The Dragon Prince (15 page)

“And yet you grin when you speak of his
temper,” Eastra pointed out.

Rhun shrugged. “I’ve learned how to deal
with him. And he is never as hard on me as he is on Bridei.”

The easy way he spoke about his family
aroused an ache in Eastra’s chest, the nagging sense of aloneness
that had haunted her ever since her mother and brother were killed.
Rhun appeared to sense her distress, for he put his hand on her arm
and said, “Come, let us explore the rest of the market. The
goldsmiths’ stalls are over there.”

At the first shop, she pointed at a bracelet
and necklace set depicting colorful beasts entwined and offset by
strips of gold. “These are lovely.”

“Irish enamelwork,” Rhun said. “They’re the
best at it that I’ve ever seen. Even in Rome and Byzantium they
cannot fashion such remarkable work as this. See how bright the
colors are? How lifelike and vivid the dragons and lions and birds
appear?”

“Exquisite,” Eastra agreed.

“But not for you, are they?”

She shook her head. “I possess too much gold
already, and it always seems heavy and clunky to me.”

They moved on to another booth, this one
featuring ornaments of gold and bronze set with precious
stones—emeralds, garnets, pearls, and jet. Eastra examined the
pieces on the counter and shook her head. Then, as they were about
to leave, something caught her eye. She reached up to touch a
necklace hanging on a pole above the counter. It had a delicate
copper chain and strung on the chain were glittering blue beads, as
pale and transparent as water. “What are they?” Eastra reached up
to finger one of the beads.

“Blue faience from Egypt,” the merchant
replied. He shrugged. “A mere trifle for a fine lady like you. Now
these”—he pointed to a neckpiece set with deep red stones arranged
on the crimson cloth covering the counter. “These are more worthy
of your beauty.”

Eastra nodded at the gaudy necklace. Then
her gaze returned to the chain of glass beads.

“She will take that one,” Rhun said
decisively, pointing to the hanging necklace.

“But, sir,” the merchant argued “I sell
necklaces like that to the whores of the city. Your lady deserves
much better. Perhaps the garnet bracelet?”

Rhun shook his head. “She likes this one and
she will have it. How much?” The small, swarthy merchant fixed Rhun
with eyes as dark and glittering as the jet beads in one of his
necklaces. “And don’t think to cheat me,” Rhun warned. “You’ve
already said you sell them to the working women of Londinium. They
cannot be too dear.”

“Only two sestres,” the man replied. “But
since it is so little, why not consider purchasing something else?”
He gave Eastra a resentful look. “Perhaps your mother or sister
would appreciate one of these other pieces.”

“My stepmother cares little for jewels, and
my sisters have a whole chest of them already.” Rhun dropped two
coins on the counter and gave the merchant an impatient look.

Sighing, the man undid the necklace from the
pole and brought it down to hand to Eastra.

“Here, let me,” Rhun said. He moved behind
her and deftly fastened the clasp. Then he grasped her shoulders
and turned her around. “Perfect,” he said. He was looking not at
the necklace, but at her face.

Gazing at his radiant smile, Eastra felt her
insides turn liquid. He was so close. He was touching her, his big,
strong fingers on her upper arms, the burning warmth of them
seeping through the fabric of her gunna. His eyes were so deep and
blue, like gentians, and the sunlight made the stubble on his jaw
glint golden. He looked so male and beautiful and alive. She wanted
to dissolve into him.

She heard him take a deep breath. He
released her and stepped back. “Come,” he said huskily. “There are
many more shops to see.”

The next stall carried
weapons—enamel-handled daggers, war axes, lances, and swords. Rhun
bought two knives, one with an enameled hilt and one decorated with
silver wire. “For my little brothers,” he said. He drew Eastra past
the stall selling farm implements and tools, but stopped at one
filled with baskets and other items woven of reeds. “I should get
some of these for Rhiannon. They are light enough to carry easily
and the workmanship appears excellent.” He picked out several
baskets and trays and paid the merchant, telling him as he had the
others that a man would be by to fetch their purchases.

