A DIFFERENT BREED OF WOMAN
Truth lies within a little and certain compass, but error is immense.
—HENRY ST. JOHN, LORD BOLINGBROKE, Reflections Upon Exile
The three travelers had unwillingly succumbed to the power of Hubert’s argument. Gareth was especially incensed at the idea of heading south when he was determined to travel to the north so they could continue their journey. His fury was so intense that Lorcan was surprised that the air in Egbert’s barroom didn’t catch alight. Germanus became their spokesman by dint of his experience with his own people, even though he had been a rover for several decades.
Along with Lorcan and Gareth, he had been woken before dawn and dragged down to the empty taproom at sword point by four armed Frankish thugs who had been sufficiently proficient as to remove the trine’s weapons before rousing the three men. They had been drugged, so the three travelers were easily captured, but they knew immediately who had betrayed them. Egbert of Wurms was absent, but a terrified girl of the house was serving mulled wine to the red-dressed lordling of no name, when the travelers were unceremoniously shoved into the room. She was still dressed in her underwear, with only a blanket tied over the top for modesty’s sake.
The fair-haired, elegantly dressed man stared at them as if the three travelers were some new form of life, interesting, but hardly important to his well-being.
“He wants something very badly,” Lorcan hissed at his two friends in Celt, while Hubert frowned in frustration that he was ignorant of the language.
Germanus nodded blandly, while Gareth continued to scowl. Hubert commenced their discussion by spelling out their lack of choice in whatever matters he wished to raise.
“You are strangers in the Frank lands, so no one is going to miss you if you disappear from view. In fact, it would be simple to prove that you’re sources of the plague, or spies. The mob would happily tear you to pieces over whatever story I choose to tell, and Egbert, our good innkeeper, will happily swear to it as well.”
“So you’re showing us that you have power over us,” Germanus commented. “In these lands, almost everybody has greater influence than unknown travelers.”
“You’re about to become my body slave for a month or two, so I hope your friends are fond of you. Frankly, the old priest smells, and I can’t trust the young dog with my back turned, so I’ll need to retain you as a hostage. At the very least, you speak my language and you’re almost house-trained. Perhaps their task will be more difficult to complete without your presence, but I’m sure they’ll find a way to meet my demands. The priest, in particular, appears to be resourceful, and the young cub has the muscle to ensure your safety. As my creatures, they’ll be very well paid for what I expect them to do for me.”
“And what do you want my friends to do that you can’t?” Germanus’s voice was unchanged, and Hubert gave him credit for being able to keep his temper under control. The youngest of the three strangers was furious and would need to be restrained before too much longer, if Hubert read his mutinous face correctly. The courtier of the king raised one finger in Gareth’s direction, and two large Franks moved to flank the young warrior with impassive faces, while they tensed their muscles in anticipation of trouble.
“The task I expect you to carry out is simple. While you, Germanus, purchase a town house in Reims suitable for the domicile of an aristocratic Roman woman, your friends will be delivering a personal letter to a highborn lady in Septimania. They are required to guard her when she journeys to Reims, and then assist her to settle into her new home. That’s all I require!”
Father Lorcan spat crassly on the floor.
With obvious contempt, Hubert wiped his mouth with a wisp of silk.
“All? That’s all? Do you know where Septimania is? And where in Septimania do we find this woman? It’s a moderately large state on the western shores of the Middle Sea, and it’s near enough to five hundred miles away. That’s three weeks’ minimum travel on horseback, and probably longer if we have to escort a woman and her entourage in a wagon.”
“Of course I know where Septimania is! Your destination is the town of Beziers, and you must go to the House of Sedonius, whose family members are domiciled there. Your charge is the Mistress Deuteria, who is now the head of that excellent family. I don’t believe there’s anything else you need to know if you’re to successfully carry out my instructions. Frankly, I don’t like your face, your manners, or your effrontery.”
“It seems my charm is working again,” Lorcan retorted as his Hibernian irony won out over his priestly common sense. “You have the upper hand in this conversation, and we’ll be forced to traipse across the countryside doing the actual work. Where are our rations to come from? What—and where—will we be paid? And how are you going to force my young friend and me to comply with your demands? You can’t watch us every minute of the day!”
“I’ll be holding your friend as my hostage, and I must tell you that I can be imaginative when it comes to punishment for perceived failures to comply with my wishes. On the contrary, you’ll certainly enjoy a great deal of my patronage if you obey.”
“Can you guarantee us free movement through the lands of Theudebert, leading to the border of the Cimbric Peninsula, once we have completed this task for you? We are on a mission to rescue kinfolk, and your task slows us down. I’d imagine you’d want us to disappear anyway once we’ve carried out your little chore for you.”
Lorcan raised a hand in Gareth’s direction to keep him quiet, while Germanus registered his understanding at this new turn in the conversation. Perhaps the priest could still salvage something useful out of this mess.
Hubert grinned like the shark he most resembled in character. How perfect! He had thought it might be necessary to assassinate these three pawns on their return, a task that would probably cost the lives of any number of good men if he judged the physiques, skills, and cunning of the potential victims. However, if these men continued on towards the Dene lands, especially in light of the imminent invasion by the Saxons and the bastard Anglii, they’d be wearing extra grins before they passed through the northern border regions. It would be child’s play to send couriers to his Anglii allies, who’d happily remove these three annoying travelers for the few coins and the goodwill that Hubert was offering. Hubert was always happiest when someone else could be found to clean up his messes at minimal cost to himself.
