by Kim Fielding
“Which prince?” Brute asked, although he already had an inkling of the answer.
“Aldfrid.” She frowned. “You haven’t set your heart on him, have you? You may have saved his life, but you’re still… well, we’re not like them, are we? The king would never allow the prince to take a lover who was… so far beneath his station. But there are plenty of more suitable men around, like Nali the baker. He’s never actually said he likes boys, but I’ve seen the way he watches the cartmen when they’re carrying bags of flour and—”
“I am not in love with the prince. Even I’m not that stupid. And I appreciate your offer, Alys, but no thank you.” He stood.
“Why not?”
He was getting slightly annoyed with her blind persistence. “Because nobody will have me.”
That made her set her baskets down again and stand in front of him. “Why not? Your hand? You do just fine without it, and—”
“My hand. My ugly face. My ogreish body. Alys, my mother was a whore and my father was a thief. I’m nobody, nothing.”
“Don’t you dare say that!” Her green eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare! You are a good man, Brute, and a kind one. You’re patient with Warin and you’re working hard to better yourself and you… you save people! All those other things, they don’t matter, not to anyone with sense.” She reached up to poke him firmly in the chest with a small finger. “Some man is going to find you, Brute, and he’s going to sweep you off your great big feet, and then he’s gonna spend the rest of his days realizing how damned lucky he is!”
Alys’s voice had risen, and several members of the kitchen staff stood there, smiling. But although Brute was embarrassed and couldn’t stop another blush, he didn’t see anything unkind in their faces—just good-natured amusement at the way the small woman was bullying the enormous man. On impulse, Brute bent down and placed a quick kiss on top of her kerchief-covered head. “Thank you,” he said.
He walked away with a song on his lips and an unaccustomed lightness in his heart. Not because he believed her, but because for the first time in his life, he knew that somebody believed in him.
Chapter 9
DESPITE the Brown Tower’s thick stone walls, the heat was oppressive enough to keep Brute pinned against his mattress, naked and unmoving. Just the thought of putting on his fine clothes—freshly washed, perhaps by Dreota, the tall laundress—was almost too much to bear. Gray was naked as well, although years’ worth of filth caked his skin. The quilt, instead of being wrapped around his shoulders, acted as slight padding under his spread-eagled form.
“I should go get us breakfast,” said Brute without enthusiasm.
“N-not h-h-hungry.”
“I’m supposed to feed you,” Brute said, but didn’t actually make any effort to move. The truth was, due to the extra tidbits Brute had been giving him over the past weeks, Gray was noticeably less gaunt. He was thin, but his bones now looked as if they had a bit of padding, and his cheeks were less sunken beneath his matted beard. “Maybe I can find us something light. Fruit.”
“Mmm.”
Brute had already discovered that Gray was especially fond of fruit. Not surprising, considering he hadn’t eaten any for years. When Brute shared the berries Alys gave him, Gray always ended up with red or purple stains adding to the mess on his face and hands, but with a wide and grateful smile. Brute had been sharing a lot of berries lately.
With a supreme effort, he managed to lever himself upright. He used the chamber pot and rinsed his hand and face in the washbasin he’d recently acquired. The basin had an intricate pattern of blue dragons and stylized flowers, and had obviously been made for someone much wealthier than him, but a chip on the rim had caused its original owner to discard it. Brute had bought it for three coppers during one of his infrequent excursions outside the palace walls.
He poured some water into a tin cup, carried it over to the cell, and slid the bolt open with his left elbow. As he did so, Gray climbed to his feet and stood waiting for him. “Here,” Brute said, pressing the cup into the other man’s hand. “It’s sort of warm. I’ll get you some cooler water from the well after I’m dressed.”
“D-dressed?”
Brute found himself inexplicably embarrassed over their mutual nudity. It wasn’t as if Gray could see him, and Brute had touched Gray’s bare body many times when comforting him during his nightmares. But still he blushed. “Drink it,” he said gruffly, and for some reason that made Gray laugh. Gray’s laughter was a wonderful sound, giving no hint of his tongue’s usual troubles. It was a warm laugh, deep and slightly intimate. Brute used to hear laughter like that sometimes when he sat in the White Dragon or while he worked. It was the sound a man made among friends.
