My Lady Queen

  THE CRUSADER

  BOOK IV:

  MY LADY QUEEN

  John Cleve

  © John Cleve 1975

  John Cleve has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1975 by Dell Grove

  This edition published in 2018 by Lume Books.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  BOOK IV:

  My Lady Queen

  Chapter One

  Duel in a Stable

  Her hair was the color of gold and honey and the bellies of sun-gilt clouds. Even disarrayed as it was now, it looked delicious; silky, tendrilly, delicate hair that stirred in the gentlest of zephyrs.

  Lightly shaded by pale lashes, her eyes were as blue as the nearby Mediterranean. They held a growing confidence, her eyes, but the old nervousness was still there, for she was still skittish, ever wary, after her harsh and uncertain life of the past five years—even now, in the protective company of The Crusader.

  Her forehead was high and smooth, her brows nearly as straight as her longish, slender nose, and she had recently experienced two firsts: she was no longer a virgin, and she had killed another human.

  Her name was Melisende de Bois-Courtenay. Her father had been a third son, a landless knight banneret who had followed a nobler knight here to the Holy Land in search of name and fortune. He had found neither; following in the footsteps of so many other Europeans, he had found only death in the land the crusaders sought to wrest from its Saracen conquerors.

  Saladin’s Turks slew him when they took Ascalon, over four years ago, in the eighty-and-seventh year of the twelfth century since the birth of him called the Prince of Peace—in whose name this war was being fought, in whose name Melisende’s father had died. For now the Sultan Salah ad-Din and his Turks held the city both they and the invading Westerners called Holy: Jerusalem.

  Melisende had watched with horrified eyes while her father’s four killers raped and then bloodily slew her mother. Spent by then and little interested in the pre-nubile blonde of thirteen, they sold Melisende as a slave—one of many Christians thus sold, of both sexes. The wife of an emir bought her, and over four years passed.

  At seventeen, the girl was attracting more and more of the emir’s hot-eyed gazes, and his fattening wife frowned. Melisende was a lovely young woman, and strong withal; a girl-woman who carried as many as ten water buckets daily. Her mistress found it expedient to sell her again. Tempered in the stern furnace of horror and slavery, the Frankish blonde with her fair skin represented a valuable commodity on the slave mart at Cairo, down in Egypt.

  But Melisende de Bois-Courtenay never saw Cairo. Her fate was linked with that of the outlaw Julanar the Lioness, who attacked the caravan and made a prisoner of the girl with the fascinatingly unusual skin and hair; and with that of a former stable-hand from the isle of Cyprus, he who had saved the life of Richard of the Lion’s Heart and was thus dubbed Guy Kingsaver of Messaria, later called the Human Crossbow, one of the heroes of this third great crusade, The Crusader.

  Treacherously betrayed and stolen by night from his camp-tent by his own worst enemy, a man he had bested in personal combat, The Crusader, too, was sold and destined for Cairo. And Guy and Melisende became fellow captives of Julanar the Lioness and her outlaw band. It was among them that Melisende’s virginity was torn from her, by the leathern handle of a whip; that Guy Kingsaver became her first man; that he lay, too with Julanar; that Melisende was beaten, and raped, and made to clean the stable housing the outlaw’s swift horses.

  But now Julanar was dead and buried, and Guy and Melisende had won free, and fought and slain the Turkish cavalrymen that destroyed Julanar’s band. Long days had slunk past, with the armored pair, well-mounted on Turkish warhorses, riding ever northward in that forbidding country, seeking to rejoin King Richard.

  The month was December, the rainy season in this unpredictable and unholy land called Holy. Daily the rain fell, and then the sun slashed at them, sucking up that water only to hurl it down once more the following day. Sweat sloshed with each of their movements in the Turkish saddles. They suffered, in chain-link armor become ovens of steel.

