Читать книгу The Warrior's Vow - Christina Rich - Страница 11

Chapter Three

The stone warmed against her palm. Jesse’s eyes blazed with fire. Lines of pain etched his jaw as he grimaced. She inhaled a sharp breath and sat back on her heels. “I am sorry. I should not have done that. You have wounds, which need tending.”

The beat of a drum pounded in tandem with her heart. A lyre struck up a chord. The nightly ritual of chanting sounded much more eerie this close to the revelry. She began to scoot away from Jesse, but he grasped hold of her wrist. His hold, gentle, unlike his earlier attempt at holding her still, sent an awareness of him straight to her toes. He slid his fingers down the leather thong and wrapped them around the gem.

“It is nothing more than a rock, Abigail. A sign of my tribe. It does not mean I know the truth of God.” He coughed, his body propelled upward until he doubled over in a harsh moan. He settled back against the pillows, his eyes closed. “You may keep it if you wish.”

Her lips parted in disbelief. She knew from Shema, her old nurse, the signets were of great import, especially to a man of a Levite tribe. Why would Jesse give up his treasure?

Perhaps he was not to be trusted after all. She studied the lines formed across his brow and the discolored swollen cheeks above his black beard. Thick, dark curls rested against his bare shoulders. She wondered what he looked like when not so badly beaten. Even now, with his eyes closed, he was nothing more than a man. A giant of a man to be sure, but not the trained warrior Suph had cautioned her about.

She slipped from the edge of the bedding and replaced the jewel in her box. She would have Micah fix it for her later and wear it around her neck for safekeeping. Sitting on the far side of the tent, she watched Jesse for a moment. The palm resting on his chest rose in small jerky movements as if each breath was difficult.

“Does it hurt?”

He squinted one eye open. The coldness of his glare froze the blood in her veins.

The chanting of the worshippers grew louder. The richness of the roasting wild fowl permeated the air, churning her stomach. Abigail picked up one of the pillows and buried her nose into it.

Dara pushed into the tent, carrying a linen bag of supplies. Abigail dropped her pillow and composed herself as a princess should.

“They’re more riled than usual. I’d say—” Dara’s gaze darted toward the prisoner and she clamped her lips together. “Are you sure you want to save him? He looks to be at death’s door. A bit of this,” she said, pulling a tiny earthen jar from her bag and holding it up, “he’ll be out of misery if it’s mercy you wish to give.”

Abigail folded her hands together. Would Dara understand her need to keep this man alive? Her gaze settled on Jesse, uncertain if he would understand Abigail’s true motives and not the lie she was about to speak. “Suph needs him to restore Jerusalem back to my hands. He’ll not die, Dara. Not if you wish to continue on in your position.”

The skin around the old woman’s eyes crinkled. Dara had been a constant in Abigail’s life, ever since that day when Shema had abandoned her to the cold isolation of her chambers.

Air caught in Abigail’s throat as unshed tears burned at the memory of Shema. Her old nurse had been like a real mother to her, one who kissed her scraped knees and comforted her after night terrors. Now all she had left was Bilhah, a child servant and Dara, a rancorous old woman. For which she was thankful, even if the old woman wasn’t Shema.

Guilt cloaked Abigail’s shoulders, for she had never threatened Dara. Doing so now did not settle well in Abigail’s stomach, but what choice did she have?

None if she were to discover the truth. Not only about Jesse’s God, but she hoped he would also tell her the truth about this high priest and whether he had ordered the deaths of so many of her family.

One corner of Dara’s mouth curved upward. “Ach, I’d heard you were crazed. Turned into your mother.” Dara settled beside Jesse and dug through her bag before looking at him, and then Abigail. “I see I’ve heard wrong. You always were one to mend a wing. Perhaps you’ll do Judah some good after all. I had my doubts, I tell you. Call your boy in, I’ll need light if my eyes are to see. And I’ll need you. My hands are too old to be closing his wounds.”

Abigail felt the blood drain from her face and she stood frozen. It was one thing to clean his wounds, which she’d failed to do. Quite another to force more pain upon him.

“Come along, girl. I’ve not got all night.”

Abigail’s eyes flickered to his, catching his anger. He nodded. It was a slight movement, one that Dara missed. However, it gave Abigail the courage she needed. She moved toward the opening of her tent. “Micah, bring a firebrand and come here.”

The boy pulled back the flaps as he entered, giving Abigail a glimpse of the rituals of her people dancing around the fire. Embarrassment knotted in her stomach. She glanced down at her own form swathed in fine linen and knew her lack of beauty had been a blessing.

“Would you rather me leave him to die?” Dara’s sharp tone broke through her musings.

