Enchantress Read online

  “Help me, Mother,” she whispered.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Are you John?” Bohemund scanned the figure of a man before him in the torchlight. The man was small and light-skinned, with mousy-brown hair and round cheeks that looked made for smiling. He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his chains and peered up at Bohemund.

  “That is I,” he confirmed.

  “Good,” Bohemund beamed and knelt beside the prisoner to unchain him. “You're safe now. I am Bohemund of Taranto, soon to be Prince of Antioch. I release you in the name of God.”

  “Thank you,” John got to his feet shakily and one of Bohemund’s guards rushed forward to help him. “What has happened to Yaghi-Siyan?”

  “Unfortunately he has escaped,” Bohemund turned to lead them out of the depressing hole. “But I have faith in God to bring him to justice.”

  “I see,” the priest tried to work things through. “There was a woman, a Turkish enchantress, that he was holding prisoner. Does she live?”

  “I've given her to one of my men, in exchange for her saving his life.” Bohemund answered. “Otherwise she would be dead. She killed many of my men.”

  “She what?” John was aghast. “You must be mistaken, Ayla would never harm anyone.”

  “You're well acquainted with the witch?” Bohemund stopped suddenly and turned to look at the priest. John bumped off Bohemund’s chest and stood back, startled.

  “Yes,” he blinked wide eyes up at Bohemund. “She's a lovely young woman, even though her beliefs differ from ours. I had hoped to someday win her over to Christ.” He smiled hesitantly up at the soldier.

  “I’d hate to destroy your illusion, Priest,” Bohemund said. “But she did indeed kill many men. She sent a curse into our camps that killed many instantly and many more slowly. The woman is evil.”

  “Yet you give her to your friend,” the priest shrewdly acknowledged.

  “To use as he sees fit,” Bohemund started walking again. “Rannulf can handle the woman. I have every faith in him.”

  “Surely, it was Yaghi-Siyan who made her place this curse upon your camps,” John suggested.

  “She said as much when she delivered it,” Bohemund admitted. “But the sin is still hers.”

  John sighed and prayed for patience.

  “I would like to speak to her later, if I may,” he said instead of pursuing the matter.

  “If her new master allows it,” Bohemund agreed.

  John frowned at those cryptic words and wondered what type of man Ayla now belonged to. She'd been through so much in these last four years with the Muslims. John silently prayed that God would overlook her heathen ways and take care of her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ayla was seated at her dressing table, when Rannulf finally returned that evening. Her doors had been repaired earlier and so she was warned of his entrance by the sound of the key in the lock. He walked in and shut the door behind him.

  “We’ll be staying here,” Rannulf said by way of a greeting. “Bohemund is taking Yaghi-Siyan’s chambers and saw no reason to move us.” When Ayla didn’t speak, he continued. “Put something pretty on, we’ll be having dinner soon.”

  “I’m supposed to dine with you?” Ayla turned back to her mirror and started combing her hair.

  “You don’t wish to eat with me?” He asked as he came up behind her to take the comb from her hands. He began to comb out her long tresses, enjoying their silken weight. There was so much hair, it fell down to the floor around her and Rannulf was fascinated by it.

  “My people eat separately, the men with the men and the women with the women,” Ayla explained.

  “Why?” Rannulf thought it an odd custom.

  “It is our way,” Ayla shrugged. “Some think it unseemly for a man to watch a woman eat.”

  “Dining can be a very enjoyable experience,” Rannulf said thoughtfully. “Especially when one has such lovely company. You will have to accept a new culture because I refuse to dine alone.”

  “Go and eat with the other soldiers,” Ayla looked up at him insolently. “That's hardly alone.”

  “They're not the company I desire.”

  “So I'm to dress up and display myself for your pleasure, as you eat?” Ayla shook her head.

  “Yes, it would give me great pleasure to see you wear something worthy of your beauty.” Rannulf kept combing her hair. “And my pleasure is now your only concern.”