  On what The Crusader thought was their eighth day of riding north from Egypt, they came to a nameless town. Its walls breached in more than one place, it had been bloodlessly deserted. Guy of Messaria had no way of knowing whether the former inhabitants had fled Christians or Saracen. Perhaps they had precipitately departed on command of their lord Saladin. The sultan had emptied many hamlets and towns and even cities, ruining their defenses against the relentless advance of the moving wall of mail that was King Richard’s crusading army.

  The Crusader hoped to find and rejoin his chosen liege-lord’s army. He was sure he was out of Egypt by now and in the Holy Land—Syria, the land its people called Falashtim, Palestine. But both he and Melisende were tired and rain weary. In the town of no name and no people, the two took refuge from the constant rain.

  They had hardly rested. Last night they had made love, with the full realization that they might not live past the dawn, alone in enemy land. Then, in the tiny house they had decided upon, they slept, well into the day. This day they had spent talking, mainly, getting to know each other and rubbing their armor against the dread death of rust. They had fed the horses on the small amount of grain and long-dead hay, and had themselves eaten from their dwindling supplies.

  Now night had returned. The Levantine moon hung round and white as a maiden’s breast over the little town. Its silvery rays picked out rain-streaked white walls, reflected from puddles of water like polished shields amid the mud of the streets. A gentle breeze rustled through pines and gnarly olive trees dotting the surrounding terrain like gnomish sentinels.

  Tonight, in this cozy little house whose owners had left behind both carpets and cushions, Guy and Melisende had begun again. With her lying back on the carpet and the old cushions they had found and collected together, he had held her in powerfully possessive arms, cock-stabbing her until she became a tigress of passion and wailed out her satiation while her body was rocked by absolutely stormy sensations of blissful passion.

  Now the slender blonde from France was asleep, happily sated, with The Crusader’s seed cooling in the silken-walled sheath of her lower belly. She sprawled atop a fat cushion with a cover of third-grade silk, dirty yellow, with its stuffing leaking out onto the brown-and-blue carpet. As naked as she, and as spent, Guy Kingsaver gazed at the loveliness of her very slender body.

  Strange thoughts crowded his mind. It never occurred to him that there was responsibility in being a woman’s first man. A girl’s first boy, he thought with a little smile, for they were both youthful, despite The Crusader’s powerfully muscled body and unusual height; he was rising six feet.

  Quietly, so as not to rouse her from the sleep that was sweetest, he stood and drew his surcoat over his nakedness. The horses must be checked; no need to don underclothing, and leggings and then coat of silvery mail. But habit prevailed: he drew on his great broad belt of black leather, with the scabbarded sword of Spanish steel swinging from it, and the smaller suspended sheath, too, of a Saracen dagger. He grinned at his own thought, as he started to leave the two-room house. But he obeyed the
thought, returning for his Saracen helmet with its curtain-like camail of fine steel links, for, ridiculously, he did not want to get his head wet.

  Quietly, the tall man went out into the muddy town, under the steady gray drizzle. He sloshed down the street to the stable with the mud seeking to hold his feet with loud sucking noises.

  He had just stepped inside when he heard the horsemen come riding. Instantly Guy wished he wore full armor. How could the riders of those approaching horses be those of his kind the Saracen called “Franks;” Westerners, Christians?

  No, that creaking leather was the hide of the animals of this land, the clank and jingle and metallic scraping were of curved swords and the lighter chainmail of the sons of Allah; the enemy. And aye, now he could hear them: they spoke not the almost universal French, or any other Western tongue. Their words were Arabic. Thanks to the tutoring of a dusky girl who pleased to call him “master,” and to much practice, Guy Kingsaver understood that tongue. Pressed against the inner wall amid the aroma of hay and animal sweat and old urine and excrement, he listened.

  They were three, those Turks, and they were on their way south into Egypt, the base of Saladin’s power and the source of his supplies of men and food and horse and arms. The Crusader’s eyes narrowed. He held his breath lest he miss a word. For they were soldiers, Saladin’s warriors, and he was hearing information of military value. Immediately Guy of Messaria, recently slave and outlaw and even more recently lover, became soldier once more.

