Eustace pulled his destrier up and flung her to the rocky ground, and she felt the pain from the sharp rocks dig into her back She looked up to see him jerking up his surcoat, ripping at the ties on his chausses. He was going to rape her. She had to stop him, but how? He was much stronger, and she was hurting, badly.
Eustace was grunting as he tugged at a knot in the ties. He looked down at her, sprawled before him, her gown torn and riding up her legs. “I begin to see why Jerval does not want to leave your bed.” He tossed her his mantle. “Spread yourself on it. Else I’ll gut you with my dagger.”
Chandra rolled to her side away from him and jumped to her feet. She grabbed the mantle and flung it at his head. She heard him curse as she rushed toward her palfrey. Stones cut into her slippers, but she didn’t slow. She heard him still cursing, close behind her now, too close, and she gave a cry of anger and whirled about to face him, knowing that she could not outrun him. She controlled the pain in her ribs. She had only one more chance before he raped her. She saw him raise the dagger just as she kicked him in his groin with all her strength, but her gown held firm above her knee, and her foot landed against his armored thigh. Eustace grunted in pain, but he managed to close his arms around her and fling her backward.
“No, I’m not going to kill you, but I am going to hurt you. Aye, I’m really going to hurt you.” His voice was a mixture of pain and lust.
Chandra fought him, tried to throw him off balance, using every trick her father and his men had taught her, but he was like a bull, crushing her into the cold stones. She felt his hand ripping her gown, and she yelled curses at him. His hand was upon her bare leg, squeezing her flesh.
She could feel the cold night air against her skin. She managed to rear up in one final surge of strength and strike his face.
Suddenly, she heard low, angry voices—men’s voices—and they were close by. She raised her head, painfully. She saw about a dozen desert-garbed Saracens, some still on their horses and several standing near her. Eustace’s fist was raised to strike her. One of the men said something. She heard Eustace yell back, “You have no right to interfere. I was told I could enjoy her before she became al-Afdal’s whore.”
The Saracen who appeared to be their leader was speaking quietly. “The bargain was made, Sir Eustace, but you will not take the English girl here, on the rocky ground, and then turn her over cut and bleeding to my master.”
“I won’t use my dagger on her, though she deserves it. Listen, I want her now. She fought me. I want her.”
“No, not here.” Munza breathed a sigh of relief that he’d gotten here in time. If his master’s physician found seed in the girl’s body, his life would be worth less than an old slave’s, of which there were very few. He turned and looked down at the woman. He knew all she could see was a dark face, framed in a white turban. “Ah, good, she is conscious.”
He dropped to his knees beside her. She did not move when he touched his fingers to her jaw. She thought she saw a glint of pity in his black eyes. “Are you in pain?”
She shook her head.
The Saracen said over his shoulder to Eustace, “You will pray to your Christian god that you have not harmed her.”
“She fought me, Munza,” Eustace said. “She is a bitch, and wants taming.”
“Cover yourself,” the Saracen said coldly, his eyes dropping to Eustace’s open chausses. “It will be for my master to say what is to be done with her.” His black eyes flickered over her, thoroughly assessing. “She is more beautiful than I believed possible. Al-Afdal will be pleased. It is a pity she is not a virgin.”
Chandra raised her hand to clutch at his sleeve. “Do not do this. Of course I’m not a virgin. I’m a wife. My husband is Sir Jerval de Vernon. You must return me to Acre and my husband. You will be greatly rewarded, I promise you.”
He shook off her hand and rose. “Can you stand?”
She nodded, knowing there was no hope with him. Slowly, she forced her knees to lock and hold her weight. “Here,” the Saracen said, and threw her a mantle to cover her ragged gown.
She wrapped it about her. At least she was covered now. She wanted to kill Eustace. If only she could have gotten his dagger away from him. She also wanted to kill herself for being so stupid as to believe him. He’d killed poor Amaric. It was too much.
“When can I have her?” It was Eustace, so frustrated he sounded as though he was ready to fight all the Saracens to get to her.
Munza shrugged. “When my master accepts her, your bargain will be sealed. Come, al-Afdal awaits.”
Chandra was helped to her feet and set upon her horse. There was no more talk among them, only the sound of the horses’ hooves pounding over the rocky ground. They were riding to higher ground, and the night air became colder. She thought of Jerval, wondering if he yet knew that she was gone, wondering what he would do. She felt tears sting her eyes, tears of grief for what could have been, tears for what she had found so briefly, and lost. She knew Eustace would still rape her. The Saracen had agreed it was part of the bargain. Then he would take his money and return to Acre, full of righteous anger and grief at her capture. And she would be left, like Ali’s slave girl, Beri, for the rest of her years as a man’s whore.
