Slave Princess

by Juliet Landon

‘No need. He’s stronger than he looks.’

  ‘Then you think …?’

  ‘No, it’s best to keep an open mind, sweetheart.’ Still holding her face, he kissed the tip of her nose. ‘And you were am-a-zing last night,’ he drawled.

  That made her smile. ‘Was I? So now you’re hungry?’

  ‘Ravenous!’ he whispered with half-closed eyes.

  That breakfast, taken hurriedly while discussing where and how to conduct furtive searches for Math, was to be the last real meal for Quintus until the dawn of the next day. His first visit to the healing centre, which included a full medical examination, a series of tests to establish his fitness, a review of his diet, bodily functions and sleep patterns—all of which he felt were quite unnecessary—took most of the morning, at the end of which he was told he must fast in preparation for the dream interpretation in which he would participate that night.

  His first reaction was to decline the invitation for, of all things, he had been looking forward to spending the night very much as he’d spent the last one, in Brighid’s arms. The priest would not take no for an answer. It was essential, he said, for a complete physical overhaul, and why else would he have come to Watercombe if not to sample all the amenities? Dreams, said the elderly priest, were the window into the soul. Correctly interpreted, they could explain the mysteries of man’s behaviour and put him on the road to a happier life of fulfilment and prosperity. The Tribune must not deny himself one of life’s greatest experiences. Was he afraid?

  Quintus was no coward, but nor did he believe there was anything to rival the great experience he’d had last night, nor did he particularly relish sharing with this old man and his colleagues the contents of his private life through any kind of window, especially one induced by drugs. Although their use had not been mentioned, he knew they were administered to induce sleep and to cause vivid dreams, and Quintus preferred to know the herbalist on a more personal level before he drank anything he had prepared. He was hard pressed to contain his scepticism.

  Nevertheless, he agreed. As an investigator, he saw that it would give him the chance to find out exactly what did happen during these magical rites as opposed to what was supposed to happen. He would fast in preparation—that would be no great hardship. Nor was sleep deprivation.

  Mindful of Quintus’s instruction not to go out alone, a command that her brother had obviously ignored, Brighid went with Lucan to tour the extensive gardens, ostensibly to stroll and talk while taking note of every hidden pathway that might indicate Math’s whereabouts. There were plenty of people with whom to mingle, to pass and greet, to give them an excuse to pause and to observe the landscape, the more distant grottoes and water shrines where springs bubbled from the earth or trickled down walls. Higher up, beyond the reach of disabled pilgrims, a narrow path led to upper terraces that wound between low conifers, with wooden benches where Brighid and Lucan sat to watch the guests below.

  Brighid’s keen eyes scanned the scene while Lucan’s observations were closer at hand, beside and behind them, swivelling him round to see the bank of grass at their backs, stalks of which had been flattened under the new growth. ‘Why would anyone clamber up there, I wonder?’ he said. ‘It’s not a path, but it’s certainly been trodden.’

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ said Brighid. ‘Stay behind the tree so we won’t be seen. Wait, I shall have to hitch my gown up.’

  With Lucan in the lead, hauling her up, they followed the faint pathway through bushes and then through a hazel wood to a small clearing where there was little to be seen except a row of small grassy mounds of varying heights, one of them dug so recently that only bare earth showed in stark contrast.

  ‘Graves?’ said Lucan. ‘Could they be?’

  ‘No flowers. No markers. It’s unusual, but they could be. Perhaps they’re infants who didn’t survive their birth. It does happen.’ She crouched, suddenly overcome by the appalling tragedy of it, remembering her maid and the manner in which she had lost her infant. Not even a grave or the decency of a burial, not a prayer or an offering for her safe passage. Lucan waited, saying nothing, only guessing at what thoughts passed through her mind. As if she was certain of the contents, she stroked the grass of the nearest mound like a mother smoothing the covers of her child’s cot. ‘Little thing,’ she whispered.

  Their return was slower and very subdued, both of them sure that they had stumbled across a cemetery, of sorts, and that here at Watercombe there must always be fatalities as well as cures. Brighid pulled her gown into shape and composed herself before continuing down, terrace by terrace, towards the longest pool where Tullus was waving to them. Beside him, deep in conversation, were two men dressed in short white tunics, one of whom they recognised as Valens.

