Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

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 dir

ty 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.