Lady Mamille de Rou, personal bodyguard to Eleanor, Queen of France, Duchess of Aquitaine, braced against the onslaught of wind and rain bombarding them from the stormy Mediterranean Sea. Deep gray skies matched the roiling charcoal ocean, making it impossible to distinguish day from night. She and the queen gripped the wooden rail with slippery gloved hands, the assailing gusts pushing them backward.
Up, down, back and forth, the Black Pine dromont rode the pitching waves. Mamie watched the hundred or so oarsmen keep the galley from tipping, taking on the sea with rhythmic strokes and brute strength.
“I heard one of the men say a rudder might be broken,” Mamie shouted over the wind. Conversation required effort, unless she timed her speech with a lull in the gale.
“We have come this far toward Antioch. God will not let us drown now.” Queen Eleanor wore a confident expression. Her large eyes, pink cheeks, and a regal nose were haloed by an oiled-leather hood. “Is that a clearing?” The queen pointed to the heavy clouds, keeping her balance as another whitecap washed over the rail and onto the deck.
Water, a few inches deep, sloshed against the saturated leather of their boots, but it didn’t matter. Mamie hadn’t felt her feet in days.
“Non.” She squinted, hoping to see something besides gray sky. “You search for a miracle.”
Shoulder to shoulder at the side of the ship, the two women faced nature’s fury. In the past year they’d persevered through harsh conditions as their caravan left France. What started as an adventure had become a struggle for survival as they reached Constantinople. Betrayal and the constant battering of the Turkish armies wore them down, but the pilgrims kept fighting. Not even the flood at Ephesus, where they’d lost men and supplies, had caused them to give up their quest toward the Holy Land.
As if she shared her thoughts, Eleanor said, “We will wrest Edessa back from Nur ad-Din, with Uncle Raymond’s help. Then, Jerusalem.” She put a hand over Mamie’s. “Victory, instead of these cursed delays. You will see, mon fleur.”
“Mesdames,” a voice bellowed.
Recognizing the scratchy tones of the captain’s voice, Mamie turned. “Yes?”
“Why are you out here? You should be below deck with the others.” He grinned, his teeth glistening white in his olive-skinned face. Dark eyes snapped with amusement, his damp hair in ringlets down his back and across his forehead. He wore a belted tunic, leggings, and boots, impervious to the weather. “Do you not notice the storm?”
“We need fresh air,” Mamie patted her belly. “I would rather be wet than sick.”
“You, madame, are a sailor at heart.” He waited until Eleanor’s gazed shifted back to the sea before giving Mamie a languid wink which brought images of him, dark, her, fair—naked, entwined on his bunk. All with a wink? Her body heated at what he might do with his hands.
She shook a finger at him, though the idea tempted. Her last lover, German Emperor Conrad, had been a true disappointment. A mix of ocean water and rain sprayed her face, leaving a salty residue along her eyelashes. It had been a week or more since she’d glanced in a mirror. The captain must be feeling desperate. “Are we in the way?”
They’d taken a position at the center of the galley, near the mast posts. It seemed the sturdiest section, with the least obstructed view of the ocean. Barrels of rainwater and apples were lashed to the inside walls.
“The wind is slowing,” he said. “The storm will be over soon.”
“Any sign of land?” Eleanor asked. Her cloak swept the deck, the hem swirling in dark pools of water that swished from side to side as the boat listed. They’d long ago resigned themselves to being soaked. It was better than enduring the stench of vomit below.
“No, Queen Eleanor. I will alert you as soon as I see a speck along the horizon.” He cleared his throat. “I apologize for the delay.”
Mamie held her breath, wondering what the queen would say. A three-day journey had turned into weeks.
“No need to apologize for being tossed off course. I am grateful for your skills in seeing us through the storms.” Charming and efficient—Mamie should never have doubted the queen’s diplomacy. “All five of our vessels are still afloat?”
“Yes.” He crossed his arms as he studied them. “I am getting a bite to eat. Are you sure you want to stay up here?”
“Oui!” Mamie and Eleanor said in unison.
