Eustace suddenly disengaged and took several jerking steps backward. He saw Graelam holding his sword easily in his left hand, and cursed aloud.
“Come back to me, Eustace. Come, you puking coward.” But Graelam didn’t wait. He strode toward Eustace, his sword flailing before him, cutting a wide path of control.
As he neared, Eustace kicked his leg out and smashed it against Graelam’s thigh. Chandra cried out as Graelam fought to keep his balance, but his foot caught on a fringed edge of the carpet, and he hurtled onto his back. Eustace lunged toward him, his sword raised high. He gripped it in both hands to send it downward to Graelam’s chest.
Graelam saw Eustace’s face above him. He did not have time to twist out of the sword’s path, for his armor was like a coffin of dead weight, making him slow and clumsy. He saw the blur of steel, and heard Chandra cry out. Dear Christ, he thought, his mind strangely detached, to die because of a kick in the leg and a clumsy fall on a carpet.
The instant was like an eternity of time. Eustace opened his mouth to shout his victory, but the words never emerged. He heard an odd hissing sound, and a soft thud. Eustace raised his eyes in astonishment, his sword slipping from his grasp. Graelam awkwardly jerked himself onto his side, just as Eustace, a thin-bladed knife in his throat, fell heavily to the floor.
Graelam heaved himself up. He looked toward al-Afdal, then at Eustace, who lay dead, his blood welling from his pinioned throat.
“You killed him,” he said, staggering to his feet.
“Yes, my friend,” al-Afdal said easily. He nodded to Munza. “Bring me my knife. Wipe the infidel’s blood from it.”
Chandra felt al-Afdal’s hand, the one that had hurled the dagger, close about her wrist. She looked up at him. “Why did you save him?”
He did not immediately answer her. “Take Lord Graelam to your tent, Munza, and guard him well. Give him food and drink, and a girl, if it pleases him.”
Graelam shook his head, still disbelieving that he was alive, and the heathen Saracen had saved his life. He gazed at Chandra, but he had no chance to speak to her before he was prodded from the chamber.
“Sit down, Chandra. You do not look well.”
“Why did you spare Graelam?”
He gave her a long, considering look, his fingers lightly stroking his bearded jaw. “It is really quite simple. You hated Eustace and are grateful to the other man, Graelam, for trying to save you. It would do me no good were Graelam to die. While I have him, I have his life to give you, and you will obey me because you will not want me to kill him as you watch.”
Al-Afdal smiled, adding, “Come with me now, for I would enjoy your body and the touch of your mouth upon mine.” He saw her shake her head and said, his voice softer still, “You will never deny me or fight me now, Chandra, for if you do, my dagger will pierce Graelam’s throat, and your brave knight will die because of your pride.”
She forced herself to look up into his face. So calm he was, so certain of himself, of his power, of his strength. She said, “I hate you. I will always hate you.”
She finally realized that she’d lost. He said nothing, merely shrugged. But he was angry, very angry; he would punish her for that. He sent for the physician to accompany them. He would humiliate her, make her realize that he could do with her what he wished. He took her arm and led her through a curtained doorway.
Chandra drew up, staring about her. She had believed the larger chamber was his own, but it was not. Here was luxury she would not have imagined. Vivid colors of gold and crimson, and the smell of incense, strangely sweet, filled the chamber. Slender tapers were set in golden-branched holders about the chamber, filling it with soft, shadowy light. There were no furnishings save for a small sandalwood table that stood on delicately carved legs beside a wide bed of flat cushions covered with animal furs. A brass brazier was set beside it, filled with glowing coals for warmth.
Al-Afdal stood watching her. “You are unused to such beauty,” he said. “I do not relish returning to Montfort. The Frankish castles are drafty, and all my wealth cannot disguise their ugliness.” He smiled thinly. “But until I know that Prince Edward and all his men, including your husband, have been pushed into the sea, it is there we shall stay.” He looked about him with negligent pride. “Tonight, at least, we will enjoy these comforts.”
He looked beyond her and raised a beckoning hand. Chandra turned about to see the gaunt-faced, silent physician behind them. She wanted to beg him not to make her endure this, but she knew that al-Afdal would only be even more pleased, even more certain of his victory.”
“Take off your clothes and lie upon your back.”
There was no choice, none at all. She unfastened the golden clasp beneath her breasts. It was the strangest thing, but she felt a tear fall down her cheek. Crying, a silly, stupid thing for her to do. No more, no more, else he would see and know he’d beaten her, shamed her. The clasp came loose, and slowly, she loosed the soft cloth that covered her breasts.
Al-Afdal felt immense lust. He wanted to touch her now, take her.
Chandra’s hands hovered about the gemmed clasp at her waist. She didn’t want to die. But perhaps death would be her only escape from al-Afdal. The clasp fell open. She knew he was looking at her. She stood very still as the material fell from her hips to the thick carpet at her feet. She turned away, unaware that the sight of her white back and hips gave al-Afdal as much pleasure as her breasts and belly, and walked with a hesitant step to the cushioned bed.
She closed her eyes tightly for a long moment, praying that she wouldn’t break. She lay down upon her back, her legs locked together.
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.
Graelam flung Chandra out of the way. She lurched to her feet, grabbing a clay pot that lay on the earthen floor.
