by M. K. Hume
Gareth opened his mouth to speak. But Lorcan interrupted, for the priest rarely let the young Briton finish a sentence these days.
“If you’re going to rehash the mess we’re in, who this Deuteria bitch is, or how little you trust the puppet master, then I’m sick and tired of talking about these subjects. For once, try to think about Germanus, who is being forced to pander to the needs of that soft-bellied, unscrupulous mongrel. That bastard of a man is capable of any humiliation.”
“I’ve been thinking about Germanus. There’s no guarantee that he’ll still be alive when we return with this Deuteria. That arrogant prick ordered the serving wench to be killed as if she was a nothing. We don’t know his name or what power he has at his command, so we don’t even know how to find him when we return. Germanus is the only person among us who has the ability to obtain any information, so he may even decide to kill our friend to keep his mouth shut. Shite, I hate this country!”
“Stop trying to change the subject,” Lorcan snapped. “He’ll have to keep Germanus alive until such time as we deliver Deuteria to Reims. After that, I believe we’ll be on our own! But I’m reasonably certain that he’ll permit us to travel into the north, though he’ll let the Saxons know that we’re entering their lands. That’s what I’d do if I were in his shoes.”
“That smells right! If anyone ever warranted death, it’s that bastard. Insects like him always do very well in this world and they feed off the dead. Egbert, the innkeeper, knew what he was about when he sent the girl to serve our friends in the barroom. He knew that anyone who overheard any conversations would probably be killed, but better her than him. Both of those beasts are evil!”
“After we’ve reunited with Germanus and we’ve headed north again, perhaps you could make a detour and give our compliments to our associates in Soissons,” Lorcan suggested. “If you were to watch the king’s quarters, you’ll be certain to discover the identity of our mystery man. We can be sure that he’s a parasite who hunts for wealth on the fringes of the court.”
Gareth grinned in a way that promised an unpleasant outcome for someone at the end of this particular mission.
“Meanwhile, we have to consider our immediate task. By my reckoning, Beziers is over that line of hills, and we’ll be there by this evening. We’ve been on the road for more than three weeks, and summer is almost here. So, the question for tonight is, do we sleep rough, or should we enjoy the hospitality of an inn? I confess that I’d like a bath, and if this family is as important as we’ve been told, we will need to look safe and clean when we arrive on their doorstep. Otherwise, we’ll be tied up for days convincing them that we’re harmless or have the authority to act on behalf of our mystery man. Either way, I’d just as soon be out of this place quickly. Our biggest problem is that I’ve never known a woman who could pack speedily or lightly. From my experience, she’ll want to take enough with her to furnish several homes, including her robes, jewels, and sandals.”
“Let’s stay at an inn then! Our benefactor is paying for it, so why not?”
Lorcan and Gareth had been more companionable than ever before during their journey into the south. Without his friend as the subject and the source of his banter, Lorcan talked sensibly and descriptively, as if Gareth was a young pupil. As Gareth had been taught nothing other than the art of warfare or armaments, the young Briton was ignorant on many subjects and responded in a childish manner to tales of the Merovingian kings and their ancestors, Clovis and Merovech. The challenge of keeping Gareth interested gave Lorcan pleasure on even the most tedious of days on the road. Gareth asked constant questions, much like a toddler who wants to know the name of every unfamiliar flower or tree.
And the Briton was forced to admit, if only to himself, that he thoroughly enjoyed the journey to Beziers. Lorcan possessed a brilliant mind underneath the quixotic sense of humor, so Gareth discovered that he was quite fond of the devilish old priest.
Beziers was a pretty town on the River Orb, and it was sufficiently far from the main roads to have avoided Justinian’s disease, which was still cutting a swathe of despair and destruction from the port of Massilia to places deep inside the Frankish kingdoms. The travelers found that the citizens who frequented the inn in Beziers were eager to talk about the world beyond Septimania and showed no fears of the two strangers, once Lorcan had scrubbed himself from head to toe, including his habit, which immediately changed color from a pale shade of brown to a heavy cream. The dampened material had shrunk so much that Lorcan’s bony ankles were exposed, as were his angular wrists. Somehow, the overall effect suggested the wearer was trustworthy, harmless, and vulnerable.
