Warrior's Song (31 page)

    "Graelam!"

    Graelam took in the white cloth that was wrapped about her, and the razor clutched in her hand. "Get behind me, Chandra," he shouted. "Cut through the tent— there is a women's chamber beyond. Hurry."

    For an instant, she believed that the entire English army would follow him. But there was no one, only more of al-Afdal's men. She whirled about and slashed out at one of the Saracens as he passed her.

    Al-Afdal heard the man yell out, and whipped about to see him fall to his knees, grabbing his shoulder, and Chandra's razor red with his blood. One of his men tossed him a scimitar, and he caught it handily, only to see that Chandra had grabbed the sword of the man she had wounded. The small chamber was fast filling with his men, rushing toward them. If the fighting continued, she would be killed, and likely a half-dozen of his men with her.

    He came to a quick decision. "Surround him," he shouted, raising his scimitar toward Graelam. "And keep away from the girl. I will kill the man who draws her blood."

    Graelam knew that he would die, and he cursed himself for being a noble ass and a fool to believe that he alone could save her. Only his heavy broadsword was holding back the men who surged toward him, and their number grew with every moment. He felt the flat side of a scimitar strike the back of his legs, and he went hurtling to the floor onto his back. He saw a black-eyed Saracen above him, his scimitar raised in an awful arc, and a prayer came to his lips as he prepared himself to die.

    "Do not kill him!" Al-Afdal's voice cut through the din. The man above Graelam stiffened, his scimitar poised to strike. Even as Graelam tried to push himself up, another pointed blade touched the flesh of his throat.

    "Chandra!" Al-Afdal shouted. "Throw down the scimitar, else the English knight will die."

    Her scimitar was poised to strike down at a Saracen's blade when she heard al-Afdal's words. She saw Graelam upon his back, some five men pinioning him. She gave a cry of fury and defeat, and drew back, panting.

    "Drop the scimitar."

    Slowly, she let the scimitar slip from her hand. One of the men, dazed with a blow she had given him, lunged toward her before al-Afdal could stop him. He looked on in horror and then in utter surprise.

    Chandra jumped to the side, the cloth that covered her pulling from her body, and tripped the man as he lunged past her. She grabbed his wrist and brought her foot down on his elbow. In the next instant the man lay on his back, clutching his broken arm, shrieking. Her foot was poised to crash into the man's ribs when she heard al-Afdal shout at her again to back away.

    She looked toward Graelam, and knew she could do no more.

    Al-Afdal grabbed the fallen cloth and threw it over her. She clutched the material to her and took a stumbling step away from him.

    "Do not kill him," she whispered, still panting so that she could barely speak.

    "Is he your husband?"

    "No, he is a friend."

    "A brave man," al-Afdal said, "but stupid to believe that he alone could save you." He saw the bleakness in her eyes, and pivoted about. "Well, Englishman," he continued, "it appears that Sir Eustace was not so careful as he thought." He motioned to his men, and they pulled Graelam to his feet.

    "Chandra," Graelam said, his voice heavy, "I am sorry."

    "Don't be," she said, "don't be." She turned toward al-Afdal. "You will not kill him."

    "No," al-Afdal said thoughtfully, staring at her. "I have other plans for your brave knight."

    He saw Munza standing in the entrance. "Was the Englishman alone?"

    Munza nodded. "He must have seen Sir Eustace and the English girl and followed them, master."

    "Post more guards. I think we would be wise to leave for Montfort soon."

    Montfort. The once-Frankish castle captured by the Saracens. It would be impenetrable. Once inside the fortress, all of Edward's army could not rescue her.

    Graelam's arms were bound and he was dragged from the chamber. Al-Afdal looked a moment toward the slave girls still cowering against the walls, the physician beside them, then back to Chandra, a slight smile curving his wide mouth.

    "Calla, dress her and bring her to me." He touched his hand to Chandra's bare arm. She did not flinch. "You will, of course, do as you are told now, Chandra."

    He nodded toward the physician, and in the next moment, Chandra was once again alone with the slave girls. The women seemed afraid to come near her. She shrugged out of the cloth and said sharply, "Bring me clothing."

    Chandra followed Calla through the tented corridors to the chamber where al-Afdal waited. She looked about for Graelam, but he was not there. Eustace stood next to al-Afdal, who lay sprawled on soft cushions, in much the same pose she had first seen him, a golden wine goblet in his hand. She felt numb. Was Graelam dead? And if not, what was al-Afdal up to, that Graelam would not be here?

    "Come here, Chandra."

    She walked toward him, the shimmering fabric of her skirt clinging to her legs.

    "Is she not exquisite, Sir Eustace?"

