. She swung her sword and laughed when he jumped aside.
    He looked at the slash in his tunic. “Are you mad?”
    â€œDo you swear allegiance to the Holy Crusade?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen you are no ally of mine.”
    â€œBehind you!” He knocked her sword aside and pushed her away in the same smooth motion.
    She fell into the sand. Raising her head, she dropped back when she heard a sword slice the air above her head. It struck another blade.
    Melisande jumped to her feet. The man in the white robes faced another of the accursed bandits. How many of the loathsome creatures had joined this ambush? Another infidel appeared out of the swirling sand. She grabbed her sword with both hands and ignored the ache along her tired arms.
    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.
    â€œKing 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.”
    â€œI cannot go. The others—”
    â€œYou cannot help them if you are dead.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWill you take me?”
    â€œOnly because that is the direction I travel.”
    Melisande blinked at his lack of civility. She had heard much of the odd ways of