“I…I don’t know.” That was the truth. She had no idea what was in the box.
“Was it a message? That was an expensive box. Gold and mahogany and pearls, not the purchase of a peasant. Tell me the truth. I questioned the merchant already. If you lie, I’ll know.”
“What’d you do to Ulf? He’s just an innocent merchant selling goods to anyone with coin.” That’s what the crowd had been watching. This Roman had probably had Ulf arrested for the suspicious act of being a merchant who sold something pricey.
“He’s a seafarer, giving mysterious boxes to dirty urchins. Now talk and I might let you keep your tongue.” He raised the blade to hold it inches from her throat.
I won’t use the Blood Call. I won’t. But what if he decides not to let me keep my tongue? The “might” isn’t reassuring.
Drizzling rain began to fall, dark clouds gathering above.
“Cease, General.” The voice was deep and so firm it caught Freya by surprise. No one spoke this way to a Roman, especially not in a Germanic accent. She had to learn her powers soon so she could also do that. She twisted in the soldier’s grip to see the man who dared to speak to a Roman—apparently a Roman general—in such a tone.
Freya squeaked again and lowered her head. But the image would be burned there forever. The people hadn’t fallen silent just because the soldier questioned her. Sadly, the people were accustomed to scenes like this.
The real reason for the crowd’s silence was staring down at her right now from atop his great bay stallion, flanked by an entourage clothed in expensive furs and jewels. The stallion was definitely one of Enbarr’s, given his thick, waving mane. Yet, the rider looked unsteady on the horse’s back. He wore a fur cape fastened over one shoulder with a gold medallion. His arms were encased by armbands of beaten gold. A gold diadem studded with rubies rested on his brow, leaving no doubt that he had to be Chieftain Etainen.
His stormy-blue eyes were like chips of ice above his dark-blond goatee. He had a sharp face, softened only by the gold strands in his hair. Handsome. The bastard she’d be forced to wed would turn out to be handsome and have a commanding voice. Freya had been imagining something thready and nasal.
“This is not yet Rome, General Pompey.” Etainen maneuvered his steed forward, managing to look confident and grim despite his unsteady seating. “If you wish her to be dealt with, let the Remis handle her. Or I will handle her.”
Handle me…
One of his capable hands had strayed to one of the twin swords at his hips. Etainen was Rome’s best hope for stabilizing what they called the barbarian territories. From what Freya knew of Etainen, he wanted to forge alliances with Rome, thus she was doubly surprised Etainen would speak so to the general. Although he had said “not yet Rome,” Remi might as well be Rome, considering he’d be marrying her tomorrow.
“Must you Romans always travel in groups of six?” Etainen muttered under his breath. Freya didn’t think he noticed he’d said it out loud. What was it about Romans traveling in groups of six? Freya hadn’t counted them before, but come to think of it, they did. Ulf had told her Siegfried avoided the number six to the point of not even allowing gold to be loaded onto his ship in bags of six. Ugh. Etainen couldn’t possibly have anything in common with Siegfried.
“Etainen, this woman’s crimes—”
“I heard her crimes, Pompey” Etainen said. “I witnessed the entire altercation.” His voice was low, surprisingly filled with warning.
“There is more,” the general said. “She paid a seafarer for information about Siegfried the Fox.”
Think fast, and not about exploding the Roman’s blood in his veins. Not only is he a general, but he is Pompey, the highest-ranking Roman sent to attend the wedding.
“Oh, poor Ulf.” Freya fell easily into the familiar role of a fool that she’d used to dupe others in the past. “I can explain this, if you’ll just set me down. My shoulder is really hurting. All those muscles being pulled. What if one arm is longer than the other now? Then I’ll be lopsided, and people will say, ‘Oh, there goes that poor, uneven woman with the stretched arm. Say, lopsided lady, can you use that arm to reach under a floorboard and find my necklace?’ That could be useful, but—”
General Pompey gave her a shake, shutting her up. The drizzle turned to a light rain.
People moved aside as Etainen slid from the saddle, landing gracefully on his feet. He was lithe, his muscles lean, not a bulky man at all. Most notable were his canny eyes, studying her.