A brief conversation over a glass of indifferent red wine seemed to oil the tongues of the regular drinkers, who were eager to talk about Deuteria and her family history. In fact, as Gareth said later that night as he led a tipsy Lorcan to bed, it was impossible to shut them up. One red-nosed wine merchant was particularly chatty. “The Sedonius family shove our noses in their noble background, so we are all aware that they’re descended from Saint Avitus and his namesake, the Emperor Avitus. The family rules Auvergne as if they hold the divine rights of kingship, although what they have to boast of now is a wonder to me.”
“You don’t like them overmuch, I take it,” Lorcan hinted, and called for another flask of the good red that the wine merchant had been guzzling.
“Like them? They think their shit doesn’t stink like the rest of us in this world of tears. As for that Deuteria bitch, I don’t begrudge you having to escort her on a journey where you are forced to spend time with her. Rather you than me, priest! Did you know that she drowned her daughter because of a man they were fighting over?”
“Charming!” Lorcan replied dryly.
The wine merchant sniggered and then continued.
“Deuteria used to be the wife of that Frank king, Theudebert, who rules up in the north. He’s the one who’s causing such a fuss with the emperor of Constantinople over Italia. Still, the man’s got an uncertain temper and a reputation for executing anyone who doesn’t bow fast enough for his liking. He’s a hard man, I suppose, so he’s busy with his wars most of the time. Strangely, business does well in his kingdom, so his people have little to complain about. Anyway, where was I?”
Gareth was sardonic in his reply. “Explaining why Deuteria killed her daughter.”
The wine merchant looked at Lorcan for sympathy. “Is that boy always so impatient?”
“Yes, he is! Gareth has always been lacking in the godly virtues, I’m afraid.”
“Young people are a trial these days. My son . . . Well, priest, I won’t get into that, or we’ll be here all night. Theudebert was looking rather closely at Deuteria’s daughter, who was about twelve at the time. She was just about ready for plucking, so he liked what he saw!”
The wine merchant winked.
“Adia—that’s what her name was! She was a pretty little thing when she lived here. But she was only about five or six then, so who knew what such a daughter would turn into? Anyway, the Frank lords weren’t impressed with what happened, although Deuteria wailed and wept that she’d been misunderstood. The lords took umbrage at such monstrous behavior in their queen and kicked her out, regardless of what Theudebert wanted. And so Deuteria has lived in Beziers ever since. By the gods, the bitch owes money to everyone, including me.”
“Why do you let her buy your wine if you know she’s not going to pay for it?” Gareth asked bluntly. “Isn’t it bad business on your part?”
“You’ll know why when you meet her,” the wine merchant replied, and swallowed deeply, spilling some of the ruby colored liquid down his food-spotted tunic. “I wouldn’t put anything past a woman who’d drown her own daughter.”
Lorcan continued to drink with the wine merchant in the hope that more information might be dredged out of him, but the man knew little else that would be of use to the travelers. However
, even Gareth had to concede that they had gained valuable advance information for the cost of a few flasks of indifferent red wine.
Lorcan had a mild headache the next morning, but he was also familiar with some details of the people he would be dealing with at the Sedonius house, which was located on the outer fringe of the city. The residence had once been part of a large Roman complex, so Father Lorcan felt a little shiver of superstition as he remembered such buildings from his youth when he had been a wide-eyed boy in the City of the Seven Hills. A row of cypress pines pointed skyward like dark green fingers from behind a wall of fieldstone.
The two travelers entered the premises through a very small gate and rang the large brass bell at the heavily chained door at the front of the building.
Both men cooled their heels outside until a servant slouched to the gate and unlocked the huge padlock and chain, before ushering them into the villa’s old-fashioned triclinium, all conducted in sullen silence.
“Obviously Rome wasn’t the only thing destroyed at the end of the empire. Along with the bricks and mortar, they lost their manners as well,” Lorcan stated audibly. The servant ignored the insults, shrugged, and wandered off.
