Slave Princess

by Juliet Landon

  ‘You said I was to be—’

  ‘You’ll be whatever I decide at the time,’ he snapped. ‘Which ought to suit you well enough since you change your tune several times a day. I never know what you’ll be next, starving captive or raving woman, unwilling, then willing.’

  ‘Stop, sir! I have never been willing.’

  Quintus smiled, admitting that his taunts were unfair. His arm tightened and the smile faded as he caught the full angry beam of her sea-green stare. ‘No, lass, maybe not. But I’ve lit your fires, haven’t I? Why else would you care who I take to my bed? And before you protest again that it’s my knee you’re concerned for, save your breath, for you must know full well that there are ways of getting round that problem. That lass out there would know half a dozen of them, I should think.’

  ‘Let me go,’ she said, pushing against him. ‘This is lewd talk.’

  ‘Is it? Right, so come over here and tell me more about these healing skills of yours. How did you learn them? Whose teachings do you follow?’ Taking her by the arm, he walked her towards the couch, sitting beside her and enclosing her in the circle of his arms. It was warm and comfortable with the gusting draught blazing the charcoal brazier and flickering the oil lamps, the heavy patter of rain hitting the paving outside, the slamming of doors as guests fled, a man’s shout and a woman’s excited squeal. ‘Well?’ he said into her hair. ‘I accept what you said earlier about not being able to help anyone unless they want to be helped, but how useful would your remedies have been in your maid’s case? Do you have cures for everything? Even the mind?’

  It was, she thought, as good a place as any to begin. So she told him how, since she was able to talk, she had shown an aptitude for recognising plants and their uses, and not only herbs, but the properties of things like spiders’ webs and dung, soot and white of egg, beeswax and the sap of trees, butter and even urine. Everything in nature, she told him, had its use, and not only medication, but the planets, too, especially the moon’s influence. The interpretation of dreams, portents like clouds and the weather, the behaviour of bees and birds—all had their own rules and charms. No, not magic, she told him, but the rules of nature, whether kept or broken, the meaning and messages offered up by the earth for inspection to those who learned to interpret them. She had never found it less than fascinating and, as she became more adept and successful at treating her villagers and the wounds of her father’s warriors, respect for her had grown along with her reputation. She had been an important asset to them, though she didn’t mention to him that a woman’s bride-price was set according to her skills and that hers had apparently been beyond the Dobunni suitor’s means. Either that, or he’d gone back home to consult with his father on the matter.

  ‘Then I have acquired more than I realised,’ he said softly into her ear. ‘You ought to fetch a high price, Princess.’

  ‘Sell me and you will have no one to treat your wounds, will you?’

  ‘Hmm! As a Provincial Procurator, I hardly expect to receive any. Now, let’s take a look at my knee, shall we? I’m curious to see how good you are.’

  ‘The plaster has not been on long enough, Tribune. It needs all night.’

  ‘Take it off. I want to see.’

  ‘If you insist. But I warn you, I may have to probe it again.’

  ‘Then it’s better done without an audience.’ Already his fingers were undoing the bandage. ‘I would rather howl in private.’

  She knew he would do no such thing. The Tribune was not a man to show weakness, in spite of that petulant show earlier, least of all before a woman. Slowly, carefully, she peeled back the slimy plaster, fully expecting to see little change, for this was merely to open the wound, not mend it, and only after a night-time, not half an evening. But to her utter amazement, the wound had begun to open cleanly enough for her to see, after only the smallest probe with her new tweezers, the head of a splinter sticking deep into the flesh. ‘Hold your leg tightly,’ she warned, ‘and grit your teeth. There’s a splinter here and I have to pull it out.’

  The minor operation was over and done with by a count of twenty, the inch-long sliver of wood emerging smoothly as if waiting for release. She laid it upon the bandage for him to examine. ‘So much for your army doctors,’ she said. ‘These things can cause a nuisance if they’re left. Now stay there while I warm up the healing poultice that the boys made.’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, suspiciously.

  ‘Mostly boiled holly leaves, mallow, elder bark bound with sheep’s grease and wine. It helps healing and takes the pain away. I think you should travel in the wagon tomorrow, to give this a rest.’

