“The world is huge and wide, isn’t it?” she mused as she and Rhun moved away.
“Aye, it is,” he said. “And yet we fight over the small island of Preton when it is only a tiny, insignificant piece of the world.”
“Preton?” she asked.
“That’s what my people used to call Britain. The Romans changed it to Britain.”
“You speak of the Romans almost as if they were still your enemies, but many of your people have adopted Roman ways and even Roman speech.”
Rhun nodded. “Roman influence is everywhere, but I don’t think most of us ever stopped thinking of ourselves as Britons. Men like Aurelius are the exception. They live in cities where trade goods are plentiful, along with the coin to buy them. But most Britons live in the countryside and have gone back to the old ways. They dwell in round timber houses rather than square structures of plaster and stone, and they follow pathways that twist and turn rather than running in straight lines. The Romans adored wealth and luxury and put their faith in laws and rulers. My people care less for the tangible things that a man can touch and hold and more for things of the heart and the spirit.”
Eastra frowned, trying to decide what Cerdic cared for. It was not wealth or luxury like the Romans, but neither was it quite the same as what Rhun held dear. Power was not something that could be touched or held in the hand, but it was the thing her uncle coveted above all else.
“Ah, look, there are the drapers’ stalls. I must get some cloth goods for my stepmother.” Rhun smiled at her. “Would you assist me? I vow, I know nothing about fabric.”
“Of course,” she said. “Although I’m not skilled at clothmaking myself.”
“Is it because you are a princess that you were not required to learn such women’s work?”
Eastra shook her head. “Most Saxon women of good family spend much of their time weaving and sewing. But I had learned only a little when I became a slave, and my duties in Gaius’s household did not include such things.” The familiar shame afflicted her. Would Rhun think less of her because she was not skillful at women’s work?
“My stepmother has a passion for sewing and weaving,” Rhun said. “As a harpist makes beautiful songs, Rhiannon creates garments that sing with color and life. But in our homeland only flax and wool are available, so I hope to purchase finer materials here. Help me pick out something special for her.”
They stopped at a booth where Eastra carefully examined the rolls of fabric. She found most of them to be loosely woven and the colors flat and muddy. She started to move on, but the merchant called out to her, “Wait! I keep the finer goods in the back.”
Eastra paused and looked at Rhun. He shrugged, and they waited for the stallkeeper to reappear. “The sunlight damages fabric,” the man explained as he came back with several rolls of cloth under his arms. “I keep these hidden away.” He spread out the cloth on the counter. “The finest silk from Byzantium.” He gestured gracefully to a roll of shimmering green. “Cottons from Alexandria.” He motioned to a deep red and rich saffron, then bent to retrieve something from under the counter. “And thread of spun gold to embellish it.”
Eastra smoothed the fabric with her fingers, then looked at Rhun. “It’s all exquisite. The colors deep and true. I’m certain your stepmother would be pleased.”
Rhun nodded and pointed to a piece of pale blue that was half-hidden beneath the red and yellow. “And this, you must have this for yourself. It exactly matches your eyes.”
“I told you, I have no skill at needlework.”
“No need for that. Rhiannon will be happy to sew a gown for you.”
“But she does not even know me. And when I am in her household, I will be a hostage, not a guest.”
“She will not care. If I ask her, she will be pleased to make you something.”
Eastra touched the blue fabric longingly. It was a beautiful color, much clearer and more pure a shade than the usual blue obtained by dying in woad. “All right,” she said. “But I will find a means of repaying you—both of you.”
Rhun smiled, making her heart turn over. She thought again how handsome he was. Dazzling as the sun. Strong and powerful as a spear in flight. But beneath the exterior of an assured, virile warrior, he was also gentle and kind-hearted.
Rhun paid the merchant and explained to him they would have someone come to pick up their purchase later. As the man wrapped up the fabric in coarse sacking, they moved away from the stall. Eastra said, “Your stepmother must care for you a great deal. Is that not unusual when she has her own son to think of?”
