Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

“I am fine.” Then he saw the blood streaking down her arm, and felt himself go cold. “You’re hurt,” he said, his voice sounding so harsh that Chandra jumped.

“It’s nothing at all. It all happened so quickly. From one instant to the next, they were on us. By God, we beat them off.”

The memories of the battle rose in her mind. She saw the boy’s face, so clearly, right there, staring at her. She rose shakily to her feet and stumbled away from Jerval toward a narrow crevice in one of the jagged rocks. Nauseating bile rose in her throat, and she fell to her knees. She wretched until her belly was empty, then wretched more, doubling over. She felt his hands on her shoulders, steadying her.

“Here, Chandra, drink this.”

She accepted the water skin from Jerval and forced herself to swallow the cool water, then rinse out her mouth. “What is wrong with me? I cannot even stand.” And then she tried to stand again, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. She felt his arms about her, and she leaned against him.

She said, her voice deep with pain and horror, “We are so fragile, our lives so easily snuffed out in an instant with the twist of a hand. It is just too much.” She turned about on her knees to face him. “To know that you are about to die, to become nothing in but a moment. And to kill, to rob another of life. Dear God, he was only a boy, and I killed him. I didn’t hesitate, just killed him, and I saw the surprise on his face.”

Jerval fell to his knees and gathered her shaking body into his arms. “He did what he had to, just as you did. Fighting the Saracens isn’t like fighting the bandits at home. These are not bandits, men ruled only by their greed—nay, these are men who believe as strongly as you and I that what they think is right. We are heathen to them. We are the evil ones.

“I think for the first time you were truly aware that the specter of death was on your shoulder.” As he spoke the words, she felt him stiffen. “You could have been killed playing the hero for me.”

She looked up at him wildly. “I could not bear it if you had fallen and I had done nothing.”

“But I would not have borne the cost had you been killed. You saved de Moreton’s life and probably de Chaworth’s. I must thank you, yet it pains me to my soul.”

Jerval looked over at Graelam de Moreton, who was seeing to another one of their wounded men. She’d saved him. Not so long ago, she would have gladly killed him, as would Jerval for that matter.

He tightened his hold about Chandra’s shoulders. He could hear Payn cursing at the top of his lungs at one of the physicians, who was probing at his leg.

He looked down at Chandra. She was tugging at his arms. “Please, your side. I must change your bandage.”

“Your arm first, Chandra.” He ripped away the sleeve of her gown, and drew a relieved breath. He bandaged the shallow gash as best he could. “Is Eleanor safe?”

“Aye. She was well protected, surrounded by at least twenty men.” She looked up at him, wanting to speak, wanting to beg him never again to place himself in danger, but she knew she could not. It was his duty to fight. She said simply, “I don’t want to lose you, ever. Do you hear me?”

His eyes flew to her face at the raw passion in her voice, but she had turned away from him, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.

“Aye,” he said, “I hear you. You will stay safe with me until we are once again back in Acre.”

She sat on the ground beside the unconscious Payn de Chaworth while the English buried their dead. The hovering birds were but waiting, she thought, for them to be on their way, leaving the bodies of the Saracens.

She saw a large shadow from the corner of her eye and gazed up to see Graelam de Moreton towering over her.

She said nothing when he dropped to his haunches beside her. He simply gazed at her for a long moment, his hands fisted against his thighs.

“You hate me. You would have killed me at Croyland if you could have. Why did you save my life?”

She looked at him full face. “You were simply an English knight who would die if I did nothing. No matter what has happened, no matter what you have done, I could not let them kill you.”

“Your arm,” he said, his tone almost as harsh as Jerval’s had been.

“It’s nothing.”

Payn groaned and twisted sharply. Graelam helped her ease him onto his back and straighten his wounded leg.

She felt Graelam’s hand touch hers, and her eyes flew to his face.

“You will hear no more veiled threats from me, Chandra,” he said quietly. He patted her hand and looked off into the distance. “You have no more reason to fear me. It’s true that I thought still about taking you, even here in the Holy Land, and I know that I wouldn’t have treated you well. I hated you almost as much as your father after the humiliation I suffered through Jerval and the king’s order—and of course from that knife wound in my shoulder.” He sighed deeply and looked back at her, a grim smile on his lips. “You have robbed me of my revenge, Chandra.”

He rose suddenly, his shadow still blocking out the sun. “Your husband is returning. I thank you for saving me and I wish you and Jerval well. I owe you a debt now, Chandra.” He turned and strode away from her to his destrier.

Chandra stared after him until she heard Payn de Chaworth moan. She laid her hand gently on his chest, and he opened his eyes to stare up at her. He said, pain rumbling in his throat, “I thank you, Chandra, for protecting my wretched skin. I had heard you could fight, of course, but I did not believe that it could be true. Sir Jerval must admire you greatly.”

She raised her head, a bitter smile on her lips. Mayhap he did, she thought, despite his anger at her for fighting, but she found little pleasure in the notion. She felt free of herself for the first time in her life, free from the bonds of a meaningless pride. She heard wild cursing. It was Eustace, howling, as a physician stitched up a gash in his cheek.