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She jerked back, eyes wide, hand over her mouth. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. The needle and sinew yanked through his arm. The old woman spilled wine over his stomach as Micah jostled her. The boy had jumped in front of Abigail. A dagger gleamed in one hand, the flickering firebrand in the other. Jesse thought the boy looked scared as he squinted his eyes and glared at him. Jesse emitted a low growl just to see if the boy would run, but Micah held his ground. His courage gave him much credit. He’d make a fine warrior one day and Jesse relished the thought of training such a courageous soul. A shame he would not be around to do so.
“I...am sorry.” She leaned around the boy’s wiry legs. Tears filled her eyes.
He scraped his palm over his face and settled back against the pillows. “It is I who should apologize. I was not prepared.”
No, he’d been thinking about his brothers and their families. Thinking about how quickly life could be lost and what a shame it would be to never experience the kind of love his brothers shared with their wives. A love God had intended between a man and woman. A husband and wife.
Abigail crept forward and bent over him. Jasmine once again enveloped his senses. Her hesitant gaze flicked to his.
“Go on.” He smiled. His mouth ached with the movement. “I’ll behave.”
She nodded at the child. The boy tucked his weapon into his belt and stepped back. Abigail lowered her head, and her fingers slid over the edge of his wound and closed the flesh together. The needle pierced more gently. She tugged and pulled the thin line of catgut through his wound.
Her movements, although shaky, were gentle and efficient.
This shy, yet courageous, curious woman drew him. He wanted to calm her, to soothe the wounds hidden in her green eyes, even as she sought to heal his. The care and gentle touch of her palm against his skin, even though it caused more pain, scared him as nothing ever had. Not even when he rushed into battle.
“Here, sip. It’ll ease the pain.” The old woman pressed a copper cup to his lips.
He curled his nose and moved his hand in front of his mouth. “I’d rather suffer.”
“It is true what they say about your people.” The woman’s gray eyes pierced his.
“What is this, Dara?” Abigail tilted her chin. “What truth do you speak?”
The early eagerness in her request for truth lit her pale cheeks, illuminating her eyes like blades of grass in the morning dew.
“He does not drink wine.” Micah’s lips twisted in disgust.
The needle paused in Abigail’s hand. She glanced over her shoulder and then back to Jesse. “Is this true?”
He nodded.
“What sort of man does not drink wine?”
“The kind who wishes to indulge in pain.” Dara set the cup aside and replaced it with another. “Here, it’s water with chamomile.”
“You’re not trying to kill me, are you, Dara?” He smiled.
The wrinkles lining her cheeks smoothed. “I could have done that with my knife, boy. I do not resort to poisons.”
“I will remember that.”
He sipped the offered water. The herb clung to his tongue.
Abigail and Dara resumed their stitching and plastering his skin with glutinous bandages. The discordant drums settled into a steady rhythm, matching his breathing as he relaxed. The lamps flickered and waned. His eyelids slid closed. The soft linen of Abigail’s tunic whispered against his skin as she tended each wound. She leaned over him, her breath soft and warm against his cheek. She prodded a cut above his eye. Her tresses, a light caress on his chest, soothed him the way his own mother’s tenderness had done when he was but a child.
“Jesse.” Her whispered song curled his toes. “Can you roll this way?”
He blinked his eyes open. Her green ones hovered above his. His mouth parched, he licked his lips and swallowed, wishing he could form the words to ask for a drink.
“We need to tend the wounds on your back.”
He reached up to touch the wound above his brow. The flesh puckered between the sutures. How had she been so quick with her needle? he wondered as he tried to comprehend the situation.
“Jesse, we cannot roll... Lie on your stomach...” He never willingly gave a man or a woman his back lest he find himself killed.
“No.” He shook his head. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. What had the old woman done to him?
“Ach, boy. You’re too big for us to move you. You’ve gashes on your back what needed stitching.”
He pulled and twisted. Although the pain dulled, the movement stretched his skin in ways not common to man. He plopped on his chest, his cheek heavy against the pillows. Warm liquid poured over his back. A raging fire burned within the wounds, and he arched his neck.
“Ach, you need to hold still if I am to stitch you.” Dara’s tone, harsh as it was, held a hint of sympathy.
He tried to keep his eyes opened but he became mesmerized by the flickering lamplight and his lids grew heavy. No sooner had he lain on his chest than it seemed the insistent women were waking him. “Jesse, you need to roll back now.”
He wished they would make up their crazed minds. All this moving about caused him great discomfort, especially with the pounding in his skull.
“Jesse.” Hearing his name from Abigail’s lips soothed a loneliness inside him he did not realize existed. He opened one eye and looked at her. “You need to roll back.”
