“Well over ten thousand. Although our numbers will not be so impressive, together we can crush the Saracens.”
“I have heard it told,” Jerval said, “that the Saracen sultan, Baibars, commands an army in the hundreds of thousands.”
“Aye, it is true. But I am convinced, as is King Louis, that our cause will bring the other kings of Christendom to our aid.”
“King Louis failed miserably in his first effort,” Lord Hugh said sharply. “He was captured, ransomed, and released back to France, weak and old before his time.”
Eleanor said quietly, “But, my lord, his spirit inspires the most profound loyalty and admiration in Christendom, and fear in its enemies. The Saracens fear us, and our God.”
“It will be a costly venture,” Jerval said.
“Aye,” Edward agreed, “but think of the glory and honor we will gain in serving God by ridding the Holy Land of its heathen.”
“It is a request that I must not answer quickly,” Jerval said quietly, closing his hand over Edward’s arm.
The talk continued, but Chandra wasn’t listening. She had never been out of England; indeed, the Scottish border was the farthest she had ever traveled from Camberley, and that journey was not a pleasant memory. She remembered her father telling her of the mighty Templars, a fierce military order as skilled in the art of finance as in that of fighting, and of the Saracens, who were threatening the very existence of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. If only she were a man, a knight, to be free to join Prince Edward. To go to the Holy Land—ah, it was a dream, a magnificent dream.
Lord Hugh said suddenly, “My daughter-in-law is talented, sire. Would you care to hear her perform?”
The talk of the crusade was over. Chandra looked briefly at Jerval and saw his brow furrowed in thought.
Edward called out, “Aye, let Chandra play and sing, and then I can retire to my bed to dream about her.”
“You have eaten so much, my lord,” Eleanor said, “I wager it is nightmares you’ll have.”
Chandra’s lyre was fetched and she settled it on her lap, running her fingers lightly over the strings. She sang of King Richard and his final battle with the great Saladin, a song she herself had written. Her eyes sparkled as the notes rose to a crescendo at Richard’s victory, then fell muted and sad at the treachery that imprisoned him, far away from England, in the dark dungeons of Leopold of Austria.
There was silence for a brief moment when she had finished; then Edward leaned forward in his chair and said, his voice low and serious, “My great-uncle taught the heathen that the Christian God would not be denied, that our Lord makes us strong and brave in battle. I thank you for your tribute.”
Eustace called out, “Ah, sire, she is a warrior, do you not remember?”
Edward’s Plantagenet-blue eyes lightened. “Tell me, then, my lady, what other talents do you possess?”
“I joust, though I do not have a man’s strength. I hunt. I am good with a knife. And, sire, I should not be surprised if I could best you on the archery range.”
Edward looked taken aback; then he threw back his head and gave way to booming laughter.
“A soft, delicate girl best me?” Edward wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I admire your wit, my lady.”
“I was not jesting, sire.”
“Chandra.”
She twisted about to see her husband’s face, his eyes narrowed on her face. She saw the anger in his eyes even though his voice, saying her name, had been soft, gentle almost. She looked down at her slippers. She had not meant to flout him. She hated herself at that moment—worried that she had unwittingly flouted a man, flouted her husband, who was a man and her master. Oh, God, she was becoming nothing at all.
Jerval rose abruptly to his feet, his hand closing tightly about Chandra’s arm. “My wife is tired, my lord.”
“And you, my lord,” Eleanor said to her husband, “have drunk too much wine.”
“Nay,” Edward said, his eyes resting with laughter on Chandra’s face. He rose and slowly pulled a heavy emerald ring from his finger. “If you, my lady, can indeed beat me, the ring is yours. And will you, Jerval, give your colors to your wife so she may wear them on her sleeve?”
Chandra heard a gasp from Lady Avicia.
“You have to accept me in my wife’s stead, sire,” Jerval said. His fingers tightened over her wrist. “Tell him that it is so, Chandra.”
She wanted to howl, to curse every foul word she’d heard since she was a little girl, to tell her husband and the world that she wasn’t a useless bit of nothing. But he knew that. He didn’t care. He didn’t want that girl as his wife. She said, “Indeed, sire, it is so.”
She watched Edward slide the ring back onto his finger, saw Eleanor tug on his sleeve. He leaned down to hear her softly spoken words. When he straightened, he said, “Perhaps, then, my lady, we can speak again on the morrow.”