A shiver of fear ran down her spine.
“Do you have a name?” It probably wouldn’t make a difference, but instinct demanded she personalize their relationship.
“Kamran.” She saw knowledge in his eyes and, perhaps, a touch of sympathy.
They ate with the others, sharing meat, bread, and vegetables. Helene had discovered a half-overgrown plot and set a dozen men to resurrecting it, gleaning enough for this meal and one more. She’d also found replacement seed and replanted the empty beds. This cave was a good spot and the soil around it fertile, having lain fallow for many years. The long grave with the thirty hanged smugglers would enrich it further in years to come.
“Good.” One man held up his plate. “Better than my wife cooks.”
“That’s a poor compliment,” his friend said. “Her first husband died from her cooking.”
A ripple of laughter spread outwards and Helene was grateful. “Tell the others,” she said. “They wouldn’t let me touch the food. Sent me off to find something useful to do.” She was proving she’d learned what he taught. It might save her life.
“I see you’re still looking.” A humorist from the back offered anonymously, but all eyes turned to him. “If you still doubt what she’s done, I can arrange for you to join the wounded,” another man said and there was a murmur of agreement.
Kamran appeared to hear none of it, eating his food and staring into the middle distance until the conversation ended. “Aside from you,” he said. “Who’s the best organizer in the women?”
“Anya, the oldest. She’s a merchant’s widow. He tried to cheat the smugglers. They killed him and took her.”
He nodded. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back in an hour.” He drained the beaker of watered wine and walked over to hand it and his platter to Anya at the trestle table.
She saw him speak, but was too far away to hear the words. They pleased Anya, for the older woman beamed at him. A final joke raised laughter around him and he strode away toward the forest, his limp barely noticeable. Helene, who’d treated his wound, couldn’t even guess what the effort cost him or how much damage it had done. She had to bite her lip not to rail at his stupid pride.
It was dark when he returned, and the camp had grown quiet, the fires burned down and the lamps dimmed. His bearing gave hints of the pain his leg caused, but no more. This was a hard man, on himself as well as others.
She’d spent the time thinking, analyzing, and understood there was much more to his actions than any foolish macho need to prove himself. He was planning an incredibly bold move. One far beyond anything she’d envisaged. It made sense of everything he’d done and proved the Westlander right. If so, her danger had increased. He had no need of a High Born, and his question about Anya took on a terrible significance. The older woman was her replacement to control the efforts of the women.
She met him at the entrance to his temporary bedroom. “Let me see your leg,” she said. “God knows how much damage you’ve done.”
“The bandage needs to be tighter.” He sat on the bed and rolled his tight-legged leather breeches down to reveal blood trickling down his leg, the bandage soaked. “It loosened and one of your stitches tore. You might have to redo it.”
She bit back an angry retort and knelt to remove the bandage. It was as he said, one stitch torn. She twisted the raw silk into a strand and threaded the needle. It would hurt more this time, but he deserved it. Her hands shook as she prepared to stitch his leg again and she had to discipline herself to continue. She could feel him watching, but anything that proved her usefulness was good. He would not waste an asset of value to his cause.
“I need proper instruments if you want me to do much of this, curved needles and the rest. I need to train assistants as well. Two of the women show talent.” It was time to gamble and this was her last chip. If he ignored it, she was dead.
“Can they keep up with the companies?”
“Like me, they’re both young.”
“Point them out to me in the morning.”
Helene held back tears with a supreme effort, keeping her head down as she tied off the stitch and bandaged his leg with a fresh strip of silk.
He stood to test it. “Thank you. Sleep here. It’s more comfortable than the ground.” He removed his chain mail, boots, and breeches before sliding under the blankets. His leg made him face the other way, but he left more than half the bed for her.
Helene undressed slowly. She still trembled at having survived, unsure of her next move. Her earlier plan of seducing and using him was in tatters. If he succeeded, her comfortable world would be gone forever. If he failed, she’d be condemned with him.
He had three companies now, a beginning potent enough to attract the Federation’s attention. If he gained it, he’d roll up the first few principalities almost unopposed, creating a nucleus for the discontented and an army of desperate men under a unified command—the greatest weakness of the High Born. Petty jealousies divided them. No one would accept the command of another. There were thirty principalities on this continent. A popular uprising, commanded by a charismatic figure, would bring them to heel within a year. Logistics would slow progress after that. It would take time to impose complete control, but the story, spread far and wide, would weaken his enemies abroad, making their defeat inevitable.
Apparently, he’d been off-planet. She’d caught any number of references in his words. He’d know the Federation and be wary in his dealings, negotiating a treaty only when he had the strength to impose his wishes. Viewed logically, King Kamran would be a good thing, and she liked the sound of Queen Helene.
Making it happen was the challenge.
* * * *
Kamran woke at the guard commander’s touch.
“First light at the turn of the glass,” the man said. “The companies are assembling.”
“Good. Wake the women.”
“Already done, sir.” The man withdrew at Kamran’s nod.