She touched her palm against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his back. Pain cut deep, halting the movement until it could be held no more. He coughed and released the rebellious air before gripping his ribs. “Surely the cords of death have entangled me.”
“You should not move.” Abigail’s gentle voice lulled him into a sense of peace.
Once he gained control over his breathing, he peeled his lids open. A soft golden hue bathed the chamber. With the glorious crown of silken tresses dancing about her shoulders, she looked to be an otherworldly creature. “Beautiful.”
He thought he saw the beautiful woman smile. However, it wasn’t but a moment later, an aging brow and crooked nose appeared. Gnarled fingers pulled back his swollen bottom lip, probing his mouth, before pasting his mouth with a thick salve tasting of honey. “You’ve all your teeth. A good sign you will not perish from starvation.”
Nightmares did not visit him often in his sleep, but he feared the old woman would stay with him for a time. “What is it you tainted my water with, old woman?”
A trickle of laughter danced in the room as a cloth touched his brow. His gaze flicked from the gray-haired woman to the beauty beside him. “Only chamomile to ease your pain and help heal your wounds.” She bent close to his ear. “Dara will not harm you. She’s a healer.”
“I should trust her?”
The tilt of her chin was the only answer he received. The lady was mad if she thought he would trust any of them with his life. Perhaps he was the mad one, for he had put his life in their hands.
“Ow!” He bellowed when Dara poked at the wound near his temple.
“Your captain did not want this man to live long, did he? His wounds are making him crazed.”
Green eyes turned sullen. She dipped her chin to her chest. “I fear the captain is angered by my mother’s death.”
Jesse thought to tell her it had nothing to do with the queen’s death, but his vision began to blacken. Perspiration beaded on his chest. He shivered. His tongue grew heavy and cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He was parched, as if he’d spent weeks in the desert with no water. After a great struggle he swallowed, pulling his tongue from its mooring. “Thirsty.”
Olive oil, honey and figs bathed the inside of his mouth. Certain he would die if he continued to lay still, he tried to push up onto his elbows.
A gentle touch prodded him back to the soft mat of his bedding. “Do not move.”
“Thir—thirsty.” He swallowed hard against the raw scratchiness.
“Here.” She lifted his head and pressed a cup to his mouth.
He clamped his lips shut against the herbs lulling him out of his senses.
“It’s only water.”
He stared into her eyes, seeking deception.
“You can trust me. I will not allow harm to befall you this night.” Her soft whisper broke through the pounding in his head. He parted his lips. Cool water glided over his tongue and down his throat. With the same gentleness his mother had used when he was but a boy, she laid his head back down and brushed her fingers across his brow, smoothing back a lock of hair. Her soft eyes bored into his. His last thought as the light began to dim and his eyes once again slid closed was that maybe he could trust her enough to pay her court.
Chapter Four
“What is this?”
Abigail jumped to her feet and faced Captain Suph. She’d feared he would arrive but hoped he’d been too caught up in his wine to care about the prisoner for the night. Micah once again puffed out his chest as if to protect her from the captain who had always left her feeling as if she should disappear. His black eyes were cold and soulless. What had her mother found pleasing in him?
“Dara is healing his wounds.” Abigail stiffened her spine.
Suph pushed farther into the tent. He peered down at the sleeping prisoner and then at the bone needle between her fingers. “It looks as if you are tending his wounds, Abigail. It’s not fitting for a queen to demean herself as such.”
Abigail felt her eyes widen. “Until a few days ago nobody cared much about my activities as long as I remained in my chambers.”
He reached out and grabbed a handful of hair. His fingers clung to her tresses. “That was before your mother was murdered, leaving you heir to the throne. Your mother never would have lowered herself to a servant’s duties.”
How was Abigail to know this? She rarely saw her mother. If the servants hadn’t told her, Abigail never would have known who her mother was. The beautiful woman had rarely paid her any heed. “You are right, Suph. My mother would have been more likely to help you torture a man than help him.”
Suph swung his arm back. Abigail squeezed her eyes closed and hunched in on herself, waiting for the blow. After several long moments she opened her eyes. Micah, as small as he was, stood in front of Abigail with his arms crossed in front of him.
Suph curled his lip. “You are brave for one so young. It’s an admirable quality. However, I fear it will see you killed if you’re not careful.” He clouted Micah’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground. With nobody standing between them, Suph’s menacing eyes bored into hers.
The hammering in Abigail’s chest picked up the pace. Tears stung the back of her eyes. “I will ask you kindly to leave, Suph.”