She jerked her chin up. “Of course not. I told you he is needed.”

After she knelt beside Dara, the old woman handed her a thin bone needle threaded with sinew. Abigail’s hands shook as she swallowed back the bile forming in her throat.

“Now’s not the time for weakness, child. Pay attention.” Dara poured olive oil over a long gash on Jesse’s midriff and then pinched the gaping wound together. Jesse sucked air, whistling between his teeth. “You ready, boy?”

His jaw clenched as he nodded. Dara poked the needle near the edge of the flesh and into the second piece. “You must leave a finger’s length of the sinew hanging, else it’ll pull through.”

Smoothing her hair over her shoulder, Abigail leaned closer, paying attention to where Dara stuck the needle. The old woman worked fast with gnarled fingers, creating a clean pattern like that of a ladder. Engrossed as she was in Dara’s work, she’d forgotten about the man until he flinched when Dara cut the sinew with her dagger.

Abigail sought out his gaze. “Are you well?”

Deep brown eyes the color of polished cedar stole her breath. “I am well, Abigail.”

She expected his hatred, his anger. She did not expect the gentle soothing in his tone as if he sought to comfort her in the midst of his pain.

“We’ve no time for this.” Dara’s bleary eyes roamed from Jesse’s legs to his chest, and then his arms. The wealth of blood made it difficult to tell which wounds were the worst. “We’ll allow those on his chest to bleed. Give his body time to purge the poisons. You start on the deeper wounds on his arms. I’ll tend the wounds on his legs.”

Abigail’s cheeks warmed.

Dara cleared her throat. “Not proper for a princess, but we’ve no choice, have we? Now watch and learn quickly. The sooner we get him stitched, the sooner I can return to my bed.”

The old woman poured wine and then more olive oil over one of the cuts. Jesse hissed through gritted teeth. Abigail held her breath as Dara once again pierced the bone needle through his flesh.

“When the sutures are complete, we’ll dip cloths into a honey bath and bind his wounds.” Dara’s thick, gnarled fingers fumbled with the sinewy strand. After long, agonizing moments, she raised her gaze to Abigail’s. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

The white bone needle gleamed beneath the firebrand as Dara pushed it through Jesse’s torn skin. The process looked painful, but minus the first sharp intake of breath, Jesse hadn’t reacted. Abigail drew in a steadying breath. Pricks of anxiety welled in her throat, threatening to spill from her eyes.

“All is well, Abigail.” Jesse’s whispered encouragement tugged at her heart. She stared at the needle in her fingers. Her heart slammed against her chest. Her shoulders sagged and she started to drop the needle to her side. Warm fingers wrapped around her ankle and squeezed. She dropped her gaze to Jesse’s. The hardness in his eyes softened. His silent encouragement gave her the backbone she needed.

With trembling fingers, she gripped the neck of the jug. The liquid spilled, pouring over the myriad of gashes on Jesse’s biceps. The sweet scent of fresh grapes mixed with the olive oil and the bright splotches of blood left a metallic taste in her mouth. She drew in a slow breath and once again flicked her gaze to his. Brown eyes held hers.

His swollen lips curved upward. “You should take care not to drench your dogs’ bedding. I’m sure they would appreciate a dry place to sleep.”

She nodded and blinked her lashes in thanks. “I have no dogs.”

Holding the wound together, she poked the bone needle through the flesh. Jesse’s chest hitched, halting. She glanced at him. He nodded as he exhaled. She pulled the sinew through both sides, leaving a finger’s length just as Dara had shown her.

Whipping the sinew around in tiny strokes, she pulled the open flesh closed as she worked her way along the length. The wound was deep, cutting into his muscle. She wondered if he’d lose the use of his arm. She had no doubt that had been Suph’s intentions.

She tied off the knot and turned his arm to inspect the smaller cuts before turning her attention to the X gashed into his shoulder. “You’ll have quite the scar.”

“Ach, he’s many already,” Dara snarled. “Men fight and die. You obviously did not heed your training, boy.”

A deep chuckle rumbled from Jesse’s chest. “Not so. My scars are no more than love pats from my older brothers.”

The needle halted near the edge of his wound. Laughter danced in his eyes. Admiration and affection colored each of his words. He must love his brothers deeply.

She bit down on her lip and wondered what it would have been like if Jehoiada had not ordered her brothers’ and cousins’ deaths seven years ago. This man followed the same God the high priest did. Had he killed one of her brothers with his own hands? Anger fired in her chest. Swallowing past the knot in her throat, she jabbed the needle through Jesse’s flesh.

He rose off the furs with a roar.

* * *

“Woman, what are you about?”

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.