Warrior's Song (23 page)

    "If you move, you will be dead," she said against his temple. "Now, stay on your knees and don't move." Slowly, she eased her hold and stood over him, leaning only slightly, her knife point firm against his neck.

    She said now, "All of you, take three steps back. That's right, do it now. Three steps."

    Slowly, the men moved backward.

    "Mary, fetch their knives and swords and put them behind me. Hurry, but take care."

    "I'll kill ye, ye bitch, and it'll be slow and I'll laugh whilst I—"

    She eased the knife further into his neck. He gulped and shut up.

    What to do now?

    She'd won. She couldn't really believe it, but she'd managed because of her red-eyed rage about Mary, and she'd won.

    Where were the bloody servants?

    It was dead silent in the Great Hall save for the still, harsh breathing of Robbie Durwald. The pain was leaving him, she realized, and she knew he would try to get away from her.

    "Mary, hand me my own knife and sword."

    She held her own knife in her hand, eased up the other and slipped hers into place. She said to Robbie Durwald, "Feel my knife. It's sharper than yours, and it'll go through that coarse neck of yours in but an instant. Don't move or you'll be dead before you keel over."

    "How long do ye think ye can hold us here all by yerself?"

    "As long as I—"

    It happened so fast that she didn't even see it. One of Durwald's men pulled a knife out of his tunic belt and hurled it at her. It struck her shoulder and Chandra felt a blaze of fire slam into her. Her knife wavered and Robbie Durwald moved quickly, twisted her wrist until she dropped the knife, and then jumped back from her.

    He was laughing.

    At her.

    Chandra had thrown her knife at Graelam and struck him in the shoulder. The irony of it ate deep. She didn't appreciate it. The pain was so strong, so overwhelming, that it took every bit of her strength, pulled from the deepest part of her, to keep a hold. "Mary," she said. "Mary, stay behind me."

    "Aye, Lady Mary, do whatever ye wish, but first, ye will very nicely return my weapons to my men."

    "Chandra—"

    "I'm all right, Mary. Do as he says. I'm all right."

    Mary looked at her friend, her face deathly pale, the knife stuck in her shoulder, blood pouring over her hand.

    "Do as he says, Mary."

    "Aye, Lady Mary, do as the little lad here asks."

    Robbie Durwald came to stand over her. He took her chin in his palm and forced her face upward. He sank his knife point into her woolen cap and jerked it off. Her hair fell about her face.

    "Ah, now I see ye as ye really are. The knife hurts? Aye, I can see that it does." He reached down and jerked it out.

    Chandra felt as if someone had pulled her heart from her chest. She had time only to suck in her breath at the pain; then she fell over onto her side.

    Durwald knelt beside her, ripped off strips of her tunic, wadded the cloth and pressed it against her wound. He called to his men, "Once you have yer weapons, we're off." He stared down at her, willing her to open her eyes.

    But she didn't.

    "We'll torch the keep," he said and rose. Mary raced to Chandra and pressed the blood-soaked cloth to the wound.

    "Nay, don't," she said, looking up at Robbie Durwald. "Don't fire the keep."

    "I'll do whatever I wish to do," Durwald said, and turned toward his men.

    Chandra felt his movement away from her. She felt the pain deep in her shoulder, but she also felt more determined than she ever had in her life. She felt for her sword, clutched her fingers around the grip, and lurched to her feet. She was on him in an instant, her sword going through his side. He yelled and whirled about, his men staring, not believing that the girl was even alive.

    It was what Jerval saw when he and Mark burst into the Great Hall. Chandra was jerking her sword out of a man's back even as he was turning, his knife raised.

    He saw blood covering her.

    He meted out death even as his howls of rage filled the Great Hall of Oldham.

    It was Mark who gave Robbie Durwald his deathblow.

    Chandra stood there, panting, her sword in one hand, its tip bloody, her other hand pressed against her shoulder, blood everywhere, so red against her white face, and he couldn't believe it. She was smiling.

    "I knew you would come," she said. "Thank you, Jerval. It was close, very close."

    He was striding toward her when she collapsed where she stood.

    "I'm going to strangle you," he said, his mouth against her cheek. "Aye, the instant you're well again, I'm going to strangle you."