“Did Romans lie down to eat?” Gareth asked with a curious, bemused expression on his face as he gazed at the antique couches covered with slightly soiled but very expensive cloth. The central table was low by modern standards, but the polished and inlaid woods were set at a perfect height for men and women who were reclining on couches.
“I don’t think I fancy lying down to dine,” he added, using one hand to check how comfortable the upholstery might be.
“Oh, it has some advantages!” a drawled contralto voice purred with sexual promise, as both men turned rapidly to face the speaker. “You must remember that the old Romans were hedonists. Do you know what a hedonist is, young man?”
“Uh!”
The woman who had entered the room was tall, even by Frank standards, but she was curvaceous and voluptuous in ways that were rare in northern women. Her hair was so black that it shone blue by the light that filtered in from the central garden and, instead of braiding her hair as was considered appropriate for older or married matrons, this woman had permitted her mane to hang to her knees unbound. She was somewhere in her thirties and was neither lined nor weather-beaten, but her face seemed to be frozen into a contracted and expressionless mask.
Will her face crack if she smiles? Gareth wondered. And why is she looking at me like I’m a tasty meal?
A man could get lost in that hair, Lorcan thought wistfully.
“I’m Deuteria. I’ve been told you have a message for me.”
Lorcan fished the square of vellum out of his pouch, while checking to ensure that the wax seal was still in place. Deuteria would be assured that her message hadn’t been read by either of the couriers, for the scarlet seal was quivering on the ivory-colored vellum like a drop of fresh blood.
“Sit if you want while I’m reading.” Deuteria waved one hand absentmindedly while perching herself on the edge of an ornamental marble bench in the atrium. The men sat awkwardly on the nearest couch.
Gareth now had the leisure to examine the face of this repellent woman without staring rudely. Her features were aquiline and beautiful in repose, although she could appear haughty by lifting her strong, pointed chin. Her eyes were an unusual shade of amber, almost yellow. Later, Lorcan would speak of her similarity to a huge sand-colored lioness that he had seen in Rome almost a lifetime earlier. The great cat had possessed those same blank, yellow eyes.
By contrast, Deuteria’s mouth was small, full, and richly red. She worried at her lower lip with unusually large white teeth as she read the message. She seemed to be fighting an internal battle with greed and gratification on one hand, and caution and annoyance on the other.
Lorcan and Gareth watched Deuteria think from totally opposed perspectives. Lorcan was immediately drawn to her Latin beauty, while Gareth found her hot eyes and the blatant exposure of her breasts in the flimsy robe to be grossly inappropriate. Deuteria had read the young man wrongly, a mistake she rarely made. On this occasion, vanity had clouded her usual masculine grasp of situations and persons.
Finally, having devoured the contents of the letter several times, Deuteria rose to her feet gracefully while her silken green gown parted suggestively over her long legs. Gareth tried not to watch the spectacle and concentrated on ignoring her heavy perfume. The fragrance of lilies, sandalwood, and something strange, depraved, and repulsively attractive nestled in her hair, her clothes, and the folds of her skin.
“I believe you’re aware of the contents of this letter, so I assume you’ve been instructed to accompany me to Reims.” She laughed sardonically. “If I had any sense at all, I should cut this letter into tiny pieces, burn them, and send the ashes back—but I won’t.”
She sighed deeply. Her fabled understanding of men had saddened her.
“I’m growing old and I’m lonely. For that reason alone, I’ll accompany you to Reims.”
“Good!” Gareth interrupted rudely. “We’ll be ready to ride tomorrow, so—”
“Goodness, young man. It will take me three days at best to pack, organize a wagon and what servants I need to accompany me for my journey into the north. At the very least, I’ll need a cook, a maidservant, and a bodyguard.”
Deuteria’s flippant manner caused Gareth to clench his fists and wonder if he would be punished if he tied the confounded woman over a horse and dragged her to Reims. Lorcan intervened immediately.
“Then we’ll return in four days at noon—hence to depart. And now, sweet mistress, I thank you for your patience and candor with us.”
