Читать книгу Slave Princess - Juliet Landon - Страница 9

The wagon swayed and jolted without mercy as Brighid tried once more to pack another sheepskin beneath her aching limbs, falling back against the pile of cushions as the effort took its toll of her, reminding her yet again of her weakness.

Her obvious discomfort alerted her travelling companion, who sat easily on a pile of skins at the open end of the wagon, jauntily riding out each bump without a care. He turned, reaching her on his hands and knees over the blankets, flopping by her side without ceremony. Then, taking a cushion, he thumped it and placed it behind her head, lifting her shoulders with his other arm. He was a slave. His touch did not matter. ‘Better?’ he said, cheekily. ‘Ready for some more milk?’

Brighid shook her head. ‘I can’t keep it down,’ she said.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Some of it stays. There now. That’s better. Try to sleep again.’ Pulling the blanket over her, he tucked her feet in and continued his role as the nurse his master had declared, quite loudly, that he had no intention of being. To which Florian had replied, well out of range, that the Tribune would probably be as bad a nurse as he was a patient.

The departure from Eboracum had been delayed for an hour while the body of the little maid was hastily buried and flowers found to adorn her favourite shrine. There were prayers to be said, and small rituals to observe. After that they could spare no more time, because the Tribune had said, impatiently, they’d never reach their first stop before nightfall. Now, lying in the well-padded wagon while staring up at the flapping canvas cover, Brighid knew that the lass would never have survived the first mile.

Her conscience was not troubling her on that score. Death had been a release longed for by the maid since the birth of her baby only a few weeks ago. Fathered on the fourteen-year-old slave by Brighid’s own father, the baby had been a girl and of no use to the tribe; even before the maid had begun to recover from her fever, the village elders had taken it away to be exposed. It had broken the maid’s heart, but the chieftain preferred to sire males and his word was law. The mother had pined and weakened, and was barely starting to recover when a band of Roman soldiers attacked the village while the warriors were away fighting, setting fire to the thatches, killing those who fled and capturing Brighid and the maid as saleable goods for the Emperor’s delight.

He was not delighted, for the high-status woman was a liability and her maid was sick, and the rough capture had done her no good at all. Brighid had more than the usual knowledge of remedies for all kinds of ills, but with no access to her herbs and a maid determined to go to her ancestors, what kind of protest could any woman make except to refuse to eat? At the very least it gave her some control over her own life. And death. In charge of their welfare, the guard had at first tried to bully them into eating, but had soon discovered how aggressively defensive his prisoner could be. After that, there was nothing to be done—the barrack-block at Eboracum was not designed to house women.

Shapes moved across the wagon’s tail-board, horses tossing heads, riders crossing, a blur of buildings with red roof tops, the white town walls and the great arch of the gate. A mounted man rode up close to take a long look inside, his cloak thrown over one shoulder, his bare arms brown against a white tunic. His eyes narrowed against the dimness. Thick straight hair lifted in the wind, grown longer since leaving the army, his mouth unsmiling as his gaze met that of his new charge. For a space of time they tried to read however much, or little, the other would reveal, then he nodded and moved away, his cheeks tightening, accepting the inevitable with undisguised sourness.

‘Churl!’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to be here, either.’

But one good thing might yet come out of this, she thought, closing her eyes. They were heading south towards the territory of the Dobunni, the tribe to which Helm belonged, and though her knowledge of Britain’s geography was very limited, the name Aquae Sulis had been spoken often enough, while Helm was negotiating with her father, to convince her that the spa was in Dobunni country. So if, in fact, Helm had returned home believing that all his plans had fallen through, she would surely be able to send him a message that she was nearby, not out of his reach. If she was allowed some freedom, she might even be able to find him herself.

Naturally, she had not been allowed to get to know the young warrior at all well. Her thoughts on the matter were unimportant and of no consequence to the success of the agreement. Had she been an ordinary member of the tribe, she might have demanded some say in her future, might even have been allowed to live with a man of her choice for a trial year before taking the final step. Even then, she could divorce him if he proved disappointing. But Brighid was far from ordinary, more of a bargaining tool for her father, a woman of class who would bind tribes in mutual co-operation, and this she had always known. Nevertheless, that did not prevent her from taking an interest in the man who had travelled for days, even weeks, to buy her from her family and when on the few occasions she had been presented, always from a distance, she had taken in every detail as avidly as any woman on the verge of such a commitment.

