To Burn Page 5

  And she slept. Exhausted and spent, relaxed to her very bones, nestled in his arms. She was as petite and light as goose down, and as soft. She was very small in her sleep, without the fire of her spirit burning bright and hot.

  She jerked suddenly, her muscles in sudden spasm, and he stroked her arms to quiet her. She sighed lightly and mumbled something before turning in to him. Her feet, small and dirty, she buried under his calves. His hand slipped easily into the gentle indentation of her waist as her hands, cupped together, pressed into the hairy hollow of his underarm. She burrowed in her sleep.

  Wulfred looked down at her as she nestled against him. His thoughts were a jumble and a mystery to him. One thought, so familiar, rose up from the tumult. One thought: how very simple to kill her now. Wulfred's left hand moved over her torso, the flat stomach, the flattened breasts, the slender line of throat and clear angle of jaw. If he killed her now, he and his men could meet Hensa, the Saxon commander, on his march south. There would be more battles and more victories before leaving this isle at the end of summer. Wulfred brushed his thumb against the thick fringe of black lash that shielded her eyes. He had not known lashes could be so black, from root to tip, sooty black. She twitched her head at his strange caress and murmured softly as she buried her black head along his ribs.

  He did not want to kill her now.

  He could have left her. He had achieved his purpose and thwarted hers. But he stayed. He stayed until the sun slanted in long yellow bolts across the mosaic floor. He stayed, holding her, until the rosy sky of a summer sunset washed the room.

  In the end, he decided that she had been right: she could not have devised a better torture.

  * * *

  She awoke in the late afternoon and for a moment wondered if she had fallen asleep for mere instants. Her happy delusion could not last, for two reasons: one was standing in the doorway, watching her, and the other was that she felt too rested. She did not feel any closer to death. She felt muscle-sore and wooly headed.

  "How long?" she asked, her voice gravelly with thirst.

  He didn't hesitate, knowing exactly what she meant. "A night and a day."

  A night and a day. It was a serious setback, and she could almost have wept at the thought of having to start all over again. But she did not weep; her resolve to outwit the hairy oaf was greater than her frustration at losing so much time and effort in her plan to work herself to death.

  Sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the couch, she became entangled in a light cover. Someone had covered her in her sleep. The monster had probably tried to smother her. But watching him standing in the doorway, his revoltingly big arms crossed over his hideous chest, she decided that to kill her in her sleep would not satisfy him. He would want her awake and, preferably, screaming for mercy.

  One thing was certain; as stupid as he was, he had understood her motive in working so hard and would not now simply watch and wonder when she set about her tasks. In fact, knowing how perverse and obstinate he was, he might make it very difficult for her to outwit him in that way again.

  What to do? If she could not die by exhaustion, what way was left her?

  "Get up, slave, and cease lingering on your couch," he rumbled, not moving from his place in the doorway. "It is time for you to eat."

  Melania smiled slowly at his words and then dipped her head to allow the tangle of her hair to hide her satisfaction. She should have known the barbarian half-wit in front of her would provide her with the perfect solution. She would die and it would be in her own way. It wouldn't actually be suicide. Suicide was jumping off a cliff or falling on a sword.

  "Then stop blocking the door, you monstrous oaf, unless you've hidden the food under the couch? I can't smell anything, but then the stink of you would foul any aroma of food. Step aside, pagan pig, unless you wish to serve me on my couch? It is the Roman way.... Try not to trip over yourself in obeying my wishes, Saxon; merely step away from the portal so that we may both have the pleasure of being out of each other's sight."

  Oh, yes, she was rested and back to her full strength. Wulfred watched her stride across the courtyard to the kitchen like a soldier on parade. But why had she obeyed his instructions so readily? And what was she so happy about?

  He rethought their most recent conversation. It had been short. He had told her how long she had slept; that had dismayed her. He had seen the thoughts and plans flying through her mind like larks sweeping the sky, searching for a new method of having her way and thwarting his. She was so easy to read, like a child hiding a sweet behind her back. Hiding a sweet...