Gray was still chuckling after Brute took the cup away.
“S-s-swimming.”
“What?” Brute had been pulling his shirt over his head when Gray spoke, and he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.
“Y-you should g-g-go swimming. I-i-in the s-sea. It’s l-lovely and c-c-c-cold. I used t-to go wh-wh-when the heat g-g-got b-b-b-bad.”
“I can’t swim,” Brute said. What he was thinking as he pulled on his trousers, however, was how nice it must have felt for Gray to play freely in the waves, and what a terrible contrast that was with his current life. For much of the time over the past weeks, Brute had managed to put aside his knowledge that Gray Leynham was a prisoner—and that he was a witch and a traitor—and instead think of him as the quiet companion who shared his chamber. That was a pleasant fantasy, but a false one.
Brute emptied the waste bucket and filled the water jug, then returned to Gray. When he handed over the cup of cool water, the man laughed again and upended it over his own head. The streamlets of water made streaks in the dirt on his face and chest. He grasped Brute’s forearm with his hand and smiled up at him. “L-lovely. Thank you.”
Everyone at the palace was moving very slowly, as if they were slogging through deep mud. Even the birds seemed to droop where they perched in little patches of shade, and the resident cats and dogs were sprawled on squares of marble paving, looking more like rugs than living animals. The ovens behind the kitchen were not lit, nor were any of the stoves inside. The heat had killed everyone’s appetite, it seemed, so the kitchen staff had been given a slight reprieve. Alys was nowhere to be found, but one of the potboys handed Brute a bowl of red berries. “Alys says I’m s’posed to make something for the witch,” the boy said. He ran a hand across his sweaty forehead. “I ain’t sure I know how, though. Can I give him yesterday’s bread in water?”
“Don’t bother,” Brute said. “He can skip breakfast today.”
The boy looked grateful.
Brute left the berries with Gray—along with more water—but didn’t stay. He was glad he didn’t have any lessons this morning, because although the chamber where they met might be a little cooler than outside, it would still be far too warm to pay attention. The children would be groggy and sticky and restless, Master Sighard would be more ill-tempered than usual, and Brute would have a difficult time concentrating. Especially seeing as his thoughts kept wandering to Gray, and what he would look like with waves playing about his hips and droplets glistening on his skin.
Tired of tromping about in circles and unsuccessfully chasing inappropriate images from his head, Brute went off in search of the guards.
The guards trained daily, and sometimes he’d stand and watch. Nobody seemed to think that strange. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for a variety of people to watch. Children sometimes paused for a while on their way between chores; workers would take a few minutes respite from their labors; sometimes even the lords and ladies stood under the shade of a portico and chattered with one another, their eyes on the straining bodies. A good many of the onlookers, like Brute, no doubt admired the sight of young men in fine form and with little in the way of clothing, but others just viewed it as entertainment. When the guards sparred with one another, onlookers would occasionally place small
bets on the outcomes.
So Brute often passed the time watching the guards. And about three weeks earlier, when the men were practicing wrestling maneuvers, their captain had walked over to him. “Want to join us?” he asked.
Brute had blinked at him. “I can’t fight.”
“Don’t have to. Just be big—you can do that all right.” The captain grinned, revealing two broken front teeth. “Boys might kick you around a little, but you’re welcome to kick right back.”
Brute had glanced at the guards, who were shouting jeers and encouragement at one another, and then looked back at the captain. “Sounds like fun.”
He practiced with them nearly every day after that. He ended up with bruises each time, but it was fun, and the soldiers treated him almost like one of their own. Besides, he’d been feeling much too sedentary and was even slightly missing the physical challenge of his old job—plus he was eating far too well. It was good to see the bit of fat he’d accumulated around his belly melt away and his muscles become once again well-defined. The bit of soreness he faced in the evenings was almost welcome.
The close proximity of other men didn’t hurt either.