She had been impresssed by what she saw, a brawny confident young man of her own height, clear of eye and tongue, bold of step and with a commanding manner that was always a sign of a future leader. There was little doubt that she could come to like him, eventually, though her two older brothers had reservations that counted for nothing. A young braggart, one of them had said in her hearing, and not the only fish in the sea for their high-born sister.

In the circumstances, it was disturbing to her that Helm had completely disappeared without getting a message of hope to her. Nor had her brothers made contact, or her father, either by direct representation or by more devious means. Slaves were open to bribery and a chieftain had his ways. The feeling of abandonment had grown daily, and now she was being left to her own devices with no inkling of what to expect from the man who thought he owned her, and not even a name to put to him. Yesterday, he had left her completely in the hands of women who were, apparently, the Empress’s own slaves.

Yesterday had been a blur of helplessness. Between bouts of sickness and fainting, she had been too weak to say what she needed, too impotent to protest at being handled, undressed, bathed, combed and re-clothed as if she were an infant. She had ceased to care when the slave called Florian installed himself as her new maid, telling her with great disrespect that she had better come down off her high horse because they were all slaves together, including her, except that he was indispensable and she was quite the opposite. Which did nothing for her peace of mind, however well meant.

They cleaned the little maid up, too, but she lapsed into a deep sleep and did not wake again, and by morning she was cold and still, and at peace with her loved ones. Brighid had wept bitterly for her, and again for the sweet infant they had both loved and lost. How many more losses would there be, she wondered, before a gain? Did she have anything more to lose?

She had slept, waking when the wagon bounced softly over grass and came to a halt with shouted commands all round and a dimness under the canvas that indicated dusk, overhanging trees and a stop for the night. Florian came to her, smiling as always. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Long sleep. No sickness. Now for something nourishing. Give me a few moments while they get the fires going. Need to make yourself comfortable? Right, here’s a pot. I’ll leave it to you. Keep it covered. Flies, you know.’ He grinned, scrabbling away and vaulting over the tailboard like an athlete.

Her head was clear, and she felt hunger for the first time in days.

Instructions followed to the letter, she stood up to take stock of her surroundings. She noticed that she was wearing a long tunic of unbleached linen and that all her own clothes were nowhere to be seen. Her hair had been replaited tidily except for wisps loosened by sleep, yet her neck, arms and hair were bare of ornament, another loss that generated a tidal wave of indignation and a different kind of bereavement. Those precious pieces meant everything to her, made for her alone, never worn by anyone else, and never a day passed without her wearing them. The awful feeling of vulnerability hit her like a physical pain.

Throwing a woollen shawl around her shoulders, she took tottering steps to reach the tail-board, determined to find out where they had put her property, already reciting in her head the form her inquisition would take. But from the far end of the wagon, she had not seen the two-man guard who stood at each side of the opening, and now their shining helmets and broad metal-plated backs stopped her in her tracks, warning her that although Florian could come and go, she was still a prisoner.

Biting back the angry tears, she held the shawl tightly across her as a cool breeze lifted the underside of the oak leaves above them, lending a sense of urgency to the unloading and carrying, the pegging out of canvas, the tethering and feeding of horses, always the first to be tended. Fires were being kindled with the fuel they carried with them, every man to his task, working like cogs in a machine. Other wagons had been unhitched and arranged like a fortress, and she saw that they were loaded with baggage with no space inside for sleeping, like hers. She hoped it would be like this every night, with a view of the sky through the doorway.

From round one side of the wagon strode three men, a white-fringed cloak identifying the one who had released her at Eboracum, whose name she would not ask. Over his shoulder he glanced her way, then, pausing in his stride, he turned for a longer look with an expression that gave nothing away except that he had taken in every detail of her appearance. Nodding his approval to the two guards, he rejoined his two companions, their questions raising a deep laugh from all three, setting up Brighid’s hackles for no good reason except guesswork. It had been her chance to demand the return of her possessions and she had not taken it.

Cursing herself, she turned her back on the scene and began to tidy her bed, folding the blankets and arranging the cushions the way the little maid had been used to doing. Some of the limited space was taken up by a stout wooden chest, locked, bolted and barred. She sat on it and waited, listening to the activities outside, her eyes darkening to grey-blue in the fading light.

