“Magnus. Is it crowded down here?”
“I expect most people will want a good soak, it being a feast day tomorrow. Servants, merchants – anyone who can steal away for a bit. And our guests will be wanting a wash-up, too.”
He didn’t relish the thought of being naked in front of a whole palace full of people, not when they were to see him in a place of honor tomorrow.
Not ever, really.
A particularly loud shout echoed from the bathing chamber, and Magnus’s expression brightened. “I wouldn’t be too worried, lad. Lord Askr is in there, by the sound of it, and he’ll be holding court. No one will notice you.”
Feeling only slightly better, Oliver continued on, trying to ignore the shakiness in his knees.
The dressing room, with its shelves and cubbies and baskets, was full of men in various states of undress, some coming and some leaving. The floor was strewn with puddles, and the shelves were loaded with furs, and cloaks, and tunics; boots sat lined up along the wall. They were talking to one another, trading good-natured insults, and ignored Oliver as he slipped up to the shelves. When Magnus started undressing, carefree and unhurried, Oliver scrambled out of his own clothes, stowed them, and tugged on his dressing gown. Belted it extra tight.
Magnus snorted in amusement, and Oliver pretended not to hear.
“Ready?” Magnus had pulled on a soft, worn robe, and tied it only loosely, a large wedge of strong, furred chest on display. He hefted the basket of food, and awaited Oliver’s nod before turning toward the vast chamber of hot springs.
Steam boiled up in thick clouds, shifting over the occupants of the near pools: men lounging waist-deep in water, their bodies all carved in various shapes of strong. Big-bellied, wasp-waist lean, no matter the build, each man was roped, laced, and padded with the muscle borne of hard work on the battlefield or the training yard. Red hair, blond hair, brown hair, black hair – all of it was braided in unique, intricate styles threaded with beads, and jewels, and other decorations. Some boasted long beads braided into patterns set with flat, enameled beads. And there were tattoos, as well, on throats, and across chests, and curving around thick biceps: everything from animals, to flowers, to runes.
Everyone’s attention was fixed on a man who stood unabashedly naked at the edge of a pool, his fiery red hair coiled atop his head in a crown made of dozens of narrow braids, his beard halfway down his chest and set at the ends with small ivory beads that looked carved from animal bones.
“…and so then he said,” the man was saying – projecting, really, his voice booming off stone and water, raised to a battlefield pitch. “‘If you think I’ll let you insult my wife…’ And I said, ‘Ho, that’s your wife? I thought it was your horse!’”
This story was met with uproarious laughter.
Magnus chuckled, and led them down a path between two pools. “This way. It’s quieter back here.”
Oliver followed, relieved–
Only to hear, “Oi. You must be the Southerner, then.”
Oliver froze. It was the redheaded grandstander who’d called out to him – Lord Askr, at a guess – and all heads turned toward Oliver. He clutched the end of his dressing gown in one hand, trying to keep it from trailing along the wet floor, and reached now to close it more firmly at his throat. He stood up straight, though, beneath Askr’s – beneath everyone’s – curious gazes.
He’d not gone out of his way to make friends, nor even acquaintances here. Magnus and the princes had been the ones to befriend him, making the first overtures. He’d become closer to Birger, and to Revna, and, yes, Erik. Erik most of all. Surely everyone living in the palace – and now the visitors, too, thanks to gossip – had noted that Oliver spoke only with the royal family. That he kept far too much company with the king.
But he would not cower – not outwardly. He lifted his chin, met Lord Askr’s gaze, and said, “I am, yes. Oliver Meacham. Pleased to meet you.”
“The Drakewell bastard,” someone said, the face of the speaker lost in the steam.
“Aye,” Askr said, gaze narrowing in shrewd evaluation. “The one come to bring his pretty cousin to marry the prince, eh?”
Oliver swallowed with difficulty. “I expect a formal betrothal will be announced shortly.”
“For her, or for you?” someone else quipped, and the men chuckled darkly.
From farther back, someone muttered, “King’s pet,” like a curse.