  She had brightened when he had mentioned food. Of course, she was hungry. She had done much labor on little food and no sleep. Hunger must be riding her hard. She could ill afford to lose the weight.

  But why such delight? He did not trust her happy, though he hardly trusted her snarling. He did not trust her at all, but there was something in her suddenly bowed head that screamed deception.

  She was better watched, that much was certain, and Wulfred followed the path she had taken across the walled courtyard to the kitchen hugging the wall. It was a low-ceilinged building, built of timbers, clay, and plaster washed white. He stooped to enter through the timber-framed doorway. The room was small in comparison with the other rooms of the villa—certainly the triclinium was four times its size—but it was a spacious room by Saxon standards. The ceiling was of timber, planed and beveled, and the walls painted a warm white that glowed golden in the reflected light of the massive hearth. Long tables of polished oak paraded down the center of the room and were covered with bowls, platters, and the disarray of food being prepared. The room had four windows, each a perfect square. With all he could say against the Romans, Wulfred forced himself to admit that they excelled as builders.

  His eyes scanned the room from his position in the doorway, she was nowhere within. The former slaves of Rome stopped their labors and stared at him in silent fear; he did not want their fear, only their obedience. And their cooperation. A bowl clattered to the floor and broke into three pieces; a smallish boy stood above the mess in stricken silence, his eyes wide and still. Wulfred ignored him.

  The boy was not Melania, and it was Melania he wanted.

  "Where is she?"

  There could be no doubt in anyone's mind whom he meant, yet they remained silent.

  "I sent her to the kitchen. She is not here. Where is she?" he repeated, his voice a throbbing drum in the small space.

  "Do not hurt her!"

  Wulfred turned to the sound and again saw the boy. He held the shard of pottery in his hand like a weapon, and on his face he wore a look of terrified resolve. Wulfred's mouth twitched in reluctant humor; little Roman warrior, hiding in a kitchen with a dish for a weapon.

  "You would fight for her? Against me?" he asked solemnly, seeming to consider his young opponent.

  The boy swallowed and clenched his shard, his knuckles white. "Am I not Roman?" he asked, mimicking the snake.

  Wulfred stroked his belly, considering. "I don't know. Are you?"

  The boy seemed to wither. "Can't you see that I am? Can't you tell?"

  "What I see is a young warrior who lacks a proper weapon. Do you also lack a proper name?"

  "Flavius is my name."

  "Ah, a Roman name."

  "Of course," the boy huffed, his grip on the shattered pottery loosening. "Just like Melania."

  "Not like Melania," Wulfred said. "You are soon to be a man, a warrior. She is a woman."

  "She is Roman, like me. And she is something of a warrior," Flavius argued.

  "No," Wulfred said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. "She is a fighter. There is a difference."

  "Oh."

  Wulfred watched the boy in his defeat, the fight in his eyes replaced by confusion. A small boy, too small to be a true Roman, but not too small to begin learning.

  "Would you be a warrior or a fighter, Flavius? I give you the choice, since you are so n
ear to being a man."

  Flavius chewed his lip in concentration and rubbed his thumb along the rough edge of the dish. He looked Wulfred over carefully before answering.

  "Are all Saxons warriors?"

  "Not all, but most. It is the way of pride for us."

  "And all Romans?"

  "More in the past than now," Wulfred answered truthfully, admiring the boy for his logic. "Rome is well known throughout the world for her warriors."

  "I would be a warrior," Flavius said firmly.

  "A wise choice." Wulfred smiled, uncrossing his arms.

  "When?" he asked, striving to keep his voice level and mature.

  "You begin now. Go find Ceolmund and tell him of your desire." When Flavius moved abreast of Wulfred, Wulfred stopped him with a broad hand on his narrow chest. "It will be difficult."

  "Of course." Flavius shrugged and moved past him and out into the light. Wulfred watched him go with a smile. The broken shard fell from the boy's hand without a thought as he went to begin his Saxon training.