    She tried to smile, but it was difficult. She'd lost a lot of blood, she knew, and she knew that most men wounded as she'd been easily bled their lives away. But he wouldn't let her die. She knew that as well.

    "Thank you," she said.

    "You were supposed to be safe, holding Mary's hand, reassuring her." He was speaking more to himself than to her, and she realized it even though the pain was building now and it was hard to hold on, to keep the pain at bay so she could see him clearly and hear his words.

    "Thirsty," she whispered.

    He held her head up and put the goblet to her lips. She drank slowly, so slowly. He wiped water from her chin.

    "There is a healer here at Oldham. Her name is Agnes. She has sworn to me that you will live. You've been very sick for three days now."

    "Is Mary all right?"

    "Aye, she is fine. When I am not with you, she is. You have but to lie still and mend. I have sent Prince Edward and Princess Eleanor on their way. They are sorry that you were wounded."

    "Will you go to the Holy Land with them?"

    He was silent a moment. "I don't know," he said at last. "First you must get well again. Then we will see."

    "I want to go too," she said. Then her eyes closed and she slept.

    He thought of her fighting Robbie Durwald, her life bleeding away, and— and what? he wondered. It was his fault that he'd left her unprotected at Oldham. Yet it was her fault that she'd even come with him, sneaking in with his men. And he knew to his bones that she would never waver, she would never back down, she would always fight.

    He sighed. He had no idea what he would do.

    "Aye, it is a good sleep," Agnes said, coming up to stand beside the bed. "The lass is strong, stronger than most men I've tended. She'll live to give ye gray hair."

    "I think she already has," Jerval said.

    It was three nights later, in the deepest part of the night, when Jerval awoke to her moan.

    He quickly lit a candle and came down beside her. "What is wrong, Chandra? Does your shoulder pain you?"

    "My stomach, Jerval," and she cried out, clasping her arms around herself, drawing up, and then she moaned deeply, jerking, finally lying back, panting hard.

    "What's wrong? My stomach feels like it's ripping apart."

    "I don't know," he said and was gone in the next moment to fetch Agnes.

    He heard her screaming even before they returned to the bedchamber. Agnes pushed him aside and came down over his wife. He saw her pull back the covers, saw her jerk up Chandra's bedgown. Then he saw the blood, so much blood, and it was coming from her body. And he knew then, knew that she had lost a babe.

    She was moaning quietly now, her eyes closed, her palms up at her sides as Agnes bathed her.

    He turned and left the bedchamber.

    It had happened so quickly. The child had existed for such a short time and now it was gone.

    Simply gone.

    Chandra lay quietly, bathed, wrapped in a clean bedrobe, and she felt empty.

    She heard him come into the bedchamber. She said nothing until he was standing beside her and his palm was flat on her forehead.

    "I've no fever," she said.

    "No."

    "I want to go home."

    "I told you. You cannot return to Croyland."

    "No, I meant Camberley."

    His eyes narrowed on her pale face. So much pain she'd endured, so much blood she'd lost. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he said, unable to keep the words back, "You lost my babe."

    She said nothing, just stared ahead toward the narrow window cut into the far wall. Both of them were staying in Mark and Mary's bedchamber. It had been nearly seven days now.

    He waited, and finally she said, "I did not even know that I carried a babe."

    "Why should you? You won't accept that you're even a woman. A woman conceives a child, a man doesn't."

    "When Mary told me she was pregnant with Graelam's child, I thought about it for the first time. You came to me always, every night, but then I just forgot about it, and then you no longer came to me."

    He paced to the far wall, then back again. He said, his voice flat and hard, "You will never change. I have to accept that. I failed. I will go to the Holy Land. As for you, when you're well, I will take you back to Camberley. You may go fight the Scots, you may weed the gardens. I care not. You are free now, Chandra. Do what you will."

    She turned her head to look up at him. It brought her pain to look at him. He had given up on her, but why should that lance her with pain? She had lost the babe. She'd been so unthinking, so unwomanly, that it just hadn't occurred to her. She still didn't know how she felt about it— the pain was too recent.

    She closed her eyes and turned her head away from him.

