Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

For an instant, she believed that the entire English army would follow him. But there was no one, only more of al-Afdal’s men. She whirled about and slashed out at one of the Saracens as he passed her.

Al-Afdal heard the man yell out, and whipped about to see him fall to his knees, grabbing his shoulder, and Chandra’s razor red with his blood. One of his men tossed him a scimitar, and he caught it handily, only to see that Chandra had grabbed the sword of the man she had wounded. The small chamber was fast filling with his m

en, rushing toward them. If the fighting continued, she would be killed, and likely a half-dozen of his men with her.

He came to a quick decision. “Surround him,” he shouted, raising his scimitar toward Graelam. “And keep away from the girl. I will kill the man who draws her blood.”

Graelam knew that he would die, and he cursed himself for being a noble ass and a fool to believe that he alone could save her. Only his heavy broadsword was holding back the men who surged toward him, and their number grew with every moment. He felt the flat side of a scimitar strike the back of his legs, and he went hurtling to the floor onto his back. He saw a black-eyed Saracen above him, his scimitar raised in an awful arc, and a prayer came to his lips as he prepared himself to die.

“Do not kill him!” Al-Afdal’s voice cut through the din. The man above Graelam stiffened, his scimitar poised to strike. Even as Graelam tried to push himself up, another pointed blade touched the flesh of his throat.

“Chandra!” Al-Afdal shouted. “Throw down the scimitar, else the English knight will die.”

Her scimitar was poised to strike down at a Saracen’s blade when she heard al-Afdal’s words. She saw Graelam upon his back, some five men pinioning him. She gave a cry of fury and defeat, and drew back, panting.

“Drop the scimitar.”

Slowly, she let the scimitar slip from her hand. One of the men, dazed with a blow she had given him, lunged toward her before al-Afdal could stop him. He looked on in horror and then in utter surprise.

Chandra jumped to the side, the cloth that covered her pulling from her body, and tripped the man as he lunged past her. She grabbed his wrist and brought her foot down on his elbow. In the next instant the man lay on his back, clutching his broken arm, shrieking. Her foot was poised to crash into the man’s ribs when she heard al-Afdal shout at her again to back away.

She looked toward Graelam, and knew she could do no more.

Al-Afdal grabbed the fallen cloth and threw it over her. She clutched the material to her and took a stumbling step away from him.

“Do not kill him,” she whispered, still panting so that she could barely speak.

“Is he your husband?”

“No, he is a friend.”

“A brave man,” al-Afdal said, “but stupid to believe that he alone could save you.” He saw the bleakness in her eyes, and pivoted about. “Well, Englishman,” he continued, “it appears that Sir Eustace was not so careful as he thought.” He motioned to his men, and they pulled Graelam to his feet.

“Chandra,” Graelam said, his voice heavy, “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said, “don’t be.” She turned toward al-Afdal. “You will not kill him.”

“No,” al-Afdal said thoughtfully, staring at her. “I have other plans for your brave knight.”

He saw Munza standing in the entrance. “Was the Englishman alone?”

Munza nodded. “He must have seen Sir Eustace and the English girl and followed them, master.”

“Post more guards. I think we would be wise to leave for Montfort soon.”

Montfort. The once-Frankish castle captured by the Saracens. It would be impenetrable. Once inside the fortress, all of Edward’s army could not rescue her.

Graelam’s arms were bound and he was dragged from the chamber. Al-Afdal looked a moment toward the slave girls still cowering against the walls, the physician beside them, then back to Chandra, a slight smile curving his wide mouth.

“Calla, dress her and bring her to me.” He touched his hand to Chandra’s bare arm. She did not flinch. “You will, of course, do as you are told now, Chandra.”

He nodded toward the physician, and in the next moment, Chandra was once again alone with the slave girls. The women seemed afraid to come near her. She shrugged out of the cloth and said sharply, “Bring me clothing.”

Chandra followed Calla through the tented corridors to the chamber where al-Afdal waited. She looked about for Graelam, but he was not there. Eustace stood next to al-Afdal, who lay sprawled on soft cushions, in much the same pose she had first seen him, a golden wine goblet in his hand. She felt numb. Was Graelam dead? And if not, what was al-Afdal up to, that Graelam would not be here?

“Come here, Chandra.”

She walked toward him, the shimmering fabric of her skirt clinging to her legs.