  ‘I have a sheepskin. That’ll protect it,’ he said, automatically dismissing her suggestion as evidence of weakness. ‘Is this what you used on your own people?’

  ‘It would depend on the wound, the time of year and what was available. There are many other ingredients I could use. Is this why you’re travelling down to the healing spa, Tribune? If so, it could be almost healed by the time we get there, if you’ll suffer my treatment of it.’

  With a hand covering his eyes, he flopped back as she applied the hot poultice, and she heard the hiss of his breath soften into its normal rhythm as the bandage was replaced. She knew how it must be throbbing.

  The re-appearance of Florian with the two slaves was timely; Brighid was relieved to see that they bore her no grudge for taking on some of the duties that would otherwise have been theirs. Together, they made up more of the willow-bark potion to help with the pain, clearing up the room and preparing it for the night, fetching jugs of wine and tit-bits for when he woke, folding clothes and setting out fresh ones, and finally massaging the masterful shoulders and neck.

  ‘Shall you sleep in here tonight?’ she whispered to Florian as he finished.

  Quintus opened an eye, answering for him. ‘You will stay, Princess. Let him go to the lad.’

  Florian could not hide his smile. ‘It’s best, domina,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll return at dawn to help with the knee. I may have to sit on his chest.’

  ‘Don’t think I can’t get up off this couch to box your impertinent ears, rascal,’ Quintus muttered. ‘I need no one to sit on my chest. Where’s that potion?’

  ‘Here,’ said Brighid. ‘Drink the dregs, too.’

  ‘Getting your own back, are you, Princess?’ he said, pulling a face.

  ‘Oh, I could do much better than that, sir, if I wished,’ she replied, taking the beaker from him. The door closed behind Florian and the boys as the Tribune’s hand caught at Brighid’s wrist, drawing her to his side where she stood uncertainly, her heart racing at the touch of his fingers. His eyes were closed, ready for sleep, yet he sought the soft warm smoothness of her arm, descending by way of her linen shift and the under-curve of her breast, then waist and hip.

  ‘Then I am in your hands,’ he whispered, smoothing his hand over her buttocks.

  She trembled, able to move away, yet transfixed. And I am in yours, my lord, am I not?

  The hand grew limp as sleep claimed him, making no resistance as Brighid laid it gently upon his own body instead of hers, the rise and fall of his great chest under the sheet holding her attention as she played back the day’s events and the dilemma that still held her in its merciless grip. She had had no private discourse with her brother since yesterday which might, she assumed, be due to his discretion or to the unfamiliar contentment of being in Florian’s company by day and night. Whatever the reason, he had not offered any plan or suggestion for her release, either now or in the future and, without some discussion, she was obliged to reach the conclusion that Math intended to accompany her as far as possible and to help her to find Helm, the only man in the south of the country who could offer her his protection.

  The problem remained, nevertheless, that each mile southwards made it more difficult for her to abscond, especially now that her outward appearance would do nothing for any attempt to blend invisibly into the background. It had been a
clever move on the Tribune’s part, one which could only be bettered by finding her original clothes. And even if they had not been locked away, the heavy gates of the hostel had clanged shut at sunset, a double guard keeping watch over the guests’ safety.

  More personal was the other problem, the one that had already begun to override her duty, her loyalty, her pride and her common sense, of which she had plenty. Not so infatuated was she that, given the chance, she would not turn her back on this man and make a run for it, wounds and all; not so in thrall to his lovemaking, or so newly awakened that she could not put him from her mind. Eventually. Yet her body told her something different, aching to learn more at his hands, to pulse with the elusive and unnamed weakness that churned her innards whenever he came close. Like a dowsing-rod over underground water she reacted to his presence, uncontrolled and wayward, shamelessly unable to resist as she ought.

