“I don’t dispute that.” Rhun sounded resigned and weary. “But...” He sighed. “I mislike this whole business. This journey is not a fit venture for any woman, let alone a princess!”
“And yet here we are.” Bridei said. “We can worry about proprieties and hurt Arthur’s cause, or we can make the best of things.”
Rhun still looked angry, but he said no more. And as they neared the outer edges of Londinium, Eastra also began to forget the holy man’s rude words as she became interested in the things she saw.
They entered the city through a towering gateway of stone, and all around were the remnants of old, tumbled-down stone buildings. She could see newer structures, some of them in the Saxon style, with high roofs supported by arched beams and timber walls, others with red tiles on the roofs and walls of white plaster in the Roman fashion. And here and there was a round dwelling that looked distinctly British, with bracken-thatched roofs and rough timber walls.
It was like a village, only much bigger, Eastra thought as they continued down the paved roadway. The people she saw seemed to be as varied as the buildings. On one side of the trackway, a plump woman with butter-colored braids, ruddy cheeks, and a white apron over her gunna threw out grain for her chickens and geese. On the other side, a thin, dark-haired, barefooted girl balanced a dusky-skinned toddler on one hip and a full pail of water on the other. But Eastra was truly unprepared for the sight of two huge men with skin as black as soot carrying a curtained box. As they passed by, a woman suddenly opened the curtains and leaned out of the box, speaking in a shrill, peevish voice. Eastra didn’t recognize the language, but guessed it must be Latin.
“Ah,” Bridei said, as the woman and her servants passed by. “A fine Roman matron out for a bit of fresh air.”
“And the men carrying her?” Eastra asked. “Where are they from? I’ve never seen anyone with skin that color before.”
“Probably from Nubia,” Bridei answered. “It used to be a province of Rome.” He smiled. “You truly can find anything in the world in the city of Londinium.”
“Do you go here often?” she asked him.
“Now and then. Arthur has a few contacts here, and he sometimes sends me to get news on what’s happening on the eastern shores.”
“Are they spies?” Eastra asked grimly.
Bridei smiled. “Nay, certainly not. They’re all merchants and seamen, and as Rhun said, they care about their profits, not politics. I’m certain they share information with your people as well as ours.”
As they traveled deeper into the city, they passed several large stone structures, now falling to ruins. The sun crept low in the west, shining like a bright copper disc. It cast a lovely rosy glow over the tall pillars and graceful archways of the remains of a massive building. “That used to be the basilica,” Rhun said.
“It’s beautiful,” Eastra said. “Hard to imagine something so fine and elegant could be fashioned out of stone.”
“The Romans were great lovers of beauty. They liked the things around them to be pleasing to the eye. Their passion for art was almost as great as their passion for power.”
“And comfort,” Bridei put in. “They were obsessed with ease, luxury and cleanliness. You will understand when you see the baths. Huge structures, with vast pools for bathing in. Some of them had heated water, some cold.”
“How did they heat so much water?” Eastra asked.
“Very ingeniously. The water flowed over heated rocks and gradually filled the pools. They also had special rooms where the water was heated until it formed steam. They would stand in the steam until they began to sweat then jump into a pool of cool water.”
“And they did this all merely to get clean?” Eastra asked.
“There was more to it than that,” Rhun responded. “The important men would go to the baths together. While in the pools or the steamrooms, they would talk about war and politics and trade. It was a kind of meeting place. Almost like your people or mine might gather around a hearth.”
“The Romans seem very strange to me,” Eastra said.
Rhun nodded. “I’ve thought so, too. In many ways, your people and mine are more alike than either of us are like the Romans.”
“You think we are alike?” Eastra asked in surprise.