“An explanation first,” the general said, “No more of this nonsense about being lopsided.”
“Ulf didn’t want to…cast aspersions on my virtue. I don’t know why he thought that would be a better lie. Although my father might do worse than cut off an arm if he discovered the truth. So, he probably thought you were the lesser threat. My father is as scary as a woman on her cycle with bad cramps. When he gets angry, he looks just like those paintings of Woden fighting with that sea wyrm, Jormungandr. Well, more like Jormungandr, than Woden. Except he’s not scaly and doesn’t have fangs. But he should.”
Another shake. “I don’t care what your father looks like. I should spare myself the trouble and kill you now. Do you ever shut up?”
“Let her finish,” Etainen ordered.
Ordered? Definitely. There was no question mark at the end of that statement. In the stories Freya wrote, her hero ordered Swan to do all kinds of things in just such a tone.
Freya quickly made an excuse. “Whores. We’re whores. I wasn’t saying ‘Siegfried the Fox.’ I was using our code…” What sounds similar to Siegfried the Fox? “Set free the cocks. That’s what I said. Ulf sets up arrangements for Hedwig and me. That’s our code—though not very subtle—for Ulf to tell us where we’ll be trysting. If you noticed, I overpaid for both items, the box and the necklace. We have to give Ulf a cut.”
“There’s your answer, General. Poorly planned prostitution,” Etainen said.
“And alliteration,” Freya added, but no one looked amused. People usually were not when she muttered this sort of thing in bad situations.
“That’s probably the most suspicious thing I’ve heard,” Pompey declared.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Freya blurted.
Oops.
“Men.” Pompey waved at the Romans. “Take this whore to the dungeons. Question her.”
The light rain became a steady rain, rapidly growing in intensity.
Etainen dismounted to snatch her from Pompey, placing her firmly at his side. “She’s drunk. Can’t you smell the ale on her?”
She smelled wine on him. And salt. The rain eased. Why was she feeling just a little calm?
The general bent to peer at her face as he inhaled. “Your face is all cut up. What kind of a whore are you?”
“One who’ll do anything for coin, especially with Rome bilking us.” She couldn’t resist adding the last. “I’m sure you realize that some men like it rough. If they pay enough, we’ll go in the wood with them. Or several of them. Whatever they like.” Damn it. He still looked skeptical. “If you don’t believe me, check the box. It’s inside of my cloak.”
At least I’ll get to find out what’s inside, finally.
“Hold the woman, Etainen.”
When the Roman thrust aside her coarse cape, she was very glad she’d worn a plain brown woolen dress.
“Scrawny thing,” he said, grabbing one of her breasts. She bit her tongue, remembering that she was pretending to be a whore. The rain became steady.
Etainen removed Pompey’s hands. “You’re not paying her.”
“The men tell me I make up for being boney by making them, well, boney,” she said cheerfully.
The General found the pocket with the box easily enough. He opened the lid, and she leaned forward as much as Etainen’s firm grip would let her to see the contents. In the box was a jar of some sort of red salve and a leather covered phallus. Except the object was bent in the center and
had a head at each end.
Oh, she was glad she was in disguise. She could feel Etainen’s chest rising and falling against her spine. He was laughing at her. His breath tickled her ear. A wave of dizziness washed over her. Why this reaction to him? What was wrong with her? Well, what did she expect when, in the space of a few sentences, he’d done more than most people she knew against the Romans?
“My randy bulls requested that item this afternoon,” she said, adding a dirty laugh. “Now, let this little bird fly away. If you don’t mention a word about this…well, just tell Ulf that Swan owes you one. I wouldn’t balk at a fine Roman blade.”
“Swan?” The general’s eyes narrowed, his face turning red.
Ooh, that was stupid, Freya. Don’t be so careless. Of course he’s heard about Swan’s little messages and the freed prisoners. “That’s my whore name,” Freya said. “Much better than my real one. Would you want to use a name like Waldeburg? Would you like to call out, ‘Ooh, Waldeburg, grind those hips?’ Um, have you heard of me? My skills are legendary, or so I’ve been told.” Another dirty laugh.
