Warrior, page 7
“What is it?” I demanded, furious at the presumption. “I never agreed to—”
“Do not fret, sweet one. There’s no need to pay. I offered only a sample.” With a coaxing glance, she took my wrist and lifted it to my face, close enough that I caught a sniff of the most intoxicating fragrance. Like petals in the sun. “You see? It’s nothing but a pretty scent.”
A pretty scent? Never in my life had I smelled such a thing. I lifted my wrist again, half-prepared to empty my pockets onto the table.
“What is it?” I repeated in a completely different tone, eyeing the slender vial. To have bottled such a creation seemed a miracle, yet the table was littered with a hundred such jars.
“It’s called perfumare,” she answered, shaking the bottle in the sun. A little oil splashed against the sides. “The idea came from the Romans,” she added unexpectedly, casting a swift look at my face, “but of course, we don’t patron those sort. These bottles came from the Summer Seas.”
I stared back in shock, feeling as though I’d slipped into a different world.
“The Summer Seas,” I repeated in a kind of daze, feeling as though I was talking to some kind of mystic, rather than a random street merchant. “You have been there yourself?”
“My sons and husband,” she replied with a smile, setting the bottle back on the table. “There are larger trading ships than the ones your people use to raid. Big-bellied galleys and bireme that can weather the storms and travel all the way down the southern coast. It is a long journey, of course, but one doesn’t feel the travel given the size. It feels more like sitting indoors, so they tell me.”
I continued to stare, unaware that my mouth had fallen open. Fast enough to escape my own notice, my eyes flicked instinctively in the direction of the harbor, like I could see them already.
“How big?”
“Big enough.” She chuckled at my expression, flicking at my chin. “They say those that travel the Mediterranean are larger still—enough to hold a hundred thousand tons of Egyptian grain.”
It was too much. I would take weeks to process. At the same time, it wasn’t nearly enough.
Feeling a bit like a child who’d been given too many sweets, I nodded silently, trying to come up with something to say. There was a part of me who felt like the woman had given so much, I was almost obliged to give her some money. I silenced that part quickly, stepping away with a grimace.
“I have no coin to spend,” I apologized, “I’ve come only to work.”
She smiled again, bright sunlight catching the auburn waves of her hair. “I figured as much, it makes no difference.” She flicked a finger at my wrist. “If that changes, come back for more.”
I nodded and eased into the churn of people, sniffing occasionally at my wrist.
The day was picking up, and the crowd was livening with it. The gates of the settlement had been thrown open, and people of every rank and age were coming together to witness the games.
There were jugglers and contortionists, caged animals and merchants shouting over the heads of the crowd. Packs of roving children tore through the streets like animals, shrieking with laughter, as they knocked past the legs of great lords and ladies—all of them uniting in a rare yet common purpose, all of them drifting gradually towards the same place.
It was a dizzying spectacle, to be sure. But a happy one, filled with music and sporadic bits of laughter. I cared not for the games themselves—though I imagined I’d end up serving at quite a few. If things were up to me, I’d spend every second I had in the market or at the harbor—staring at the ships and listening to the merchants’ stories. That was the real treasure. It was like a window opening; those little bits of the outside world that leaked every so often into ours.
I drifted along with the crowd, determined to soak in every second of it. My cheeks were flushed with excitement, and my nose prickled with the scent of a dozen spices sizzling in the air.
But all at once, there was a new sound. Something that didn’t belong with the rest.
I turned with a frown, the only one who seemed to have heard it. The people behind me knocked into my shoulders, tripping on the hem of my cloak, before surging around me like a rock in a stream. I must have imagined it. Or mislabeled it. Surely it was nothing.
But no, there it was again.
Where are you?
Drawn by a strange instinct, I cut in a straight line through the crowd—ignoring the curses and protests I left behind me—until I reached a group of tents that had been erected at the far side of the road. They were meant to serve as a barrier, a place of storage and preparation between the games and the rest of the fort. Beyond them lay only fences and horses and grass—empty stands and a dozen frazzled servants getting things ready. I paused outside the largest, listening.
The sound came again, a shrill keening that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. It was followed almost immediately with a muffled chorus of girlish laughter.
With an uncertain hand, I drew back the folds of the tent.
It was indeed filled with a troop of young women—free women, young and pretty—who had come to the festival not with the intention of working, but with the sole purpose of making eyes at whatever noble young lords they could lure their way. The second I saw them gathered there, I almost stepped right back out into the sun. But they weren’t looking at me. Their attention was fixed on something beyond the tent and in the distant pasture. I heard the noise again, a scream—I was sure of it. With a daring that in hindsight seemed rather foolish, I drifted behind them to look.
By the heavens...
It was the young man I’d seen at dinner—the one with the wintery hair and sky blue eyes that had cast a collective spell. The sight of him alone would have been enough to draw their gaze, but he was not alone. He was standing beside a chestnut stallion, its legs pawing into the air.
I froze dead still, unable to understand their laughter.
