Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

There were no more words between them, and they slept within minutes, Chandra sprawled beside him, her hand curled upon his chest.

CHAPTER 28

The next afternoon, after little fuss, Eleanor birthed a girl child, named Joan of Acre—a fitting name, Jerval said to Chandra.

But two days after the birth of his daughter, Prince Edward sat alone in his tent, wearing only his tunic, having rid himself of his hellishly hot armor, wondering what the devil was keeping al-Hamil, an emissary from a local chieftain who had made a truce with the Christian knights. He was impatient to join Eleanor and their babe, Joan. The fly that kept hovering about his forehead did not improve his temper.

He heard conversation outside his tent, but did not rise. He looked up as the flap was raised and nodded welcome to al-Hamil, an unusually large man for a Saracen, nearly as tall as Edward, with black, bushy eyebrows that almost met across his forehead. Al-Hamil stepped inside the tent and bowed low to Edward.

“Sire,” he said, and walked slowly forward.

“What have you to say to me today, al-Hamil?” Edward waved him toward a stool. Turning slightly to reach for a goblet of wine, he saw a shadow of swift movement from the corner of his eye. He flung the goblet of wine toward the Saracen and threw himself sideways even before he saw the gleaming dagger coming down fast. He felt a prick of pain in his upper arm, and with a growl of rage, he lunged at the Saracen, his fingers gripping the wrist that still held tight to the dagger.

“Christian dog!” al-Hamil yelled, spitting into Edward’s face. “It is too late for you, for the dagger has pierced your flesh.”

Edward felt the Saracen’s arm weakening beneath his fingers and, slowly, he turned the dagger toward al-Hamil. Before the Saracen could wrench away from him, Edward brought up his knee and thrust it brutally into the other man’s groin. Al-Hamil bellowed in pain, staggered, and fell to his knees. He saw the dagger’s vicious point aimed at his throat.

“Allah!” he screamed.

Edward locked his arm behind the Saracen’s neck and, with a final surge of strength, drove the dagger into al-Hamil’s chest. The Saracen gazed up at the prince and smiled, even as his blood trickled from his mouth. He slumped backward, his eyes, now sightless, locked on Edward’s face.

Edward jumped back, his chest heaving. He saw his guards flooding into the tent, staring at him in shocked silence. He wanted to speak to them, but he felt a wave of nausea close over him. It is but a prick in the arm, he thought as he crumpled to the floor.

Jerval, Chandra on his heels, burst into the crowded tent to see Edward’s two physicians leaning over him, probing at the swelling flesh of his upper arm. Eleanor stood at the foot of his cot, utterly still, utterly silent, her face frozen.

Jerval, angry at the babbling disorder, shoved the bewildered soldiers from the tent. “For God’s sake,” he shouted at them, “keep everyone out.”

“The dagger was poisoned,” Payn said, “and the damned physicians are but wringing their hands.”

Edward slowly opened his eyes. He felt a numbing chill radiate from the wound in his arm. He looked up at Geoffrey Parker. “Is there nothing you can do?”

“Sire, it is a heathen poison, a poison that we do not understand. We have cleaned the wound.” He turned his eyes away from Edward’s gray face. “We can do naught save sew the flesh together, and pray to God.”

Jerval turned to Roger de Clifford. “Send a man to fetch the Templar physician, Sir Elva

n. If it is a heathen poison, he may know what to do. Quickly, quickly!”

Eleanor raised her eyes at Geoffrey’s words. For an instant, she looked about her blankly, at the hovering nobles standing impotently about, at the drawn faces of the two physicians.

“Poison,” she whispered. There was a bluish tinge about her husband’s lips, and he was trembling now, uncontrollably. Her eyes fell to the still-swelling gash in his arm. Edward gave a low moan, and his head fell back against the cushions.

“No!” Eleanor shouted. “You will not die.” She rushed from the foot of the cot and shoved Geoffrey roughly out of the way.

“My lady, please,” Geoffrey said. “You must leave. There is nothing you can do.”

But Eleanor knew what she was going to do and no one was going to stop her. “Listen to me. I will not let him die. Get out of my way, all of you.” She fell to her knees beside Edward and lowered her mouth to the gaping wound. She sucked hard, then spat the blood and the venom from her mouth, and sucked again at the wound until she could draw no more blood or poison from it. Slowly, she fell back on her knees, and bowed her head.

There was stunned silence until Chandra slipped away from Jerval and eased down to her knees beside Eleanor. “My lady,” she said gently, lightly touching Eleanor’s white sleeve, “I think you are the bravest person I have ever seen. You have done all you can for your husband. Come away with me now.” She looked up, angry because the damned physicians had begun to argue with each other in hushed whispers.

“She likely killed our lord,” she heard one of them say.

“To bring in a Templar physician, surely the prince would not approve.”

Jerval, wanting to strangle the lot of them, shouted, “Why not? Do you think the prince would prefer to die?”

“That is not the point,” said another of the men, but Jerval just turned away from them.

But Chandra didn’t ignore him. “Then what is the point?”