No Price Too High Read Free Page A

Frankish knights, but—
    A rumble careened through the valley. The man grasped her arm. “Run!” he shouted.
    â€œWhere? Why?”
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œHurry!” 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.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œWho 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