Horses of such size and temperament weren’t a joke, they could be deadly. A single kick to the chest would be enough to break a man’s bones. A kick to the head, and his eyes would never open. The man surely knew this; he was old as I was, and had ridden countless weeks to our valley on a horse himself. And yet, there he stood—a hand reached between them, lips quietly fluttering.
“I don’t understand,” one of the girls whispered, speaking behind a cupped hand. They were too far away to be heard, yet hissed together like a tangle of snakes. “Is he talking to it?”
...is he?
I moved closer, no longer caring if I was seen.
The man had indeed left all wits behind, and was moving gradually closer to the rearing stallion, keeping his palm offered between them, as he spoke in calming tones. It must have been terrifying; the ground shook with every impact as those flailing hooves came down to land, but there wasn’t a trace of fear anywhere on his face. His voice was clear, and his motions steady. Those lovely eyes held the animal like a tether, drawing it downward, coaxing it towards his hand.
The girls whispered and laughed, but I stared in a kind of trance. Not just because I was half-convinced he was about to die, but because there was something truly entrancing about it. The grace of his movements, the soothing murmur of his words...it cast a kind of spell.
“Maybe he’s drunk,” one of the girls suggested.
“Maybe it’s a custom, where he’s from,” another replied, glancing away from the window to cast the others a sliding grin. “They look like dreams, and spend their days talking to horses—”
“Maybe he knows something you don’t,” I interrupted, sharper than I’d meant. They whirled around at the same time, looking truly stunned to see me. For the briefest of moments, their cheeks flushed with preemptive shame before they saw who I was and realized it wasn’t required. I changed my tone immediately, gesturing them back to the grass. “That horse has yet to be broken, that’s why they keep it in the pasture. No one’s been able to get close to it in months.”
The tent fell silent as we looked again through the window.
By then, the horse had quieted a little, shimmying back and forth, but keeping all four legs on the ground. Bursts of air exploded from its nostrils, and it eyed the young man warily from the corner of its eye, but otherwise, it kept its peace. The man was only a few paces away now. He took another step and then stopped, murmuring a string of words that were too quiet to hear.
He waited in silence. We watched from the window.
A few moments passed, then the stallion stopped tossing its head. Its breathing slowed, the bristling ridge on its neck seemed to smooth. A few moments after that, it took a step, then another, then it closed the distance between them. A moment later, it was nuzzling the palm of his hand.
Praise the gods.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, smiling with a kind of bewildered relief.
It seemed as much of a miracle as the night before—not when he was presented before the king, but when he stepped away from the royal shine and off the podium. Neither had required an audience, both had been quietly done—leaving a profound and lasting impression.
To those who were willing to look.
The girls turned on me like a startled hive, glaring and crowding around each other. A wave of dread stirred in my stomach, and I was reminded why my first instinct had been to leave the tent undisturbed. The boldest of them stepped forth, pointing a sharp finger at my chest.
“Why are you here?” she demanded.
For a second, I merely blinked in surprise—unable to believe that despite the difference in our rank, she would say it so directly. There were no bands on my arms, I was a free woman the same as her. One who’d taken the time to put on jewelry and get herself sprayed with some foreign scent. Why did she assume I had overstepped? Then I realized where she was pointing.
Not at my chest, but at the brooch.
I opened my mouth to answer, but was immediately overrun. At any rate, the girls didn’t seem to want an answer. They preferred to be the ones speaking instead.
“—scarcely counts as a dress, and her hair smells like smoke—”
“—never see her inside the settlement, must live outside the fence—”
The girl who’d spoken first did so again—just a single word amongst the clamor, but she made sure I could hear, “Manut.”
My eyes pricked, as my breath caught in my chest. The soft, inner parts of me scraped, like they were crumbling, but I’d been living long enough outside that fence, not to show any of it on my face. Like a childhood friend, an old voice rang in my head, ready with the familiar mantra.
Let them have their little name. Better they call you that, than something else.
“I was told to clear the tents,” I lied easily, holding the forerunner’s gaze, “they are to be used by the soldiers. I could ask them to wait, if you wish to continue to spy.”
The girl’s cheeks flamed a dark red, but she took a step closer, grinding her teeth together as she looked me up and down. She soured in the appraisal, but took comfort in the sight of the brooch. By the time her eyes returned to mine, they were armed with a little sneer.
“Let me ask you something,” she began, pointing backwards at the pasture, “in what world do you think someone like that, would ever know your name?”
The horse whinnied in the background. I fixed a smile onto my face.
“The world’s always changing.”
Just not that much.
Chapter 7
The next few days passed in a kind of blur.
One moment I would be serving drinks in the feasting hall; the next, I’d be polishing swords and armor; the next, I’d be churning milk for butter or fetching baskets of firewood from the nearby woods. There was never any telling what the day might bring, but the tournament had started in earnest, and my time was no longer my own. The only consolation was that each evening, my service was deemed acceptable, and each morning, I was allowed once again to pour ale in the great hall.
My pockets were full of silver. I’d made more in a few days than in the last few months.
