Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

“Why a physician? I am not ill. My ribs aren’t broken. I have no need of a physician.”

Calla did not reply, and Chandra was left to stand among the whispering girls. She walked about the small enclosure, as if with great indifference. The girls watched her for a while, then resumed their duties. She stood next to the pile of linen towels, inching her hand toward the razor. Her fingers were hovering above the ivory handle when the veiled curtains parted suddenly and al-Afdal entered. She whipped her hand away and turned to face him.

She felt his eyes upon her, studying her, she thought, as if she were a prized bit of horseflesh. He lowered his head a moment and listened to Calla’s softly spoken words, words that Chandra could not hear.

She saw his dark eyes flash and one of his hands clench into a fist, the huge ruby ring he wore on his middle finger gleaming in the soft light. She noticed a man standing behind him, tall and painfully thin, dressed in a white turban and a full white robe that covered him from his throat to his toes. His eyes were small, black and never calm. Like his master, he wore a full beard that was trimmed to a sharp point at his chin.

Al-Afdal’s anger grew as he watched Chandra. Even from where he stood, he could see purple bruises on the English girl’s bare ribs. A man did not need to harm a soft-fleshed woman, unless he wanted to, of course. And Calla had said that there were other bruises on her body, and cuts on her arms and legs. He began to doubt Munza’s assurances that he had saved the girl from being raped by the English knight.

He strode over to where she stood, staring at him, her head thrown back, her eyes hard. He couldn’t look away from her eyes for a very long time. He’d heard about blue eyes, but he’d never seen them before. And her hair, like the fine gold thread on his slippers.

He waved his hand back toward the physician. “You will remove your clothes, Chandra. I wish my physician to examine you.”

He could practically see the words of refusal forming in her mind. He continued patiently. “If you do not, I will have the clothes ripped from your body, and there will be no more for you. A woman without clothes is a more malleable creature. My men would appreciate it, I know.”

“If you meant me to be naked, then why did you give me clothes in the first place? If you would call these ridiculous veils clothes.”

A smile twisted his mouth. “My little Calla dressed you because I did not tell her not to. She tells me that you refused to have your woman’s mound shaved.”

Oh, God, it was nearly too much. She took a step back and saw him smile. No, she had to hold steady. She couldn’t let him see that she was so afraid, she was ready to die from it.

“It matters not. I will decide if I wish you shaved after I have seen you.”

“No, you will not. It is your hair that is disgusting—why do you not shave that black hair off your chest? You have the look of a matted animal.”

She heard Calla gasp and saw the slave girl recoil, as if from a blow, but al-Afdal did not move. She saw his black eyes narrow in rage, and she readied herself. If she was to die, she could not die cowering like a slave.

“Help her do my bidding,” he said finally to the slave girls, his voice as cold as the air of the desert night. In an instant they had surrounded her, and were unclasping the fasteners and unwinding the soft material that covered her. Chandra tried to keep the killing fear from showing in her eyes when she at last stood naked before al-Afdal.

“Lie down,” he said, his eyes on her face.

She did, holding herself stiff. She tried to cover herself with her hands, and turned her head away, her eyes closed.

She jumped when she felt fingers, light and probing against her bruised ribs. She turned her face and stared up at the physician’s impassive countenance. He was speaking quietly to al-Afdal as his fingers roved over her. Her arm was raised and examined, then lowered back to her side. They spoke quietly again, words she didn’t understand.

The physician left her side, and al-Afdal strode forward to stand beside her. “The physician finds you fit, Chandra.” His eyes roved down her body, and he gave a crack of laughter. “I will not demand that you be shaved—indeed, the golden hair against the white flesh is pleasing.” She jerked away at the touch of his hand.

“Fear me, Chandra—that is a good thing, but know that you have but to please me and your life will be contented.”

“No,” she said, “I will not fear you. You are nothing to me.”

“I cannot allow you to continue insulting me. You will keep your mouth shut, else I will have your tongue removed.”

“Then my eyes will tell you what you are to me. What will you do then—blind me?”

His jaw worked, and she held herself steady, in control now, forgetting for the moment that she was naked, and waited for him to strike her.

Al-Afdal turned away from her a moment and said abruptly to the physician, “You will examine her belly, to see if there is a man’s seed within her.”

Chandra grabbed at the embroidered linen cloth that covered the table and pulled it around her. “No more,” she said, “no more. I am not a slave, nor am I your possession. I will not allow this.”

Before al-Afdal could raise his arm to strike her, his patience at an end, Chandra lunged toward the pile of towels and grabbed the ivory-handled razor. “Now let us see what a brave man you are, al-Afdal.”

Al-Afdal took a step toward her, for a moment so angered that he forgot the reports of the Saracen soldiers that the English girl was a fighter, swift and deadly. He was drawn up suddenly by an unearthly shriek of pain from outside the chamber. He whirled about, his dagger unsheathed, to see a huge English knight lunge into the chamber, his sword flailing over his head, three of al-Afdal’s men swarming behind him.

“Graelam!”

Graelam took in the white cloth that was wrapped about her, and the razor clutched in her hand. “Get behind me, Chandra,” he shouted. “Cut through the tent—there is a women’s chamber beyond. Hurry.”