Christina Rich - The Warrior's Vow

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.”