The Dragon Prince (11 page)

What strange fancies this woman aroused in
him. Here he was, in one of the largest settlements in Britain, and
his thoughts were lost in the mysteries of the wild hills of his
homeland. He shook his head to clear it. The shadows were growing
long, and they still hadn’t found a place to spend the night. He
turned to Bridei. “Is there an inn around here that would welcome
men from Arthur’s army?”

“Any of the inns would welcome us—if we
offer enough coin,” Bridei answered.

“But we need hosts who are discreet, who
won’t gossip about us,” Rhun reminded him.

“I know of a place, although it’s not an
inn,” Bridei said. “It’s this way. Toward the river.”

She could smell the river nearby, the rich,
sweet scent of water and decaying vegetation, hear the rustle of
wings and the faint squabbling noises of the ducks and herons and
other water birds as they settled down for the night among the
reeds. It reminded her of the fens and marshlands of South Seax,
where she had lived as a child until her tribe moved farther inland
in search of better farmland.

It was nearly dark, and she wondered how
Bridei could find the way as he led them down the narrow, twisting
byways. And then suddenly she saw blazing torches set on tall poles
illuminating a large complex of buildings, and the smell of the
river was blotted out by the odors of burning pitch and food
cooking. A man, obviously a guard, came forward to ask their
business. Bridei spoke to him in a quiet voice. In a few moments,
servants came to help with the horses and baggage. Rhun and Bridei
dismounted, and Rhun came to help her off her horse.

“What is this place?” she asked as she slid
down on
stiff
legs.

“Some friend of Arthur’s,” he answered.
“Bridei had only to speak the name of the high king and we were
offered hospitality.”

They were led into an entryway lit by oil
lamps. The light danced on the walls, making the images of men and
beasts there spring to life. Eastra stared in amazement. She had
seen mosaics and frescoes before, but never ones so detailed and
lifelike. The panther depicted on the one wall seemed ready to leap
out and attack them.

“This way,” a servant said. They were
escorted down a hallway and around a corner to another room. There
were more paintings on the walls, red tiles on the floor, and
several lamps set about the room on tall bronze prickets. In the
center of the room, a man with thinning auburn hair and bulging
blue eyes reclined on a delicately-carved wooden couch. Around him,
also on couches, were three women, two much younger than the other
one. They all wore flowing, light-colored garments, and the women’s
hair was arranged in elaborate curls and plaits like the Roman
women Eastra had seen in painted scenes.

Bridei executed a graceful bow. “Aurelius
Silurium. I bring you greetings from Artorius Rex.”

The man bowed back. “Welcome, Bridei ap
Maelgwn, Prince of Gwynedd. I am honored by your visit to my humble
dwelling.” He motioned to Rhun and Eastra. “Who are your
companions, that I might greet them properly?”

“My brother, Rhun ap Maelgwn and”—Bridei
hesitated a moment—“Eastra.”

Rhun bowed, and Eastra did the same,
although she felt tense and unsettled. Without a title before her
name, everyone would think her Rhun’s leman, a foreign woman who
had thought to improve her lot by sharing her enemy’s bed. Although
she’d agreed to the deception, she half regretted it now.

“We were about to dine,” Aurelius said, “but
we will wait for you to wash and make yourself ready to join us.”
He motioned to one of the younger women. “Calida, take Lady Eastra
to the women’s quarters that she might change her garments and
refresh herself.”

“I have clothing in my pack,” Eastra
said.

“But not anything in the Roman style,”
Aurelius replied. He motioned once more to the younger woman. She
got up from the couch and approached Eastra. “Come,” she said.

Eastra followed her down the hallway to a
small room. Like every other part of the house, there were oil
lamps lighting the room and the walls were dazzling white and
painted with colorful pictures of flowers and birds. The birds,
depicted in the motion of flight, seemed to be flying around the
room. Calida gestured to a tall chest. On it sat a red Samian ware
basin and bronze ewer. “You can wash there. I’ll have a servant
bring a towel and some clothing.” She turned to go.

“Wait,” Eastra called.

