Clash of Iron (7 page)

All would have been much more bearable if her sister were still alive. Lowa didn’t want help, ideas or even advice, she just wanted someone who’d listen. Dug would have been as good as Aithne, but she’d gone and fucked that up and now he was going away to the far north and she’d never see him again. She wondered what she could do to make him stay, to make him forgive her, then dismissed the idea. She didn’t deserve him. And she’d seen the look on his face when she’d clumsily suggested he stay in the south. The very idea of it had made him look ill. No, she’d lost him.

“Queen Lowa!” A shout from outside. A visitor, no doubt, come to complain about nothing, or to put forward some self-interested proposal that they’d say was for everyone’s benefit, or to warn her about something she was already aware of … but perhaps it was Dug.

“Ragnall Sheeplord would like to see you,” the voice continued.

Badgers’ cocks, thought Lowa, but yelled: “All right!”

The large hut’s door opened and Ragnall stomped in. Lowa smelt that he’d been drinking.

“Ragnall. Thank you for helping Drustan—”

“You killed my brothers.” Ragnall stood in the centre of the hut, shaking, pointing at her as if his finger were a weapon.

“Yes,” said Lowa, holding his gaze. “I was acting under orders. I have since rejected those orders, and killed the person responsible for them.”

“You’re not even going to apologise?”

“Of course I’m sorry. Does it help if I say the words? If so, here you go – I’m sorry. But look, Ragnall, I was a soldier following orders. I’d expect people to do the same for me without question. That’s why we have rulers. If you hate the orders, you get rid of the ruler. So that’s what I did. That was my apology for everything.”

Ragnall was staring at her open-mouthed. She was being too harsh, but she didn’t care. How dare he come here to whinge? Everyone had lost people. She’d lost everybody.

“You should beg my forgiveness…” Ragnall managed.

Lowa looked at him and saw privilege and entitlement looking back. He’d had a life of getting his own way and now that things had turned sour he wanted an apology? She felt the frustration of the previous few days rise. She thought of twin girls she’d seen after the battle on Sarum Plain, wailing with grief, clearly mourning a dead parent or perhaps two. She thought of her crew, her sister, murdered by Zadar. Rage boiled up like a storm surge. Even as she drew in the breath to shout, she knew that Ragnall wasn’t the real target for her anger, or even a legitimate one, but out it came all the same.

“Beg you!?” she raged. “Take your head out of your arse and stop whinging about the past. Either get over it and fuck off or stop whining like a bitch and do the only thing you can do to a queen when you disagree with her. Try to kill me. Come on.”

Ragnall stared at her. His gaping mouth slowly closed. His wide eyes narrowed into hard slits. His fingers reached for the hilt of the sword at his waist.

Lowa took a step towards him, lifting the arrow that she’d been polishing. She’d have his thoat out before his sword was halfway from its scabbard.

Ragnall’s face crumbled. He lowered his head with a long, low moan. The moan became quieter but higher pitched until it sounded like a distressed seabird keening out from deep in his throat. His whine was cut off by a snotty snort, then his head bobbed with regular, sucking sobs that made him sound like a bereaved seal.

Oh for Bel’s sake, thought Lowa.

“Here, sit down,” she said, leading him to a chair. She handed him a scrap of linen and sat across from him. Now she felt bad for shouting at him. She felt bad for killing his brothers, too – one brother anyway, she was pretty sure she’d killed only one of them – but she couldn’t let herself go down that path. She’d killed so many people. If she started to feel bad about it, she would fall apart. She had to believe that destroying Zadar and his regime absolved her, and that she could make further amends by ruling justly, by fighting off the Romans and saving more lives than she’d taken. The alternative was suicide and that did not appeal.

Ragnall’s blubbing reduced to snivelling and she said: “By bringing down Zadar together, we have avenged your brothers, your parents and everyone that his regime killed. And I mean ‘we’. It couldn’t have happened without you.”

“I didn’t do anything. It was all you and Drustan and Dug and Spring,” Ragnall cried. He bubbled more snot and blew his nose into the already sodden rag.

