“He doesn’t what? You can tell that miserable jackal to shave all that black hair from his chest then.” Chandra swung her legs over the table and grabbed Calla’s arm at the elbow. “Get that thing away from me.”
There was no fear in the girl’s eyes. Calla shrugged, and Chandra released her. “You are not like the rest of us. Perhaps the master will not notice.”
Chandra watched her place the razor on a pile of linen towels and take some colorful gossamer cloth from the arms of another slave girl. “Let me dress you now. The master, as I said, is not a patient man.”
Chandra did not resist. She had no intention of being naked in front of any of these heathen. The veils that covered her breasts were a pale lavender, as soft as a moth’s wings. Calla fastened the material together beneath her breasts with a golden clip. She stepped into a floor-length skirt much like the one Calla wore, and let Calla tighten it in folds at her waist with a leather belt. She noticed that Calla was barefoot. She sat docilely while several slave girls, under Calla’s direction, combed out her wet hair.
“What is this? Don’t you want to shave my head?”
“You show no fear. I do not know what the master will think.”
“Perhaps he will be intelligent enough to release me.” She heard Calla sigh softly.
They fastened her damp hair back from her forehead with a gem-covered strip of stiff golden cloth.
“You are very beautiful,” Calla said finally. “I will fetch the physician and my master now.”
“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.”
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.
“Is she not exquisite, Sir Eustace?”
Eustace took in the gem-studded clasp at her waist and followed the movement of her legs through the translucent veils. Her hair, now dry, fell down her back. He felt lust swirling in his belly. “Aye,” he said only.
“I suppose you would like to take her now, as we agreed.”
“Aye,” he said again, his voice thick, “and then I will take my leave of you.”
“Would you care to take her here, in front of my men? They have never seen an Englishman rut a woman.”
“She will fight me,” Eustace said. “I have no wish to hurt her. That is for you to do if she is disobedient. You must tie her down to spare her bruises.”
To Eustace’s surprise, al-Afdal threw back his turbaned head and laughed. “Yes, she would fight you. She would also likely unman you before you thrust yourself into her. But, my friend, you are right. I don’t want her bruised. See what you already did?” Al-Afdal rose gracefully to his feet and walked to Chandra’s side. He did not touch her, only pointed to the dark purplish bruises over her ribs.
“She fought me.”
“Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, turning back to Eustace, “Chandra needs a man to fight for her.” He watched, a half-formed smile on his lips, as Eustace glanced contemptuously about at his men.
“Give me a sword,” Chandra said. “I will fight him.”
Al-Afdal glanced at her face and saw that she was serious. “I cannot risk that you would be harmed, Chandra.”
Eustace started forward, uncertain what was going on here. “Just give me my gold, and I will leave. I have decided she is not worth the trouble. I do not want her.”
Al-Afdal stroked the point of his beard. Eustace did not like it. He tasted fear. He wanted to leave this place.
“Is it not a practice among you English,” al-Afdal said, “to provide a champion for the weaker?”
Chandra felt the blood rush to her temples. Al-Afdal had Graelam, and it would be he who fought Eustace. Did Eustace not know anything of Graelam?
Eustace’s hand clapped about his sword, and he slowly backed away.
“Do not be so anxious to leave, my friend,” al-Afdal said. “I have another English knight for you to meet, someone worth your mettle.” He nodded toward Munza, and Graelam was shoved into the chamber, flanked by four of al-Afdal’s men, his arms bound behind his back.
“De Moreton!” Eustace exclaimed.
CHAPTER 31
“Aye, you filthy bastard!” Graelam said.
Al-Afdal returned to his seat of cushions. “I will make you a bargain, Sir Eustace,” he said. “If you can defeat Lord Graelam, you will leave here with your gold.”
Eustace had seen Graelam fight. The man was strong, and he showed no mercy. Eustace was afraid, very afraid now.
“If Lord Graelam defeats him, will we be allowed to leave?”
Al-Afdal smiled toward Chandra. “Not you, Chandra, but your noble Graelam will be free.”
“Release me,” Graelam said hoarsely. “I will carve his guts from his belly.” He did not trust al-Afdal to free him if he killed Eustace, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He turned his dark eyes toward Chandra, and saw that she was looking at him with great sorrow. He wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter, but of course it did. He didn’t want to die, but for now, there seemed to be nothing he could do. Except kill Eustace, and that he wanted to do very much. He smiled at her, nodding almost imperceptibly.
“Clear the chamber,” al-Afdal said. “I do not wish my possessions hacked to bits. Come stand beside me, Chandra.” He held out his beringed hand toward her, and she had no choice but to obey him. br />
“May God be with you, Graelam,” she said as she passed him. “I thank you. You owed me no debt. No matter what happens here, it is I who owe you.”
For the first time, Eustace saw the bloody gash in Graelam’s arm. It was his sword arm, and Eustace knew that he must be weakened. He drew his sword, ran the tip of his thumb along its sharp edge, and smiled at Graelam. “Aye,” he said, “you have lusted after her, have you not? You lost her to Jerval, but you still wanted her. You will die, Graelam, and the little bitch will spend the rest of her days serving the heathen paynim.”
Graelam did not answer him. As the Saracens unbound his hands, he concentrated on his memories of Eustace in battle. He knew that Eustace thought that his wounded right arm would do him in. His sword was placed in his right hand, and he left it there. Nay, he thought, let the fool believe he will have an easy time of it. He flexed his arm, and grimaced. Eustace slashed his sword before him, his mouth set, his eyes alight with the victory he knew would be his.
“Well, Chandra,” al-Afdal said, closing his hand about her wrist. “I do not need to ask you whom you favor, do I?”
“I favor the only brave man here,” she said. She heard him suck in his breath, but didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes on Graelam. Her heart pounded with fear for him. Like Eustace, she saw the blood on his arm.
Al-Afdal raised his arm, and brought it down. And then he laughed.
With a loud roar, Eustace lunged toward Graelam, his sword high above his head. In the instant Eustace’s sword arced downward in a blur of silver, Graelam tossed his sword to his left hand. The clash of ringing steel jarred the silence of the tent.
Al-Afdal watched calmly as Graelam and Eustace joined swords, hacking at each other. They moved slowly, their armor restricting their freedom, and he saw that it was a test of strength between them. His men would have dashed in and out, whirling about to avoid the crunching blows, relying on their quickness rather than a grueling contest of sheer strength. Both men were soon panting heavily, their brows beaded with sweat.