The Dragon Prince (14 page)

She shook her head. It made her ache to
remember how he’d looked. And the expression in his dark blue
eyes...such a beguiling mixture of hunger and tenderness.

“Dreaming of your lover?” a scornful voice
sounded behind her. Eastra whirled around to see Skena. The slave
girl cocked a dark brow. “I know he didn’t share your bedchamber
last night. Does that mean you’ve quarreled?”

“Nay, we did not quarrel,” Eastra
protested.

“Huh,” the slave responded.

“This a beautiful place,” Eastra said
changing the subject.

“A foolish waste of time. There isn’t a
single thing growing here man or beast could eat.”

“There are a few herbs,” Eastra pointed out.
“Some plants that can be used for seasoning food, or for
healing—chamomile, basil, sage.”

“Luxuries,” said Skena contemptuously. “The
Britons are soft and weak. I don’t see why your people have not
wiped them out by now.”

“Few Britons live like this,” Eastra
answered. “I think Aurelius is more Roman than British anyway.”

“You would defend your people’s
enemies?”

Eastra shook her head. “I don’t share your
hatred of the Britons. In fact, my goal is to have my people and
theirs live alongside each other.”

“That’s not possible,” Skena said in a cold
voice. “The Saxons and Britons are different races. They will never
be able to forget their hatred of each other and live in
peace.”

Eastra approached the herb patch and bent
down to pluck a sprig of mint. She crushed the leaves in her
fingers and breathed the fresh, pungent scent. Most of her people,
the men at least, believed the same as Skena. But that did not mean
they were right. What if Saxon and Briton intermarried and had
children that were neither one race nor the other, but both? “I
refuse to give up,” she said loudly. “I will not be defeated, no
matter what anyone says.”

“Will not be defeated? What do you
mean?”

At the sound of Rhun’s voice, Eastra
whirled. “Oh, I didn’t know you were there.” She looked around for
Skena, wondering how long ago the slave girl had left. Had Rhun
seen them talking? His eyes still gazed at her questioningly, and
she knew she must answer him. She glanced around, searching
desperately for some explanation for her words. “I... I was
thinking about the weeds in the garden in my uncle’s fortress. It’s
a kitchen garden, nothing like this. But I’ve always struggled to
get rid of the pesky weeds.”

It was a stupid lie. She could see by the
expression on his face he did not believe her. She started to talk
rapidly. “It seems somehow wasteful to grow things simply for their
beauty. Except for that small plot over there, I vow there’s
nothing here that man or beast can eat.”

Rhun raised his brows. “I’m surprised you’re
such a practical woman. I would have thought you would be admiring
the splendor of the flowers and all the lovely scents.”

She looked at him, feeling embarrassed. She
did not want him to think she was an embittered shrew who despised
flowers. “I’m not against cultivating plants for their beauty. I
merely meant it seemed wasteful for them not to grow any vegetables
here. Where do they get their food, anyway?”

“They probably buy it in the market,” Rhun
answered. “Which is where we must be off to if we mean to catch the
best bargains. Come. Our horses should be saddled and ready by
now.”

He led her down the peristyle, then out a
gate into the street. Their escort was waiting for them, fully
armed and mounted. Looking at the troop of soldiers, Eastra knew a
sinking feeling. She had hoped to have some time alone with Rhun,
to encourage him to resume the amorous mood of the night before.
Daringly, she said, “Do all those men have to go with us? We’ll
make a spectacle in the market. Everyone will take note of the fact
that I’m a Saxon accompanied by a guard of Britons.”

He gazed at her thoughtfully. “There’s
something in what you say. We would attract less notice by
ourselves. But we do need to have some sort of protection. Perhaps
they could accompany us to the market. Then we could leave our
horses with them while we explore the shops and stalls on
foot.”

Rhun helped her mount and they set out, the
horses’ hooves echoing on the crumbling pavement. As they rode
along, Rhun pointed out the remains of the Roman part of the
city—streets and temples, the sprawling complex of the baths, its
once vast pools now filled in with dirt and rubbish, a huge stone
archway where swallows nested. Much of the masonry of the old
buildings was crumbling away, while other parts had obviously been
deliberately knocked down and the stonework removed to be used in
other structures. Here and there among the tumbled stones were
newer timber buildings, with signs outside them indicating their
purpose—cookshops and cobblers and taverns.

