Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Julia sat up in her platform bed and blinked the terrible dawn out of her eyes. Last night sent a flush of shame through her. She had cracked so fast . She’d been about to go to Alaric, the hell with all dignity. Only to be beaten by Brisca. She’d been the one to spend the night being showered with kingdoms and orgasms.
Julia pressed her face into her hands and let out a raw, ugly sob.
Horsa stood in the doorway, one eye narrowed, the other too swollen to see through. “Are you crying ? You look terrible.”
“ I look terrible?” She eyed the darkening bruise of Horsa’s eye with some alarm. “What on earth happened to you?”
“We practiced. Alaric told me to protect my face if I wanted to keep it pretty. I wasn’t fast enough.”
“He’s in a terrible black mood.” Hengist came into the room, limping. “Best avoid him.”
“I plan to.” She’d rather fall in a sewer than lay eyes on that man. “Come here, Horsa. I think I can help with your eye.” She found Alaric’s jar of salve. “This works , whatever it is. My bruises are almost gone.”
“Is that Alaric’s cloak on your bed?” Horsa smirked. “Do you sleep with it?”
Behind him, Hengist was laying out food on the scarred table. “I’ll wager she sleeps swaddled in it like a day-old babe.”
“I’m going to burn it,” Julia said airily, dabbing at Horsa’s battered face. “It smells of horse dung.” But of course it didn’t—it smelled like Alaric , and Julia didn’t think she’d mind dying as long as she could be buried in it. “Do you have any bruises, Hengist?”
“Just pass it here.”
She pushed the salve toward him. “Where is Alaric?”
“Hunting. There’s to be a party later. We need game for the table.” Hengist sliced a piece of bread. “Eat. We brought honey.”
The bread was steaming warm, and she did like honey. “What sort of party?”
“Not like your fusty Roman parties, with your paper lights and silly food and dancing girls we aren’t allowed to fuck. The only fun part of that was when Alaric took you hostage.” Horsa snickered.
“I’m so glad that amused you,” Julia said acidly.
A shadow fell over the threshold, and Brisca stood at the door, wearing a blue tunic, leather leggings, and soft felt boots.
Julia’s spine snapped straight. For a moment the two women eyed each other as two cats across a muddy yard.
Brisca’s eyes flicked to the boys. “One of you bring us a drink. Don’t care which.”
“Make it a large drink,” Julia said.
And then the boys were out the door, and she and Brisca were alone.
Brisca studied her and Julia studied right back. So this was the woman that Alaric had deigned to make a queen. Brisca wasn’t beautiful, not the way the court at Ravenna defined beauty. Even so, there was a sharp, forceful clarity to her face that made it arresting.
When Hengist returned with the jug, Brisca poured a large, foaming mug for Julia and another for herself. “It’s beer,” she said. “We make it from barley.” She shoved a mug over to Julia’s end of the table. “Has he hurt you?”
Julia blinked. How on earth was she to answer that?
“Last I heard, Alaric kidnapped you at knifepoint. I come here to find your face swollen with tears. What else am I to think?” Brisca took a sip from her mug. “Alaric isn’t the kind to abuse women. But he’s not the kind to kidnap them either. And here you are.”
Resentment rose up sharp in her. She hated the thought of Brisca seeing her as a victim.
“ He kidnapped me ? Is that what he told you? I kidnapped myself.” Julia gave the beer an experimental sip. It tasted like a loaf of bread in beverage form. “I plotted a coup to get out of my impending marriage,” she said casually. “Alaric simply came along at the right time.”
“Well. Aren’t you more interesting than I thought.” Brisca’s dark brows shot up. “Did you truly put nettles in his bed?”
“How did you know about that?”
“His men gossip like fishwives.” Brisca regarded her over the rim of her cup. “Did you?”
Julia nodded. Brisca threw back her head and laughed—a loud, bold laugh that filled the room. “I’m surprised he didn’t kill you.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t kill him .” Julia shrugged. “Do you ever want to murder that man?”
“Frequently,” Brisca said drily. “The worst thing about him is that he’s right all the time. Have you ever tried to argue with someone who’s always right?”
“It isn’t arguing I have trouble with. It’s having a normal conversation.” Julia sipped her beer. “Have you ever tried to discuss the price of wheat in Tuscany with him? He’d get all grim and dreary and then try to stab things.”
Brisca snorted. “He’s off stabbing the wildlife at the moment.”
“Yes, after he beat the twins to a pulp. I’ll wager he turns your party into a bloodbath too.” Julia shuddered. “I hate bloodbaths.”
“I’ll bet it shocks him to death every time you manage not to fall into bed with him.”
Julia nearly choked on her beer.
“Have you?” The question was too casual. “Most women think him pleasing to look at.”
“Yes, and he is very aware of that.” Julia straightened. “What about you? Why haven’t you married him?”
“Married him? Me? Oh, goodness. Julia, that isn’t what Alaric is for .” Brisca laughed. “He would only try to lord over me. I swore the day Alaric slew my last husband that I would never be imprisoned again.”
There was an easy swagger in her words that made Julia love her a little. “I quite agree,” she said with feeling. “Men are a rot on existence.”
“Oh, but they have their uses.” Brisca’s grin broadened. “Alaric, for instance—”
Julia tensed. “That’s quite enough on that topic.”
Brisca finished her beer in one long gulp. “He ordered you not to leave this hut while he’s away. Let’s disobey.”
* * *
People loved to talk about themselves. Brisca was no different.
Julia listened attentively as Brisca proudly showed her the village. The pens for baby goats. The tanner’s and the brewer. The forge for smelting iron. The place was a tight, contained machine—it needed hardly anything beyond these walls.
Brisca led Julia on a narrow, treacherous trail into the mountains above the village, into the vineyards. The early summer air was unseasonably warm. There were men among the grapes, clipping and harvesting; one brought two cups of cool, crisp wine, pale as sunshine.
“You must think we’re quite provincial here,” Brisca said.
“On the contrary. I think it’s far more intelligent to cultivate self-sufficiency than to depend on a faraway grain supply that can be easily cut off.”
“That is very astute.” Brisca gave another of those crooked grins. “If you rule as a woman, Julia, you will have to be more astute than any man. And meaner. If you have no husband, other men will take it as an invitation to take your kingdom—by war or marriage. There is little difference.”
Questions leaped to Julia’s tongue. What was it Brisca was doing with Alaric then? Was their affection simply an act, designed to drive away Brisca’s suitors? Had she really lain with him last night? The thought of it tortured her. Julia opened her mouth to ask.
A bronze horn split the silence. Below, Alaric rode through the gates. A dozen warriors followed in his wake, the limp bodies of several deer and a boar slung on poles between them. Ehre rode beside him wearing a fine black cloak, her dark hair loose and hanging down in a fierce, gleaming mane. Julia watched them laughing together, Alaric’s bronze head bent to her dark one, and suddenly felt sick.
What a fool she was, loving a man like him. Surely Brisca would see her infatuation written all over her face like an incantation in bronze.
But the other woman only rose to her feet. “There will be a great feast tonight. We must both prepare.”