  Her mind had offered excuses, reasons. He would quickly discard her if she became too much of a hindrance. She would then become an abused slave instead of one who was cared for, that in itself being enough to keep her with him. His regular threats encouraged her to try harder to make herself necessary to him. Her healing had been a useful ally. He was impressed. At the same time, this would be a danger to her in another way, for she realised now that it had not been the position of the wound that had kept him chaste, but the pain of it. Curt and commanding he might be, as an ex-cavalry officer, but there was nothing like a constant pain to shorten a man’s temper, as her brother had reminded her. How much longer would she be safe from him? Would his wound heal before they reached Aquae Sulis? Would her seeking of Helm be in vain, after all? Did she secretly want it to be?

  Watching the undulations of his ribcage, she was reminded of the young Dobunni man, the chieftain’s son who had singularly failed to impress her brothers, entertained by her late father as a good catch, if the price was right. Comparisons were futile, for although the young man appeared well put together and healthy, he was not of the Tribune’s model, nor did he have the same presence and authority, though perhaps he thought he had. His look had not made her quiver inside, as she did with the Tribune, and although the touch of a Roman upon a Brigantian woman was a disgrace, there was no accounting for the body’s preferences beneath the cloak of night.

  No. She deceived herself. There had been lamplight.

  No excuse there, then.

  The shrine to Brigantia received an unusual amount of attention while Quintus was asleep, after which Brighid was content to leave her fate in the goddess’s capable hands. Accordingly, she slept alone on the second couch in recognition of the choice being hers instead of his, a token gesture that gave her enough satisfaction to sleep soundly until dawn.

  The almost ritual unveiling of the wound, carried out under the curious stares of quite a crowd, raised Brighid’s standing in their eyes as nothing else had done so far, with the possible exception of her fierce behaviour of the last two nights. The inflammation had been replaced by the beginnings of new tissue, the swelling was reduced, and the pain now no more than a soreness. The uninterrupted sleep had made the patient marginally better tempered, even when the suggestion arose, yet again, that he should rest in the wagon for the next part of the journey. ‘Forget it,’ he said, tersely. ‘Where can we purchase another horse?’

  ‘Isn’t your grey up to it?’ Tullus said, observing the preparation of a new poultice over in the corner.

  ‘It’s for the Princess,’ said Quintus. ‘She can’t keep on riding pillion. She needs her own mount.’

  ‘Can she ride?’ Tullus wanted to know. He spoke without thinking.

  His two friends stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘She’s a Brigantian, Tullus,’ Lucan reminded him. ‘She can probably fly, let alone ride. Have you never seen those chariots?’

  So that was how Brighid travelled, in some style, from the government hostel at Margidunum to the private villa at Corieltauvorum, an event she suspected had less to do with the overloaded hindquarters of Tullus and Lucan’s mounts than on the dramatic appearance of the Tribune’s woman on her own showy mare, the brilliant coat of which matched her hair exactly. It must, they all knew, have cost the Tribune at least three thousand denarii and was no doubt a reward for the Princess’s competence. It was a reward Brighid was happy to accept for whatever reason, even if it puzzled her that the Tribune had provided her with an extra means of escape. Was he so sure of her? And was this to be Brigantia’s solution to one of her problems, perchance?

  Also lighter of heart and pocket, Lucan and Tullus quipped and quibbled in the sparkling sunshine, hemming Brighid closely with their mounts while keeping an eye on her horsemanship and soon reaching the conclusion that flying was not as ludicrous as it had sounded before they’d seen the instant rapport of rider and mare, the easy grace of Brighid in the saddle, the obedience of the animal to her signals.

  ‘Bit of a risk,’ Tullus said in an aside to Quintus. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Calculated,’ Quintus replied. ‘Looks good, though.’

  ‘Better and better,’ Tullus agreed, ‘but stay on your guard, my friend. The lady may look good, but if she doesn’t have a plan tucked up her sleeve, then she’s not the woman I think she is.’

  ‘Thank you for the advice, Tullus, but I don’t need it. I have good reasons for making her more comfortable with her new appearance. Selfish ones, perhaps, but valid.’ With that, he pulled his grey stallion ahead to speak with the leaders, leaving Tullus to raise an eyebrow in speculation at the selfish reasons for his superior’s generosity. He did not think they were hard to fathom.