    Eustace took in the gem-studded clasp at her waist and followed the movement of her legs through the translucent veils. Her hair, now dry, fell down her back. He felt lust swirling in his belly. "Aye," he said only.

    "I suppose you would like to take her now, as we agreed."

    "Aye," he said again, his voice thick, "and then I will take my leave of you."

    "Would you care to take her here, in front of my men? They have never seen an Englishman rut a woman."

    "She will fight me," Eustace said. "I have no wish to hurt her. That is for you to do if she is disobedient. You must tie her down to spare her bruises."

    To Eustace's surprise, al-Afdal threw back his turbaned head and laughed. "Yes, she would fight you. She would also likely unman you before you thrust yourself into her. But, my friend, you are right. I don't want her bruised. See what you already did?" Al-Afdal rose gracefully to his feet and walked to Chandra's side. He did not touch her, only pointed to the dark purplish bruises over her ribs.

    "She fought me."

    "Perhaps," he said thoughtfully, turning back to Eustace, "Chandra needs a man to fight for her." He watched, a half-formed smile on his lips, as Eustace glanced contemptuously about at his men.

    "Give me a sword," Chandra said. "I will fight him."

    Al-Afdal glanced at her face and saw that she was serious. "I cannot risk that you would be harmed, Chandra."

    Eustace started forward, uncertain what was going on here. "Just give me my gold, and I will leave. I have decided she is not worth the trouble. I do not want her."

    Al-Afdal stroked the point of his beard. Eustace did not like it. He tasted fear. He wanted to leave this place.

    "Is it not a practice among you English," al-Afdal said, "to provide a champion for the weaker?"

    Chandra felt the blood rush to her temples. Al-Afdal had Graelam, and it would be he who fought Eustace. Did Eustace not know anything of Graelam?

    Eustace's hand clapped about his sword, and he slowly backed away.

    "Do not be so anxious to leave, my friend," al-Afdal said. "I have another English knight for you to meet, someone worth your mettle." He nodded toward Munza, and Graelam was shoved into the chamber, flanked by four of al-Afdal's men, his arms bound behind his back.

    "De Moreton!" Eustace exclaimed.

CHAPTER 31

    "Aye, you filthy bastard!" Graelam said.

    Al-Afdal returned to his seat of cushions. "I will make you a bargain, Sir Eustace," he said. "If you can defeat Lord Graelam, you will leave here with your gold."

    Eustace had seen Graelam fight. The man was strong, and he showed no mercy. Eustace was afraid, very afraid now.

    "If Lord Graelam defeats him, will we be allowed to leave?"

    Al-Afdal smiled toward Chandra. "Not you, Chandra, but your noble Graelam will be free."

    "Release me," Graelam said hoarsely. "I will carve his guts from his belly." He did not trust al-Afdal to free him if he killed Eustace, but at the moment, he didn't care. He turned his dark eyes toward Chandra, and saw that she was looking at him with great sorrow. He wanted to tell her that it didn't matter, but of course it did. He didn't want to die, but for now, there seemed to be nothing he could do. Except kill Eustace, and that he wanted to do very much. He smiled at her, nodding almost imperceptibly.

    "Clear the chamber," al-Afdal said. "I do not wish my possessions hacked to bits. Come stand beside me, Chandra." He held out his beringed hand toward her, and she had no choice but to obey him.

    "May God be with you, Graelam," she said as she passed him. "I thank you. You owed me no debt. No matter what happens here, it is I who owe you."

    For the first time, Eustace saw the bloody gash in Graelam's arm. It was his sword arm, and Eustace knew that he must be weakened. He drew his sword, ran the tip of his thumb along its sharp edge, and smiled at Graelam. "Aye," he said, "you have lusted after her, have you not? You lost her to Jerval, but you still wanted her. You will die, Graelam, and the little bitch will spend the rest of her days serving the heathen paynim."

    Graelam did not answer him. As the Saracens unbound his hands, he concentrated on his memories of Eustace in battle. He knew that Eustace thought that his wounded right arm would do him in. His sword was placed in his right hand, and he left it there. Nay, he thought, let the fool believe he will have an easy time of it. He flexed his arm, and grimaced. Eustace slashed his sword before him, his mouth set, his eyes alight with the victory he knew would be his.

    "Well, Chandra," al-Afdal said, closing his hand about her wrist. "I do not need to ask you whom you favor, do I?"

    "I favor the only brave man here," she said. She heard him suck in his breath, but didn't look at him. She kept her eyes on Graelam. Her heart pounded with fear for him. Like Eustace, she saw the blood on his arm.

    Al-Afdal raised his arm, and brought it down. And then he laughed.

