The Warrior's Vow

She reached into her soul for courage. “Your grief over my mother credits you, but do not allow it to own you, Suph. You serve me now and will do as I bid. Even if it means cleaning the prisoner’s wounds.”

“You surprise me, Abigail. Your mother claimed you were weak. However, your commands reveal your mother’s courage. Although, she never would have begged for a prisoner’s life such as you have.”

“I do not beg, Suph. I demand his life be spared as I demand his wounds be treated.”

Hatred fired from his eyes, burning through her. His nostrils flared. She halted the shiver of fear snaking through her limbs. She reminded herself that he would not kill her. He needed her. She recognized the moment when he must have realized the truth of the matter, for he rolled his shoulders and began to move around her, but she stayed him with her hand. His gaze dropped to her upturned palm. “What is it you wish, Abigail?”

“The prisoner’s gem.” She arched her eyebrows, daring him to deny her request.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Fear increased her pulse. One thing she had learned from her mother was that trust should be held tightly within one’s own breast. Her trust did not belong to Suph. His lack of respect for her position proved as much, but if not him, then who?

The sound of a hammer beating bronze caught her attention. She glanced to the temporary altar where workers had erected an image of her mother’s god. A soldier struck the back of the prisoner’s knees, forcing him to kneel before the statue. Another guard yanked his head back by his shoulder-length hair. Even from her position she could see the rebellion shining through white eyes. Working his throat and lips, he spit.

Red-tinged spittle splattered over the man-made idol. The guard holding on to his hair forced his head back farther and uttered a few words Abigail could not hear. The corners of the prisoner’s mouth tensed in obvious pain and then he smiled in satisfaction.

“Do you not see his actions?”

Abigail shifted her gaze to Suph’s, and then to her empty hand. “The gem, Suph.”

He held the jewel up to the light of the sun. It sparkled. The once dull brown caught fire before her eyes. She sucked in a sharp breath as Suph dropped it into her palm.

“Mind my words, Abigail, and tread with care. I see the way you watch the prisoner with curious eyes. He’s not to be trusted.”

Suph pushed past her, and her gaze followed his retreat. “Neither are you,” she whispered to his back.

She squeezed her fingers around the stone. It warmed the palm of her hand. Her gaze settled on the man being stretched out before the bronze idol. His life’s blood flowed freely from his many wounds. Strange how he seemed more alive in his beaten body than Suph did in his able one.

Even the bronze statue, meant to be worshipped and obeyed, held more life than Suph. Odd, it did not breathe. It did not move of its own accord. It was not like the wind to come and go at will, yet her people bowed at its feet. Was there something to what Bilhah had said? Was there a living, breathing God? Was the God of her forefathers real?

The stone heated further and she unclenched her fingers; orange fire glowed and ebbed, taking on a life of its own. Her lips parted; her eyes once again sought the prisoner. Could she trust him to tell her the truth about this God of his?

She took a step forward.

“Where are you going?”

Abigail glanced over her shoulder. Her cousin gripped one of the folds of the tent in her hand, but she remained hidden in the shadows. “To speak with the prisoner.”

“Do you think that wise?” Bilhah moved from the protection of their shelter and out into the sunlight, her arms wrapped around her midsection. Although the kohl had been wiped from her cheeks and repainted around her eyes, she still seemed shaken from their recent ordeal.

“I do not see why not. I have questions about his cause.”

Bilhah laid a hand on her arm. “The sun is waning. It is near time for the nightly worship. Trust me, Abigail, you do not wish to bear witness to such festivities.”

Abigail scanned the camp. She hadn’t noticed the leather tables laid out on the ground, overflowing with bread and wine. Her attention had been on the hammering of bronze, Suph’s words and the actions of the prisoner. She’d not realized couples strode toward the altar. Heat filled her cheeks.

“They cannot think to...to dance, not in front of the prisoner, Bilhah. He’s not used to our ways.” Not that Abigail was used to their ways, either. She’d been kept from the ceremonies. Not because her mother thought to protect her, rather because her mother was ashamed of her lack of curves and spindly arms and legs. Too ashamed of her pale complexion, and even more ashamed of Abigail’s green eyes.

Bilhah’s gaze flicked toward the beaten man tied between the posts. Her lips curved upward. “You’re not much like your mother, you know?”

Her shoulders sagged. No, Abigail was weak like her father had been. She’d heard that often enough.

“Do not fret, Abigail. That is not such a bad thing.” Bilhah grasped Abigail’s fingers. “Come, let us go rescue your prisoner.”

“And how do you propose we do that? Suph would not be happy.”

