Virgin Slave, Barbarian King

Smoke grumbled as his head was unceremoniously pushed to one side. Wulfric twisted on the bed and laid Julia down, drawing the blanket up over skirts that were rucked up to her knees. He backed out of the corner, picking up the rushlight as he went, as tense as though he were facing an armed opponent. ‘Stay,’ he breathed and Smoke lay down at the foot of the bed.

He regained his own bed, shaken. Julia was dangerous to his peace of mind, to his body’s equilibrium, to his focus and control. Restless, he turned on his side and tried to get comfortable, accepting the ache in his groin as just punishment for his thoughts. Dangerous. Some part of his mind, the part that observed him, chided him—his conscience, he supposed—noted coolly that he did not consider taking her back with him into Rome in the morning and setting her free. No, he told himself as he slipped back into sleep. She stays.

Julia woke to a strange light, an unfamiliar room, a peculiar bed. Where…? She sat up, scrubbing the loose tendrils of hair back from her face, and found herself staring at a large wolf, that was watching her from the far end of the bed.

Oh, dear God, it wasn’t a dream. She was in a Visigoth’s tent, yesterday had happened, she was a captive, a slave, and she had no idea how she was going to escape. Her side of the tent must be facing east, she realised, as the strong glow of the sunrise penetrated even the heavy canvas to light her bed space.

And then the dream came back to her. Julia fell back onto the straw-filled mattress with a groan of horror and forced herself to remember her lurid night-time fantasy. Wulfric had captured her, held her against her will and yet her treacherous imagination had brought him to her bed, virtually naked. She had dreamt he had held her in his arms, caressed her face and neck, and she had felt the heat of his naked body, the sensation of silk over iron that was his skin and muscle. She had fantasised that his body had grown hard as he held her and that she had wanted to caress him in her turn, feel his mouth on hers—on every part of her…

‘No!’ Julia rolled over on to her side, dragging the covers over her head as though her shameful thoughts could be blanked out. It did not work. How could she be so wanton as to dream like that? To want her enemy like that? He was beautiful. There was no denying it. To depict the nude male form was considered an acceptable artistic convention; to admire the result was quite normal. But a respectable virgin did not lust after real men like that. One did not think about…

‘Are you awake?’ It was Berig, on the other side of the curtain, as effective an antidote to desire as any she could think of.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, get up, then!’ He sounded irritable. ‘Wulfric said I had to stay here until you were up and working with Una.’

‘He is not here?’ Oh, merciful escape if he is not! To have to face him with the memories of that dream fresh in my mind…

‘He’s in Rome, gone to Council. I should be there, waiting on him, not hanging around while you wake up.’

‘Well, go then,’ she snapped.

‘I cannot.’ Berig’s voice became fainter, he was obviously walking away. ‘I have to make sure you have breakfast and go safely to Una’s.’

‘I am quite capable of both.’ Julia flung back the blankets and got up. ‘Is there hot water?’

‘Yes, my lady. In a pot on our fire if your ladyship would condescend to come and get some.’ Berig sounded both angry and sarcastic.

Tugging her tunic over her head and winding the girdle round her hips, Julia scooped up her sandals and emerged into the main tent. Berig, wearing a fine linen tunic edged with heavy braid and with a silver clasp around his wrist, looked older—until she saw his expression, which was pure sulky youth.

‘You are very fine,’ she commented, pushing her feet into her sandals.

‘I was expecting to see the king. I have to do my lord honour.’

‘Well, go and see your precious king then and hold Wulfric’s horse, or whatever you are dressed up to do.’

‘Alareiks ist thiudans thizos mikilaizos thiudos thize Gutane,’ Berig snarled at her. ‘Is mikils guma ist.’

‘I understood one word of that—Alaric,’ Julia said impatiently, then realised that the high colour in Berig’s cheeks was genuine anger that she had spoken slightingly of his leader. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to insult your king, but he is my enemy. I give you my word, I will wash, eat and go to Una’s tent—you go to Wulfric. I am not likely to escape with Smoke dogging my every step, now am I?’

Berig narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Your word? Is the word of a Roman woman any better than those of the men?’

‘My word is good,’ Julia said steadily. And I did not promise not to try to escape, only to go to Una’s.

‘Very well.’ He was out of the tent at a run. A minute later she saw him canter past, his cloak whipping in the wind behind him.

Julia went to the latrine, managing, with some difficulty, to persuade Smoke to wait outside. Still, he was as good as a bolt on the door for ensuring privacy. He hugged her side while she ladled hot water into a bowl and worked out how the suspension hook could be swung to one side so the water did not boil dry.

Washed, her clothing straight, she set her sleeping space in order, then surveyed the rest of the tent. Yesterday’s platters and spoons lay unwashed in a large bucket. She pulled back the curtain that screened Berig’s space and saw his bed was in disorder and a pile of dirty clothes lay on the floor. Julia prodded them with her toe, shrugged and went to investigate Wulfric’s space. It was in a like state, only the pile of discarded garments was larger.

‘Hmm.’ Julia found bread, cheese and honey, poured hot water over the honey, dashed in a little wine and sat down inside the tent to eat. She washed up what she had used that morning and last night and replaced it on the shelves, tied a loop of leather around an eating knife and fixed it around her waist under her tunic and went out of the tent, leaving the rest of the housework exactly as she had found it.

Una was dropping clothes into a large bucket of steaming water. ‘Good day, Julia.’ She smiled. ‘You bring…so wasti? I do not know the word.’ She lifted a dripping garment out of the water.

