Louise Allen - Virgin Slave, Barbarian King

‘Lord?’

‘Berig, if Alaric wished you to be privy to his councils then he would invite you.’ Wulfric felt hot, irritable and sweaty. He violently disagreed with Alaric’s decision for the next stage of their journey and none of this had been helped by a tendency to think about Julia at inappropriate moments. He had been on his feet for most of the day, arguing his case for them to move north west, into Gaul, into the rich, well-watered lands that lay open and inviting to a farming people. But the king, backed by his inner circle, had other ideas and nothing Alaric and his supporters could say had swayed them.

Hilderic had come to stand with him, the rest of his kin clustering close. ‘They are wary of you, Alaric’s men,’ the older man had murmured, running a scarred hand through his beard. ‘He knows there are many who would follow you and he is not well.’

‘I am Alaric’s man,’ Wulfric had retorted, low-voiced. ‘His man until death.’

‘Quite,’ Hilderic said with a sly smile. ‘And until his death, of course. Look at yourself—look who stands at your back and your shoulder. Look at the gold you wear and the gold your kin have gained, following you. And then ask, who should the old men who stand at Alaric’s back fear when he has gone?’

It had shaken him. It shook him still. His ambition was to lead his kin, as now he did. Beyond that, he wanted to draw into alliance with them as many strong men as he could, for their mutual protection. To be acknowledged as a leader by warriors of Hilderic’s experience and standing was heady, but that was as far as his ambition had led him, despite the whispers that had sometimes come to his ears.

Now Hilderic, who spoke for most of the men in the loose alliance ranged with him, was hinting openly that he should bid for the throne when Alaric was gone. There was no harm in speculation about what would come, others would argue. Alaric’s health was uncertain, his temper and judgement unsettled. One day, he would no longer lead. One would be a fool not to be ready for that day.

Wulfric realised he was standing in the middle of the courtyard, hand on sword hilt, a scowl on his face. Poor Berig was visibly quaking.

‘We stay one more day. That is all I can tell you. The food is running out.’

‘But—will we fight the emperor? March on Ravenna?’

‘We stay one more day. When I can tell you what happens next, I will do so. Now, where are the horses?’

‘Here, lord.’ Subdued in his best clothes, Berig led the way to where an urchin was holding the reins. He tossed him a small coin and swung up into the saddle as Wulfric followed suit. ‘You look tired,’ he ventured as they rode out of the city.

‘I’ve been sitting on my backside in a hot room with a crowd of sweaty men all day. I’ve been up and down like a bucket in a well, talking and arguing, and my throat is raw. My feet ache worse than if I’d been on a two-day route march and in these clothes I feel like a trussed-up chicken. Otherwise I’m fine.’ He pulled irritably at the neck band of his best tunic.

‘We could wrestle?’ Berig suggested hopefully. ‘You promised you’d show me that throw you used on Rathar.’

Wulfric shaded his eyes and looked at where they had got to. Another league into camp. When he got there, there were meetings to hold, men to brief, the whole organisation of breaking camp to set in motion. And that confounded woman to infuriate his mind and inflame his body.

‘You’re on. See that grove of trees? Race you.’

They rode back into camp an hour later, battered and laughing, their good tunics slung over their saddle bows, their bare chests gleaming with sweat. Berig had a split lip, an interesting bruise coming up on his right bicep and an inch of skin missing from his left knuckles. Wulfric suspected he himself would have a black eye come the morning. He certainly had a bruise over his ribs and a wrenched finger. The boy was fast, and beginning to put on weight as his muscles developed. It would be time soon to take his sword practice seriously.

‘I could eat a horse,’ Berig declared, sliding to the ground and wincing as his bruises were jarred.

‘Two horses, but a hot bath first.’ Wulfric slapped him on the back and walked with him towards the tent. ‘Odd. There’s nothing on the fire. Where’s Julia?’ He flipped back the tent flap and went in. Flies buzzed around the previous night’s dirty dishes. Berig’s bed was just as he’d left it and so, when he went to look, was his. He kicked at the pile of filthy clothes and strode across the tent to the curtained corner. ‘Julia!’

Her bed space was immaculate, and empty.

‘Julia Livia!’ It was a bellow now. He was hot, hungry, the warm glow of hard exercise was edging towards stiffness and he had expected comfort and soft, feminine, attention to his needs, not fly-covered dishes and heaps of grubby linen.

‘She’s washed up the things she used,’ Berig said, prodding the dishes. ‘Just hers.’

‘Julia—’

The sound of Smoke’s bark brought them round the corner of the tent. Julia was sitting on one of the folding stools, taking advantage of the late afternoon sun. She looked, he saw with mounting fury, beautiful, her braid thrown over one shoulder, her patrician profile smooth and calm.

There were the remains of a meal by her side and she was amusing herself by combing Smoke’s thick coat. The wolf was lying on its back, paws in the air, letting her groom his stomach.

‘That is my comb!’ The childish complaint was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Berig gave a gasp of shocked laughter and ducked out of the way of retribution.

