Barbarian Slave Page 11

  Heavens, it feels good to be clean.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In His Brother’s Shadow

  galan found tarl standing atop the wall. The early evening was foul; sheets of icy rain swept across Dun Ringill. Sharp needles of rain peppered Galan’s face as he reached the top of the steps. The wind was so cold up here it made his eyes water.

  Tarl was a dark cloaked silhouette against the gloom. He stood, back straight, spear in hand as he stared west across the rough surface of Loch Slapin. The sun was setting; a faint glow through the storm clouds on the horizon.

  Galan strode down the high inner wall that encircled the fort, and stepped up next to Tarl. He pulled up the hood of his fur mantle and cast his brother a speculative look. “You just got back … you don’t have to take watch.”

  Tarl glanced over at him. His face was stony, his voice cold, when he answered. “I prefer it out here.”

  Galan snorted and dipped his head as another rain squall lashed across the wall. “Aye—who needs a roaring fire?”

  An uncomfortable silence fell between the brothers then, and stretched out until Galan eventually broke it. “I know you don’t wish to hear this,” he began, “but it had to done. We had to set that woman free.”

  Tarl’s jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to Galan. “We didn’t—you did.”

  “All the same, it had to be this way.”

  Galan saw his brother’s features tighten, and the familiar stubbornness light in his eyes. “A warrior can take a slave as a spoil of war,” Tarl replied. “I did nothing wrong.”

  “Aye, but usually such men rape the woman first and drag her home by the hair. Instead you saved her from Wurgest and protected her.”

  Tarl glowered at him. “And that’s a problem?”

  Galan gave a sigh of frustration, pulling his fur mantle closer as a vicious gust of wind buffeted the wall. “No … only that since you clearly care for the girl, it’s best you set her free and allow her to make choices for herself.” He fixed Tarl in a level stare. “Otherwise you risk making her hate you.”

  Tarl looked back at him. His face was still hard, but Galan saw the resentment in his eyes cool. “When did you become such an expert on women?” he asked sullenly.

  Galan laughed, shattering the tension between them. “Since I wed one.”

  Tarl snorted. “Last time I saw you and Tea, she couldn’t stand you. What’s changed?”

  Galan favored his brother with an enigmatic smile. “Many things, brother.” He sobered then, remembering the events over the long winter. There had been much pain mixed in with joy. “It’s a long tale, and one best shared over a cup of mead. Come—let’s get inside before the next squall hits. No one will threaten our walls tonight.”

  He watched Tarl hesitate, and knew he was struggling with his pride, his conscience. “I was rude earlier,” Tarl muttered after a few moments. “I’m sorry if I gave offense to you … or Tea.”

  Galan shrugged. He had come close to blackening Tarl’s eye, but now that the red haze of rage had subsided he was glad he had kept his temper. “None taken.” He slung his arm around Tarl’s shoulders. “Come on … join us for supper. The women have prepared venison stew and apple cakes to celebrate your return.”

  Tarl followed his brother down from the wall, casting a look over his shoulder at the darkening, windswept hillside to the east. Galan was right; there was little risk of attack in such weather. Even so, he was wary.

  Wurgest’s threats had followed him home. He had seen the look on The Boar warrior’s face the last time they had locked gazes—the fury, the hatred. Wurgest would not let things lie, he knew that much. Sooner or later, Tarl would have to warn Galan about him—yet he did not feel up to it tonight.

  The two men crossed the yard, climbed the rain-slick stone steps and re-entered the tower together. A fug of warm smoky air and the aroma of simmering venison stew greeted them.

  Men, women, and children sat at long tables arranged in a square around the fire pit—their gazes tracking Galan and his brother. Among them he spotted Ruith, the bandruí—seer—of Dun Ringill. Small and fey, her greying dark hair plaited into intricate braids, Ruith was a welcome sight indeed. Meeting his eye, the woman’s angular face split into a wide smile. “Tarl!”

  “Welcome home!” One of the men farther along the table called out. It was Cal, a rangy warrior with a craggy face. He was sitting next to his wife—Deri—a plump young woman with thick brown hair and laughing green eyes. The warriors seated around them—Namet, Lutrin, and Ru—all lifted their cups and grinned at Tarl.

