by Jayne Castel
No sooner had the chieftain’s wife spoken, when a small female with silky brown hair pushed her way forward to the front of the hall.
Tarl stiffened, frowning. “Who’s this?”
“My sister,” Tea replied. “You probably don’t remember … but she was at our handfasting.”
Looking on, Lucrezia noted there was little warmth in Tea’s voice when she spoke to Tarl. Likewise, his attitude toward her bordered on dismissive. Lucrezia wondered if they had parted on bad terms. Whatever it was though, Galan paid it no mind. Instead his attention remained upon Donnel.
“Can you help him, Eithni?” the chief asked.
The young woman laid a hand upon Donnel’s neck. The warrior was drifting in and out of consciousness; his sweat-streaked skin had gone grey and his limbs had started to twitch as the fever took hold. The healer bent close to him to check his pulse. Her hazel-green eyes were large upon a delicate heart-shaped face. “I’m not certain … yet,” she replied, her voice low and soft. Eithni’s gaze then flicked up, meeting Tarl’s. “Can you carry him to his alcove? I’ll need to examine him.”
Tarl nodded, before glancing back across at Galan. “Is his alcove still free?”
“Aye,” Galan replied. “Come.”
Tarl stood on the edge of the alcove, the one that Donnel had once shared with his wife Luana, and watched the healer work.
Although pretty, she was a pale timid-looking creature—nothing like her elder sister. Yet Eithni’s hands moved with deft self-assurance. She stripped the soiled bandages off Donnel’s wounded thigh, her nose wrinkling as the sweet stench of rotting flesh drifted through the alcove.
Tea was wrong. Tarl did remember her. The girl had accompanied the rest of the people of The Wolf to the Lochans of the Fair Folk last autumn, where Tea and Galan had wed.
Eithni glanced up, her gaze seeking Tarl’s. “How long has it been like this?”
“It started to sour a few days after we left the wall,” he replied, “but we managed to hold off the festering for a while. It started to worsen around five days ago.”
Her expression grew somber, and she glanced back down at Donnel’s face. “He has a son here,” she said. “Talor.”
Tarl nodded. “Aye, although I’ve not yet seen the lad.”
“He’s the image of his da,” she replied, her delicate features tightening. “If I don’t save Donnel, the boy will have lost both parents within his first few moons of life.”
Tarl tensed at her words. She was right, although truthfully he was more concerned about how he and Galan would react to losing Donnel. Little Talor was too young to remember his father, whereas the brothers had always been close.
“What do you need, Eithni?” A woman’s voice interrupted them. Tarl turned to see Tea standing in the entrance to the alcove.
The last time he had seen this woman, before departing for the wall, she and his brother had still been at war with each other. Tea, who was the sister of The Wolf chieftain, had unwillingly wed Galan, after the two tribes had made a pact to end years of blood feuding.
Watching her, Tarl wondered if relations between her and Galan had improved. She did not seem as bad tempered as the last time he had seen her, although her welcome toward him had been chill.
The healer favored Tea with a grateful smile. “Can you ask Ruith to bring me as much woundwort as she can find. I also need the strongest wine you have. I must clean this wound.”
Tea nodded, ignoring Tarl completely, before she turned and hurried away, the hanging swishing closed behind her.
With Donnel laid up, fighting a deadly fever, the mood was subdued in the fort that afternoon. A wild storm lashed the walls of the fort, while inside the crack and pop of the fire accompanied the rumble of conversation.
Tarl sat upon a wooden bench, a cup of mead on the table before him, and watched his brother under hooded lids. Galan could be difficult to read sometimes, and now was one such time. His face was impassive. Tea sat to Galan’s left, her expression wary as she waited for her husband to speak.
When Galan did, his voice was low. “The woman over there,” he indicated to where Lucrezia sat on the opposite side of the hall. “The one with the golden skin and dark eyes. Who is she?”
Tarl inhaled and picked up his cup. He took a deep draft, wondering why he did not relish the thought of telling Galan and Tea about his war prize. Taking slaves after battle was common practice—but he was reluctant to speak of Lucrezia nonetheless.