“Of course! I’ll issue you with documentation in Latin that will take you through all lands under the control of King Theudebert, and I’ll have these papers ready for you as soon as our arrangements are completed. I’ll pay the expenses for your travel into the south in gold, and each of you will receive three gold pieces for a little over two months’ work. I’m fully aware that I needn’t give you anything except the body of your friend, whole and well, but our bargain must be taken on trust if it is to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion.”
Hubert’s smile was sincere and dazzling. “Of course, I expect you to leave within a few hours, so it only remains for you to decide who between you will be carrying the coin to cover your expenses for the journey?”
Lorcan held out one hand, and Hubert dropped a purse into it. The leather pouch made a satisfying series of clinking noises as Lorcan weighed it on his palm.
“We accept your offer, so we should be back within forty days if all goes well,” Lorcan said neutrally. “Have the money and the papers in Germanus’s hands, and ensure he is ready to depart into the north with whatever documentation he considers necessary to get us up to our destination in the Dene lands. One word of warning, my lord! I will devise ways and means of ensuring our well-being while we are about your business. I will also make a special effort to ensure that we are safe from retribution from you should the arrangements not work as well as we would wish. You can be sure that my retaliation for treachery will be simple, but very effective. I would be especially displeased if anything unwise should happen to my large friend here. I don’t think I need to elaborate on my views!”
Lorcan smiled toothily at Hubert, an effect slightly weakened by a missing canine. Hubert nodded and responded with the practiced sincerity of a politician.
As the three men were ushered out of the inn’s barroom, Gareth lagged beside the door as he bent to straighten his leggings. His young ears overheard Hubert’s reaction when he realized that Egbert’s barmaid had heard the entire conversation. Gareth could easily imagine how the poor drab had tried to become inconspicuous when she found herself trapped in the corner.
“Strangle that creature for me as quietly as possible,” Hubert ordered his bodyguard. “I want no loose talk about this meeting. You do understand, Cully, don’t you?”
Gareth was trying to decide what to do when the girl’s neck snapped and his guard shoved him in the back with a naked blade. As he followed his friends back to their room, he thought furiously about their likely fate when they had finished this mission for Hubert. This man, whatever his motives and his source of power might be, could never be trusted. Forewarned was forearmed!
Meanwhile, as Cully removed the body of the dead girl, her blanket slid obscenely away from her pendulous breasts. With his lip curled in distaste, Hubert fished through a pouch on the table and removed a small square of vellum sealed with red wax. Idly, he smelled the faintest hint of perfume that still clung to the fine writing surface. It held the scent of money, prestige, and untrammeled power.
A name had been carefully written on the front of the sealed vellum—Deuteria.
“Make sure the priest gets this letter before our friends leave,” the courtier told his bodyguard. Then he wiped his hands clean, before sniffing at a perfumed pomander made from cloves in an attempt to cleanse the stink of humanity from his nostrils.
Then he retreated to the peace and quiet of his tent.
• • •
THE TWO TRAVELERS let their horses have their heads and set off with their legs crossed over their saddles for comfort. The two tall steeds plodded along patiently, much as they had done for the twenty-two days it had taken to reach the outskirts of Beziers.
Gareth opened his mouth to speak. But Lorcan interrupted, for the priest rarely let the young Briton finish a sentence these days.
“If you’re going to rehash the mess we’re in, who this Deuteria bitch is, or how little you trust the puppet master, then I’m sick and tired of talking about these subjects. For once, try to think about Germanus, who is being forced to pander to the needs of that soft-bellied, unscrupulous mongrel. That bastard of a man is capable of any humiliation.”
“I’ve been thinking about Germanus. There’s no guarantee that he’ll still be alive when we return with this Deuteria. That arrogant prick ordered the serving wench to be killed as if she was a nothing. We don’t know his name or what power he has at his command, so we don’t even know how to find him when we return. Germanus is the only person among us who has the ability to obtain any information, so he may even decide to kill our friend to keep his mouth shut. Shite, I hate this country!”
“Stop trying to change the subject,” Lorcan snapped. “He’ll have to keep Germanus alive until such time as we deliver Deuteria to Reims. After that, I believe we’ll be on our own! But I’m reasonably certain that he’ll permit us to travel into the north, though he’ll let the Saxons know that we’re entering their lands. That’s what I’d do if I were in his shoes.”
“That smells right! If anyone ever warranted death, it’s that bastard. Insects like him always do very well in this world and they feed off the dead. Egbert, the innkeeper, knew what he was about when he sent the girl to serve our friends in the barroom. He knew that anyone who overheard any conversations would probably be killed, but better her than him. Both of those beasts are evil!”
“After we’ve reunited with Germanus and we’ve headed north again, perhaps you could make a detour and give our compliments to our associates in Soissons,” Lorcan suggested. “If you were to watch the king’s quarters, you’ll be certain to discover the identity of our mystery man. We can be sure that he’s a parasite who hunts for wealth on the fringes of the court.”
Gareth grinned in a way that promised an unpleasant outcome for someone at the end of this particular mission.