At last they reached the open-air market.
Rhun called a halt and dismounted, then engaged in conversation
with the dark-eyed, silent man who was the leader of their guard.
The man cast a careful glance at Eastra, then nodded. Rhun came to
help her dismount and they left their horses with the group of
warriors.

Eastra felt a lightening of her mood as they
left their guard behind and began to walk among the stalls of the
market. This was what she wanted, to be alone with Rhun with no
mocking Bridei to spoil his mood, no soldiers to remind him she was
his hostage. The market itself was a delight. She gazed in wonder
at the dozens of stalls full of luxury goods. Lush furs spilled
over a counter, spotted, striped, gray, white, and tawny. Rhun saw
her glance at them and took her arm to guide her nearer. “It gets
cool in Gwynedd at night. Would you like a fur cloak to warm
you?”

Eastra examined a pelt from some sort of
spotted cat, admiring the soft, plush texture and the glowing gold
and cream and rich brown of the pattern. “In truth, I think fur
looks better on the animal than it does on any man or woman. And I
own a cloak lined with red squirrel already.”

She moved away from the booth and went to
the next one, where colored glassware winked and glimmered in the
sunlight. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said to Rhun. “But hardly
practical for taking on a journey.”

“I can pack it in straw in a stout box,”
said the man behind the stall counter. “That’s how these things
were safely carried here from Byzantium.”

“Where’s that?” Eastra asked.

“Far to the east, on the other side of
Rome.” Rhun spoke behind her. “It’s a vast distance to travel,
especially for something so delicate and fragile.”

Examining the man’s fair hair and blue eyes,
Eastra wondered if he were a Saxon. “Are you from Byzantium?” she
asked.

“Nay, I’m from Mickelgard. Traders come to
the market there from all over the north.”

“The world is huge and wide, isn’t it?” she
mused as she and Rhun moved away.

“Aye, it is,” he said. “And yet we fight
over the small island of Preton when it is only a tiny,
insignificant piece of the world.”

“Preton?” she asked.

“That’s what my people used to call Britain.
The Romans changed it to Britain.”

“You speak of the Romans almost as if they
were still your enemies, but many of your people have adopted Roman
ways and even Roman speech.”

Rhun nodded. “Roman influence is everywhere,
but I don’t think most of us ever stopped thinking of ourselves as
Britons. Men like Aurelius are the exception. They live in cities
where trade goods are plentiful, along with the coin to buy them.
But most Britons live in the countryside and have gone back to the
old ways. They dwell in round timber houses rather than square
structures of plaster and stone, and they follow pathways that
twist and turn rather than running in straight lines. The Romans
adored wealth and luxury and put their faith in laws and rulers. My
people care less for the tangible things that a man can touch and
hold and more for things of the heart and the spirit.”

Eastra frowned, trying to decide what Cerdic
cared for. It was not wealth or luxury like the Romans, but neither
was it quite the same as what Rhun held dear. Power was not
something that could be touched or held in the hand, but it was the
thing her uncle coveted above all else.

“Ah, look, there are the drapers’ stalls. I
must get some cloth goods for my stepmother.” Rhun smiled at her.
“Would you assist me? I vow, I know nothing about fabric.”

“Of course,” she said. “Although I’m not
skilled at clothmaking myself.”

“Is it because you are a princess that you
were not required to learn such women’s work?”

Eastra shook her head. “Most Saxon women of
good family spend much of their time weaving and sewing. But I had
learned only a little when I became a slave, and my duties in
Gaius’s household did not include such things.” The familiar shame
afflicted her. Would Rhun think less of her because she was not
skillful at women’s work?

“My stepmother has a passion for sewing and
weaving,” Rhun said. “As a harpist makes beautiful songs, Rhiannon
creates garments that sing with color and life. But in our homeland
only flax and wool are available, so I hope to purchase finer
materials here. Help me pick out something special for her.”

They stopped at a booth where Eastra
carefully examined the rolls of fabric. She found most of them to
be loosely woven and the colors flat and muddy. She started to move
on, but the merchant called out to her, “Wait! I keep the finer
goods in the back.”