  Saladin, he heard, had taken refuge in Jerusalem from Richard and the crusading host. But the Turkish conqueror was far from hopeless. He expected reinforcements from Turkestan, and with those additional horse and men-at-arms, the three men Guy overheard assumed that their lord and commander would break the back of the besiegers, the cross-bearing unbelievers. Certainly with the Turkestani would come provisions—but they were hurrying, and thus were lightly laden, and thus Saladin would need much more supplies for the even huger army he was soon to command.

  These three men were on a flying mission to Egypt, to arrange a great caravan. A mission for Saladin; a mission, then, against Richard.

  The Crusader’s heart beat the faster. He and Melisende must resume their northward trek at once, now, to warn King Richard. If only I’d worn my armor, Guy thought, if only I had my wire-wrapped bow, a shield . . . but he had not—and he was going to have to fight anyhow, for one of the men was now bidding another to stable the horses.

  “An there be fodder for them there, Ayyub, feed them well, for they may go days before their next bellyful. If there be none . . . then make apology, in Allah’s name, and be certain the poor beasts are well secured.”

  Then there were sloshing sounds in the watery mud.

  “I have to stable the flea-infested horses whilst they hie themselves to shelter and comfort,” Ayyub grumbled, in the manner of soldiers of all times and all places, as he approached the stable—and the silently waiting Messarian. Well concealed in the darkness, Guy allowed the man to lead the three animals inside and close the door after them.

  “At least it’s dry in here, praise be to Allah,” Ayyub muttered.

  “Aye, and ye’ll not have to work long or hard—not in this life,” a voice said from the darkness, in barbarously accented Arabic.

  Ayyub’s hand was tugging forth his scymitar even as he swung about.

  A smile twitched the Saracen’s thin-mustached face as he saw himself set upon by a shaggy-haired, bearded man wearing only a surcoat, a white robe designed to be worn over armor as protection against burning sun. Despite the man’s considerable size, Ayyub knew that the fellow had no protection at all, neither armor nor shield. Sidestepping quickly, he braced himself and prepared to meet the attack with ready scymitar.

  Guy cursed himself mentally. He should have slain the other man without a word, merely hacking off his head or slamming his sword straight into the Saracen’s back! Yet that was not the way of The Crusader, whose personal code transcended that of most nobler-born men.

  He had to abandon his rushing attack, for without armor or shield he could take no cut of the Turk’s sword. A scymitar-cut to an arm covered by linked Frankish steel was a heavy blow, perhaps a bruise; nothing more. But now even a half-blow would cost him the use of his arm for life—and perhaps the arm itself.

  The two men faced each other in the dimness of the stable, staring with eyes held wide in their attempt to defeat the darkness and see the more clearly.

  I am too vulnerable, Guy thought. I must let him come to me—and I must be swift!

  “So ye speak our language, Frank, and ye deemed it prudent to come at me without armor, did ye? Well, ye’ll not be the first Frank I’ve sent off to hell!” With those words, Ayyub lunged with his crescent-curved sword held so as to pierce his antagonist’s unarmored belly.

  The Frank, though, was considerably faster than Ayyub might have expected, considering the other’s height and muscular bulk. He danced away, swung half around, and his long broadsword came rushing around with a force and speed that made it hum as it clove the air. There was a great clang as blade fell upon blade, and the Turk grunted and winced with the shock that ran up his arm. The Frank was as strong as he looked—and even faster!

  Hard-struck by the other sword, Ayyub’s blade thunked loudly off the wall of a horse stall. Within, he heard a horse move and utter a nervous whicker. But the Turk did not trouble himself with that; his only concern was to regain his balance and the position of his sword, for the big Frank was twisting his own wrist, arresting his stroke, and starting the backhand movement that would bring that long blade rushing back.

