Читать книгу Virgin Slave, Barbarian King - Louise Allen - Страница 8

Wulfric woke with a sudden completeness that had him reaching for the unsheathed sword that lay by his bed. Silence, except for the piping cry of the tiny owls that haunted the cypress trees. He flexed his fingers round the woven leather of the hilt grip and threw back the covers, his eyes wide on darkness, his ears straining for any sound out of place.

The sentries were quiet, the dogs silent. From the far corner of the tent he heard Berig’s light snores, cut off as the boy turned on his side with a grunt. Then he heard a faint sound, repeated. A sob.

Hades, she is crying. He released the sword and lay wondering what to do. He was not used to women, not women under his own roof. No sisters, no wife, only intervals of physical release with the willing ones, for whom love was a cheerful, uncomplicated, commercial transaction.

Uncomplicated was not what he had here. What did you do with weeping women? In his experience you handed them over to the other women. Somehow he did not think either Una, or Sichar, would thank him for waking her up at this hour to comfort a slave.

He turned over, trying to harden his heart as he would over the whimpers of a basket of hound puppies, separated from their mother for the first time. There it was again. Damnation! If she had been howling and shrieking, he would have stuffed his fingers in his ears and abandoned her to hysterics, but there was something about the suppressed gasps of grief that went to his heart.

With a groan he rolled out of bed, took a step, thought better of it and dragged on trousers. No point in giving her real hysterics by looming up stark naked in her bed space. As he crossed the tent, instinct steering him round obstacles in the dark, a wet nose butted him on the back of the hand. It was Smoke. The wolf took his fingers between his teeth and tugged gently.

‘Yes, I know, I heard her. Let go,’ Wulfric whispered, running his free hand over the animal’s head. He ducked out of the tent and raked amidst the embers of the fire until he found a red-hot patch and lit a rush light from it.

Smoke led the way in the wavering light and sat down by Julia’s bed, his head on one side as if puzzled. She was lying on her back, the covers thrown back, her arms above her head, sprawled in a restless sleep interrupted every few seconds by a soft, desperate sob. The wolf whimpered.

‘She’s dreaming,’ Wulfric whispered, looking down at the slim, vulnerable body. She was beautiful, he realised, now she was not frightened or scowling. Her face was stark with a kind of misery. Her body was slender, elegant, even lax in sleep. Her calves, all that could be seen of her legs under the long tunic, were bare. He wanted to touch, to run his palm over the smooth olive skin, see the contrast between it and his own golden tan as he had when she had laid her hand on his arm in the alleyway. Was that the moment when he had decided to take her?

The sensible thing would be to leave her to work through her nightmare. She might wake in the morning with some of those fears exorcised, but to rouse her now would be to risk terrifying her—she would imagine his motives were quite other than they truly were.

Wulfric hunkered down beside the bed, lifting the little lamp to study her face, trying to push away the ignoble thoughts of what would happen if he slid into the bed beside her, lowered his mouth to hers…Oh, yes, your motives are not so pure, are they? he jibed at himself.

Then he saw the tears on her cheeks and something inside him seemed to twist painfully. I have done this. She is my responsibility now.

Cautiously he rose and bent over the bed, picked Julia up bodily and sat down, the slim figure cradled in his arms. She was no weight at all in his lap and it was easy to turn her so her head rested against his chest just over his heart. He held her to him one-handed and smoothed the other palm down over her temple and cheek.

‘Shh, Julia. Shh, it is all right. You are safe.’ He hardly said the words, pressing his cheek onto the smooth black silk of her hair. He could feel the wetness of her tears against the warm skin of his pectorals, the flutter of her pulse as his caressing hand reached her throat.

She breathed in a great sighing breath and lay against him, utterly relaxed in sleep, the sobs stilled. A weight settled on his knee; Smoke was resting his jaw there contentedly.

‘Get off, you old fool,’ Wulfric hissed. The wolf rolled an eye at him and settled himself more comfortably, as if aware his master was not going to risk pushing him away. He began to dribble gently.

Wulfric felt his eyelids begin to droop. This was foolishness. Tomorrow he had to attend Council, give his king his opinion, fight for his view against those who would oppose it, in a matter that could affect the destiny of their people for generations. Tomorrow the scouts might ride in with news that the emperor had taken the field and was marching on Rome and he could find himself preparing for battle. Tomorrow, even if everything went well, he must make plans to strike camp and lead his kin group and his allies where Alaric ordered.