“Sons, in fact. I have three other brothers besides Bridei. Gwydion, Mabon and Beli are their names. And two sisters as well, Elen and Anwyl. But despite her own family, Rhiannon has always had time for me. I went to live with her and my father soon after they were married. My own mother died two years later, so Rhiannon has been like a mother to me since.”
“Your mother was not wed to your father?”
“Nay. You might say I was sort of a mistake. But it worked out anyway.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rhun smiled at her. “It’s a complicated tale.”
“I would like to hear it,” she responded, her curiosity piqued.
He nodded. “This is my mother’s version of it. My father might have a different one. My mother, Morganna, was wed to one of Maelgwn’s captains, and when he was killed in battle, Maelgwn felt sorry for her, plus he was sad himself, because the man was his friend. So he started to go to see her, just to talk. Then one thing led to another and they went to bed. By the time my mother knew she was expecting a babe, Maelgwn was wed to a Roman British princess named Aurora. Morganna thought of telling him she was pregnant, but she didn’t want to cause trouble. Then news came that Aurora was expecting as well, and my mother decided to go away and have her babe elsewhere.
“Soon after I was born, word came that Aurora had been delivered early and both she and the babe had died. My mother thought of going to Maelgwn then, but he was beside himself with grief. He loved Aurora dearly and her death nearly destroyed him. He even renounced his kingdom and lived in a priory for several years. In the meantime, my mother raised me and loved me. And finally, when she heard my father was back and fighting to reclaim his lands, she decided to take me to him.”
“Why then? Why not before that, when he was grieving for Aurora?”
“I guess she was afraid he would hate me for being alive when his beloved Aurora was dead. The bards still sing tales of the two of them and how passionately he loved her.”
“But finally he got over his grief and wed Rhiannon?”
Rhun smiled again. “Not exactly. He married Rhiannon because he needed the dowry of warriors she brought with her. He did not come to love her until later.”
“You’re right,” Eastra said. “It’s a strange tale.”
“But with a happy ending. My father adores Rhiannon, although perhaps in a different way than he loved his first wife. And she—she knows how to keep him happy and content, which is not easy with a man like my father. They do not call him the ‘dragon of the island’ without reason. When he is wroth, he is very much like a fire-breathing beast!”
“And yet you grin when you speak of his temper,” Eastra pointed out.
Rhun shrugged. “I’ve learned how to deal with him. And he is never as hard on me as he is on Bridei.”
The easy way he spoke about his family aroused an ache in Eastra’s chest, the nagging sense of aloneness that had haunted her ever since her mother and brother were killed. Rhun appeared to sense her distress, for he put his hand on her arm and said, “Come, let us explore the rest of the market. The goldsmiths’ stalls are over there.”
At the first shop, she pointed at a bracelet and necklace set depicting colorful beasts entwined and offset by strips of gold. “These are lovely.”
“Irish enamelwork,” Rhun said. “They’re the best at it that I’ve ever seen. Even in Rome and Byzantium they cannot f
ashion such remarkable work as this. See how bright the colors are? How lifelike and vivid the dragons and lions and birds appear?”
“Exquisite,” Eastra agreed.
“But not for you, are they?”
She shook her head. “I possess too much gold already, and it always seems heavy and clunky to me.”
They moved on to another booth, this one featuring ornaments of gold and bronze set with precious stones—emeralds, garnets, pearls, and jet. Eastra examined the pieces on the counter and shook her head. Then, as they were about to leave, something caught her eye. She reached up to touch a necklace hanging on a pole above the counter. It had a delicate copper chain and strung on the chain were glittering blue beads, as pale and transparent as water. “What are they?” Eastra reached up to finger one of the beads.
“Blue faience from Egypt,” the merchant replied. He shrugged. “A mere trifle for a fine lady like you. Now these”—he pointed to a neckpiece set with deep red stones arranged on the crimson cloth covering the counter. “These are more worthy of your beauty.”
Eastra nodded at the gaudy necklace. Then her gaze returned to the chain of glass beads.