“Meanwhile, we have to consider our immediate task. By my reckoning, Beziers is over that line of hills, and we’ll be there by this evening. We’ve been on the road for more than three weeks, and summer is almost here. So, the question for tonight is, do we sleep rough, or should we enjoy the hospitality of an inn? I confess that I’d like a bath, and if this family is as important as we’ve been told, we will need to look safe and clean when we arrive on their doorstep. Otherwise, we’ll be tied up for days convincing them that we’re harmless or have the authority to act on behalf of our mystery man. Either way, I’d just as soon be out of this place quickly. Our biggest problem is that I’ve never known a woman who could pack speedily or lightly. From my experience, she’ll want to take enough with her to furnish several homes, including her robes, jewels, and sandals.”
“Let’s stay at an inn then! Our benefactor is paying for it, so why not?”
Lorcan and Gareth had been more companionable than ever before during their journey into the south. Without his friend as the subject and the source of his banter, Lorcan talked sensibly and descriptively, as if Gareth was a young pupil. As Gareth had been taught nothing other than the art of warfare or armaments, the young Briton was ignorant on many subjects and responded in a childish manner to tales of the Merovingian kings and their ancestors, Clovis and Merovech. The challenge of keeping Gareth interested gave Lorcan pleasure on even the most tedious of days on the road. Gareth asked constant questions, much like a toddler who wants to know the name of every unfamiliar flower or tree.
And the Briton was forced to admit, if only to himself, that he thoroughly enjoyed the journey to Beziers. Lorcan possessed a brilliant mind underneath the quixotic sense of humor, so Gareth discovered that he was quite fond of the devilish old priest.
Beziers was a pretty town on the River Orb, and it was sufficiently far from the main roads to have avoided Justinian’s disease, which was still cutting a swathe of despair and destruction from the port of Massilia to places deep inside the Frankish kingdoms. The travelers found that the citizens who frequented the inn in Beziers were eager to talk about the world beyond Septimania and showed no fears of the two strangers, once Lorcan had scrubbed himself from head to toe, including his habit, which immediately changed color from a pale shade of brown to a heavy cream. The dampened material had shrunk so much that Lorcan’s bony ankles were exposed, as were his angular wrists. Somehow, the overall effect suggested the wearer was trustworthy, harmless, and vulnerable.
A brief conversation over a glass of indifferent red wine seemed to oil the tongues of the regular drinkers, who were eager to talk about Deuteria and her family history. In fact, as Gareth said later that night as he led a tipsy Lorcan to bed, it was impossible to shut them up. One red-nosed wine merchant was particularly chatty. “The Sedonius family shove our noses in their noble background, so we are all aware that they’re descended from Saint Avitus and his namesake, the Emperor Avitus. The family rules Auvergne as if they hold the divine rights of kingship, although what they have to boast of now is a wonder to me.”
“You don’t like them overmuch, I take it,” Lorcan hinted, and called for another flask of the good red that the wine merchant had been guzzling.
“Like them? They think their shit doesn’t stink like the rest of us in this world of tears. As for that Deuteria bitch, I don’t begrudge you having to escort her on a journey where you are forced to spend time with her. Rather you than me, priest! Did you know that she drowned her daughter because of a man they were fighting over?”
“Charming!” Lorcan replied dryly.
The wine merchant sniggered and then continued.
“Deuteria used to be the wife of that Frank king, Theudebert, who rules up in the north. He’s the one who’s causing such a fuss with the emperor of Constantinople over Italia. Still, the man’s got an uncertain temper and a reputation for executing anyone who doesn’t bow fast enough for his liking. He’s a hard man, I suppose, so he’s busy with his wars most of the time. Strangely, business does well in his kingdom, so his people have little to complain about. Anyway, where was I?”
Gareth was sardonic in his reply. “Explaining why Deuteria killed her daughter.”
The wine merchant looked at Lorcan for sympathy. “Is that boy always so impatient?”
“Yes, he is! Gareth has always been lacking in the godly virtues, I’m afraid.”
“Young people are a trial these days. My son . . . Well, priest, I won’t get into that, or we’ll be here all night. Theudebert was looking rather closely at Deuteria’s daughter, who was about twelve at the time. She was just about ready for plucking, so he liked what he saw!”
The wine merchant winked.
“Adia—that’s what her name was! She was a pretty little thing when she lived here. But she was only about five or six then, so who knew what such a daughter would turn into? Anyway, the Frank lords weren’t impressed with what happened, although Deuteria wailed and wept that she’d been misunderstood. The lords took umbrage at such monstrous behavior in their queen and kicked her out, regardless of what Theudebert wanted. And so Deuteria has lived in Beziers ever since. By the gods, the bitch owes money to everyone, including me.”
“Why do you let her buy your wine if you know she’s not going to pay for it?” Gareth asked bluntly. “Isn’t it bad business on your part?”
“You’ll know why when you meet her,” the wine merchant replied, and swallowed deeply, spilling some of the ruby colored liquid down his food-spotted tunic. “I wouldn’t put anything past a woman who’d drown her own daughter.”
Lorcan continued to drink with the wine merchant in the hope that more information might be dredged out of him, but the man knew little else that would be of use to the travelers. However, even Gareth had to concede that they had gained valuable advance information for the cost of a few flasks of indifferent red wine.
Lorcan had a mild headache the next morning, but he was also familiar with some details of the people he would be dealing with at the Sedonius house, which was located on the outer fringe of the city. The residence had once been part of a large Roman complex, so Father Lorcan felt a little shiver of superstition as he remembered such buildings from his youth when he had been a wide-eyed boy in the City of the Seven Hills. A row of cypress pines pointed skyward like dark green fingers from behind a wall of fieldstone.
