Captive Rose (11 page)

His immediate concern was how the hell to get out of
the prison without bringing the rest of the guards down upon him. He peered
around the door into a large cavernous room lined with many similar cells, but
as far as he could tell they were dark and empty, no other guards in sight.

Clutching the scimitar tightly with both hands, he was
about to step from the cell when he heard male voices. One belonged to the
captain of the guards; the two others he didn't recognize.

"Damn!" Guy muttered, backing into the cell.
His hands were sweating where he held the sword, not out of fear but from the
sheer exhilaration of battle pumping through him. He leaned against the wall
and waited as the voices drew
nearer,
sweat dripping
down the side of his face, the cords of his neck taut and his bare chest
heaving.

The next few moments were a bright crimson blur. When
two more guards rushed in the open door, followed by the alarmed captain, Guy
reacted like a demon unleashed.

One guard fell instantly, clutching his abdomen as his
lifeblood spilled between his splayed fingers, while the other guard fought Guy
bravely before he, too, followed his compatriot into Paradise. That left the
white-faced captain of the guards, who brandished his sword and circled Guy,
awaiting his first move.

"Keys . . . and maybe you will live," Guy
demanded in halting Arabic, pointing his sword tip at the iron ring nestled in
the captain's sash. "Keys!"

Clearly astonished that Guy spoke his language, the
captain shook his head fiercely. He cursed Guy to the high heavens as he
continued to circle and better his stance, his scimitar flashing dangerously in
the yellow lantern light.

"Then die," Guy said harshly in his own
tongue, any thought of mercy vanishing as fleetingly as it had come. By all the
martyred saints, he had no time for this!

He lunged at the captain so suddenly that he took the
man completely off guard. With little remorse he struck him through the heart
and pinned him to the wall. "For Reginald Welles, you bloody bastard."
The man clutched at the blade, his face twisted in horror, on his last breath a
rasping curse.

Guy didn't even blink. He had been so cursed many times
before. He wrenched the iron key ring from the bloodied sash and turned from
the dead man's glazed, unseeing eyes, not bothering to remove the sword. He
looked at the wild sprawl of lifeless bodies around him, then down at his own
bloodstained trousers.

He needed clothes.

Guy quickly stripped the guards and donned garments
that were not too bloodied: a voluminous pair of ankle-length pantaloons, a
tunic, an
overgarment
with a wide belt, and a braided
shoulder mantle. The clothes were a bit small for him, but he hoped that in the
dark no one would notice either that or any telltale splatters of blood. Last,
he slid on a pair of short leather boots, the only thing that fit him properly,
and wound a long scarf around his head, securing it with a black double-ringed
cord.

He picked up another highly polished sword and looked
at his reflection in the famed
mirrorlike
Damascus
steel. With his thick, dark beard and borrowed robes he could easily pass for
an Arab on the moonlit streets—if no one asked him any questions. His poor
Arabic would get him into trouble the minute he opened his mouth. He needed
Leila's help . . .

Clutching the precious key ring in one hand and the
scimitar in the other, Guy left the cell and its silent, staring dead. He shut
the door, hoping to stave off any curious guards for at least a while, and
began to search for a way out of the prison. He breathed an audible sigh of
relief when he spied a bolted door which appeared to face the same direction as
his cell.

Guy lifted the bolt and pushed on the door, but it was
locked. He began fitting key after key into the rusted keyhole, all the while
keeping a cautious lookout over his shoulder. He tried another key, and then
another, with still no success.

"Come on . . . come on," he whispered, cold
sweat beading his brow. Finally one of the keys grated in the lock and the door
swung open in squeaky protest. A strong breeze snatched at his robes as he
stepped into the sweet freedom of the night, tense elation pulsing through his
veins.