‘Really?’ she said indifferently. ‘It was on the floor and some of the teeth were broken. There’s a good boy, then!’ It was all too apparent that this was addressed to the wolf and not its master.

‘Where is our dinner? Why isn’t the washing done? Why is the tent a mess?’

‘Because that is how you left it. Una gave me some food just now—I think she expected you to be eating in the city.’

‘Because you told her so, I suppose?’ He was so angry he was seeing red. Julia added fuel to the flames by shrugging one shoulder elegantly.

Wulfric took a deep breath. ‘Smoke, get up and stop behaving like a dog. Berig, go and build up the fire, put on the biggest cauldron. Then go and buy a chicken and ask Una if she’ll put it on her spit for us. Then go and get the tub off the cart and scrounge some more hot water. You can bathe at your sister’s, Sichar won’t be back a while yet.

‘And you—’ he pointed a long finger at Julia ‘—you make the beds and gather up the dirty clothes and wash the dishes and when you’ve done that you can damn well scrub my back.’

Berig left at the run, he was glad to see. As for Julia—Halja, he was angry enough to turn her over his knee. Smoke got to his feet and padded over to his side, tail waving apologetically. Julia just sat and stared at him defiantly.

‘Move!’ he roared. She jumped, got to her feet with a look of scorn and strode off to the tent. Wulfric followed, leaning against the front tent pole, watching with narrowed eyes as Julia disdainfully twitched the bedclothes back into order, kicked the dirty clothing into a pile, shovelled it into a basket and then picked up the bucket full of dirty dishes.

‘You will have to move if you want me to put these in hot water.’ She stood in front of him, her free hand fisted on her hip, and glared at him. If he had not been so skilled at reading an opponent, watching the eyes of a swordsman for the flicker of intent, he would have believed her unafraid. As it was, he could feel a sneaking admiration for the way she stood up to him, despite the fear flickering in the back of those big brown eyes and the betraying pulse at her temple under the fine skin.

And he was frightening, Wulfric knew it, and cultivated that reaction. To lead and to fight he had to look dangerous, and he had to follow through on it whenever necessary. He could not hide that from her, even if he wanted to—and he did not.

He was almost twice her weight and head and shoulders taller. He was half-naked, sweaty, battered and had all too obviously been fighting, and yet she did not flinch. He remembered the way she had resisted those two men in the alley—hopelessly outnumbered and outweighed, but not giving up. He had no wish to break her spirit, but he was beginning to wonder if that was what it would take to bend her to his will.

‘Will you please move?’ Julia repeated, trying not to let her voice shake. Oh, but he is scary. And big. And attractive. She was utterly horrified at herself for thinking it, but she could not deny it. Something fundamentally female was responding shamefully to the nearness of power and arrogance and sheer masculine beauty.

Wulfric moved to the side with a feline grace and she made herself walk past him and out to the fire. If his size had made him clumsy, then she knew she would not feel this erotic tug. But he moved like a panther, not like the bear he sounded like when he growled, and when he was near she could not stop watching him. Julia scooped hot water onto the greasy dishes, well aware that his eyes were following her.

What on earth would he think if he knew she had been having luridly arousing dreams about him? Dreams so vivid I can still recall the feel of his skin under my palm, still feel the indentations around his bicep where he had removed a bracelet, still… She gave herself a vigorous mental shake and fixed a studiedly neutral expression on her face.

A rumble presaged Berig with another youth, rolling what looked like a vast half-barrel around the side of the tent. They manhandled it through the tent flaps, then there was a thud as they rocked it flat onto the ground.

Julia went into the tent and peered into the tub. It came up higher than her waist, high enough for a big man to sit down in comfortably. ‘Ugh,’ she commented. ‘You sit in your own dirty water?’

‘In the absence of a hypocaust and bathhouse system, a strigil and a slave to oil me, yes.’ Wulfric was stripping off his bracelets. He placed them on a stool and bent to unlace his boots.

‘Julia, mind your back!’ It was Berig and his friend again, this time laden with buckets of hot water. ‘He’ll want fresh towels—there.’ The lad tipped his head towards the back of the tent and took out the empty buckets.

How many towels does a large wet man need? she wondered, then picked up a stack, along with the jar of soap balls. They seemed odd to wash with, but she had to admit they were effective. There was more splashing; the lads were working hard at filling the great tub.

‘That should be enough,’ Berig declared at length. ‘I’ll go and have my own bath now.’ He went out, dropping the tent flap and leaving Julia alone with Wulfric.

He reached in to test the temperature, then stretched. Julia hastily put the towels down within his reach. ‘No, fold one so I can rest my head on it.’

Yes, my lord, no, my lord. Fuming, Julia did as she was told and hung the result over the edge of the tub, then turned her back with a gasp as his hands went to his belt buckle. Very definitely time to go.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out.’ There had been no sound of splashing behind her, which meant that well over six foot of naked man was still standing there within reach.

‘Wait. I may want more hot water.’

She stopped and stood, just inside the door, listening to the sound of Wulfric climbing into the bath, the splashing of water, his long exhalation of pleasure. ‘That’s good.’ Then, ‘I need another bucketful of hot water.’