And here he was, losing valuable sleep sitting up comforting a slave who did not even know he held her, while a wolf slobbered over his trousers. It felt good. Soothing Julia soothed an inner turmoil he had not even been aware he was suffering. He could feel his shoulders dropping in relaxation, he could feel his breathing slowing to the rhythm he tried to teach Berig, the swordfighter’s focused semi-trance. Everything became very simple, centred on the warm, fragile body in his arms.

She shifted slightly; her hands, which had lain limply in her lap, moved restlessly, one slipping round his back, the other sliding up his chest. The innocent, unconscious, touch made his breath catch in his throat, his relaxation vanished to be supplanted by a sensual awareness that had his body hardening, his loins aching. He had to put her down, and urgently.

Smoke grumbled as his head was unceremoniously pushed to one side. Wulfric twisted on the bed and laid Julia down, drawing the blanket up over skirts that were rucked up to her knees. He backed out of the corner, picking up the rushlight as he went, as tense as though he were facing an armed opponent. ‘Stay,’ he breathed and Smoke lay down at the foot of the bed.

He regained his own bed, shaken. Julia was dangerous to his peace of mind, to his body’s equilibrium, to his focus and control. Restless, he turned on his side and tried to get comfortable, accepting the ache in his groin as just punishment for his thoughts. Dangerous. Some part of his mind, the part that observed him, chided him—his conscience, he supposed—noted coolly that he did not consider taking her back with him into Rome in the morning and setting her free. No, he told himself as he slipped back into sleep. She stays.

Julia woke to a strange light, an unfamiliar room, a peculiar bed. Where…? She sat up, scrubbing the loose tendrils of hair back from her face, and found herself staring at a large wolf, that was watching her from the far end of the bed.

Oh, dear God, it wasn’t a dream. She was in a Visigoth’s tent, yesterday had happened, she was a captive, a slave, and she had no idea how she was going to escape. Her side of the tent must be facing east, she realised, as the strong glow of the sunrise penetrated even the heavy canvas to light her bed space.

And then the dream came back to her. Julia fell back onto the straw-filled mattress with a groan of horror and forced herself to remember her lurid night-time fantasy. Wulfric had captured her, held her against her will and yet her treacherous imagination had brought him to her bed, virtually naked. She had dreamt he had held her in his arms, caressed her face and neck, and she had felt the heat of his naked body, the sensation of silk over iron that was his skin and muscle. She had fantasised that his body had grown hard as he held her and that she had wanted to caress him in her turn, feel his mouth on hers—on every part of her…

‘No!’ Julia rolled over on to her side, dragging the covers over her head as though her shameful thoughts could be blanked out. It did not work. How could she be so wanton as to dream like that? To want her enemy like that? He was beautiful. There was no denying it. To depict the nude male form was considered an acceptable artistic convention; to admire the result was quite normal. But a respectable virgin did not lust after real men like that. One did not think about…

‘Are you awake?’ It was Berig, on the other side of the curtain, as effective an antidote to desire as any she could think of.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, get up, then!’ He sounded irritable. ‘Wulfric said I had to stay here until you were up and working with Una.’

‘He is not here?’ Oh, merciful escape if he is not! To have to face him with the memories of that dream fresh in my mind…

‘He’s in Rome, gone to Council. I should be there, waiting on him, not hanging around while you wake up.’

‘Well, go then,’ she snapped.

‘I cannot.’ Berig’s voice became fainter, he was obviously walking away. ‘I have to make sure you have breakfast and go safely to Una’s.’

‘I am quite capable of both.’ Julia flung back the blankets and got up. ‘Is there hot water?’

‘Yes, my lady. In a pot on our fire if your ladyship would condescend to come and get some.’ Berig sounded both angry and sarcastic.

Tugging her tunic over her head and winding the girdle round her hips, Julia scooped up her sandals and emerged into the main tent. Berig, wearing a fine linen tunic edged with heavy braid and with a silver clasp around his wrist, looked older—until she saw his expression, which was pure sulky youth.

‘You are very fine,’ she commented, pushing her feet into her sandals.

‘I was expecting to see the king. I have to do my lord honour.’

‘Well, go and see your precious king then and hold Wulfric’s horse, or whatever you are dressed up to do.’

‘Alareiks ist thiudans thizos mikilaizos thiudos thize Gutane,’ Berig snarled at her. ‘Is mikils guma ist.’