  Brighid stopped abruptly, turning to Lucan in consternation, the green of her wide eyes showing him what he’d already guessed, that the other man must be Helm, the Dobunni chieftain’s son who had already met Brighid. ‘I cannot!’ she whispered. ‘It’s too soon… . I didn’t think … I’m not prepared … what am I to say?’

  ‘Princess,’ Lucan said, gently, ‘he is a complete stranger to you. You greet him as you would any other stranger, saying little. Just be your usual self, haughty and contained. He will not wish to recognise you, either.’

  ‘No, of course he won’t, will he?’

  ‘And you need not answer his questions. He’ll be the nervous one. Ready?’

  ‘Yes, come on. I have to face the little toad some time.’

  Lucan smiled and led her forwards. ‘That’s more like it,’ he said.

  The three men watched their approach, one approving, one highly suspicious, and one open-mouthed with astonishment at her transformation. The latter, a sandy-haired bearded man approaching thirty, had a frothy waterfall moustache and eyes of flint grey under equally generous eyebrows. His physique was worthy of his status, wide and muscular, but far from graceful, functional but coarsened like a native fell pony in its winter coat. His red mouth opened and closed as his bewildered expression turned first to Valens, then to his heavily sandalled feet.

  Aware of Valens’s intense scrutiny, Lucan called out to them, ‘Been admiring the gardens while the Tribune takes his medicine. They’re a credit to you.’

  ‘Well met, Lucan,’ said Valens, ‘and to you, Princess. Allow me to present my friend Helm. We go back a long way, he and I. Helm, meet the Tribune’s other assistant, Lucan Decimus Galla, both of them here under false pretences, but we allow them to stay because we need the money.’

  Brighid refused to smile, but watched from beneath heavy lids as Lucan and Helm sized each other up like two wrestlers. Helm’s eyes, however, were avoiding hers, though she noted a flush of red suffusing his neck above the white tunic. It took no more than a glance.

  ‘And the Princess,’ said Valens, ‘is the Tribune’s healer. Now if I had such a healer, I would not bother coming all the way to Watercombe.’

  They were all supposed to laugh at that, but Tullus made the point that they were already on the way there when the Tribune and his healer met. But Valens’s attention remained fixed on Brighid, not only her face but all the way down and back up again, twice, and she knew exactly what was passing through his mind, as did both her friends. What was passing through Helm’s mind behind his bushy brows was just as easy to speculate but, to his credit, he made a valiant effort to recover from his shock when it was clear that some word of welcome was expected from him. ‘Welcome to Watercombe, Princess,’ he said, gruffly. ‘You are some way from your territory, I believe. Valens tells me you are of the Briganti.’

  ‘Do you know our tribe, sir? Have you been so far from home?’ She knew he was unlikely to admit to it without explaining his reasons, and she did not believe he was quick-witted enough to make up a convincing story without getting into a tangle.

  ‘Er … no,’ he said, glancing at Tullus. ‘Never.’ Had she known it, he was already in a tangle.

  ‘I met your wife yesterday. Congratula
tions.’

  ‘Congratulations?’ Ambiguity was not something he found easy to deal with, either.

  ‘On the expected addition to your family. Have you known your wife long?’

  Helm was not enjoying the situation. Already he was floundering. ‘About half a year,’ he volunteered, too guilty for accuracy.

  Brighid nodded, smiling at the forced error. The baby was due any day.

  As usual, Tullus came to the rescue. ‘Time goes fast down here in these valleys,’ he said, ‘and men never know how long they’ve known their wives, Princess. Ah, look, here he comes, fresh from the clinic.’ Over the shoulders of the other men he saluted with one hand in the air. ‘Come and meet the friend our host told us of last night. Helm of the Dobunni, I present Tribune Quintus Tiberius Martial.’

  As if he knew how much Brighid craved his support at this critical moment, he went straight to her side and, with a noticeable disregard for convention, placed his arm around her waist and pulled her in to his side, not looking at her but at Helm, challenging, under the guise of an introduction, whatever thoughts he was harbouring. It was cleverly done, but to Brighid it was like a healing unguent over her heart, calming the soreness while transferring all responsibility to him.