It was the first time she had taken a good look at the man, their first meeting having been disadvantaged in every way. Now she had seen the full length of him wearing a short tunic instead of the longer purple-banded toga that had given her a hint of his rank. Only senators, tribunes and knights, and a few others, were allowed that privilege. She doubted if he was old enough to be a senator, nor did she think one of that rank would be camping out under rain-filled clouds, but rather in some luxurious villa with all the bowing and scraping of overwhelmed hosts and their wives. She judged him to be less than thirty, obviously a military man, going by his close leather breeches that clung to muscled calves and thighs, stopping short of his ankles. He looked as if the day’s riding suited him well, for his thick hair was windswept across his forehead like an unruly mop of silk with the gloss of a raven’s wing. He was, she admitted reluctantly, much better looking than Helm; had the two men changed places, she could quickly have learned to like him and to suffer his hands on her body. But now there was no room in her life for that kind of sentiment, nor had there ever been since she realised the political nature of her position.

If only she knew what the future held for her. If only her possessions had not been removed, then an attempt at escape might have been worth planning. But without shoes and only a linen tunic and a shawl to her name, no identifying ornaments, and no idea where she was, any plans would have to wait.

‘Where are my clothes?’ she said as soon as Florian climbed in, balancing a bowl of steaming broth in one hand.

His smile remained. ‘You’re sitting on them,’ he said.

‘What?’ She swivelled on the chest. ‘In here? And my ornaments, too?’

‘In there, with your shoes and clothes. Yes.’

‘I want to wear them.’

‘I expect you will, when my master decides.’ He took a spoon from inside his tunic, passed it to her and told her to eat while it was still warm. It was the first solid food she had eaten for over a week and, by its comforting warmth, the questions uppermost in her mind were released. Presumably to make sure she ate it, Florian stayed with her as the sky darkened ominously, the only source of light being the crackling fire outside that sent flickering shadows to dance across the canvas cover.

‘Who is he, your master?’ she said, passing the bowl back to him.

He spooned up the last leftover mouthful and fed it to her like a mother bird. ‘He is Quintus Tiberius Martial,’ he said, proudly rolling the words around his tongue. ‘Tribune of Equestrian rank—that’s quite high, you know—Provincial Procurator in the service of the Roman Emperor Septimus Severus. And before you ask me any more questions, young lady, you had better know that I am duty bound to report them to my master. I am the Tribune’s masseur, and I’ve been told to offer you my services, should you wish it.’

‘Thank you, Florian. It may be a little too soon for that.’

‘An apple, then?’ He pulled one out of his tunic where the spoon had come from, like a magician.

She shook her head, watching him unfurl, reminding her of a fern in spring.

‘It will rain tonight. Don’t worry about the canvas. It won’t leak.’ He looked round the wagon. ‘I’m impressed. You’ve been tidying up. We’ll make a handy slave out of you yet, I believe.’

‘That is one thing I shall never be, believe me,’ she said, severely.

‘Then try convincing the Tribune,’ he said, heading for the opening. ‘I think he’s rather set on the idea. But I told you that yesterday. Goodnight, Princess.’

She would like to have hurled the apple at his head, but a sudden wave of tiredness swept over her and it was all she could do to fall on to her pile of sheepskins and close her eyes against the murmurs and laughter outside.

The roar of rain upon canvas woke her. That, and the dim yellow glow inside the wagon, and the feeling that she was not alone. Instantly awake, her hand searched for the dagger that was always beside her. The habit died hard. It was not there.

‘Sit up,’ said a deep voice. ‘I need to talk to you.’

He was sitting on the chest, the smooth bronzed skin of his body almost aflame in the light from the lantern, his arms resting along his thighs, great shoulders hunched behind the head that hung low between them, his face turned in her direction. It was clear he’d been studying her for some time, for now he straightened up and stretched like a cat. He wore calf-length under-breeches of white linen, and his hair was damp-black as if the rain had caught him. And in the confined space of the wagon, he was much too close for comfort.

Grabbing at the blanket, Brighid pulled it to her chin and hauled herself up against the cushion. ‘I don’t wish to talk to you,’ she retorted, breathlessly.

‘I was hoping you wouldn’t. I need to talk to you,’ he repeated.

‘Yes, you do have some explaining to do. How long does this journey last? And when can I have my possessions returned?’

