The expansive fog darkened the morning, and she relished the enveloping shadows. She’d tell Father she’d gone to the river early. Her blood raced. She had no water jars to make that story believable and Conan would have reached her house an hour ago by now.
Her heart thudded in her chest, breath coming in gasps.
Chills upturned her stomach. She spat bile on the cobblestones. Dread shook her limbs as the spell’s thoughts overcame her. She was a wanton, a harlot. He didn’t even love her.
She made her shaking feet move down Light Street. A pillar of gray smoke rose. She rounded a building and gasped.
“The carpenter’s shop is afire. Quick! buckets!” a man yelled. A housewife ran by, followed by a day laborer. People dashed water on the flames. Steam rose. The fire already consumed half the new wing and raged onward.
Conan grabbed buckets from those coming up behind him. Soot streaked his face. He sprinted back and forth between flames, the blaze lending his skin an unearthly glow.
Others beat the fire with wet cloths.
“Don’t just stand there.” Pruella’s mother shoved a bucket into Cara’s quivering hands.
Full buckets were hauled from the river and passed toward the fire, then empty buckets circled back. Still the flames soared high.
A dozen, a hundred. The bucket handles skinned her palms, her arms trembling as the fire blazed high, consuming the shop in which she’d spent so many hours.
“It’s too late for the shop. Start dousing the other houses,” an aging male voice shouted above the din.
“It’s my shop. We’re not abandoning it yet.” Conan’s voice was hard.
“Every bucket of water we waste on your shop increases the chance the fire will spread to the homes around it,” the aging man yelled.
“My house can’t burn,” a woman screamed. “We’ve no money to rebuild.” Her hair hung in strings as she ran, a bucket in one hand, and a baby clutched to her chest.
Conan’s voice whipped back across the smoke. “I don’t care.”
The sun had passed its zenith and clouds dissipated into full sunshine when the ordeal ended. Water sizzled on the smoking remains of charred wood. Only one wall of Conan’s shop still stood, and fire had devastated half the houses nearby.
People dispersed, but Cara stood in the street, bucket still clenched in her hands, her gaze fixed on the smoking ruins. A hand touched hers. She looked up and saw Conan. Sweat and grime covered his face. He circled his arms around her numb body. In the midst of the destruction all around them, he rocked back and forth. A lone tear rolled down his cheek.
“What happened?” she asked, stiff in the arms she ought to have saved herself for.
“I was sitting by the fire shaping a table leg. I must’ve fallen asleep. By the time I woke, the whole room burned. I couldn’t get the flames out. I tried, but I….” His voice broke.
She’d never seen him like this.
“Mea culpa. Mea culpa, Cara.” He shook his head, his fair hair slapping against his forehead, and held her tighter.
Conan apologized to her? After last night, she should admit guilt. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“It hurts you though. Money will be scarce, and my shop will take months to rebuild.”
“I don’t mind.” She craved freedom, not coin, but at this moment, she’d commit the rest of her life to a Pruella-like existence of broom-binding obedience to undo last night. Father had looked years older after she’d kissed Victor. How would he feel at this news?
“We’ll have to wait until spring now to marry,” Conan said.
“If we marry.” She ought to tell Conan what she’d done. Then she could take a servant position and see Greece. Only she’d have to make Conan promise not to tell because no one except dens of infamia knowingly hired a fallen woman.
Conan stiffened, his arms taut around her. “There are no ‘ifs’, Cara. You’re mine, and I tire of hearing your childish protests. I’ll start rebuilding the shop immediately, get some extra business over the winter, and – ”
His voice faded away as she looked up at the clouds blowing toward the north. The clouds blew to where she’d slept last night. If she told Conan, he’d tell Father. How could she stab that knife through Father’s heart? She scarcely noticed when Conan let go of her.
Someone else touched her. “Come now, daughter. Time to go home.”
