She looked up at him wildly. “I could not bear it if you had fallen and I had done nothing.”
“But I would not have borne the cost had you been killed. You saved de Moreton’s life and probably de Chaworth’s. I must thank you, yet it pains me to my soul.”
Jerval looked over at Graelam de Moreton, who was seeing to another one of their wounded men. She’d saved him. Not so long ago, she would have gladly killed him, as would Jerval for that matter.
He tightened his hold about Chandra’s shoulders. He could hear Payn cursing at the top of his lungs at one of the physicians, who was probing at his leg.
He looked down at Chandra. She was tugging at his arms. “Please, your side. I must change your bandage.”
“Your arm first, Chandra.” He ripped away the sleeve of her gown, and drew a relieved breath. He bandaged the shallow gash as best he could. “Is Eleanor safe?”
“Aye. She was well protected, surrounded by at least twenty men.” She looked up at him, wanting to speak, wanting to beg him never again to place himself in danger, but she knew she could not. It was his duty to fight. She said simply, “I don’t want to lose you, ever. Do you hear me?”
His eyes flew to her face at the raw passion in her voice, but she had turned away from him, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.
“Aye,” he said, “I hear you. You will stay safe with me until we are once again back in Acre.”
She sat on the ground beside the unconscious Payn de Chaworth while the English buried their dead. The hovering birds were but waiting, she thought, for them to be on their way, leaving the bodies of the Saracens.
She saw a large shadow from the corner of her eye and gazed up to see Graelam de Moreton towering over her.
She said nothing when he dropped to his haunches beside her. He simply gazed at her for a long moment, his hands fisted against his thighs.
“You hate me. You would have killed me at Croyland if you could have. Why did you save my life?”
She looked at him full face. “You were simply an English knight who would die if I did nothing. No matter what has happened, no matter what you have done, I could not let them kill you.”
“Your arm,” he said, his tone almost as harsh as Jerval’s had been.
“It’s nothing.”
Payn groaned and twisted sharply. Graelam helped her ease him onto his back and straighten his wounded leg.
She felt Graelam’s hand touch hers, and her eyes flew to his face.
“You will hear no more veiled threats from me, Chandra,” he said quietly. He patted her hand and looked off into the distance. “You have no more reason to fear me. It’s true that I thought still about taking you, even here in the Holy Land, and I know that I wouldn’t have treated you well. I hated you almost as much as your father after the humiliation I suffered through Jerval and the king’s order—and of course from that knife wound in my shoulder.” He sighed deeply and looked back at her, a grim smile on his lips. “You have robbed me of my revenge, Chandra.”
He rose suddenly, his shadow still blocking out the sun. “Your husband is returning. I thank you for saving me and I wish you and Jerval well. I owe you a debt now, Chandra.” He turned and strode away from her to his destrier.
Chandra stared after him until she heard Payn de Chaworth moan. She laid her hand gently on his chest, and he opened his eyes to stare up at her. He said, pain rumbling in his throat, “I thank you, Chandra, for protecting my wretched skin. I had heard you could fight, of course, but I did not believe that it could be true. Sir Jerval must admire you greatly.”
She raised her head, a bitter smile on her lips. Mayhap he did, she thought, despite his anger at her for fighting, but she found little pleasure in the notion. She felt free of herself for the first time in her life, free from the bonds of a meaningless pride. She heard wild cursing. It was Eustace, howling, as a physician stitched up a gash in his cheek.
“He is carrying on like a damned woman,” Payn said, then realized what he’d said. “Nay, that isn’t true, is it? Not any damned woman, in any case. However, I cannot imagine—damnation, forget that.”
Chandra lightly punched his shoulder and laughed.
“You look as if you swallowed a prune,” Joanna said to Chandra.
“Nay, I was just wishing we had word from Haifa. It has been nearly a week without news.”
Eleanor, arranged comfortably on thick, soft cushions in Ali ad-Din’s bathing room, said easily, “They will send word soon, Chandra. There is little to fear. My lord told me before they left that the Saracens had only a loose hold on the city and would likely flee at the sight of our army.”