‘I don’t need to explain myself to slaves,’ he replied, looking her over again, measuring her up with his insolent eyes.

‘I am not a slave!’

‘Oh, don’t let’s hear all that again. Florian’s had enough of it and I don’t intend to hear it. The facts are, woman, that you have no choice in the matter. The Emperor has ordered me to take you off his hands and to do what I like with you; as far as I’m concerned, that means selling you on to the next slave merchant we meet on the way.’

‘You wouldn’t do that! No … you couldn’t!’ she cried.

‘I assure you, lass, I would and I can. I don’t have a place for high-and-mighty princesses in my line of work and I don’t intend you to spoil my holiday, either. Lindum will be the end of the line for you. Our next stop down the road. We’ll be there by this time tomorrow.’

The blood ran cold along Brighid’s arms. He wanted rid of her. She had seen the slave merchants and their shocking filthy tricks, the humiliated women, the wealthy leering buyers. Of all fates, that would be the most shaming. Her teeth chattered as she tried desperately to keep a tight hold on her dignity, not to show her stark fear. She was a chieftain’s daughter. She would not plead. Not even for this.

‘If the Emperor wanted me off his hands, Roman, then why did he have me taken in the first place? Does your Emperor not know what he wants, these days? Could he not have ransomed me?’

‘His men were too eager. It’s common enough. They thought he’d have a use for you. He doesn’t. Not for a woman of your rank whose death would be on his hands in a month or so, if you had your way. He’s not come all the way to Britain to make trouble, but to stop it. Nor is he interested in ransoms. Of what worth is a woman?’

At one time, she thought, she was worth plenty. Now, very little. With pride, she was about to tell him how the Dobunni tribe had wanted to buy her and how Helm and her father had discussed deep into the night how much gold, how many cows, pigs and sheep must change hands for her. But that was pointless, and in the past, and the less this man knew about her, the better. But she must do something, say something to make him keep her with him until they reached the south. ‘I would have thought, Roman, that as soon as my disappearance was discovered, the trouble the Emperor wishes to avoid will double or treble in the next week or two. Does that not concern you?’

‘Why should it? All the more reason why you should be out of the way as fast as possible. Has anyone come to find you? No messages?’

She did not need to answer when her face reflected her despair.

‘Tell me something,’ he said, leaning forwards again, glancing up at the sound of thunder. ‘Do all chieftains have their daughters taught to speak as the Romans do? You have a good accent. You’d fetch a good price as a noblewoman’s maid.’

‘The Briganti know that high-born women are most sought after by other tribes if they speak in the Roman tongue. It’s useful to them. We are not the barbarians you think us to be, Roman. My brothers and I were taught well.’

‘And have you been sought after?’ he asked, softly.

‘Yes.’

‘By whom? Are you married to him?’

‘No. You ask me too many questions, sir,’ she said, holding her burning cheek.

‘You may think so, but the question a slave merchant will ask me is whether you are a maid or not. Are you?’

Subconsciously, in a gesture of crushing fear, she drew her knees up to her chin and laid her cheek upon them, turning her burning face away from his scrutiny. ‘No one except my kin may ask me that,’ she whispered.

‘I can soon find out,’ he said.

‘No … no, please! I’ve had nothing to do with a man. It was never allowed. Other girls of the village, other women, but not me. I would be worthless, otherwise. Besides, there was no one.’ Her voice tailed away, her mind turning somersaults over the hurdles of pride versus safety. He needed to know how much she’d fetch on the market, not how much use she’d be to him personally, which is what she’d thought earlier. And now she would have to change his mind, offer him something to keep her with him all the way to the Dobunni territory. She would have to plead, if necessary. It was something she was unused to, except to the gods. ‘Give me more time,’ she said, ‘until I’m stronger. Until we get to wherever we’re going. I’ll keep well out of your way. I shall cause you no trouble.’

The rain drummed on the canvas as he said nothing in reply, until he straightened up again as if he’d come to a decision. ‘I wonder what you’d look like in Roman dress,’ he said, thoughtfully.

Hope flared briefly in Brighid’s breast. ‘I’d look like a Roman citizen,’ she said. ‘And I’d behave like one, if I thought my life depended on it. Is that what concerns you? My clothes? My appearance?’

‘Would you behave like one? I have my doubts.’