Etainen released her arms. She wondered what his reaction was to all this. It didn’t matter, because she was Swan now. Swan the Whore, not Swan the Bane of Romans, as she’d labeled herself.
“I’d tell the barbarian if he weren’t missing his head,” the general said.
“Ulf…because of me…Gods.” Rain began to pelt them. Lightning struck a guard tower, sending men fleeing and a red Roman pennant burning to the earth.
“Whore, I’d like further proof if you’re telling the truth.” The general grabbed at her, but Etainen thrust her behind him.
She was fey now, right? So why was she letting this Etainen defend her? She was supposed to make mortals quake in their boots—or sandals, which the Romans preferred.
“Enough, General,” Etainen said in a cold voice, like thunder rumbling above. “I’m aware that Siegfried is assisting King Vercingetorix, but your grudge isn’t with prostitutes.” He gave Freya a shove. “Go.” Under his breath, he muttered, “And next time, try to get yourself caught by a group of eight, not six.”
“Wait, please.” She stopped. Her eyes met his stormy ones, lightning reflected in their depths. Her heart almost stopped. Very, very out-of-place lust surged into her core. A horse neighed, the distinctive sound of Enbarr. Pompey cursed the princess and her insane animal again but ran to direct his men to catch the horse. They never would, so Freya felt no concern. Her focus was still on Etainen. Time had slowed, at least for her.
“Oh, you’re waiting.” She didn’t know what overcame her, only that she was very damp between her thighs and somehow Etainen’s neck was clasped in her hands, her mouth fastened to his. His lips were firm, parted on a gasp of surprise. She took her advantage and probed his wine-flavored mouth. She’d never kissed anyone before, but it seemed as if her body knew exactly what to do. Her body was firmly pressed against the hard planes of his chest.
She did not know why she opened her eyes, perhaps to see his face up close. When she decided to break the rule of kissing always requiring closed eyes, she discovered he was disregarding it, too. Twin storm-colored pools stared back at her in wary surprise. His cock, however, had all the certainty his eyes did not. She pulled away, made an “eep” sound, then fled into the surrounding crowd.
As soon as she was away from Etainen, her body calmed and reality set in. The tears came. The beginning of twilight concealed a misplaced stone, and she landed on her sore knee. With a grimace, she picked herself up.
She was a complete fool. She’d gotten Ulf killed.
And she’d been untrue to Siegfried with Etainen. She had heard about the Cimbri chieftain wanting to work with Rome even though some tribesmen vocally opposed him.
Odd though, Etainen had mentioned eight. Siegfried’s entire boat, or at least the diagram she had stuffed in her mattress, was entirely built in multiples of eight.
Still, she was glad he’d made the Roman general release her. She’d been about to rail at the general, which could have been disastrous. She got much more done behind the scenes. No, no rousing suspicion. That would ruin everything.
****
Freya found her clothing, a vivid blue toga, hidden in shrubbery where she’d left it. She wished she could wear Tyrian purple, but only Romans of certain stature were permitted to wear that color. She piled on the strings of pearls and scrubbed her face in a fountain with a statue of a leaping horse. The box and what was inside it remained concealed where she’d hidden the clothing.
She then made her way to her parents’ audience chamber to see if they had any idea of what she’d done. It was better to deal with that immediately. And perhaps she’d catch another peek at Etainen.
“Freya,” her mother’s voice called. The leather shoes under her gray toga thudded on the gray stone of the corridor, lit by the thin arrow slots and torches. “I have been looking everywhere for you. Clearly, I have to do things for myself, because none of the staff could find you. You’re getting married tomorrow.”
Freya turned and forced a smile. “I found a quiet place to write and lost track of the time.”
“Please tell me you’ve not been drinking yet?”
“No.” She thought of the blueberry ale…and the ale she’d had during her excursion in the market. “No. I must present my best face to Etainen.”
Adele examined Freya’s face. “Then you might want to show a face that isn’t scratched.”
Freya wished she’d taken the time to go to her room first, where she could have covered the abrasions with face paint.
