CHAPTER EIGHTEEN #2
Just that. A single word. But it carried so much with it. It wasn’t, No, of course you didn’t mean…. Nor was it, No, I should bloody well hope not! It was a question. A clear invitation, in fact.
Tudor looked across at her. Her suggestion that they might just fall into that bed together and pick up where they left off four years ago was as unexpected as it was flattering.
The lack of preamble, the total absence of anything they had shared since meeting up again that could be described as flirting, somehow made it all the more appealing.
Erotic, even. He tried to think of a sensible response.
Think of what he should say that would move them back into the safety of the friends zone.
But no words came. Instead, the more he looked at her, the more he thought about the lovemaking they had enjoyed - really enjoyed - all that time ago, the more turned on he became.
She could have read his hesitation as a rebuttal, but DI Chowdhury was a woman capable of taking hold of a situation and steering it in the direction she wanted.
She kicked off her shoes and undid her jeans.
Tudor found himself watching her. Not because he was too surprised to do anything himself, but because the thought of seeing her naked again, the thought of her beautiful skin being on view beneath the soft glow of the one working lamp in the room, made him thirst for her.
So he watched, and she stripped. And when she stood there, naked and glorious, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted her before.
Deborah folded her arms, tilting her head as she looked at him. ‘OK, soldier,’ she said, slipping back into her role as his army superior as if the intervening years and new lives had never been, ‘strip. That’s an order.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied smartly. He felt her intense gaze upon him as he unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it free of his jeans.
She continued to watch, her own nakedness somehow not making her vulnerable any more.
She was in charge, and they both knew it.
At last, he stood there, his excitement making itself abundantly obvious.
She smiled, clearly happy to see that abundance again.
He waited. She stopped smiling, eager to play the game. ‘Kneel,’ she said.
He did as he was told.
Deborah climbed onto the bed, sliding across it until she was in front of him. She knelt up, reaching out to slip her hands around his neck, gently but firmly pulling him forwards so that his lips met the soft curve of her belly.
Tudor breathed her in, memory and anticipation working together to heighten his arousal.
It had been a while, and after the difficult and weird events of recent weeks, the thought of good, uncomplicated sex was suddenly overwhelmingly attractive.
He kissed her stomach, tasting her sweet skin, his mouth lingering on it. His palms found her buttocks.
‘Woah, easy soldier,’ she told him, batting away his hands.
‘Not so fast.’ She ran her finger down his neck, tracing the strong arc of his shoulder.
She shifted her position on the bed slightly so that she was kneeling with her legs apart.
She kissed him, deeply and slowly. Then, breathlessly, she looked into his eyes as she spoke.
‘Let’s see if you remember how to please your commanding officer,’ she murmured.
When he went to touch her again she stopped him.
‘Hands free, Sergeant Tudor. Hands free.’
Understanding, his body taut with desire, he dropped his arms to his sides, and dipped his head.
North West of Jerusalem, 1191
Saladin was as good as his word. That day, they were well fed and had their wounds tended to.
Early the following morning, each knight was given an adequate horse, supplies for the journey, and two guides were appointed to take them as far as the oasis two days out from Acre.
They had even had their weapons returned to them.
Jean had questioned Tudor about his audience with the sultan.
He had shown him the sealed letter and explained its contents and had been surprised at how much detail the Frenchman wanted.
Similarly, Albert had wished to discuss the why’s and wherefores of their being used as messengers by the opposing army.
Tudor had reassured them that he held terms for peace in his hand.
They need not feel uncomfortable about doing the bidding of the sultan, as thousands of lives could be saved, and peace returned to the region.
It was even possible King Richard could regain Jerusalem without a single sword being drawn.
As they rode out from the encampment, Tudor thought again of how being in the company of Saladin had made him feel.
He wondered why it was he had experienced such a sense of calm and optimism when he was standing with the man who had slaughtered thousands of Christians.