  Ayyub moved, and Guy’s backhand stroke struck sparks from the Saracen’s armor. Ayyub’s teeth flashed in a feral grin; it would take more than that! He backed, grateful for the blade-turning strength of his light mailcoat, and swung his own shorter sword in a vicious chop to carry away the other man’s swordarm.

  And Guy Kingsaver did the totally unexpected. He did not duck aside, or dance back, or attempt the impossible: to get his blade in the way of the oncoming steel. He drove forward, straight at his attacker. Ayyub grunted when his rushing forearm slammed into the upper arm of the other man, who immediately whipped his elbow up and out from his body just as if he had worn a shield. The Christian’s face writhed in pain as a hardswung arm clad in silvery mail impacted his own unprotected one. But he made no sound. Having sprung in too close to be sword-cut and having whipped his arm out to deflect the chopping stroke, he again did the unexpected.

  Guy of Messaria dropped his three-foot sword! Down sprang his right hand even as his body slammed into the other man’s with a force that brought groans from both their lips. And up came that right hand, empty of sword—but no longer completely empty. Ayyub had only an instant to be aware of the sliver of steel thrusting from the fist that rushed upward at his chin; only an instant to try, desperately, to flail his sword into the attacker’s back.

  Then The Crusader’s powerful underhand blow terminated up under the other man’s chin, and the Saracen dagger he had drawn slid in easily through unprotected skin, between the bones of the jaw, and drove on upward to burst into Ayyub’s mouth. The Saracen’s teeth clacked together and bit off the cry he should have loosed long ago.

  Now he died in the darkness of the stable, his mouth full of blood that flowed out between his lips and rushed down his throat and into his windpipe, and without having either called or warned his two companions. His swordarm dropped beneath the weight of his scymitar, his other hand clutched weakly at his opponent’s big shoulder. Ayyub swayed back. For a moment a stall propped him up, while he stood staring in shock and surprise at the other man, strangling on his own blood.

  He fell. Guy left the dagger where it was, pinning the man’s jaws together. He paused for a few moments, listening. He heard only restless horses; the other two men had apparently not heard the almost silent fight.

  They will know about me soon enough, The Crusader thought. But I
shall be better prepared to face the two of them!

  The man he had just slain was not so big as he, not so burly or well-muscled. But Guy worked swiftly at ripping away the dead man’s white robe, and then at getting the mailed coat off the body. The leggings, he knew, were hopeless; the Turk was too short. But the mailcoat would afford him at least partial protection, provided it did not hamper his movements.

  Swiftly Guy stripped off his swordbelt and surcoat; hurriedly he drew the padded Saracen mailcoat about himself. It would not quite meet across his powerful chest, and he sighed and buckled the other man’s belt tightly around himself, in order to hold the chainlink jacket nearly closed and so afford himself as much protection as possible. The dead man’s shoulders had been broad and his upper arms thick, and a couple of practice swings of his arms told Guy that he was only slightly hampered. But he would certainly be better equipped for a fight wearing the ill-fitting armor than without it.

  He drew on his surcoat again, thinking it important to cover up the fact that a two-inch expanse of his bare flesh provided an excellent target from neck to knee. Then he buckled on his own swordbelt, sheathed the broadsword, and slipped into his own sheath the Turk’s unused dagger.

  Murmuring soothingly to the beasts, he moved among the horses and took from one saddle a round shield with a pointed steel boss set in its center. Now for the other two, he thought, with a smile that was not pretty.

  At that same moment, he heard Melisende’s scream.

  Chapter Two

  Rape

  Melisende woke from her happy sleep to rough hands and leering faces. By the time she had assimilated the facts that Guy was nowhere about, that she was naked and defenseless and entirely at the whim of two armed Saracen, one of them was behind her, kneeling with one leg on each of her arms and thus pinning her. The other was on his knees between her legs, grinning as he gazed down at the pale-haired bulge of her vulva.