The captain growled; grabbing hold of her neck, he pressed his wine-soaked breath close to her ear. “I’ll remind you, Abigail, your position as queen depends solely upon me. Without me, without my men, you are nothing. If this rebel regains his strength, he’ll kill you.” He pulled back. The lines at the corners of his eyes melded together as he clenched his jaw. “Do not doubt me in this, Abigail. He will kill you.”
“Captain, would you be liking a drink? From the royal coffers, I’m certain.”
Suph pulled his gaze from Abigail’s and glanced at Dara. He tore the goblet from the healer’s hand and gulped it down. Red liquid sloshed onto his beard and tunic.
“I forgive you for your lack of wisdom, Abigail, dear.” He handed the cup back to Dara. “Do not cross me again and never speak ill of your mother. Ever.”
Abigail stretched to her full height and looked down on Suph. “When I am queen—”
He grabbed hold of her arm, his fingers bruising her through her garments. “When you are queen, you’ll be my wife and you’ll learn to respect my wishes.” His fingers bit deeper. “Is that understood?”
Abigail couldn’t say a word. The smell of blood, Jesse’s blood, mixed with Suph’s drunkenness, which clung to his person, caused her stomach to churn and bile to rise.
Suph jerked her forward. “I demand an answer.”
Why had he obeyed the earlier commands she’d given him in front of his men, when he now demanded his own of her in private? Did he not trust his men would allow him to treat her poorly?
“Captain, the princess has had a grueling time of it. Having lost the last of her family, being cast from her home and raced through the desert. Ach, my old bones are crying out in agony. How our delicate princess must feel. She’ll be her more biddable self once she’s had some rest, I’m certain.”
Suph released her. His gaze bounced from Dara to Micah, and then to the prisoner before once again halting at Abigail. “Do not touch him. Do not attempt to heal him, or I’ll kill him and things will not go well with you, my dear.” He curled his lip and glanced at Micah. “Nor with you.”
Micah held Suph’s murderous gaze. Suph settled his hand on the hilt of his sword. His fingers clenched around the bound leather. Fear permeated Abigail’s core, causing her knees to quake. She stilled the temptation to shield Micah from Suph’s wrath. Doing so would only ensure Micah met a wicked end.
Perhaps worse than Jesse’s.
“Do not force my hand, Abigail. I will do what I must.” He dropped his hand to his side, turned on his heel and ducked between the tent flaps.
She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders sagging. “What am I going to do? I cannot bow to his demands. He’ll perceive it as weakness and use it against me.”
A warm hand touched Abigail’s forearm. She glanced down at the gnarled, papery hand and then into the warm, kind eyes of Dara. “We should go back to Jerusalem. The priest, Jehoiada, would offer you refuge.”
Abigail sucked in a sharp breath. “He had my family killed.”
Dara shrugged and then knelt beside the prisoner. “Only your mother, child.”
“What do you mean by such words?” Silence echoed against the fabric of the tent. Abigail paced, uncertain of what she should do.
“Dara is correct, Abigail.” Micah’s soft, childlike voice whispered in the tent. “The captain means you no good. He needs you to rule Jerusalem.”
Of course. Fool that she was, she somehow believed her position as queen would gain her respect. Even from the captain. She did not ask to be queen and had no desire to be as such. If only she could return to her chambers and be left alone... Her gaze dropped to Jesse’s sleeping form. He needed her help. No matter Suph’s threats, she would not allow him to die or to remain within reach of the captain’s cruel hands.
“Do you wonder why your mother did not marry him, child?”
The question knotted in Abigail’s chest, twisting and turning. “I was kept in a chamber, Dara. I have little knowledge of my mother’s activities.” She sighed and dropped to her bedding. “I fear I have little knowledge of the city I grew up in. Perhaps you’re right and I should rest. The morrow will look much brighter.”
Her words seemed hollow. As long as Suph controlled her and threatened the people within this tent, nothing would be bright.
“Child, there is no time for rest. You must decide to act now.”
Abigail jerked her head up. The skin between her eyebrows knitted together. “What is it you are suggesting?”
“She’s suggesting—” Jesse swallowed, his voice weak “—you choose your own fate, Abigail.”
She shuddered. “How am I to do that?”
“I will help you.” He pressed up on his elbows. Tremors raced through his body at the effort.
Abigail laughed. “You are half-dead, prisoner.”
He smirked. A dark eyebrow arched under his black curly hair.
“I will help,” Micah offered. “Suph’s reputation is fierce. Cruel. He’ll do as he says and kill us if we don’t obey.” The boy dropped his chin to his chest. “And most likely even if we do as he demands.”
She shook her head. “I do not see how we will make it out of the camp. Alive.”
