Bound by Blood

by Mia West

  “At the other end of the village, I thought. For a change.”

  “Near the smithy?” Gwen asked.

  “I was thinking of the open spot there and the view it enjoys, but yes, just beyond the smithy.” He turned to Bedwyr. “Step outside a moment.”

  He followed his father outside. Uthyr closed the door behind them.

  “I have a task for you as well.”

  Some strategy challenge? Could he earn a house too?

  “I want you to watch Elain.”

  “She delivered a message.”

  “I don’t trust her. I suspect she has some secrets.”

  “What was the message?”

  Uthyr shook his head. “Nothing. Rhys thought of a few things more, that’s all. But I’m curious why he sent her.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Of course.” His father’s eyes seemed to twinkle in the early light. “Not everything can be discovered directly, my boy. She’s hiding something. You’re to discover it.”

  “Where?”

  “If I knew that, son, I’d have done it myself.”

  “No, I mean, where am I to do this?”

  “Here, at the house.”

  “You want me to…stay home?”

  “That’s right.”

  He was needed on patrol. Or in the watch towers. The armory, at least.

  Or was he a nursemaid now?

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Until I’m satisfied she poses no threat.”

  “What if she runs?”

  One black eyebrow rose. “Should I chain her to you?”

  Bedwyr ground his teeth together. “No.”

  “I’ve invited her to stay as my guest. I believe she’ll take advantage of my hospitality for a few days. It’s on you to make her want to stay long enough to suss her out.”

  Suss a woman? Where would he begin?

  And Arthur, not allowed to speak to anyone but Philip for two weeks.

  His father grinned unexpectedly. “Don’t brood. Perhaps she’ll turn out to be amusing company.”

  Someone who held his greatest secret in her palm?

  Not likely.

  Chapter 3

  Arthur found Master Philip in his library, sorting through scrolls.

  It was as if he were eleven years old again and arriving for lessons, except that Gwen hadn’t beaten him here and claimed the better stool. Arthur had always gotten the one that squeaked. They’d had almost all of their lessons together, since he was only a year older than Gwen. None of the other village girls took lessons, so he supposed it must have been something Lord Uthyr insisted on. To set Gwen up to be an attractive marriage prospect, maybe. In hindsight, Philip hadn’t treated her differently from Arthur in the classroom—girl or no, warlord’s daughter or no—and she’d kept Arthur on his toes. He’d been better with concrete things, as when they had built bridges or studied different sorts of stone. Gwen had been quicker with things he couldn’t see or touch, things that existed only in the mind. He couldn’t count the number of times she had explained something to him after lessons, when he wasn’t preoccupied watching the men in the training yard.

  Master Philip turned and caught him hesitating in the doorway. “Come, come,” he said, waving Arthur into the chamber. “Have a seat.”

  Arthur squinted at them, those same two wooden stools.

  Instead, he crossed to the shelves where Philip stood. “What are you doing?”

  “Gathering maps.” He checked the markings on a scroll’s wooden cap and pulled it from the shelf, setting it with a few others on a nearby table.

  “For?”

  Philip looked at him, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “For your strategy sessions, of course.”

  “How did you know I was coming here?”

  “Uthyr told us last night he was going to challenge you.”

  “Told who?”

  “Tiro and me.”

  Arthur stared at him. “He knew we would choose you as mentors?”

  Philip looked down his nose at him, which took some effort since Arthur stood several inches taller. “Arthur?”

  “Yes, Master Philip?”

  “How many times have I told you never to underestimate Lord Uthyr?”

  “A few.”

  “It would behoove you to heed my advice on occasion.”

  The cleric didn’t know everything. There were things a man couldn’t learn in a scroll. Arthur glanced at the maps. They looked…not dusty, exactly; Philip took better care of them than that. Dry, though. Very dry.

  This is for Bedwyr, he told himself. The prize was Uthyr’s house. Unlike Cai, Arthur didn’t plan to keep it for himself. The second-largest house should belong to the warlord’s heir. Arthur could hardly wait to see Bed’s face when he gave it to him.