Her head lifted, poised elegantly upon the long neck, while her hands fell away from her knees and rested in graceful curves upon the blanket. ‘Try me,’ she said. ‘Give me a chance. I don’t want to be sold. I’m not ready to be anyone’s slave. Whatever else you wish, but not that.’

‘Your readiness is not my concern, lass,’ he said, yawning as he stood up. ‘Captives are rarely in a position to bargain about their future, and you’re no different, princess or not. You are my slave. Better get used to it. I’m tired. We’ll decide on this in the morning.’

‘Then it would have been better to let me die at Eboracum with my maid, Roman. That way, I would have been free.’ Throwing off the blanket, she stood up in one swift unbend of her body, intending to put more distance between them. Earlier that day she had felt a reason to stay alive, to seek the help of the man who had wanted her, even though he would never have been her choice if she’d been less high born. Now, the tables were turned, and it looked as if her flimsy plan had all but vanished.

The soft mattress hampered her feet, the curve of the canvas was not designed for her height, and the long reach of Quintus’s arm caught her wrist in an iron grip, pulling her off balance. Furiously, she tried to throw him off, her eyes blazing with green fire. ‘No man may touch me!’ she yelled, competing with the roar outside.

‘Then that’s another thing you’d better get used to, Princess High and Mighty. And if this show of temper is meant to convince me that you can behave in a civilised manner, then you’ve fallen at the first jump, haven’t you? And mind that lamp, for Jove’s sake!’ His swinging her round sent her sprawling against the chest. ‘Any more nonsense, woman, and you’ll find yourself shackled to a slave-merchant’s line-up at Lindum. If you doubt me, just try it. I have no taste for ill-tempered barbarian women.’

She knew it was a mistake. Righting herself, she pulled her legs under her, covering them with the linen tunic that was not quite long enough, bowing her head submissively. ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘I feel my losses deeply. If I lost my freedom once more, permanently, I would take my own life and forfeit the protection of the goddess Brigantia, after whom I am named. She is angered that I no longer wear her gifts, nor have I offered at her shrine since my capture. I am not the bad-tempered barbarian you think me. I grieve for my maid, her lost child and for my family, but I have no way to relieve it, Roman.’ With downcast eyes, she could only feel the pad of his bare feet as he took a stride across the mattress to lower himself between her and the side of the wagon, only a hand’s reach away. Thunder still crashed overhead. ‘She’s angry,’ she whispered. ‘Very angry.’

‘I thought goddesses were more understanding than that. Your Brigantia must be a very vengeful dame. They mean so much to you, do they? Your ornaments?’

‘She gave them to me when I was born. I began to wear them when I became a woman,’ she said, plying and unplying the fringe of the blanket. ‘They are a part of me. If I lose them, I lose who I am. That’s the reason, I suppose.’

‘The reason?’

‘The reason why I’m losing myself. I shall be someone else’s property, not my own woman. I do not know if my spirit can rise above it. I have yet to find out.’

‘So what if you were to wear them again?’

Her head lifted at that. ‘You would allow it?’

Quintus blinked at the gaze she fixed on him, moved by the strange unearthly power of blue-green waters that shimmered off the coastline of his beloved home, Hispania. He saw the sun and sea, vineyards and villas, warmth and good friends who asked for nothing but friendship. He saw it all in her eyes, felt her grief, as if her losses were his losses also. ‘Tomorrow morning you shall have them. Meanwhile, they’re in there and you’re sleeping next to them. Your goddess surely won’t mind that so much.’

‘Thank you, Roman. Oh … thank you!’ Her fists clenched over the fringe. ‘I must not weep,’ she whispered. ‘I must not weep. I am strong.’

‘And perhaps we’ll find a way of making a portable shrine to Brigantia. Wait till we reach Lindum. There’s sure to be something on the market. ‘Tis a terrible thing to lose touch with your own deity.’

‘Then you’ll allow me to stay with you? Not sell me?’

‘For the moment.’ He yawned again, covering his white teeth with the back of his hand. ‘But let’s get one thing straight, shall we? Whether you wear Brigantia’s gifts or not, whether you think of yourself as your own woman or not, that fact is that you remain my property. I have orders to get rid of you, and that’s what I shall do. It’s all a matter of how and when. I doubt whether your goddess will approve, but that’s how things are. Understand that from the beginning and your chances of staying alive will improve. You’ll have to learn to adapt, Princess. You’re not very good at that, are you?’