  Ayla was having difficulty controlling her reactions to his nearness. The feeling of him gently combing her hair was incredibly relaxing. How surprising, that the barbarian could be so gentle. He had his own magic, it seemed, and he was stroking it through her hair. She didn’t even care about that outrageous comment he just made.

  “Let me see your dresses,” he said, breaking the spell, “I want to pick one out.”

  “My entaris are in that chest,” she pointed at a beautifully carved chest against the wall on her right. “Go and pick one if you must.” Just as long as you stop touching me, she thought.

  He walked over to the chest and opened the lid. It was full of the long silk tunics she called entaris, that opened enticingly to the waist; as well as veils and salvars, full, silk pants. There were also sheer, white, silk chemises, called gomleks, that buttoned at the neck and heavy silk brocade robes called kaftans. Rannulf had never seen so much silk and embroidery before. He pulled out a red silk entari with a “v” neck and slits up the sides, all the way to the waist.

  “This one,” he said and pulled it out to lay it on the bed.

  “Do you wish to dress me too, m’lord?” She meant it to be a snide insult but his eyes lit with interest.

  “Most definitely,” he said. She rolled her eyes and turned to face him.

  “I’m not a child,” she got up and went to the bed, to pick up the luxurious silk entari. It was one that Yaghi-Siyan had chosen for her, not particularly a favorite.

  “I had noticed that,” he said with a smirk. She ignored him and continued on.

  “I’ll need more than this,” she shook her head as she went back to the chest, and pulled out a pair of salvar, a sheer gomlek, a luxurious kaftan in black silk brocade and a long, red sash. She started to walk into her laboratory to change but he stopped her.

  “Where do you go?”

  “I'll not strip for your amusement,” she sneered at him. “I’m going to change in my laboratory.”

  “Your what?” He walked past her and opened the doors to her private room.

  “No,” she quickly followed him. “Stay out of there, Heathen. That is my sacred place, like one of your churches.”

  “Why am I not allowed to see it?” He turned around so swiftly that she bumped into him and had to strain her neck, to look up at his face.

  “Your presence is a profanity.” She pulled back.

  “Profanity?” He sputtered in rage, then turned back around and strode purposefully into the room. She ran after him anxiously. He stopped short upon entering and stared at all the unusual tools, bottles and books. Then he saw the altar. He cringed a little in horror of the Pagan Gods she worshiped. He desired a witch! Why had that not bothered him before? Could God forgive him his lust? He hoped so because he could not foresee it stopping anytime soon. He turned back to look at her. She was shaking with concern.

  “Please don't touch anything,” she said. “There are things there that are very dangerous.”

  “Like that liquid you rained down upon our heads?” He asked quietly as he picked up a bottle and peered at it’s thick, blue contents.

  “Yes,” she quickly and carefully took the bottle away from him and replaced it. “You could hurt yourself. Please, just leave my things alone.”

  “What is all of this, Ayla?” He didn’t move and she was getting increasingly nervous.

  “Part magic, part science, part religion,” she said, “and all Ayla.” She looked about the room. Its power began to seep into her and she smiled gratefully as she turned to
face him. “This is what I am, Rannulf. These books, these potions, this altar, it’s all a part of me. Do you want me still?”

  Rannulf took another good look around. They were just objects, they had no power over him. He wouldn't let them control his actions or interfere with his beliefs. He would use the woman as an outlet for his lusts. Surely God would not fault him for releasing sin upon a heathen, as long as he felt no love for her. He could ask for forgiveness later.

  “God help me,” he said. “But I do. Now put on the entari,” he spoke the foreign word perfectly.

  “I will, as soon as you give me some privacy.”

  “Slaves don't get privacy,” he leaned back against the heavy table and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I told you I'm not a slave,” she backed away from him. He followed her out into the bedchamber.

  “You're mine, you belong to me,” he said slowly. “Call it whatever you like but it changes nothing.”

  “Go to your Christian Hell,” she spat.