  She placed her hand on his, feeling the warmth of it spreading over her hip.

  Unsmiling, Quintus nodded at Helm. ‘Well met,’ he said. ‘Are you here on business, or pleasure?’

  ‘Entirely for pleasure, sir. To make use of the bathing facilities and to see my wife. Perhaps to take her home with me.’

  Brighid thought this rather strange when the reason for Dora’s stay was to have her baby here in safety. But it was none of her business and Quintus appeared to find nothing to comment on. For the length of the garden, the men conversed amiably with Brighid clamped to her lover’s side by his arm. Yet there was a tension she knew to be the result of this inevitable meeting for which nothing could have quite prepared her, and although she kept her eyes becomingly lowered, she knew without looking that Helm was puzzled and fascinated by the change in her, her refusal to acknowledge him, her sudden appearance here in his territory, and her relationship to the Tribune, whose presence had unsettled both him and Valens.

  Their host talked loudly as if to prevent the conversation turning to other matters, and it was only when they merged with a throng of visitors near the atrium that, as she turned away, she caught a look from Helm that, as plain as spoken words, begged her for some moments in private. She blinked and looked away, responding to Quintus’s hand on her waist. A private conversation would not be possible. Math had told her that they would kill him, but it seemed to her that both Helm and Valens were already aware that the guests in their midst were mixing their pleasures with some undisclosed business. Business that probably concerned them, too.

  Her need for news about Math was her first priority. ‘Has anyone seen anything?’ she said as soon as they were alone.

  Silently, they shook their heads.

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ she cried. ‘Why not? Has anyone been sent to town?’

  ‘Florian and one of the guards went earlier,’ Quintus said. ‘They’ll be back when they have something to report. The two lads are still looking. So is the other guard. Tullus has been looking, too, and you and Lucan have been searching, presumably with no success, and I have been pummelled black and blue by some heavy-handed imbecile who appears not to know the first thing about massage. It’s the last time I shall let him anywhere near me. There, Princess. Does that answer your question?’

  Brighid glared. ‘Yes. Thank you. I’ll send for some food.’

  ‘I can’t eat anything. I’ve been told to fast.’

  In the brief silence, Tullus cleared his throat. ‘Lucan and I will go to the guests’ hall and eat there, if you’ll excuse us.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Quintus, ‘you go and enjoy some succulent ham served on a bed of—’

  Lucan grasped his shoulder. ‘Peace, man. It will be disgusting and we shall not enjoy one mouthful. We’ll keep looking, Princess. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered as the door closed. ‘Of course I’m worried.’

  At home, if a man was missing, a search party would have been dispatched immediately with orders not to return until he was found. Here, apparently, one must wait, be patient without worrying, pretend that nothing was amiss. Her brother was amiss—what could be more important than that?

  The air between them vibrated with unspoken accusations of inefficiency and lack of motivation that she knew were unjust, for no one knew better than the Tribune how to handle problems of this kind, not with her father’s rowdy methods but with caution. Yet her brother might, at this very moment, be suffering terribly, alone.

  Quintus held out a hand. ‘Come here, lass. Come and tell me what that Dobunni savage had to say when he saw you.’

  She went into his arms with the merest show of reluctance, but no word was exchanged for some time, their mouths being otherwise engaged in satisfying their hunger for each other. But when he would have gone further, urgently pushing her gown off one shoulder, she protested, squirming away to avoid his hands. ‘I cannot … cannot do this, my lord. Please stop.’

  He stopped immediately with a sigh that understood the problem. ‘Yes, I know, I’m an unfeeling brute. You’ve had a difficult morning, my Princess, and your mind is on other matters. I know. No need to explain.’ Pulling her into his arms, he cradled her against him and pushed away a heavy screen of red hair to place a kiss on her forehead. ‘Now, tell me about it. Have we baffled him, do you think?’

  She told him what little there was to tell, about the graves that she and Tullus were sure were those of infants, though the evidence indicated as little for Watercombe’s success in childbirth as for their standards of massage, which any Roman was well able to judge. Perhaps, they said, the quality of treatment at Watercombe did not deserve its high reputation, after all. When Quintus told her about his own experiences that morning and his agreement to spend that night at the temple, she was horrified at the danger. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You cannot. You must not, my lord.’

