No Price Too High by Jo Ann Ferguson

reached the village, too, and were ready for the attack.
    â€œDo not loiter here, milady,” Gabriel said softly. “Join the others.”
    She stared at him, shocked that he risked speaking Frankish here where they might be overheard. Then, she realized he would chance anything to halt his enemy. Just anything, or would he risk anyone ? That was another thought she wished she could ignore.
    Again she wanted to ask why he had insisted that she walk among the women. She bit back her question as a woman strolled past them. Even though the woman’s face was completely veiled, her steps slowed and her hips swayed as she passed Gabriel.
    Melisande could only stare. She had not guessed a woman could eye a man even when he could not see her eyes.
    She nodded when Gabriel glanced from her to the other women in a silent command. Taking a breath, she could not hold it. Her heart thudded against her chest like a siege machine against a manor’s wall.
    Melisande walked to the center of the common area that was as dusty as the surrounding plain. The only plants were shriveled in a pot by an open door. Listening to the women, she waited her turn to fill her water jar. She wished she could understand a single word, but their conversation made no more sense in her ears than the cry of the birds circling overhead.
    The women glanced at her as she stepped forward to pour water into the jar. They continued talking. As Melisande finished filling the jar, she wondered what she should do next. If Gabriel had just told her a bit more, she—
    A woman screamed. She pulled Melisande’s tcharchaf back off her head. The water jar shattered in the dirt as Melisande whirled and groped for the material. It was too late. Her heavy braid slapped her shoulder, its color destroying her disguise.
    The women stared at her, frozen with astonishment. Another one shrieked when Melisande pulled her sword.
    â€œGabriel, I—” She pushed aside the fabric over her head and looked around. Where was he?
    Men flowed out of the surrounding houses as more women screamed and fled. Suddenly there were warriors everywhere. She had no idea which were allies and which were hill bandits. They all wore the same white robes. Holding her sword at the ready, she edged away from the well. She must find Gabriel. His plan might already be doomed.
    Someone shouted behind her. Her arm was seized. She jerked it away and spun to face a man whose face was scarred from past battles. She balanced herself lightly as she raised her sword.
    He met her sword with a blow that ached through her. Gripping the hilt with two hands, she raised it again. Her fingers stung when he knocked it aside. With a vicious swing, he sent her sword flying across the dirt.
    She took a deep breath to scream for help. But who would heed her cry? Gabriel had abandoned her.
    The man grabbed her braid and pulled her closer.
    â€œNo!” she cried. She kicked at him, but the tcharchaf had twisted around her legs. Curse Gabriel! She should never have trusted him. She should—
    She screamed again when the bandit sliced her black wool sleeve with his sword. Pain pierced her upper arm.
    She tried to run, but he caught her wide sleeve. Shoving her against a hard mud wall beneath a line of laundry, he laughed before pressing his mouth over hers. She clawed at him.
    His fingers twisted in her hair as he ripped aside the rest of her tcharchaf . He tried to tear her gown away. Fighting him, she stiffened when he pulled a short blade.
    Her hand whipped up. Years of trying to keep Geoffrey from pummeling her when they played roughly as children gave her the strength to knock the knife away. She squirmed from beneath him as he stared at her in shock, clearly not having expected her defiance.
    He pushed past her to get the knife. She fought her way to her feet and grabbed her sword. Whirling, she thrust it. As he fell facedown on the ground, she collapsed, the line of laundry falling over