The guards were practicing again today despite the heat. They wore nothing but breechclouts, their torsos and limbs slick with sweat, and they were taking turns flinging axes at targets. Brute couldn’t join in with that activity and didn’t really want to, so he found the shadiest spot available—up against a wall and under a balcony—and crouched down. Heavy muscles worked and skin glistened, and after a while Brute realized that the heat pooling in his belly had nothing to do with the blinding sun.
For a moment he actually considered Gray’s suggestion. Brute had seen the sea, both from the palace windows and as he walked around Tellomer. But he’d never been close enough to touch it, and he wondered what salt water might feel like. He didn’t relish the types of stares he’d attract at the beach—everyone in the palace was used to him by now and nobody stared. And he’d feel guilty, out there enjoying the surf while Gray could only remember it.
Fine then. But maybe he could find a different watery way to cool himself off.
The usual bath attendant was on duty, looking wilted and bored. “Could I have a bath, please?” Brute said to her.
“In this weather?”
“I was thinking maybe you could fill the tub with cool water instead.”
She considered this for a moment and then shrugged. “Wait here.”
It didn’t take her as long as usual to prepare. When she returned several minutes later, she wordlessly handed him a stack of clean towels, then bent over her ledger to record his visit. Eventually, she would report to the exchequer, and three coppers would be deducted from his account.
He shed his clothes as soon as he was alone in the little bathing room, then lowered himself into the tub. As he’d hoped, the water was plenty cold—cold enough to make him sigh in relief. He crouched down to submerge himself completely, imagining that steam was rising above him as his heated body met the chilly liquid.
He remained in the tub for a very long time. He didn’t scrub, although he did break off a bit of the nicely scented soap to take back to his chambers and use in the morning. It was a small theft, but he thought it might be justified, seeing as he’d paid the full three coppers and hadn’t even needed the water warmed. When he finally emerged, his skin was slightly wrinkled and he felt considerably refreshed.
Until he walked back out and into the sunshine. Then he felt like a loaf of bread in an oven. Which reminded him that he had missed lunch. He still wasn’t very hungry—he could wait until dinner—but it occurred to him that Gray might need more drinking water. He walked slowly back to the Brown Tower, mumbled a greeting to the guard at the door, and went inside.
It wasn’t until he entered his chamber that the smell hit him. He’d become used to the building’s constant odor of damp and age, and of course he tried to empty his chamber pot and Gray’s bucket as often as possible. But this was simply the reek of filth, and it took him a moment to realize it was coming from the prisoner. Of course. Years without being allowed to wash, and now with the heat: Gray was stewing in his sweat and grime. It might not have been so noticeable if Brute hadn’t just bathed, but as it was, the stink was almost unbearable.
Gray stood and smiled when Brute brought him a cup of water. “D-d-did you s-s-swim?”
“I told you. I don’t know how.”
“Sh-sh-shame. M-my father t-taught me. He was a s-sailor.”
Although Gray had grown slightly more talkative of late—and either he was stuttering less or Brute was noticing less—he’d never before mentioned his family. Brute was intrigued even though he knew he shouldn’t be. “Was he from Tellomer?”
“Y-yes. Came b-b-back with amazing tales. A-and my mother. She w-w-was from R-r-racinas.”
Brute had heard mention of Racinas once or twice, but had no idea where it might be and had never met anyone from there. He’d never even met anyone who was related to someone from there. “Did you ever go there?”
Gray’s face tightened. “O-o-o-once.”
Because this was obviously a painful subject, Brute went back to the topic of swimming. “What does it feel like, to swim in the sea?”
“W-w-wet,” Gray said, a slight smile replacing his frown. “C-cold. I-i-i-it moves about y-you, the s-sea does. Always ch-changing. Lifts y-you up or knocks you d-d-d-down. D-doesn’t care who you a-a-aren’t.”
