Captive Rose Read Online Free PDF Page A

may have appeared,
mighty and virile. She had always thought the Arab chroniclers had greatly
exaggerated their descriptions of such men, but it was clear now that she had
been wrong.
    This man might have stepped from those very pages. He
was well over six feet tall, probably six and a half, his massive physique a
perfect match to his unequaled height. Were all crusaders like giants compared
with other men?
    Once again many questions flooded her mind, melding
with a sense of irritation that she could become so easily engrossed in studying
the crusader's masculine attributes. Yet she could not stop herself from
looking at him.
    How had he come to be captured? He had to be a complete
fool to have ventured into Syrian lands, or perhaps his lust for plunder had
overwhelmed his better judgment.
    Then again, these Christian barbarians were mad in the
first place to cross the seas in hopes of conquering the vast Arab Empire. How
could they harbor such misguided illusions when they were outnumbered by millions, and so undeniably inferior to the men whose
culture they wished to destroy?
    "Leila, I will need bandages," Sinjar requested, casting a curious sideways glance in her
direction.
    "Yes, Father," she answered, embarrassed that
she had to be reminded again of her duties.
    She searched through the leather bags until she found
the rolled linen, along with several vials containing the powdered medicines
she judged her father would wish to administer to their valuable patient. She
set everything on the edge of the cot, venturing at last to voice her nagging
questions.
    "Tell me, Father. Where did the soldiers capture
this crusader?"
    "The Lebanese border, in the foothills north of
Mount Hermon ," Sinjar replied, using a wine-soaked cloth to cleanse away the filth, blood, and sweat
around the wound. "There were four other crusader knights in his party, a
dozen men-at-arms, and several native Christians for guides, but the others
were all killed in the surprise attack. This man survived only because he
escaped into the hills, hiding there for many days until he was captured this
afternoon. Governor Mawdud ordered that he be taken
alive and held for ransom."
    "But the soldiers gravely injured him," Leila
said, helping her father wrap a thick bandage across the crusader's broad
shoulder, underneath his arm, and up again until the wound was securely bound. " 'Tis a strange way to spare a life."
    "Yes, he most likely would have died but for that
padded vest he wore and his chain mail, which lessened the blow."
    "Chain mail?" Leila followed her father's
gaze to the mysterious pile of iron rings lying upon the floor. At last she was
able to guess their use.
    "The crusader's armor," Sinjar explained, confirming her suspicion. "It covered him from head to foot,
protecting him from worse injury. This man fought like an enraged lion when
they finally found him, slaying three soldiers before they could bring him down
with that blow to his shoulder."
    Leila felt a surge of baffling excitement as she
imagined the violent and bloody scene. "But why he is so valuable, Father?
Is he a rich man? An important one?"
    "So many questions , my
daughter," Sinjar said, studying her.
    Leila's cheeks burned at his perusal, a rare sensation,
but she met his gaze steadily. "If we are to cure this crusader for
ransoming, a most unusual case as you said yourself, Father, then surely I might know why the governor values him so."
    Sinjar chuckled to himself. "You
were always an inquisitive one. A very good thing in our profession." He
picked up one of the opaque vials she had set upon the cot, opened it, and
sniffed lightly to discern the contents. "Letters from the Mongol Ilkhan , Abaga , addressed to Lord
Edward of England, were found on several of the dead men."
    Leila gasped. "To Lord Edward, the English prince
who arrived last year at the Christian port of Acre with his thousand
crusaders?"
    "Yes," Sinjar replied. "No doubt Lord Edward awaits those letters from