Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

But what to do?

She would wait and see. She must be ready. Her father always said, “While there is life, there is hope.” She’d never really thought about it before, but now it meant everything to her. Jerval would come. He must.

Graelam and his man-at-arms drew up in the shadow of a huge rock at the sight of a ghostly, white-garbed band of Saracens. Chandra was riding in their midst, Eustace with their leader at their fore. Graelam gripped his man’s arm. “We can do naught against a dozen Saracens. Ride back and bring Sir Jerval and his men. You will have no difficulty tracking me. I will follow to see where they take her.”

As he rode through the night, keeping well out of sight of the Saracens, Graelam smiled grimly, picturing his hands choking the life out of Eustace.

The mountainous terrain gave way to a barren plain of low sand hills pressed among scattered rocks and boulders. Chandra looked up as she shifted wearily in the saddle and saw lights in the distance. As they grew nearer, she could make out a cluster of palm and date trees, and the outline of tents set among them. They formed a small village at the edge of the plain, its back pressed against the mountains. Horses whinnied and groups of armed men shouted in welcome. They rode past a pool of clear water with women kneeling beside it, filling goatskin jugs. Thoughts of escape dimmed at the sight of so many people.

The Saracens drew to a halt before a huge, many-domed tent, and their leader jumped down from his horse and threw the reins to a boy standing beside its entrance.

“Come inside, Sir Eustace,” Munza said in his lilting accent. “My master will want to see you.”

Eustace dismounted and swaggered toward the huge tent. He turned as Munza helped Chandra off her palfrey and said, “It is just as well. I will enjoy her more once she is bathed and readied. I warn you, though. She is not a woman to be cowed and made fearful. Watch out for her. She is as ferocious as a warrior.”

Munza said nothing, though for a moment he wanted to laugh. The Englishman sounded afraid of the girl, which was beyond ridiculous. He grasped her arm and forced her to walk beside him to the tent. He stopped her a moment in the light, and studied her face. “There is a slight bruise, that is all. My master will be pleased.”

Chandra gazed at him coldly. “Your master will be pleased for only a short time. Then he will be dead.”

Munza drew back and frowned at her. He was no

t a tall man, and the English girl’s eyes were as cold as the northern winters he’d heard about. He knew that Christian women were not like Moslem women. But still it shocked him that she could speak so brazenly, and stare at him with such contempt. “You will learn how to behave, my lady,” he said. “Else my master will flay the white skin from your beautiful body.” That should silence her. He waited to hear her plead, perhaps even beg him to go gently with her.

She said, “Ah, another brave man. Take me to this courageous master who must steal a wife from her husband. Aye, I wish to look upon his noble face.”

Munza didn’t want to, but now he found himself worried. She was not behaving as she should. He said slowly, “A slave does not look into her master’s eyes unless he wishes it. I don’t want you slain. Remember my words, my lady, else you will not live to say more.”

Chandra shrugged and it angered him—she saw it, and it was something. She pulled the mantle about her torn robe and walked, stiff-backed, beside Munza into the tent.

She blinked her eyes, adjusting to the blazing resin torches that lit the interior of the tent. It was an immense structure, its floor covered with thick carpets, slashed with vivid reds and golds. Fat, brightly embroidered pillows were piled beside small circular tables, delicately carved in sandalwood. Flowing, translucent veils of cloth separated the tent into chambers, and it was toward a large central chamber that Munza led Chandra. She was aware of silent, dark-skinned women, their faces covered with thin veils, who briefly raised their downcast eyes at her. They were dressed as slaves, with flowing tops of light material fitted snug beneath their breasts, leaving their skin bare to the waist, and long, full skirts, fastened at their waists by a thin band of colored leather. She could see the line of their legs through the shimmering cloth. Dark, bearded men stared at her openly, and it was lust she saw on their faces. She would be strong; she wouldn’t give up.

She began to feel as if she were walking through a gauntlet designed to humiliate her. At last, Munza drew apart a golden veil that hung from the roof of the tent to its floor, and shoved her forward. She stood silent for a long moment, drew in her breath. She could not believe that such riches could be gathered in a tent, set in a barren desert. There was gold everywhere: goblets glistened upon the low tables, chests bound with intricately carved gold bands, and thick pillows embroidered with gold thread. The light was not so bright here, and its softness added to the opulence of the room. Munza grasped her arm and pulled her forward.

“Bow to our master—al-Afdal,” he said close to her ear.

She laughed; she actually managed to laugh. “I will see this jackal in hell first.” She’d spoken loudly enough to reach the man sprawled at his ease on the far side of the chamber. She threw her head back and stared at him, not moving. His dress was different from that of the desert-garbed Saracens. He wore a short jacket, without sleeves, fastened across his wide chest by golden chains. His trousers, like his jacket, were of pristine white wool, full at the thighs, and bound by a wide golden belt at his waist. When her eyes traveled to his face, she was surprised to see a young man, with a beard curving to a sharp point at his chin. He was not ill-looking. His black eyes were cold, deep as an ancient well. She saw thick black hair on his chest curling about the golden chains. She forced herself not to move.

“This is Lady Chandra de Vernon,” Eustace said in a loud voice, stepping forward. “She gave me a bit of trouble, but I barely marred her beauty. As I told you, she is known for her warrior skills. She did not come easily.”

“Come here,” al-Afdal said. He raised a heavily jeweled hand toward her. He did not answer Eustace or even acknowledge his presence.

Chandra jerked her arm free of Munza and strode forward. She drew to a halt some three feet before the man, al-Afdal, and crossed her arms over her breasts. “So, you are the jackal who bribed this weak fool”—she paused a moment, and cocked her head contemptuously toward Eustace—“to bring me here?”

“You damned bitch,” Eustace yelled, and took an angry step toward her.

CHAPTER 30

“Quiet, my friend,” al-Afdal said softly. He rose gracefully to his feet, and Chandra was taken aback at his size. In her experience, Saracens were small men, wiry and slight of stature. He wasn’t. “I believe I told you to come here, Chandra.” She started at the still-gentle tone of his voice. He spoke her name as two distinct words.

She shrugged and stepped forward, aware of a sigh of relief from Munza. “What is wrong with you? Are you so desperate that you must steal women? So ugly and ill formed that you cannot persuade women to come to you without force?”

He moved so quickly and gracefully that Chandra scarce had time to draw back. He unfastened her mantle and dropped it onto the carpet at her feet.

“I see that you did fight Sir Eustace,” he said in that same soft voice. He turned his dark eyes to Munza. “Did the English knight rape her?’

Munza shook his head quickly. “Nay, master, but he would have had I not stopped him.”

“She is no virgin,” Eustace said. “What does it matter how many men take her?” Al-Afdal did not reply, and Eustace continued, emboldened. “I would prefer to have her once she is bathed. Then I will take my leave of you, with the gold you promised me.”