Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

“No,” she whispered, “no, I cannot. You know that I cannot. Leave her be. If you wish to rape someone, then rape me, not Mary.”

“No,” he said.

He wasn’t golden like her father. No, he was the devil, black as night, black as a heathen’s darkest sins. He was terrifying, overwhelming, and he would hurt Mary.

Graelam motioned for Mary to lie on her back on Chandra’s bed. “I will try not to tear you,” he said quietly, as he opened her thighs, pulling her toward him. “Just don’t fight me, and it will be over soon. It is your first time, so there will be a bit of pain.” He spat on his fingers and Chandra saw his hand going between Mary’s legs, and Mary whimpered.

Chandra closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear it.

His hands were still between Mary’s legs even as he turned to look at her one last time. “Chandra, you will learn that you will obey me, in all things. Where is your brother?”

She opened her mouth, but Mary lurched up and yelled, “No, Chandra! Keep your mouth shut!”

Graelam went into her. It was over soon, just one anguished cry from Mary, making her arch with pain. Graelam said even as he was moving deep inside her, “It was your maidenhead. There won’t be any more pain.”

The pain wasn’t as awful now, but Mary hated the feel of him inside her, too big, too big, and she knew she was crying, but she just couldn’t stop. Mary wondered if he’d torn her somehow. He had said he would try not to tear her. But if he had, then she would die. She closed her eyes and waited, willing herself to bear the pain, to bear him. She’d held firm. She had saved John. She’d saved Chandra. She hadn’t fallen to cowardice. It must be worth it, it must. Yes, it was a small sacrifice.

Graelam pulled out of her and stood there a moment, breathing hard with his release. There was blood on her legs and on him as well, her virgin’s blood. But she hadn’t broken.

Neither had her friend. He turned slowly to face Chandra. She wasn’t yelling at him now. Truth be told, he had expected her to be cursing him to the beams of her bedchamber. But no, she was on her knees, her head bowed, and he watched her vomit. His men had released her, jerking back, staring down at her, not knowing what to do. She remained kneeling on the floor, her body heaving until there was nothing more in her belly. Graelam walked to the small table and poured some water from a carafe into a goblet. He came down on his haunches in front of her. “Wash out your mouth.”

She took the goblet and did as he bade. She spat the water out into the rushes. Then she drank deep. She was shaking, couldn’t seem to stop it. She felt a vast emptiness, and it alarmed her because she didn’t understand it. But it was deep, so deep inside her, it seemed an integral part of her. What he had done, so passionless it was, so matter-of-fact, with no purpose but to dominate, to gain his way. And the humiliation for Mary, forced to accept him, and she’d let it happen. Because of her, now Mary was no longer a maid. She was used.

“Chandra.”

She raised her face at the sound of his quiet voice. Gone was the deadening blankness. He was naked, standing right in front of her and she saw Mary’s blood on him. She moved faster than he could have imagined, grabbing for his sword that lay beside his clothes and his armor, and the hilt was in her hands before he managed to wrench it from her. She hooked his leg in a wrestler’s grip and drove her fist hard into his naked groin.

Graelam’s legs buckled. He heard his men, but yelled for them to stay back. He lurched to the side, managed to grab her thick braid, and jerked her backward to land on top of him. He couldn’t believe the pain, knew it would get worse, and it did, and he closed his eyes against it even as he held her so tightly against him that he could feel her ribs pressed into his chest.

In that instant, he realized that if he were as intelligent as he’d always been told he was, he would drag himself and his men from Croyland and send his blessings to God that he had survived. He was a fool to force this woman to wed him. He had no doubt that she would try to bring him low. He wondered then if he would ever tame her, ever make her accept him. He imagined fighting her in bed, wondered if he would have to tie her down, and knew then that he would indeed have to.

Why had she vomited? Merely watching him take her friend had sent this proud, arrogant girl to her knees, retching in the flower-scented rushes? His pain slowly receded, almost too slowly for a man to bear, and finally he said, “I will have to think about your payment for that.”

“What will you do? Kill me? Well, then, you savage, do it now.”

CHAPTER 3

He didn’t kill her, of course. What he did was make his men hold her again while he slowly dressed himself. He left off his armor, saying, “I will go to Lord Richard’s bedchamber. I will make use of his clothing.” And then he’d smiled, for the pain was gone from his groin and he knew he would live again. Once again, he was filled with optimism and determination. He had worked too hard to get her. He would have her, no matter the cost. He had absolutely no doubt that she would kill him if she had the chance. It didn’t worry him. It fascinated him.

“As for you, Chandra, you will either agree to wed me, whether or not I find your brother, or I will simply take you back with me and you will live as my mistress until you agree to marry me. I know you—”

He never finished, for just then the bedchamber door burst open and Abaric yelled even before he saw Graelam, “We have them!”

Lady Dorothy and John came stumbling into the bedchamber, a half dozen of Graelam’s men behind them.

“We have them,” Abaric said again, and rubbed his hands together.

Chandra stared at her mother, then at John. She couldn’t believe it, just couldn’t, yet here they both were, standing right in front of her, no torn clothing, no signs of any struggle. She said slowly, feeling her heart beat with slow, deadening strokes, so loud they were, “How is this? You were well hidden. How did they find you, Lady Dorothy?”

Why, Graelam wondered, did she call her mother Lady Dorothy?

She was a gaunt woman, as tall as her daughter, but the life seemed sucked out of her. Her hair, once a rich black, was streaked with coarse gray strands, her mouth seamed so tightly, it was only a thin, pale line. She looked, he thought, as unforgiving as his own witch of a mother. She looked as though she’d never had an ounce of joy in her life and that she would do her best to see that no one around her had any joy either.

Lady Dorothy shook off the hands of the men behind her. She looked first at Graelam, then at Mary, who was standing beside Chandra’s bed, her face pale, looking blank and stupid. Lady Dorothy sniffed the air. The room smelled of sex. But how could that be? Both Mary and Chandra were fully clothed, as were the men.

Lady Dorothy turned to Chandra and her face hardened. Filthy she was, boar’s blood all over her, her hair matted to her head with sweat. Lady Dorothy said, her chin up, “You look disgusting.”

Graelam stared at her, not believing what had come out of her mouth, but Chandra said only, “I know. It doesn’t matter. Who found you?”