A tear spilled down her cheek as she looked up at Father’s face. Greece, she wanted to sail to Greece, but she’d had her night of freedom. If Father’s happiness required her keeping this secret and marrying Conan, she’d do it.
Two weeks had passed since the farmhouse. Two weeks of mind- numbing labor, working at Father’s house in the mornings, and spending every afternoon and evening helping Conan rebuild. Cara dug the stylus into wax, summing the last of the accounts. The harder she labored, the easier she could pretend that night had never happened.
“Careful. You’ll rip the wax apart.” Father turned from the anvil. Beneath him, an iron rod glowed red-hot. “I made some more nails for Conan. I told him not to use the fire-damaged ones.”
“I’ll take them now, Father, and stay and see if I can help him.”
“Of course. It will be your house too soon.”
She ran her tongue over her lips. “Conan said not until spring.”
“Very wise of him. That shop is in no condition for you now.”
Not until spring. Was she cheerful or sorrowful about the delay? She’d never wanted a summer wedding, but maybe after she married Conan this nagging in her soul would cease and she wouldn’t have to worry about him somehow being able to tell.
Three weeks had passed since that night at the farmhouse. Cara scrubbed already clean clothes against the side of the pottery. Outside, the summer sun sank behind the trees. She’d woven a length of cloth for the woman whose house had burned.
Someone coughed. Father stood in the threshold, his face an uncomfortable red. He shifted from one foot to the other.
Cara stared.
Coughing again, Father ran his soot-stained hands over each other. “Pruella’s mother’s come over.”
Why was that a reason for such discomfort?
“I thought she should talk to you since you’re getting married. I mean, because you don’t have a mother to do it.”
One hand on the wet laundering, Cara tilted her head. “Talk to me?” Wait. No! Pruella’s mother would have that conversation with her? She’d always suspected Pruella was a product of immaculate conception.
Pruella’s mother bustled into the room. Exiting swiftly, Father pulled the door shut.
“Good evening, Cara.” Pruella’s mother marched to the hearth and plopped on a stool. “Have a seat, dear.” She indicated a bench less than half a pace away.
Cara gulped. With this conversation as the topic and Pruella’s mother as the speaker, she’d rather sit three towns away.
“You’re getting married. You’re to be congratulated.”
“Thank you.” Maybe. She sank down on the bench.
“There are things about marriage you know nothing of. I shall enlighten you.”
She could have used this enlightenment about three weeks earlier.
“The union of man and woman is not only a powerful religious bond and emotional intertwining, but also a physical union. The coming together of man and woman is what produces a child. My first child, who God took away from me only days after birth, was conceived that first month we married.”
“You got with child after only a month of togetherness?” Cara stared at the woman’s complacent face.
“Yes, Cara. That is the way of marriage.” Pruella’s mother patted Cara’s hand. “Some women have come together with a man only once and gotten with child.”
As the woman’s flesh touched her, Cara stared at her. Thank heaven that hadn’t happened to her. She probably should have known this. One could hide losing one maidenhood, but not a child. Any unwed girl caught with child was shamed
far and wide. No one would even hire them for honest work, which is why many turned to prostitution at the brothels near the garrison.
Pruella’s mother leaned toward the hearth and took a roll off the plate there. The last rays of sunshine slipped below the trees as she bit into the bread.
The shadows stretched long like this that night at the farmhouse. He had locked his arms around her. He had moved his mouth over hers. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, before –
“When you first join with Conan – ”
Conan? Cara jerked upright. Oh yes, she was supposed to do this with Conan.
“ – there may be pain.”
Yes, and bleeding, plenty of it. If she’d known he would hurt her that much doing it, she would have stopped at kisses. She’d taken Conan as the rough sort, never him. Maybe she understood him less well than she’d thought.
“Do you have questions?” Pruella’s mother placed the last bite of roll in her mouth.
“What about the girls who don’t wait? Can the husband tell?” The curvy girl had suggested pig’s blood and ale. She only hoped her face didn’t betray her pounding heart.