Bilhah laughed. “You are a princess, his future queen, are you not?”

The corners of Abigail’s lips curved upward even as she choked on the knot forming in her throat. She nodded.

“Then behave as such. Come, I’ll walk beside you. Your people will not deny your request, not with a shrine priestess at your side.”

“If you will give me but a moment.” Abigail ducked into the tent and placed the prisoner’s gem and the leather strap tied around it into an ornately carved wooden box. She wiped her palms down the front of her tunic, straightened her spine and then stepped beside Bilhah. “I am ready.”

They wove through the throngs of people preparing for worship. This time they dropped to a bow as Bilhah glided past them in her purple robes. Her earlier sullenness was gone. “I see your rest has done you well,” Abigail whispered.

Bilhah inclined her head. “Very much so. However, for reasons even I do not understand.” She halted her steps, bringing Abigail beside her. “When this—” she waved her hand about them “—is done, when you are on the throne, I intend to leave my position.”

Air caught in Abigail’s lungs. The thought of losing the last of her family, her only real friend in this uncertain world, churned her stomach.

“Head high, Abigail. You are being watched. We will discuss this matter later, but be certain I weary of performing for the masses. I weary of worshipping false gods made of bronze.”

Abigail glanced at the bronze statue and then back to her cousin. “I do understand.” Abigail had often witnessed the sadness in Bilhah’s eyes when she sought refuge in Abigail’s chambers.

“Princess,” Micah’s voice sounded ragged, as if he’d run a great distance. His eyes downcast, he shifted from one foot to the other. “You should not be here.”

She smiled and patted him on the head. No more than ten summers, his concern warmed her. Would he remain faithful to her no matter what fate directed for her future? “I am well, Micah. Please fetch Dara the Healer and bring her to my tent.”

His eyes shifted to hers, his mouth agape. “Abigail—”

“Go, Micah.”

The child dipped his chin and left to do her bidding.

“Nicely done.” Bilhah’s purple tunic swirled around her feet. She clapped her hands above her head. “What is this?” she screeched, like the commanding priestess Abigail knew her to be. “You dare risk our god’s wrath with the presence of this heathen?”

Bilhah spit toward the man, missing his stomach by inches. The people swarmed around, begging apologies, even the soldiers tying the knots at the prisoner’s hands and feet. Her beauty had nothing to do with their fear of her. No, they feared her because they believed she held sway with their bronze statue and if they angered her they’d be cursed.

“Untie him.” Abigail motioned at the soldiers. “Take him to my tent.”

They glanced at Bilhah. “Go on. Do as your princess commands.”

Their fingers fumbled over the knots as they worked to loosen them. The prisoner’s body seemed to relax. His hard eyes settled on her. A sneer curled his bloodied, swollen lip. The desert wind pushed against her, forcing her to take a step back.

Perhaps she should have listened to Suph.

* * *

Jesse’s muscles tensed when the soldiers jerked him from the ground. A groan rumbled from his chest. The woman who would call herself queen tossed a look over her shoulder. Her waist-length hair danced at her hips. The slip of concern in her eyes soured his stomach.

What game was this woman about? The princess’s cohort was no more than a prostitute, even if she was considered a shrine goddess and held in high regard by those who worshipped the bronze statue. Jesse had no doubt she wouldn’t have considered his presence a defilement to her dead god. He was quite certain the priestess would have relished forcing their rituals upon him. So why would the princess and her priestess move him when their captain demanded otherwise? The tops of his toes dragged over the pebbled desert, biting into his already raw flesh. He’d seen what happened to men pulled behind a horse, but he never imagined the incessant burning of his nerves or the way his bones seemed to detach from his muscles.

His eyes caught hold of the gentle, purposeful sway of the princess’s slender hips. Although she lacked the voluptuous curves of the former queen, she had a regal bearing about her. Of course, that alone did not prove she was royalty. Certainly he would have heard if Athaliah had a daughter.

She halted before a large tent and pulled back the flaps. “You may lay him on the furs in the corner.”

One of the soldiers snorted. “You wish him to bleed on your bedding?”

The lack of respect for the woman, queen or not, did not sit well with Jesse. He pulled against the soldiers’ grips and tried righting himself. He was met with an elbow to the back of his head.

“I requested this man receive no more harm. Would you seek my wrath?” The attempted bravado in her tone eased some of the tension from his muscles. “Those furs belong to my dogs. I’m sure the prisoner will be placed elsewhere before they are returned to me.”

“As you wish.” One of the soldiers pulled Jesse through the tent and dumped him onto the bedding. He was thankful for the soft blow to his chest and battered face.