The woman—she was really little more than a
girl, Eastra decided, although the elaborate hairstyle made her
seem older—turned and stared at her. Eastra could not read the
expression in her eyes. Was it impatience? Distaste? It didn’t
matter. She had agreed to this part and now she must play it.
“Thank you,” she murmured.

The girl left. Eastra poured some water in
the bowl and swished her hands around in it, watching the dust of
the road settle in the bottom of the basin. In a short while, a
female servant appeared bearing a towel over one arm and a garment
over the other. Eastra nodded to the servant, wondering if she were
a slave. She was dark and small.

The woman lay the garment on the bed, then
brought Eastra the towel. “Thank you,” Eastra said. “You don’t have
to stay, if you have other duties to attend to.”

The servant shook her head. “I must help you
dress and fix your hair.”

She didn’t want this woman to wait on her,
but there seemed no other choice. Eastra washed her face and then
reached for the towel. As she did so, she saw the ugly marking of a
brand on the woman’s arm. Eastra’s former owner hadn’t believed in
branding his house slaves, but she knew of the barbaric practice. A
wave of bitter resentment passed through her. She refused to treat
this woman like a piece of property. “What is your name?” she asked
the slave.

“Skena.”

“And where do your people come from?” Eastra
toweled dry her face and hands.

“From the north, a place called Cit Coit
Caledon.”

“Were you captured? Is that how you came to
be here?”

Wariness lit Skena’s dark eyes. “Aye, my
lady.” She gestured to a stool by the bed. “Please sit so I can
undo your braids.”

Eastra did as she was bid. A Pict, this
woman must be. One of the Painted People. She thought she’d
glimpsed blue markings on the woman’s hand. The Picts were a fierce
warlike tribe in the north who’d never been conquered by the
Romans. Cerdic and some of the other chieftains had once talked of
joining forces with the Picts, but they were wary of the northern
peoples. It was said they were headhunters who decorated their
dwellings with the rotting skulls of their enemies. Barbarians, Old
Agulwulf had called them.

“How long have you been in Londinium?” she
asked Skena.

“I don’t know. Several years, I
suppose.”

“Have you memories of your other life,
before you were made a slave?”

Skena didn’t answer for a time. Eastra
wondered if she had understood the question. Perhaps she’d probed
too deep and upset the other woman. “I used to be a slave,” she
said encouragingly.

Skena’s small hands stilled in the act of
combing out Eastra’s hair. “You were? How did you escape?”

Eastra hesitated. Dare she tell this woman
her true background? It might give her hope, and hope was so
important to a slave, as she well knew. “I was rescued by my
people,” she said. “They burned the villa where I was a slave, and
I was taken to live in my uncle’s household.”

“Your uncle must be a powerful man,” Skena
said. “Tell me, if he rescued you, why did he let you fall into the
hands of his enemies? Why did he allow one of them to make you his
bedslave?”

Eastra searched her mind for an explanation
of her circumstances. “I’m not a bedslave. In fact, I chose to
travel with these men.”

Skena raised her dark brows. “And your uncle
allows this?”

“It’s complicated.” She took a breath. “I’m
a hostage. But I suggested the arrangement to my uncle. I wanted to
be with the tall warrior and this was the only way.”

“You wanted to be with him, even though he
is your enemy?”

Eastra shook her head. “He’s not my enemy.
His people and mine might be in conflict these past years, but I
seek to change that.”

Skena looked at her, dark eyes narrowed.
“You’re very bold for a woman and a former slave. What makes you
think you have any say in this war between the Saxon and the
British?”

“My uncle is an important man. If I can find
a way to get him and the British warlord Arthur to trust each
other, it would go a long way toward bringing peace.”

“Who is your uncle?”

Skena’s question unsettled her, but Eastra
reasoned she had told so much of the story already, it didn’t
matter if the slave heard the rest. She was not likely to tell the
tale to Aurelius or his family. Few slaves had any love for their
masters, certainly not slaves who had been branded.

“My uncle is Cerdic, son of Hengist. He is
overlord of the South Folke and part of the South Seax.” Seeing the
slave’s confusion, she added. “Those are lands along the coast
north and south of here. Lands even Arthur has ceded to my
people.”

“So you are a princess?” Skena asked.

