by Jayne Castel
“I’ll fight you,” she growled, before shifting to her own tongue, Latin. “If you touch me, I’ll claw your eyes out.”
He drew back slightly. “You could show some gratitude,” he drawled, “after all I’ve done for you.”
Lucrezia’s body grew taut as outrage flowered within her, obliterating her hunger. “Why would I be grateful to you?” she ground out, “when you hold me here against my will?”
He shrugged. “Things could be far worse for you.”
She glared at him, fury pumping through her now. “I don’t see how.”
“Wurgest could own you—or he could be passing you around his men for sport.”
The words made her flinch, but they did not lessen her rage. “You have taken my freedom—if you want my gratitude, let me go.”
He gave a soft laugh. “I don’t think so—slaves are too valuable. A fierce woman like you will do well back at Dun Ringill.”
Lucrezia drew herself up in fury. “I’m a noble woman,” she spat. “I’m not some peasant you can put to work like an ox.”
The barbarian—Tarl—laughed at that. He actually threw back his head and roared. “Even our chieftain’s wife must earn her keep,” he said when he had managed to contain his mirth. “And a slave must work harder than most.”
Tears of rage stung Lucrezia’s eyes. “I’ll not suffer it,” she hissed at him, enraged beyond measure now. “I’ll take my own life rather than be your dog.”
Tarl held her gaze, the lingering amusement in his eyes fading. To her fury though, he merely shrugged. “Then I’ll have to keep a close eye on you, Lucrezia.”
It was a frosty dawn as the barbarians packed up and prepared to move north. Lucrezia stood amongst them, silent and sullen, a curtain of dark hair hanging in her face. She ignored everyone, including the men who whistled and called out to her. She would have stabbed them all to death, had she the means.
Now that the terror and shock of capture had passed, a simmering rage had settled deep within her. She wanted to take revenge upon them—every last man and woman who had shattered her world—yet she knew it to be impossible, and that made her all the angrier.
Her breath steamed in the cold damp air, and her cheeks stung from the chill. At least the hard frost promised a clear bright day ahead. It was also a relief to be out of that stifling tent, and be able to stand upright and move her legs.
Lucrezia looked down at her clothing; she still wore the stola she had been captured in. The long green garment hung over the woolen tunic she wore underneath, and thankfully kept the worst of the cold at bay. Her skin itched, and she longed to bathe, yet her captor had not brought her hot water and lye, even when she had asked for it. On her feet, she wore goatskin boots, and Tarl had given her a plaid cloak to wear around her shoulders.
Tarl.
She had never thought it possible to both hate and feel gratitude toward a person. Twice now he had defended her, and even taken a beating on her behalf.
To prevent his prize from being taken from him, she thought bitterly. In the two days she had spent with him, Lucrezia had deduced the sort of man Tarl was: arrogant, pigheaded, and prideful. She watched him now, strutting about the camp, laughing and joking with his warriors. He wore the mottled bruises and grazes on his face and body like badges of honor; and indeed they were, for he had bested a man twice his size in hand-to-hand combat.
Inhaling deeply, Lucrezia twisted her gaze away from Tarl and raised her bound wrists, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She looked south, her chest constricting. They were only a few furlongs north of the wall, and she knew that if she climbed that rise to the south she would see it before her.
The edge of the Empire—the limit of the civilized world.
The lands beyond were largely uncharted. There had been a few campaigns north over the years, and Lucrezia knew that centuries earlier Emperor Antoninus Pius had ordered the construction of another wallto the north of here. The Antonine Wall had held for only six years before the legions had been forced back to Hadrian’s Wall.
Tarl was taking her back to his home, an island off the north-western coast. The Winged Isle. She had never even heard of such a place.
Lucrezia sucked in another deep breath, struggling once more with the wave of panic that assailed her every time she thought of what lay before her.
The sea of men and women around Lucrezia cowed her too. Half-naked savages, their skin patterned with tattoos and blue painted designs. They terrified her—even the women. Like her own people many of them were dark-haired, but the similarities stopped there. They were wild, their lithe bodies barely covered in scraps of fur, leather, and plaid. They did not seem to notice the cold.
Her gaze traveled over the crowds of warriors, searching for her own people. In the distance she spied Claudia. The woman, around five years older than her with curly dark-brown hair, stood next to her captor—a man so hairy it was difficult to discern his features or his age. Claudia’s face was milk-white, her dark eyes glassy. She did not see Lucrezia, for her gaze had turned inward.
Lucrezia searched the crowd further, looking for Fabia, but could not see her. She wondered if the young woman had survived the past few days.
What will become of us?
“Ready, Lucrezia?”
She turned to find her barbarian captor waiting at her side. He was tall, and she had to raise her chin to meet his eye. He had taken to repeating her name often, ever since she had corrected his pronunciation. He appeared to revel in it, often rolling the ‘r’ deliberately. It galled her every time he said her name, and she wished she had refused to tell him of it.
Lucrezia thinned her lips and glared at him. Of course she was not ready—she never would be.