He bowed and then walked toward the stern, taking the thin stairs down to the makeshift living area and sleeping quarters. The long ship normally carried supplies along the coast, but the promise of a king’s fortune once they reached Antioch had changed the captain’s cargo manifest. Smart captain. Handsome face, sensual mouth.
She’d gotten used to the grit of salt in the air, though it dried her tongue and made her thirsty. Keeping one hand on the rail, Mamie adjusted her stance to the rise and fall of the waves and uncapped the flagon of water she kept on a belt loop. “Queen Eleanor? Would you like a drink?”
Eleanor leaned a hip against the side of the boat. “Something hot would be wonderful,” she said, laughing.
“I have water.” Mamie smiled as she swayed the flagon by its neck. “Refreshing.”
“Hot spiced wine.” The queen accepted the boiled-leather container and took a swallow. “Ugh. Warm and no flavor. But I thank you.”
Another immense wave lifted the prow, causing the hull to shudder and creak.
“I hope I remember how to walk on land,” Mamie said, accepting the roll of the sea. “I wonder how Fay is faring. And Sarah.”
“My cousin has never done well on the water. And Sarah?” Eleanor lowered her voice. “The babe has made her ill since conception. With Jonathon dead, I fear she’s lost her will to survive.”
“Not Sarah.” Mamie held the queen’s gaze, seeing the frustration and pain there.
“If we were in France or any civilized city, I would see to her proper care. But here my crown means nothing. God decides, while we humans wait. And pray.” The lack of food had sharpened the queen’s cheekbones, Mamie noticed, as well as her view of the world.
“At least the king is feeling better.”
“Another one who doesn’t like to sail.” Eleanor held up a palm. “Just a few drops. It won’t be long now.” Shifting from her position overlooking the waves, Eleanor pressed back against a large barrel and faced Mamie, speaking in low tones, “I brought up the subject of battle once we reach Antioch, but Louis doesn’t want to discuss it. He used to talk with me about strategy and planning.” Her eyes turned dark with sorrow. “I know he’s exhausted. And worried over how this damned pilgrimage appears to Bishop Clairvaux and the pope. So he listens instead to Odo and Thierry, who urge him to pray. More praying won’t change what’s already happened. It’s for us to see to the future.”
Mamie reached out for Eleanor’s hand, their gloved fingers squeezing. Laughing, Mamie pulled back. “I’ll add my prayers, if that helps.”
“Do you pray?” Eleanor’s mouth twitched. “Sometimes I hear you humming instead of reciting the Lord’s Prayer, my dearest Rose.”
“Sorry.” Mamie silently pledged her allegiance once more to Eleanor, as the queen used Mamie’s code name. All five of her chosen ladies were named for flowers—flowers in the queen’s garden, or guard.
With a great creak of the wood hatch just left of the mast, Fay appeared from below deck. Her slight stature belied lean strength, her graceful movements limber as an acrobat’s. Her gray eyes held a spark of light that Mamie believed more holy than some of what she’d heard in church. That spark dulled as she neared them.
“She passed so quickly I could not get to you in time.” Tears spilled over, mixing with the spitting rain.
“Passed?” Mamie reached for the short sword hung in its sheath beneath her cloak, in response to a threat. “What are you talking about?”
Eleanor bowed her head, her shoulders shaking as she cried into her hand. “Sarah. Ah, Sarah.”
“Non.” An ache blocked Mamie’s throat.
“Sarah is gone,” Fay confirmed, her cloak barely settled over her narrow shoulders. “The babe. Jonathon’s death. Being ill—it was too much.”
“I should have sat with her,” Mamie said, her mind seeing and rejecting options. “I thought she would rally. She is a fighter.”
“Was.”
Unable to accept her friend’s death—or the innocent baby who had died with her, Mamie paced the deck, ignoring the deep puddles sloshing over her ankles. Sarah, stubborn and argumentative. Generous and strong. They’d fought often in the past few months, compounding her guilt.
The wind slowed, allowing the stench of humans and fish alike to overwhelm the sea air. Mamie pressed her hand to her barren womb. She would not hurl. Would not cry. She stomped the deck, prow to stern, splashing as she went.
No Sarah.
No baby. How sad that she felt a sense of relief. Evil. I am evil.