He tossed the key ring to the ground and tucked the
scimitar into his belt, then shut the door and went directly to the wall he had
virtually memorized during his captivity. He followed the ragged young boy's
recent example and began to scale the rough-hewn surface, counting brick by
brick. By the time he reached the flat roof, he was straining from exertion,
his right shoulder on fire. He hoisted himself over the edge and lay down on
his stomach, gasping in great
lungfuls
of the cool
night air.

When he had caught his breath, Guy rubbed his eyes and
looked out over the myriad rooftops of Damascus. The ancient city was
hauntingly beautiful in the pale moonlight, but he had no time to think of that
now.

He had to find Leila. She was his only way out of this
godforsaken place. With her command of Arabic, surely she could get them safely
through the city gates and on their way to Acre.

Guy began to crawl silently to the opposite side of the
building. Even if there was the remotest possibility he might escape this city
on his own, he'd be damned if he would leave without her. He could never live
with himself, knowing he had left her behind in Saracen hands. To do so would
be to disgrace his chivalric oath which demanded that he defend his fellow
Christians against the cruelty of heretics and infidels.

And if anyone's plight had touched him, it was Leila's.
He would find her and help her escape, or gladly die in the attempt.

Guy reached the other side of the roof and looked down
into the narrow deserted alley below. He climbed down the wall just as before,
brick by brick, until his feet touched solid ground. So far, all was well.

He walked onto a main street, his robes fluttering
around his legs, and turned left, heading away from the accursed prison. He
kept his head down when passersby drew close, but to his relief he was
attracting no curious attention. He hurried along the dark winding street, for
it was past sunset, not stopping until he came upon a bent old man who was
closing up his fabric shop for the night.

Guy knew that if he said too much he would give himself
away. "
Sinjar
Al-Aziz," he muttered
gruffly, clearing his throat and coughing. He was counting on the physician
being as renowned as Leila had said he was, otherwise he would never find the
right house.

The old Arab studied him through dimmed eyes,
then
pointed down the street, uttering a string of directions
that Guy barely understood. When the man finished speaking Guy nodded
graciously, his heart beating hard against his chest as he continued walking
eastward along the same street.

So the physician Al-Aziz was a famous man, Guy thought,
amazed and encouraged when each of the three passersby he stopped next was able
to direct him further along his way. No one seemed in the least bit surprised
that he should be asking about him; perhaps they simply believed he was seeking
some medical treatment for his feigned cough.

At last Guy came to a narrow side street with elegant
one-story houses built alongside the northernmost wall of the city. He could
hear rushing water beyond the walls; it sounded like a fast-flowing river. The
last man he had spoken with had said the home of Al-Aziz was the fourth one
from the corner. Guy would know it by the intricately carved brass plates upon
the door.

He paused just past the third house and looked up and
down the dark, quiet street. Good. No one was coming. He could see the polished
brass door on the next house, and his heart seemed to beat all the faster. He
had found it! Now, how was he going to get inside? Certainly not by the front
door, where any armed guards inside might see fit to carve him into little
pieces . . .

He looked up at the flat roof, carefully weighing his
next move. The windowless front wall was high, but he was probably tall enough
to reach the ledge if he jumped for it.

Guy did just that, grimacing at the pain that shot
through his shoulder and right arm. Ignoring it, he pulled himself up, swinging
his leg to the side and over the ledge. In the next instant he was hugging the
roof's tiled surface, where he craned his neck and got his bearings.

From what he could tell, the house was very large and
divided into two main sections, with multileveled roof terraces here and there
and large, lit spaces which must open into courtyards. All he had to do now was
find the harem.

He crept across the roof, listening for any light,
female laughter. If this physician was so wealthy, surely he had dozens of
women to pleasure him. Thinking of Leila among that number, he felt anger sweep
through him, fueling his furtive search.

He kept low, sometimes stealing on his hands and knees,
until he reached the first terrace. All was still and silent; no one occupied
the white gazebo. He moved around it and came to a courtyard, his eyes widening
at the sight of a stout, silk-clad woman reclining below on a central divan
while what appeared to be slave women scurried around her bearing silver trays
laden with food and drink. The richly dressed woman's tone was sharp and
commanding as she clapped her hands, and Guy shuddered, frowning.