‘I understood one word of that—Alaric,’ Julia said impatiently, then realised that the high colour in Berig’s cheeks was genuine anger that she had spoken slightingly of his leader. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to insult your king, but he is my enemy. I give you my word, I will wash, eat and go to Una’s tent—you go to Wulfric. I am not likely to escape with Smoke dogging my every step, now am I?’

Berig narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Your word? Is the word of a Roman woman any better than those of the men?’

‘My word is good,’ Julia said steadily. And I did not promise not to try to escape, only to go to Una’s.

‘Very well.’ He was out of the tent at a run. A minute later she saw him canter past, his cloak whipping in the wind behind him.

Julia went to the latrine, managing, with some difficulty, to persuade Smoke to wait outside. Still, he was as good as a bolt on the door for ensuring privacy. He hugged her side while she ladled hot water into a bowl and worked out how the suspension hook could be swung to one side so the water did not boil dry.

Washed, her clothing straight, she set her sleeping space in order, then surveyed the rest of the tent. Yesterday’s platters and spoons lay unwashed in a large bucket. She pulled back the curtain that screened Berig’s space and saw his bed was in disorder and a pile of dirty clothes lay on the floor. Julia prodded them with her toe, shrugged and went to investigate Wulfric’s space. It was in a like state, only the pile of discarded garments was larger.

‘Hmm.’ Julia found bread, cheese and honey, poured hot water over the honey, dashed in a little wine and sat down inside the tent to eat. She washed up what she had used that morning and last night and replaced it on the shelves, tied a loop of leather around an eating knife and fixed it around her waist under her tunic and went out of the tent, leaving the rest of the housework exactly as she had found it.

Una was dropping clothes into a large bucket of steaming water. ‘Good day, Julia.’ She smiled. ‘You bring…so wasti? I do not know the word.’ She lifted a dripping garment out of the water.

‘Clothes? Washing?’ Una nodded. ‘No, thank you. I found hot water.’ It satisfied the other woman, who must have assumed she had left the laundry soaking in the tent. Julia smiled. ‘I can help you?’ She had no objection to assisting this friendly woman with the clear blue eyes and the swelling belly. She just had no intention of clearing up after two hulking males.

‘Thu hilpis.’ Una nodded agreement. ‘You could bring more water?’ She gestured to the yoke leaning against the tent wall.

‘Very well.’ Julia hooked on empty buckets and lifted the yoke. ‘Where from?’

‘The river is that way.’ Una pointed. ‘A very small river.’

Interested to see how far Smoke was prepared to let her go, Julia followed the direction the other woman had indicated. It led downhill and, as she went, she passed other women coming back, all carrying water. They stared, wide-eyed, at her clothing, but nodded and smiled when she greeted them. None of them showed any alarm at the wolf padding at her side—doubtless they all knew by now that Wulfric had acquired a female slave. How many of them understood her Latin, she had no idea, but Good morning probably sounded much the same to everyone, whatever the actual words used were.

At the bottom of the slope was the stream, its banks muddy and trampled. Someone had set stones as a makeshift hard standing and a small queue of women had built up, waiting patiently while their friends took it in turns to stand dry-shod while they dipped their buckets.

‘I’ll just see if there’s another spot,’ Julia said brightly to Smoke as she strolled off across the shoulder of the valley. She wandered along, trying to give the impression that she was interested only in the gaudy flash of a hoopoe flying past, or the spikes of wild flowers in the shade of bushes.

The first meander in the stream took them out of sight of both the watering place and any of the tents on the hill and there, straight as an arrow across the water, was a line of stepping stones, and on the opposite bank a deep grove of trees.

Now, all she had to do was to distract the wolf. There was a tree by the stones on her side. If she could just slip her girdle around Smoke’s neck and then tie him to the tree…Then there was a flurry of movement in the grass in front of them, a dozen white scuts tearing frantically away. ‘Look, Smoke, rabbits! Catch!’

The wolf was off from a standing start, terrifying death behind the desperate rabbits. Julia took to her heels, sliding and slipping down the slope, onto the first stepping stone. She jumped for the next, and the next. Almost across now. There was a splash to one side of her and Smoke pulled himself up out of the stream on the far bank. He trotted round to face her at the end of the line of stepping stones, head on one side, coat dripping.

Julia balanced, arms outstretched, the stone rocking treacherously under her sandaled feet. ‘You are supposed to be chasing rabbits,’ she said crossly. The wolf did not budge. ‘Oh, very well then, let’s go back and get the water for Una.’

