Barbarian Slave Page 8

  Lucrezia stared at him. Her mouth felt as if it was filled with wool, and the throbbing in her forehead made it difficult to concentrate. Instead of responding she merely glared at Tarl.

  Her captor’s gaze narrowed further. “You could have been killed.”

  Lucrezia’s mouth twisted. If only I had.

  She had tripped and fallen, that much was evident. Not only that, but she had hit her head. Tentatively, she raised a trembling hand to her brow, and found a bandage covering it.

  “You hit your head on a rock,” Tarl said. “I don’t know how long you were lying there before we found you—but if we had left you out all night you would have died from the cold.

  Again … if only I had.

  Tears blurred her vision then, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She had not wept in front of her captor till now, for she had not wanted him to see her grief, her despair. Yet what did it matter now? All hope had gone.

  She had only had one chance of escape, and she had ruined it with her clumsiness. She was now doomed to spend the rest of her days with this odious barbarian.

  Hot tears ran down her face, and her body trembled from the effort it took to contain her sobs. She wrapped her arms about herself to keep a leash on her despair, but it was like trying to hold back a spring tide—impossible.

  All she could see was misery. The world had lost all its color, its light. Ignoring the thumping pain in her forehead, she rolled over onto her side and faced the wall, turning her back on Tarl.

  She hoped he would go away. She just wanted to be alone with her sorrow.

  Tarl watched the weeping woman. Lucrezia was unlike any female he had ever met, and she did not cry like others either. Most women cried easily, but he could see that her tears cost her. She was proud; he had known that from the first.

  He watched her trembling shoulders and sought to control his own emotions.

  Anger at her defiance.

  Worry at the cut she had sustained to her forehead.

  Relief that he had found her alive.

  Infuriating woman. He and a group of Eagle warriors, his brother among them, had taken torches and went south in search of her, moments after he had discovered her gone.

  It was Donnel who had found her, lying crumpled in the bottom of a gully. He had carried her back to camp and left her in Tarl’s tent, before sending out men to find his brother.

  She would bear that scar on her forehead for the rest of her life.

  Tarl remained at her side for some time in silence. He thought it best to let her cry for a while first before he attempted speaking with her. Like letting the blood flow from a soured wound to let the poison out, he hoped her tears would wash some of the bitterness out of her.

  Eventually, after considering his thoughts a long while, he spoke. “You cannot keep fighting this, Lucrezia,” he began slowly. “The day we attacked the wall, the life you had was gone. Even if I had not found you, or had not taken you for my own, things would never have been the same for you.” He broke off here, watching her trembling shoulders go still. She was listening to him. “I know you don’t think so now, but your fate could have been much worse.”

  He had heard tales around the fireside of what had happened to the other women their male warriors had found in Vindolanda. Some had been raped and killed, others ravished and taken as slaves. Some had taken their own lives before the invaders could reach them. Lucrezia at least had been spared that.

  “I’m not as bad as you think,” he said after a lengthy pause. “I’ve my faults … plenty of them … but I would never hurt you. Life with me, upon my isle, isn’t what you would have chosen, but you will be safe with me.”

  Tarl broke off here. He knew he was not an eloquent man. The words seemed bald, harsh, and not at all what he really wanted to say. After a few long moments, he tried again.

  “I’m sorry for what happened earlier,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.” He saw that she was still listening to him. Her crying had stopped. “I know you had a husband—that you must grieve for him.”

  He watched her turn to him. Her face was ashen, her features pinched, and her dark eyes glittered with tears. “Marcus was a good man,” she replied, her voice hoarse after weeping for so long. “He didn’t deserve to be cut down like that.”

  Tarl held her gaze. He felt an unexpected stab of jealousy at the mention of her husband. Marcus—now that faceless centurion had a name. “Death in battle is a warrior’s death,” he replied. “The best end a man can hope for.”

  Her full-lips compressed. Not for the first time, Tarl was reminded that they came from vastly different worlds; with different gods, values, and rituals. Lucrezia saw the world from another perspective. The realization both confused and fascinated him. He could never tire of a woman like this; there would always be something to learn about Lucrezia.