  Tarl smiled back at them—he had grown up training alongside these men. They were Galan’s most trusted warriors. It pleased him more than he had expected to see their faces again.

  Cal got to his feet and crushed Tarl in a bear hug, before shoving a cup of mead in his hand. “Come, take a seat. We want to hear all about this great victory to the south.”

  “Later,” Galan rumbled, pushing Tarl toward the raised platform where Tea was dishing up earthen bowls of stew. “Once his belly’s full and we’ve caught up, you can talk Tarl’s ear off all night.”

  Upon the platform Tarl took a seat at the table to his brother’s right. Tea moved around the table, pouring cups of bramble wine from a bronze ewer. Tarl avoided her gaze as she passed by. He was still chafing at his humiliation earlier, and the part Tea had played in it.

  A moment later Eithni joined them and took a seat to Tarl’s right—a seat that would usually be reserved for the youngest of the three brothers.

  “How is Donnel?” Tarl asked, dreading the answer. He had stayed in the alcove while the healer had lanced his brother’s leg, and had seen just how bad the infection was.

  Eithni glanced up, her steady gaze meeting his. “He’s strong,” she said quietly, “and he’s fighting it, but it’s too early to tell if he will rally.” She paused here, perhaps seeing the grief in Tarl’s eyes. “I have applied woundwort to it, and have given him something to help fight the fever—the rest is up to him. I shall know more in the morning.”

  Tarl nodded. “Thank you … I wish we could have gotten him to you sooner.”

  Eithni gave him a brittle smile and looked away. Tarl noted the wariness in her and wondered at it. He sensed an underlying current of fear, even if she took great pains to hide it. In spite of the confidence and skill he had witnessed earlier, this young woman was fragile—wounded.

  So different to Tea.

  Tarl glanced right and noticed that Galan’s wife was watching him. Despite the insults he had cast her way earlier, he saw no resentment in her gaze. Even so, he felt uncomfortable pinned under her stare.

  “I’ve seen to your friend,” Tea said, passing a basket of hot bread down the table. “She has bathed … and I’ve given her clean clothes. She’s eating alone tonight, to give her a chance to recover from the journey. Eithni has her own hut in the village so she can live with her for the moment.”

  Tarl nodded curtly. He had no wish to speak of Lucrezia. Just the thought of her soured his mood. Instead he turned his attention to the stew; its aroma was making his empty belly growl, his mouth water. He took a mouthful and stifled a groan of pleasure. He had forgotten what food could taste like.

  For a while he focused entirely on his supper, ignoring those around him. He was halfway through his third bowl when he became aware of someone’s gaze boring into him. Tarl glanced up, to find Galan watching him.

  “Still got the appetite of a wolf, I see,” his brother noted.

  “Aye—after months of weevil-infested bread and half-rotten meat this tastes like a gift from the gods.” Tarl wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and leaned back, easing his full stomach. His gaze flicked to Tea then. “Did you make this?”

  She raised a dark eyebrow. “I helped. I’m not much of a cook … if you want to thank someone for the meal, it’s Deri.”

  Tarl’s gaze flicked between his sister-by-marriage and his brother. Now that his hunger
had been sated, he could focus on other things; namely how Galan’s marriage was faring.

  “Galan tells me much has changed since I left.”

  She nodded, her attention flicking to her husband. “How much have you told him?”

  “Nothing,” Galan replied, reaching out and draping a possessive arm around Tea’s shoulders. “Shall you tell the tale, or shall I?”

  Their gazes held, and Tarl saw the raw energy between them, the attraction that lay heavily upon the air like musk. He did not need any explanation to see the pair of them were in love. Galan did not give much away; he was a man who kept his feelings to himself for the most part. Yet Tarl saw his brother’s eyes shine now as he gazed upon Tea.

  “You can,” Tea replied, leaning against him.

  “Over the bitter months, Tea and I gradually grew closer,” Galan began. “Especially after Mid-Winter Fire.”

  Tea’s cheeks reddened slightly at this, and Tarl swallowed a smile. It was clear what had happened at the celebration of the long night.

