Widow's Pique

by Marilyn Todd

  'You've been trying for babies?' Claudia murmured.

  Vani took careful aim before lobbing her apple core into the fountain with a perfect bullseye.

  'For that, pumpkin, it takes two, and maybe if my husband spent more time in his wife's bed than with his bloody mastiffs, we'd have a better chance, though frankly, with his miserable performance, I rather doubt it. Mollycoddle them too much and everything goes soft.'

  No wonder she found Kazan so attractive. A seasoned womanizer with that oh-so-essential ingredient, charm, he was that archetype of all lovers. The broad hunk with the slow hand. Claudia tried to think of a way to steer Kazan into the conversation.

  'It was good of you to look in on me after my fall.'

  'Don't be silly, it was the least I could do! I mean, honestly, fit as I am, even I don't take stairs twelve at a time. Dammit, woman, you put me to shame!' Vani shot her a sheepish grin. 'Mind, I thought you were asleep. I suppose you . . . well, I suppose you saw me kissing Kazan . . . ?'

  'Either that, or I dreamed about limpets.'

  Vani eased herself off the table and bridged her back on the floor.

  'It's only sex. '

  Her back arched like a bow.

  'The thing is, I signed up for this marriage and I've no intention of leaving my husband, but - well, Kazan's fun.'

  She contorted into another gymnastic position.

  And we do try to be discreet. Well, discreet-isA/ It's not easy when there are so few opportunities, so when that old battleaxe insisted Kazan remained in your room to keep watch—'

  'Rosmerta did?'

  'I told you.' Vani was in danger of tying herself in a knot. 'She doesn't look the motherly type, but tigresses could learn from that woman. As far as she's concerned, you're Histri now, pumpkin, and even though she's Illyrian born, she's Histri by marriage and that makes her one herself

  'A dozen more stairs and I would have been history in every sense,' Claudia quipped.

  Another performance like that, my girl, and I'm in danger of losing my crown for the Milk Race!'

  'Milk Race?'

  'Sorry, pumpkin, I'm forgetting you're a stranger to these shores.' Muscular legs performed the splits. 'See her?'

  Vani pointed to a stone cat curled in the corner.

  'That's Kikimora, Goddess of Plenty, and on the day of her festival, libations of milk are poured, rather than wine. Also, since Kikimora stands for contentment, her day is a public holiday with foot races, boxing competitions, wrestling, discus, you name it, hence the term Milk Race. Like the Greeks, though, our men compete naked, and the following day, of course, it's the marriage announcements.'

  She straightened up and grinned impishly.

  'That way, we girls know what we're getting.'

  Although principally a fishing community that served every farm and village in the close proximity, the town of Rovin was still that: a town. A thriving, bustling town to be precise, where bankers set up stalls outside the temples, street sweepers kept the cobbles clean and masons hammered dawn till dusk, sculpting the island's bright, white stone. Since the Histri were self-sufficient in every sense, many trades were absent, such as weavers, barrel makers, basket makers, bone whittlers and dyers, and with no funds for luxury goods, there were no ivory carvers on the island, either, no perfume sellers, glassblowers or spice merchants, which would proliferate in the streets of Pula.

  Barber shops were missing, too, the Histri having a strong attachment to their hair, whether on the head, on the face or on the body, a sentiment that sadly applied every bit to women as to men. It seemed odd, not having chariots trying to mow people down every ten seconds, for astrologers not to be touting their charts to read your fortune and viper tamers piping over their menacing charges. But Rovin still resounded

  to the clack of cobblers bent over their lasts, to the grinding of grain and the sawing of timber, and thirsts were still quenched in the many taverns whose stools spilled out into the shade.

  Claudia was one such customer, the tavern keeper both flattered and flustered at such illustrious patronage, so that, having already plied her with a jug of his finest red wine at no cost, he was now in the process of inundating his guest with a selection of cheese pastries, ham rissoles and chunks of blood sausage deep fried with garlic. The tavern was nothing like the one she used to dance in, what seemed like a lifetime ago now. That had been smoke-filled and dirty, populated by sailors disembarking after too many long months at sea. She shuddered at the memory.

