Lion's Bride - Iris Johansen [1]
But her chances of becoming ill were far greater on the caravan. Thea’s food supplies were scant, and the journey to Damascus dangerous. Caravans were often attacked by Saracen bandits or renegade knights who had come to the Holy Land only to plunder. Once she reached Damascus, the situation might be even more hazardous. After years of sporadic battles Jerusalem was once more at risk, and the great Turkish sultan Saladin had sworn to reclaim all that had been lost to his people in the previous Crusades. That Damascus was war ravaged would make it easier for Thea to lose herself in it, but Selene was safer here until she could provide a safe haven.
Selene turned at the gate and waved at her.
Thea lifted her hand in farewell. “I’ll be back,” she whispered. “I promise you. I’ll come back for you, Selene.”
Selene had disappeared through the gates, and only God knew how long it would be before Thea would see her again.
She must not rely on God. God seldom helped those who sat and waited for His aid. She would work hard. She would never surrender. She would be clever and find a way for herself and Selene.
She bent down, lifted the basket, and slung the attached straps over her shoulders. She hesitated as she looked at the caravan slowly moving away from everything familiar to her. The caravan itself was like a strange serpent, hissing and creaking. Only the soft jingle of the camel bells seemed without threat.
And then there was this terrible dust. She was accustomed to surroundings of absolute cleanliness, and the stinging waves of dust striking her face were terribly distasteful.
Well, there was no turning back. She would become accustomed to all of it, she told herself. She would learn and adapt to every trial.
She adjusted the basket straps on her back and started down the road in the hot, dusty wake of the caravan.
APRIL 21, 1189
SYRIAN DESERT
THE MOONLIT SILVER SANDS shimmered hazily before her eyes.
The mountains on the horizon seemed an eternity away.
Thea staggered, fell to her knees, then struggled again to her feet.
She must keep going….
She must not waste the night. The darkness was less cruel than the burning light of day. Barely.
She tried to swallow.
Panic seared through her. Dear God, her throat was too dry; she would strangle.
She drew a deep breath, trying to calm the wild pounding of her heart. Fear was as much her enemy as this burning desert. She would not be frightened into taking the last few swallows from her water bag.
Tomorrow she might reach an oasis.
Or even Damascus.
She had been traveling so long, surely Damascus was a possibility.
She would not give up. She had not escaped those savages just to succumb to the desert.
She stopped and concentrated. See, she could still swallow. She had not reached the point of total desperation. She started jerkily forward again.
Think of coolness, smoothness, glowing threads of gold on fine brocade. Think of beauty…. The world was not this desert.
Yet it seemed to be the world. She could not remember anything but glaring sand by day and shifting sinister shadows by night.
But tonight the shadows seemed more alive, less evanescent and more purposeful. Coming toward her.
Pounding toward her.
Not shadows. Horsemen. Dozens of horsemen. Armor gleaming in the moonlight.
The savages again.
Hide.
Where? No shrubs in this barren place.
Run.
No strength.
There was always strength. Call on it.
She was running. The water skin and the basket on her back weighed her down, slowing her.
She could not drop either one. The water skin was life. The basket was freedom.
The pounding of hooves was closer. A shout…
A sharp stitch in her side. Ignore it. Keep running.
Her breath was coming in painful gasps.
The horses were streaming around her, in front of her, surrounding her….
“Stop!”
Arabic. Saracens. Savages like those others.
She darted blindly forward, seeking a way through the ring of horses.
She ran into a wall of iron.
No, not a wall. A broad chest garbed in iron mail.