  Galan’s face hardened then, as he continued his story. “However, shortly after, news reached me that Wolf warriors had started raiding our villages again, murdering and pillaging as they went.”

  Tarl tensed. “Loc broke the peace?”

  Galan shook his head. “I thought so at first, but later I discovered that one of his warriors—a man named Forcus—murdered The Wolf chieftain and took his place. It was him who ordered the attacks.” His brother broke off there, regret upon his face as he glanced down at Tea.

  “Before I learned the truth, I turned on Tea … and while I was out dealing with the raiders, she fled back to Dun Ardtreck. I followed, arriving to see her kill Forcus for his treachery.” A beat of hesitation followed before Galan finished his tale. “Eventually Tea forgave me for believing the worst of Loc, and of her, and peace was restored.”

  Tea placed a hand over Galan’s, squeezing gently. Her eyes glittered as she gazed up at him. “There was fault on both sides,” she murmured, the hoarse edge to her voice giving her away. “I was too proud … too blinded by prejudice.”

  Watching them, Tarl felt his throat tighten. The reaction took him by surprise, for emotional scenes between others usually left him cold.

  I’m going soft, he thought, reaching for his cup of mead. What do I care, if they’re in love?

  Shoving his reaction aside, he glanced at Eithni. She was sitting demurely beside him, her slender fingers wrapped around a cup of wine she had barely taken a sip from.

  “So you came to live at Dun Ringill,” he observed. “Don’t you miss Dun Ardtreck and your kin there?”

  Eithni shook her head, her face pensive. “I’m closer to Tea than anyone—and with Loc gone I’m happier here. Our cousin, Wid, rules the broch now.”

  “Eithni is more than welcome to remain here,” Galan rumbled. “Dun Ringill has never had such a gifted healer.”

  Tarl saw the young woman’s cheeks pinken slightly at the compliment, and he smiled. Few women were immune to Galan’s charm. Ruith had told Tarl once that Galan possessed a raw masculinity that no woman could resist—only Tea had managed, and only for a time.

  Tarl’s smile faded. He did not have that effect on women.

  He had plowed his share, and never had trouble finding a female to warm his furs, but none blushed in his presence, or had ever gazed up at him with adoration the way Tea did with Galan now.

  Lucrezia could not stand to look at him. He had saved her, protected her, and brought her to his home, and yet she wanted nothing to do with him.

  Tarl tightened his grip on his cup, staring down at it. He had thought going away to war would change things, would ease that crippling sense of inadequacy he had always felt in Galan’s presence. He had gone south, fought bravely, and even come back with a war prize, and yet nothing had changed.

  In truth, he was still the troublesome second son, doomed to lurk forever in his brother’s shadow. It did not matter how many battles he fought or enemies he killed.

  I will never be Galan’s equal.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clearing the Air

  “I’ve made up a bed for you in the right-hand corner.”

  Lucrezia stood inside the doorway of the tiny hut as Eithni bustled around inside, lighting cressets and stirring the lumps of peat in the hearth. Despite the storm that still raged outside, it was surprisingly warm in here. She’d had to step down to enter the hut, and the thatched roof was barely a foot above her head, but rather than feeling claustrophobic the dwelling had a homely welcoming air.

  Even in the gloom Lucrezia could see that Eithni kept a clean and tidy home. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the rafters and fresh straw covered the dirt floor. Lucrezia’s gaze shifted between the two piles of furs in the far corners of the hut.

  “Are you sure you’re happy with this arrangement?” Lucrezia asked after an awkward pause. “I’m sorry to be a burden on you.”

  Eithni straightened up from where she had been stoking the hearth and pushed a lock of hair from her eyes. The smile she gave Lucrezia lit up the cold night. “It’s no trouble at all. Truthfully, I’m glad of the company. I like having my own home, but some evenings I wish for someone to talk to.” The girl waved her over to the hearth. “Close the door and hang up your mantle—that wind is cold enough to freeze your giblets.”

  Smiling despite herself Lucrezia did as bid and moved over to the hearth, her long plaid skirt swishing as she walked. She was still getting used to this new attire, especially the leather vest laced tight across her breasts. The garment showed far too much cleavage for her liking. She would need to ask Tea if she had something less revealing for her to wear.