  This latest mark of the Tribune’s esteem, however, lifted Brighid’s spirits higher than they had been for some considerable time, for although Roman women were more usually conveyed in litters carried by slaves or horses, only a few chose to ride their own mounts, even with polished harness, sheepskin saddle-cloth, and bells and tassels everywhere. Used to riding rough ponies bareback and receiving no help to mount, she decorously allowed the Tribune to lift her up on to the gleaming back loftier than even her father’s stallion, arranging a soft blanket to cover her legs on each side. Sitting sideways was not for her. If this was how he wished her to be seen by their next hosts at the end of the day, then she would not disappoint him, or them. And this time, she would guard her tongue.

  She had gathered houseleeks from the hostel courtyard that morning, with just enough time to bruise the fleshy leaves for the juice, to mix it with a fine oatmeal, mutton suet and milk to make a smooth paste, and to have enough left over from the plaster to carry with them during the day. Once again, her brother’s help was a godsend, and while she told him—just for effect—how to do things he already knew, it also gave her a chance to ask him, in undertones, whether he had thought of any way out of the situation. It was as she had suspected. Math had given it little or no thought at all. ‘Not yet,’ he whispered. ‘Be patient, sister. Give me time.’

  Angrily, she turned away, wondering how much help he was going to be in the light of his new friendship.

  ‘Well, Princess? Is this freedom suiting you better than the wagon?’

  The Tribune’s voice redirected her attention from a distant heron standing like a sentinel on the river bank, his knee just touching hers as he drew alongside. She turned to look up at him, towering over her, unsmiling, but with a glint in his eye that might even have been the sun’s doing. His hair lifted in the breeze, parting it like sheets of dark silk and whipping it across his eyes. The grey stallion snorted at the mare, dilating its nostrils.

  ‘The wagon has its uses,’ she said, glancing at his hands, ‘but this would always be my chosen method. Tomorrow, I may be allowed to canter, and the day after that, to gallop. No, don’t look so alarmed, sir. I’m not being serious.’

  ‘I was not alarmed, Princess. I was wondering which day you intend to fly,’

  ‘I’m not sure that flight would be in my best interests, Tribune,’ she said, sensing the direction of his
enquiry.

  ‘You’d not get far,’ he said, quietly. ‘Even on the mare.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you going to ask about my knee? Isn’t that what healers do?’

  ‘How is your knee, sir?’

  ‘Very comfortable, I thank you. I should have known of your skills earlier.’

  ‘That might have been counter-productive, Tribune. I would have found it more difficult to resist the temptation, earlier.’

  ‘To what, poison me?’

  She nodded, glancing up at his face to watch it darken. But it did not. ‘Hah! And now?’ he said. ‘Changed your mind, have you? Why?’

  She shrugged, a secretive smile just lifting the corners of her mouth. Her reply was leisurely, casual, almost friendly. ‘Oh, I had scrolls with it all written on, but now they’ll have been destroyed and I cannot remember any exactly. It’s no use if you’re not exact, you know, and I might have got it wrong. My reward for that would not be so handsome as a chestnut mare, I don’t imagine.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ he said. ‘That the mare is a reward?’

  ‘Isn’t that what I’m supposed to think? Everyone else does.’

  ‘Then everyone else is mistaken. As you are.’

  He was not, it seemed, disposed to elaborate any further, and as Brighid was not inclined to probe his reasons, she kept her lips closed and her gaze fixed at a distant point between her mare’s pretty ears as they rode in silence for mile after mile, side by side, thought matching thought.

  Chapter Six

  Despite the fact that Brighid had been taught, with her brothers, the language of the Romans and, inadvertently, to know something of their ways, her knowledge of their policies, laws and domestic habits reached her only at second- or third-hand along with her father’s inevitable condemnation. Even when this information had sounded reasonable enough to her, he had denounced every aspect of their government and culture if for no other reason than that they had no business to be here in the first place, riding roughshod over those to whom the island rightly belonged. They had been over here for at least ten generations, and yet there were still men like Brighid’s father who refused to adapt to the Roman presence, except for allowing his offspring to learn how to communicate with them. Their life-draining taxes he staunchly refused to pay.