When Mamie returned to the barrel, Queen Eleanor rested her forehead against Fay’s. “Thank you, Cuz. For sitting with her.”
“The captain wants me to sew her into a sailcloth shroud and”—she cleared her throat—“lay her to rest in the sea. Louis and Odo passed by Sarah’s berth as the captain helped me with her. The king offered to say a prayer for her soul, but Odo, the hunchbacked old crow, reminded the king that Sarah was unwed and pregnant.” Fay whispered out of grief, not secrecy, “A sinner whose soul is lost to us.” She sniffed. “The captain stepped in, offering to say a few words since the king’s chaplain will not.”
Eleanor ground her back teeth. “Hypocrites. Damned fools.”
“What can we do, besides cry useless tears? I will make Odo sorry he said anything. Starting with a candle flame at his toes and burning my way up.” Mamie curled her hands into fists.
“You two are driven by passion and anger,” Fay said. “What we need is to take a deep breath and exhale.” She did so. “Now how will we dispose of Sarah’s body?” Fay returned to her tears. “Mother Mary’s bones. I do not want to say good-bye to another friend.”
Mamie lifted her head from their small circle, catching the king’s advisor, Odo, watching from the shadow of the mast pole. Pointing at him, she held his gaze until he turned and scurried away. Rat.
“I will say a prayer for Sarah’s soul and that of her babe,” Eleanor raged. “I dare anyone to stop me. A woman’s road in this life means nothing but what we make of it. And time is short, oui? Too short for Sarah, God bless that unfortunate soul.”
“That is a sound plan. Mamie, will you ask the captain when we should, er . . . and how?” Fay paled, drawing her cloak close to her body as a current of cool wind whistled over the rail. “And after we are through, I beg you to take some rest and a bit of broth for yourselves. You both have seen us through the storm with your vigilance.”
“Sickness lives in the dank, confined air. I will stay on deck until we reach Antioch.” Eleanor gave the sky another glare. “And we will reach Antioch. I will take some broth in our tent.”
Queen Eleanor, Mamie, and Larissa, the queen’s peasant-born handmaiden, stayed in a small tent covering two cots and their trunks near the front of the ship, below the forecastle and the empty space for the Greek fire catapult. Eleanor had gotten the idea from seeing how the captain had a sturdy tent over his berth near the stern. Fay and Sarah had preferred to sleep below deck.
“I will share my cot with you,” Mamie said, putting an arm around Fay’s shoulders. “If you want to be with us now.”
Fay gave a firm nod. “Merci. It will be cramped . . .”
“I do not mind. We can sleep in shifts, if it is too uncomfortable.”
“You are a true friend.”
Mamie thought about how she’d left Sarah to Fay’s care. “No, you are the one with the compassionate heart.” She paused. “I’ll find the captain.”
“Mesdames!” The captain’s shout from the opposite end of the ship resonated as if he were right next to her. “Wait for me?”
“He found you,” Fay said, wiping her eyes. “He asked about you, which is why he was there with me for Sarah at the end.”
“I look like a crone.” Mamie refused to let her mind settle on Sarah.
“You do not,” Fay said, shaking her head. Her light brown hair, loose from its braid, tumbled down her shoulders to the backs of her knees.
“My cheeks are dry as snakeskin.” Mamie peeled off a glove and touched her face.
“Some rose oil and you will be as good as new.”
“Lady Mamille,” the captain called, a brown hat resting precariously on his black curls. He carried a dark brown cloak over his arm. “Lady Fay. Queen Eleanor. Allow me to offer my condolences on the passing of your friend. I can say a prayer, if it serves you.”
Queen Eleanor drew herself up, tall, proud. “I will do so. However, your generosity warms my faith in humanity.”
The captain whipped the cloak over his shoulders, looking more respectable than he’d been in his tunic and boots. “I am sorry to rush you, but I cannot keep her body on board. The sooner we perform the ceremony, the better.”
“Of course.” Queen Eleanor’s lips paled. “Let me get my prayer book.”
The captain gave a single nod. “Lady Fay, I had my crewmen sew the shroud, since they are experienced. I hoped to save you further pain?”
Fay pressed her hand to her heart. “Thank you. I was uncertain how to bear it.”