The slave girl who had been soaping Chandra rose at a word from Beri and poured a jug of warm, perfumed water over her. Chandra sighed with pleasure and slithered into the cool bathing pool. As was her habit, she floated in the water, listening to the giggling Joanna and the chattering slave girls. When she opened her eyes, she saw Beri staring down at her, an odd, assessing look in her dark eyes. She stood up, pulled her hair over her shoulder, and twisted out the water.
Beri handed her a towel. “Come, this time I have a very special perfumed oil for you.”
“Will it remove this ugly scar?” Chandra asked, looking at the jagged ridge of flesh on her arm.
“Nay, but it will make men wild to be near you.”
Chandra gave her a twisted smile. “It is not something I wish.”
“Perhaps you should,” Beri said.
Chandra stretched out on her stomach and felt the warm oil trickle down her back until a slave girl began to rub it lightly into her flesh. She turned her face toward Beri. “Why did you say that?”
Beri shrugged. “I told you once that I did not understand. You are beautiful, your body glows with health, and you are not at all ill tempered.”
“You have never seen me angry, Beri.”
“You are proud. That is different, and perhaps that is what I do not understand. You must take care. There is a man who wishes you ill—Sir Eustace de Leybrun is his name. I heard that he was spreading rumors that my master had given me to Sir Jerval as payment for his help against the Genoese. He wishes to hurt both you and your husband.”
Rumors that Jerval had bedded Beri? She wanted to know more, but there was no time because Eleanor called out, “Chandra? There is a message just delivered. We have taken Haifa, and our husbands are all safe.”
Chandra gazed blankly toward Eleanor, who was waving a letter a slave girl had given her. “Thank God,” she said. “Thank you, Beri, for giving me warning.” She paused a moment, and smiled. “Actually, I believe I lost my pride when I saw my husband wounded. I won’t let Eustace or anyone harm him again.” She rose from the table and allowed a slave girl to help her dress.
She was aware of Beri watching her until she passed out of the bathing room with Eleanor.
“I am returned, hale and hearty, Chandra. Stop your pacing. I am not hurt—indeed, everything went easily.”
She whirled about to see Jerval stride into the tent. She only stared at him.
“Are you surprised that I am clean? And out of my armor?”
She was at his side in a moment, feeling his arms, his shoulders. She fell to her knees, her hands on his legs. “You are all right? Your side did not pain you?”
“Aye, I am fit again.” He stopped abruptly, staring at her. “You look pale. What is the matter?”
“I want you. Right now. I want you to kiss me.”
He believed his eyes would cross. He was instantly hard, harder than he’d ever been in his life. He was on her in just a moment more. He lifted her against him, pressing her tightly to him.
She clutched at his shoulders and felt the power of him, felt the urgency of his need for her. His mouth was gentle, his hands lightly stroking, yet she knew he was holding himself back, that he was in control. She didn’t want him to be in control. She wanted him to be as wild as she was. She rubbed herself against him.
Ev
en as he said, “Our clothes, Chandra,” she was tearing at the fastenings on her gown. He laughed, slapping her hands away, and stripped her within moments. Then it was her turn. She gave him a siren’s smile, and once again he believed he would lose control. It was very close.
“Lie beside me,” he said, and she believed him to be in pain. When she would have spoken, he lightly placed his fingertips against her lips. They lay facing each other, and for a moment, he feared to touch her, for if he did, he would be on her and deep inside her. He stared into her eyes, smoky and vague. Beautiful eyes, a deep blue, shimmering like the sea at dawn.
“Why do you stare at me?”
“I never want to forget what you look like at this moment.” Then he clasped her hand and gently guided it down his belly. When her fingers closed over him, he smiled. “I want you, badly—you know that.”
She still held him, her fingers clutching at him now, and it was almost pain, but not enough for him to stop her. Finally he pulled her hand away. “No more, or I will spill my seed and you will want to take your sword to me.”
