Читать книгу Virgin Slave, Barbarian King - Louise Allen - Страница 7

Julia bared her teeth at Wulfric. Will she bite? ‘Smile for me,’ he said again, intrigued to see what she would do. It was like having an exotic animal, half-tame, half-wild. He had been mad to take her, he knew that. She was so far from what he needed—neither the wife he should acquire, nor the domesticated slave who would make life comfortable—that he wondered at himself for the impulse.

But how could he delude himself that it was an impulse? He could have let her go at any time. Something about this dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned creature called to him. It was going to be hell to teach her their ways, with her patrician arrogance and her stubborn defiance. He knew perfectly well that she had brought the water only because she wanted to use it herself.

‘I would sooner smile at your wolf.’ She jerked her chin, but he refused to let her go and she was too proud to continue struggling. There was fear at the back of those brown eyes, fear that he would force her to do more than carry water, despite his pledge, and that angered him.

These Romans had no concept of honour, no respect for a man’s word. Alaric, and all his people, had experienced it, year after weary year. They had fought for the emperor, learned his language, kept his enemies at bay, waiting for their reward while they were lied to and deceived. And now, what would they do? They had taken the greatest city on earth, they held the sister of the emperor, they could strip Rome of gold and slaves and treasures. But were they any closer to what they needed, their safe homeland?

Loyalty to his king told him to trust Alaric’s judgement. Experience and his own imagination told him to doubt the outcome. And yet to doubt his king was not honourable.

Frustrated, he released her. ‘That is your space, take some water.’ He jerked his chin towards a length of striped cloth that shielded one corner of the tent.

She stepped away from him, and he watched as she wiped her hand across her chin where he had held her, as though to rub away his contaminating touch. ‘This is a large tent,’ she observed, as if nothing had passed between them, hefting one of the buckets and making her way over to the corner. She was stronger than she looked.

‘We copied the design of the legionary tents, but bigger than the standard eight-man model. We have spent years living in them, now they are as close to a home as we can make them.’ He watched her poking about in her space, amused by the feminine instinct to build a nest in the most unpromising circumstances. ‘I will give you rugs for a bed and Berig will fill some sacks with straw for a mattress.’

‘Luxury indeed,’ she said drily, letting the curtain fall between them.

Wulfric whistled to Smoke and, when the wolf trotted in, nodded towards the corner. The animal padded behind the curtain and must have sat down. Wulfric could see its tail protruding underneath. Julia murmured something and the tail began to wag. Smoke liked her, it seemed.

Berig, it was obvious, did not. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded, marching in.

‘Washing.’ Wulfric jerked his head towards the curtain. ‘Here, take some of this and make yourself decent. You stink of horse and smoke.’

‘So do you.’ Berig began to ladle hot water into a bowl.

‘I’m washing, aren’t I?’ Wulfric aimed a cuff at the lad’s head, watching him critically as he ducked smoothly away. He was growing up fast, too fast yet for his lanky frame to catch up with. He had a quick tongue, fierce loyalty and worked magic with horses. He was also beginning to flirt with the girls of his own age.

Wulfric cast a thoughtful eye in the direction of Julia’s corner. There was splashing, but no other sound. Was he asking for trouble, introducing an attractive young woman into the tent with the youth? Probably not, not while they were squabbling like brother and sister, but it would bear watching. Berig deserved better than to fall into puppy love with a haughty Roman girl like this one.

He fished another soap ball out of the earthenware jar and went to hold it round the edge of the curtain. ‘Here.’

There was a pause, then wet fingers brushed against his hand as she took it. ‘Thank you.’

As though struck by an adder’s bite his body went rigid with desire. Wulfric shook his head, trying to clear it. Why that fleeting touch should affect him so, he had no idea. One moment he was worrying, with the corner of his mind that wasn’t thinking of Council tomorrow, about Berig’s adolescent fancies, the next he found himself as aroused as though Julia had emerged naked and wrapped herself around him. The touch of those damp fingers fired his imagination with images of her wet and bare behind the flimsy curtain and he strode to the shadowed back recesses of the tent to give himself a chance to recover. This was not why he had taken her. He just wished he did know why.

‘There’s a towel here somewhere.’

‘No, they are all here,’ Berig called. ‘Una washed things for us, and they’re with the tunics.’

‘Una has been your skivvy up until now, I presume?’ The cool voice effectively dampened his fantasies. Wulfric went back to the hot water with a grimace.

‘Una’s my sister, so she looks after us when there isn’t anyone else,’ Berig snapped. ‘And she’s expecting a baby, so she shouldn’t be looking after two households now.’

‘Then you had better kidnap her a slave too, hadn’t you? Or give her some help yourself.’

Damn it, the woman had a tongue on her like an adder, as well as its fangs. ‘An excellent idea, although once you find out the way of things, I am sure you can help her—she’ll appreciate a woman’s company,’ Wulfric said smoothly. ‘She will be busy when the baby’s born.’