Panic assailed her then, and she looked south. This was it—her last chance to get back to the wall, to return to her villa and collect her gold. Yet the barbarian army formed a dark barrier between her and the gently rounded hills beyond. She could run now, even with her hands bound. Desperation would give her feet wings.
Despair washed over her as reality forced its way in, cutting through the panic that made her limbs tremble.
I would never make it.
They set off north as the winter sun rose into the eastern sky. Most of the warriors were on foot, having left their horses in settlements farther north, and as such it would be a journey of at least a moon’s turn before they reached home—possibly longer if the weather turned bitter as it had on the trip south.
Tarl did not mind the long journey, for it would give him a chance to tame the spitting she-cat who walked behind him. He had kept her wrists bound, for he realized she would bolt given the slightest chance, and tethered her to his belt with a long cord.
Lucrezia was in a foul mood this morning, although he did not blame her for it. He too would have resented being hauled away from his home to live amongst strangers. It changed nothing though—she was with him now, and she would soon come to accept that.
It did not take him long to realize that Lucrezia was unused to rough treatment. She wore a long garment, girded under the bust, made of heavy cloth that wrapped around her curvaceous form and hampered her stride. She lagged behind up the hills, and picked her way down the slopes.
After a while he grew irritated by her slowness and gave a gentle tug on the rope binding them.
“Come on, stop dawdling.”
Her walnut-colored eyes snapped up at him. Not for the first time, the force of this woman’s gaze meeting his caused Tarl’s breathing to quicken. Lucrezia had a presence, an energy that he found hard to ignore.
“I’m not dawdling,” she snarled, deliberately slowing her pace further. “I’m just not used to being dragged like a goat.”
Tarl smiled at her, enjoying the exchange. “So be it, but if you continue to drag your heels, I’ll have no choice but to sling you over my shoulder and carry you.”
This drew guffaws from some of the men around them.
The threat made Luc
rezia blanch, her full lips thinning. Without another word, she quickened her step.
Chapter Eight
I am No Healer
“how’s that leg?”
Tarl glanced across at Donnel as they scaled a hill, and frowned. His brother was not the sort to complain about his injuries, but he could not hide the limp. Nor could he hide the look of discomfort on his face.
Donnel shrugged. “An annoyance … little more.”
Tarl’s frown deepened. He had seen the gash to Donnel’s right side, as well as the puncture wound to his right thigh—the latter especially was not an injury to take lightly.
“Make sure you get it cleaned and seen to when we stop for the day,” he replied, keeping his tone light. The old Donnel would not have minded his fussing, but these days his brother was easily irritated and equally quick to anger.
As expected Donnel snorted rudely and waved him away. “I’m fine.”
Tarl let the matter drop.
They crested the hill, a brisk westerly wind buffeting their faces, and paused for a moment. Lucrezia stopped a couple of feet behind them, her hair blowing around her as she surveyed her surroundings.
Tarl inhaled deeply, a grin spreading across his face. The air was cold—it stung his cheeks and made his eyes water—but from here it seemed as if they could see all the way home. This was the tallest hill around, and to the north he looked out across windswept rumpled hills that stretched to the horizon.
They had been traveling for five days, and had already left many of the other warriors behind. The two Eagle brothers were near the head of the band traveling north-west, and behind them the remainder of the party—most of whom were also traveling to The Winged Isle—were toiling up the steep hill. Somewhere in that group behind them, Wurgest also traveled.
Tarl’s grin faded. He avoided The Boar warrior whenever possible, but as they drew nearer home and the numbers of warriors traveling with them dwindled, it was becoming harder to keep away from him. Sooner or later, there would be another altercation—Tarl knew it. He might have beaten Wurgest in a fair fight, but the warrior was not one to suffer defeat with dignity.
Tarl turned to Lucrezia, tugging her forward so that she stood next to him on the brow of the hill. “What do you think? Is it not beautiful country?”
She surveyed the crumpled hills before them, her gaze narrowing. “It’s …” she paused here, searching for the word. “… bleak. Where are the trees?”
“They’re in the valleys and lowlands,” Tarl replied. “It’s too windy up here for trees.”
She screwed her face up at that. “Is your island like this too?”
“Aye, for the most part.”
Her shoulders slumped and the look of desolation on her face was such that Tarl felt an uncharacteristic stab of pity.
They continued across the rise of the hill, following Donnel who had limped on ahead.
“Where is your home?” Tarl asked. He was curious about this exotic-looking woman who hailed from a faraway land.
“It’s near Rome—the heart of the Empire,” she replied, her voice dull as if recalling it depressed her.
“And what is it like? I take it there are many trees?”
She nodded. “It is very different to here. The summer is very hot, and the winters are mild. We have … frosts … but it rarely snows.”
Tarl listened, intrigued. Her accent was thick, and she had to pause often as she searched for words, but he liked hearing about the world she had come from. He also loved hearing the sultry lilt of her voice. “What else is different?”
She huffed a great sigh. “Everything. The air smells of dry grass … hot earth and herbs. We have many more varieties of fruit and vegetables than in Britannia.”
Tarl frowned. “Britannia?”
She gave him a look that he did not like much—one full of scorn as if she looked upon the stupidest man ever born—before answering. “It’s the name of this land.”