    But he wasn't through. There was just too much, all of it festering inside him. "You challenged the damned prince! You wanted to challenge him to archery. Do you have any idea what a fool you made me look?"

    She said quietly, not looking at him, "I did not mean to make you look foolish, nor did I mean to make you angry, or to flout you."

    "Then why did you do it?"

    "Are you afraid that I could best the prince?"

    He stared at her. "By all the saints' name days, do you think it pleases me to have my wife bragging like a bloody man? Do you never think? Nay, don't answer that. You don't. You do only what you want to do. You don't care about anyone else, just yourself."

    "I wasn't bragging. What is wrong with my pitting my skills against the prince, or anyone else for that matter?"

    Jerval turned abruptly away from her, his fists clenched at his sides. "I have said everything I wished to. As I said, there is little reason for me to remain at Camberley. When you are well, I am going to the Holy Land with Edward."

    As it turned out, Jerval de Vernon didn't go alone. He took two knights and their squires, six soldiers, three archers, and his wife.

CHAPTER 23

Tunis

Four Months Later

There was a growing swell of noise from the soldiers, and shouts suddenly rang out, not only from their ship, but from the man-of-war that sailed off their bow. Chandra strained her eyes through the haze in the distance, but it was several minutes before she could be sure she saw the sprawling mass of buildings that was the city.

    Tunis! After week upon dreary week aboard their small vessel, they'd finally arrived.

    Chandra felt excitement bubble up like fresh water from a spring. "Look, Jerval, at those tall towers with the oddly shaped domes. Whatever are they?"

    "They are called minarets. The Moslem religious men climb to their tops to call the people to prayer. Payn told me about them."

    Their ship sailed close in to the rest of the fleet as they neared the point of land. Chandra saw one of the soldiers hurl a bag of spoiled flour overboard and shout, "Food at last!"

    "You'll kill the fish," someone shouted back.

    "I must join the men soon, Chandra. You find Joanna and stay with her."

    Ah Joanna, Sir Payn de Chaworth's wife, had become her friend during the long voyage. Joanna, plump, dark-haired, filled with laughter, always optimistic. She nodded.

    "By God," Lambert said when they were finally in sight of the harbor, "behold all the ships. With King Louis, we will make a fearsome sight when we sail to Acre."

    Their ship eased behind a huge man-of-war, and the rowers held to a narrow channel between the French ships. Chandra could make out scores of men waving wildly toward them from the rough wooden docks. Their ship scraped an anchor line as they neared the docks, and the sailors' fierce shouts rang out over the soldiers' cheering.

    It took several hours for their ship to take its turn at the dock. Chandra fidgeted impatiently as she waited with Joanna on the forecastle. They could see clustered buildings, low stone huts separated by narrow alleyways, rising behind the dock. From their vantage point, it seemed that all of Tunis was French soldiers, loitering about on the docks, waving and shouting toward the English ships.

    "Everything looks so very strange," Joanna de Chaworth whispered to Chandra when they finally stepped onto the rolling dock. "So very foreign."

    "Aye," Chandra said, "it does, but that doesn't matter. Finally, we're here. I wondered if we would ever arrive."

    It was difficult to walk after being aboard the ship for so many long weeks. They were flanked by a dozen soldiers, Rolfe and Lambert at their head, balance difficult for all of them. After weeks at sea, the noise made her ears ring. Outside their line of soldiers, she saw a knot of Moslem men ogling them, most of them short and wiry, all with dark faces. They were dressed in baggy white trousers and loose shirts, their heads wrapped in thick white turbans. They looked insolent and angry, and Chandra felt a quiver of fear. Skinny-legged children, many of them naked, darted between their legs, yelling and pointing wildly toward her and Joanna.

    "They hate us," Joanna said. "Look, Chandra, at the women."

    Chandra looked toward a small knot of women who stood hunched like a flock of black crows in an open doorway. Unlike the men, they were covered from head to toe in black, even their faces shrouded with thin black veils.

    "I feel naked compared to them," Joanna said, touching her fingers to her face.

    "I wonder why they are all covered up. Surely that black must be terribly hot."

    "My lady," Rolfe shouted, shoving the men aside to reach her. "The king is dead!"