Pruella’s mother narrowed her eyes, then she sighed. “You’re asking that because of your friend. From now on, you’ll need to choose better friends.”
Friend? Pruella’s mother didn’t know the curvy girl.
“As for hiding, it doesn’t matter. Once a woman has committed a sin that impure, it defiles her very nature as a woman.”
She was still a woman. What did Pruella’s mother think one turned into after completing that act? A cow?
“She’ll be scorned by all of the pagans.”
Only if they all found out. Cara twisted at her sash.
“The church may help her if she’s starving, but they won’t fellowship with her.”
True, and unlike everyone else, God already knew. She didn’t imagine God would listen to any more of her prayers after she’d broken His firmest rule.
“Certainly no man will ever marry her.”
Cara rubbed her finger over her lips, which had kissed three men now. “Why?”
“Men want a virgin as their bride.”
Conan wasn’t getting one. Cara leaned her pounding head back against the cool wood of the wall. “Why do they care so much?”
“Because men are the ones who plow your field and sow their seed. Who wants ground cleared by another hand?”
Every farmer. That was what one called cleared land, and it sold at a much higher price than forest. Also, she was a person, not a field. “What if – ”
“That’s quite enough questions about loose women for one day.” Pruella’s mother frowned. “Your father arranged this talk when we thought your wedding would occur this month. Now that you won’t wed until spring, I shall not give you too many specifics. Just remember, when Conan comes to you, be a willing partner.”
“A what?” She pitied poor Pruella. The girl had likely been forced to endure numerous of such talks before her wedding day.
“Don’t deny him his rights, even if it’s more often than you think quite necessary.” The woman spoke firmly.
“What’s more often?”
Pruella’s mother leaned forward and whispered a number.
“People do it that often!” Wait. Images and words from years’ worth of quiet whispers and suppressed giggles rushed over her.
When that slave girl, Venus, had slipped her hand over Victor’s at the party, this is what she meant. When Eric told her that the tabula parties weren’t safe for her, this is what he meant. When Father and Conan had raised an outcry to split the heavens over Victor’s one kiss, this is what they meant.
She gulped. She didn’t want to do that with Conan ever, let alone that often.
Her wishes didn’t matter. Unless she planned to crush Father’s heart by confessing her sins, she didn’t get a choice.
Four weeks had passed since that night at the farmhouse. Cara walked up to Conan’s shop. He had all the walls raised now.
She passed through the open door. Wood-shavings littered the floor. Conan held a board. “Cara.”
Swallowing hard, she tried to shove away the hot, guilty feeling that ran down her spine. “You raised the walls swiftly.”
“Had dozens of day laborers clamoring for work. Offered to take only a quarter of a day’s wages, if I’d hire them.”
“Hammering nails is so exhilarating?”
“There’s no work to be had. With the scourge that killed the corn crop this month, so many will starve this winter, their bodies will line the streets.” Conan swung his hammer.
She shivered. Poor souls. She’d take food with the next cloth she wove for a street child.
“Look what survived the fire.” Conan pointed behind him. The shelf with seashell brackets hung above the soot-stained hearth wall. On the front edge, bold letters carved the wood.
“I thought that was for Pruella and Aidan.” She picked up a broom.
“You admired it so much, I kept it for us.” Conan touched the letters. “See, it reads, ‘many waters cannot quench love.’”
Her heart thudded to her boots.
“A beautiful verse for my beautiful girl. Where did you hear it?” He ran his fingers over her hair. His fingers were thinner than Eric’s, and they brushed over her locks instead of tangling in every strand, like Eric’s when he told her that verse.
She gulped and swept the broom across the floor. “Uh, nowhere. May I help you rebuild?”
“Yes. Hold that.” He pointed to the end of the long board.
Laying aside the broom, she grabbed the board and Conan drove nails through it. The wood secured, she dropped her hands.
“Those, too.” He pointed to a small box of pegs on the hearth.
She crossed to fetch them.