“No,” she said into his mouth, “no.” She felt his fingers pressed against her, feeling her, stroking, and she quite simply wanted to die from the frenzy of it, the immense wildness.
“Move against my fingers,” he said, nuzzling her throat.
When her eyes went blank and wild, he reared over her and came inside her. He thought he would die at the feel of her, of them together.
She yelled, holding him tightly against her, feeling him inside her, so deep, part of her, and she wanted him, wanted, and when his fingers found her, she yelled again.
She was whispering love words to him and clutching his back, holding him down on top of her. For many moments, his mind was a vague blur, raw sensation warring with thought. He could feel her pounding heart against his chest, the giving softness of her breasts and belly. He shook his head, clearing away his passion, and balanced himself over her on his elbows to stare down into her face.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
She smiled, replete and satisfied. “Nay, but I am filled with you,” she said in wonder. “Filled, and it is very good.”
“Aye,” he said, “but not quite so much now.” He lowered his head and rubbed his chin against her neck.
She said against his temple, “So many things have happened, things I never expected. I thought I would die when you were wounded at Nazareth.”
“And I must always try to protect you. There will be some things I cannot change, Chandra, some things that you will have to accept.”
“Because you are a man.”
“Aye, because I am a man, and because life, even at Camberley, is so damned uncertain.”
“But I was not useless during the Saracen attack. I did save Graelam and help Payn.”
“That is true. I suppose I sound like a fool, and if Payn heard me, he’d likely call me an ungrateful dog, but perhaps the next time it would be your life to be forfeit. Never could I bear that cost, never.”
“So it must always be I who waits in fear?”
He rolled to his side and laid the flat of his hand in the hollow of her smooth belly. “When you carry my child, it is his safety that must be your only concern.”
“I am to be the giver of life, and you its protector.”
“Those sound like some philosopher’s words.”
“It is what you want.”
“Mayhap, some of it. We are back to obedience, are we? We will have great fights, Chandra, and we will tug apart and then pull back together. The servants will cower in fright, and my parents will believe us mad. But there will be love between us, and respect. If you will agree to that, then all else will work itself out.”
She snuggled her face into the hollow of his throat and smiled. “You won’t ever leave me?” she asked him, her arms tightening about his back.
“I doubt if I could leave you even if the damned Saracens besieged Acre.”
“I love you, Jerval.” He was silent. For an instant, she tasted the fear of vulnerability.
“It took you long enough to realize it. You will not now forget, will you? Ever?”
“Nay, never.”
“I have loved you since I saw you standing in the Great Hall of Croyland.” He paused a moment as his fingers lightly probed the raised scar on her arm. “There has been too much between us—and not enough.”
“I don’t want us to be what we were in England, ever again.”
“No, we have both changed.”
There were no more words between them, and they slept within minutes, Chandra sprawled beside him, her hand curled upon his chest.
CHAPTER 28
The next afternoon, after little fuss, Eleanor birthed a girl child, named Joan of Acre—a fitting name, Jerval said to Chandra.
But two days after the birth of his daughter, Prince Edward sat alone in his tent, wearing only his tunic, having rid himself of his hellishly hot armor, wondering what the devil was keeping al-Hamil, an emissary from a local chieftain who had made a truce with the Christian knights. He was impatient to join Eleanor and their babe, Joan. The fly that kept hovering about his forehead did not improve his temper.
He heard conversation outside his tent, but did not rise. He looked up as the flap was raised and nodded welcome to al-Hamil, an unusually large man for a Saracen, nearly as tall as Edward, with black, bushy eyebrows that almost met across his forehead. Al-Hamil stepped inside the tent and bowed low to Edward.
“Sire,” he said, and walked slowly forward.