“No!” she screamed, bringing Munza’s eyes toward her. She flung the pot at his chest. As Munza stumbled backward, Graelam lunged at him, his fist smashing the side of his head. The scimitar went flying and Munza fell to the ground.
“Graelam!” she yelled, pulling at his arm. For a moment, his mind was locked against her, and he smashed his fist again against the Saracen’s face.
“The tent is on fire!”
Graelam smelled the bitter smoke and tore himself away from the Saracen. He grabbed the scimitar, and together he and Chandra rushed from the flaming tent.
The horses had broken free and were galloping from the camp through the masses of men and women. Chandra saw a man with his clothes aflame running in blind frenzy and pain. Graelam jerked her back as a maddened stallion galloped in front of them, flinging clots of dirt in their faces. He tried to clear his mind of the raging spectacle about them, and plan their escape. He grabbed Chandra’s hand and pulled her with him toward the cliffs, away from the people and the trampling horses.
Jerval felt a numbing band of pain in his chest. His eyes followed Payn’s shout and pointing finger.
The dark sky was cast in orange. “By God, it is the Saracen camp.”
“We are too late!”
Jerval did not hear Roger de Clifford’s voice. He kicked his spurs into his destrier’s side and pushed him across the plain toward the eerie orange glow in the sky. He heard Payn’s shouts behind him, a battle cry to the fifty men that followed.
They thundered into the camp, their swords ready to strike, but the Saracens fled away from them, leaving whatever they could not carry.
Jerval pulled his destrier to a halt in the center of the camp, his eyes burning from the acrid smoke, straining to find Chandra. He saw the huge tent, collapsed on itself. He spurred his horse toward it.
Jerval yelled over his shoulder as he pointed toward Chandra and Graelam, “Stay close to me, and then fan out!”
Graelam saw a crazed horse veering toward them. He slammed Chandra against the cliff, covering her body with his. He splayed his hands on either side of her, flattening her against the rocks to protect her. He felt her heart pounding against his breast.
“If we are to die, Chandra,” he said, pressing his cheek against her temple, “I would say that we have given life a fine ride.”
“We won’t die,” she said. And he knew she believed it.
Graelam laughed. “It has come to me, my lady, that had I succeeded in claiming you, we would have likely killed each other. You are not a restful woman, Chandra.”
Graelam pressed her tightly against him, closing out the din about them. Chandra struggled to look beyond him. He heard her say in a strangely calm voice, “I knew he would come. I knew we wouldn’t die. Jerval is here. We will be all right now.”
He jerked about to see Jerval and a dozen men forming a barrier around them. “Aye, Chandra,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You were quite right.”
He stepped back, allowing Chandra to see what was happening. She did not move, even now that the danger was past, merely stared toward her husband as he shouted orders and rode toward them.
“Chandra?”
She ran to him. As he caught her in his arms, he looked over her head at Graelam, who stood silently, watching.
To his surprise, Graelam smiled. “Your wife and I,” he said, “are very pleased to see you.”
Jerval looked down into her beloved face, blackened with soot, and couldn’t believe his eyes. She was crying. He said nothing, just tightened his arms about her back and felt the cloth that covered her begin to slip.
“I cannot have you naked, love.” He forced himself to release her for a moment, pulled off his mantle and wrapped it about her. She hiccuped as she tried to swallow her tears, and he laughed, deep and rich, a laugh filled with relief.
“Come, Chand
ra, there will be no fighting here tonight. Let us go home.” He lifted her into his arms and set her upon his destrier. He turned back to Graelam. “You have saved what I hold dearest on this earth. I thank you, my lord. I am forever in your debt.”
Graelam grinned, just shaking his head. “Even though you see her crying now, like a weak woman, my hide would be naught but fodder for desert vermin if not for her. It galls me, but it is she who has saved me twice. I will never raise my sword against you.”
Chandra said, “It is all the smoke that is making my eyes water.”
“Aye,” Jerval said. “The smoke. I feel my eyes beginning to water as well. Come, let us all get out of this place. I wish to come no closer to hell.”
Graelam said, “The devil of this hell died in his own flames this night.”
EPILOGUE
Chandra stood beside Jerval at the harbor mole, a thick breakwater of sandstone, watching their provisions being hauled aboard the ships. The sun was a bright white ball overhead, and the day, as always, was unmercifully hot.
“You do not look very happy,” he said.
“I am afraid I will be ill again.”
He reached inside his tunic and drew out a small parchment square. “Sir Elvan gave me some medicine for you, just in case.”
“Ah, I think he is the one I will miss. He is a kind man.”
“He accompanied Edward, with his own physicians in tow, to Caesarea for the signing of the treaty.”
“I saw Edward this morning. He seems to have thrown off his depression and looks stronger.”
“Edward has realized that the treaty is not so meaningless an accomplishment.” He suddenly pulled her to him and gave her a great hug. “Do not,” he whispered fiercely, “ever again get yourself abducted. I found a gray hair in my head this morning, doubtless there from worry.”
“I swear,” she said, nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder, “I know of no other Alan Durwalds to take me by force from Camberley.”
He held her silently, then gave a tug on her hair to make her look up at him. “If Mary’s letter is to be believed, you, my love, will not even have anyone to fight with. Mother, it seems, has grown positively benign under Lady Faye’s influence.”