“That should probably do it.”
I stepped back as the woman who ran the kitchens took the last crate of goblets from my arms and heaved them on top of the rest. We’d been at the same task for the better part of the day, separating the various dishware for things that needed to be washed. I had no doubt, I would then be asked to complete this—a job that would surely stretch into the better part of the night—but after the last of the cartons was placed, she stepped back with me, wiping a hand across her brow.
“That was terrible,” she said bluntly, resenting the lack of assistance. I had gotten early to the settlement and had been quickly conscripted, but she’d been hoping for one of the stronger boys to help. “Hardly worth the scant pay this job provides.”
I eyed her with a faint smile, having grown secretly fond of her over the last few days. When first I’d met her, I was certain she was going to be like one of those vicious school mistresses one hears about—quick with a blow about the ears, or a slap on the hands. But she had a good heart beneath it all. To be honest, she reminded me a good deal of Trina.
“The scant pay?” I repeated innocently. “And what might that be?”
She raised her eyebrows, looking at me as well. “I’m sorry, Liv. Are we not paying you enough? Are you accustomed to something better than silver? You know what—don’t trouble yourself with an answer. I’ll go inform the king.”
We smiled to ourselves, turning back to the heap of dishes. Our arms were aching, and while she was about to go inside and clear away the last of the lunch, I had no doubt I’d be wheeling them all down to the spring. At that point, I’d proceed to cheerfully kill myself.
“Be back in time for supper,” she said abruptly, squinting up at the sky. The weather had held, and it was sure to be another sunlit day. It was a blessing—that was what people said. The gods had blessed the tournament. I admired their enthusiasm, but went with a simpler answer myself: it was summer. “They’re doing the stone-toss and archery today, so the chamber will be quite full.”
I nodded, then turned in surprise. “Wait, what? Back in time for supper?” My eyes darted quickly to the pile, unwilling to draw attention to it. “I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” she interrupted briskly, “but you’ve done the work of four men today, and it’s scarcely past noon. If I work you any harder, those little sticks you call arms are going to tear off at the seams.”
I stared at her, then glanced down at my arms.
They’re not like sticks.
“Go,” she said with a smile, giving me a shove in the back, “act like a child. Spend some of that money I keep giving you—so I know you’ll come back and have to make more.”
I backed away with a grin before she could change her mind.
“I admire the coercion,” I called, moving swifter as she raised a choice finger. “You’re an enterprising woman, and it should be acknowledged. Perhaps I’ll speak to the king myself.”
At this, her mouth opened with some memorable reply, but I slipped around the corner before she could give it—so giddy with the sudden upswing in the day’s prospects, I didn’t realize what I was stumbling into until it was already too late. The sound of sharp impacts brought me back. The sound of men jeering, and a familiar voice—clenched against pain.
“Is that enough, yet? Have you reconsidered?”
I staggered backwards mid-step, startling to attention, only to find myself standing on the edge of a fight. Although fight might have been a generous word for it. There were three men against one—who had already fallen to one knee. With a jolt of horror, I realized I knew him.
It was Henny. The red-haired boy I’d started serving with at the feasts.
There was no telling what had started the brawl, most likely, the men who’d initiated were simply bored and wanted something to do. Over the last few days, I’d come to know the sweet servant rather well, and knew, with absolute certainty, there wasn’t a vicious bone in his body.
Even if there was, he would have picked a different group than this. They were nobles’ sons, or perhaps young bannermen in their own right. Two of them carried swords, though they hadn’t yet drawn them. The third was the leader, and preferred to use his bare fists.
He took a step forward as the others fanned beside him, grinning with the thrill of the game.
“Come on,” he continued, kneeling beside Henny’s crumpled form, “we asked a simple request, and you are to be attending us, are you not? Now give me those coins in your pocket. You won’t like what’s going to happen if you make me ask again.”
Before Henny could summon the breath to speak, the man rose in a swift motion and kicked him squarely in the ribs. There was a horrible gasp, and he landed with both hands in the dirt, doing everything in his power to keep from crying out in pain. At no point did he say a thing in reply, at no point did he lift a hand in return. They were nobles, he was a servant. To strike back against such cruelty meant a pillory, or perhaps something much worse.
“Come on, Ulrik. Leave him.” The other boys had already tired of their game—finding little sport in kicking a fallen servant in a backlight alley. One of them called over his shoulder, the other was already halfway up the street. “They’ll be starting the toss soon. I want good seats.”
“In a minute,” Ulrik answered, still crouched beside his prize. “I want to play a little.”
They vanished up the street, leaving the three of us alone behind the feasting hall. No one had seen me yet. There were piles of crates and pitchers, and they’d been consumed with their game.
I had frozen amongst them, fingers curled into fists.
“So what do you say?” Another kick, another muffled gasp. Ulrik grinned, circling like a feral dog, trying to provoke a response. “Will you do as I ask? Or am I going to have to take them from you myself? I won’t lie, I’m open to either idea...” Another kick. This one left Henny panting.
