Bee Among the Clover (205 page)

R
OMAN was sitting at his desk when he heard the sound of a commotion
from the hall. He lifted his head, brows furrowing, and was about to go peek out and see what was going on when the door to Wulfgar’s room flew open. The thane stood in the doorway, and Roman had never seen
such utter fury on his face. His heart started pounding as he rose and moved toward Wulfgar without hesitation, wondering what could have happened to upset the thane so.
“Get out here. Now, Roman.” Wulfgar reached for him, and Roman
started as the thane’s hand closed painfully on his arm. Confusion and fear
filled him; what had he done? It was obvious now the anger was directed
at him.
He stumbled along behind Wulfgar into the hall, his eyes widening at the sight of a crowd of people. One in particular stood out to him:
Aethlyn, the battle-lord from the camp, who watched him with a vicious smirk on his face.
“My lord, what…?” His question was cut off by a hard backhand from Wulfgar. Roman would’ve reeled back from the blow if Wulfgar’s hand were not still clamped around his arm.
The slave clutched his numb cheek in shock, staring up at him in
confusion. Wulfgar had not hit him in years. What had happened? Wulfgar
said nothing, dragging him forward, closer to the battle-lord.
Roman’s heart and mind froze when the crowd parted to reveal Aron
lying bound at Aethlyn’s feet.
Sweet Jesu, no….
“Aron,” he breathed.
Dark shadows circled under haunted blue eyes, leather thongs circled his
wrists, biting in so that the skin was red and swollen. His feet were
similarly bound, leaving Aron helpless on the floor.
It had to be a fever dream. Aron was supposed to be safe. He’d been
gone for so long. Their eyes met, and Roman’s heart started pounding again. No, no, he couldn’t let this happen to Aron. He was supposed to be
safe and free.
Osric hovered on the edge of the circle of onlookers, an expression of anticipation on his face, and Roman felt himself sway. Wulfgar’s fury and Osric’s savage pleasure were a physical force battering at him.
“My lord, I’m sorry….” Roman forced himself to meet Wulfgar’s eyes, mute appeal in his own. The thane was enraged, far more than he had been when Roman had been caught, and he found himself taking a half step back before he steeled himself. “Please do….” Another blow knocked him backward, and he felt his knees hitting the floor, the sharp tang of blood filling his mouth.
“Stay there and shut your mouth. I have no wish to hear your pretty lies any more, Roman,” Wulfgar snarled.
The thane threw Aron a hard, warning look as Roman saw the indignation flash through those blue eyes, momentarily replacing the terror. “Don’t even think about it, boy,” Wulfgar said, his voice deadly quiet as Aron opened his mouth to protest.
“Cut his bonds,” Wulfgar ordered, sitting down in the chair at the front of the hall from which he issued judgments. Hard hands grabbed Roman, shoving him forward until he was kneeling before Wulfgar, Aron beside him. He longed to reach out and touch him, make sure the other man was real, but he didn’t dare. He had to think of some way to calm the thane, though he realized with hopelessness that anything he did or said was only going to infuriate him more. Wulfgar was not a reasonable man in this mood.
Wulfgar glared down at them, his voice clipped and hard. “So the two of you thought to play me for a fool, did you? He was found in Londinium. Now why would he go there, Roman? Mayhap to get your father’s attention? I would’ve thought you’d learned your lesson about running, Roman.”
Roman flinched, unable to meet the thane’s gaze as guilt welled up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aron clenching his fists and prayed he wouldn’t choose to defend him now. He started trembling, remaining mute, steeling himself for what was going to come. Oh Sweet Jesu, let Wulfgar remember his promise. Roman tried to remind himself that it didn’t matter how angry he was, Wulfgar never broke a vow… but they had betrayed him, Roman especially, and he might consider that enough to withdraw his protection.
Wulfgar snarled and rose to his feet, beginning to pace, his expression livid. Finally, he stopped in front of Aron and reached down to fist his hand in his hair, jerking his head back. Roman jumped, unable to stop himself from turning his head to watch, though he knew he should keep his eyes on the ground. Wulfgar looked as if he was about to say something, but then Aron glanced in Roman’s direction, his eyes loving and full of the promise they would get through this, and Wulfgar paused, his gaze flicking to Roman, then back again at Aron.
A slow, merciless smile curved Wulfgar’s lips, and he gave Aron’s head a sharp shake to get his attention again. “Every morn you will be shackled at the gate until the sun sets and you will confess your crimes to everyone who passes by, until I believe some semblance of intelligence has sunken into your stubborn head.”
