Payn smiled, leaning toward his wife. “It is one of Palestine’s main trade goods to the West, Joanna.”
The rich meal and heavy wine did not lighten the men’s mood, and when Ali ad-Din called for the dancers, Jerval, Payn, and Roger de Clifford left the table to join the prince.
Graelam de Moreton eased himself down beside Chandra. She did not move away from him because that would show fear. She had seen little of him since they had left England. In Sicily, if rumor was correct, he had amused himself by indulging freely in the women offered to the English nobles by King Charles. She eyed him, wanting to send her fist into his smiling face.
“I don’t like it when you smile,” she said. “It means you are up to no good.”
“Ah, we will have to see about that, won’t we? Do you enjoy the music, Chandra?”
“I suppose it is music,” Chandra said, the clacking cymbals and the tinkling bells still sounding strange, even after weeks of hearing them every waking hour. “Do you not wish to join the prince and my husband?”
“Aye, perhaps in a moment. Is not the girl in the red veils Beri, Ali ad-Din’s slave?”
She nodded, frowning as she said, “It is a pity that such a lovely, soft-spoken girl must be a slave.”
He looked for a moment into his silver goblet, into the deep-red Cyprian wine, then said, “Doubtless even Beri has some amusement in her life.”
“I have seen what amusements you promise for women, Lord Graelam. But of course you look upon women—slaves or free—as naught but instruments for your pleasure, do you not?”
He watched her for a long moment, before saying easily, “You still fear me.”
“I’m not afraid of you, my lord. I was merely thinking of Mary, the young girl you raped at Croyland.”
Graelam raised a black brow. “I did not wish to do it. I could think of nothing else to make you tell me where your brother was hidden.”
“She was innocent.” Of course, it was too late now. She added, “The slave girl yon, Beri—I told her you were ruthless.”
“Fair enough. Your dagger, Chandra—my shoulder was raw for weeks, and each time I flexed my shoulder, I thought of you. Then, of course, when my men returned with your noble father’s message, I found myself a bit angered.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, adding, his voice deeper now, “Let me give you warning. We are in a treacherous land where men trade their souls to gain an advantage. You must take care.”
“Is that a threat, Lord Graelam?”
“A threat? It is an interesting question, but one that is much too simple.”
“I have wondered why you are here.”
“The truth is that we are a pitiful lot. If you would know another truth, Chandra, my motive for being here is not quite as noble as it could be.”
“You wish for glory.”
“Glory?” His voice was incredulous. “By God, your father did you a great disservice. Take our lauded conquest of Acre. Be thankful your husband did not allow you in the fighting for this wretched city. In that, at least, I must admire him. You imagined the glory of our victory from a distance. I felt flies crawling over my face. The heat was so intense that I felt baked beneath my armor, and I was blinded by my own sweat. There is no glory in this hellhole, Chandra. Edward’s noble cause is doomed; you have but to listen to know that. There is nothing in this miserable land save disease and death and treachery. Look yon at Ali ad-Din, our fawning host. He is as treacherous and ruthless as any of Baibars’s emirs, as dishonorable as the damned Venetians and Genoese, and he licks Edward’s boots only to ensure his own safety. Do not blind yourself with the myth of glory, Chandra.”
“I do not blind myself, Lord Graelam, particularly to your treachery.”
He laughed. “Your memory pleases me, Chandra.” He shrugged, but his voice once again became serious. “Think on what I have said, though I imagine that your proud husband has told you much the same things.”
“Nay, Jerval said nothing of the fighting when we arrived at Acre.”
“But you saw his surcoat—it was covered with blood.”
“Aye, but it wasn’t his blood. A man fights as he must—a woman as well. There is honor in fighting, Lord Graelam, if the man or woman fighting knows honor to his soul.” She rose quickly. “Princess Eleanor is waving to me, my lord. I must attend her now.”
Graelam watched her walk gracefully toward the princess, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully on her back. It seemed that she hadn’t yet heard that her husband had taken Beri to his bed. He had been told by Eustace de Leybrun, a kinsman of Jerval de Vernon’s. Was it true?
Edward looked about the faces of the nobles inside his pavilion and loosened the tie of his tunic. It was near to midnight, for Ali ad-Din’s banquet had lingered long.
“King Hugh is leaving shortly to return to Cyprus,” he said.
“Not that it much matters,” Jerval said.