  But these maps.

  “How was your trip?” he asked.

  “Good,” Philip said, setting another scroll on the table.

  Gods. How many maps were there? “Did you talk to Black Rhys?”

  “I did.”

  “What is he like?”

  “Still sharp as a needle point and fond of pranks.”

  “Is he truly black?”

  Philip pursed his lips. “Depends on how you imagine black. You may not believe this, young man, but once upon a more glorious time, my hair was black. As black as Lord Uthyr’s.”

  It was silver now. Had been for as long as Arthur could remember.

  “Don’t strain your brain trying to imagine it,” Philip said with a wry twist to his mouth. “If you’re thinking of the black of Uthyr’s hair, then no, Rhys isn’t that.”

  “Dark gray, then?”

  Philip chuckled. “You need to get out of these mountains. Maybe go on one of these diplomatic trips yourself sometime.”

  “I want to.”

  “Do you?”

  He did, though he hadn’t known it until he’d said so. Bedwyr hadn’t seemed disappointed about not accompanying Lord Uthyr this year. If Arthur ever went, he’d want Bed to go too, and not only because they would be apart otherwise. He just felt more…sturdy when Bed was around.

  “Well.” Philip turned back to the shelves. “When you do, I hope it will delight you to find that people of all shades exist in the world beyond these hills.” He looked at Arthur. “Black Rhys’s skin is a rather beautiful shade of brown, like an acorn, but Acorn Rhys doesn’t have the same ring to it. I don’t suggest you call him that when you meet him.”

  When he met Lord Rhys. Not if. Master Philip said it as if it were inevitable.

  “Where is Lord Rhys from?”

  “Cambria.”

  “But where first?”

  “Cambria.” Philip turned back to him. “He was born here, unlike either of us. His great-grandparents, or great-great-grandparents perhaps, ran a shipping route for Rome from Africa. They settled here to stabilize their trade. His forebears originated in Africa, though in the province or the continent, I know not which. Anyway, so says Rhys himself. Then again, he enjoys a good tale as much as Tiro does, so the truth of it all is anyone’s guess.”

  Arthur studied Philip’s skin in the morning light. It was different from most of their neighbors’ skin. Grandfather Marcus had sometimes called Philip “the Greek” because the cleric had been born in a place called Athenai. He’d lived in another called Constantinopolis before he made the long journey to Gaul, where he’d met Arthur’s grandparents. In summer, he tanned in the sun more than anyone else in the village. A blush on Philip looked different too, but it was rare; only Tiro knew how to bring it out. “I thought you said one time that people in Africa had skin like yours.”

  Philip smiled. “So you do remember a bit of what I taught you?”

  “A very small bit.”

  “How flattering. My life’s work has been worthwhile. Arthur, the Roman Empire was vast and diverse in almost every way you can imagine. Well, except in its leadership, I suppose. At any rate, the world beyond Rome was—is—even
more varied. Some people in Africa resemble me, some resemble Rhys, and some even resemble you, with your fiery red hair.”

  “Me?”

  The man nodded. “Celts would have settled there via commerce, just as Rhys’s people made a home here. Much of that trade has ceased now, however, and we’re more isolated. We tend toward homogeneity, which, frankly, has its drawbacks.”

  This conversation sounded as if it were headed toward one of Master Philip’s favorite topics to lecture on—natural philosophy. Gwen had understood it better than Arthur had. But he was eager to put more time between himself and the growing pile of maps, so he tried another approach. “Did Rhys have news of the wider world?”

  Philip eyed him in a way that made Arthur feel like a lad again. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “Stalling.”

  When Arthur held his tongue, Philip chuckled.

  “We had that same exchange about Lord Rhys’s blackness when you were five years old. And again when you were eight. And twelve, and fifteen.” He wagged a finger at Arthur. “A teacher knows his students’ ploys. Come.” He gestured to the maps. “If we want to win this strategy challenge, we should begin.”