Aron nodded, a look of relief passing over his face, and Roman’s heart sank even lower. That wasn’t nearly the end of it. Wulfgar was toying with Aron, and right now, he was capable of anything.
“You’re a fool, boy, in more ways than one,” Wulfgar mocked. “And yet I’m going to let your choose your second penance for this betrayal and the breaking of your word. You have two options.”
Roman recognized that this was Wulfgar at his most dangerous and choked back a scream of denial.
Jesu, Wulfgar and his damned choices that aren’t ever what they seem
. He was terrified of what he saw in the thane’s eyes and wanted to beg and plead for mercy for Aron, but he couldn’t say a word. He dug his fingers hard into his palms, struggling to steady himself before he did anything to make Aron’s punishment worse.
“My lord?” Aron’s voice was barely audible.
“Another two years in my service, thrall, double the time of your original term, plus the weeks you’ve been missing, tacked on to what you still owe me, serving me and whomever I see fit to share you with.” Wulfgar’s expression was implacable and ruthless as he watched the slow drain of color from Aron’s face.
Roman made a distressed sound low in his throat, raising his eyes to meet Wulfgar’s, shaking his head in mute denial.
“Not a sound, Roman. Don’t worry, your turn is next,” Wulfgar snarled. Aron licked his lips, darting a worried look at Roman.
“Or a branding.” Wulfgar released Aron’s head and turned his back on the both of them. “But not on the forehead as is normally the case with runaways. I’d hate to ruin a pretty face. Between the thighs, so whenever they’re spread, there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind as to whom that body belongs to.” He turned back, fixing cold, gray eyes on Aron. “So that you’ll always remember the consequences of trying to defy me.”
Roman’s mind spun, trying to find the trick in the thane’s words. He’d learned there was always something else hidden within his choices, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Even as Aron’s head lowered while he considered his options, Roman knew what his answer would be, and he suspected Wulfgar did too. Aron would never accept another two years of being owned. Jesu, was it selfish of him to wish Aron would pick that one, to have him here with him for another two years? Roman didn’t want him to have to endure a life that was at such odds with his nature, but he didn’t want to see him branded either, to hear his pain or to see Wulfgar’s mark on him every time they were in his bed.
Aron drew in a deep breath, lifting his head and clenching his jaw. He met Wulfgar’s emotionless eyes, his voice a rough whisper: “I choose the brand, my lord.”
Roman made a choked sound, eyes closing and head hanging. This was his fault. He didn’t know how or why, but he knew it was, if nothing else than because were it not for him, Aron would never have become a thrall in the first place. He wanted to beg and plead, offer anything and everything to stop this, but he knew there was nothing he could do, and it tore his heart to shreds.
“A fine choice. Osric, hold him,” Wulfgar ordered, a smirk in his tone. Roman cut his nails into his palm as the battle-lord moved to Aron and grabbed his arms, lifting him up and immobilizing him against his much larger body. He was struck with the raging impulse to lash out at Osric for touching Aron again as Wulfgar crossed to the hearth fire and took the branding iron another thrall hurried to bring him, tossing it into the fire.
Then the thane snatched Roman to his feet and caught the neck of his tunic, one sharp tug shredding it down the center. He shook, his rage dying as quickly as it had come, praying he could withstand the pronouncement of his own sentence with the same pride and courage Aron showed.
Wulfgar sneered at Aron. “Did I fail to mention
who
would be receiving the brand, thrall?” His eyes cut to Roman and sick horror filled his stomach as Roman realized that Wulfgar was referring to him. “Strip, slave. Now.”
“
No!
” Aron shouted, as Roman stared at Wulfgar, his mind numb. He could hear Aron struggling to break free from Osric’s grip. “No, my lord, you cannot!”
Yes, he can, Aron, and he will,
Roman thought. Hurting him would be Wulfgar’s way of ensuring Aron’s obedience. And he wasn’t innocent either; he had looked Wulfgar in the face and lied to him, even though he knew the thane had mourned Aron’s “death,” even though he knew Wulfgar had been worried about his state of mind and had fretted over him the last weeks when he had been unresponsive to anything but the enormity of his private loss. They had played the thane for a fool, at least in his eyes and the eyes of the people bound to him.