“She will take that one,” Rhun said decisively, pointing to the hanging necklace.
“But, sir,” the merchant argued “I sell necklaces like that to the whores of the city. Your lady deserves much better. Perhaps the garnet bracelet?”
Rhun shook his head. “She likes this one and she will have it. How much?” The small, swarthy merchant fixed Rhun with eyes as dark and glittering as the jet beads in one of his necklaces. “And don’t think to cheat me,” Rhun warned. “You’ve already said you sell them to the working women of Londinium. They cannot be too dear.”
“Only two sestres,” the man replied. “But since it is so little, why not consider purchasing something else?” He gave Eastra a resentful look. “Perhaps your mother or sister would appreciate one of these other pieces.”
“My stepmother cares little for jewels, and my sisters have a whole chest of them already.” Rhun dropped two coins on the counter and gave the merchant an impatient look.
Sighing, the man undid the necklace from the pole and brought it down to hand to Eastra.
“Here, let me,” Rhun said. He moved behind her and deftly fastened the clasp. Then he grasped her shoulders and turned her around. “Perfect,” he said. He was looking not at the necklace, but at her face.
Gazing at his radiant smile, Eastra felt her insides turn liquid. He was so close. He was touching her, his big, strong fingers on her upper arms, the burning warmth of them seeping through the fabric of her gunna. His eyes were so deep and blue, like gentians, and the sunlight made the stubble on his jaw glint golden. He looked so male and beautiful and alive. She wanted to dissolve into him.
She heard him take a deep breath. He released her and stepped back. “Come,” he said huskily. “There are many more shops to see.”
The next stall carried weapons—enamel-handled daggers, war axes, lances, and swords. Rhun bought two knives, one with an enameled hilt and one decorated with silver wire. “For my little brothers,” he said. He drew Eastra past the stall selling farm implements and tools, but stopped at one filled with baskets and other items woven of reeds. “I should get some of these for Rhiannon. They are light enough to carry easily and the workmanship appears excellent.” He picked out several baskets and trays and paid the merchant, telling him as he had the others that a man would be by to fetch their purchases.
At the cobbler’s booth, he bought two pairs of dainty shoes. “For my sisters,” he said. “I will give Anwyl the red pair, to match her hair. Elen, the blue. She is dark like Bridei.”
“And your brothers—what do they look like?” she asked.
“Beli is dark-haired, while Mabon and Gwydion have red hair like Rhiannon. But despite their coloring, the twins remind me of Bridei, although I think they will be taller.” He grinned. “But don’t mention that to Bridei. He can be sensitive about his height.”
“But he’s not small. He’s taller than me, and I’m considered tall for a woman. For that matter, I know many warriors shorter than him.”
“Ah, but those men do not have a father and a brother who are considered giants,” Rhun answered. “I think Bridei feels he has always lived in my shadow, and it doesn’t help that I stand a handspan higher than he does.”
“For all your bickering, you and Bridei still seem to care for each other.”
“He is my brother,” Rhun answered. “Whatever I think of his actions, he is still my blood kin.”
Eastra nodded, thinking of Cerdic. She owed her uncle a great deal, and she certainly did not want to see him defeated. But she did want all this warring to cease. And she wanted Rhun. The more she was around him, the more she knew she loved him—and would do nearly anything to make him love her back.
They visited a few more shops, then started toward the end of the market area. A crowd was gathered there, and Eastra approached with curiosity. When she had gone a few steps, Rhun grabbed her arm. “Nay, I don’t think you should see this.”
“What? What is it?”
Rhun grimaced. “The slavers.”
A chill went through Eastra, but she lifted her chin. “I want to see. I’m not afraid.”
Rhun regarded her dubiously. “It’s ugly and crude, not a sight for a woman.”
“I don’t care.” She began to push her way through the crowd. If he had asked, she would not have been able to explain why observing the slave market was so important to her. Perhaps she wanted to know what horrors she had escaped, or see the plight of those who were not so fortunate.
