“I have been thinking, Grenda,” she began, “about that outlander.” She looked at Grenda, the only sign of alcohol the brighter than normal glitter of her dark eyes. “Do you know what I have been thinking?”
“No, Ra,” said Grenda carefully. “What have you been thinking about the outlander?”
“I’ve been thinking before we sell him, I ought to give him a chance to make himself,” she smiled wickedly at Grenda, “useful.”
Grenda frowned. She didn’t mind if Bloduewedd wanted to amuse herself with a slave tonight—she sometimes did when she was in this mood—but if she took the outlander out of the sheds they’d have to wait another week before he could be sold.
Bloduewedd read her mind.
“Worried about your quarter share, are you? You needn’t be. I think the slave broker has enough respect for her Rahntadrine to overlook a short absence from the cells. Do you not agree?”
The slave broker, Selia, was a Reliant—a woman with hardly any power of her own who could only control the men in her charge because of Bloduewedd and the Eye of the Goddess. The Ra-drine was right. The law requiring a seven-day stay in the sheds before auction would be overlooked in the case of any slave Bloduewedd wanted to sell—or buy, for that matter.
Grenda knew this, and in any case it would make no difference if Bloduewedd had already decided she wanted to sample the outlander’s charms. Grenda had considered it herself, but would not have dared to take him out of the sheds on her own. It was possible that after Bloduewedd was done with him, Grenda would get her own chance. Grenda thought about it and knew it wasn’t likely any man, even an outlander who hadn’t been long under the Eye, would be able to perform twice in the same night. Of course, there were other ways to amuse herself with a male.
Bloduewedd rose to her feet. “Let us go.”
Grenda calculated how long it had been since the women who were attending the auction had left, hoping the event would be over and the crowd gone. As cooperative as the slave merchant was likely to be, it still wouldn’t be good to have half the women in town see Bloduewedd ignoring the law that she herself had put in place.
“One more drink, my Ra-drine?” she asked hopefully. “So I can make a toast to yer, ah, festivities tonight?”
“I am ready to go now,” said Bloduewedd. “You can sit here and drink if you want, but I am bound for the sheds.”
“I’m coming,” replied Grenda hastily. “‘Twill be better if I’m the one to take him out, in case there’re questions later.” She scrambled to reach the door before the Ra-drine, and held it open for her.
They got their horses and set off toward the market. Grenda tried to figure the best place to tie them so they were out of the way. Grenda’s horse was the biggest in town and Bloduewedd’s the finest, and they both attracted notice. The alley between the buildings was dark enough. How would they get the outlander to Bloduewedd’s house? Leading him on a rope wouldn’t work—they would want to move quick and quiet. “Beg pardon, my Ra-drine,” she asked, “but do ye think the merchant has a horse we can borrow? We’ll be able to get the outlander back to yer house faster.”
Bloduewedd snorted. “If he can stay on one, which I doubt. Yes, she will be happy enough to loan a horse to her Rahntadrine. If he cannot ride, you can always tie him to it like a sack of feed.” The Ra-drine cackled to herself.
When they got to the slave market, Grenda was glad to see the auction lot empty and the torches out. It was possible a few women were still loitering at the back, arranging for the delivery of the slaves they’d bought. Luckily, Bloduewedd agreed to stay with the horses while Grenda went to the office. There was still a light shining on the open-air porch, and Selia sat with a pipe talking to that old slave, Alun, who was always lurking around.
Grenda explained what Bloduewedd wanted. At first Selia didn’t seem to believe her, but eventually she turned to Alun and gave an order.
“Go get him. I assume he was bathed this evening?” Alun nodded, but did not move. “Is there a problem?”
“The outlander is rather difficult,” said Alun. As usual, his face was blank as an egg. “He may resist.”
Grenda snorted. “He’ll not be resistin’ me,” she said, her hand on the hilt of her sword. “I’ll come with ye. Ye have shackles, do ye not?”
“I have them,” Alun agreed.
“Get ‘em,” said Grenda. She wanted to have the business over with before Bloduewedd got tired of waiting and came to check up on her. “Let’s move.”