  “You must be exhausted,” Eithni said, watching her with curiosity. “You’ve traveled so far.”

  Lucrezia nodded, moving over to the pile of furs Eithni had indicated earlier. There was a long linen tunic folded on top for her to sleep in. Looking at it, Lucrezia felt tears sting her eyelids. These days the slightest human kindness made her want to weep. She blinked the tears back and began to unlace her vest. Behind her she heard Eithni moving around, doing a few chores before retiring for the night.

  The linen shift felt soft and cool against her skin and Lucrezia was shivering as she climbed into the furs. She snuggled in deep, sighing as their warmth enveloped her. Eithni was right; she was exhausted.

  A hot bath and a bowl of venison stew and fresh bread had relaxed her considerably. For the first time since the attack, she was not on edge. For the first time, she felt pampered.

  “Are you warm enough?” Eithni asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Let me know, if you need anything.”

  Lucrezia wanted to reply, to thank her, but it felt as if a heavy fog had just settled over her, pushing her down into the furs. A moment later she fell into a heavy dreamless sleep.

  Lucrezia awoke to the aroma of something sweet and nutty baking.

  Her belly growled, and she opened her eyes. A few feet away, Eithni was bent over an iron griddle, where she was frying oatcakes. Sensing movement from the nest of furs in the corner, Eithni glanced up and smiled.

  “You’re awake. Just in time to break your fast.”

  Lucrezia sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Those cakes smell delicious.”

  Eithni’s smile widened. “Wait till you try them with honey and butter.”

  Not needing any further invitation, Lucrezia climbed out of the furs, shucked off her tunic and hastily pulled on her clothes. The air inside the hut was warm, and she could no longer hear the howling of the wind beyond. It seemed the storm had spent itself overnight.

  Seated upon low stools next to the hearth, the two women ate oatcakes dripping with butter and honey, washed down with cups of goat’s milk. It was possibly the most delicious meal Lucrezia had ever eaten.

  Licking honey off her fingers, she eyed Eithni, who was brushing crumbs off her skirt. The girl was a fey-looking creature. Much smaller and finely-bo
ned than her elder sister, with floss-like brown hair, timid hazel-green eyes, and a delicately featured face—Eithni looked an unlikely healer. Yet Lucrezia had caught some of the conversation in the fort the afternoon before; this young woman was said to have great talent.

  “I must go to Donnel,” Eithni said, rising to her feet. Her pretty face clouded as she spoke. “I hope he has survived the night.”

  Lucrezia stood up, frowning. “Can you heal him?”

  Eithni’s lips thinned. “We shall see.” The young woman went to a long table behind her and picked up a basket filled with clay bottles, pots, and leather pouches. Eithni hooked it over one arm, before turning to Lucrezia. “Can you come with me to tend him, Luc … cezia?” She said her name slowly, struggling with the ‘r’. “I could do with some help.”

  Lucrezia nodded. She had gotten over her squeamishness on the journey here. Still, it was not a task she relished.

  The women left Eithni’s hut and stepped outside into a crisp clear morning. Surprised, Lucrezia looked around her. The weather the day before had made it difficult to take in her surroundings.

  This morning, bathed in sunshine, Dun Ringill looked even more impressive than the day before. The sky was huge, a pale blue swathe, and the air smelled of the sea. To the west she could see the sparkling waters of a great salt-water lake, while rolling bare hills stretched east. To the north, she could see the faint outline of great jagged mountains.

  Eithni’s dwelling sat on the outskirts of the village, not far from the gate leading east. Another hut, this one with a wild-looking garden and a clutch of pecking fowl, sat a few feet away.

  Seeing the direction of Lucrezia’s gaze, Eithni smiled. “That’s Ruith’s home. She’s the bandruí for our people.”

  “Bandruí?” Lucrezia did not recognize the word.

  “A seer. Do your people have them?”

  Lucrezia nodded, her gaze returning to the hovel. She noted smoke rising from the roof, indicating that its inhabitant was awake. “We do … although it’s becoming part of the old ways.”