  Tarl shifted closer to her. “I vow to treat you gently, if you can also make me a promise,” he said.

  She stared at him, a shadow passing over her beautiful face. Even pale, and tear and blood-stained, she was lovely. “What promise?” she murmured eventually.

  “To never again try to escape. It’s too dangerous. Next time, Wurgest could find you.”

  His warning caused her to stiffen. He knew that Wurgest still terrified her; he had seen the way she went pale and shaky every time the warrior had walked by in the past days. He did not want to frighten her, yet he had to make her understand.

  “Please, Lucrezia.” He loved the sound of her name, the way it rolled off his tongue. She had looked on the verge of denying him, but something in his voice caused her expression to soften.

  After a few long moments she gave a small nod. “Very well.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Threat

  a bitter wind gusted across the hills with the rising of the sun. Lucrezia shivered, drawing her plaid cloak close. She had thought the climate harsh at Vindolanda, but it got worse the farther north she travelled.

  The morning was bleak, the world divided into two colors: the pale grey of the sky and the dark green of the pine forest covering the undulating landscape. Lucrezia twisted around, doing a slow circuit as she surveyed her surroundings. Those hills seemed to go on forever in a vast jade sea.

  Despair rose within her once more, mixed with dread. What sort of place was The Winged Isle? Could it be worse than this?

  Completing her survey, Lucrezia was about to turn to Tarl, who was finishing rolling up the hide tent, when she felt a hard stare upon her.

  Wurgest stood a few feet behind her, and he watched her like a wolf eyeing up a fat lamb.

  Fear twisted her gut at the sight of him, but she stood her ground and returned his stare. After a few moments a smile twisted Wurgest’s face.

  “I hear your slave has been giving you trouble,” he called out to Tarl. Of course, the whole camp would know about the events of last night, even if the bandage wrapped around Lucrezia’s forehead did not give it away. “Such a bold stare too … I think she’d prefer traveling with a Boar rather than an Eagle.”

  Tarl glanced up from his work, his brow furrowing. “I fought you for her, Wurgest. There’s no point in being sore over it.”

  Lucrezia clenched her jaw, and looked down at the wind-seared trampled grass beneath her feet. She hated hearing them discuss her as if she was a prize sow. She had softened a little toward Tarl last night, after he had spoken with her, but her hatred for him—and all of these people—resurfaced once more.

  “Aye, you fought me for her,” Wurgest growled, loping closer so that he towered over where Tarl kneeled rolling up the tent. “But that doesn’t make it right—I found her first. She is mine.”

  Tarl gave a heavy sigh and rose to his feet, eyeballing The Boar warrior. Lucrezia glanced up, her gaze settling upon them. She had never seen two men more dissimilar. Tarl was tall, but Wurgest was a giant, towering nearly a foot over him. Tarl was lean and muscular, whereas Wurgest was massively broad with huge
biceps and thighs. Watching them, Lucrezia wondered how on earth Tarl had managed to best the warrior in hand-to-hand combat.

  Her attention shifted to Tarl once more, and she noted the hardness of his face, the dangerous look in his grey eyes. It impressed her he did not appear the slightest bit cowed by Wurgest.

  “I thought we had settled this?” Tarl replied, his voice cool and soft.

  Wurgest shrugged. “You stole my prize … I find I can’t let that go.”

  Tarl continued to watch him steadily. “You have no choice.”

  Wurgest’s dark brows knotted together. “Feuds have been started over less, Eagle,” he growled. “My people are a mighty tribe … some would say the most numerous and powerful on the isle. I know your people have been weakened after fighting with The Wolf. Is your brother ready to begin another blood feud?”

  A chill silence settled upon the top of that windy knoll. A few feet away, it was Donnel who broke it. “Are you threatening us?”

  Wurgest turned, meeting Donnel’s eye. “Unless you can talk sense into your brother, Battle Eagle, then yes … it’s a real threat.”