Mamie knew that Fay’s quiet strength would have found a way to manage the deed without drawing attention to her suffering.
Me? I like to let everyone know.
“I commandeered two of the Knights Templar,” the captain said. “They are bringing her body to the stern.” He lowered his voice, black eyes filled with sympathy. “Some say the water is the most peaceful grave of all. We will make it so for your friend and her babe.”
Mamie bit her tongue, her mind refuting the image.
The captain clasped his hands together. “We return to the womb of life.”
Tears gathered in Mamie’s eyes. Bastard. Why did he have to go on about it?
Dominus Brochard and his fellow knight Everard de Charney examined the stiffening corpse of the pregnant lady-in-waiting, wrapped in a heavy hemp fabric made for sailing, sewn tight with a sailor’s neat rope stitching. Her silhouette was clearly visible—including the bump from the baby.
“Why are we doing this, again?” Everard asked. His brown eyes held sorrow and uncertainty. The younger knight wore his white robe with the red cross on a shoulder with the appropriate balance of pride and humility.
“The captain asked us to,” Dominus said, wondering how to respectfully handle the body. “We are strong and sworn to aid where needed.”
“A pregnant woman,” Everard said, hushed.
“Her name is Sarah, and she was a loyal guard to the queen.” Dominus lifted her by the shoulders.
“A slut,” Everard argued, his gaze averted from Sarah’s stomach. “That is what Odo said when he saw that we were to help. We are not supposed to touch a woman’s body, he reminded me.”
“Take her feet.” Dominus gritted his teeth. He had no liking for the king’s chaplain, though they had not come to cross-purposes. Until now. “The rules apply to the living, not a corpse.”
Everard’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I feel sorry for her. Is that wrong?”
“Compassion is not wrong.” Dominus shifted so he had a better grip on the corpse. He recalled her from the days on the caravan. She’d ridden with the queen, sometimes in a uniform of crimson and white, sometimes blue and gold. Blonde hair, cornflower-blue eyes. A tight jaw that hinted at stubbornness.
Her lover, a fair-haired Apollo, snipped at her heels. He’d died of an infected arrow wound in Laodicea, before they’d gotten the boats.
Dominus knew the Templar rules regarding women. He had no issue following them most of the time. He was a man with a practical nature and found another way to ease his longing for female company when the need arose. On the scale of rule breaking, abusing oneself did not rank as high as actual fornication.
They walked to the narrow stairs leading up from the belly of the ship.
“Turn sideways. Watch your step. Good.”
Even when he was turned, Dominus’s shoulders brushed the walls. Everard lifted the hatch, awkwardly holding Sarah’s feet while pushing upward. The wood fell back with a clatter, and Everard led the way on deck. Dominus followed, a gust of salty ocean spray smacking him in the face. The past few weeks aboard the galley had inundated him with memories of home: the snap of sails in the briny wind, the grit of salt in his teeth. All things he avoided when possible.
Everard sneezed. “Too musty down there. And dark. I pray the rain will stop for a while.” His brown hair, straight and fine, plastered to his bearded cheeks. His beard had grown in rough, and neither of the men had kept up with tonsuring their heads.
When the bishop had taken Dominus’s oath, he’d told him to follow the Templar rules as best as he could. The rest?
Eh.
Dominus’s secret jaunts to the deck as he’d shadowed Lady Mamille had given him respite from the confined space below. She and the queen took on the elements, as if together they had the power to keep their vessels afloat. Heaven help him, but she’d fascinated him since he’d first noticed her, in France before the expedition started. She had ridden next to the queen, each woman on a white horse as they challenged knights and lords to pledge their lives to the cause.
Mamie moved through life as if it were meant to be savored. He’d watched her seduce men with her come-hither smile, enthrall them with off-colored jokes, ensnare them as she matched them drink for drink. She laughed like it mattered. Her unwavering bravery as she rode in the caravan against the Turkish infidel made her his ideal woman. Just a year ago, he’d have claimed her for his own.
Now Dominus was forced to stay away. Templar rules dictated limited conversation—and no touching, if it could be helped. He poured his stymied affections into protecting her from afar. It was pure torture, but he had to be in her presence.
“Dominus? Everard?”