At the cobbler’s booth, he bought two pairs
of dainty shoes. “For my sisters,” he said. “I will give Anwyl the
red pair, to match her hair. Elen, the blue. She is dark like
Bridei.”

“And your brothers—what do they look like?”
she asked.

“Beli is dark-haired, while Mabon and
Gwydion have red hair like Rhiannon. But despite their coloring,
the twins remind me of Bridei, although I think they will be
taller.” He grinned. “But don’t mention that to Bridei. He can be
sensitive about his height.”

“But he’s not small. He’s taller than me,
and I’m considered tall for a woman. For that matter, I know many
warriors shorter than him.”

“Ah, but those men do not have a father and
a brother who are considered giants,” Rhun answered. “I think
Bridei feels he has always lived in my shadow, and it doesn’t help
that I stand a handspan higher than he does.”

“For all your bickering, you and Bridei
still seem to care for each other.”

“He is my brother,” Rhun answered. “Whatever
I think of his actions, he is still my blood kin.”

Eastra nodded, thinking of Cerdic. She owed
her uncle a great deal, and she certainly did not want to see him
defeated. But she did want all this warring to cease. And she
wanted Rhun. The more she was around him, the more she knew she
loved him—and would do nearly anything to make him love her
back.

They visited a few more shops, then started
toward the end of the market area. A crowd was gathered there, and
Eastra approached with curiosity. When she had gone a few steps,
Rhun grabbed her arm. “Nay, I don’t think you should see this.”

“What? What is it?”

Rhun grimaced. “The slavers.”

A chill went through Eastra, but she lifted
her chin. “I
want
to see. I’m not afraid.”

Rhun regarded her dubiously. “It’s ugly and
crude, not a sight for a woman.”

“I don’t care.” She began to push her way
through the crowd. If he had asked, she would not have been able to
explain why observing the slave market was so important to her.
Perhaps she wanted to know what horrors she had escaped, or see the
plight of those who were not so fortunate.

A group of red-haired men were crowded onto
a platform. They were shackled together, their shoulders slumped
and their heads down. The slavemaster cracked his whip and one of
the men glanced up. His blue-green eyes gleamed with a hatred so
intense Eastra could feel it from where she stood, twenty paces
away.

“They’re Irish, by the looks of it,” Rhun
said behind her.

Eastra took a deep, choking breath. “And
does it not grieve you to see them like this?”

“Aye, it does, but there is naught I can
do.”

“You could purchase them and set them
free!”

“Aye, and then they would probably return
someday to slit the throats of my countrymen. These men are
prisoners of war. Selling them into slavery is the only way to keep
them from joining back up with their own people and returning to
harass our coasts in the future.”

“But it’s so cruel! I think death would be
better.”

“I agree with you. That’s why when my father
captures prisoners, he now gives them a choice—death or
slavery.”

Eastra shook her head and moved away from
the Irishmen. She was looking down, deep in thought, when she felt
Rhun pull on her arm. She looked up in time to see a group of women
gathered on another platform. Their breasts were bare; the rest of
their attire so skimpy as to be indecent. She sucked in her
breath.

“Come.” There was a note of desperation in
Rhun’s voice. “This is not something you should see.”

Eastra set her feet. “Why are they half
naked?” she asked grimly.

Rhun let out his breath in a sigh. “They are
being sold as bedslaves. Come away. Surely you do not want to see
these women shamed.”

She observed them carefully. None of them
looked like Saxons. Several of them had bronze-colored skin and
black eyes. One was near as dark as the Nubian they had seen the
day before. In the front was a woman with reddish brown hair and
speckled skin like a plover’s egg. Compared to the rest of her
exposed skin, her breasts looked very white and full, and as Eastra
watched, she saw milk trickling from her nipples.

The slaver stepped forward and grasped the
woman’s arm. “And here we have a fine young wet nurse.” He pushed
her toward the crowd, then reached to squeeze her breast. Bluish
pale milk squirted out.

Someone laughed. “Yea, she is ripe and ready
to give suck.”

Another man guffawed. “I would not mind a
taste of that myself. Why waste it all on a squalling brat?”