    With a loud roar, Eustace lunged toward Graelam, his sword high above his head. In the instant Eustace's sword arced downward in a blur of silver, Graelam tossed his sword to his left hand. The clash of ringing steel jarred the silence of the tent.

    Al-Afdal watched calmly as Graelam and Eustace joined swords, hacking at each other. They moved slowly, their armor restricting their freedom, and he saw that it was a test of strength between them. His men would have dashed in and out, whirling about to avoid the crunching blows, relying on their quickness rather than a grueling contest of sheer strength. Both men were soon panting heavily, their brows beaded with sweat.

    Eustace suddenly disengaged and took several jerking steps backward. He saw Graelam holding his sword easily in his left hand, and cursed aloud.

    "Come back to me, Eustace. Come, you puking coward." But Graelam didn't wait. He strode toward Eustace, his sword flailing before him, cutting a wide path of control.

    As he neared, Eustace kicked his leg out and smashed it against Graelam's thigh. Chandra cried out as Graelam fought to keep his balance, but his foot caught on a fringed edge of the carpet, and he hurtled onto his back. Eustace lunged toward him, his sword raised high. He gripped it in both hands to send it downward to Graelam's chest.

    Graelam saw Eustace's face above him. He did not have time to twist out of the sword's path, for his armor was like a coffin of dead weight, making him slow and clumsy. He saw the blur of steel, and heard Chandra cry out. Dear Christ, he thought, his mind strangely detached, to die because of a kick in the leg and a clumsy fall on a carpet.

    The instant was like an eternity of time. Eustace opened his mouth to shout his victory, but the words never emerged. He heard an odd hissing sound, and a soft thud. Eustace raised his eyes in astonishment, his sword slipping from his grasp. Graelam awkwardly jerked himself onto his side, just as Eustace, a thin-bladed knife in his throat, fell heavily to the floor.

    Graelam heaved himself up. He looked toward al-Afdal, then at Eustace, who lay dead, his blood welling from his pinioned throat.

    "You killed him," he said, staggering to his feet.

    "Yes, my friend," al-Afdal said easily. He nodded to Munza. "Bring me my knife. Wipe the infidel's blood from it."

    Chandra felt al-Afdal's hand, the one that had hurled the dagger, close about her wrist. She looked up at him. "Why did you save him?"

    He did not immediately answer her. "Take Lord Graelam to your tent, Munza, and guard him well. Give him food and drink, and a girl, if it pleases him."

    Graelam shook his head, still disbelieving that he was alive, and the heathen Saracen had saved his life. He gazed at Chandra, but he had no chance to speak to her before he was prodded from the chamber.

    "Sit down, Chandra. You do not look well."

    "Why did you spare Graelam?"

    He gave her a long, considering look, his fingers lightly stroking his bearded jaw. "It is really quite simple. You hated Eustace and are grateful to the other man, Graelam, for trying to save you. It would do me no good were Graelam to die. While I have him, I have his life to give you, and you will obey me because you will not want me to kill him as you watch."

    Al-Afdal smiled, adding, "Come with me now, for I would enjoy your body and the touch of your mouth upon mine." He saw her shake her head and said, his voice softer still, "You will never deny me or fight me now, Chandra, for if you do, my dagger will pierce Graelam's throat, and your brave knight will die because of your pride."

    She forced herself to look up into his face. So calm he was, so certain of himself, of his power, of his strength. She said, "I hate you. I will always hate you."

    She finally realized that she'd lost. He said nothing, merely shrugged. But he was angry, very angry; he would punish her for that. He sent for the physician to accompany them. He would humiliate her, make her realize that he could do with her what he wished. He took her arm and led her through a curtained doorway.

    Chandra drew up, staring about her. She had believed the larger chamber was his own, but it was not. Here was luxury she would not have imagined. Vivid colors of gold and crimson, and the smell of incense, strangely sweet, filled the chamber. Slender tapers were set in golden-branched holders about the chamber, filling it with soft, shadowy light. There were no furnishings save for a small sandalwood table that stood on delicately carved legs beside a wide bed of flat cushions covered with animal furs. A brass brazier was set beside it, filled with glowing coals for warmth.

    Al-Afdal stood watching her. "You are unused to such beauty," he said. "I do not relish returning to Montfort. The Frankish castles are drafty, and all my wealth cannot disguise their ugliness." He smiled thinly. "But until I know that Prince Edward and all his men, including your husband, have been pushed into the sea, it is there we shall stay." He looked about him with negligent pride. "Tonight, at least, we will enjoy these comforts."

    He looked beyond her and raised a beckoning hand. Chandra turned about to see the gaunt-faced, silent physician behind them. She wanted to beg him not to make her endure this, but she knew that al-Afdal would only be even more pleased, even more certain of his victory."