‘Clothes? Washing?’ Una nodded. ‘No, thank you. I found hot water.’ It satisfied the other woman, who must have assumed she had left the laundry soaking in the tent. Julia smiled. ‘I can help you?’ She had no objection to assisting this friendly woman with the clear blue eyes and the swelling belly. She just had no intention of clearing up after two hulking males.

‘Thu hilpis.’ Una nodded agreement. ‘You could bring more water?’ She gestured to the yoke leaning against the tent wall.

‘Very well.’ Julia hooked on empty buckets and lifted the yoke. ‘Where from?’

‘The river is that way.’ Una pointed. ‘A very small river.’

Interested to see how far Smoke was prepared to let her go, Julia followed the direction the other woman had indicated. It led downhill and, as she went, she passed other women coming back, all carrying water. They stared, wide-eyed, at her clothing, but nodded and smiled when she greeted them. None of them showed any alarm at the wolf padding at her side—doubtless they all knew by now that Wulfric had acquired a female slave. How many of them understood her Latin, she had no idea, but Good morning probably sounded much the same to everyone, whatever the actual words used were.

At the bottom of the slope was the stream, its banks muddy and trampled. Someone had set stones as a makeshift hard standing and a small queue of women had built up, waiting patiently while their friends took it in turns to stand dry-shod while they dipped their buckets.

‘I’ll just see if there’s another spot,’ Julia said brightly to Smoke as she strolled off across the shoulder of the valley. She wandered along, trying to give the impression that she was interested only in the gaudy flash of a hoopoe flying past, or the spikes of wild flowers in the shade of bushes.

The first meander in the stream took them out of sight of both the watering place and any of the tents on the hill and there, straight as an arrow across the water, was a line of stepping stones, and on the opposite bank a deep grove of trees.

Now, all she had to do was to distract the wolf. There was a tree by the stones on her side. If she could just slip her girdle around Smoke’s neck and then tie him to the tree…Then there was a flurry of movement in the grass in front of them, a dozen white scuts tearing frantically away. ‘Look, Smoke, rabbits! Catch!’

The wolf was off from a standing start, terrifying death behind the desperate rabbits. Julia took to her heels, sliding and slipping down the slope, onto the first stepping stone. She jumped for the next, and the next. Almost across now. There was a splash to one side of her and Smoke pulled himself up out of the stream on the far bank. He trotted round to face her at the end of the line of stepping stones, head on one side, coat dripping.

Julia balanced, arms outstretched, the stone rocking treacherously under her sandaled feet. ‘You are supposed to be chasing rabbits,’ she said crossly. The wolf did not budge. ‘Oh, very well then, let’s go back and get the water for Una.’

‘Well? Is there a decision? What did Alaric say? My lord?’ Berig was hopping from one foot to another as Wulfric emerged from the Basilica where the king had been holding his Council. To one side a depressed-looking group of senators waited their turn for an audience with the invader. Wulfric eyed them curiously. Was one of them Julia’s father? Or her betrothed? They had dispensed with their eastern silks and embroideries and had dressed in pristine white tunics, sweltering under the great weight of their togas as though to emphasise their role and status as Roman patricians. Much good would it do them.

‘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.

Chapter Five

‘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.’

Julia snatched up one of the empty buckets and ducked outside. Water was steaming in the cauldron and beside it Berig had left another bucket to top it up. Julia tried it with a fingertip. Cold, straight from the stream. It had not even been sitting around in the sun to take the chill off. With a smile she hefted it up and went back inside.

Over the rim of the tub she could see Wulfric’s head, streaming wet, the long, blond hair dark and slick. He rested it on the folded towel. ‘Just pour the water straight in.’

‘Certainly.’ The side of the tub was too high to lift the full bucket straight up. Julia pulled a stool close and stood on that, balancing the wooden container on the edge. Wulfric was lying back, his eyes closed. She let her gaze roam over the wet skin, the way the water flowed off the sculpted muscle, the shadows of the submerged part of his body.

‘Where exactly shall I pour it?’ she enquired sweetly. The green eyes flew open at her tone, but too late. Julia upended the bucket and a torrent of cold water hit him straight in the chest.

She expected spluttering, splashing and a shout of rage. What she was not prepared for was for him to rise straight up out of the water with a bellow of fury, grab her round the waist and heave her into the tub with him.

‘Aagh!’ She was wet to the waist, then with appalling suddenness, Wulfric sat down, dragging her with him, and ducked her under the water. She kicked and struggled, knocking against knees, tangling with legs, treading on feet, until he let her up to breathe.

‘Waurms! Thaunus! Unhultha!’ He gave her a shake and held her, spluttering, in front of his face. ‘Serpent!’

‘I am not your slave, I am not your servant, I am a free Roman citizen and I will not fetch and carry at the orders of a loutish barbarian!’ Her defiance was somewhat marred by the fact that her plait had come undone and she was trying to declaim through a mass of wet hair. She twisted in his grip, tried to stand, tangled her feet in her undertunic and fell back with a splash to land painfully on her bottom. ‘Oh, I can’t move!’

Sobbing with anger and frustration Julia tugged at her skirts, then began to struggle as she felt Wulfric’s hands on her girdle. It snapped as though it were a single thread and, despite her shrieks and clawing hands, he dragged tunic and undertunic together over her head and threw the sodden bundle out of the tub.

I am naked. I am naked in a tub with this naked man. I want…No! ‘Let me out of here,’ she demanded, her voice vibrating with feelings she did not dare express. She wrapped her arms round her breasts; they did not seem to cover very much.