Her mother had already moved on to the next point in her lecture. “Remember what I told you about acting responsibly. A man is supposed to be the one drinking and carousing…and falling.” She grimaced. “You are supposed to keep him in line, not join him in the drinking and carousing. I can smell it on your breath.”
“Of course, Mother.”
“And you have a new lady’s maid.”
“A new one? Why? What’s wrong with Kirsa?” Kirsa was a bit surly and only ever talked of handsome men, but she’d been Freya’s maid for years now.
“This woman came to the palace, begging for the position…more so demanded it, really. Quite pretty, too. She’s a little unconventional, but when she displayed some of the garments she could make, I thought that might ease you a little. I know you like pretty things.” Adele lowered her voice. “You look a little ill. It would be best if you rest. I know I burden you with much. But do me one more favor.”
“Yes, Mother?”
Adele grabbed her daughter’s arm and pulled her close. “Try to not let Etainen know how you feel about Siegfried the Fox.”
Freya gaped at her.
“Of course, I know. Mother’s intuition, dear. An outlaw has a certain appeal to a woman, but this is just an infatuation. You can have a good marriage with Etainen. Remember what Rome has done for us. A stable man is a better match than an outlaw. You’ll see that when you mature.” Adele frowned, as if thinking that Freya was late in maturing.
“Does Father—”
“No, he doesn’t know, but I recognize the glazed look in your eyes whenever that pirate’s name is mentioned. There are some things a father might not understand, so there’s no reason to bring him into any of this.”
Freya led the way into her bedchamber and began fussing with her cosmetics.
“Freya, I ask this more because General Pompey arrived today. Anyone suspicious, in his mind, automatically is connected to pirates. Even a foolish infatuation could make Pompey ask too many questions. Your match with Etainen will keep you safe when we are gone. You knew this match would be made from the time you were a child. We must keep our word. Your husband will use his influence with Rome to make sure you are provided for and kept from harm.”
He’d already kept her from harm today. But if he knew the truth, he probably would have cut off both her arms for General Pompey. Freya held her tongue until her m
other finished her lecture and left her to dress for the evening. She removed a small mirror from her satchel, deciding to use dramatic colors, wings of color around her eyes as Hedwig had worn. Even if she looked a little too painted, she could not risk Pompey recognizing her.
She gave her reflection another glance, thinking she looked more like a whore now than she had when Pompey had found her, but not at all like the one Pompey had seen. Satisfied, she swept into her parents’ audience chamber. She had taken several steps into the marble-floored chamber before she realized there were two perfidious creatures sitting in the carved pine chairs. General Pompey was studying her, and Odilia’s square shoulders were hunched over her lap as she contemplated something. Freya wanted to turn and run.
“Freya,” her father called. “Ah, it is good to see you.”
Freya smiled at her father, ignoring the two unwanted visitors. Two servants entered, one bearing a plate of salmon, the other bearing a tray of wines and ales. Freya grabbed a tankard. When she saw the disapproving stares of Odilia and her mother, she tipped the vessel back, draining half. Not as good as Balder’s blueberry ale but passable.
General Pompey’s uniform included a ridiculous red horse tail atop his head. Male visitors usually doffed their headgear in her parents’ solar, but not Pompey. Maybe he was balding, but more likely he was just a typical Roman who paid little respect to tribal people.
Freya began twirling her hair, assuming the persona she adopted around Odilia and others of her ilk. When Freya pretended to be an empty-headed princess, her enemies dropped their guard and spoke more freely, giving more information for her to pass through Ulf.
Ulf… Knowing he’d been killed today gave Freya some leeway to insult his murderer. Insult now, not mourn.
“Interesting,” Freya said to Pompey’s head, stepping around to his side. She gave the horse tail a tug. He was staring at her throat and her breasts—openly. She pretended not to notice, as she normally did in such situations. “I don’t understand why you’d wear this. The metaphor is tragically obvious. Under a horse’s tail, you’re sure to find an asshole.” She clamped her mouth shut. That part of her, the impulsive part that had surfaced earlier… She was finding it harder to control her tongue.
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