Louise Allen - Virgin Slave, Barbarian King

Inside, away from all eyes, her determination deserted her and she clung shakily to the pole that held up the front of the structure. ‘Bed,’ said a voice behind her, and this time, as her knees gave way, she let him scoop her up and carry her to the curtain hung across the corner. ‘There.’ Wulfric laid her down on the bed and she felt her weight bear her down into the well-stuffed mattress that Berig had so reluctantly prepared. ‘There’s water.’ He gestured at a jug. ‘And here is Smoke to keep watch over you. Rest—you are of no use to me sick. Goodnight, Julia.’

He did not look back as the striped fabric fell to shield her little corner. Julia strained to hear his footfall, but only Smoke, head raised until he knew his master had left the tent, gave her a clue. The wolf circled around, found a comfortable spot and lay down at the foot of the bed. Julia could just see the tip of his tail in the light of the rush lamp that burned on the small chest set beside the bed.

She lay rubbing her sore stomach and trying to regain some balance. The knife was still on the table outside, of course, and the wolf lay in her way to the door. No escape tonight then.

Julia sat up, untied her girdle and pulled off her overtunic, leaving the long white linen undershift. She folded the fine amber cloth carefully and coiled the woven girdle, then opened the second chest. There were linen towels as fine as the one Wulfric had handed her earlier. Stolen, no doubt, like his silver, she told herself, laying her clothes on top, then draping her used towel on the closed box. She unlaced her sandals and washed her feet in the cool water that remained in the bowl, then set to work spreading the rugs on the bed.

It was unfamiliar work. Every morning she rose, leaving her bed rumpled for Tullia, her body slave, to make up fresh. The clothes she had discarded the night before would have been removed, of course, and a fresh selection set out for her. On her dressing table would be her combs and mirror, her cosmetics and oils, her boxes of jewellery. All she had to do was choose. And at night, Tullia would unpin her hair and comb it out, she would cream her face and wipe away the traces of the paints and she would hold out a fresh night rail for Julia to slip into. Flowers would be set on the dressing table, clear oil burned in the lamps.

It would all be perfect. Cool, tasteful, perfect. From outside there would be nothing to hear. Slaves padded silently, all too aware that to be heard was to arouse the wrath of the mistress of the house. Her father would be in his study, or out at an important meeting, her mother would be entertaining friends, or at the theatre. The house was as tranquil, and as lonely, as the grave.

Julia arranged the bed until she had a pillow to sit up against, then climbed under a light rug. Smoke raised his head and came to stand by the bed, his tail waving slowly back and forth, tongue lolling. Smiling, Julia leaned across and scratched him behind the ears. The wolf closed his eyes, then licked her wrist before padding back to his sleeping spot.

Outside she could hear the murmur of conversation, could make out Wulfric’s voice amidst a number of other men, despite the fact they were all speaking their own tongue. There was something deep and calm and dominating about his speech. She had expected the Gothic language to be harsh and guttural, instead it had a strange and almost hypnotic rhythm to it. Further away a baby cried and was hushed, dogs barked, someone came past on a horse, its feet slow and tired sounding.

Her eyes heavy, Julia looked around the space that was now hers. The hangings glowed in the lamplight, the few items had a comforting ordinariness that soothed her, and she began to drift off to sleep. Hazily there was the realisation that she was not feeling lonely, she was feeling warm and safe and at home.

Her eyes flew open. It was terrifying—her own mind was betraying her into weakness. She bit her lip, feeling the tears welling up and willed herself not to cry. To be strong and not to give in.

Wulfric woke with a sudden completeness that had him reaching for the unsheathed sword that lay by his bed. Silence, except for the piping cry of the tiny owls that haunted the cypress trees. He flexed his fingers round the woven leather of the hilt grip and threw back the covers, his eyes wide on darkness, his ears straining for any sound out of place.

The sentries were quiet, the dogs silent. From the far corner of the tent he heard Berig’s light snores, cut off as the boy turned on his side with a grunt. Then he heard a faint sound, repeated. A sob.

Hades, she is crying. He released the sword and lay wondering what to do. He was not used to women, not women under his own roof. No sisters, no wife, only intervals of physical release with the willing ones, for whom love was a cheerful, uncomplicated, commercial transaction.

Uncomplicated was not what he had here. What did you do with weeping women? In his experience you handed them over to the other women. Somehow he did not think either Una, or Sichar, would thank him for waking her up at this hour to comfort a slave.

He turned over, trying to harden his heart as he would over the whimpers of a basket of hound puppies, separated from their mother for the first time. There it was again. Damnation! If she had been howling and shrieking, he would have stuffed his fingers in his ears and abandoned her to hysterics, but there was something about the suppressed gasps of grief that went to his heart.

With a groan he rolled out of bed, took a step, thought better of it and dragged on trousers. No point in giving her real hysterics by looming up stark naked in her bed space. As he crossed the tent, instinct steering him round obstacles in the dark, a wet nose butted him on the back of the hand. It was Smoke. The wolf took his fingers between his teeth and tugged gently.

‘Yes, I know, I heard her. Let go,’ Wulfric whispered, running his free hand over the animal’s head. He ducked out of the tent and raked amidst the embers of the fire until he found a red-hot patch and lit a rush light from it.

Smoke led the way in the wavering light and sat down by Julia’s bed, his head on one side as if puzzled. She was lying on her back, the covers thrown back, her arms above her head, sprawled in a restless sleep interrupted every few seconds by a soft, desperate sob. The wolf whimpered.

‘She’s dreaming,’ Wulfric whispered, looking down at the slim, vulnerable body. She was beautiful, he realised, now she was not frightened or scowling. Her face was stark with a kind of misery. Her body was slender, elegant, even lax in sleep. Her calves, all that could be seen of her legs under the long tunic, were bare. He wanted to touch, to run his palm over the smooth olive skin, see the contrast between it and his own golden tan as he had when she had laid her hand on his arm in the alleyway. Was that the moment when he had decided to take her?

The sensible thing would be to leave her to work through her nightmare. She might wake in the morning with some of those fears exorcised, but to rouse her now would be to risk terrifying her—she would imagine his motives were quite other than they truly were.

Wulfric hunkered down beside the bed, lifting the little lamp to study her face, trying to push away the ignoble thoughts of what would happen if he slid into the bed beside her, lowered his mouth to hers…Oh, yes, your motives are not so pure, are they? he jibed at himself.

Then he saw the tears on her cheeks and something inside him seemed to twist painfully. I have done this. She is my responsibility now.

Cautiously he rose and bent over the bed, picked Julia up bodily and sat down, the slim figure cradled in his arms. She was no weight at all in his lap and it was easy to turn her so her head rested against his chest just over his heart. He held her to him one-handed and smoothed the other palm down over her temple and cheek.