  “We?”

  “Tiro is determined to show me up, so I have a stake in your victory. Now sit.”

  Arthur sighed and pulled up a stool. It squeaked under his weight.

  It was going to be a long two weeks.

  ~ ~ ~

  For the first couple of days, Bedwyr treated the stranger sternly, asking terse questions at odd intervals because his father had said once that that threw people off their balance, made them more likely to slip and tell the truth.

  The tactic seemed to have the opposite effect on Elain. The more erratic his timing, the more readily she answered. The stranger his questions, the more mundane her responses. At some point on the third morning, Gwen’s composure broke, and she giggled at his efforts. To his annoyance, an alliance was springing up between them—an alliance against him.

  They sat across from him at the table now, knee to knee and talking. They were slicing apple rings and threading them onto lengths of twine, to hang from the beams where they would dry. He was meant to be coring the fruits, but the women’s chatter had long since lulled him into a stupor. They hadn’t yet caught on to his idleness.

  She was intelligent, this Elain, and confident. So was his sister, but Elain wore the qualities differently. She seemed more worldly, so that he wondered about her birth. She wasn’t easily cowed—that was plain enough—but she was polite too, and generous with her help. She had a low, almost husky voice that was quickly becoming as much a part of his days as the ring of blades from the training yard or the whistle of the autumn wind in the eaves.

  Yet she hadn’t used that voice to tell Uthyr what she’d witnessed. Nor did she seem to want to hold the secret over Bedwyr’s head for her own gain. She shared their hearth and helped Gwen with her work. He was beginning to conclude she was just some woman Black Rhys had chosen to carry a message, had trusted to survive the journey on her own.

  Hold…hadn’t she told Arthur she was skillful with a dagger?

  He straightened. “Prove it.”

  The animated exchange on the other side of the table ceased, and they looked at him. Gwen frowned. “Prove what? Hey, you’re falling behind.”

  He nodded to Elain. “You said you’re good with a dagger.”

  She inclined her head. “So I did.”

  Gwen turned to her with renewed interest, if that was even possible. “Prove it.”

  Elain laughed. “No mistake you two are siblings.” She waved a hand to brush them off, but when they stared at her expectantly, she sighed, as if put upon. “Fine, fine.”

  It turned out she was very skilled. He stood in the back doorway, leaning against the jamb, pointing to this and that. She struck everything he pointed to, much to Gwen’s clapping delight. That distracted him—his sister wasn’t easily impressed—so that he barely saw Elain turn and, with the speed of a mountain cat, whip her blade at him. It pinned his shirtsleeve to the door jamb before he could react.

  Gwen yelped.

  He hoped he hadn’t. Yanking Elain’s blade free, he handed it to her and then stripped his shirt and gave her that as well. “You tore it. You mend it.”

  “You demanded proof,” she protested.

  “Don’t take it badly, Elain,” Gwen said, having recovered enough to cock an eyebrow at him. “He’s only grumpy.”

  He shot her a warning look—Don’t mention Arthur—though he was unsure why. Elain had seen him in a more compromising position with Arthur than Gwen ever had.

  Thank the gods.

  “Missing the training yard?” Elain asked, twirling the dagger with her fingertips.

  He trudged back to the table and sat on the bench. Dug the core from an apple.

  He missed the yard and the oblivion of physical work, and the shieldmate who met him for both.

  ~ ~ ~

  The days crept by slowly, filled with marked parchment and cooling days Arthur wasn’t outside to enjoy and evenings stuffed to bursting with Cai’s smug certainty.

  At least the story fires gave some relief.

  Arthur couldn’t speak to anyone but Master Philip, but there was more than one way to communicate. For more than a week now, he’d directed his message at Bedwyr. It said, Look at me.

  Because if he couldn’t hear Bed’s voice in his ear or feel his rough fingers on his skin, he would have his attention.

  All of it.

  Most evenings he began by doing what Lord Uthyr had allowed: he spoke to Philip. Always he positioned his body so that he faced Bedwyr. He exaggerated his gestures, making them quick and expansive and all-around eye-catching.

