Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

She heard al-Afdal say to the physician, “Quickly, examine her, and be gone.” There was an urgency in his voice, and she knew that he wanted to take her, and quickly. She felt a hand touch her thigh, and she tensed. Because she could not bear to hear his humiliating order, she parted her legs.

The physician’s hands were delicate and curiously gentle as he probed at her. When his thin finger, slippery with some kind of ointment, slipped inside her, she felt such shame that she wanted to choke on it. She stiffened, drawing upward, when she felt him deep within her, and al-Afdal pressed his hands on her shoulders to hold her still. When the physician’s hand was gone from her, she forced her eyes to open. He was standing over her, but his eyes were upon al-Afdal. He said quietly, “She has been with no man in the past day. The Englishman, Eustace, did not take her.”

“She is healthy, without blemish?”

“She is healthy.”

“I want many sons from her.”

The physician bowed. “She is narrow, but will bear as many sons as you wish.”

Al-Afdal waved his hand in dismissal, and the physician bowed again, and backed out of the chamber.

“Are you hungry, Chandra?”

She shook her head, and reached for the fur cover. He stilled her hand. “No. I wish to look at you. You are mine now. Do not forget it. I am not hungry either.”

He stood over her then, his eyes on her as he stripped off his clothes.

“Look at me, Chandra,” he said. “I want you to look at me and see me, know me, and recognize me as your new master. I want you to imagine the magnificent sons you will bear me.”

“I want you to think only of my hatred for you.” She looked at him, contempt hard in her eyes, looked down the hard length of him. He was lean and wiry, hard with muscle. She looked at his groin. “My hatred,” she said, “and my pity, for you are scarce a man, I see.”

Her words, ridiculous in truth, made him want to kill her. She saw his anger, and smiled. “Must I also lie to you, as I am certain your other women do, and tell you how very magnificent you are?”

No woman had ever in his life scorned him. His first impulse was to beat her until she cried for mercy and swore to him that she had lied. He saw the hard coldness in her eyes, and knew that beating her would not have the result he wished. No, he would thrust himself into her until she was raw, until

he saw the pain fill her eyes.

“Open your legs. Now.”

She struggled against him as he clutched at her thighs and jerked them apart. With a growl of fury, he reared over her and smashed the flat of his palm against her cheek.

The dizzying pain snapped her eyes open, and for an instant, she stared at his angry face. She forgot his threat to kill Graelam, indeed forgot everything except her rage. “Filthy savage!” She kicked at him with all her strength, and landed her foot squarely in his naked belly. He was thrown off balance and fell heavily onto his back on the carpet. She picked up the small table, and before he could fling up his hands to protect himself, she crashed it blindly against the side of his head. She was raising the table to strike him again when her mind suddenly cleared, and she stared down at him. He was moaning, his eyes closed. There was a gash at his temple, and blood was streaking down the side of his face. Suddenly, he lunged upward and struck her jaw with his fist, flinging her backward. As she weaved, dizzy from the blow, she saw him clutching his head, then falling again, sprawling naked upon his back.

She grabbed at the empty air to save herself, but she fell, striking the coal-filled brazier. She heard a soft hiss as the flame-red coals rolled over the silken cushions.

Chandra struggled to her knees, shaking her head to clear her mind, and rubbed her burning eyes. Murky gray smoke swirled about her, and licking flames were curling up behind the cushioned bed, climbing the thin veils to the roof of the tent. She staggered to her feet and looked down at the Saracen chieftain. Suddenly one of the wooden supports gave way, bringing a flaming cloud of azure material with it. She watched in horror as it crashed down over him.

The heat and smoke were choking her, and she whipped about. She grabbed the thick embroidered cloth that had fallen from the small table, clutched it about her, and lunged toward the veiled entrance of the chamber.

The roaring flames blazed over her head, spreading across the roof with amazing speed. She crouched over in the dense smoke, pressing the edge of the cloth against her face, and struggled forward. She heard women screaming, saw shadows of men running toward the entrance. She dashed past two of al-Afdal’s soldiers, but they paid her no heed. They were rushing back to his chamber, intent upon saving their master.

She fell forward onto her knees in the cool night. For a moment, she could not move as she gulped in the clean night air. Even outside the crumbling tent, she could feel the raging heat gushing outward. She struggled to her feet and looked wildly about her. Frenzied horses were screaming at the towering flames, and Saracen men and women ran past her, intent upon saving themselves and their belongings.

She had to find Graelam. She looked back at the blazing tent, but remembered that al-Afdal had ordered him taken to Munza’s tent. The flames were leaping from the tent roof, orange embers and burning swatches of cloth falling onto the smaller tents around it.

“Graelam!” She yelled out his name as she rushed from one tent to another until her voice was a hoarse whisper. Saracen men slammed into her, but paid her no attention. She pulled back the flap of an outer tent and rushed inside, Graelam’s name on her lips. She found him there, struggling frantically against the ropes.

He saw her, a white apparition, and a strange laugh broke from his throat. “By Christ’s blood, Chandra, I should have known that it would be you to bring the heathen to their knees.”

She dropped down beside him and quickly unfastened the knots on the rope that bound him. When his arms were free, he worked at the knots at his ankles.

He jumped to his feet, then stood a moment, staring down at her. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, I do not wish to join the devil in a heathen camp.”

“The horses—they are behind this tent. Hurry, hurry.”

They both whirled about at a cry of rage. Munza stood in the entrance, his eyes burning red from the flames, his scimitar raised. “You,” he yelled at her. “You have killed my master.” He lunged forward, readying his scimitar to strike her.