Askr continued to scrutinize him, and the glint in his eyes was no longer amused, but something else entirely. “He speaks highly of you – does Erik. I think many wonder why.”
Magnus grasped the front of Oliver’s gown, his grip tight, but his voice breezy when he said, “Oh, he’s a head for negotiation, our Oliver. He can turn anyone into an ally. For now, though, we’ve a pool waiting. If you’ll excuse us, my lord.” He bowed, quickly, and tugged Oliver along in his wake.
Oliver went gladly. He heard the murmur of gossip behind them, and hurried to keep up, face burning.
Magnus led them between pools that grew less and less densely populated with bathers, until, finally, they slipped between two towering stalagmites, around a corner, and into a cozy, secluded nook where a large, deep blue pool steamed. Empty and inviting.
Oliver felt faintly dizzy, and not just from the heat. He dropped down onto a bench carved into the stone wall, and rubbed at his face with his hand, trying to scrub the blush from his cheeks. “This isn’t good, Magnus.”
“This pool? Oh, no, it’s the best. Nice and quiet. You can’t even hear that braying donkey from here.”
“No.” Oliver dropped his hand and sent him a pleading look. “You heard them. To them, I’m a bastard, a Southerner, and” – he had to gulp down a swell of sick anxiety – “the king’s pet.”
Magnus shrugged, and shucked his robe, unbothered by his own nudity. “People talk. Human nature.” He stepped down into the water with a glad sigh and got settled on one of the benches below the surface, stretching luxuriantly. “You can’t please everyone. All that matters is that the people who matter like you, and they do.”
He patted the water beside him so that it splashed. “Come and have a soak. You’ll feel better.”
Oliver huffed a sigh. But he shed his gown and slipped down into the water, leaving a wide space between them. The water was a deep, dark indigo like the night sky without stars, but he would just as soon not take the chance of being examined too closely. He was even thinner now than he’d been before, still recovering: his ribs and hipbones and clavicles sharp points beneath too-pale skin, his belly flat, nearly concave, but soft. Both his arms together couldn’t hope to make one burly Northman arm.
Magnus leaned out of the water just far enough to snag the handle of his basket with one finger and drag it closer. “All right, let’s see what we have here – nothing fancy, mind, only some cheese, and grapes, and a bit of that good, dark bread, and wine…”
Oliver wasn’t listening. He’d sunk up to his chin in the warm water, and it was delightful. He could properly appreciate it this time, not being sick, and his worry and doubt faded to the periphery as he enjoyed the warm caress against every inch of his skin.
Magnus poured him a cup of wine and leaned forward to place it closer to him along the edge of the pool.
“Thank you,” Oliver said, dreamy and half-garbled because his lips were so close to the water.
Magnus chuckled. “See? All that bein’ reluctant, and now I won’t be able to drag you out.”
“Hm. Perhaps not.”
“Brother.” Lars appeared around the corner, already undressed, his robe carried over one arm. “You have snacks.”
“I have plenty. Get in.”
He joined them, and Oliver finally roused himself enough to eat some grapes and cheese, and to drink his wine.
“These are the last grapes we’ll get until spring,” Magnus lamented, examining one wistfully before he popped it in his mouth.
“There’s the dried ones,�
�� Lars said. “And the apricots, too.”
“Nah. They taste like barrels.”
“’Cause they’re shipped in barrels, you git.”
Oliver snorted to himself and reached for another bunch for himself. “Do you not grow any fruits up here, then? All of it’s bought?”
“We’re lucky if we’ve a tomato crop in summer,” Magnus said. “Not enough sunlight for these.” He held a grape up so that the light from the cressets glinted off its smooth, purple skin.
“Rarity must make them even sweeter,” Oliver reasoned.
Behind him, the quiet sound of bare feet on wet stone. A rustling. Erik’s voice: “Sweet things are, I’ve found, generally rare, as a rule.”
Then the king stepped into view. Naked. Glorious. Every one of Oliver’s wet dreams made flesh.
“Magnus, what have I said about eating in the baths?” he asked, gaze fixed on his guard, tone faintly amused.
“Oh, but the hall’s too busy,” Magnus protested. “Here. Have some, there’s plenty.”