Roman dropped his head in acknowledgement of his guilt, and Wulfgar released him. He crouched down, unlacing his boots with trembling fingers, fear and relief whirling through him with such force he was light-headed with it. Wulfgar was not going to hand Aron over to Osric or Aethlyn, nor was the thane going to break his promise to him. He could do this. He drew off his boots and rose to strip his breeches down, aware of every eye in the hall on him as he folded his clothes in a neat pile at his feet, even the torn tunic. He couldn’t look at Aron. Jesu, it was hard enough listening to him scream and fight.
At least Wulfgar was going to brand him himself. Roman would rather it be the thane than anyone else, and he would rather it be him who was branded than Aron.
Sweet Jesu
…. It was all he could do to keep himself from begging for a mercy that would never come. He lifted terrorstricken eyes to Wulfgar, his tongue frozen in his mouth, as the fright overcame the relief that Aron wasn’t to be harmed.
I’m sorry.
His gaze darted to the fire, to the branding iron shoved deep into the embers. Sweat broke out on his skin; the waiting was almost unbearable.
Wulfgar gestured to some of his men. “Hold him down.”
Roman didn’t resist the hands that grabbed him. He was lifted onto one of the rough tables, more hands pinning his shoulders and arms, others prying his legs apart and holding them widespread. His chest heaved as he fought for air, listening to Aron’s frantic cries and raging curses in the otherwise silent hall. Splinters drove under his nails as he dug them into the wood underneath him.
“Here, lad,” a rough voice said, and Roman felt a leather-wrapped stick pressed against his mouth. His eyes flew up, and he recognized Brandr’s face. “Bite down on this.”
Roman did so, trembling violently as he heard a rough scrape and knew Wulfgar had removed the iron from the fire. He locked his gaze on Wulfgar as he approached. The thane looked down at him for a long second as if he wanted to say something, the fury in his eyes lessening for an instant. At that moment, Roman realized just how much their lies and betrayal had hurt the thane, though he would never admit it.
Aron’s shouts ceased. “Darkling….” The word was a bare whisper.
Wulfgar’s expression set, and Roman started to draw in a shaky breath when agony ripped through his body. He screamed, jerking against the hands that held him, his teeth clamping down on the stick. For an eternity, nothing else existed but the white-hot hell consuming him. Then the iron was gone, though the pain remained, radiating from his inner thigh to roll out in waves. Frantic whimpers whistled through Roman’s teeth, tears blurred his vision, and the stench of burning flesh combined with the shock made his stomach rebel. He fought against the urge to vomit and concentrated on anything he could to help him cope: the clang of the iron dropping down onto the hearthstones, the dispassionate look in Wulfgar’s eyes as he watched him writhe on the table, Aron’s renewed curses and shouts.
“Throw him in the slaves’ quarters. Give him a day to recover, then put him to work,” the thane ordered, turning from him.
Wulfgar grabbed Aron by his hair as the others released Roman. “You belong to
me
, boy, and
he
belongs to me. Whatever you feel for him doesn’t matter. You won’t have him. You won’t see him. And you certainly won’t touch him,” he hissed.
Roman sat up, his limbs shaky, his leg screaming in protest as he moved. He removed the stick from his mouth and pressed his lips together to try to hold back his sounds of pain. He put a trembling hand to his brow, the combination of nausea and pain making the edges of his vision black and causing the room to spin. He was not going to be sick. He was not going to faint and make Aron worry more.
Roman looked up, and their eyes met. Aron was here, he was safe, and that drove all thoughts of his own danger from his mind. As he started to slide gingerly from the table, someone grabbed him, and he cried out as his leg buckled under the new pain. He met Osric’s glittering gaze and screamed, the sound high and inhuman. The import of Wulfgar’s words finally hit him. The slaves’ quarters. He’d lost the thane’s protection. That sickening knowledge sent him reeling.
“Remember whose brand he wears, Osric,” Wulfgar said, his voice hard and uncompromising.
Roman sank to the floor as Osric released him, relief coursing through him. At least he would be spared Osric’s definition of mercy. The battle-lord’s expression of disappointment almost had Roman laughing. He could feel the hysteria bubble inside of him, then ease. The battle-lord wouldn’t touch him, not with Wulfgar’s threat hanging over his head.
He watched Aron being dragged from the hall, his heart aching. He would give anything to be allowed to touch him, to say something to him, even if it was just for a moment. He was denied the comfort, however, as the hall emptied, the spectators leaving with Aron and Wulfgar, no doubt anticipating the entertainment of seeing the proud thrall being bound at the gate and forced to relate his crimes.