  Turning again to face the room, Wulfred repeated, "Where is she?" His smile had departed with the boy.

  Theras stepped forward to face their new master. "She has been here. She was given a dish of food. She has gone to a quiet place to eat."

  He spoke clearly and plainly. Wulfred appreciated the effort, but the Roman's long-winded tirades made it unnecessary. His Latin was once again close to effortless. Another reason to want to see her dead.

  So she had obeyed him. Strangely, the knowledge brought no comfort. Why would she obey so readily and so completely? The only answer was that it had also served her own purpose, and her purpose was ever at odds with his. He would watch her and be sure of her obedience to his will.

  "Where?" he asked the Greek.

  The man hesitated before answering, yet what choice did he have? He was a slave. He had no choices.

  "There is a flat rock on the hill to the east, overlooking the vineyards. She is there."

  Wulfred had been there. He knew the spot.

  He turned from the kitchen, feeling the relief of the Roman hybrids he left behind as palpably as a touch. Cynric saw him and made to follow; Wulfred waved him off. He needed no assistance in handling the Roman. Cynric's brows met over his nose in an irritated scowl, but he slowed his pace, staying within the courtyard as Wulfred passed through the open gate. When he was beyond the vineyards, he could see her, a white blur in the fading light. He knew she had been able to see him from the moment he had crossed the courtyard into the kitchen. From her vantage point, the villa and all its environs were visible. He approached her laterally and from behind. The sunset was splayed out like a banner, leaving her in black silhouette. An empty dish was on the rock next to her.

  "You follow me like a dog, barbari. I choose to be alone. I have no doubt that you can find your way back to my villa," she said with calm disdain. "Unfortunately."

  He was more comfortable now, his guard relaxed. She was behaving normally, in her spiteful, vicious Roman way. This way was better than quick obedience; this way he understood.

  "You have nothing, Roman slave, except a sharp tongue," he answered, standing on the rock next to her, staring at the rapidly sinking sun.

  "And a will, Saxon, a strong will that you will find impossible to break," she said in a snarl, standing to be eye-to-eye with him, or as much as she was able given her stunted size. The woman came hardly to his chest.

  Wulfred smiled, relaxing. "I do not want to break your will, Roman. I want to break you—a thing not so difficult to do."

  He said it easily, confidently, and it shook her courage. He could see it. He could feel it. She was not the same woman she had been; his coming, his defeat of her and her kind, had changed everything. This he knew and this she was coming to know. It was sweet knowledge and he gloated in it.

  She reacted to this knowledge in predictable fashion; she threw the empty dish at him.

  He caught it with one hand and threw it at her feet, where it shattered into shards and powder on the massive rock.

  "You are a clumsy slave," he said when the sound of the breaking had echoed away into the night.

  "It was my dish to break if I chose," she responded with heat.

  Wulfred stepped closer to her and clasped her chin between his fingers. He looked deeply into glittering eyes, the last rays of the sun turning the hazel into earthy gold. He could feel her breathing quicken and feel her stiffen under his hand. He hoped it was in fear.

  "But I did the choosing," he reminded her softly. "So it will always be."

  She stared up into his eyes for a moment or two longer before breaking away from his touch and hurrying down the hill, escaping the truth of his words. Escaping him. Wulfred smiled easily and followed her down, content.

  When the scent of their passing had cooled, a young wolf skittered out of the shadow of the wood, making a quick and direct path to a spray of honeysuckle not far from the rock. The contents of Melania's dish were consumed in no time.

  Chapter 8

  Remembering how she had labored through the nights, Wulfred did not wait until the morning to gather all the inhabitants of the villa in the courtyard: Saxon, Roman, Briton, and Greek. Two torches lit the space with a hazy glow as sparks flew upward to mingle with twisting smoke before being lost in the pitch of night. He stood with his back to one torch. All could see him clearly, even those on the fringes who were indistinct shadows to him. He could be seen—seen and heard. Heard and obeyed.