  ‘Why? Because you’ll miss me?’

  ‘Because you’ll be walking into a trap. Valens is already suspicious and so is Helm, and that kind of treatment is too open to abuse for them not to take advantage of it. The wrong drug, an overdose, a weak patient, and he can die. I know the kind of stuff they use, my lord: mandrake root, thorn apple, henbane and deadly nightshade, mugwort and opium. They mix them with wine to disguise the taste, and all it needs is an extra grain for a man to become insane. It’s not just dreams they induce. The patient rambles and raves, and they have to hold him down. It can cause vomitting and … well, other things. You’ll not know a thing about it until you wake up in a sweat. If you wake.’ She was sitting ramrod straight, her face a picture of deep concern.

  ‘You care. Don’t you?’ he said, stroking her arm.

  ‘Of course I care! How can you doubt it?’ she said, brushing off his hand.

  ‘Rest easy. I have no intention of taking their concoctions. I shall pretend to, and I shall feign sleep, but I shall spend the night watching. I’d not take a draught from anyone but you.’

  ‘Promise me. Don’t let them dupe you. Or dope you, for that matter. Remember my portents. There’s something wicked about this place, and now Math has disappeared. Who’ll be next? Don’t let it be you, my lord.’ Taking hold of his sleeves, she shook him with an angry impatience, only half-believing that he could survive where others had failed.

  ‘Hush, lass. It won’t be. I’m flattered to know you’re concerned for me.’

  Then don’t be. What would happen to me if I lost you, too?

  ‘Oh, you great. ox!’ she growled, struggling in his arms.

  But the memory of their passionate night, of her initiation, and of the bliss that followed was still in both their thoughts, too recent to be quenched by the latest upsets, still simmering in sp
ite of her protests. At the back of Brighid’s mind was the blackest menace of the empty night ahead, a night she had thought would be theirs together, but which would now be spent alone in fear and longing. However confident he might be of surviving the night intact, she could not let him go like this, without the loving he so obviously craved.

  Her struggles abated, and she bent herself into him, reaching up to link her arms around his neck, whispering sweet insults into his waiting mouth. ‘Great … ox,’ she murmured. ‘Why should I be concerned for you? I helped to mend your leg only because I grew tired of your bad temper. And now you have me for one night, and then you leave me.’

  ‘Oh, lass! Hush. I did not plan it that way,’ he said, kissing her eyelids, her nose, her lips.

  ‘How do I know that?’ she whispered, teasing him with her green-jewel eyes.

  He used actions rather than words to explain, understanding by the soft yielding of her body that her needs were as great as his, beneath her reticence. With his mouth still upon hers, he stooped to lift her higher into his arms and was delighted when her legs wrapped him, her body pushing against his aching member with only their tunics between. It was a blatant invitation he had not expected so soon in their relationship.

  Blinded by the sudden torrent of passion that shook them to the soles of their feet, he supported her thighs and heard her moan with pleasure and anticipation, not knowing that his hands pressed upon the parts of her that can make a woman wild with eagerness. He felt her pulling frantically at the fabric separating them, felt the sudden heat of skin upon skin, her soft moistness opening for him, as ready as he was. He felt her lowering herself upon him without a trace of modesty, the rippling ecstasy of his entry and the delicious squirm as she settled, arching her torso in rapture, crying out for him to take her without delay.

  Breathless with desire and almost savage in their intensity, they clung together, giving and taking equally in perfect unison, hearing only the ragged panting of cries and words, encouraging, approving, delighting. Then, as the oncoming rush of mindlessness overtook them too soon, he swung Brighid round to the wall to quicken the pace and to hold her hard against him until the blinding end, the explosive starburst that left them both shaking and trembling, laughing with exhilaration. It had taken no more than three minutes, but the fervour and spontaneity of those brief moments showed Quintus another side to the amazing woman in his arms that he had already suspected, the immense passion that extended into every part of her life. This woman would never become a passive victim of circumstance, not even though Fortune might be looking the other way. Still locked in their intimate embrace, he carried her to the couch, too breathless to speak, too overcome to do more than cling together and let roaming hands smooth brows and hair, their lips lapping up the laughter.