“You saved Drustan’s life. It was your idea to take the boat which let us escape from Mearhold. Dug wouldn’t have known I was in the arena if you hadn’t thought to get him and persuaded him to come. Without your plan, the Dumnonians might have beaten us on Sarum Plain and all would have been for nothing. We certainly wouldn’t have beaten them so easily, so at the very least you saved thousands of lives. You have done a lot. I would not be alive, let alone queen, if it weren’t for you.”

“I suppose so.”

“And I need you to do more,” Lowa continued. “I have a mission for you and Drustan. But first … look, I shouldn’t have been so harsh. You’ve had a bad time, and I understand why you’re angry. Why don’t you stay here for a while and tell me all that you remember about your family?” She’d heard somewhere that talking about the dead could help people get over their grief.

“OK…” sniffed Ragnall. “My first memory was seeing my father climbing down a ladder. I remember being worried that he’d fall through the gaps of the ladder, even though…”

Oh for the love of Danu, thought Lowa, pulling her face into a caring smile.

Dug walked slowly across Maidun Castle’s torch-lit lower expanse. The evening was warm, the journey was generally uphill and he knew that if he walked quickly the sweat would come and wouldn’t stop. He did not want to be sweaty for the task ahead.

He’d seen Drustan that afternoon and almost fallen over when the old druid had told him how much wealth Tadman Dantadman had amassed through killing people. Dug was surprised that there was anyone left alive. Lowa had taken half to fund the army, but the remaining half still made him a very rich man. He could have bought a gold-plated farm by any coast and filled it with sheep made of silver. He’d made some half-hearted objections – he didn’t deserve it, it could be put to better use – but Drustan had insisted that it was all his and he hadn’t complained for long. The only downside, Drustan had said, was that he’d also inherited Tadman’s two pets, two large war dogs named Sadist and Pig Fucker. He hadn’t met those yet, but he didn’t like the sound of them.

It was a strange but excellent feeling, knowing that he’d never have to toil for food or shelter again. It was like a smothering weight that he hadn’t known was there had been removed. He felt more generous towards everybody, not materially perhaps, but certainly in spirit.

So he moseyed cheerily across Maidun Castle and up to the eyrie, half-singing breezy greetings to everyone he passed.

He’d made up his mind. Forget the farm. There was only one place he wanted to be, and that was with Lowa. Maybe she had been dismissive the other day, maybe she hadn’t. He needed to know. She definitely had liked him – loved him even? – so there had to be a chance that she still did. He loved her, so he had to risk it. He’d tell her about Spring’s spell, that it wasn’t her fault she’d shagged Ragnall, and that he’d forgive her if there’d been anything to forgive, but there wasn’t. If she was pregnant with Ragnall’s baby that might add some complications, but they could cross that bump when they came to it.

“Sorry it’s late,” he said to the guard at Lowa’s hut, “but could I see Lowa, please?”

“Hello, Dug! How’s it going?”

“All is wonderful, thanks. You?” He peered at the woman. He didn’t think he knew her. Since he’d defeated Tadman in the packed arena and become a wee bit famous, a lot of strangers now acted as if he were an old friend. It was disconcerting.

“I’d let you straight in,” said the guard, “but she’s got someone with her.”

“No matter. I’ll wait.”

“I don’t know how long she’ll be. Might be all night.” The guard winked. “It’s a young man – a fine-looking fellow.”

“Oh?” said Dug.

“Name of Ragnall. Lovely manner about him.” She nodded enthusiastically at Dug’s blank look. “Very well-spoken, he is, very well-spoken. A real young hero, quite the match for Queen Lowa.”

Dug had taken a hammerblow to the guts once. This felt very similar, perhaps a little worse.

“Has he been in there long?” he asked.

“Ages. And I’ve heard some fascinating noises.” She made a long moaning sound, then giggled smuttily. “You’re welcome to wait, though?”

“No, no, that’s fine. I’ll come back.” Dug smiled. Without thinking, he turned and walked away. He was vaguely aware that the guard was still talking.

Ragnall sat back, feeling a great deal happier and much less drunk. It had helped, telling Lowa about his family and Anwen.

“I am sorry, about how I was,” he said.

“Don’t worry.” Lowa put a hand on his knee. “You have losses to grieve. And I think you’re fairly new to heavy drinking? Not that many people ever learn how to do it without regularly making dicks of themselves.”