The girl, Helene, still slept. He could feel her warmth at his back and she had one arm around his waist. His loins stirred at the thought of her, but there was no time now. Tonight might be different.
“Wake up and get dressed,” he said, rising from the bed.
His leg had stiffened again, but the firm bandage felt good. It would last the day. He took his time dressing, reviewing the plans he’d made last night after his inspection of the work done around the cave. This was a good base, midway between two principalities and easily defended at the pass, or hidden from passing groups.
The girl was dressed now and waited.
“Go. Join the others with the wounded. I will speak to the two women you want as assistants.” A waft of the curtain told him she’d obeyed.
A final settling of his chain mail and weapons and he was ready.
The light had grown, turning the torch flames yellow, and he could see the faces of his little army.
It was time.
Chapter Five
Helene shivered in the pre-dawn chill. She’d been warm, lying next to Kamran. His body radiated heat like a furnace, the power source of his awesome vitality. His steady breathing and quiet rest had dispelled her initial fear he was feverish, and she’d moved closer as the night grew colder. Bereft of his warmth, she huddled close to the other women while she watched him inspect the companies.
This was no casual stroll along their ranks. He stopped in front of each man, checked his weapons and spoke to him. A half dozen so far, stood aside in a smiling group and an equal number in a more serious assembly. The only obvious difference being the extent of the latter’s wounds. When he finished his inspection, there were twenty in each group plus a corporal. Beyorn, the Westlander, commanded the first, and a wounded corporal the second.
One of the wounded claimed her attention and she wasn’t aware of Kamran’s approach until his boots intruded on the edge of her vision as she knelt by the feverish youth.
“How is he?” It was more than a casual que
stion.
She looked up at his face. “His body fights the infection of his wound. If it wins, he will survive.”
“What does he need?”
“Rest, good food, regular changing of the dressings.
He nodded. “I never asked how you became so good at this. It’s an unusual skill for a High Born.”
“My family is poor. I collected strays as a child. Many of them were injured and I nursed them back to health. Then a peasant boy fell beneath my cart and I did what I could for him and my reputation grew. We had an epidemic a year later, and I did what was necessary. We couldn’t afford to lose peasants. They were our wealth.” Helene was soothing the wounded boy as she spoke, bathing his forehead, allowing him to hold her free hand.
“Join me when you are finished.” Kamran stepped back and she heard him walk away.
He was talking to the women when she joined him, explaining what he intended. “Helene will decide which of you comes with us. If I have not returned when the last of your charges recovers, you are free to do as you choose.” He sensed her presence and turned. “Select one woman to accompany you. We’ll be marching hard and I anticipate at least one serious skirmish. She must be fit and skilled enough to help you deal with the wounded. Both of you are to wear men’s clothing and march in the midst of the archers.” Helene nodded her understanding. “I’m leaving twenty walking wounded to guard the cave and the seriously wounded. They’ll extend the garden, resurrect the orchard on its far side, and hunt for fresh food. Anya will tell them what she wants and the corporal knows to listen to her.”
Helene was startled. Few men deferred to a woman and no High Born would consider asking advice from one. Kamran was calmly turning her world upside down. She’d gone to sleep last night in fear of her life and woke this morning a trusted accomplice, her advice sought and taken. Kamran wouldn’t have taken the risk of a potential enemy in his ranks lightly. He was too competent a tactician, and he’d proved himself immune to her charms.
“Where are we going?”
“Kordobah.”
Last night, she’d gambled desperately to stay alive. This morning she could view her machinations with the contempt they deserved. Only her analysis of his potential as a conqueror remained.
“You spoke of a serious skirmish. Who will we fight?”
He noted the we. She could see it in his eyes.
“With luck, no one.” He held up his hand to forestall further questions. “We march to Kordobah because I have the names of those who supplied them and grew rich from their crimes. What happens there will depend on the reaction of the High Born.”
Helene nodded. The smugglers existed because each principality imposed taxes on trade. For many of them, it was their only source of wealth because their land had degraded to little better than subsistence farming. Her family was a rarity. They’d improved their land, generation after generation, because no trade routes passed their borders and it, and their peasants, were their only wealth.
She stopped.
Kamran knew her name. Therefore, he knew her family history. This was no ignorant soldier. He might not know of her personally, but the attitude of her family to the peasants they controlled would have earned his approval—she hoped. It might explain her survival if he was giving her the chance to prove herself.
He watched her, eyes more gray than blue, a barometer of his thoughts she was learning to trust.
“When do we march? I need to prepare.” She accepted it was time for business.
“In an hour, the women have food ready. We march when all have eaten.” He smiled, turning his eyes bluer.
Helene could see the twenty men Beyorn commanded wolfing down food at the trestle table. They must be Kamran’s advance guard. She turned back to the young woman she’d selected to accompany her and started explaining, aware he’d walked away and happy to have a task she understood rather than her endless guessing as to his motives.
“Will we sleep with the archers too?” The girl’s question caught her by surprise.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“I’ve taken a spearman with the lead company. He’s a man-at-arms and can protect me.”