Probably a wife . . . and a most unappealing one at that,
he guessed, watching for any sign of Leila among the many slaves.

Long, tense moments passed, and still he did not see
her. Growing impatient and beginning to doubt his chances of finding her, Guy
crept past a trellised terrace toward the farthest corner of the house,
then
stopped again when the roof opened into another
courtyard lit by softly glowing lanterns. He crouched there, his gaze sweeping
the lush, green interior, but it was empty.

He sat back on his haunches, a hollow ache of despair
welling inside him. It was an emotion that rarely afflicted him, and he didn't
like it at all. Yet as he considered his next move, he couldn't seem to shake
it.

Maybe Leila wasn't here. Maybe
Sinjar
Al-Aziz had several homes in Damascus, one for his
wives
and one for his concubines. He had heard stories of such practices among the
small Moslem population in Acre. If that was the case, the odds of finding her
were dwindling indeed, and he was fast running out of time. Surely his escape
from prison would be discovered soon, if it hadn't been already. Once the alarm
was raised he would never get out of the city, whether she was with him or not

Guy froze, his breath catching at the sight of a
petite, dark-haired woman entering the courtyard. Dressed in rose-colored silk,
she paused by a marble couch, her head bowed, the gold embroidered edges of her
translucent veil hiding her face from view. He heard her sigh, and his heart
seemed to stop at the plaintive sound. Then she slowly lifted her head,
revealing an exquisite profile . . .

Leila!

Guy jumped from the roof and landed as silently as a
cat upon a grassy mound at one end of the courtyard. He stole up swiftly behind
her, his footsteps masked by the babbling stream. The last thing he wanted her
to do was
scream
. He caught her around the middle and
pressed his hand over her mouth.

"Leila, don't fear," he whispered soothingly
as she struggled against him. "It's Guy de
Warenne
.
I've come to help you . . . to take you with me."

His voice had the desired effect, for she seemed to go limp
in his arms, and for a fleeting moment he thought she might collapse. Holding
her close, he turned her around to face him, her features hidden by his
towering shadow. As he removed his hand and gently tilted her chin toward the
lamplight, his stomach suddenly sank into his boots.

"By all that is holy, you're not Leila!" Guy
was so shocked that he released his hold on the woman and stared stupidly at
her. From her glossy black hair to her tiny feet, she was a close replica of
Leila, but she was older, by twice as much, though the years had not marred the
ethereal loveliness of her face and delicately curved figure.

"
Shhh
, my lord! You will
bring my husband's entire household down upon us," the woman admonished
him in English, looking up at him with eyes that were without fear and
glistening with unshed tears. "
'Tis
truly a
miracle! You are safe . . . and you are here! God has answered my prayers more
abundantly than I could ever have hoped." She stepped back, her gaze
sweeping over him. "You have grown into a man, a knight. The last time I
saw
you,
you were one of
Ranulf
de
Lusignan's
young pages and could barely lift a
sword."

Guy felt as if he had stumbled into a dream. Perhaps
the opium had affected his brain! He was afraid that if he spoke a single word
this beautiful woman, the courtyard, everything would disappear, and he would
find himself in prison again, awaiting death.

"Come." The woman tugged urgently on his arm
with what felt like a flesh and blood hand. "We cannot talk here. Curious
eyes and flapping ears abound, always ready for mischief. Come with me, my
lord. Please, we must hurry."

Strangely, Guy did not protest. He went with her to a
narrow archway just off the courtyard, ducking his head as she led him into a
softly lit room. He took his eyes from her for an instant, his widened gaze
cautiously circling the opulent interior decorated in gold, silver, and
precious stones. He had never seen such luxury!

"You are safe here, Lord de
Warenne
,
at least for a while," he heard the woman say, the sound of his name
shattering the bewildered haze that had settled over him.