‘I will try,’ she said. ‘I can learn. Truly, I will learn, Roman.’

‘So learn to address me with respect, if you will. To you, I am Tribune.’

‘Yes. And I am known as Brighid, sir.’ She pronounced it ‘Bridget’.

Quintus, however, did not. ‘To me, you’ll be known as Princess. It suits my purposes,’ he said, curtly.

Ah, she thought. More saleable. As with the gold ornaments. These Romans so love display, don’t they? Especially on a woman.

Bending across to where the lantern stood in one corner, he opened the shutter and nipped the wick, plunging the wagon into complete darkness that seemed to intensify the rattling of the rain on all sides. The blanket was pulled out of her hands as he held it to open the bed, and his sharp command, ‘Lie down!’ took her completely by surprise as his legs burrowed downwards and a cushion was pulled from behind her.

‘What!’ she yelped. ‘No … no, sir! You cannot stay here!’

His arm came heavily across her, but the chest was at her side and there was no way out of the predicament. ‘Listen, woman,’ he said. ‘Either I sleep in here, or I get those two guards to take my place. They’ll be warm and dry at the moment, and I doubt they’ll be too honoured to spend the night cramped up in here. You choose.’

‘You don’t understand, sir,’ she said, trying to prise his arm away. ‘I have never slept with a man.’

‘Then don’t sleep. Stay awake, if you prefer. This will be another new experience for you to learn. Come on. Wriggle down. You’ll be quite safe.’

The notion of keeping her distance had to be abandoned as she slid down beside the warm bulk that took up more than half the mattress, the only room for protest being to turn her back on him. But he wrapped the blanket over her, pulling her into the bend of his body and resting his arm on the gentle swell of her hip, and though it was not an uncomfortable ordeal for her, her whole being was alive to his intimate closeness, his warmth along her back from neck to ankle, the disturbing male scent of him, his strange contours. She had seen the village men naked, half-naked and all stages in between for there was no privacy to speak of at home in the communal huts. But she had seen no man’s body as beautifully crafted as this one’s, honed to perfection, pampered by his personal masseur, probably adored and satisfied by countless women. He was unwilling to have a woman of her kind in tow, even for the novelty value of owning a Brigantian slave, yet she had neither seen nor heard any other woman in the cavalcade.

‘Don’t you have a woman to go to?’ she muttered, resent fully.

‘Yes,’ said the voice, rumbling into the cushion. ‘I’m with her. Go to sleep. We have to be away by dawn if we’re to reach Lindum tomorrow.’

The beating of the rain lulled her to sleep long before she heard the thunder pass on to disturb other miscreants. Once she woke to hear the gentle hiss of rain, when she reached out a hand to touch the chest where her treasures lay, and fell back into sleep. The next time, there was silence except for the soft breathing of the man behind her. She wanted to turn, but her tunic was caught under him and she could not free it without waking him.

‘What is it?’ he whispered.

‘You’re lying on my tunic. And my hair.’

There was a huff of amusement as his hand delved and freed her hair, then, before she knew what he meant to do, he hauled on the other side of her tunic, rolling her over to face him, to be enclosed in his arms, her mouth against his firm jaw, her legs pressed against him. Her breasts lay upon the great mound of his chest, taking the heat of him through the linen, and when he laid her thick plait across his own neck like a winter muffler, she knew he intended her to stay and to sleep again, safe in his arms.

But sleep was hard to recapture when her head was being held in the crook of his neck, his mouth only inches away from hers, his arm cradling the soft red mass of her hair. Carefully, to ease it, she laid her leg over his, thus unwittingly inviting his free hand to slide gently over the roundness of her buttock and along her thigh, eventually sliding under the linen to find her silken skin.

She made a grab at his hand. ‘Please … Tribune … no!’ she said, fiercely. ‘I cannot … will not … do this with you. You told me I was safe.’

She felt his smile on her forehead as his lips brushed against it. ‘Then what was all that about learning to adapt?’ he said.

‘For pity’s sake, give me more time,’ she said, clinging to his hand.

‘Let go, lass. Time enough.’

But would there be time enough? she wondered, as she listened to the camp begin to stir outside. Would she still be a maid when she found Helm, or would he reject the used goods she had travelled all that way to offer him, all at the Tribune’s whim?