“Raiding the cellars again, I see.”
Magnus grinned. “Only a little.”
The bunch of grapes fell out of Oliver’s suddenly-nerveless hand and hit the water with a quiet splash.
Erik turned toward him, single brow arched. “Wasteful,” he chided, clucking.
Oliver was going to faint and nearly drown in these gods-forsaken hot springs again, and it was all going to be the king’s fault, this time.
It was one thing to know that Erik was strong and well-built, quite another to see it without clothes in the way. His chest, and shoulders, and back were heavy with muscle, his arms thick, corded, and rippling when he moved to casually tuck a braid over his shoulder. The hair on his chest was a crisp black that narrowed along the ridges of his belly, and thickened at the base of his cock – impressive enough to have Oliver’s pulse leaping, even soft. He seemed carved from marble, from the veins in his forearms, to the thick muscles of his legs, and his backside. But unlike a statue, he was laced here and there with scars, some ugly and puckered, the legacies of wounds that could have killed him. One along his ribs, at least ten inches long and silver-pink between the grooves of bone and sinew, had Oliver’s heart lurching for another reason.
He was gorgeous, and Oliver wanted to climb him.
And he was a mortal man, and he’d been hurt before, and Oliver wanted to hold him, too.
With tremendous effort, Oliver said, “Good evening, your majesty.”
Erik smirked. “Good evening, Mr. Meacham.”
Oliver was going to die.
“Ah.” Birger joined them, grinning. “Just the Drake lord we were hoping to see.”
Erik’s smirk turned wry. He shook his head and waded down into the pool and across it to sit on the opposite side. Probably for the best.
Birger climbed in, and sat in the gap between Magnus and Oliver, turning to Oliver right away. “We’ve had page boys running about looking for you.”
Oliver, shaking off the last bit of his shock at seeing Erik naked and beautiful, frowned. “Why?”
“We need to invite you to tomorrow’s council meeting.”
“Before the feast, the full council will meet and discuss the business of the realm,” Erik explained. Sitting on a bench, the water hit him mid-chest. He pulled the beads loose from the ends of his braids, set them aside on the edge of the pool, and began unwinding the plaits with quick, deft fingers. “The lords should hear a firsthand account of the situation in Aquitainia with the Sels.”
Oliver stared at him a moment, struggling to comprehend in the midst of such large, callused, warrior’s hands unbraiding with such easy assurance. He said, “You can give them an account.”
“Not firsthand.”
Oliver glanced toward Birger, who nodded, and back again. “You want me…to sit in on your council meeting. To address your lords.”
“Yes.”
“But I’m–”
“Don’t say bastard,” Erik advised, accepting the bottle Lars passed him. “That has nothing to do with anything.” Then he set the bottle on the edge of the pool and promptly slipped totally beneath the water.
Oliver turned to Birger, and didn’t try to disguise the desperation in his tone. “I can’t attend any sort of council meeting.”
“Sure you can.”
“No. Birger.” He tried to regulate his suddenly-quick breathing. “I just walked past them all on my way in.” He gestured back toward the crowded bathing pools, scattering water droplets. “To them, I’m just the Drakewell Bastard. I’m the King’s Pet!” The last he hissed.
Birger shrugged shoulders that were still strong and sturdy, despite the gray of his hair and beard. “Then you’ll have to prove them wrong, I suppose.”
“But – why? Why does it matter at all what they think of me?”
Birger’s gaze was unreadable – and Magnus and Lars, when he glanced at them in turn, looked almost…encouraging. Magnus grinned.
Erik resurfaced with a deep exhale, and the surface of the pool rippled in expanding rings as he pushed his now-wet hair off his face, wiped his eyes, and reached for the bottle. He poured a generous dollop of white cream into his palm, worked his hands together until he had a good lather, and then set to washing his hair. It left his arms bunching wonderfully, and his chest on full display, something as mundane as bathing causing his muscles to dance and play.
“Well?” he asked, fingers scrubbing along his scalp, blue gaze trained on Oliver.