Alun led her through the long building, grabbing a set of shackles from the wall as he went. They clinked noisily and Grenda wondered if Alun was jingling them on purpose, to give the men warning they were coming.
When they stepped through the bathhouse door into the room where quarantined slaves were housed, most of the men were already lying on their benches, their backs to the room. Grenda was now sure the rattling of the shackles had been a ruse—it was not really that late. Two slaves still stood. In the stall closest to the door, Grenda recognized the outlander. In the next, leaning against the bars like he didn’t have a care in the world, was a male whose face she knew all too well.
Duwall sprang away from the bars and bowed in an exaggerated fashion. “Ra Grenda! What a pleasure it is to see you again. May I hope that you have missed me and have come to brighten my lonely night?”
Ignoring the outlander, who had backed warily away from the bars, his eyes flitting from Grenda to the shackles that dangled from Alun’s hands, she stood directly in front of Duwall’s cell.
“I see ye have driven another woman to sell ye off. Not that ye learned anything from it. Ye are as disrespectful as ever.”
Duwall’s eyes widened like he was surprised. “Ra, I am truly hurt. Can you doubt my sincerity?”
Grenda couldn’t help but laugh. “I doubt every word that comes out o’ yer mouth, Duwall. And if I had more time, I’d teach ye a lesson in manners. But I have other matters tonight, so ye should count yer luck.” She turned to Jeryl’s cell. He had backed away from the door but didn’t look scared.
“Are ye going to make this hard for me, outlander?” she asked him. “On another night, I might enjoy it. But I don’t have the time tonight.” She nodded at Alun. “Put them on him, but just his hands. He’ll need his legs to ride.” She looked at Jeryl’s nakedness. She had to admit he had some impressive equipment. Maybe Bloduewedd will pass out before she works all the life out of him.
“And some trousers, if he is to arrive with his parts intact.” To Grenda’s amusement, he followed her gaze and covered himself with his hands. Alun passed him a pair of rough trousers and Jeryl put them on.
“Ride?” asked Jeryl. “Where are we going?”
“Ye’ll see when we get there,” she said. “Oh, ye’ll see.” Grenda chuckled, and enjoyed Jeryl’s wince.
* * * * *
As much as he hated this woman, being out of the cell and on horseback might give Jeryl an opportunity to escape, no matter what Duwall had said. Alun opened the cell door and motioned for him to turn his back so his forearms could be shackled. He hesitated, but complied.
As he was led out of the cell, he managed to catch a glimpse of Duwall before Grenda grabbed his upper arm and steered him roughly toward the exit. A white smile in a tanned face flashed briefly before Jeryl lost his view. “Keep your wits about you, friend!” rang after him as he passed through the few rooms and into the outside air.
Selia was waiting with a horse, which Jeryl eyed nervously. He was not comfortable on a horse even with the use of his hands. He looked around to see how he was to mount, when Grenda produced a stool and half pushed, half hoisted him into the saddle. She procured a rope from Selia and tied it around his arms and chest, looped it over the saddle horn then led the horse and rider around to the front of the building. She stopped and whistled quietly, and out of the shadows came Bloduewedd, leading Grenda’s horse.
“You took long enough,” she said sharply as Grenda mount
ed, the long reins of Jeryl’s horse still in her hand. She then turned her attention to Jeryl. “But perhaps he will be worth the wait.” She looked him over appraisingly. “I see they have bathed you. Good. That will save time.” She turned her horse and spurred it. Grenda followed suit and Jeryl’s horse moved. He bounced alarmingly, but managed to shift his weight so he did not feel as if he was about to fall. Not much, anyway.
It was not a long ride, for which Jeryl was thankful. Bound as he was, there was no chance he could take control of the horse and get away. He had no choice but to wait and hope wherever he was being taken would afford more opportunity for escape than his cell. He was still shirtless and shoeless, the night air was cold, and the movement of the horse jostled his sore ribs.
