Graelam swung onto his destrier’s back, wondering why in God’s name Chandra could not be like the other ladies and remain safe in the camp until her husband’s return. Had she been so reckless as to demand that Amaric accompany her to the battle site? No, wait. They were traveling east, not north. Perhaps Jerval’s proud lady had not been at fault. He smiled faintly at this thought as he dug his heels into his horse’s belly. There was but one other person with her. Had she been taken against her will? Damnation, he owed her his life, and it displeased him to owe his life to a woman, even the fierce maiden warrior of Croyland. It was time to repay his debt.
* * *
“Off your horse, my lady,” Eustace said. “We wait here.”
Chandra didn’t move. “This is madness, Eustace. We still have time. Take me back.”
He laughed, and picked a fingernail with the sharp tip of the dagger. “Not mad, my lady, never mad.” He paused a moment then, and looked at her. “ Besides the riches I will have, I will also have the memory of your lovely body, a very lovely body that you once denied me. Since you are not a virgin, it makes little difference how many men plow you before you become al-Afdal’s sole property.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, even smiling at him. He frowned, but she moved very quickly, one eye on that dagger of his. She leaned over in the saddle and drove her fist into his jaw. More from surprise than from pain, Eustace reared back and dropped her palfrey’s reins. Chandra scooped them up, and with a wild cry she sent her horse into a frenzied gallop.
Eustace’s powerful destrier quickly overtook her, his shadow huge and black against the moonlit rocks. She gave a cry of fury when his thick arm closed about her waist and lifted her off her palfrey’s back. She fought him with all her strength, but he simply held her against him, squeezing her ribs, squeezing, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe.
Eustace pulled his destrier up and flung her to the rocky ground, and she felt the pain from the sharp rocks dig into her back She looked up to see him jerking up his surcoat, ripping at the ties on his chausses. He was going to rape her. She had to stop him, but how? He was much stronger, and she was hurting, badly.
Eustace was grunting as he tugged at a knot in the ties. He looked down at her, sprawled before him, her gown torn and riding up her legs. “I begin to see why Jerval does not want to leave your bed.” He tossed her his mantle. “Spread yourself on it. Else I’ll gut you with my dagger.”
Chandra rolled to her side away from him and jumped to her feet. She grabbed the mantle and flung it at his head. She heard him curse as she rushed toward her palfrey. Stones cut into her slippers, but she didn’t slow. She heard him still cursing, close behind her now, too close, and she gave a cry of anger and whirled about to face him, knowing that she could not outrun him. She controlled the pain in her ribs. She had only one more chance before he raped her. She saw him raise the dagger just as she kicked him in his groin with all her strength, but her gown held firm above her knee, and her foot landed against his armored thigh. Eustace grunted in pain, but he managed to close his arms around her and fling her backward.
“No, I’m not going to kill you, but I am going to hurt you. Aye, I’m really going to hurt you.” His voice was a mixture of pain and lust.
Chandra fought him, tried to throw him off balance, using every trick her father and his men had taught her, but he was like a bull, crushing her into the cold stones. She felt his hand ripping her gown, and she yelled curses at him. His hand was upon her bare leg, squeezing her flesh.
She could feel the cold night air against her skin. She managed to rear up in one final surge of strength and strike his face.
Suddenly, she heard low, angry voices—men’s voices—and they were close by. She raised her head, painfully. She saw about a dozen desert-garbed Saracens, some still on their horses and several standing near her. Eustace’s fist was raised to strike her. One of the men said something. She heard Eustace yell back, “You have no right to interfere. I was told I could enjoy her before she became al-Afdal’s whore.”
The Saracen who appeared to be their leader was speaking quietly. “The bargain was made, Sir Eustace, but you will not take the English girl here, on the rocky ground, and then turn her over cut and bleeding to my master.”
“I won’t use my dagger on her, though she deserves it. Listen, I want her now. She fought me. I want her.”
“No, not here.” Munza breathed a sigh of relief that he’d gotten here in time. If his master’s physician found seed in the girl’s body, his life would be worth less than an old slave’s, of which there were very few. He turned and looked down at the woman. He knew all she could see was a dark face, framed in a white turban. “Ah, good, she is conscious.”
He dropped to his knees beside her. She did not move when he touched his fingers to her jaw. She thought she saw a glint of pity in his black eyes. “Are you in pain?”
She shook her head.
The Saracen said over his shoulder to Eustace, “You will pray to your Christian god that you have not harmed her.”
“She fought me, Munza,” Eustace said. “She is a bitch, and wants taming.”
“Cover yourself,” the Saracen said coldly, his eyes dropping to Eustace’s open chausses. “It will be for my master to say what is to be done with her.” His black eyes flickered over her, thoroughly assessing. “She is more beautiful than I believed possible. Al-Afdal will be pleased. It is a pity she is not a virgin.”
Chandra raised her hand to clutch at his sleeve. “Do not do this. Of course I’m not a virgin. I’m a wife. My husband is Sir Jerval de Vernon. You must return me to Acre and my husband. You will be greatly rewarded, I promise you.”
He shook off her hand and rose. “Can you stand?”
She nodded, knowing there was no hope with him. Slowly, she forced her knees to lock and hold her weight. “Here,” the Saracen said, and threw her a mantle to cover her ragged gown.
She wrapped it about her. At least she was covered now. She wanted to kill Eustace. If only she could have gotten his dagger away from him. She also wanted to kill herself for being so stupid as to believe him. He’d killed poor Amaric. It was too much.
“When can I have her?” It was Eustace, so frustrated he sounded as though he was ready to fight all the Saracens to get to her.
Munza shrugged. “When my master accepts her, your bargain will be sealed. Come, al-Afdal awaits.”
Chandra was helped to her feet and set upon her horse. There was no more talk among them, only the sound of the horses’ hooves pounding over the rocky ground. They were riding to higher ground, and the night air became colder. She thought of Jerval, wondering if he yet knew that she was gone, wondering what he would do. She felt tears sting her eyes, tears of grief for what could have been, tears for what she had found so briefly, and lost. She knew Eustace would still rape her. The Saracen had agreed it was part of the bargain. Then he would take his money and return to Acre, full of righteous anger and grief at her capture. And she would be left, like Ali’s slave girl, Beri, for the rest of her years as a man’s whore.
She swallowed her tears. They couldn’t help. She calmed. She would kill herself—aye, she would kill herself, before she would let Eustace or any of the Saracens touch her. She’d kill Eustace first, then herself. But the thought of suicide curdled like sour milk in her belly. She did not want to die, at least not by her own hand. It was a coward’s way, and by Christ, she would not be a coward.