The Warrior's Vow. Christina Rich

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