She swallowed her tears. They couldn’t help. She calmed. She would kill herself—aye, she would kill herself, before she would let Eustace or any of the Saracens touch her. She’d kill Eustace first, then herself. But the thought of suicide curdled like sour milk in her belly. She did not want to die, at least not by her own hand. It was a coward’s way, and by Christ, she would not be a coward.
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.”
Al-Afdal nodded slowly. “As you wish, Sir Eustace.” He raised his hand toward a group of women who had entered silently. One of them, a girl with skin and flowing hair as black as ebony, stepped forward, her eyes upon al-Afdal’s pointed slippers. Even they, Chandra noticed, were braided with gold and studded with gems.
“Calla,” he said to the girl, “take Chandra to the baths, then call for me. I wish to be present when the physician examines her.” He said to Chandra, “Do as you are bid, else I will have my men hold you down. I do not make idle threats, particularly to women. Do you understand?”
Chandra nodded slowly.
“Calla,” he continued, “speaks your tongue. She will give your instructions to the other slaves.”
Again Chandra nodded. She knew that she must learn the extent of her confines before she could act. She quickly lowered her eyes, afraid that al-Afdal would guess her thoughts, so keenly was he looking at her.
Al-Afdal watched her as she followed Calla from the chamber. She was proud, he thought, proud and untamed and exquisite, like a white-petaled rose. He remembered that his father had once purchased a young girl from Persia, a fiercely proud girl, and he had crushed her spirit, and the beauty of her pride. He turned back to the English knight, his dark eyes hooded. Perhaps he would not give the English girl to Eustace as he had planned. She wore her pride like a maidenhead, and he wanted that prize for himself when he took her, when he made her realize that her life was different now, that she had to please him to live.
Chandra followed Calla into a smaller room at the far end of the tent, with several of al-Afdal’s men close behind them. It was not unlike Ali ad-Din’s bathing room, save there was no sunken pool and no mosaic tile covering the floor. A large brass tub, shaped like a hollowed-out lemon, was set in its center, and women were filling it with steaming, perfumed water. She did not know the scent, but it was heady.
“Please to undress now,” Calla said.
Chandra looked quickly about her, but there were only women. As she shrugged out of her torn clothes, she gazed more carefully about the chamber. It was an inner room that did not touch the perimeter of the tent. The roof dipped down in scallops between slender wooden supports. She wondered what would happen if she managed to pull down one of the wooden poles. A bit of a commotion, perhaps, she thought, but that was all. She laid her clothing on a low, linen-covered table that she guessed was used to oil the bathers after their bath.
“Calla,” she said suddenly, turning to the girl. “I am here against my will. I do not belong here. Please, you must help me.”
Calla looked into the English girl’s pale face. She said, “I know who you are. I have heard the men speak of you. There is naught I can do ab
out it. My master seems to think you some kind of goddess.”
“Goddess? That is ridiculous. I am but a woman, like you, Calla, and I have a husband, an English noble, who will miss me.”
“You are prideful,” Calla said as she slowly shook her head, “but you must take care. He believes he admires the pride in you, but he is wrong. He is like his father. No, al-Afdal is not a patient man. No one dares to gainsay his will, and especially not a slave or a woman.”
Chandra said nothing more, and stepped into the tub, unaware that Calla was studying her body, her eyes hooded.
She allowed herself to be bathed by the silent women. Like Ali’s slaves, some of the girls were scarce into womanhood. She lay back and closed her eyes, trying to think what she was to do. I will not let him touch me, him or Eustace, no matter what happens. There, she’d finally made her decision. She felt strangely calm now. Much to Calla’s surprise, she fell asleep in the swirling hot water.
Chandra started awake, feeling refreshed, and she smiled up into Calla’s astonished face. At least her fatigue was gone from her. She felt strong and alert. Her ribs didn’t hurt much anymore.
Calla motioned her to lie on the linen-covered table. Chandra lay on her back, staring up at the tent top, and did not bother to look up at Calla until she heard her say in her soft voice, “Do not move. I do not wish to cut you.”
Chandra started up, balancing herself on her elbows. She saw that Calla held a thin razor in her hand.
“What are you doing?” She was scooting back, as far away from that razor as she could.
Calla’s eyes traveled down Chandra’s belly to the damp golden hair covering her woman’s mound. “My master does not like woman’s hair,” she said.