Eastra nodded. “But no one must know of it.
Here in Londinium, it’s better if everyone thinks I am Rhun ap
Maelgwn’s leman.”

Skena said no more as she helped Eastra into
the Roman-style garment. She wrapped it around Eastra’s waist and
carefully arranged the folds, then fastened it with a silver pin at
the shoulder.

“You’re very skilled,” Eastra said. “Do you
normally wait upon Aurelius’s wife and daughters?”

“The daughters, aye. Lady Vesperia has her
own bodyservant.”

“It doesn’t seem like such a harsh duty,”
Eastra said. “At least you don’t have to work in the kitchens or in
the stables.”

“I think I would prefer that to waiting upon
those mewling, whiny girls.” Skena made a face.

Eastra didn’t know what to say. Skena
obviously despised her life. And who could blame her? Vividly, she
could recall her own unhappiness as a slave. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I would aid you if I could.”

“Of course you would,” Skena said harshly.
“After you have brought peace between the Saxons and the Britons,
you will then free all the slaves.”

“You think I am a fool, don’t you?”

“A fool to think that because you share a
man’s bed, you have some power over him.”

“But it’s not that I share Rhun’s bed—which
I don’t, yet. It is because I... I have some hope that he loves me,
or will at least come to do so.”

“Love?” Skena’s brows shot up. “Verily, you
are a bigger fool than I thought.”

There didn’t seem to be anything to say
after that. Eastra sat silent while Skena arranged her hair in
coils on top of her head, securing them with bronze pins. When she
had finished the task, the slave asked formally, “Will there be
anything else?”

Eastra shook her head and Skena left the
room.

* * *

A brazier had been brought to drive out the
chill, and the sweet smell of burning applewood filled the air of
the as Rhun and Bridei sipped spiced wine in the triclinium of
Aurelius’s villa. They had excused themselves briefly to wash off
the dust of the road and change into wool tunics, declining to don
the Roman attire Aurelius’s servant offered. Now they sat on the
couches provided as their host turned probing eyes on them and
said, “Before the women join us, tell me why you have come to
Londinium.”

Rhun waited for Bridei to answer, since he
was officially Arthur’s messenger. His brother cleared his throat.
“Arthur wishes to know what news you have of the eastern shores. He
has made a truce with Cerdic, son of Hengist, and he wants to know
what hope there is of the Saxons keeping it. Have you heard any
word from Saxony or Jutland of ships gathering there, either to
bring warriors or settlers to our shores?”

“The seas are quiet,” Aurelius said. “If the
seawolves are planning more invasions, I’ve not gotten wind of
it.”

“And what of things in Britain?” Bridei
asked. “Have you heard of any plots? Whispers of treachery?
Anything Arthur should be aware of?”

Aurelius pursed his lips. “I know Arthur’s
son loves him not.”

Rhun and Bridei looked at each other. Rhun
said, “Arthur has given Mordred to Cerdic as a hostage. I worry
what trouble he will stir up in the enemy’s camp. And yet I think
he’s better off there than roaming around Britain spreading
discontent.”

Aurelius nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps,
although I don’t understand why Arthur hasn’t dealt with Mordred
long before this. It seems to me the high king has the means to
eliminate such threats to his power.”

“You think he should have Mordred killed?”
Rhun asked in shock.

Aurelius shrugged. “It seems logical to
me.”

“Nay, Arthur would never do such a thing,”
Rhun said. “He wouldn’t besmirch his honor and all he stands for by
doing murder, and certainly not of his own son.”

“There are those who say Arthur’s honor will
be his downfall.” Aurelius’s eyes narrowed and Rhun could sense
warning in his watery blue gaze.

“Arthur believes how a man defeats his
enemies is important. That there can be no true victory without
honor.”

Aurelius grunted.

Bridei broke the uneasy silence that
followed. “Other than Mordred, can you think of anything else
Arthur should beware of?”

“I’m not privy to the plans of the Saxons,”
Aurelius said. “But I think the peace will hold for a time, at
least until something tips the balance of the scales to their side.
What that will be, I cannot say. And yet I think the greatest
dangers might come from within our borders, rather than from
without.”

Rhun’s vague unease increased. What was
Aurelius hinting of? Did the man even know himself what it was he
feared?