A group of red-haired men were crowded onto a platform. They were shackled together, their shoulders slumped and their heads down. The slavemaster cracked his whip and one of the men glanced up. His blue-green eyes gleamed with a hatred so intense Eastra could feel it from where she stood, twenty paces away.
“They’re Irish, by the looks of it,” Rhun said behind her.
Eastra took a deep, choking breath. “And does it not grieve you to see them like this?”
“Aye, it does, but there is naught I can do.”
“You could purchase them and set them free!”
“Aye, and then they would probably return someday to slit the throats of my countrymen. These men are prisoners of war. Selling them into slavery is the only way to keep them from joining back up with their own people and returning to harass our coasts in the future.”
“But it’s so cruel! I think death would be better.”
“I agree with you. That’s why when my father captures prisoners, he now gives them a choice—death or slavery.”
Eastra shook her head and moved away from the Irishmen. She was looking down, deep in thought, when she felt Rhun pull on her arm. She looked up in time to see a group of women gathered on another platform. Their breasts were bare; the rest of their attire so skimpy as to be indecent. She sucked in her breath.
“Come.” There was a note of desperation in Rhun’s voice. “This is not something you should see.”
Eastra set her feet. “Why are they half naked?” she asked grimly.
Rhun let out his breath in a sigh. “They are being sold as bedslaves. Come away. Surely you do not want to see these women shamed.”
She observed them carefully. None of them looked like Saxons. Several of them had bronze-colored skin and black eyes. One was near as dark as the Nubian they had seen the day before. In the front was a woman with reddish brown hair and speckled skin like a plover’s egg. Compared to the rest of her exposed skin, her breasts looked very white and full, and as Eastra watched, she saw milk trickling from her nipples.
The slaver stepped forward and grasped the woman’s arm. “And here we have a fine young wet nurse.” He pushed her toward the crowd, then reached to squeeze her breast. Bluish pale milk squirted out.
Someone laughed. “Yea, she is ripe and ready to give suck.”
Another man g
uffawed. “I would not mind a taste of that myself. Why waste it all on a squalling brat?”
The man squeezed the woman’s breast again to express another gleaming stream. Eastra saw the woman wince, but whether from pain or humiliation she could not tell. Eastra closed her eyes, feeling sick. The slaver was handling the woman as if she were a piece of livestock. The queasy feeling built inside her.
She felt Rhun grasp her arm firmly. “Come away from here,” he murmured. “It’s not seemly.”
As he hustled her away from the slave market, Eastra felt her dismay turn to anger. Why did Rhun want so badly to get her away from there? Was he trying to protect her—or himself? Was he ashamed of the way his people treated that unfortunate woman? Or did it remind him that she had once been a slave?
When they reached the edge of the market, Eastra jerked out of his grasp and faced him. She was nearly hysterical with impotent fury and remembered shame. All she could think of was the way Cerdic’s house carls had looked at her when they found out she had been a slave. There was distaste in their expressions, but also a lewd interest, as if they were imagining her as a helpless captive at the whim of her master.
“Aye, your father is right to offer his captives the choice of death rather than slavery.” She spit the words at him. “For ever after, a slave is marked. A thing to be pitied and held in contempt.”
“Eastra, I’m sorry.” Rhun’s eyes were anguished. “I didn’t want you to see that. That’s why I begged you to come away.”
“Ah, but if I had not been there, would you not have gone to see? Would you not have enjoyed watching the women, naked and helpless?”
“Nay, nay,” he whispered. “I think it’s an abomination.”
“Yet your people have slaves!” she cried. “You’re no different than any of them!” She was sobbing now, her face streaked with tears. Her throat so convulsed with pain she could scarce get the words out.
He grabbed her suddenly and held her close. Her face was crushed against his chest; his big, strong arms gripped her tightly. “Oh, Eastra, I’m sorry, so sorry you had to suffer such torment and degradation. I have thought sometimes that it might have been better if I had not saved you, if you had perished in the flames, forever innocent and pure.”
The Dragon Prince Page 11