    "Which king?"

    "King Louis— he died over a month ago of the stomach flux. All these soldiers and ships belong to King Charles of Sicily."

    Poor Edward, she thought. He had dreamed of joining with the sainted Louis on the crusade. "Who is King Charles?"

    "King Louis's youngest brother. Sir Jerval has asked me to escort you to King Charles's encampment outside the city. He said he would join you as soon as he could."

    Joanna clasped her hands over her bosom. Usually one to see the good in every situation, she closed her eyes and moaned this time. "What will happen to us now?"

    Bathed and gowned, Chandra paced the narrow width of the tent, awaiting Jerval's return. She had sent away the Moslem slave woman after her blessed bath, a gift, Rolfe told her, from the bey. She opened up the tent flap and stepped outside, hoping for a breeze from the sea, but she soon retreated within, for the sun was beating down mercilessly upon the treeless camp. As far as she could see, small, stiff-topped tents were being raised over the rocky terrain. English soldiers were still arriving, their belongings slung over their shoulders. Chandra could make out Edward's pavilion, larger by far than the other tents, set atop a small rise. His personal guard, some dozen soldiers dressed in his blue-and-white livery, were clearing a defensive perimeter about his pavilion.

    Chandra stared at Jerval in surprise when he strode into the tent. His beard was gone, and he was dressed in a long robe of white linen, hemmed with purple.

    "What happened to you?"

    "Like you, the bey provided all of us baths and clothing. I begin to feel human again."

    "Rolfe said that King Louis is dead."

    Jerval ran a hand through his thick hair. "Aye, and Edward is bowed with grief. I left him with King Charles of Sicily— he is— was— King Louis's brother."

    "Yes, I know. What will happen?" She was asking Joanna's question, to which there had been no answer.

    He smiled, as if seeing her for the first time. "I had forgotten how you look with your hair loose. Were you also allotted a slave?"

    She nodded and shook her head, feeling soft hair against her cheeks. "It will be a long time before I wear another braid. It was so dirty after all those long weeks at sea, I feared my hair would fall out when I unplaited it."

    He wanted to touch her hair, but he knew if he did, they wouldn't leave the tent, and he'd been commanded to attend the prince. And so he merely smiled at her as he said, "This evening we will go to a banquet at the bey's palace, in Edward's honor. The bey is anxious to be rid of us all, both English and French. We will likely leave Tunis very soon."

    "Where will we go?"

    "To Sicily for the winter. Edward will try to persuade King Charles to take up his brother's holy cause, though I doubt he will succeed. Charles has not admitted it, but there are rumors that he has signed a treaty with Sultan Baibars." Jerval watched her frown as she considered what he had said. He found himself staring at her for a long moment, uncertain if he should allow her to accompany him through the city to the bey's palace. He had seen few Moslem women, and those he had passed had been heavily veiled and eerily silent, their eyes downcast.

    He found himself wondering what it would be like if she had not accompanied him. He hadn't wanted it, but Eleanor had pleaded with Edward, and in the end, Jerval had practically been ordered to bring his wife. To date, he hadn't regretted it, but of course aboard ship, there'd been nothing outrageous for her to attempt. And, he thought, the wonder of it still in his mind, they had become friends. He remembered the times she had cut his hair, the one time she had shaved him. He remembered the nights when the moon was full overhead, the air warm, the stars filling the sky, and they'd lain together, side by side, on the deck of their vessel, just speaking of this or that. And she'd told him she wanted him, but he hadn't wanted to take the chance that someone would see or hear them, which was a very likely thing, and so he'd just kissed her and held her hand. He'd said, "There is no privacy. There are three people standing just yon. No, we must be strong about this. You will suffer as will I. This isn't the place, more's the pity."

    "I heard Payn and Joanna," she said.

    "We will wait," Jerval said, and it nearly killed him to say it.

    And now he wanted her, very badly. He looked at her, thought her beautiful, and wanted to take her this very moment. He said abruptly, "Are you ready?"

    "To leave Tunis?"

    "Nay, ready for a banquet with real food."

    "Aye, I am. Have you seen Eleanor?"