“What have you to say to me today, al-Hamil?” Edward waved him toward a stool. Turning slightly to reach for a goblet of wine, he saw a shadow of swift movement from the corner of his eye. He flung the goblet of wine toward the Saracen and threw himself sideways even before he saw the gleaming dagger coming down fast. He felt a prick of pain in his upper arm, and with a growl of rage, he lunged at the Saracen, his fingers gripping the wrist that still held tight to the dagger.
“Christian dog!” al-Hamil yelled, spitting into Edward’s face. “It is too late for you, for the dagger has pierced your flesh.”
Edward felt the Saracen’s arm weakening beneath his fingers and, slowly, he turned the dagger toward al-Hamil. Before the Saracen could wrench away from him, Edward brought up his knee and thrust it brutally into the other man’s groin. Al-Hamil bellowed in pain, staggered, and fell to his knees. He saw the dagger’s vicious point aimed at his throat.
“Allah!” he screamed.
Edward locked his arm behind the Saracen’s neck and, with a final surge of strength, drove the dagger into al-Hamil’s chest. The Saracen gazed up at the prince and smiled, even as his blood trickled from his mouth. He slumped backward, his eyes, now sightless, locked on Edward’s face.
Edward jumped back, his chest heaving. He saw his guards flooding into the tent, staring at him in shocked silence. He wanted to speak to them, but he felt a wave of nausea close over him. It is but a prick in the arm, he thought as he crumpled to the floor.
Jerval, Chandra on his heels, burst into the crowded tent to see Edward’s two physicians leaning over him, probing at the swelling flesh of his upper arm. Eleanor stood at the foot of his cot, utterly still, utterly silent, her face frozen.
Jerval, angry at the babbling disorder, shoved the bewildered soldiers from the tent. “For God’s sake,” he shouted at them, “keep everyone out.”
“The dagger was poisoned,” Payn said, “and the damned physicians are but wringing their hands.”
Edward slowly opened his eyes. He felt a numbing chill radiate from the wound in his arm. He looked up at Geoffrey Parker. “Is there nothing you can do?”
“Sire, it is a heathen poison, a poison that we do not understand. We have cleaned the wound.” He turned his eyes away from Edward’s gray face. “We can do naught save sew the flesh together, and pray to God.”
Jerval turned to Roger de Clifford. “Send a man to fetch the Templar physician, Sir Elva
n. If it is a heathen poison, he may know what to do. Quickly, quickly!”
Eleanor raised her eyes at Geoffrey’s words. For an instant, she looked about her blankly, at the hovering nobles standing impotently about, at the drawn faces of the two physicians.
“Poison,” she whispered. There was a bluish tinge about her husband’s lips, and he was trembling now, uncontrollably. Her eyes fell to the still-swelling gash in his arm. Edward gave a low moan, and his head fell back against the cushions.
“No!” Eleanor shouted. “You will not die.” She rushed from the foot of the cot and shoved Geoffrey roughly out of the way.
“My lady, please,” Geoffrey said. “You must leave. There is nothing you can do.”
But Eleanor knew what she was going to do and no one was going to stop her. “Listen to me. I will not let him die. Get out of my way, all of you.” She fell to her knees beside Edward and lowered her mouth to the gaping wound. She sucked hard, then spat the blood and the venom from her mouth, and sucked again at the wound until she could draw no more blood or poison from it. Slowly, she fell back on her knees, and bowed her head.
There was stunned silence until Chandra slipped away from Jerval and eased down to her knees beside Eleanor. “My lady,” she said gently, lightly touching Eleanor’s white sleeve, “I think you are the bravest person I have ever seen. You have done all you can for your husband. Come away with me now.” She looked up, angry because the damned physicians had begun to argue with each other in hushed whispers.
“She likely killed our lord,” she heard one of them say.
“To bring in a Templar physician, surely the prince would not approve.”
Jerval, wanting to strangle the lot of them, shouted, “Why not? Do you think the prince would prefer to die?”
“That is not the point,” said another of the men, but Jerval just turned away from them.
But Chandra didn’t ignore him. “Then what is the point?”
“It is better to die a Christian than let a heathen save you.”