“I can see many similarities between us. We both love war and heroes and fighting. We both have great loyalty to our leaders and our own races. We both love beauty, but of a different kind than the Romans. Most of our people live in small settlements, rather than in large cities like Londinium. We also live close to the land, always aware of the passing seasons and our dependence upon the earth for sustenance. We both favor bright colors and ornamentation in our clothing, and use animals as symbols of our might and power. Cerdic fights beneath the standard of a white stallion, while Arthur goes into battle with a bear and an eagle emblazoned on his shield.”
“Your standard is a dragon,” Eastra said.
“The dragon is the symbol of the Cymry, our tribe. My father is even called ‘the dragon of the island’ by some men.”
“Why a dragon?” she asked. “It’s not a real beast, is it?”
Rhun smiled, his white teeth flashing. “Of course it’s real. When we reach the mountains of Gwynedd, I will show you its lair.”
Eastra looked at Bridei, trying to decide whether Rhun was teasing. Bridei quirked a dark brow. “A beast so many believe in must be real.”
Eastra regarded him dubiously then laughed. Rhun was right. There were many similarities between Saxon and British. Here she was, spending time with two men who by rights should be her enemies and enjoying herself immensely.
By the saints, she is beautiful when she smiles. Rhun felt intense longing wash through him. The fading glow of the sunset caught the pale gilt of Eastra’s hair and tinted her smooth skin a warm golden shade, making her appear so breathtakingly beautiful his chest ached with yearning. He wanted to lean from his horse across the short distance between them and kiss her lips. He wanted to hold her lithe body in his arms as they stood in the waning rays of the sunset and feel the night fall like a soft, dark mist around them. Most of all, he wanted to send Bridei and the other men away so he could show her the delights of Londinium by himself.
A golden Saxon witch, the holy brother had called her, and in a way, she was. She had enchanted him, ensorcelled him. Or maybe she was a fairy, one of the fair folk who came into the worlds of mortals and stole away a chosen one to bide with them beneath the hollow hills.
What strange fancies this woman aroused in him. Here he was, in one of the largest settlements in Britain, and his thoughts were lost in the mysteries of the wild hills of his homeland. He shook his head to clear it. The shadows were growing long, and they still hadn’t found a place to spend the night. He turned to Bridei. “Is there an inn around here that would welcome men from Arthur’s army?”
“Any of the inns would welcome us—if we offer enough coin,” Bridei answered.
“But we need hosts who are discreet, who won’t gossip about us,” Rhun reminded him.
“I know of a place, although it’s not an inn,” Bridei said. “It’s this way. Toward the river.”
Chapter 5
She could smell the river nearby, the rich, sweet scent of water and decaying vegetation, hear the rustle of wings and the faint squabbling noises of the ducks and herons and other water birds as they settled down for the night among the reeds. It reminded her of the fens and marshlands of South Seax, where she had lived as a child until her tribe moved farther inland in search of better farmland.
It was nearly dark, and she wondered how Bridei could find the way as he led them down the narrow, twisting byways. And then suddenly she saw blazing torches set on tall poles illuminating a large complex of buildings, and the smell of the river was blotted out by the odors of burning pitch and food cooking. A man, obviously a guard, came forward to ask their business. Bridei spoke to him in a quiet voice. In a few moments, servants came to help wi
th the horses and baggage. Rhun and Bridei dismounted, and Rhun came to help her off her horse.
“What is this place?” she asked as she slid down on stiff legs.
“Some friend of Arthur’s,” he answered. “Bridei had only to speak the name of the high king and we were offered hospitality.”
They were led into an entryway lit by oil lamps. The light danced on the walls, making the images of men and beasts there spring to life. Eastra stared in amazement. She had seen mosaics and frescoes before, but never ones so detailed and lifelike. The panther depicted on the one wall seemed ready to leap out and attack them.
“This way,” a servant said. They were escorted down a hallway and around a corner to another room. There were more paintings on the walls, red tiles on the floor, and several lamps set about the room on tall bronze prickets. In the center of the room, a man with thinning auburn hair and bulging blue eyes reclined on a delicately-carved wooden couch. Around him, also on couches, were three women, two much younger than the other one. They all wore flowing, light-colored garments, and the women’s hair was arranged in elaborate curls and plaits like the Roman women Eastra had seen in painted scenes.