  “You aren’t taking her,” Tarl bit the words out.

  Wurgest ignored him, his gaze fixed upon Donnel. It was a deliberate slight, one designed to enrage Tarl. Lucrezia knew that Tarl was the elder of the two brothers; it was his word that held the most weight, yet Wurgest spoke to Donnel as if Tarl had no standing, no honor.

  Donnel’s face was impassive as he stared back at Wurgest. “Are your ears filled with wool, Boar? Everyone else here heard Tarl. Do you need it repeated?”

  Wurgest’s face twisted. “I thought you were different to your brother … that you knew that the threat of blood feud should not be taken likely.”

  “I do,” Donnel replied. “But my tribe has never bowed to threats, and we won’t start now.”

  “Take what’s left of your warriors and leave us,” Tarl interjected. His voice was flat and hard. Lucrezia could see he was now having trouble keeping a leash on his temper. “From now on, our people travel separately.”

  Wurgest slowly turned to him, the look on his face vicious enough to cause Lucrezia’s heart to start hammering.

  They’re going to start fighting.

  However, the warrior did not attack Tarl, but instead spat at his feet. “Boars have a long memory,” he growled, “and we will mark this day. My brother is chief of my tribe, and he will hear of this slight. Prepare yourself, Tarl mac Muin, because I’m coming for you.”

  “That’s fine news to bring home to Galan,” Donnel quipped. “He’ll be overjoyed to hear we’ve made enemies with our neighbors.”

  Tarl cast him an irritated look. He did not need his brother stating the obvious. “That bastard left me no choice. Honor was at stake.”

  Donnel nodded, his mouth thinning. “Aye, and I feel as if we played right into his hands. He knew you wouldn’t give your slave up, but it’s about more than that now—he wants vengeance.”

  They walked, side-by-side down a wide vale. A small company traveled with them now: just over forty Eagle and Wolf warriors. Former enemies, the two tribes had only recently set aside years of feuding. It had brought a rare moment of peace to their home, Dun Ringill. Their elder brother Galan had worked hard for that peace; Donnel was right, he would not welcome this news.

  A somber mood settled over the company this morning. Donnel, although not as ashen as yesterday, still walked with a pronounced limp. Pale and shaken, still not recovered from her knock to the head, Lucrezia followed a few paces behind the brothers. As always, a length of rope connected her to Tarl. She had given him her word she would not try to escape again, but Tarl was not inclined to believe her.

  His trust would have to be earned.

  Lucrezia had a thumping headache by the time they stopped to rest at noon. The cut to her brow pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She sank down upon a boulder next to a trickling creek and closed her eyes; the world felt as if it was starting to spin.

  “Are you unwell?”

  She opened her eyes to find Tarl looming over her.

  “Just a bit dizzy,” she muttered. “My head hurts.”

  “Here.” He passed her a skin of wine. “Drink a bit—it’ll help.”

  Lucrezia did not want to drink any of their foul wine, especially from a skin that was passed around the group, but after everything of late she did not have the energy to fight him.

  Wordlessly, she took the skin, unstoppered it, and drank.

  It was a rough wine, made from sour plum, and it bit into the back of her throat. Yet a few moments later, the pain in her head eased slightly.

  She passed the skin back to Tarl. “Thank you.”

  His mouth curved into a smile. It was the first time she had seen that expression in the past day; the incident with Wurgest had tainted his mood and dimmed his usually cocky good-humor. “My pleasure.”

  She watched him untie the rope that connected them, and walk off, leaving her alone on the boulder. She was not really alone though, The Wolf and Eagle warriors that accompanied them had sat down around her and were sharing out dried meat, pieces of hard goat’s cheese, and stale oat cakes. There was no chance of Lucrezia running off while his attention was elsewhere.

  One of the women, the warrior she had watched pluck and gut those water fowl, passed Lucrezia a strip of dried meat.

  “Here—you need to eat something if you’re going to keep walking.”