“She’s my slave,” he said after a few moments. “A Roman woman.” He glanced over his shoulder at where Lucrezia sat nursing a wooden cup with her gaze upon him. She knew he was speaking of her—had no doubt been waiting for this moment.
She still wore that long pleated dress, belted under the breasts, he had captured her in. It was now travel-stained and filthy. Her face was smudged with grime, her long raven hair tangled and in need of a wash; yet to him she had never looked lovelier.
She sat proudly, her eyes fearless, her face composed.
“Lucrezia,” he called to her. “Come.”
He saw her stiffen, her firm chin rise, and heard Tea stifle a laugh behind him. “A slave, eh? This one doesn’t like to be spoken to like a dog.”
Tarl clenched his jaw. Tea’s sharp tongue had not softened during his absence it seemed. Ignoring her, he kept his gaze upon Lucrezia before forcing out the next word. “Please.”
Reluctantly, she rose to her feet before crossing the wide space toward the raised wooden platform at the far end. Tarl found himself staring at her. Even dirty and tired, she walked like a queen.
Lucrezia approached them and stopped at the edge of the platform, her attention shifting to the chieftain and his wife.
After a moment’s silence Galan spoke. “Does she speak our tongue?”
Tarl nodded. “Aye … well enough.”
Galan fixed Lucrezia in a penetrating stare, one that made most warriors squirm. “Tell us then … how did you come to be my brother’s war prize?”
Chapter Fourteen
Your Property
“I already answered that,” Tarl interjected, irritated. He did not see why his brother was asking Lucrezia, and not him.
Galan did not look his way. “I’ve already heard your story,” he replied, “but now I want to hear hers.”
Tarl watched Lucrezia swallow and wet her lips, as if nervous. When she spoke her voice was husky and heavily accented. “They attacked Vindolanda just after daybreak,” she began, hesitant. “My husband had gone to the wall early, and I was busy with my morning chores, awaiting the arrival of my servants, when a man broke into my house and attacked me.”
Feeling Tea’s swift hard look of accusation upon him, Tarl raised his hands. “It wasn’t me,” he protested. “It was Wurgest … The Boar warrior who came here to gather men for the campaign south.”
“I remember him,” Galan replied, his gaze never leaving Lucrezia. “Go on.”
“The man, Wurgest …” Lucrezia said his name as if it were something foul, color flowering across her high cheekbones. “… tried to rape me.” She paused here, and to Tarl’s surprise her gaze flicked to him. “Tarl stopped him.”
Galan nodded, the grim look on his face softening a little. Tarl observed him, irritation rising. Why did he feel as if this was a test? His brother was ready to think the worst of him it seemed, and could not rely on him to tell the truth.
“And then?” Galan asked. “What happened?”
Lucrezia inhaled deeply, wrapping her arms about her torso as if to ward off the memory. “The wall fell. They slaughtered the garrison, and Tarl took me as his slave. We then traveled north. There’s nothing else to tell.”
Tarl lifted an eyebrow and turned back to Galan. “Satisfied?”
Galan gave a non-committal grunt and leaned back in the carved high-backed chair reserved for the chieftain. “So you’ve brought this woman home as your bed slave?”
Tarl heard the disapproval in Galan’s v
oice and clenched his jaw. That was so like Galan to look down his nose at him. However, before he could answer, Lucrezia beat him to it.
“I am not his bed slave.” She growled the words. “I will not lie with him.”
The words fell like heavy stones into a deep still loch. Embarrassment washed over Tarl, swiftly followed by anger.
After a moment of stunned surprise, Tea burst out laughing, her blue eyes twinkling. Next to her, Galan was actually smirking.
Tarl clenched his jaw so hard it ached. For the first time since meeting Lucrezia he was tempted to throw her over his shoulder, carry her off to his alcove and show her what happened to slaves who humiliated their masters. Yet she did not appear cowed as she glared back at him. Her expression was haughty, her jaw tense.