The two travelers entered the premises through a very small gate and rang the large brass bell at the heavily chained door at the front of the building.
Both men cooled their heels outside until a servant slouched to the gate and unlocked the huge padlock and chain, before ushering them into the villa’s old-fashioned triclinium, all conducted in sullen silence.
“Obviously Rome wasn’t the only thing destroyed at the end of the empire. Along with the bricks and mortar, they lost their manners as well,” Lorcan stated audibly. The servant ignored the insults, shrugged, and wandered off.
“Did Romans lie down to eat?” Gareth asked with a curious, bemused expression on his face as he gazed at the antique couches covered with slightly soiled but very expensive cloth. The central table was low by modern standards, but the polished and inlaid woods were set at a perfect height for men and women who were reclining on couches.
“I don’t think I fancy lying down to dine,” he added, using one hand to check how comfortable the upholstery might be.
“Oh, it has some advantages!” a drawled contralto voice purred with sexual promise, as both men turned rapidly to face the speaker. “You must remember that the old Romans were hedonists. Do you know what a hedonist is, young man?”
“Uh!”
The woman who had entered the room was tall, even by Frank standards, but she was curvaceous and voluptuous in ways that were rare in northern women. Her hair was so black that it shone blue by the light that filtered in from the central garden and, instead of braiding her hair as was considered appropriate for older or married matrons, this woman had permitted her mane to hang to her knees unbound. She was somewhere in her thirties and was neither lined nor weather-beaten, but her face seemed to be frozen into a contracted and expressionless mask.
Will her face crack if she smiles? Gareth wondered. And why is she looking at me like I’m a tasty meal?
A man could get lost in that hair, Lorcan thought wistfully.
“I’m Deuteria. I’ve been told you have a message for me.”
Lorcan fished the square of vellum out of his pouch, while checking to ensure that the wax seal was still in place. Deuteria would be assured that her message hadn’t been read by either of the couriers, for the scarlet seal was quivering on the ivory-colored vellum like a drop of fresh blood.
“Sit if you want while I’m reading.” Deuteria waved one hand absentmindedly while perching herself on the edge of an ornamental marble bench in the atrium. The men sat awkwardly on the nearest couch.
Gareth now had the leisure to examine the face of this repellent woman without staring rudely. Her features were aquiline and beautiful in repose, although she could appear haughty by lifting her strong, pointed chin. Her eyes were an unusual shade of amber, almost yellow. Later, Lorcan would speak of her similarity to a huge sand-colored lioness that he had seen in Rome almost a lifetime earlier. The great cat had possessed those same blank, yellow eyes.
By contrast, Deuteria’s mouth was small, full, and richly red. She worried at her lower lip with unusually large white teeth as she read the message. She seemed to be fighting an internal battle with greed and gratification on one hand, and caution and annoyance on the other.
Lorcan and Gareth watched Deuteria think from totally opposed perspectives. Lorcan was immediately drawn to her Latin beauty, while Gareth found her hot eyes and the blatant exposure of her breasts in the flimsy robe to be grossly inappropriate. Deuteria had read the young man wrongly, a mistake she rarely made. On this occasion, vanity had clouded her usual masculine grasp of situations and persons.
Finally, having devoured the contents of the letter several times, Deuteria rose to her feet gracefully while her silken green gown parted suggestively over her long legs. Gareth tried not to watch the spectacle and concentrated on ignoring her heavy perfume. The fragrance of lilies, sandalwood, and something strange, depraved, and repulsively attractive nestled in her hair, her clothes, and the folds of her skin.
“I believe you’re aware of the contents of this letter, so I assume you’ve been instructed to accompany me to Reims.” She laughed sardonically. “If I had any sense at all, I should cut this letter into tiny pieces, burn them, and send the ashes back—but I won’t.”
She sighed deeply. Her fabled understanding of men had saddened her.
“I’m growing old and I’m lonely. For that reason alone, I’ll accompany you to Reims.”
“Good!” Gareth interrupted rudely. “We’ll be ready to ride tomorrow, so—”
“Goodness, young man. It will take me three days at best to pack, organize a wagon and what servants I need to accompany me for my journey into the north. At the very least, I’ll need a cook, a maidservant, and a bodyguard.”
Deuteria’s flippant manner caused Gareth to clench his fists and wonder if he would be punished if he tied the confounded woman over a horse and dragged her to Reims. Lorcan intervened immediately.
“Then we’ll return in four days at noon—hence to depart. And now, sweet mistress, I thank you for your patience and candor with us.”
The lady began to consider a mental list of what had to be taken when undertaking such a long journey. Even when the men left she was still standing in the same spot while biting her full lower lip in confusion.
Three days of boredom.
Three days of rest.
Three days of restive pacing for the two men as they sharpened their weapons and planned how quickly they could complete the journey.
As a Roman matron of over thirty years, Deuteria had driven her staff to agonies of packing, despite the criticism and threats from a younger brother and two sisters. As a widow of mixed reputation and considerable fortune, Deuteria could do as she chose and, after a lifetime of autocratic behavior, she was unlikely to change.
Deuteria had read the brief message from Theudebert in which he swore undying love and devotion, but still proposed to maintain the same old secrecy regarding their relationship. His lords had insisted on her banishment over that silly little slut, Adia, and Theudebert had no intention of alienating the lords, even though he was the king. She had been unceremoniously dumped into the backwaters of Septimania once, but she swore it would not happen a second time.
