Crusader's Lady. Lynna Banning
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Valery rolled heavily toward the edge of the bed and raised his torso up on one elbow. Soraya spun away, putting her back to him. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him lurch off the bed and stagger, still half-asleep, toward the chamber door.
Her heart leaped. Her tunic and trousers and the strip of linen she used to bind her breasts lay directly in his path. Trembling with fear, she waited.
The groggy knight stepped over the pile of clothes and slid back the bolt. Just as the door scraped open, Soraya clutched the towel to her bosom, darted behind de Valery to snatch up her clothes and leaped onto the bed.
Huddling in the center, wrapped in the towel, she waited until the holy man pushed through the doorway, then hurriedly yanked one of the bed curtains closed. The damask hanging zinged along the wooden rod, screening her from view.
De Valery’s sleep-muzzy voice spoke. ‘What news?’ he demanded.
‘Something has happened.’ The monk was breathing so heavily Soraya guessed he had climbed the three floors at a run. Frantically she wound the linen strip around her upper body, and was just tugging her tunic over her head when she heard the holy man stride across the room.
‘Have you some wine?’
‘No.’
‘Well, get some, man,’ the monk shouted. ‘We must talk.’
‘Soray,’ the knight ordered. ‘Go down to the kitchen. Ask them to send up food and wine.’
She scrambled into her trousers, slid off the far side of the bed and scooped up her sandals. Then she ducked past the holy man and sped down the hall to the stairway.
On the way back up from the kitchen she heard men’s voices drifting along the corridor and she hid in a garderobe to listen.
‘He would sell it?’ one man grated. ‘To the Templars? But where would we get such a sum for the purchase?’
‘Look in your vault, Giles. More than enough gold is hidden there.’
‘Damn the man!’
‘The English are not patient, Giles. We must pay.’
Soraya curled her toes but made no sound. As soon as the voices faded, she fled.
When she returned to the chamber, the bathtub was gone and a flagon of wine, a round loaf of bread, a saucer of greenish olive oil and some cheese sat on the crude wooden table against one wall. De Valery was half-dressed in a long, loose shirt, apparently one he found in the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, the lid of which now stood open. The holy man paced back and forth in front of the casement.
‘Do not argue, de Valery. It is done.’
Soraya edged around the perimeter of the shadowy room, staying out of the holy man’s path, until she reached the bed. In one bound she sprang behind the still-drawn curtain.
‘It will be dangerous,’ the knight snapped. He slammed his wine cup onto the table, and Soraya winced.
‘It is already dangerous,’ the monk shouted. ‘We leave before lauds. Get some sleep.’
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