  'It seems my hospitality has been somewhat lacking.'

  The shadow that fell across her table smelled of cool mountain forests and his bow was so deep, it was a wonder his pants didn't split. She'd wondered how long it would take him to run her to ground.

  'Not a bit,' she replied, tucking into another piece of spicy red sausage.

  'But . . .'

  A languid boot hooked up a stool and sat down beside her. Wasn't there a nursery rhyme about that?

  '. . . I was under the impression that you'd been offered breakfast.'

  Claudia reached for another hot pastry. And your point?'

  Mazares rested his elbows on the table and shook his head slowly. 'None at all, My Lady. None at all.'

  People were staring. They were trying to be subtle about it, but they were unable to hide their astonishment. The nobility don't eat at streetside taverns! They just don't! It's not done! She'd hoped such indignity would make him squirm, but if it did, he was hiding it well.

  'You might be interested to know that the King had invited you to be guest of honour at the Feast of Zeltane tonight.'

  'Yes, I know.'

  That lifted his eyebrows off their launch pads!

  'Rosmerta told me.'

  'Did she?' he drawled. 'Anyway, if you wish to travel to Gora instead, and you did say it was your intention to hasten there with all speed, let me know and I'll put the arrangements in hand.'

  'Nonsense, I'd love to be guest of honour,' she cooed, returning his artless smile.

  So many people milling around. So many opportunities to slip away!

  'One thing puzzles me, though, Mazares. This invitation? I understood communications to the mainland were severed.'

  'Not all requests come by messenger, My Lady, but in this case the invite is of long standing. And since we Histri can't resist dressing up for our festivities, the King's taken the liberty of having a costume prepared for you in advance.'

  Really? How did anyone know exactly which date I'd arrive . . . ?

  'How thoughtful.'

  'We're a thoughtful race,' Mazares grinned. 'Now, me, since the moon is in Taurus, I shall be wearing the headdress and pelt of a bull.'

  'You disappoint me,' she replied. 'At the very least, I expected a wolf.'

  'Then I shall make a note to come as a wolf next year.' His wrist performed a theatrical flourish. 'But for you, My Lady, and seeing how this festival celebrates the zenith of spring and thus the very flowering of life itself, for you we've had sewn a gown of rainbow colours.'

  'I'm sure I'll suit every one.'

  'They'll certainly match every bruise,' he tossed back. 'But you see, the rainbow is the Queen of Heaven's sacred emblem, and we Histri believe an iris grows wherever one touches the ground.'

  A nobler notion than the pot of gold we Romans tend to look for.'

  'We're a noble race, My Lady.'

  'Thoughtful, noble, is there no end to your kingdom's discerning attributes?'

  'None whatsoever. Will you walk with me, Claudia?'

  Oh, good. He was squirming.

  She slipped her hand through the proffered arm, encased in its customary crisp white embroidered cotton and, just like any long-time married couple, they strolled leisurely down to the quayside, where fishermen hauled on flax nets across the shimmering lagoon. Thanks to the angle of the sun, one island merged seamlessly into another on the horizon while, behind them, Rovin's white stone buildings retreated up the hill in tidy terraces.

&n
bsp; 'Zeltane is but one of many festivals,' Mazares said, 'and since you'll be marrying into us, I reckon somebody ought to explain about our arcane practices and spooky customs.'

  Who better than the werewolf himself?

  'How spooky?'

  'Ooh . . .' Mazares shrugged his broad shoulders. 'Maybe . . . ?'

  As he leaned forward to preen his reflection with both hands in the mirrored calm of the sea, something brushed the nape of Claudia's neck. She shivered, and they both laughed. Amusing, yes. Sleight of hand always is, especially when it's accompanied by comic gestures. But make no mistake, Claudia Seferius was the puppet and Mazares the man jerking the strings. So far, the genial puppet-master had required little of his marionette, but she knew the dance was about to begin, and she shivered again.

  'Cold? You're welcome to my shirt.'

  'I'd hate to see you go naked.' Though many women would not.

  'I wasn't offering to go that far,' he murmured. 'These boots are a sod to take off. Oh, Pavan!'