“You may stand guard outside if you’d like, or return to the festivities. My servant will be here shortly with a healer.”

“The captain will have our heads if this man escapes.”

Jesse didn’t need to look to know which of the two guards spoke; nor did he need his eyes to see the way she tilted her pointed chin and looked down upon them from her impressive height. “I assure you he is in no condition to escape. He can barely hold up his head.”

“As you wish.” He heard them duck outside the tent. “We will stand guard until the healer arrives.”

He rolled to his back, closed his eyes and concentrated on sucking in air. He no doubt had a few broken ribs among the dagger cuts. Jasmine swirled around him as she moved closer and knelt beside him. The warmth of her hand settled on his brow. He grabbed her wrist as he snapped his eyes open.

Fear glittered in her olive-green eyes.

“You play with fire, lady.” He gritted his teeth with the effort to keep her from pulling away.

“That may be so, but I have questions and you have answers.”

Her eyes shifted back and forth, searching his. He released her, dropping his hand to his side. She reached across him and dipped a cloth into a bowl of water before bathing his face. Her gentle caress bit into his flesh yet warmed his heart.

“You are bold for one who trembles with fear.”

Pulling away, she curled her legs beneath her. “I’ve rarely had cause to step foot outside my chambers, let alone leave Jerusalem’s gates. All this is new and a bit fearful.”

“Your honesty does you justice.”

“As I hope will yours.”

She wrung the cloth out into the basin and then ran it over a deep gash on his biceps. He pulled in a sharp breath. “You should not trust me. I will kill you if need be.”

“So I have been warned.” Her lips curved upward; the brilliance of her wide smile lit up the darkened tent. Perhaps he was wrong about her. She was more than pretty, she was an exotic beauty; not like her mother had been, but a beautiful creature nonetheless.

“What is it they call you?”

“Jesse. And you?”

“Abigail.”

“A father’s joy.”

She furrowed her brow.

“Your name, it means a father’s joy.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap, and a deep sadness crinkled the corners of her eyes. Before he could ask her the source of her sadness, a small boy entered with an elderly woman.

“Ach, I’ve heard the rumors of your madness, but now mine eyes have seen the truth.” A buxom gray-haired woman peered over Abigail’s shoulder. “Your captain will not like this, not one bit. I will not risk his wrath. I will not.” The woman planted her fists on her hips.

Abigail jumped to her feet, towering over the woman, hands clenched at her side. “Yet you’d risk mine, Dara.” She glanced at the boy. “Micah, remove her from my presence and fetch a willing healer.”

“Yes, Princess.” His dark head bowed. Jesse rolled his eyes and stared at the billowing tent. Even this child believed her to be a princess. Their future queen if Suph had his way. “Come, Dara. I will take you back.”

“May the gods allow you a restful sleep, Dara.” Abigail’s tone held a hint of sarcasm. It was not lost on the old woman, either, for she twisted her lips as if to consider Abigail’s wishes.

“Allow me to retrieve my herbs.” The woman slipped between the opening.

“Micah, I do not trust Dara to keep from mumbling.” Abigail twisted her hands together. “You know how she is when agitated. Make sure she speaks to no one. If she does, you’ll tell me?”

“Of course.” The child left.

“You risk death to save me. If Suph does not kill you in a fit of rage, I might.”

She stared down her slender nose at him. A manicured eyebrow arched upward. “You are a man of honor, Jesse.”

He tried to prop himself up on his elbow but ended flat on his back with air whooshing from his lungs.

Abigail bent over him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. Considering your captain used me as target practice while my hands were tied behind my back.”

Her lips parted. Her hand pressed against her heart. “A coward?”

Jesse blinked.

“Here.” She grabbed hold of his shoulders. Jasmine filled his nostrils. She propped pillows behind his back until he was sitting and then fetched him a goblet of water. “Better?”

“Yes.” He considered her a moment as she pressed the rim of a cup to his lips. Cool liquid flowed over his tongue and down his throat. He pulled back. “What makes you think I’m a man of honor?”

She set the cup aside and swayed across the room. Her long tapered fingers reached for a small wooden box. She opened the lid and pulled out a leather strap. His signet dangled from her fingers. She lifted it to the light and then glanced at him. “You are a Levite, no?”

He forced air in and out through his nose and forced calm into his limbs as he recalled Suph cutting it from his neck.

She held it above her head. The firebrands caught the gem, shooting little sparks of light upon the fabric walls. “A priest, a man of this so-called living God? A man of honor?”

He’d known many a Levite, many a priest, with no honor, his uncle Elam included. “What is it you want, Abigail?”

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?”

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.