Bridei executed a graceful bow. “Aurelius Silurium. I bring you greetings from Artorius Rex.”
The man bowed back. “Welcome, Bridei ap Maelgwn, Prince of Gwynedd. I am honored by your visit to my humble dwelling.” He motioned to Rhun and Eastra. “Who are your companions, that I might greet them properly?”
“My brother, Rhun ap Maelgwn and”—Bridei hesitated a moment—“Eastra.”
Rhun bowed, and Eastra did the same, although she felt tense and unsettled. Without a title before her name, everyone would think her Rhun’s leman, a foreign woman who had thought to improve her lot by sharing her enemy’s bed. Although she’d agreed to the deception, she half regretted it now.
“We were about to dine,” Aurelius said, “but we will wait for you to wash and make yourself ready to join us.” He motioned to one of the younger women. “Calida, take Lady Eastra to the women’s quarters that she might change her garments and refresh herself.”
“I have clothing in my pack,” Eastra said.
“But not anything in the Roman style,” Aurelius replied. He motioned once more to the younger woman. She got up from the couch and approached Eastra. “Come,” she said.
Eastra followed her down the hallway to a small room. Like every other part of the house, there were oil lamps lighting the room and the walls were dazzling white and painted with colorful pictures of flowers and birds. The birds, depicted in the motion of flight, seemed to be flying around the room. Calida gestured to a tall chest. On it sat a red Samian ware basin and bronze ewer. “You can wash there. I’ll have a servant bring a towel and some clothing.” She turned to go.
“Wait,” Eastra called.
The woman—she was really little more than a girl, Eastra decided, although the elaborate hairstyle made her seem older—turned and stared at her. Eastra could not read the expression in her eyes. Was it impatience? Distaste? It didn’t matter. She had agreed to this part and now she must play it. “Thank you,” she murmured.
The girl left. Eastra poured some water in the bowl and swished her hands around in it, watching the dust of the road settle in the bottom of the basin. In a short while, a female servant appeared bearing a towel over one arm and a garment over the other. Eastra nodded to the servant, wondering if she were a slave. She was dark and small.
The woman lay the garment on the bed, then brought Eastra the towel. “Thank you,” Eastra said. “You don’t have to stay, if you have other duties to attend to.”
The servant shook her head. “I must help you dress and fix your hair.”
She didn’t want this woman to wait on her, but there seemed no other choice. Eastra washed her face and then reached for the towel. As she did so, she saw the ugly marking of a brand on the woman’s arm. Eastra’s former owner hadn’t believed in branding his house slaves, but she knew of the barbaric practice. A wave of bitter resentment passed through her. She refused to treat this woman like a piece of property. “What is your name?” she asked the slave.
“Skena.”
“And where do your people come from?” Eastra toweled dry her face and hands.
“From the north, a place called Cit Coit Caledon.”
“Were you captured? Is that how you came to be here?”
Wariness lit Skena’s dark eyes. “Aye, my lady.” She gestured to a stool by the bed. “Please sit so I can undo your braids.”
Eastra did as she was bid. A Pict, this woman must be. One of the Painted People. She thought she’d glimpsed blue markings on the woman’s hand. The Picts were a fierce warlike tribe in the north who’d never been conquered by the Romans. Cerdic and some of the other chieftains had once talked of joining forces with the Picts, but they were wary of the northern peoples. It was said they were headhunters who decorated their dwellings with the rotting skulls of their enemies. Barbarians, Old Agulwulf had called them.
“How long have you been in Londinium?” she asked Skena.
“I don’t know. Several years, I suppose.”
“Have you memories of your other life, before you were made a slave?”
Skena didn’t answer for a time. Eastra wondered if she had understood the question. Perhaps she’d probed too deep and upset the other woman. “I used to be a slave,” she said encouragingly.