  The general looked up from where his strong arms were assisting a small boat to tie up at the quayside.

  'Be a pal, would you, and run through our quaint Histrian ways with our honoured guest? Only, there's going to be a riot soon, unless those ferry ropes are fixed—'

  Mazares stopped short, his whole expression changing as a crate was hauled out of the boat and lowered by winch on to the jetty. The latch was flipped and suddenly two enormous Molossan hounds were bounding over the cobbles. Claudia took two paces backwards. These dogs were just one step down from a wolf and, with their heavy grey pelts, amber eyes and pricked ears, she could just picture them roaming the forests of Histria, howling mournfully into the night. Making a rapid calculation on a scale of one to ten at just how tasty these brutes might find her, she put the figure at nine-and-three-quarters.

  'Elki! Saber!'

  Tails wagging, the dogs lunged straight for Mazares, pressing their muzzles into his hands before rolling over on to their backs for a belly rub.

  'Well, this is a surprise,' Mazares said.

  Friends, she decided, who'd been parted too long. Three wolves together. A pack . . .

  Further crates were being lowered on to the quayside, though no one seemed in a hurry to flip these particular latches. Packed with muscle and bigger, even, than the Molossan hounds, their squat, broad muzzles curled in snarls and their wide-set eyes bulged out in hate.

  'Why don't you free the mastiffs?' she asked Pavan.

  Not that she was ungrateful.

  'It seems cruel to keep one lot of pets cooped up in their cages while the others romp free in the open.'

  'Them?' Pavan sneered. 'They're not Mazares's. They belong to Kazan and his sons, and they're not pets. They're hunting hounds, vicious brutes, and my advice is to steer well clear of them.'

  His grey eyes narrowed.

  'It was a mastiff like that which killed the King's son. Disembowelled him, when he was out chasing a stag.'

  Watching Mazares's white shirt cut through the crowds, his Molossan hounds loping joyfully alongside, Claudia reduced the death toll to seven.

  Pavan picked up a handful of pebbles and began skipping them over the water. 'Aye, I suppose an outsider might find one or two of our customs take a bit of getting used to.'

  Really? Worshipping in sites made holy by nature, such as in caves, beside springs, or in sacred groves, wasn't so different from Roman devotions. The grandiose temples were simply a way to say thank you. Or was Pavan referring to the Histrian ritual of burying the dead along with all their possessions, and in cemeteries ringed by ditches, rather than cremated and interring them in tombs like the Romans?

  'Oh, I don't know,' she breezed back. 'Some practices cross all cultural divides.'

  She nodded towards the couple kissing with such ardent concentration in a fishing boat, that they were completely unaware that a combination of passion and current was fetching them ever closer to the shore.

  'Or is adultery taken for granted in this particular kingdom?'

  Because there was no mistaking Kazan's boyish good looks - or Vani's apple-cheeked athleticism. Diana of the Hunt, still. But chased instead of chaste.

  The general made a noise in the back of his throat.

  'Hunting, fishing and women - but you have to hand it to the lad, he's bloody good at all three.'

  Forty was a bit old to be considered a lad, wasn't it? Especially when Pavan was the same age.

  'A bit of a wastrel, is he, then, this Kazan?' she asked in the sort of girly, gossipy tone that tends to draw taciturn types out.

  She suddenly sensed Kazan as the conspirators' weak link. Someone to be flattered and teased, slept with if necessary.

  Anything to get out of this place alive.

  'More of a dreamer, I'd say.'

  Pavan returned to skipping his pebbles.

  'The youngest child's always indulged, but being spoiled hasn't spoiled him, if ye get my drift. He's always happy and smiling, everyone likes him, and in turn he's everyone's friend.'

  Better and better!

  'I suppose when you look at the sourpuss he's married to,' she chirruped, 'you can't blame Kazan for losing himself in his . . . hobbies.'

  Down by the ferry landing, Mazares's easy authority was calming the crowd, and progress on fitting the new ropes was improving because of it. Claudia followed the profile of strong, goateed jaw to tight, narrow trousers, taking in the aureole of glossy curls that fell to his shoulders, the crows' feet at his eyes, that preposterous, swirling, drop-dead-sexy moustache.