The man squeezed the woman’s breast again to
express another gleaming stream. Eastra saw the woman wince, but
whether from pain or humiliation she could not tell. Eastra closed
her eyes, feeling sick. The slaver was handling the woman as if she
were a piece of livestock. The queasy feeling built inside her.

She felt Rhun grasp her arm firmly. “Come
away from here,” he murmured. “It’s not seemly.”

As he hustled her away from the slave
market, Eastra felt her dismay turn to anger. Why did Rhun want so
badly to get her away from there? Was he trying to protect her—or
himself? Was he ashamed of the way his people treated that
unfortunate woman? Or did it remind him that she had once been a
slave?

When they reached the edge of the market,
Eastra jerked out of his grasp and faced him. She was nearly
hysterical with impotent fury and remembered shame. All she could
think of was the way Cerdic’s house carls had looked at her when
they found out she had been a slave. There was distaste in their
expressions, but also a lewd interest, as if they were imagining
her as a helpless captive at the whim of her master.

“Aye, your father is right to offer his
captives the choice of death rather than slavery.” She spit the
words at him. “For ever after, a slave is marked. A thing to be
pitied and held in contempt.”

“Eastra, I’m sorry.” Rhun’s eyes were
anguished. “I didn’t want you to see that. That’s why I begged you
to come away.”

“Ah, but if I had not been there, would you
not have gone to see? Would you not have enjoyed watching the
women, naked and helpless?”

“Nay, nay,” he whispered. “I think it’s an
abomination.”

“Yet your people have slaves!” she cried.
“You’re no different than any of them!” She was sobbing now, her
face streaked with tears. Her throat so convulsed with pain she
could scarce get the words out.

He grabbed her suddenly and held her close.
Her face was crushed against his chest; his big, strong arms
gripped her tightly. “Oh, Eastra, I’m sorry, so sorry you had to
suffer such torment and degradation. I have thought sometimes that
it might have been better if I had not saved you, if you had
perished in the flames, forever innocent and pure.”

She could not hold back now. His words had
touched the raw wound inside her. Shoving him away with all her
might, she shouted at him. “Aye, then I would not be soiled in your
eyes—a contemptible slave girl! Although I have told you otherwise,
I know you think my master bedded me, that I am a whore in truth!
That’s why you shy away from me and avoid my gaze! You’re like all
the others!”

He looked at her as if she had struck him.
She swallowed, wondering if she had gone too far, if he would erupt
with anger to match her own. But his voice when he spoke was tense
and sorrowful. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I want
nothing more than for you to be safe. From me and from every man.”
He took a ravaged breath, then reached out. His big fingers grasped
one of her braids and stroked it, softly, lovingly. “I see the pain
inside you and it troubles me. But it does not diminish... what I
feel for you. If only you were not my hostage and kin of my enemy,
I would love you in a heartbeat. I would make you mine...
forever.”

Gazing at his intent, rapt face, she felt
her anger dissolve and fall away. This man
was
different
than the others. When he looked at her, he did not see a slave; he
saw into her soul. She gave a little cry and reached out for him.
He gathered her into his arms; his mouth came down on hers. It was
far beyond tenderness. It was exquisite shimmering need. Liquid
fire. Their bodies and souls as one. Rapture.

His fingers were tangled in her hair. His
mouth bonded to hers. He offered her everything—his warmth, his
strength, his potent masculinity. She was drowning in it, her
senses awash with wonder. She had always known it would be like
this... always known...

He threw her away from him so rapidly she
fell. Dizzy, confused she struggled to her feet. By then, the men
were upon them. The flash of a sword. Rhun, a whirling mass of fury
and power. She saw him cut one man down. Then another. Still they
came at him—slowly, warily, trying to avoid the lightning strike of
his blade.

But he was invincible. The last man gave a
cry and fled. Another lying on the ground gave a rattling groan.
Rhun grabbed her and pulled her away, his sword in his other
hand.

He dragged her back to the market and the
crowd closed around them. She heard him panting and the rapid thud
of her own pulse in her ears. Confused, disoriented she finally
looked at him. A stranger—a berserker warrior from the old legends,
his blue eyes bright as flames, his dark gold hair wild around his
face, his jaw clenched in a grim, vicious mask.