The lady began to consider a mental list of what had to be taken when undertaking such a long journey. Even when the men left she was still standing in the same spot while biting her full lower lip in confusion.
Three days of boredom.
Three days of rest.
Three days of restive pacing for the two men as they sharpened their weapons and planned how quickly they could complete the journey.
As a Roman matron of over thirty years, Deuteria had driven her staff to agonies of packing, despite the criticism and threats from a younger brother and two sisters. As a widow of mixed reputation and considerable fortune, Deuteria could do as she chose and, after a lifetime of autocratic behavior, she was unlikely to change.
Deuteria had read the brief message from Theudebert in which he swore undying love and devotion, but still proposed to maintain the same old secrecy regarding their relationship. His lords had insisted on her banishment over that silly little slut, Adia, and Theudebert had no intention of alienating the lords, even though he was the king. She had been unceremoniously dumped into the backwaters of Septimania once, but she swore it would not happen a second time.
“Even kings can become ill and die unexpectedly,” she promised herself, as she gazed at a bewildering tangle of silken gowns of every possible color that had traveled all the way from Constantinople before being stored away for future use.
Deuteria was a proud woman, and no one had dared to mention Theudebert’s name for three years after she had returned from the north. As queen she’d been revered by her subjects but then, in a heartbeat, she had been transformed into a Roman widow. Finally, she became the castoff of her king, so her cheeks were burning with the memory of her disgrace.
So why was she contemplating a life in Reims as the concubine of the Frankish king?
Even Deuteria, a Roman matron of the most arrogant and unbending type, longed for admiration and love as she was aging. To be the secret love of a king is no small thing, nor is it to be so feared that strong lords would defer to her influence. Theudebert’s proposal brought a rush of blood to Deuteria’s head in a year that had been tedious in every possible way. Callous and cruel to the core, she was also a brave woman and to be
transplanted over five hundred miles to a city of strangers was of little consequence when compared with the endless predictability of life in rural, bucolic Beziers.
When Gareth and Father Lorcan arrived with packhorses that were laden with supplies, the gates to the villa had been opened and a wagon was piled high with furniture, carpets, caskets, and chests of clothing. A large marble bust of the Emperor Avitus was teetering atop a mountain of clothes’ chests, while four large cart horses were set in the traces, readied for departure. Finally, a weeping girl, a plump man, and a muscular bodyguard stood in the midst of their personal possessions while Deuteria paced around the forecourt issuing rapid-fire instructions. Confusion reigned, and any hope of leaving in the immediate future was clearly at risk because of Deuteria’s high-handedness.
“May I assist, mistress?” Lorcan cooed in his oiliest, most fawning voice. “A beautiful woman should never have to soil her hands with menial tasks like these.”
Deuteria knew she was being manipulated but her pride was left intact, so Lorcan was permitted to organize their departure.
The crying maid was cajoled into the back of the wagon and instructed to protect the marble bust, while the bodyguard agreed to take the reins of the wagon’s horses. The cook preferred to ride his showy black horse, the proof of his success in his trade, while Deuteria, with an open sunshade to protect her complexion, consented to ride on the high wagon seat next to Crispus, her bodyguard. As Lorcan organized his human geese into a semblance of sensible order, Gareth checked the traces and fixed the odd pieces of harness that were too loose or too tightly buckled for safety. Finally, he checked that the teetering load was securely tied down. He came to the immediate conclusion that no one in Deuteria’s retinue had the common sense or the practical application of a gnat.
Finally, they were ready. Long past noon, they were on their way while Deuteria kept up a wall of complaint that built higher and wider with each milestone that they passed. The cart horses were never going to be fast travelers, but they could plod along all day and half the night at a steady pace. Deuteria had suggested that they should sleep in the villa overnight since the hour was so advanced, but Lorcan had insisted that the journey must begin and, by the time they reached the first milestone, he had decided to punish Deuteria for her endless whining by continuing to travel long into the night. They would remain on the road for as long as the moon gave them sufficient light to see. By the time Lorcan called a halt for the evening, the Roman party had learned their lesson: complaint served no purpose other than to extend the day’s journey.