“I…” Oliver’s hands knotted together beneath the water, wanting to reach out, to touch. “I’ll attend if you want me to. If you think it’s wise.”
Erik nodded, seeming satisfied, and worked the lather all the way to the very ends of his long hair.
Something hit the water with a sharp plunk in front of Oliver’s face; a cake of soap, he realized, as it landed in his lap.
“Don’t be stingy with that, now,” Magnus said, cheerfully. “Revna did say to get properly clean.”
Erik chuckled, the sound low and rumbling as it echoed off the stone, and then dipped under the water again.
Oliver rolled his eyes, blushing unhelpfully, and set to washing. The others did the same.
~*~
Erik shared his countrymen’s unselfconscious disregard for nudity. Like Birger, Magnus, and Lars, he stood to soap himself all over, and, once he was sitting, lifted his feet up out of the water to soap between his toes. It was terribly cute.
But, unlike Birger, Magnus, and Lars, watching Erik do any of this left Oliver’s face overheated. He studiously avoided looking at the king as he washed himself – without standing up out of the water, because he wasn’t at all ready to flaunt his much-slimmer physique – nor risk giving away how interested he was in Erik’s.
“Gods,” Magnus finally groaned, head falling back against the lip of the pool. “Are we having a soak, or is the council meeting in fact happening right now?”
Birger, in the midst of listing off the gossip that had arrived with the palace’s visitors, cut of mid-sentence and sent Magnus an unimpressed look. “Bit cheeky for a guard, aren’t we?”
“I’m off duty,” Magnus said, chuckling, and flicked water droplets off his fingertips at the advisor. “You might try it sometime, Birger. Maybe your hair wouldn’t have gone gray so early if you’d learned to have a little fun now and then.”
Oliver gaped at him. In Drakewell, other guards would have already been hauling him out of the pool and clapping him in irons.
But here, Birger harrumphed.
A wet cloth splatted against the side of Magnus’s face, and as he came up spluttering – Lars laughing at him – Oliver saw that it was Erik who’d thrown it. He was grinning.
“You shit,” Erik said, laughing. “Get it out of your system now, before tomorrow morning.” He turned his head, noted Oliver’s no-doubt stunned look, and said, “These two idiots are on duty with me tomorrow.”
“All day,” Magnus said, sitti
ng up and peeling the wet cloth from his face. He threw it back at Erik.
Who caught it without looking, and tossed it over his shoulder to land on the stone with a splat, gaze fastened on Oliver’s the whole time. “As you can see, I’m regretting the rota.”
“Magnus,” Birger said, “this is the sort of thing that makes Southerners call us barbarians.”
“Actually,” Oliver said, finally tearing his gaze from Erik’s, “I was just thinking that it’s – that it’s nice that things aren’t so formal here. That there’s not just duty, but…friendship, too.”
“Aye.” Magnus jerked a thumb in Erik’s direction. “We go way back with this one.”
“Magnus never could sit still during lessons,” Erik said, fondly. “Our tutor used to get the switch after him.”
“And I’ve got the scar to prove it. Look!” He stood to show them, and got booed and splashed by all of them. “He maimed me! He really did!”
Oliver laughed – laughed until his sides ached, and his throat burned, and he was – he was happy. In a way he’d never expected, and in a way he didn’t think he’d ever been. No one in this pool was more important than the man next to him. King, advisor, guardsmen, bastard – it felt instead like friends sitting around and harassing one another.
He’d never been a part of anything like that.
When he got his giggles under control, still gasping a little for breath, he skated a look over at Erik and wasn’t prepared for the quiet radiance of his regard, the weight of his pleasure.
Oh, Oliver wanted him so badly that it hurt.
With a deep breath, and then a groan, and a popping of well-used knees, Birger stood. “Well, then, if I can’t talk business, I suppose I’ll be off.”
“Don’t let Magnus run you off,” Erik said.
But Birger waved off the concern, smiling faintly. “No. I want a good night’s sleep before tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day.”
Erik sobered. “That it is. Sleep well.”
Birger wished them all a good night, wrapped up in a thick robe, and shuffled around the corner and out of sight.
Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1) Page 22