Silence. Then, ‘Exactly what do you expect me to do?’

‘Cook for the three of us. Keep this tent clean and tidy. Wash and mend our clothes. Fetch water, heat it for when we return.’

‘Nurse you when you are sick, I suppose?’

‘Of course. Or wounded.’

He could almost read her thoughts. The sooner the better…

‘Are you both decent?’

Wulfric cast a hasty glance downwards, but the frosty exchange had cooled that ridiculous flash of lust. He was still shaken by his momentary loss of control.

Was it time to think seriously about a wife now? There were plenty who would advise him that he should do just that. A man in his position, a leader, needed strong sons about him. Hilderic was hinting about his daughter Sunilda. It was a good alliance, it would bring many spears to his side and she was a strong woman, in mind as well as body. A woman who understood what was needed and what must be done so that all the children had a homeland to grow up in.

He realised that he must have been lost in thought when Berig replied, ‘We’ve got our trousers on, if that’s what you mean.’

Wulfric smothered a snort of amusement. ‘Then put a shirt on as well,’ he ordered. ‘And go and do something about our evening meal.’

‘I skinned and plucked the game,’ Berig said, his voice muffled as he pulled the clean linen over his head. ‘Una’s taken them to add to a hot pot of vegetables. They’ll be enough for us and for her brood. Sichar’s going to be late, she said, something about horses.’

Wulfric grunted. Berig’s brother-in-law had been sent by Alaric to take a count of all the available animals and their condition. They would be breaking camp soon, that was no secret—sitting outside a starving city, once they had stripped its wealth, was foolishness—but where they would go—north or south—that was what disturbed his sleep at night.

‘Then stuff the straw sacks for Julia’s bed.’

‘She’s supposed to be our slave,’ the boy began to protest. Wulfric raised one eyebrow and he subsided. ‘Sorry. Yes, my lord.’

Wulfric waited until he had let the tent flap drop, then smiled wryly at Julia as she emerged into the main space. ‘A difficult age.’ Perhaps she had experience with brothers, some link he could make to allow her to see Berig as a young man, not an enemy. Having them bickering—or sulking if he exerted his will—would not make for a comfortable existence.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said stiffly, her attention apparently fixed on tying her long plait. ‘I have no brothers.’

So much for that idea. ‘But you must have gone through a stage of wanting to rebel, to go your own way.’ It suited her, the simple style, unlike the elaborate pleats it had been in before. It made her seem older, less of a girl, more of a woman. He was aware of the clean bones of her face. ‘It is good that Berig chafes at authority, tries the limits of my patience. If he doesn’t try and get his own way, he will never learn the discipline of subduing his will to orders. And one day I will let go of the reins and give him his head. By then, he’ll have learned self-discipline for himself.’

‘I would never dream of disobeying my parents.’ She looked at him down her nose. ‘Roman children are not encouraged to have their head, as you put it. Their duty is quite clear, their training and career set out.’

‘Possibly that is why we have defeated Rome and not the other way about,’ he suggested mildly, earning a look of disdain as Berig came in, tugging two bulging sacks behind him.

‘I’ll go and get a frame off the cart.’ He went out again, hooking up the tent flap.

Through the open doorway Julia could see the bustle of camp life as the sun began to set. Men were beginning to come back to their home fires, children running out to met them, womenfolk standing up from tending their cooking pots to wave, or to exchange a kiss with the big, long-haired warriors. So fierce, so savage looking, and yet, apparently, so domestic. There seemed real affection there. Julia could not recall the last time she had seen her father kiss her mother, other than with a cool salute on the cheek on formal occasions. She shivered.

‘Are you cold?’ Wulfric came up close behind her. He moved very quietly for such a big man and she felt her body stiffen as though ready to run.

‘No.’ She must not yield to gratitude for his small gestures of thoughtfulness, let them blind her to the full realisation that she was a captive. That way lay fatal weakness. He was like his wolf, domesticated until roused, then a killer.

‘Sure? I can find you a cloak, Una would lend one.’

‘No.’ She struggled to suppress another shiver. It was not cold, the air still held the heat of a long hot day, yet her whole body felt chilled to the core and she knew, if she relaxed, she would begin to shake. Shock, she supposed, surprised to find herself able to analyse anything.

‘Then what is it?’ he said gently. ‘What do you need, Julia?’

‘What do you think?’ She spun round, coming toe to toe with him, so close that she had to tip her head back to look up into his face. ‘What do you think I want, that I need?’

There was a dangerous flare of anger in his eyes as he answered her. He had hoped to soft-talk me, she thought bitterly. He does not like that thrown back in his face.

‘To be free,’ Wulfric answered. ‘But you cannot be free now, Julia—you are mine.’ She took two angry steps away from him, ducking out of the tent to stand at the entrance, arms folded tight across her body to stop the shaking.