Dominus paused at hearing Mamie say his name, his grip on the shroud tight.
“Are you all right, brother?” Everard asked with concern.
“Dominus, this way,” Mamie said in a husky voice. “At least it stopped raining. And the wind does not howl like a caged wolf.”
She stood near the side of the stern, the wooden railing coming to her waist. Her hair, a sinful shade of copper flame that had caused many a night’s temptation, flew in coiled curls in the breeze.
“Not howling,” Dominus agreed. “But not absent either.”
“You would argue such a point now?” She spread out her arms, her expression pained.
He wished for the right to grab her hair in his fist and wind the curls around his fingers. He’d tuck it all away and cover her beauty beneath a black veil. Such flights of fancy served him not at all, and he brushed by her as if he did not see her.
She made a garbled sound of anger in her throat.
Her dark brown cloak, the hood down instead of rightfully hiding her hair, was almost black with damp. She would catch a chill if she insisted on staying out in the rain.
Her eyes, round and bright in her pale face, focused on his forehead instead of what he and Everard carried. He understood loss and wished he could shoulder some of her pain. Dominus could not offer a hug of compassion without breaking the Templar oath or, worse, revealing his feelings—but Mamie needed holding. Where were her friends?
Fay, the most angelic of all the queen’s ladies, had a spiritual essence that shone around her, like gold in the painting of a saint. She came from the other side of the deck, with Eleanor’s arm looped around hers. The queen carried a book in her hands. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and her long fingers had a purplish hue.
Even though Eleanor was dressed as simply as Fay and Mamie, without a crown or royal scepter, her regal bearing declared her status. She walked with bred-in-the-bone assurance that her voice would be heard. Dominus wondered if she taught this confidence to her ladies of the guard. In her garden of love.
No wonder the king’s advisors despised her.
The queen raised her hand, regarding Mamie, Fay, Dominus, and Everard. “Thank you, sirs, for bringing our Sarah to the deck and assisting us in mourning her death.” She shook the book. “I have the Office of the Dead. I could read from Psalms and follow tradition.” Eleanor bowed her head, as if asking for aid from the Almighty. “But I will not. Sarah found the routines that offer most of us comfort to be binding.”
Mamie inched closer to Fay. Neither woman looked at the sewn shroud holding the body of their friend.
The captain ambled forward, his hands loosely before him, his head tilted as he listened quietly to the queen. Offering his support.
Word spread quickly that the queen was speaking, and people came up from below. King Louis, Odo, and Thierry also arrived on the deck. The two advisors wore black robes and looked like a short version—Odo—and a taller version—Thierry—of Death.
The queen spoke eloquently, her words resonating with power and easily heard. “I could offer a prayer to Athena. Greek Goddess of Love.”
Louis watched with compassion as his wife struggled to find the correct way to send off her lady. Dominus wondered why he did not join her.
“I will not.” Eleanor looked up and met each person’s gaze. “Sarah de Lockeheart deserves something that only I, her sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, can give her.”
Intrigued, Dominus looked at Everard, who kept glancing at Fay.
“It is true that Sarah had the visage of a goddess. That she carried the spirit of Athena. She loved the hunt, and her loyalty to those she cared about or protected was unparalleled. She did not let me win a race just because I was duchess or queen. Out of all the women in my life, she treated me as an equal.” Eleanor wiped an eye. “That she was peasant born did not matter to her.”
Sarah a peasant? She’d never carried herself that way. Dominus felt a reluctant respect.
“She challenged me, bested me, just as at times I bested her.” Eleanor pulled an orange cloth flower from her cloak.
“Lily. Peasant or noble born, your heart is pure, your soul unblemished despite the judgments of others. Go with God, Sarah. Go in peace. You and your babe are free of all restrictions.”
Dominus looked at Mamie and almost dropped Sarah’s corpse. His temptation, Mamie, held herself rigid. Straight back, stiff shoulders. She lifted her gaze, unseeing as she stared over the wrapped body. He shivered, spooked by the terror he’d glimpsed in Mamie’s eyes. It was one thing to mourn a loved one, but this was something more.
The captain removed his hat and said, “Amen.”
