Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

She called after him, but of course he did not hear her. The seaward gate opened several more times as groups of soldiers ran to it from the docking ships, and then there was an almost eerie quiet. She could hear only muted shouting, and the sound of the waves slapping against the ships that lolled near the dock. Chandra watched until the storm clouds over the city turned a deep crimson as the sun fell into the sea. She turned to see Joanna on her knees, praying, she thought, for Payn’s safety. There was no messenger to tell them what was happening. Her stomach cramped viciously, and she doubled over, moaning.

She awoke that evening to see her husband staring down at her, his blue surcoat splattered with blood. She lurched up, terrified. “Oh, God, you’re hurt, you’re—”

“No, I’m not hurt. I’m much better than you are, by the looks of you. What in God’s name are you doing up here on the forecastle?” He shook his head, expecting no sensible answer, and turned to the knight beside him. “Sir Elvan, this is my wife, Chandra. Chandra, this is Sir Elvan, a Templar, and a physician. He is here to help you.” A tall, leather-faced man in full armor stood beside him, a huge red cross stitched on his white surcoat.

“I am sorry.” She moaned, clutching her belly. “The boat isn’t moving. The seasickness is supposed to stop. Please, don’t waste your time with me. I will be well in but a moment. Or maybe two.”

He smiled at her as he laid his hand upon her forehead. “Your belly will continue to cramp until I stop it, which I will. Just hold still whilst I mix you one of my magic potions.”

She nodded, clearly disbelieving him, as she said, “Jerval, what of the wounded? What has happened?”

“The Saracens fled,” Jerval said, “and Acre is once again safe. King Hugh wasn’t harmed. We lost only a few men. Now, shut your mouth and let Sir Elvan take care of you.”

“How did you know I would still be sick? How dare you worry about me and not about yourself?”

Sir Elvan laughed as he mixed a white powder in a wooden mug of wine.

“Drink this,” he said as he held the mug to her lips. “When you awaken, the cramps will be gone and you can hear all about what happened. You don’t believe me, but you will see.”

“Jerval, I don’t know about this. You swear you are not harmed?”

“I am quite fit. Now, be quiet and close your eyes.”

She said, her voice slurred, “Now I shall have to mend that wretched surcoat. It is badly ripped.”

And he laughed.

CHAPTER 25

Eustace followed a silent, olive-skinned slave into the cool interior of Ali ad-Din’s private chamber. He drew up at the sight of the merchant—black-eyed, heavily bearded, his huge belly held in place by a wide, gold-threaded sash, and felt a tug of envy. His long robe was of cool light yellow silk, richly embroidered and studded with gems. He wore stiff brocade slippers with the same oddly pointed toes the other local men of wealth wore. Only these were crusted with gems. Ali ad-Din was rich, a member of the High Court of Acre, and as Eustace’s eyes swept across the opulent chamber and the dark-skinned slaves, he wished he owned but a portion of his wealth.

Ali ad-Din sighed to himself, softly cursing the early arrival of Sir Eustace de Leybrun. He had hoped to see Princess Eleanor’s milk-white skin stretched over her belly as she stepped into his bathing pool, but she had not removed the silk robe his women had provided her. Though the golden-haired girl with her was beautiful, her breasts full and white, she was a bit too thin for his taste. He had given only a cursory glance at the plump, dark-haired girl, pretty enough, but of little interest compared to the full-bellied princess.

Although Ali ad-Din was nominally Christian, he proffered Eustace the Moslem greeting, touching his forehead with his beringed fingers. “Ah, Sir Eustace,” he said, not the smallest shadow in his voice to show that his guest wasn’t welcome. He walked away from the veil-covered wall where he had been standing when Eustace entered the room. “You have come to remove your beautiful English princess and her ladies from my humble house?”

Eustace nodded, and at Ali ad-Din’s graceful wave of his hand, sank down on a pile of soft pillows that surrounded a low sandalwood table inlaid with ivory.

A slave girl poured him a goblet of sweet red Cypriot wine and held a huge, fruit-filled bowl toward him. He selected several sticky soft dates, a delicacy that seemed to be everyday fare in Palestine.

“I hope your noble Prince Edward and his mighty lords are in good health?”

Eustace had grown used to the roundabout questioning, a disconcerting trait of all the heathen in the Holy Land, be they Christian or Moselm. “Aye,” he said only, his teeth tingling at the flavor of the tartly sweet dates.

Ali thought Sir Eustace as boorish an oaf as most of the arrogant nobles who had traveled with the English prince, but the smile never left his mouth. He continued in his soft voice. “I fear that you must rest awhile in my company, Sir Eustace, for the beautiful ladies have not yet finished their bath.”

“I will wait,” Eustace said, chewing on another date. “The prince has commanded that the ladies be escorted at all times, as you know.” He added the words Edward had bade him speak. “The prince does, of course, treasure your kindness in offering your house for the ladies’ comfort.”

“It is an honor,” Ali said, his black eyes hooded. He prided himself on his judgment of a man’s character, and Sir Eustace’s envious glances had not been lost on him. He suspected that Sir Eustace was not a religious fool like the English prince, nor, he thought, did he seem capable of the almost blind loyalty of Lord Payn de Chaworth and Sir Jerval de Vernon, the two English nobles whose wives were at this very moment enjoying his bathing room with the child-swelled Princess Eleanor. The man would make himself sick if he continued to eat the sweet dates. Ali silently clicked his fingers together toward the boy slave. The bowl of fruit was removed and Eustace’s goblet was filled with more wine.

“It is a pity that the saintly King Louis did not succeed,” Ali said. “But he was a sick old man, and Tunis such an infested rat hole. The Saracens believed, of course, that Acre would be an easy plum to pick now that the new French king, Philip, and King Charles of Sicily have made peace with the Sultan Baibars. All of Acre, my lord, is grateful to you English nobles for your bravery.”

Eustace’s belly felt warmed by the sweet wine. They had indeed saved a beautiful city, one of the few Christian fortresses left in Palestine. The Venetians and Genoese had garnered great wealth here, and the Sultan Baibars’s lust for the city was understandable. But Christ, to pit one thousand men against Baibars’s vast armies—even Edward had not understood why the Saracens had fled the besieged city, for the sultan commanded ten times their numbers. It was still a mystery.

“You seem to have weathered the siege well.”

Ali shrugged. “A merchant, even such a humble one as myself, must arrange his affairs so that he will survive, no matter the outcome.” He added on a smile, “Since I am neither Genoese nor Venetian, I have not had to concern myself with their bickering, and have been able to trade with both of them.”

“You have many slaves,” Eustace said, as a lithe young girl clothed only in a filmy silk robe stepped toward them.