As she held the box out to him, Conan smiled. “I would have lectured you sooner if I’d known my words at the feast would have such an effect. You will make a fine wife.”
She shook her head, but he kept moving his mouth.
“I wouldn’t have been so harsh with you that day before the fire if I’d known how you’d reform. Keep acting how you have this month, and you’ll never have to see that side of me again.”
She looked at the floor as guilt slithered through her veins. If Conan knew the actual cause for her obedience, he wouldn’t be so pleased by it.
“I lost my temper with you too because of your friendship with Edna, and what she did. If you hadn’t already ceased seeing Edna, I’d forbid you to talk to her.”
With effort, Cara kept her face from heating angry red. At least a dozen times now, she’d knocked on Edna’s door and been turned away. “What did Edna do?”
“I shouldn’t pollute a maiden’s ears with it.”
Exactly what Pruella’s mother had said! Why would no one tell unmarried women anything? Had Edna contracted the cough? Since Edna wouldn’t speak to her, she needed to convince someone to tell her. “We’re almost wed. I don’t see what difference telling me now rather than in nine months will make.”
“Oh, there’s a rather large difference.” He slid his hand down her shoulder.
“Not to me.” Could he just tell her?
“Verily?” He tipped her chin up, his gaze on her lips.
Since he evidently wished her to, she stretched up and kissed him. “Please tell me.”
“She’s with child by a patrician, Marcellus, I think.” Conan traced the neckline of her dress.
Marcellus? Like those girls at the pagan festival had whispered? Is this what they and Pruella’s mother had meant? Edna never even spoke to Marcellus.
Vaguely, she felt Conan’s hands moving low on her back.
She stepped toward the door.
“Come back soon.”
“Of course.” Cara pounded down the road toward the poor section of town.
This was why Edna wasn’t baking. No one would hire a woman who’d had a baby with a man not-her-husband. No one.
Since Edna’s mother hadn’t turned her out on the streets, people would hesitate to hire her to launder clothes, too. Did they have food even? She couldn’t let Edna’s familia starve!
She spied Edna’s falling-apart hovel on the hill ahead. A jar of filthy wash water sat in the dirt yard, and the door hung open. Voices rose through the opening.
Still hidden by the doorframe, Cara peeked around it. Edna stood by the central fire, looking very different. An iron betrothal ring circled her left-hand finger. Alexandros the butcher stood in front of her, his feet planted firmly on the ground, his mouth turned down.
Edna’s patched dress blew in the doorway’s breeze. “When we marry – ”
Alexandros crossed his arms over each other, the muscles of his big arms bulging. “I’m not marrying you until after your babe’s born. I won’t have the townsfolk saying it’s mine.”
Edna stiffened, her weather-darkened lips pressed tight together. Taking a pouch off her belt, she held it out. “Here’s my dowry. You needn’t wait until the babe’s birth for that.”
Alexandros’ dark eyes smoldered. “I only agreed to marry you so your familia wouldn’t starve. I’m not taking your mother’s money.”
Breath whooshed from Cara’s lungs. A betrothal would blank out the shame and people would hire Edna’s mother again for laundering work. Unlike others, Edna and her familia wouldn’t starve this winter.
Stepping forward, Edna dropped the pouch into Alexandros’ hand. “It’s not my mother’s money.”
With distaste, he gripped the pouch between two fingers. “How much?”
“Two hundred denarii.”
The man gave the pouch a disgusted look, as if he’d throw it back at her. “Two hundred denarii for my future wife’s maidenhood and the raising of his child. Methinks the man underpays his debts.” Turning on his heel, Alexandros walked out the door. He startled when he saw Cara, but kept walking.
Edna’s gaze landed on her. Misery swam in her brown eyes.
No, Edna wouldn’t starve, but she’d have to deal with a man who despised her. Alexandros had seemed like a kind man last time she’d met him, and he was very kind indeed to rescue Edna, but having a wife and child thrust upon him had not seemed to improve his temper.
When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2) Page 13