  He pulled her against him and kissed her violently. She struggled but her efforts were wasted on him. He towered over and around her. She would never escape his embrace. Finally, she gave up the fight and he gentled the kiss, his lips softening and his tongue gentling its assault. She whimpered in denial as she felt the amazing sensations washing over her again. He finally ended the sweet torture and smiled down into her lovely eyes.

  He gently pulled apart the front edges of her kaftan as he held her gaze. The heavy garment fell to the floor in a soft whoosh. Then he knelt before her and untied the sash around her waist, the light material drifted to the ground. He lifted the hem of her entari up slowly, caressing her legs, her hips, her stomach, as he moved it upwards. The garments she carried fell from her hands, to slip gently to the floor. When he got to her breasts he swirled his thumbs over her nipples, through the thin fabric, and his heart raced as he felt them tighten. She gasped and gripped his shoulders for balance.

  Gently, he pushed the fabric up and pressed beneath her arms till she gave in and raised them. He pulled the garment over her head and dropped it to the floor with the others. His sharp intake of breath and widened eyes, betrayed his appreciation. She was magnificent.

  Clothed only in a pair of sheer, billowy, white, silk salvar and the sheer, white gomlek; Rannulf could just make out the dark triangle between her legs and the rosy tips of her breasts. She was golden everywhere and seemed to shine right through the transparent fabric. Her breasts were full and high, begging for his touch and he couldn't disappoint them. He leaned his head forward and drew one nipple fully into his mouth.

  Ayla threw back her head in pleasure. She gripped the back of Rannulf’s head and stroked his silky hair as he laved and sucked her breast right through the silk gomlek. She had never felt anything like it. Was this what the servant girls always giggled about She had no idea it could be so incredible.

  Rannulf looked up at Ayla’s pleasure-filled face and grinned. The woman was his. He turned his attentions to her other breast as he slid her salvar down to her feet. Then he pulled the hem of her gomlek up and slipped his hand beneath it. His hand drifted over her hips, around her buttocks and then down its center to stroke the tender flesh between her legs. Ayla gasped in shock and violently jerked her body out of his grasp.

  “Demon,” she spat, suddenly aware of his seduction. “Evil seducer of innocents! Where is your Christianity now?” She was amazing in her anger, her hair falling around her body and she pulled it forward, to hide some of her nudity, but it only served to arouse him further. The sheer gomlek and her long, thick hair were all he ever wanted to see her in.

  Rannulf remained kneeling and couldn’t help but feel like he was worshiping a heathen Goddess. He could barely concentrate on what she was saying. Then she picked the red entari up and pulled it over her head.

  “What do you mean?” Rannulf asked, blinking in confusion. With her glorious body covered Rannulf was finally free to concentrate on her words. He got to his feet slowly.

  “Your religion,” Ayla sneered. “Does your Christ not teach kindness and chastity before marriage? Where is your piety, your faith? You can not pick and choose which parts to uphold, you monster, you pig.” She pulled on the white salvar.

  Rannulf frowned and gaped at her indignation. The heathen witch was lecturing him on his religion! What did she know about his God or his faith? She was a Turkish witch who prayed to statues of women, as if the Divine could possibly be female.

  “Enough, Witch,” he grabbed her arm and shook her. “You will not speak about my God. don't ever think to school me on my own faith. Mind your tongue or I will cut it out!” Gone was the gentle lover, Rannulf was all warrior now and Ayla couldn’t help but feel that he'd finally shown his true self. She slapped him hard across the face and he let her go in shock.

  “Your words hold no threat for me, Christian,” she spat the last at him as if he were a disgrace to it. “I don't need my tongue to defy you. You can cut me apart piece by piece and it will never change who I am or what you are.”

  “Finish dressing, m’lady,” he said with narrowed eyes, “before I change my mind and show you what a real monster is.”

  A soft knock announced the arrival of their dinner. Rannulf looked toward the door and broke the tension between them.

  “Enter,” he called.

  A little servant girl walked in carrying a heavy tray and placed it on a low, octagonal table, set before the couch along the wall. The couch took up the entire corner, near the laboratory, and a large carpet was spread over the floor before it. There were numerous pillows on both the couch and the carpet.