  Lucrezia nodded, taking the food. She eyed the woman before her; still in awe of her confidence and strength. She had never seen a female like her and found her intimidating. Roman women did not carry weapons and fight alongside their menfolk. The female warriors in this band seemed to share equal status to the men—a far cry from her old situation.

  Tall and muscular, with her dark hair braided into intricate plaits, the woman before her bore an Eagle tattoo on her right bicep, marking her as part of Tarl’s tribe.

  “Are all the women on The Winged Isle like you?” Lucrezia blurted the question out before she’d had time to edit her thoughts.

  The woman started slightly, her sea-blue eyes narrowing, before she gave a wry smile. “No … not all.”

  “So they’re not all fighters.”

  The woman shook her head. “We’re all different. Most women learn to defend themselves. Some choose to train as warriors, while others focus on a more domestic life.” The warrior gave Lucrezia a long, assessing look. “There aren’t many like you though … decorative but with little use besides bearing children.”

  Those words stung like a slap to the face. Lucrezia stared back at the woman for a few moments before drawing herself up, indignant. “I’m not decorative, as you put it. I’m a fine cook and gardener. Surely those abilities are worth something too.”

  The warrior shrugged. “Aye, they’ll come in handy when we return to Dun Ringill—although you’ll be expected to develop more skills than that.”

  Lucrezia tensed. She did not like the knowing smile that crept across the woman’s face as she said those words, or the look she cast in the direction that Tarl had gone. “I hope you have some talent in the furs too, for his sake.”

  Bristling, Lucrezia took a bite of the meat; it was tough and dry but chewing it prevented her from spitting out angry words. She swallowed a mouthful to find the woman watching her, still smiling.

  “I’m Alpia, by the way.”

  Lucrezia nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She was still fuming over the woman’s inference that she would become Tarl’s bed slave.

  Ignoring Lucrezia’s glowering, Alpia climbed up next to her on the boulder. After a grey morning, the sun had finally shown its face. There was little warmth in it, but nonetheless Lucrezia enjoyed the feel of it on her skin; the sun reminded her of home, of another life.

  “We have gardens at Dun Ringill,” the warrior said after a lengthy pause, “and a good cook is always welcome at any hearth. I think you’ll find plenty to keep you bus
y.”

  Lucrezia glanced over at her. “Is it a hard life … for women of your tribe?”

  Alpia shrugged, taking a bite of cheese and chewing vigorously. “No harder than for the men. Only we risk dying in childbirth. I suppose since most men are warriors it evens things up a little.”

  “But you’re a warrior too. Won’t you have children of your own one day?”

  Alpia smiled. “Aye—but not yet. Peace is uncertain upon my isle. I will fight alongside the men for a while still.”

  Silence stretched between the two women for a few moments before Lucrezia broke it. “Will there really be hostility between The Eagle and Boar tribes?” Despite her resentment toward her captives, she could not help but feel partially responsible for the souring of relations between former allies.

  “It seems likely,” Alpia replied, frowning at the thought. “For one small woman, you cause a lot of trouble.”

  Small. Lucrezia had never thought of herself that way—she was taller and curvier than her sisters and most of the women she had grown up around. However, compared to Alpia, who was tall enough to look most men in the eye, she supposed she did appear feeble.

  “None of this was my choice,” she said, biting out the words as bitterness swamped her. “Tarl tore me away from my home, my people. He’s the one who has caused the trouble, not me.”

  Alpia smiled. “You’ve got fire in your belly, I’ll give you that … and you tried to escape too, which was stupid but brave. Maybe you’re not as useless as you look.”

  Lucrezia’s unladylike snort was her only reply.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Winged Isle

  Lucrezia’s first glimpse of The Winged Isle took her breath away.

  She was not sure what she had been expecting, yet it was not this majesty. The morning sun sparkled over the waters of Loch Alsh—a vast lake that Tarl had told her led out to sea. To the west a rumpled headland of gold and green stood out against a wild sky. Beyond the headland rose the outlines of great carven peaks; each farther away than the last. The nearest were clad in jade woodland, whereas the most distant looked wreathed in smoke. It was like gazing upon eternity.