    "Take off your clothes and lie upon your back."

    There was no choice, none at all. She unfastened the golden clasp beneath her breasts. It was the strangest thing, but she felt a tear fall down her cheek. Crying, a silly, stupid thing for her to do. No more, no more, else he would see and know he'd beaten her, shamed her. The clasp came loose, and slowly, she loosed the soft cloth that covered her breasts.

    Al-Afdal felt immense lust. He wanted to touch her now, take her.

    Chandra's hands hovered about the gemmed clasp at her waist. She didn't want to die. But perhaps death would be her only escape from al-Afdal. The clasp fell open. She knew he was looking at her. She stood very still as the material fell from her hips to the thick carpet at her feet. She turned away, unaware that the sight of her white back and hips gave al-Afdal as much pleasure as her breasts and belly, and walked with a hesitant step to the cushioned bed.

    She closed her eyes tightly for a long moment, praying that she wouldn't break. She lay down upon her back, her legs locked together.

    She heard al-Afdal say to the physician, "Quickly, examine her, and be gone." There was an urgency in his voice, and she knew that he wanted to take her, and quickly. She felt a hand touch her thigh, and she tensed. Because she could not bear to hear his humiliating order, she parted her legs.

    The physician's hands were delicate and curiously gentle as he probed at her. When his thin finger, slippery with some kind of ointment, slipped inside her, she felt such shame that she wanted to choke on it. She stiffened, drawing upward, when she felt him deep within her, and al-Afdal pressed his hands on her shoulders to hold her still. When the physician's hand was gone from her, she forced her eyes to open. He was standing over her, but his eyes were upon al-Afdal. He said quietly, "She has been with no man in the past day. The Englishman, Eustace, did not take her."

    "She is healthy, without blemish?"

    "She is healthy."

    "I want many sons from her."

    The physician bowed. "She is narrow, but will bear as many sons as you wish."

    Al-Afdal waved his hand in dismissal, and the physician bowed again, and backed out of the chamber.

    "Are you hungry, Chandra?"

    She shook her head, and reached for the fur cover. He stilled her hand. "No. I wish to look at you. You are mine now. Do not forget it. I am not hungry either."

    He stood over her then, his eyes on her as he stripped off his clothes.

    "Look at me, Chandra," he said. "I want you to look at me and see me, know me, and recognize me as your new master. I want you to imagine the magnificent sons you will bear me."

    "I want you to think only of my hatred for you." She looked at him, contempt hard in her eyes, looked down the hard length of him. He was lean and wiry, hard with muscle. She looked at his groin. "My hatred," she said, "and my pity, for you are scarce a man, I see."

    Her words, ridiculous in truth, made him want to kill her. She saw his anger, and smiled. "Must I also lie to you, as I am certain your other women do, and tell you how very magnificent you are?"

    No woman had ever in his life scorned him. His first impulse was to beat her until she cried for mercy and swore to him that she had lied. He saw the hard coldness in her eyes, and knew that beating her would not have the result he wished. No, he would thrust himself into her until she was raw, until he saw the pain fill her eyes.

    "Open your legs. Now."

    She struggled against him as he clutched at her thighs and jerked them apart. With a growl of fury, he reared over her and smashed the flat of his palm against her cheek.

    The dizzying pain snapped her eyes open, and for an instant, she stared at his angry face. She forgot his threat to kill Graelam, indeed forgot everything except her rage. "Filthy savage!" She kicked at him with all her strength, and landed her foot squarely in his naked belly. He was thrown off balance and fell heavily onto his back on the carpet. She picked up the small table, and before he could fling up his hands to protect himself, she crashed it blindly against the side of his head. She was raising the table to strike him again when her mind suddenly cleared, and she stared down at him. He was moaning, his eyes closed. There was a gash at his temple, and blood was streaking down the side of his face. Suddenly, he lunged upward and struck her jaw with his fist, flinging her backward. As she weaved, dizzy from the blow, she saw him clutching his head, then falling again, sprawling naked upon his back.

    She grabbed at the empty air to save herself, but she fell, striking the coal-filled brazier. She heard a soft hiss as the flame-red coals rolled over the silken cushions.

    Chandra struggled to her knees, shaking her head to clear her mind, and rubbed her burning eyes. Murky gray smoke swirled about her, and licking flames were curling up behind the cushioned bed, climbing the thin veils to the roof of the tent. She staggered to her feet and looked down at the Saracen chieftain. Suddenly one of the wooden supports gave way, bringing a flaming cloud of azure material with it. She watched in horror as it crashed down over him.