  'Has he ever married?' she asked Pavan.

  'Aye. Once.' He kept his gaze on a shoal of black fish nibbling at the stone harbour wall.

  Odd, Claudia mused, how the Histri have adopted so many of our Roman practices. Construction projects, such as this harbour. Bathhouses, drains, libraries and gymnasia. How seamlessly they've fitted into our rule. Yet remain so emotionally distant . . .

  'What happened?'

  Several seconds passed before Pavan lifted his steely grey gaze.

  'Same thing that happens to us all, ma'am. She died. Now, if ye'll excuse me, I'll lend them a hand with the ferry.'

  Claudia watched the general's ponytail bobbing with exertion as he hauled on the ropes, his massive frame towering above the islanders round him. She watched long after the ferry had tested its new connections with a trip to the mainland. She even watched while it fetched back a consignment of wine in oak barrels and game birds hanging from poles for the feast.

  Disembowelled by a mastiff? She had instantly scrubbed the King's son off her list, though the difference it made to the death toll was nothing.

  It still stood at eight.

  Thirteen

  Like Greek festivals, Zeltane wasn't due to commence until sundown, and it started with the sacrifice outside the temple of a white ram to Perun. Earlier, in preparation for the celebrations, bonfires had been lit all over the mainland as well as the island, although the types of fire were not restricted. Flames leapt in every hearth in every home, from the grandest to the most humble. Beacons flared, torches spat, sconces flickered and candles guttered, each one symbolizing the sun's rays on earth as, for this one night of the year, night was transformed into day. Bald heads were greased, some had even taken to shaving their long Histrian locks, so they could shine like lanterns during the celebrations. Any glow-worm with sense hid itself deep in the foliage.

  Hunters and fishermen in horns and antlers whisked tots up on their shoulders, singing and cavorting as they jollied their way round the plaza. Women in elaborately woven skirts and tasselled scarves chanted happy songs as they garlanded the statues and wreathed flowers in their braids, while the younger girls paraded shyly in chaplets of scented spring blossoms; iris, arabis and pinks. Each celebrant wore at least one amulet depicting mythical creatures that would protect them, although many had taken the spirit of Zeltane a step further by dressing up in full regalia.

  Woodpeckers were pop
ular, the men cloaking themselves in green feathers and red hats to emulate the royal totem, and quite a few had come as Perun, painting their faces black, like the god's, to resemble his thunder. Marek and Mir both

  pretended to be the god of bathing, whitening their hair with flour or chalk and shuffling along like old men, hooting with laughter as they tipped drinks over unsuspecting revellers, forcing them to rush to the bathhouse to clean up.

  'My goodness, if the Lady Claudia isn't the spitting image of the goddess Perunika!'

  Rosmerta's boom cut through the crackle of the logs, the laughter and the singing, and the hissing of fats dripping from the oxen roasting on spits.

  'You will be absolutely perfect, sweeping in after the thunder and leaving a glorious rainbow in your wake.'

  'Thank you.'

  And thank Mazares. The slimy weasel had neatly ensured that she'd stand out like a sore thumb!

  'I see you've come as - oh, remind me again?'

  Rosmerta had abandoned high fashion in favour of a closely fitting white garment that highlighted every ounce of corseted flesh. Having also whitened her face with some kind of ash, she'd topped off the ensemble by encasing her head in a white veil as well. Scary enough, without those twiggy things stuck on her cheeks.

  'Kikimora,' Rosmerta said proudly.

  The twiggy things, then, were supposed to be whiskers. Kikimora, Goddess of the Hearth, was depicted as a cat (for contentment), white (for purity) and invariably a fat cat, because fat equated with plenty. Every household kept a stone or painted wooden sculpture by their fireside.

  'Are you content?' Claudia asked.

  As befits a man who'd taken two wives, even though one of them wasn't his own, Kazan had turned himself into the Sun God for the festivities and was schmoozing his way round the crowd, a vision in saffron, right down to the garland of honey-scented melliot draped over his torque.