Outside some of the nearer tents children were helping their mothers set up trestle tables, some carrying out stacks of pottery vessels, wooden plates, horn beakers and spoons.

‘We will eat outside.’ Julia began to turn, to announce loftily that she did not care where they ate, she was not hungry, when she saw that Wulfric was speaking not to her, but to Berig, who was hefting in a box made of planks.

‘Badi,’ he said, pausing when he saw her watching. ‘Bed.’ Julia turned a shoulder. Why should she learn their coarse language? She was not going to be here long enough to trouble herself. ‘People will stare,’ he added, picking up Wulfric’s reference to their meal.

‘Let them. Here, help me with the trestle, it is too warm to eat inside. They will get used to the sight of her soon enough, sooner if Una can spare her any clothes.’

Julia felt something contract inside her. Change her clothes for those of a Goth? It was to lose her identity. Even now, looking around, she regretted her plain braid, so like many of the barbarian women. I am not like them, I am Roman, she told herself fiercely. To cease to look like a Roman was another step down the very slippery slope of accepting what Wulfric was trying to make her.

If she looked like his womenfolk, would Wulfric still look at her with that hot gaze she saw every now and again, simmering behind the cool green eyes? She must seem exotic to him, perhaps that was an attraction and homespuns would be a protection. But the heat of that look was treacherously seductive, even while it scared her.

‘Come, Julia, I will show you where the things for eating are.’ It was Berig, very obviously making an effort to be civil. Julia almost told him that she had no intention of eating, let alone setting a table, then turned back meekly and followed him into the tent. The sooner she became familiar with the tent and everything it held, the sooner she would know exactly what resources she had to hand to help her escape. A knife, for a start, to cut the heavy canvas of the tent side.

‘Here.’ The lad was lifting platters and bowls down off a makeshift shelf. ‘The spoons and beakers are there, see?’

‘I need a knife for eating,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ Berig clapped a hand to his side where his eating knife hung from his belt. ‘Yes, of course you do. Let’s see what is in here.’

So easy. Julia took the knife with an absent air and added it to the pile of things to carry through. Too much to hope for civilised eating couches, fine linen napery and wine in glasses, of course.

Berig was carrying folding stools through, which answered at least part of that speculation. But as she began to set out the table, Julia found herself wondering at the skill of the wood turner who had produced the platters. Even the earthenware bowls were not unpleasing with their subtle glaze, thin walls and delicate scraffito decoration. She ran a thumb into the elegant bowl of the horn spoon she held and was forced to acknowledge that these people might not have the sophistication of Roman citizens, but their objects were not crude.

‘Wondering where the Rhenish glass and the silver platters are, Julia?’ Wulfric was watching her. Wulfric always seemed to be watching her…

‘This is well enough, I suppose.’

‘The Rhenish glass is in the third chest to the left of the door. I had thought ale, with Una’s rich game stew, but if you have a fancy for wine tonight we can get the glass out. The silver, I am afraid, is packed a little more inaccessibly, but if you give me notice of your desire to dine off it, I am sure Berig can find something.’

A rich game stew. Her stomach roiled, distracting her from his sarcasm—although to be fair, it would probably have revolted just the same at the thought of dry bread and water.

‘I would not disturb him to find such a thing for a mere slave,’ she said tartly and was hard put to it not to throw a horn beaker at him when Wulfric merely grinned.

‘You are determined not to show any weakness, are you not, Julia Livia?’ Her formal name for the first time. ‘I am well aware you feel totally disinclined to eat, let alone having to sit down out here, in full view of a good score of interested watchers, and consume game stew. But that is exactly what you are going to do. Eat, and maintain your strength.’

Julia narrowed her eyes at him. What does he know, this big, strong, invincible man? Has he ever felt fear in his life? Ever felt his stomach turn into a roiling mass of butterflies? Ever felt small and powerless and desperate? No, of course not.

Once she had seen a tiny shrew confronted by a hunting dog a thousand times its own size. She had thought the tiny scrap would drop dead of terror as the dog extended its nose, snuffling in curiosity. But, no, it had jumped an inch in the air and buried its sharp teeth into the nose of the dog. Well, I am that shrew, she told herself fiercely. I will win.

Berig was coming back, carrying a steaming pot, his sister at his heels with her own platter and spoon in her hands, four children round her skirts. ‘Greetings,’ she said to Julia, nudging the children to speak.

‘Greetings,’ she responded, unwilling to snub this woman because of the sins of her menfolk.

They sat down at last, platters of bread, cheese and butter on the table along with the stew, a jug of ale. It seemed a very strange way of eating, but Julia did her best. Keep up your strength, an inner voice nagged her.