    "Aye, I walked through the encampment with Edward to his pavilion. Eleanor is with child. His ship had some privacy, I gather."

    "A child? Is she very ill? Aboard ship and with child?"

    "She is quite well and very happy, as is Edward." If Chandra hadn't lost their babe, her belly would be rounded by now. He wondered if he would have left if she hadn't— No, he refused to think about it. He said only, "Eleanor is fine, as I said. Come, it is time to leave."

    Rolfe, Lambert, and Arnulfe escorted them to the camp perimeter, where they were met by a turbaned man, short and black-bearded, who was to guide them through the city to the palace. He looked curiously at Chandra, but said nothing. The streets were a labyrinth of narrow, rutted paths, with low stone houses on either side, piles of garbage climbing their dusty walls. Chandra felt her belly knot at the overpowering stench.

    "The peasants do not bury their dead animals," their Moslem guide said calmly. "The ground is too hard."

    They passed a group of Moslem men smoking pipes that gave off a sickeningly sweet smell. Chandra felt their dislike, their contempt. One of the men stepped toward her, smiled at her insolently, and spat. His spittle landed inches from the hem of her gown.

    Jerval's hand clapped his sword scabbard, and he cursed.

    "Do not, my lord," the Moslem said. "You are strangers here. A woman, a Moslem woman, is not allowed to flaunt herself unveiled in the streets." He turned and said something in harsh, guttural sounds to the man who had spat at her. The man backed away, but Chandra saw his hatred and scorn. She found that she was trembling, and she drew closer to Jerval. He closed his hand over her arm. She carried a knife strapped to her thigh, but she didn't even consider once moving away from her husband.

    The banquet held by the Bey of Oran was opulent, the food plentiful and strange to the English contingent, the torches and candles bright and hot.

    Chandra wondered what would come of all this outward deference, all this ceremony, if Prince Edward would gain more supporters. Then she looked across the huge chamber and saw Graelam de Moreton staring at her. A slave girl was at his elbow, but he was paying her no heed. He just kept staring. His expression was calm and very cold. She nodded to him, then turned away and spoke to Joanna, who was at her side, laughing at something another lady had said.

    She'd known Graelam had come to crusade, but he'd voyaged here on another ship and this was the first time she'd seen him.

    She hoped she wouldn't see him again after this night. On the walk back to Prince Edward's encampment some three hours later, Chandra walked very close to her husband.

    "Just as we all expected, it was nonsense," he said. "A show, a sham. No one wishes to fight the Saracens, but they will provide us food and drink and as many slaves girls as we can service. I hate this, Chandra. And now we're off to Sicily."

    Sicily, she thought, a foreign name that sounded smooth and flowing on her tongue.

Sicily

The winter

    "Place your hand here, Chandra," Eleanor said. "That's right. Do you feel the babe?"

    A small foot kicked against Chandra's palm. She raised surprised eyes to Eleanor. "Does that not hurt you?"

    "Nay." Eleanor laughed. "But sometimes it is difficult to sleep, with the little one so active. Edward delights in pressing his ear to my belly and telling me he can hear the babe's heartbeat. I am very sorry that you lost your child, Chandra, but these things happen, far too often. I feared you would be cast down about it and thus I wished you to come with your husband to the Holy Land. But there will be other children. Aye, and you will see, Chandra, what a wonder it is when you carry Jerval's child and you feel him moving inside you."

    Chandra turned abruptly away and stared out over the palace grounds toward the beautiful city of Palermo below. She breathed in the sweet scent of the flowers that splashed their bright colors over the hillside.

    "Even the market stalls are sweet smelling," she said after a moment.

    Eleanor leaned back against the soft, gold-embroidered cushions and regarded Chandra quietly for a moment. She knew that Chandra was bored and restless— just like the men, she thought, smiling to herself. Although King Charles was gracious and surrounded them with every luxury, Edward and the men itched to be gone from Sicily, for it was becoming clear that Charles was unwilling to accompany them to Palestine. She sighed as Chandra rose and began to pace the balcony.

    "You are thin, Chandra," she said, resting her hands on her rounded belly. "And pale. I hear that Jerval and Edward just returned from their weeklong hunt in the hills. He will be concerned when he sees you."