Skena’s small hands stilled in the act of combing out Eastra’s hair. “You were? How did you escape?”
Eastra hesitated. Dare she tell this woman her true background? It might give her hope, and hope was so important to a slave, as she well knew. “I was rescued by my people,” she said. “They burned the villa where I was a slave, and I was taken to live in my uncle’s household.”
“Your uncle must be a powerful man,” Skena said. “Tell me, if he rescued you, why did he let you fall into the hands of his enemies? Why did he allow one of them to make you his bedslave?”
Eastra searched her mind for an explanation of her circumstances. “I’m not a bedslave. In fact, I chose to travel with these men.”
Skena raised her dark brows. “And your uncle allows this?”
“It’s complicated.” She took a breath. “I’m a hostage. But I suggested the arrangement to my uncle. I wanted to be with the tall warrior and this was the only way.”
“You wanted to be with him, even though he is your enemy?”
Eastra shook her head. “He’s not my enemy. His people and mine might be in conflict these past years, but I seek to change that.”
Skena looked at her, dark eyes narrowed. “You’re very bold for a woman and a former slave. What makes you think you have any say in this war between the Saxon and the British?”
“My uncle is an important man. If I can find a way to get him and the British warlord Arthur to trust each other, it would go a long way toward bringing peace.”
“Who is your uncle?”
Skena’s question unsettled her, but Eastra reasoned she had told so much of the story already, it didn’t matter if the slave heard the rest. She was not likely to tell the tale to Aurelius or his family. Few slaves had any love for their masters, certainly not slaves who had been branded.
“My uncle is Cerdic, son of Hengist. He is overlord of the South Folke and part of the South Seax.” Seeing the slave’s confusion, she added. “Those are lands along the coast north and south of here. Lands even Arthur has ceded to my people.”
“So you are a princess?” Skena asked.
Eastra nodded. “But no one must know of it. Here in Londinium, it’s better if everyone thinks I am Rhun ap Maelgwn’s leman.”
Skena said no more as she helped Eastra into the Roman-style garment. She wrapped it around Eastra’s waist and carefully arranged the folds, then fastened it with a silver pin at the shoulder.
“You’re very skilled,” Eastra said. “Do you normally wait upon Aurelius’s wife and daughters?”<
br />
“The daughters, aye. Lady Vesperia has her own bodyservant.”
“It doesn’t seem like such a harsh duty,” Eastra said. “At least you don’t have to work in the kitchens or in the stables.”
“I think I would prefer that to waiting upon those mewling, whiny girls.” Skena made a face.
Eastra didn’t know what to say. Skena obviously despised her life. And who could blame her? Vividly, she could recall her own unhappiness as a slave. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I would aid you if I could.”
“Of course you would,” Skena said harshly. “After you have brought peace between the Saxons and the Britons, you will then free all the slaves.”
“You think I am a fool, don’t you?”
“A fool to think that because you share a man’s bed, you have some power over him.”
“But it’s not that I share Rhun’s bed—which I don’t, yet. It is because I... I have some hope that he loves me, or will at least come to do so.”
“Love?” Skena’s brows shot up. “Verily, you are a bigger fool than I thought.”
There didn’t seem to be anything to say after that. Eastra sat silent while Skena arranged her hair in coils on top of her head, securing them with bronze pins. When she had finished the task, the slave asked formally, “Will there be anything else?”
Eastra shook her head and Skena left the room.
* * *
A brazier had been brought to drive out the chill, and the sweet smell of burning applewood filled the air of the as Rhun and Bridei sipped spiced wine in the triclinium of Aurelius’s villa. They had excused themselves briefly to wash off the dust of the road and change into wool tunics, declining to don the Roman attire Aurelius’s servant offered. Now they sat on the couches provided as their host turned probing eyes on them and said, “Before the women join us, tell me why you have come to Londinium.”
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