‘Well? Is there a decision? What did Alaric say? My lord?’ Berig was hopping from one foot to another as Wulfric emerged from the Basilica where the king had been holding his Council. To one side a depressed-looking group of senators waited their turn for an audience with the invader. Wulfric eyed them curiously. Was one of them Julia’s father? Or her betrothed? They had dispensed with their eastern silks and embroideries and had dressed in pristine white tunics, sweltering under the great weight of their togas as though to emphasise their role and status as Roman patricians. Much good would it do them.

‘Lord?’

‘Berig, if Alaric wished you to be privy to his councils then he would invite you.’ Wulfric felt hot, irritable and sweaty. He violently disagreed with Alaric’s decision for the next stage of their journey and none of this had been helped by a tendency to think about Julia at inappropriate moments. He had been on his feet for most of the day, arguing his case for them to move north west, into Gaul, into the rich, well-watered lands that lay open and inviting to a farming people. But the king, backed by his inner circle, had other ideas and nothing Alaric and his supporters could say had swayed them.

Hilderic had come to stand with him, the rest of his kin clustering close. ‘They are wary of you, Alaric’s men,’ the older man had murmured, running a scarred hand through his beard. ‘He knows there are many who would follow you and he is not well.’

‘I am Alaric’s man,’ Wulfric had retorted, low-voiced. ‘His man until death.’

‘Quite,’ Hilderic said with a sly smile. ‘And until his death, of course. Look at yourself—look who stands at your back and your shoulder. Look at the gold you wear and the gold your kin have gained, following you. And then ask, who should the old men who stand at Alaric’s back fear when he has gone?’

It had shaken him. It shook him still. His ambition was to lead his kin, as now he did. Beyond that, he wanted to draw into alliance with them as many strong men as he could, for their mutual protection. To be acknowledged as a leader by warriors of Hilderic’s experience and standing was heady, but that was as far as his ambition had led him, despite the whispers that had sometimes come to his ears.

Now Hilderic, who spoke for most of the men in the loose alliance ranged with him, was hinting openly that he should bid for the throne when Alaric was gone. There was no harm in speculation about what would come, others would argue. Alaric’s health was uncertain, his temper and judgement unsettled. One day, he would no longer lead. One would be a fool not to be ready for that day.

Wulfric realised he was standing in the middle of the courtyard, hand on sword hilt, a scowl on his face. Poor Berig was visibly quaking.

‘We stay one more day. That is all I can tell you. The food is running out.’

‘But—will we fight the emperor? March on Ravenna?’

‘We stay one more day. When I can tell you what happens next, I will do so. Now, where are the horses?’

‘Here, lord.’ Subdued in his best clothes, Berig led the way to where an urchin was holding the reins. He tossed him a small coin and swung up into the saddle as Wulfric followed suit. ‘You look tired,’ he ventured as they rode out of the city.

‘I’ve been sitting on my backside in a hot room with a crowd of sweaty men all day. I’ve been up and down like a bucket in a well, talking and arguing, and my throat is raw. My feet ache worse than if I’d been on a two-day route march and in these clothes I feel like a trussed-up chicken. Otherwise I’m fine.’ He pulled irritably at the neck band of his best tunic.

‘We could wrestle?’ Berig suggested hopefully. ‘You promised you’d show me that throw you used on Rathar.’

Wulfric shaded his eyes and looked at where they had got to. Another league into camp. When he got there, there were meetings to hold, men to brief, the whole organisation of breaking camp to set in motion. And that confounded woman to infuriate his mind and inflame his body.

‘You’re on. See that grove of trees? Race you.’

They rode back into camp an hour later, battered and laughing, their good tunics slung over their saddle bows, their bare chests gleaming with sweat. Berig had a split lip, an interesting bruise coming up on his right bicep and an inch of skin missing from his left knuckles. Wulfric suspected he himself would have a black eye come the morning. He certainly had a bruise over his ribs and a wrenched finger. The boy was fast, and beginning to put on weight as his muscles developed. It would be time soon to take his sword practice seriously.

‘I could eat a horse,’ Berig declared, sliding to the ground and wincing as his bruises were jarred.

‘Two horses, but a hot bath first.’ Wulfric slapped him on the back and walked with him towards the tent. ‘Odd. There’s nothing on the fire. Where’s Julia?’ He flipped back the tent flap and went in. Flies buzzed around the previous night’s dirty dishes. Berig’s bed was just as he’d left it and so, when he went to look, was his. He kicked at the pile of filthy clothes and strode across the tent to the curtained corner. ‘Julia!’

Her bed space was immaculate, and empty.