Christina Rich - The Warrior's Vow

She wrapped her fingers around the stone and knelt beside him. Her gaze bored into his a moment before she pressed her curled fist against his chest, and then she flattened her palm. The stone was the only barrier between them.

“The truth about this living God of yours, Jesse.”

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?”