They swiftly passed through the village and into the farmlands beyond and although he did not remember his trip into town clearly, Jeryl thought this was not the direction from which they had come. Not far beyond the village, the fields gave way to woods and the road narrowed. After perhaps a half hour they came to an enormous clearing surrounded by a stone wall, a gated lane leading up to a house. While more rustic than the fine homes of Jeryl’s experience, it was impressive nevertheless. The massive stone and timber structure looked like a fortress but it did not have the feel of age and permanence Jeryl associated with a castle. Neither wood nor stone carried the patina of time.
As they rode up to the house, the front door opened and several figures emerged. Men scurried to take the horses’ reins. “Get him down,” said Bloduewedd to no one in particular, “and put him in my chamber.” She alighted from the horse easily and strode toward the front door.
Framed in the doorway, Jeryl could see the silhouette of a small woman. “Good evening, Mother,” she said. “May I get you anything?”
“Just stay out of my way, Beteria,” said the Ra-drine, pushing past her. As the young woman turned to follow her mother, Jeryl still could not see her face, but could read hurt in the slump of her shoulders.
An older man appeared at Jeryl’s side. “Let me help you down.” He untied the ropes that secured Jeryl to his mount. Then, with a grip that belied his age, he supported Jeryl’s weight as he managed to get off the horse and onto his feet.
“Thank you, Father,” he said, automatically using the polite form of address for the older man.
The man smiled. “’Tis not a word heard often here,” he said. “Call me Aeron. I am to take you to the Rahntadrine’s chamber.”
“For what purpose?” asked Jeryl.
Aeron hesitated. “I really cannot say.”
Grenda, who had been occupied with removing the other end of the rope from her horse, interrupted them. “Enough talk. Get on with ye.”
“Yes, Ra,” said Aeron. He started to lead Jeryl toward the house then paused. “Ra Grenda, shall I remove his shackles?”
She considered. “Once he’s inside. Then bolt the door. There’s no window big enough for him to crawl out of.” She turned back to her horse and Jeryl considered making a run for it. He hesitated too long, wondering if Aeron and the men tending the horses would prevent him, as the men had in the sheds. Before he could decide he was propelled through the door by Aeron’s firm grip.
Jeryl considered Aeron’s uninformative response to his question a few minutes earlier. “When you said you could not say what Bloduewedd wanted with me, did you mean you do not know, or that you will not tell me?”
“I meant I could not say—not in front of Grenda, anyway.” The man grinned and Jeryl found himself grinning back. “I am an old man, and I have been in the Rahntadrine’s household for twenty years, so I may get away with a bit more than some others, but that does not mean I am so foolish as to annoy Grenda unnecessarily.”
From the small front hall they stepped into an enormous chamber. Beams as thick as ancient trees held up a ceiling at least three stories above their heads. Rails ran around two levels of galleries above, with doors and hallways leading off behind them. A fireplace large enough for a horse to ride into held a roaring fire Jeryl could feel from the opposite side of the room. Coming down from the galleries above was a wide flight of stone stairs, and it was to these that Aeron headed.
Overcoming the temporary distraction of his surroundings, Jeryl continued to question Aeron. “So, what was it you could not say in front of Grenda? What is going to happen to me tonight?”
“That I do not know for sure,” said Aeron. “But often when the Ra-drine has been drinking a bit more than usual, she likes to try out a new man.”
“Try out?” asked Jeryl, still puzzled. Then realization dawned. “You aren’t saying she means to couple with me?” he said, incredulous. He stopped in the middle of the staircase, blocking Aeron’s progress.
“That,” replied Aeron, “and whatever else strikes her fancy. A lover of variety, is our Rahntadrine.” Gently, Aeron gave Jeryl a push to get him restarted on the staircase. “Some of the males she chooses consider it to be a great honor,” he went on. “And she has been known to be generous when someone pleases her.” They arrived at the top of the stairs, where a large set of double doors was centered. Aeron opened these and gestured for Jeryl to enter. “Turn around and I’ll take off your bonds.”