  "The Roman," he began, pointing directly at her as she stood against the kitchen wall, ignoring him, "will do no labor. If she is caught raising a sweat, all will suffer for it." When they said nothing, when not a Briton raised a brow and not a Saxon murmured an oath, he repeated, "She will not work. If she works, you will not eat."

  He watched her as he spoke. She was standing alone, apart from them all, leaning her shoulder back against the wall in negligent ease and unconcern. Torchlight left her face in shadow, but outlined the curve of breast and hip in sharp relief. It was a trick of the light; he knew she was not so shapely beneath her Roman sack. He could not see her eyes, but he could read her mockery of him in her insolent posture. Her very lack of concern set a fire to his suspicions, and when she remained coolly unconcerned and looked down to brush a careless hand over her skirt, he knew without doubt that she had devised some new plan to rob him of his goal. A plan at which she would fail, but which would cause him no end of annoyance.

  "Are you saying that it is your wish that Melania do nothing?" Theras had the temerity to ask.

  Wulfred thought that over for a moment; he did not want her living the life of a pampered woman of Rome, even though that was exactly what she was. There had to be some work that would keep her idle hands busy that would also not threaten to kill her.

  "Does she know how to do anything?" he finally asked. He had the satisfaction of seeing her jolt upright at that insult.

  After a somewhat uncomfortable pause, clearly wishing that Melania would speak for herself, Theras said, "She can weave and dye and fashion jewelry."

  None of that sounded too strenuous. "Acceptable." Wulfred nodded and then commanded, "Go." He looked at Melania as he said it. Melania looked back at him and, when she stood alone facing him, when he understood that she left of her own inclination, she sauntered off.

  The group drifted back into the shadows of the night until the two torches lit only the dust of the courtyard ground. Wulfred and his men went into the triclinium to begin the light evening meal that ended their day.

  "Well, that will hardly kill her" —Cenred laughed— "unless she manages to throw herself into the path of the shuttle in her weaving."

  "No, she will live long enough to give Wulfred his revenge, now that he understands her deviousness," Cynric said.

  "What weapon does a woman have beyond her deviousness?" Cuthred said tersely.

  "A woman has an arsenal of weapons" —Balduff chuckled— "but this one is too st
upid to use them."

  "Stupid?" Ceolmund asked. "Or proud?"

  "What pride is there in trying to work yourself to death doing menial labor?" Cynric said.

  "What pride in meekly waiting for the ax to drop?" Ceolmund countered.

  "Come," Cenred said, "what pride in dyeing linen? This talk of pride in a woman is foolish."

  "She could well be proud of her hair," Balduff murmured into his cup.

  "Her hair?" Cynric said. "That snarled and dusty mess? It is as appealing as a swarm of flies over meat."

  "Just because you do not like black hair…" Balduff huffed.

  "If pride is a word you will not ascribe to her, then what of valor?" Ceolmund persisted. He had not spoken so much at one time in ten years.

  "What valor in chopping wood?" Cenred smiled.

  "No," Cuthred said slowly, "there is valor in her fight against us. All that she has, and it is not much, she throws against us. She has courage." It was his highest praise.

  "It is true," Cenred admitted, "that I did not expect such a fight from a Roman woman. There is more to her than first appears." Stroking his chin, he smiled ruefully. "She is a determined adversary."

  "No."

  Wulfred had been listening to their talk, surprised by most of it, content to let the conversation drift until it died naturally. But he would not allow them to talk themselves into attributing valor to the little Roman.

  "It is not valor that drives her," he said into the sudden silence. "It is desperation. As her desperation grows, so will her frenzy." Looking at each man lingeringly, he said, "She must be watched carefully."

  "She is being watched, Wulfred," Cynric said.

  "Yes, she is being watched," Wulfred repeated, "but she must be made to suffer that which she fears most: a world ruled by Saxons."

  Wulfred's eyes blazed vivid blue from the yellow tangle of his hair before he turned to his gaze to his cup. In his eyes they saw what drove him to vengeance and they did not question it. They understood his motivation and supported it, to a man. Yet...