“Even kings can become ill and die unexpectedly,” she promised herself, as she gazed at a bewildering tangle of silken gowns of every possible color that had traveled all the way from Constantinople before being stored away for future use.
Deuteria was a proud woman, and no one had dared to mention Theudebert’s name for three years after she had returned from the north. As queen she’d been revered by her subjects but then, in a heartbeat, she had been transformed into a Roman widow. Finally, she became the castoff of her king, so her cheeks were burning with the memory of her disgrace.
So why was she contemplating a life in Reims as the concubine of the Frankish king?
Even Deuteria, a Roman matron of the most arrogant and unbending type, longed for admiration and love as she was aging. To be the secret love of a king is no small thing, nor is it to be so feared that strong lords would defer to her influence. Theudebert’s proposal brought a rush of blood to Deuteria’s head in a year that had been tedious in every possible way. Callous and cruel to the core, she was also a brave woman and to be transplanted over five hundred miles to a city of strangers was of little consequence when compared with the endless predictability of life in rural, bucolic Beziers.
When Gareth and Father Lorcan arrived with packhorses that were laden with supplies, the gates to the villa had been opened and a wagon was piled high with furniture, carpets, caskets, and chests of clothing. A large marble bust of the Emperor Avitus was teetering atop a mountain of clothes’ chests, while four large cart horses were set in the traces, readied for departure. Finally, a weeping girl, a plump man, and a muscular bodyguard stood in the midst of their personal possessions while Deuteria paced around the forecourt issuing rapid-fire instructions. Confusion reigned, and any hope of leaving in the immediate future was clearly at risk because of Deuteria’s high-handedness.
“May I assist, mistress?” Lorcan cooed in his oiliest, most fawning voice. “A beautiful woman should never have to soil her hands with menial tasks like these.”
Deuteria knew she was being manipulated but her pride was left intact, so Lorcan was permitted to organize their departure.
The crying maid was cajoled into the back of the wagon and instructed to protect the marble bust, while the bodyguard agreed to take the reins of the wagon’s horses. The cook preferred to ride his showy black horse, the proof of his success in his trade, while Deuteria, with an open sunshade to protect her complexion, consented to ride on the high wagon seat next to Crispus, her bodyguard. As Lorcan organized his human geese into a semblance of sensible order, Gareth checked the traces and fixed the odd pieces of harness that were too loose or too tightly buckled for safety. Finally, he checked that the teetering load was securely tied down. He came to the immediate conclusion that no one in Deuteria’s retinue had the common sense or the practical application of a gnat.
Finally, they were ready. Long past noon, they were on their way while Deuteria kept up a wall of complaint that built higher and wider with each milestone that they passed. The cart horses were never going to be fast travelers, but they could plod along all day and half the night at a steady pace. Deuteria had suggested that they should sleep in the villa overnight since the hour was so advanced, but Lorcan had insisted that the journey must begin and, by the time they reached the first milestone, he had decided to punish Deuteria for her endless whining by continuing to travel long into the night. They would remain on the road for as long as the moon gave them sufficient light to see. By the time Lorcan called a halt for the evening, the Roman party had learned their lesson: complaint served no purpose other than to extend the day’s journey.
Deuteria was furious! She sulked, refused to eat, and even refused to drink until she realized that Lorcan didn’t really care, one way or the other.
“No one has stipulated what condition you should be in when you eventually arrive in Reims, my lady, just that you arrive alive and in one piece,” Lorcan informed her in a completely unpriestly manner. “You may starve yourself by all means, but that leaves more food for the rest of us. I will be very sorry, of course, because you’re a beautiful woman and I’d hate to see you become ill. But I’m in charge of this journey, and you will obey my instructions. If you wish to harm yourself, I cannot stop you, but I must say that your personal cook is certainly an excellent chef, and I’ll happily eat his stews and pies all day and all night.”
Lorcan saluted the chef, Coptus, who was seated in the back of the wagon, while peeling and dicing a pile of wilted carrots, turnips, swedes, and other unidentifiable root vegetables. He had already expertly skinned the rabbit that Gareth had dropped with his bow an hour earlier, and the travelers knew that he’d produce a hot stew an hour or so after they stopped for the night. Coptus had discovered that riding a horse could become a painful task if a man was in the saddle for ten hours a day. Besides, the showy horse had a dreadful, uneven gait that almost jarred the teeth out of the chef’s head. He had now decided to remain permanently on the wagon while his horse carried some of the luggage.
Deuteria rode occasionally during those times when she decided to flirt with Gareth, who was the most attractive male present. Unfortunately, Gareth had no idea how to flirt and even less inclination to spend time in the company of the Roman matron. Disconsolately, she was forced to practice her seduction skills on Father Lorcan, who might have been a priest, but possessed an appreciative eye for a pretty ankle and a generous expanse of thigh.
And so no one was totally happy during the four long weeks that their journey into the north was to take. The maid developed a tendre for the bodyguard, who appeared to be repelled by females of any age. Ultimately, Lorcan was forced to intervene and explain the situation to the callow girl, which both shocked her and sent her into torrents of hot, embarrassed tears.
“The silly little slut has no idea!” Deuteria complained. “What woman of any reputation would have a personal bodyguard who might compromise her? Crispus loves men, and he’s far too pretty to be a real man. He plucks his body hair, for the sake of the Virgin! What did Adelia expect? Did she think he was naturally hairless?”