Tarl frowned back at her. Although this woman captivated him, he disliked her haughtiness, the disdain she heaped upon him with just one look. Clearly, she thought herself superior to him in every way. Most of the time he let it pass, but on this occasion he felt his anger rise.
“That’s the name your people gave to this land—it’s not our name for it.”
She sniffed, dismissing his comment. “My people are the rulers of most of this great island—it’s their name that matters.”
Tarl’s gaze narrowed further. “They don’t rule here, and they never will. We now cross the lands of the Cruthini. They will never answer to your emperor. Nor will my people.”
She stared back at him, angry now herself. He was glad he had riled her, for he did not like this woman thinking she was cleverer than him. Tarl mac Muin was no fool.
Smoke rose up from the fire; the scent of peat drifting through the cold still air. It had been a windy day, but as often happened here in the north the weather settled at dusk.
Lucrezia perched on a rock next to the fire and warmed her chilled fingers over it. Around her, the men and women traveling with them made camp for the night.
They were a hardy lot; she would give them that.
Lucrezia reached the end of each day so weary that she could hardly move, yet these people bustled around her with industry. A few feet away, a woman plucked one of three water-fowl she had hunted in a nearby mere—a narrow stagnant-looking pool at the bottom of one of the endless wooded valleys they had crossed during the afternoon.
In spite of the chill, the woman was dressed scantily. She wore a long plaid skirt on her bottom half, but was virtually naked on top—her small breasts bound with a simple leather band. The fur mantle casually slung around her shoulders was the only thing protecting her from the cold.
Lucrezia glanced down at her own bust, wrapped under layers of fabric. She would not have liked to squeeze herself into such attire.
She wondered then about Claudia and Fabia. She had seen neither of the women since setting out on this journey. She thought about what might have befallen them, before pulling herself up short—it was best not to dwell on such things. Instead she turned her attention back to her surroundings.
Behind the woman who was plucking the fowl, a man was hauling chunks of peat over to another fire pit that would be soon lit. A collection of low hide tents rose around her, forming a tight circle around the fires.
Lucrezia’s stomach growled. After a day’s march, she was ravenous. She looked around for something to eat, but instead found Tarl standing behind her, digging through his leather pack.
“Do you have any healing skills?” he asked her.
Lucrezia regarded him coolly. The truth was she did not. She was an able cook and gardener, and could sew, but she had never been good with illness or injury, and felt queasy at the sight of blood. “Not really,” she admitted.
Tarl looked up, frowning. “My brother requires his wounds seen to—get yourself what you need and tend him.”
Lucrezia scowled back. Was this man an idiot? She had just told him she was not a healer. “I’m not—” she began.
“He’s over there.” Tarl jerked his head to the right, completely ignoring her protest. “Go on.”
Casting him a filthy look, Lucrezia rose from her stone seat. She stifled a groan as she did so, when her aching legs protested. A few feet away, Tarl’s brother Donnel sat upon a low boulder.
One look at him, and despite her lack of healing skills, Lucrezia knew he was seriously unwell. There was a pallor to his skin; even the bracing wind had not reddened his cheeks.
Reluctantly she approached him. Lucrezia had not exchanged a word with any of the barbarians, save Tarl—and was wary of this one named Donnel. He was a man of dark chiseled beauty, but there was no warmth on his face as he watched her approach. Lucrezia suppressed a shudder. In spite of her dislike for Tarl, she decided she preferred him to his sibling.
This man had dead eyes.
“Tarl says I am to cl
ean your wounds,” she said haltingly. Although her mastery of their tongue had improved over the past few days, she had only spoken to Tarl and suddenly felt self-conscious; as if she was tripping over the words. However, the warrior seemed to understand her.
He gave an uninterested grunt. “Go on then.”
Lucrezia stepped closer. “Where are your wounds?”
Unspeaking, Donnel unlaced his leather vest and stripped it off, revealing an angry red slash-wound beneath.
“Your brother’s taken to sharing his wench has he, Battle Eagle?” one of the men nearby called out. This caused barks of laughter to echo across the hillside.
Clenching her jaw, Lucrezia turned back to Donnel. “Why do the men call you that?” she asked him, in an effort to distract herself from the unpleasant task ahead. “That is not your given name.”
Donnel gave a cold smile. “It took their fancy after the attack on the wall. I killed more than my fair share of Romans.”
Lucrezia’s belly twisted at this news, and she wished she had kept her mouth shut. This man she was supposed to help had butchered her own people.
She could not even look at him.
Instead she focused on the wound to his flank. It was deep but appeared to be healing well. There was no festering.
Lucrezia drew back, anxious to be away from this ‘Battle Eagle’ who was now watching her under lowered lids. He knew his proclamation had upset her, and he was observing her response.
“That injury does not need tending,” she said coolly. “Is that all?”
“I have a wound to my right thigh.”
“Show it to me then.”
She stepped back, to give him space to untie his breeches. The act caused a few of the other warriors around them to whistle and hoot.
Lucrezia tensed, averting her gaze. This situation was fast becoming unbearable. However, when she glanced back she found that Donnel had sat back down and covered his manhood.