That was a strange sentiment, Brute thought, but an oddly comforting one. Especially for someone like him, who wasn’t so many things and who was so few. But then the entire conversation was odd. It had never before occurred to him that a witch would have family—although of course he must come from somewhere!—or that his father would be someone as ordinary as a sailor, a man who probably loved his son and taught him to swim. “My father was just a thief,” he said, and wished he’d learn to stop blurting things out.
“A g-g-good one?”
Brute thought of the little hut he’d lived in as a child. It had seemed comfortable enough to him then, especially in comparison to the dirt-floored place under the house where his great-uncle usually made him sleep, or the stables, or his room at the White Dragon. But in truth, that hut had been small and run-down, and aside from the bed and a few trinkets of his mother’s, it had contained very few possessions. “No. He was a poor one. They hanged him when I was a boy.”
Gray placed his warm hand on Brute’s arm and gave it a quick squeeze. “S-sometimes a d-d-desperate man makes b-b-bad choices.”
It was too hot in the cell. Brute stepped away and bolted the door, and then he stood there in the middle of his chamber, his mind whirling in a turmoil he couldn’t explain. “I’m going,” he said gruffly. And unnecessarily. He took the washbasin and jug with him when he left.
The guard watched with mild curiosity as Brute filled the containers at the well. It was slightly difficult for him to carry them back. He tucked the basin into the crook of his left arm and held the jug in his hand, and he tried not to slosh too much water as he walked. When he got to the door, the guard squinted at Brute’s hair, which was still damp from his bath. “You’re going to be very clean,” the guard observed with unusual garrulousness. Usually they just grunted.
Brute gave him an awkward little shrug and entered the tower.
Gray seemed surprised that Brute had reappeared so soon, even more so when Brute used his free elbow to open the bars. “S-s-something wrong?”
“Not exactly. Hang on.” He set the containers on the floor beside Gray and then ducked back into the main chamber to grab his single towel. After a short pause, he opened the bottom drawer and took out his old shirt as well. It was hardly more than a rag, but it could still serve a use.
“Wh-wh-wh-what is it?” Gray asked when Brute was back in the cell.
“Here.” Brute pressed the cloths into one of Gray’s hands, fished in his pocket to retrieve the bit of soap, and placed it
in Gray’s other hand. “There’s water in the basin at your feet.”
“F-f-for what?”
“Washing, of course. I can’t take you to the sea or even the baths, but….” His voice trailed away uncomfortably.
Gray licked his lips and then chewed on the lower one. “I-I-I d-d-d-don’t—”
“It’s hot and you stink. I thought you might want to clean up a little.”
“Is… is it p-p-p-p— Fuck! P-permitted?”
Brute gave the same answer he’d told himself about improving the prisoner’s meals and giving him a quilt. “Nobody said I couldn’t.”
Gray laughed. He crouched down and shoved his blankets out of the way, then felt around until he found the washbasin. “M-m-might get a b-b-bit of me clean, anyway.”
“Do you want… I could cut your hair. Shave you.”
“W-w-would you? P-please?”
“I’m not much of a barber, but I can try.”
When Gray nodded enthusiastically, Brute fetched his knife and razor. It couldn’t have been comfortable for Gray as Brute hacked away at the matted mess on his head, but Gray didn’t complain. Eventually he was left with uneven stubble on top of his skull, clean-shaven cheeks and neck, and an enormous grin. “Good gods, th-that feels better!”
He was handsome, dammit to all hells, with finely sculpted cheekbones and a full bottom lip. His neck looked slightly delicate—almost calling out to be stroked—but the effect was marred by the iron collar, a dark abomination. “I feel l-like a new m-m-man.”
Brute mumbled some sort of reply, which was abruptly cut off as Gray began rubbing the soap over his dirty arms and chest. “T-tell me if I’m m-m-missing spots,” Gray ordered, which meant that Brute had to watch. Not that he could have torn his eyes away even if he tried. He watched as the dirt was gradually scrubbed away, revealing moon-pale skin with a dusting of dark blond hairs and a pair of flat pink nipples. Which was bad enough, but next Gray washed his flat belly, his balls and soft sex and the curls that surrounded them, his thin legs. Brute tasted blood and realized he’d bitten his tongue.