Crispus and Deuteria competed for Gareth’s attention, but the young man was afraid to sleep close to the nightly fire for fear that he’d waken to find a warm body pressed against his. The very thought of plucking out his body hair repelled and fascinated the young Briton, who was wholly occupied with his belated lessons in sexual matters.
“Stay away from all of them and stick close to my side,” Lorcan suggested, trying hard not to laugh when Gareth came to him after being harried all day by one or the other of his admirers. “Better still, you should spend your time with Adelia. Her heart is broken! She needs a friend now, because she’s been in love with Crispus since she was a little girl. He used to tell her stories and he was kind to her after Deuteria sold her mother.”
“Deuteria sold her mother?” Gareth was round-eyed with shock and contempt. “How old was Adelia when her mother left the villa?”
“According to what Adelia remembers, she thinks she was about nine or ten years old. She’s belonged to the villa all her life, and when Deuteria returned from the north, she trained the girl to dress her hair and keep her clothes mended, sweet, and clean. Apparently, Adelia is very adept at what she does, or Deuteria would have removed her long ago.”
“I hate this stinking country,” Gareth said. “Slavery, plague, betrayal, mindless talk, and violence! A man can’t keep his head straight in this place.”
Lorcan grunted at the young man’s prejudices. “It’s long past time you became less censorious, Gareth. This land is much the same as any other, including Britain, for that matter. Stop being such a prig, boy! I have to stomach the performances of everyone else . . . but I’m not prepared to put up with too much nonsense from you.”
And so the journey went on, stumbling from one small crisis to another, so that when Reims was only one day away, Deuteria swore that she would never travel by wagon again. Gareth and Lorcan had other problems, especially the knowledge that they had no idea where they were going when they arrived.
“Our murderous friend seems to trust to luck, unfortunately,” Lorcan told Gareth when the younger man asked how they were supposed to conduct Deuteria to her destination. “You’d best ride to the gates of Reims and see if you can get some information from the inns on the whereabouts of Germanus or his anonymous master.”
“You’d be far better at carrying out this task than me, Lorcan. You know I don’t have the knack for talking to strangers.”
Lorcan snapped his fingers irritably. It was a sure sign that his temper was stretched.
“How can I trust you not to annoy Deuteria to the point of murder? She’s already killed her own daughter, so I wouldn’t trust your chances if you irritated her sufficiently. And, boy, you do irritate the lady a great deal. If you’d bedded her as she wanted, we wouldn’t be having problems with her now.”
“She’s loathsome! I couldn’t . . . I wouldn’t!”
“And I suppose you never have,” Lorcan retorted, his temper breaking out like hot lava to burn anything in its path.
Gareth’s face flushed hotly, and the priest’s bad temper was leached away with the realization that the boy was either still a virgin or so inexperienced that he was completely ignorant of the ways of sex. In fact, Gareth had enjoyed the sexual favors of Kerryn, the servant girl at the Forest of Arden, but she had approached him. As for homosexuality, the boy had known servants aplenty at the villa who loved persons of the same sex, but he’d never considered himself in this light.
“Shite, boy! Your father was so busy creating the perfect warrior that he forgot that an idealized swordmaster would have to be a person as well, someone who’d have needs and desires.”
Lorcan sighed and cupped Gareth’s cheek with his horny right hand. “I understand, Gareth! You’ve had a difficult time of it, and I’ve not helped you by being insensitive. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Gareth simply looked at the priest with a wide blue stare, and Lorcan was forced to grin ruefully.
“Aye! It’s not easy to have discussions about your sexual experiences if you haven’t had many. No, Lorcan! I can’t keep this bitch away from me by sleeping with her, because I’ve never had sex with anyone like her, and I wouldn’t know how to perform what she wanted, even if I wanted to. In any case, I don’t want to! I’m sorry!”
The priest thought for a moment.
“Very well then, Gareth, I’ll go into Reims. I’ll see if I can find Germanus near the city gates first, and then I’ll just follow my nose. There must be a number of inns suitable for pilgrims who are eager to pray in the cathedral where all kings are crowned. Perhaps we can find our friend through them.”
Gareth sighed with relief, but Lorcan hadn’t finished his instructions to his young novice. “Stay outside the gates, Gareth. Lie if you have to! Say anything to shut the Roman bitch up, but don’t go into the city until I greet you again and let you know that all is well. I’ll find Germanus, one way or another, and then we can shake the dust of this place off our clothes. Keep the whole party silent and safely outside the city walls—tell our charges how the death carts circulate daily through the city and how the dead are burned in communal graves outside the walls. Besides the fact that this tale is true, Deuteria knows nothing about Justinian’s disease, so just explain what the illness is like and don’t be afraid to exaggerate.”
When Lorcan galloped away just before nightfall, Gareth knew how demanding Deuteria would be once she realized the priest had left for Reims without them; his prediction was all too correct.
“Why has the priest deserted us? What is the problem that he must go to Reims without us? Tell me, boy! I’m tired of being treated like a servant. I swear that I’ll not move another step until you tell me what is amiss.”
As Deuteria’s hysterical speech was shouted shrilly and was accompanied by a purple-red flush around the neck, cheeks, and breasts of her usually luscious body, Gareth found himself recoiling in disgust. With considerable effort, he struggled to keep his voice even and reasonable.