  At first, he won a glance here and there. Bedwyr sat near his father, the woman Elain between Bed and Gwen. Gwen seemed to have befriended Elain, so that they leaned together chatting much of the time. Bedwyr had made a good show of listening to Tiro and keeping a stern watch on Elain, but his gaze slid more and more often to Arthur. He could almost feel it each time it happened, as if Bed’s breath warmed his neck. It would smell both sweet and sour from the ale in the cup Bedwyr gripped tightly, and it would come in quiet, controlled huffs.

  Unless he could somehow rattle that control. For several nights he’d escalated his efforts. Tonight he wanted to know—needed to know—that Bed thirsted for more than the ale.

  So when Tiro was mid-tale and most of those attending wrapped up in it, Arthur took aim at his brooding target. Seated across the hall from him, Arthur settled back on his bench and let his knees relax wide. Casually draped one hand at the top of his thigh. Arched his back as though stretching out the kinks, and…

  He had him, like a rabbit in a snare. Bed’s dark eyes flashed to him, scanned the length of his body, then snagged on the way back up.

  Right where Arthur wanted them.

  Chapter 4

  Arthur was baiting him, Bedwyr was certain of it.

  He was equally certain he was helpless to resist the lure. Unfortunately, they were seated on opposite sides of the main hall during the story fire and could do nothing about it.

  Which made it all the better, in some perverse way. Seated between his father and Elain, Bedwyr kept one ear on the tale Tiro was telling—something about a land where nothing grew but sand, and horses stood taller than two men and had fire for tails. Nonsense, and he didn’t need to pay attention to laugh when everyone else laughed, or grumble about the hero’s foe when his neighbors grumbled.

  The rest of his senses were trained on Arthur, who slouched on a bench against the far wall, one elbow on the table next to him. The position tightened the fabric of his shirt across his biceps and chest, the taut folds in the cloth drawing Bedwyr’s eye down across a flat belly to the wide leather belt whose clasp he could flick open in his sleep. Below the buckle, Arthur’s legs splayed in an attitude of relaxed contentment.

>   But the calm was belied by the hand that rested on Arthur’s thigh. While Tiro held everyone else rapt in his strange story, Arthur held Bedwyr’s attention using only one thumb. It grazed up the wool of his crotch, slow but tense, and down again, and Bedwyr could almost feel the press of Arthur’s sac behind the fabric. Smell the sweat embedded in the wool. Taste the warm, pliable skin on his tongue.

  He shifted in his seat.

  “Quite the fantasy.”

  Startled, he looked at Elain, who began to clap. Then he realized everyone was applauding, that Tiro had finished his tale. Bedwyr thumped his hand against his leg to join them.

  “Did you like the ending?” Elain asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How did it go again?”

  He hesitated, and she winked.

  “Not the only diversion in the room, perhaps?”

  The cool air outside the hall felt good on his face. As he’d become accustomed to doing, he left Elain with Gwen before veering down the hill to piss. He’d also become accustomed to imagining Arthur finding him there in the dark, his trousers gaping and cock out, but in that regard he’d so far been unrelieved.

  He hadn’t had much success with Elain. Not in the way his father had hoped for. Every morning, he prodded Bedwyr for new facts, but he didn’t have much to share. They’d had more than a week of quiet days since she’d demonstrated her throwing skills, and in that time he’d decided that, except for her ability to stab someone through at forty paces, Elain was utterly normal. She helped Gwen at her work and even cajoled him to help.

  Though he wouldn’t admit it to his father, Elain was pleasant company. Handsome too, as far as women went, with strong bones in her nose and chin, and capable hands. Her hair was the color of chestnuts, and she kept it in a single plait down her back. She was leaner than most women in the village, with no breasts at all. Still, more than one village lad had given her a second look when the three of them had an errand. She hadn’t mentioned leaving yet. Perhaps she planned to stay through the harvest. Gwen would probably appreciate the help.