The man who could, had the mood taken him, have ordered the execution of himself and his fellow knights.
As they made their slow and steady progress across the scorching sands, he frequently found his hand going to check that the precious letter was still in its place, beneath his shirt, close to his heart.
He would not let it out of his sight for a moment.
Albert had been insulted that he would not let him read it, even when he had pointed out that would involve breaking the sultan’s seal.
Jean had, more than once, offered to look after it for him.
He had refused that offer. The letter had been entrusted to him.
He would be the one to deliver it into none other than the king’s hand.
Beyond that, he had noticed a growing irritation in the manner of both Frenchmen.
Albert’s grumpiness had become, at times, aggression.
Instead of making jokes, Jean now complained about everything from the quality of the horses to the type of food they had been given.
After two more days and nights of travelling, Tudor was growing tired of their company and was disappointed to find they were not the men he had thought them to be.
So it was that when they came in sight of the oasis and the familiar figure of Tan could be seen waving enthusiastically beneath a slanting tree, he was truly happy to find him there.
‘Master! God be praised, you are free!’ The servant ran out to greet him, glancing warily at the two Ayyubid soldiers as he did so.
Tudor dismounted and embraced Tan. ‘I am glad to see you well, Tan. I feared that camel might be the end of you.’
The boy grinned. ‘He brought us here.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes, master. Look,’ he said, pointing back to the water hole.
Tudor squinted against the sun. Now he could see that standing in the shade of the small trees was a horse. A dark brown, fine coated horse. He smiled and whistled. The horse’s head shot up. With a whinny, it came trotting, kicking up sand as it slewed to a halt in front of Tudor.
‘It’s good to see you too, old friend,’ he muttered, patting the animal’s neck and rubbing its ears.
He turned to say something to the others, expecting a joke from Jean, but their expressions were blank.
He shook off the uncomfortable feeling that they were somehow watching him and put his arm around Tan.
‘Come,’ he said, walking towards the water and shade, ‘I want to hear exactly how you managed to look after my horse without getting bitten.’
As had been agreed, the guides left to return to their encampment.
The knights could easily find their own way back to Acre from the oasis.
The light was fading, so they made camp for one more night.
Tan explained how he had allowed the camel to carry him on, sleeping only when it lay down, hoping it would take him to water, which it did.
He had recognised the oasis and decided to stay there in the hope that his master might pass through it on his return to Acre.
‘And if I never came back?’ Tudor asked as they sat on a blanket by the camp fire, the darkness deepening around them.
Tan shook his head. ‘I did not let such a thought take room in my head. Besides,’ he added, pointing at the horse.
‘He knew you were coming. He was waiting too.’ He had explained how the horse caught up with the camel and followed, always keeping a distance away.
‘I never tried to catch him,’ Tan said. ‘He never tried to run away.’
Tudor ruffled the boy’s hair. It must have been an anxious time for him, not knowing if his master was alive or dead, wondering if he was destined to be lost, alone in a foreign land. ‘We’ll make a horseman of you yet, Tan.’
‘As you wish, master, but, please God, may I never sit on a camel again!’
As was the habit of the desert, as soon as the sun disappeared, the heat vanished with it, to be replaced by a brutal chill.
Tudor nudged the fire with his foot, sending up a spray of sparks which flew up against the night sky, like so many stars sent to join the countless ones that studded the blackness above.
He found the silence of the night time desert disturbing and was briefly assailed by a longing for home, for green fields and bright rivers, and for his family.
Tan, ever sensitive to his master’s moods and needs, got to his feet. ‘I will fetch more fuel for the fire,’ he said, stepping away from the trees. ‘It is one thing the camels are good for!’ he called back.
Tudor could still hear him whistling as he gathering dung, but the night was so black it all but swallowed him up.
He stood up and took off his sword, placing it beside his makeshift bed before rearranging the saddles and packs to make a passable pillow.
Then, just as he was about to fetch more water, he became aware of the fact that he could no longer hear any whistling.