“Reims was badly affected by Justinian’s disease at the time we left these parts to travel down to Beziers. The plague was the main reason that Theudebert’s army was quartered at Soissons. Now that autumn has arrived, we believe the disease has halted its inevitable march towards the north, but we want to be absolutely sure of your safety. Lorcan and I have experienced this ghastly illness, and we believe it’s advisable to wait until the situation has been clarified. Lorcan is putting himself at risk by entering the city.”
“My . . . friend wouldn’t risk my life by allowing me to undertake a journey to any place where death is possible,” Deuteria snapped spitefully. “Nor would that smelly priest risk his life for me.”
If you only knew, you stupid cow, Gareth thought, in the full knowledge that the courtier they had met would have her throttled if it suited his purposes.
“The disease kills unpleasantly and your . . . gentleman friend knows that the risk of contagion is in every town and every village throughout the land. My friend, Germanus, who survived the disease, was only in the Frankish kingdom for eight days before he succumbed to its horrors. Neither Lorcan nor I caught the illness, although many thousands of other poor souls did, and died. While coming to Reims, we have deliberately avoided all the major towns to bring you this far in safety, my lady. Did you not wonder why we never stopped at inns and other places where travelers are prone to catch the illness?”
Something in the young Briton’s demeanor spoke of truth. When he went on to describe the huge boils that filled with pus and poison in the armpits and the groin areas, Deuteria looked sickened, and Adelia wailed with fear. But when he continued his description to include the dead flesh that destroyed noses, lips, fingers, and toes, all four of his charges paled and Crispus vomited discreetly into the bushes.
“Very well then, we’ll travel to the outskirts of Reims and wait there until your priest returns. But if you’re lying to me, Gareth, I’ll personally arrange for your dishonest tongue to be removed from your mouth.”
Gareth had no doubt that she would try to fulfill her oath if she deemed it necessary.
“Crispus would happily obey me, especially if he thought you had risked his perfect, aquiline nose by keeping us out of Reims,” Deuteria averred. “Isn’t that right, Crispus?”
Crispus nodded impassively, but the large and overmuscular bodyguard touched his nose to assure himself that this perfectly formed feature had not suddenly been afflicted with the contagion.
The party of travelers waited within sight of the great walls of the city, yet they were still some distance away from the houses, shops, and markets that existed beyond the outskirts of this venerable and ancient town built by the Goths and originally called Durocortorum by these long-dead artisans.
But the plague hadn’t quite relinquished its hold.
While they waited, Deuteria saw the black carts filled with corpses leave the city for the burning pits, where the bodies would be cremated, and she quailed to think that these carts still came daily to collect plague victims.
Then, just before dark, the travelers saw a row of slum houses, all in the same district, burning fiercely. They were afraid that the city might have caught alight, but then Gareth pointed out the small, antlike figures carrying buckets in long lines to and from the blazing street of derelict buildings. There was order in the chaos of this fire, and the observers were soon aware that streets nearby were being drenched to ensure that storms of sparks wouldn’t set light to the thatched roofs of other buildings.
“I’ve heard they burn the houses of the poor to kill the disease carriers. This usually means that a city is finally defeating the sickness and the townsfolk are taking action to isolate the infected areas and bring the contagion under control. Fire seems to destroy the evil humors that feed it during the warmer weather. Now that the cold has come, the citizens are removing the slums in the belief that the plague will have nowhere to live during the winter months.”
Deuteria was struck by a sudden thought.
“I do believe that’s true! Any of my kinsmen or -women who have died in contagions in the past seemed to perish during spring or summer. I always thought it was unfair that my parents died when the weather was so warm and lovely.”
Gareth nodded and prayed inwardly that Deuteria’s fear of becoming ill would be stronger than her desire for the comforts of Reims, including a soft bed, her latest wish and the subject of much nagging.
The very next morning, after three days of waiting, Father Lorcan appeared on Berry. He was followed by a smiling Germanus, who was looking hearty and healthy. The two men were accompanied by two other Frankish warriors, watchful and suspicious by nature. They were obviously keeping a close eye on their charges.
Gareth could barely contain his relief and joy.
“Well, my boyo, I can see you’re still in one piece,” Lorcan said with a wink and a grin. “Look who I found? He’d been checking every alehouse near the southern gate for a week or so, when we happened to walk into each other.”
“He’d been sampling the quality of the beer in a number of inns, I’m afraid,” Germanus quipped in his usual slow and reasonable manner. Joyfully, Gareth realized that nothing had changed and that the two old reprobates would probably needle each other until one or the other died.
“This is Mistress Deuteria and her servants.” Gareth made the necessary introductions, while Germanus brought an attractive flush to Deuteria’s cheeks by taking her hand and kissing her fingertips in a display of obvious admiration.
Gareth could almost read the Roman bitch’s mind. A real man at last!
“Shall we go now, mistress? I have personally selected your villa, which is a charming little palace on top of a hill away from the press of the Subura, as your people in Rome called the crowded streets where the commoners live.”
Deuteria simpered.
“Of course, I have ensured it is well furnished. It even has a small bathhouse, which, as you know, is very difficult to find in these uncivilized days. A well provides fresh water, there is a fine orchard bearing every kind of fruit, a kitchen garden to please your cook, and neighbors of the highest quality in all of Reims. I believe you’ll be very pleased with your purchase.”
Deuteria almost skipped as she hurried to the wagon to depart for her new villa. All thought of the plague had been forgotten in Germanus’s clever description of her luxurious new home.
“I didn’t know you had become a merchant and taken to selling palaces to rich and foolish women,” Gareth jeered at the Frank, whose eyes swiveled towards the two tall Frankish guards who were examining Gareth and his weapons with particular care.