“It looks like you have yourself a problem, Tarl,” Galan said after a few moments, his mouth still twitching. “This female does not wish to warm your furs.” Beside the chief, Tea was now grinning, not bothering to hide her delight at his embarrassment. “Looks like you are a better man than I took you for,” she said, meeting his gaze. “You brought this beauty all the way home with you, never laid a finger on her … and this is how she repays you.”
Tarl merely glared at Tea. At that moment he did not trust himself to speak. They were both enjoying themselves at his expense.
“I wish for my freedom,” Lucrezia spoke up once more, her voice low and firm. There was no amusement in her tone; like Tarl she did not find this situation worthy of levity, although he knew it was for a different reason. Her attention was fixed upon Galan now. “Will you give it to me?”
Anger curled up from the pit of Tarl’s belly. He was tired of being made a fool of. “Enough, woman,” he snapped. “You forget your place.”
She ignored him, although he could see the desperation in her eyes. Was he really that repellent to her? He had felt a connection with Lucrezia since the first day of meeting her, and had come to believe she would soften toward him in time. He had kept up a front with the others—even his brother—letting them believe she was just a war prize, but truthfully she had always been much more to him than that.
Her reaction now made him wonder if he had made a huge mistake bringing her north. Perhaps he should have let her go as she had begged. She would not have lasted long, alone in the wilderness with roaming bands of men still north of the wall, but at least he would not have to look at the recrimination in her eyes. He had thought they had gotten closer over the journey, but she had merely swallowed her resentment and bided her time till they reached Dun Ringill.
Tarl turned his attention back to Galan. The amusement had now drained from his brother’s face, as he realized what Lucrezia was asking.
“She’s mine, brother.” Tarl growled. “Don’t interfere.”
“But she doesn’t want to lie with you,” Tea cut in. “What will you do? Force yourself upon her?”
Tarl clenched his jaw once more. He would not dignify that with an answer. “I don’t answer to you,” he replied, biting out the words before he met Galan’s eye once more. “I see not much has changed since I left here—your wife still has a serpent’s tongue.”
Galan snorted. “My wife has a point. I will not bid this woman to remain with you, if she does not wish it.”
Tarl drew himself up. “That’s not your decision to make.”
Galan’s face tightened and Tarl caught the smoldering look of warning in his eyes. “As long as I am chief of this tribe, it is.” His attention shifted to where Lucrezia stood, silently watching the argument between brothers. “Freedom is yours.”
Lucrezia stared at Galan mac Muin, stunned.
For a few heartbeats she merely stood there, hardly able to believe what she had just heard. The chieftain of The Eagle had just set her free.
Heart fluttering, she tore her gaze from Galan and met Tarl’s eye. She had never seen him look so angry, and for an instant she thought he might strike her. She shrank back slightly, and felt a nerve flicker in her cheek.
“Even after all we’ve been through,” he growled at her, “you’re still afraid of me?”
Lucrezia stiffened. “Perhaps … but at least I’m no longer your property.”
His lip curled, and he swung his gaze back to Galan. “Has that Wolf bitch unmanned you in my absence?” His insult rang out across the now silent feasting hall. “Time was, you’d not let a woman tell you what to do.”
Lucrezia watched Galan’s features tighten, saw his eyes narrow, and knew Tarl had succeeded in angering him.
“Call Tea that again, and I’ll knock you down,” Galan growled.
Tarl snarled. “Aye—she’s got you by the balls. It’s a wonder you take a piss without asking her permission.”
Galan smiled at that—however, it was a not a friendly expression but a warning that Tarl was treading a fine line. One more insult and he would get a fist in the teeth. “My word is final,” he replied, his voice low and threatening. “Argue it at your peril.”
The brothers’ gazes locked, and Lucrezia witnessed a battle of wills between two proud males who did not want to be the first to back down. However, Tarl was at a clear disadvantage. He was the younger brother, and Galan was his chief. Tarl would not win friends by challenging him over this.
Lucrezia’s heart was hammering against her ribs when Tarl tore his gaze from Galan’s and fixed his attention on her. She almost wilted under the fury in his stare. “The Reaper take you, Lucrezia,” he growled. “I wish I’d never set eyes on you.”