By rote, the watching mourners responded with the same, whether they agreed with the sentiment or not. Odo seemed repulsed, but Louis shrugged free of his advisor’s hand and went to Eleanor. Louis nodded at the lily, then the shroud.
“Oui,” Eleanor whispered. “Mon fleurs?”
Mamie shook free from whatever fear held her captive, joining Fay and Eleanor around Sarah’s covered body. The captain’s men had added small rounded weights so it would sink, making her much heavier in death than in life. Dominus felt the strain in his arms and saw the beginnings of fatigue in Everard’s set mouth.
The women bowed their heads over Sarah.
The queen tucked the orange flower into the seam. “You are released from duty,” the queen whispered. “Free.”
Mamie reached down, touching Sarah’s head through the sailcloth. Sarah’s protruding belly. She drew her hand back with shock, as if realizing how pregnant her friend had been.
The captain nodded at Dominus. He and Everard counted to three, then tossed the body over the edge of the ship. Feet down, the figure seemed to glide gracefully into the deep blue of the sea. As they’d been told, the rowers were at rest. They would wait for a few minutes and then begin rowing once more.
The crowd dispersed, though Mamie, Fay, and Eleanor along with Louis, stayed at the railing. Dominus and Everard waited too.
“She’s gone,” Eleanor said, bringing her knuckles to her lips.
“Her soul was already free,” Fay clarified with a sigh. “This was only her body. A clay jar. She will find a way to heaven, my queen. I believe that, no matter what the church decrees.”
Louis stepped back. “My condolences.” He gave a short bow, his discomfort clear.
It was impossible to ignore rumors of the royal pair at odds. Would Eleanor accept his kindness?
Mamie coughed into her fist, her eyes dry, her mouth strained. He would have accepted these as signs of grieving, until he saw the way her hand strayed to the sword at her hip—hidden beneath her cloak.
The captain dared to step closer, as if to offer comfort. She delivered a scathing look, and the man quickly backed away.
Relieved, Dominus accepted that he could not have her for himself. But he did not want anyone else to have her either. How to let her know she was not alone?
He gestured for Everard to go below. “I will find you. Now that the rain has stopped, we can train with our swords.”
Everard nodded and left. The knight would go far, following orders without question. Fay, Eleanor, and Louis wandered to the other side of the captain’s quarters, leaving him with Mamie.
He watched from a safe distance—there were rules.
Dominus had sacrificed much to be here on this stinking ship, and part of that meant observing life instead of partaking in its wonders. He’d promised, and so far he had kept his word.
A harsh sob sounded as Mamie stood at the rail. Her shoulders started to shake, and she gripped the edge of the ship as if she would jump over and join Sarah in a watery grave. Driven by passionate emotion, Mamie might do it before she realized it was too late and there was no coming back from the sea.
Dominus sprinted the hundred paces it took to reach her. He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around, away from the rail and into his arms. “Stop!”
She pushed away from him, scowling. “What are you doing?” Her hair stuck on the toggle of his cloak, and she yanked it free, leaving behind a few fiery strands.
“Saving you,” Dominus said, looking at her glassy eyes and hard mouth. She seemed like the angry version of his temptation. Was this how she dealt with her grief?
“From what?” She glared at him, blinking in quick succession.
“I know you are sad,” he said, keeping his arms stiff at his sides instead of pulling her into an embrace. “But suicide is a sin.” He would wait for her emotions to calm, then appeal to her reason.
“Su—? Are you serious? I would not jump! I am furious, Dominus.” Her gaze snagged on the cross at his shoulder, and she tapped the cloak with her forefinger. “Perhaps you can answer this, since you and God are so close. Why would He take a woman in her prime? Why would He call back to heaven an innocent babe? And do not tell me that baby committed any sin, whether or not his mother had—which I would debate, if I could.”
Tears sped furiously down her cheeks. Other women cried like statues, marble relics leaking meekly from the eyes. Not Mamie. She cried with purpose and passion.
“We cannot know God’s will,” he said, walking the line between his oath and desire. When, he prayed, would he be free to hold her in his arms?
Her face flushed with myriad emotions, from sorrow, to guilt, to anger. “Get away from me, Templar. Before I toss you overboard. Then you can hear what God has to say firsthand.”