The stew was delicious. Savoury, hot, rich. She ate with an appetite she had not thought she could ever feel again, the cold at her core melting, the spasms of shivering ebbing away. Then she looked up to find Wulfric’s eyes on her. Her captor.

Julia dropped her spoon, forgot the knife she had so carefully secured, and ran for the latrine, every morsel she had eaten and drunk rising up to choke her.

She was bent double, retching miserably, when an arm came round her shoulders to support her and a damp cloth was pressed into her hand. ‘Thank you, Una,’ she murmured, thankful for the support. At last the misery ceased and she sagged back against the figure behind her, head spinning. A beaker appeared and she rinsed her mouth with relief. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, a little more strongly.

‘I am sorry,’ said her helper and she froze against the supporting arm. Not Una—Wulfric. ‘I should have let you eat inside.’

‘Let me go!’ She struggled to free herself, scarlet with humiliation at the position she was in, suddenly utterly conscious of where she was.

‘Of course, come on, you should rest.’ For one hideous moment she thought he was going to pick her up bodily and carry her out. The thought of being carried out of a latrine in front of an interested audience of barbarian families was too much.

‘Don’t you dare pick me up,’ she hissed, swivelling round to face Wulfric. He threw up his hands in a gesture of denial and let her get to her feet. ‘Stay there,’ she added, pushing back the weight of her plait and summoning all her dignity. Then she stalked out of the wicker enclosure, across the intervening space and into the tent without a glance in any direction.

Inside, away from all eyes, her determination deserted her and she clung shakily to the pole that held up the front of the structure. ‘Bed,’ said a voice behind her, and this time, as her knees gave way, she let him scoop her up and carry her to the curtain hung across the corner. ‘There.’ Wulfric laid her down on the bed and she felt her weight bear her down into the well-stuffed mattress that Berig had so reluctantly prepared. ‘There’s water.’ He gestured at a jug. ‘And here is Smoke to keep watch over you. Rest—you are of no use to me sick. Goodnight, Julia.’

He did not look back as the striped fabric fell to shield her little corner. Julia strained to hear his footfall, but only Smoke, head raised until he knew his master had left the tent, gave her a clue. The wolf circled around, found a comfortable spot and lay down at the foot of the bed. Julia could just see the tip of his tail in the light of the rush lamp that burned on the small chest set beside the bed.

She lay rubbing her sore stomach and trying to regain some balance. The knife was still on the table outside, of course, and the wolf lay in her way to the door. No escape tonight then.

Julia sat up, untied her girdle and pulled off her overtunic, leaving the long white linen undershift. She folded the fine amber cloth carefully and coiled the woven girdle, then opened the second chest. There were linen towels as fine as the one Wulfric had handed her earlier. Stolen, no doubt, like his silver, she told herself, laying her clothes on top, then draping her used towel on the closed box. She unlaced her sandals and washed her feet in the cool water that remained in the bowl, then set to work spreading the rugs on the bed.

It was unfamiliar work. Every morning she rose, leaving her bed rumpled for Tullia, her body slave, to make up fresh. The clothes she had discarded the night before would have been removed, of course, and a fresh selection set out for her. On her dressing table would be her combs and mirror, her cosmetics and oils, her boxes of jewellery. All she had to do was choose. And at night, Tullia would unpin her hair and comb it out, she would cream her face and wipe away the traces of the paints and she would hold out a fresh night rail for Julia to slip into. Flowers would be set on the dressing table, clear oil burned in the lamps.

It would all be perfect. Cool, tasteful, perfect. From outside there would be nothing to hear. Slaves padded silently, all too aware that to be heard was to arouse the wrath of the mistress of the house. Her father would be in his study, or out at an important meeting, her mother would be entertaining friends, or at the theatre. The house was as tranquil, and as lonely, as the grave.

Julia arranged the bed until she had a pillow to sit up against, then climbed under a light rug. Smoke raised his head and came to stand by the bed, his tail waving slowly back and forth, tongue lolling. Smiling, Julia leaned across and scratched him behind the ears. The wolf closed his eyes, then licked her wrist before padding back to his sleeping spot.

Outside she could hear the murmur of conversation, could make out Wulfric’s voice amidst a number of other men, despite the fact they were all speaking their own tongue. There was something deep and calm and dominating about his speech. She had expected the Gothic language to be harsh and guttural, instead it had a strange and almost hypnotic rhythm to it. Further away a baby cried and was hushed, dogs barked, someone came past on a horse, its feet slow and tired sounding.

Her eyes heavy, Julia looked around the space that was now hers. The hangings glowed in the lamplight, the few items had a comforting ordinariness that soothed her, and she began to drift off to sleep. Hazily there was the realisation that she was not feeling lonely, she was feeling warm and safe and at home.

Her eyes flew open. It was terrifying—her own mind was betraying her into weakness. She bit her lip, feeling the tears welling up and willed herself not to cry. To be strong and not to give in.