With that, he stepped down from the platform and strode out of the tower.
Lucrezia watched Tarl’s broad back disappear out into the storm. Then she glanced back at where the chief and his wife silently watched her.
Galan’s expression was still thunderous, while Tea looked pensive, her gaze hooded. “I don’t believe it,” Tea murmured. “Tarl mac Muin has actually let a woman get under his skin.”
Next to her Galan gave a dour laugh. “Aye, never thought I’d see the day.”
Tea leaned back in her chair and picked up her cup of mead, raising it to her lips. She took a measured sip before she met Lucrezia’s gaze once more. “This can only mean one thing … the man must be soft on you.”
Heat flared across Lucrezia’s chest, spreading up her neck. “No, he isn’t,” she replied stiffly. The man had just cursed her. “The only person Tarl cares about is himself.”
Galan huffed a sigh and glanced across at his wife. “What shall we do with this one, wife? Would you like to take her under your wing?”
Tea nodded, flicking her braid off her shoulder. “Willingly. She can live with Eithni for the time-being. I’m sure my sister won’t mind. We can find plenty to keep Lottcreta busy.”
Lucrezia cleared her throat. “My name is Lucrezia.”
Tea smiled. “I’m sure I’ll get the hang of your name eventually … in the meantime, there are more important matters to attend to.” Her gaze swept over Lucrezia from head to toe. “I’ll have a tub filled and some lye fetched so you can bathe. We’ll also need to find something to replace those rags you’re wearing.”
Lucrezia glanced down at her filthy stola. Her skin itched, and she was sure she stank. The thought of being able to wash away the journey’s grime and dress in clean clothes nearly brought her to tears.
Blinking, she glanced down at the rush-strewn floor beneath her feet. “Thank you.”
The tub was barely big enough for her to climb into—and the iron lip bit into her naked back—but it was still the best bath Lucrezia had ever had. She had never needed one so badly. It had been difficult to keep clean on the journey north; apart from a few hasty washes in a cold stream she had not bathed at all. And she had not been able to change her clothes.
Her grimy ragged stola sat in a heap a few feet away from the tub, and Tea had left her clean clothes to dress in once she had bathed.
Sighing, Lucrezia reached for the clay pot of lye that Tea had given her. She scooped a little
out and applied it to a soft cloth, before starting to wash. It was wonderful to have a moment’s privacy—for she bathed alone in one of the tiny alcoves lining the space.
It was a warm windowless chamber, lit by two oil-filled cressets. Beyond the heavy fur hanging, which screened her from the rest of the hall, she heard the rumble of voices and the clang of iron pots as women prepared supper. All the while, the wind howled around the stone fort like a swarm of harpies.
Lucrezia washed her hair and then applied a fragrant oil that smelled of rosemary to it. The scent reminded her of home—of the orange and basil-infused oil she had once used on her hair and skin. She had taken those scents for granted at the time, although her chest constricted now when she realized she would never smell them again.
She would never again taste olive oil, or savor the tang of citrus. Nor would she ever inhale the scent of night flowering jasmine, or look up into a cloudless deep blue southern sky.
This cold, bleak, windy rock is now my home.
Tears pricked Lucrezia’s eyelids as the finality of it hit her. She should feel elated, since she was now a free woman once more—but she merely felt small and lost.
The situation had taken an unexpected turn upon arriving here. She could not believe Galan had set her free, although Tarl’s reaction had bothered her. She had seen the humiliation on his face, the fury in his eyes, when he loomed over her.
The whole scene had shamed him.
She should not feel empathy for him, but she did. He might be insensitive and overbearing, but he had saved her from Wurgest and had looked after her ever since. She did not hate him anymore. She just did not want to remain his slave. He should have realized that.
The water was growing cold, reminding Lucrezia that she had been soaking in the tub awhile. Reluctantly she rose to her feet, grabbed a large linen cloth that Tea had left for her, and dried herself off. She stepped out of the bath, her feet sinking into soft fur, and a sigh escaped her.