“Do you need protection?” Helene had been busy since her release from the smugglers.
“No. It’s our choice now.” Casual rape had been a feature of smuggler captivity, even on the march. “He won’t allow otherwise, but most of us feel better with one man. You know, you have him.”
Helene was about to shake her head, when she thought better and stilled the movement. Given the opportunity, she would choose Kamran. Was she reacting like the others and seeking safety in his arms? She’d endured the smugglers, forcing herself to cooperate whenever they took her, focusing on survival even when the future seemed bleakest. Even when she’d recognized Kamran’s livery and his connection to Fleur d’Gracay, she’d acted deliberately to gain his sympathy. He wasn’t Fleur’s type and her cousin cared little for the opinions of others, especially those tasked with enforcing the peace.
She knew him better now. His strength would have repelled Fleur, and she was glad. For reasons she didn’t care to examine, the thought of them together was disturbing.
She was waiting when the trumpeter sounded Assembly and took her place with the archers, who competed good-naturedly when their sergeant appointed two of them to each woman. “He wants them with us,” the sergeant said. “Make sure they are at the end of the day. Any fighting and it’s your job to protect them.”
Their formation was three abreast with Helene and her assistant in the middle file. The men on either side shared their burdens, a fact earning their gratitude before the first hour of the march ended. Kamran’s men marched at one hundred and fifty paces per minute, for ten minutes, with breaks of five, at a leisurely one hundred and thirty paces per minute. Noise discipline was rigid. All orders were by hand signals, repeated along the line, and his army flowed along the forest trail like a torrent, frequently changed scouts ranging ahead and to either side. They rested for ten minutes every two hours. Kamran prowled the length of the line, speaking to sergeants and individuals, Helene and her assistant included, giving encouragement and advice, setting an example.
She asked him about his leg and he shrugged. It was an irrelevance.
On the third break of the day, Beyorn and his twenty men caught up with them, all of them carrying bulging leather sacks as well as their usual equipment. No one had the breath to comment as they filed past on either side and took their place at the head of the march.
They left the trail with the last of the light, moving single file into a secluded clearing and making camp with silent efficiency. There only a few fires, each hidden in a deep pit, but every man received a full beaker of rich steaming soup, thick enough to be called stew.
Helene’s assistant disappeared with her spearman and left her squatting by the fire, allowing the heat to soothe her aching muscles.
“Come,” Kamran said. “Join me. It is my turn.”
Mystified, she followed him to the edge of the forest and a nook formed beneath an ancient tree. His cloak covered a bed of cut grass from the clearing.
“Strip and lay down on your belly. You made it through today, but you’ll need help to do the same tomorrow.”
Helene obeyed and Kamran massaged aching muscles until they relaxed and lost their tension, beginning at her feet and working his way up to her neck. It felt delicious and hardly noticed when he turned her over and began on her thighs.
“Your assistant’s spearman will do the same for her,” he said, and Helene wasn’t surprised. It seemed natural he should know. A blanket covered her when he finished, helping her naked body retain the warmth of his hands, but she was barely aware of it, sleep only a blink away.
She stirred when he joined her much later, rolling sleepily toward the warmth of his body, arms going around the muscled column of his torso. He shifted to accommodate her and Helene
drifted back into sleep.
Waking alone in the predawn bustle of the camp stirring, Helen dressed hurriedly and went searching for Kamran. His wound needed checking. She found him addressing a group of his sergeants and corporals. She waited until he finished.
“Your wound,” she said, pointing at the bandage with its dark patch of blood. “It should be checked and redressed.”
He looked down at it, as if surprised at the reminder of its existence. “Do it at the first break. I’ll come back to you.” He turned away as a corporal returned with a question, and Helene had to be satisfied.
The march began with the trickle of light through the treetops and Helene’s residual stiffness lasted only the first few minutes. Her world shrank to the half-seen figures on either side of her or the back of the man in front, her pace regulated by them, and their harsh breathing the only sound.
The first break came as a surprise and she’d forgotten her appointment to dress his wound until Kamran stood in front of her and she had to retrieve her burdens from the men who’d carried them. “Sit down,” she told him. “Leg out in front of you, wound up most.”
A trickle of water softened the caked blood and the silk bandage came away to reveal the puckered lips of the stitched gash. The edges of skin were pale and dead, but the flesh was cool to touch. She’d been right. He was a good healer. She wrapped it tightly with fresh bandages and stowed the soiled one in her pack. She’d wash it later.
“Thank you,” he said, standing to test the bandage and nodding his satisfaction. “You’ve done a good job.” He raised his hand in a signal and the break ended.
They stopped early that night.
“The road into Kordobah is just over the rise,” the archer at her right explained. “We’ll enter the town as their guards change for breakfast. It will add to the confusion.”
Their campsite had a small stream and Helene hurried upstream, both to bathe and to wash the bandage. The flow was great enough for it to present no problem to the camp water supply.
When she returned, Kamran was waiting. “Don’t go off on your own again. Take your assistant at least.”
The Alliance Page 7