Dazed, Jeryl turned and felt the shackles that bound his forearms being removed. They required no key. Facing the room, which was dimly lit by a much smaller but still impressive fireplace, he saw it was dominated by a large bed and there were low tables and cushions on the wooden floor. He rubbed his wrists absently and turned to address Aeron. “Look, Aeron, I do not think I can…”
Aeron stepped through the doors and turned to face Jeryl as he closed them. “If you want my advice, do not think at all.” The man winked and slammed the doors. Jeryl heard the sound of a bolt being drawn into place, and turned to look at the room. A decanter of what he hoped was wine sat on a table next to some glasses, and he strode over and poured a drink. He smelled it—not wine, but perhaps some kind of brandy—and took a fair-sized gulp.
It burned, but helped steady his nerves. Surely Aeron had been putting him on. He looked around the room again. It was opulent but somehow tawdry, like a child’s fantasy of a desert prince’s tent combined with an expensive brothel. Jeryl had another gulp of the brandy.
He started when he heard the door open behind him. He whirled to find Bloduewedd standing in the doorway. She had changed out of her riding gear and armor and was dressed in some sort of long, loose garment that fastened in the front. It shimmered in the firelight. Again, he saw she could be considered beautiful when her words or her expression did not shatter the illusion.
“I see you have a taste for spirits,” she said and, while her voice held amusement, it had none of the mocking quality of their first encounter. She walked over to the decanter, brushing past him as she did so. He smelled a combination of perfume, horse and, unmistakably, the same brandy he had just sampled. He watched as she poured herself an immodest portion, trying to determine if she was showing any signs of being the worse for drink. Perhaps she set the decanter down a little too carefully—from various uncles, Jeryl was familiar with the habitual drunkard’s exaggerated caution.
She turned to him and smiled. Again he noticed the whiteness of her teeth against her lips. Her smile should have been lovely, with her deep red lips and heart-shaped face. But there was something about the combination of those small teeth and full lips that reminded him of something feral, like the teeth of a predator smeared with blood from a fresh kill. He shuddered lightly in distaste.
Noticing his tremble, Bloduewedd smiled wider, perhaps misinterpreting the movement as one of nervousness. “Do not fear me, outlander. You will not end this night with injury—or regrets.” Although her voice remained gentle, her eyes glittered greedily and ran slowly over Jeryl’s length, pausing to linger on bare chest and his loins. Jeryl thought the brandy must have started to have some effect on him, because the room was starting to look somehow softer, as if a light mist had somehow found i
ts way in. He shook his head to clear it, but if anything this seemed to intensify the sensation of unreality.
Bloduewedd turned and walked to the bed, where Jeryl had not previously noticed a garment laid across the furs. She returned holding it over her arm. “I am sorry they gave you such rough and uncomfortable clothing at the sheds.” She reached out and tested the fabric of his trousers with her finger, grimacing. Her hand placed so close to his groin startled Jeryl, and again he could smell the mixed aromas of horse, brandy and perfume, but for some reason he found it less unpleasant.
“I think these will feel much nicer against your skin.” She held out a pair of pants that appeared to be made of the same fabric as her shimmering robe. Unthinking, Jeryl reached out and took them from her hand, noticing as he did so that she did not seem to be wearing anything under her garment. The ties at the front did not quite draw the fabric together, and a line of smooth white skin could just be seen.
She stepped back, and he stood holding the glass of brandy in one hand and the trousers in the other. For a moment he was confused, unable to remember what he was doing here. The mistiness had increased.
“I think you will need both hands to change clothes,” said Bloduewedd, taking the glass from his hand. Automatically he started to untie the trousers then realized she was watching him with an expression he could not fathom. He stopped, confused. “Are you so modest, then?” she asked. “I will turn away, if you like.”
She did so, and again he began to untie the cords that held the rough pants in place. They were off, and the silky pants halfway on before he thought about what he was doing. He stopped again, but realized he could hardly remain with the pants around his knees, so he drew them on and secured them with the ties attached. His head was starting to clear, but as soon as Bloduewedd turned back to him the fuzzy feeling returned. He tried to think.
Men In Chains Page 7