Eastra paused and looked at Rhun. He
shrugged, and they waited for the stallkeeper to reappear. “The
sunlight damages fabric,” the man explained as he came back with
several rolls of cloth under his arms. “I keep these hidden away.”
He spread out the cloth on the counter. “The finest silk from
Byzantium.” He gestured gracefully to a roll of shimmering green.
“Cottons from Alexandria.” He motioned to a deep red and rich
saffron, then bent to retrieve something from under the counter.
“And thread of spun gold to embellish it.”

Eastra smoothed the fabric with her fingers,
then looked at Rhun. “It’s all exquisite. The colors deep and true.
I’m certain your stepmother would be pleased.”

Rhun nodded and pointed to a piece of pale
blue that was half-hidden beneath the red and yellow. “And this,
you must have this for yourself. It exactly matches your eyes.”

“I told you, I have no skill at
needlework.”

“No need for that. Rhiannon will be happy to
sew a gown for you.”

“But she does not even know me. And when I
am in her household, I will be a hostage, not a guest.”

“She will not care. If I ask her, she will
be pleased to make you something.”

Eastra touched the blue fabric longingly. It
was a beautiful color, much clearer and more pure a shade than the
usual blue obtained by dying in woad. “All right,” she said. “But I
will find a means of repaying you—both of you.”

Rhun smiled, making her heart turn over. She
thought again how handsome he was. Dazzling as the sun. Strong and
powerful as a spear in flight. But beneath the exterior of an
assured, virile warrior, he was also gentle and kind-hearted.

Rhun paid the merchant and explained to him
they would have someone come to pick up their purchase later. As
the man wrapped up the fabric in coarse sacking, they moved away
from the stall. Eastra said, “Your stepmother must care for you a
great deal. Is that not unusual when she has her own son to think
of?”

“
Sons,
in fact. I have three other
brothers besides Bridei. Gwydion, Mabon and Beli are their names.
And two sisters as well, Elen and Anwyl. But despite her own
family, Rhiannon has always had time for me. I went to live with
her and my father soon after they were married. My own mother died
two years later, so Rhiannon has been like a mother to me
since.”

“Your mother was not wed to your
father?”

“Nay. You might say I was sort of a mistake.
But it worked out anyway.”

“I don’t understand.”

Rhun smiled at her. “It’s a complicated
tale.”

“I would like to hear it,” she responded,
her curiosity piqued.

He nodded. “This is my mother’s version of
it. My father might have a different one. My mother, Morganna, was
wed to one of Maelgwn’s captains, and when he was killed in battle,
Maelgwn felt sorry for her, plus he was sad himself, because the
man was his friend. So he started to go to see her, just to talk.
Then one thing led to another and they went to bed. By the time my
mother knew she was expecting a babe, Maelgwn was wed to a Roman
British princess named Aurora. Morganna thought of telling him she
was pregnant, but she didn’t want to cause trouble. Then news came
that Aurora was expecting as well, and my mother decided to go away
and have her babe elsewhere.

“Soon after I was born, word came that
Aurora had been delivered early and both she and the babe had died.
My mother thought of going to Maelgwn then, but he was beside
himself with grief. He loved Aurora dearly and her death nearly
destroyed him. He even renounced his kingdom and lived in a priory
for several years. In the meantime, my mother raised me and loved
me. And finally, when she heard my father was back and fighting to
reclaim his lands, she decided to take me to him.”

“Why then? Why not before that, when he was
grieving for Aurora?”

“I guess she was afraid he would hate me for
being alive when his beloved Aurora was dead. The bards still sing
tales of the two of them and how passionately he loved her.”

“But finally he got over his grief and wed
Rhiannon?”

Rhun smiled again. “Not exactly. He married
Rhiannon because he needed the dowry of warriors she brought with
her. He did not come to love her until later.”

“You’re right,” Eastra said. “It’s a strange
tale.”

“But with a happy ending. My father adores
Rhiannon, although perhaps in a different way than he loved his
first wife. And she—she knows how to keep him happy and content,
which is not easy with a man like my father. They do not call him
the ‘dragon of the island’ without reason. When he is wroth, he is
very much like a fire-breathing beast!”