  The girl unloaded the contents of the tray onto the table. There were two bowls of stew, some flat bread, a carafe of wine and two cups. The slave bowed and took the tray away with her.

  “Thank you,” Ayla said in the girl’s tongue and the servant smiled as she left. Ayla pulled the black kaftan on and wrapped the red sash around her waist to keep it tightly closed.

  “How many languages do you speak?” Rannulf asked as he sat down to inspect the meager fare, trying to let go of his temper.

  “I speak eight different languages and many dialects of those,” Ayla replied hesitantly.

  “That many?” Rannulf didn’t want to be any more impressed by the woman but it looked like he wouldn’t have a choice.

  “I love to learn,” Ayla said, warming a little under his regard.

  “I’ve never had much time for it,” Rannulf admitted. “I am proud to be able to read though, most soldiers can’t.”

  “Can’t read?” Ayla was shocked. “Why would they choose not to?”

  “Reading is unnecessary,” Rannulf said gruffly. “The priests and monks read for us.”

  “I really shouldn’t be so surprised,” Ayla walked back to her dressing table and began to braid her hair. “Your religion requires blind loyalty. It makes perfect sense that your leaders would try to keep the people as ignorant as possible.”

  “Ignorant,” Rannulf got to his feet in anger.

  “You said yourself, that most soldiers don't know how to read,” Ayla remained seated and faced him calmly. “What is that, if not ignorance, my lord? I don't believe I've used the wrong word.”

  Rannulf took a deep breath and sat back down. He frowned deeply at Ayla as he pondered her words. He didn’t like the questions she was raising in his mind. He'd always felt uncomfortable with relying solely on priests and scholars for information. On the whole, he didn’t trust priests but he wouldn’t admit that to her.

  “Most soldiers are simple men and can only benefit from guidance,” he tried to defend his people.

  “Of course,” she gave in without really yielding. He shook his head and looked at her, trying to decide if the matter was worth pursuing. In the end his stomach won out.

  “Come and eat,” he said to her.

  Ayla finished braiding her hair, then got up and tried to overcome years of tradition during the sho
rt walk to the table. She sat down across him, on the floor, hoping the distance would at least make things easier. Rannulf had no intentions on making things easy though.

  “Come closer,” he said. “With you down there I might as well be eating alone.” Ayla sighed in frustration and went to sit beside him.

  “What is this strange need of yours to have me near, while you satisfy your hunger?” Ayla queried as she sat on the couch beside him.

  Rannulf nearly choked on the sip of wine he'd just taken. His head filled with images of which hunger he’d truly like to satisfy and how much closer she’d need to be for him to do it. When he finally cleared his throat, he looked up to see Ayla watching him strangely.

  “Are you well?” She frowned a little at him in concern.

  “Fine,” he took another swallow to wash down the first. Then he handed her a bowl of stew and a piece of bread.

  “Thank you,” she said as she accepted the bread. She broke off a piece and used it to scoop stew into her mouth. That’s when Rannulf realized that there were no utensils.

  “Where are the spoons?” Rannulf asked, looking around.

  “Like reading,” Ayla started with a grin, “they're unnecessary.”

  Rannulf couldn’t help himself, he started to laugh. Then he realized what he was doing and stopped in shock. When was the last time he'd laughed? Dear God, he couldn’t even remember. He looked at Ayla with a softer expression. Maybe she’d be worth the trouble after all.

  “So I'm to eat stew with only this bread?” He held up the piece of flatbread and Ayla smiled and nodded.

  “I guess it is better that you not eat alone, Barbarian,” Ayla giggled and Rannulf loved the sound of it. “What a mess you would have made without my instruction. The bread is hard enough to use as a scoop. Then when you’ve had a few mouthfuls you can take a bite of the softened bread.” She laughed again. “Of all the things I could teach you, this was one lesson I wouldn’t have thought to offer.”

  “Teach me?” He began to tease her back. “What could you possibly teach me?”