“Keep your voice down. These, er . . . nursemaids have been sent to ensure that Deuteria is well and happy in her new lodgings. They are carrying the payment for our services and a letter from the king that will grease our way through to the Dene borders.”
“If you believe in the effectiveness and integrity of those documents, I can assure you that I happen to possess a ship full of Falernian wine that I can sell to you at a very, very cheap price,” Lorcan added with his usual irreverence.
• • •
TWO WEEKS HAD passed since the travelers left Reims.
The night was gelid with cold, while a slight wind stirred the icy tree branches. The first few raindrops from the coming storm fell on the solitary man who had settled himself into the shadows of ornamental trees in the grounds of a small villa on the outskirts of Soissons. Winter was almost here, and the Frankish army would soon be snowed into its new barracks that Theudebert had ordered to be built on the fields where they had camped in tents during the spring and the summer. Although there had been no further incidents of plague in Reims during the past month, the king had decided to honor Soissons with his presence, so he had settled into the palace that he owned in the center of that thriving city. His officers and aristocrats were forced to hire whatever rooms they could find and, of course, Hubert had found a small, congenial estate that was a little out of the way, but had the advantage of complete privacy.
Inside his scriptorium, Hubert lazed in a comfortable chair with a soft cushion behind his back. A glass of superior red wine winked beatifically in the ruby light from a torch which lit the room adequately, so he could read the notes of the accounts he had been assembling. Deuteria was very happy with her new home, which the barbarian had purchased at a much-reduced price after the death of the original owners from Justinian’s disease. Finally, the three bothersome strangers had been paid for their work and had departed into the north. Unknown to them, Hubert had sent couriers to the northern frontiers, ordering their immediate execution the moment they presented their travel documents that promised safe passage.
Hubert sighed with satisfaction.
The king had asked his devoted servant for an account of the coin spent to facilitate Theudebert’s felicity. With a gentle smile that resembled the grin of a hyena, Hubert took up his stylus and added a stupendous and unearned extra charge for his trouble. The king was content in the arms of his woman, so Hubert would be satisfied by a profit commensurate with his expert planning and devoted silence.
The lords of these lands would never know who had brought Deuteria to Reims, even when they eventually became aware of her presence. Hubert had ensured that his master, as well as himself, were protected from gossip and unseemly rumor. Hubert had already planned for her poisoning in case Deuteria should weary of her tenuous position in Reims. One more death would scarcely be noticed, and in any case his master rarely thought so far ahead.
Hubert toasted his intelligent use of the three travelers with his ruby wine. Life was very, very good.
The courtier felt a draft of cold air behind him and the icy blade of a very sharp knife against his throat at the same instant. His flesh tried to shrink away from both, and he gasped involuntarily.
“Are you cold, Hubert?” a young voice said from behind his back. “I am so sorry, but I need the window open so I can leave just as quietly as I came. Your guards are pathetic! A child could find them and kill them without being seen, and I can assure you that I’m no child.”
“Who are you?” Hubert croaked, but he already knew the answer. He’d only heard the voice once, but he remembered the hot blue stare very well.
“You know me, my friend! I’m one of the travelers from Britain whom you sent on a wild-goose chase to Septimania. For forty-four days of my summer and autumn, I had to endure that woman’s company. Really, Hubert, I’d happily force the same fate on you if I had more time, but I’ve another gentleman to see tonight, and I needs must be in the land of the Dene before spring. Do you understand my dilemma, Hubert?”
“No!” Hubert found his teeth were chattering. He hated to show any weakness in front of a cur such as this man, but something about this young Briton filled Hubert with terror.
Something warm trickled down his legs and soaked into the cushion of his seat. Hubert flushed with shame.
“You’re a very dirty boy, Hubert! You’ve pissed yourself! But never mind, for I’m sure they’ll clean you up before anyone sees what you’ve done to yourself.”
“Please don’t!” Hubert whispered. “I have gold, so there’s no need to be hasty.”
“But you killed that poor little barmaid at Egbert’s inn. Now, I didn’t know her, but I can imagine that if you’ll kill a harmless creature like her, then you’ll have me slaughtered without a second’s thought. Am I right, Hubert? I can’t hear you.”
“Please?” Even to Hubert’s ears, his voice sounded ineffectual, so he was hardly surprised when the Briton carefully and delicately cut his throat from ear to ear from behind.
“You can try to hold the wound together, I suppose. But I don’t like your chances, Hubert. I’m sorry that I can’t wait to see you bleed through to the end, but I’ve promised myself, and that harmless little girl, that I’d also visit Egbert of Wurms before this night is over. You do understand how it is when your life is so busy.”
Hubert struggled to hold his wound closed, but his blood jetted out in front of him. As his eyesight began to fail, he watched as the Briton moved in front of him, carefully avoiding the bloody puddle that was spreading far too quickly over the tiled floor.
“Good-bye, Hubert. I hope Hell is really hot for people like you, just as the priests promise. I’m sure there’ll be a queue of sufferers who’ll come from your past who are dying to meet you again. Forgive the pun, but I couldn’t resist it.”
Then, as the Briton laughed at his little joke, Hubert drifted away. Staying alive was just too much trouble.
Uncharacteristically, Hubert’s very last thought was about someone else.
“Jesus Christ, won’t Egbert of Wurms be surprised!”
And so Hubert passed into the shades.