She really was a very decent woman. Firm, but fair. He remembered her naked body pressed on to him, his hands on her back and buttocks and her thighs, her eyes looking into his. She certainly was firm and fair. He told himself to focus. There was something important he wanted to ask her … oh yes.

“You said that you had a mission for me and Drustan? More slaves to free?”

“No. Something quite different. I want you to go to Rome.”

“Rome?”

“Yes. Big place. Easy to get to by road, apparently.”

“Rome.” Visions flooded Ragnall’s mind. They said there were a million people living in just the one city, buildings the size of hillforts, and flocks of beautiful, degenerate women … “Why Rome?”

“If we’re to fight them, I need to know about them. I also need to know when they’re going to get here. I’d like you and Drustan to pose as a prince and his tutor who have travelled to see the city – which is exactly what you will be, so that shouldn’t be too hard. When you’ve found out all you can about the Romans and their invasion plans, come back and tell me.”

The idea was exciting, but there was one massive reason he didn’t want to leave Britain.

“What about us?” he asked.

Lowa grimaced. That, thought Ragnall, was not the response he’d hoped for.

“I like you very much and I enjoyed our time together, but it was a fling, Ragnall, just a fling. I’m sorry.”

She looked sad and vulnerable. Underneath her iron skin, she was just a person like him. She hadn’t wanted to kill his family, Zadar had made her. She had been in love with Dug, and he’d used magic to make her betray him. She still thought it had been her own decision. She was hurt and consumed by self-loathing. He knew what betrayal felt like from the side of the betrayer, and he didn’t want her feeling like that because he’d tricked her. He had to tell her.

“You should know something, before I go to Rome. I have some druid powers. Nothing like Spring or Drustan, but I’m learning.”

He paused. Lowa was looking at him, seemingly unmoved by his revelation, waiting for him to get to the point. He couldn’t hold her gaze.

“On Mearhold I put a spell on you to fall out of love with Dug and fall in love with me. It was my magic that made you betray him.”

Lowa looked at him for a long while. He looked at his hands and waited, half expecting her to fly at him and ram the arrow that she was holding through his eye. He deserved it.

“So you raped me,” she said eventually.

“What!? No!” It was worse than an arrow through the eye, because as soon as she said it, he knew it was true.

“You made me have sex with you against my will?”

“…Yes.”

“What else would you call that?”

She was right, but she wasn’t right. It was hardly like grabbing someone by the hair on a village raid and dragging them behind a hut. It wasn’t the same at all. “But there was no violence,” he stammered. “You enjoyed it!”

Lowa sat quietly, letting him stew in the misery of realisation. She was right. It was just as bad as if he’d forced her against her will, because he had forced her against her will. The only difference was that he’d used magic instead of a knife point. It didn’t sound so bad in all the stories, but it was. “Love potions”, the bards called them.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I forgive you.” She was half smiling.

“But I…”

“It’s done, it’s over. Don’t tear yourself to bits about it. Just don’t do it again, and make sure you do a good job for me in Rome.”

“I will! I’ll do the best job. I’ll … leave no Rome unturned!”

“While you’re there, you might use some of that magic on your sense of humour.”

He looked at her. She seemed happy. Was he really forgiven? She was a wonderful woman. He couldn’t blame her for following Zadar’s orders, especially when it was her who had ended the tyrant’s rule. And how could he not forgive her when she forgave him so easily? He would do the best possible job for her in Rome, and when he came back he’d be older and wiser and very much his own man, and maybe she’d want him again? Although, after he’d met the women of Rome, would he still want her?

R
agnall put himself away, but continued to stare down at the pool he’d urinated into. A small shark broke the surface then flashed away. Three small rays flapped past like lazy birds. A spider crab, golden torchlight gleaming off its spiky red shell, picked its way delicately along the tank’s rocky floor.

“This is nothing!” A man arrived next to him, hoisted his purple-fringed toga and urinated with a stream that would have pleased a horse. “I take it you’ve never been to one of Licinius Lucullus’s parties?”

“I haven’t,” Ragnall replied, wondering where to look.

“Shame! The man is building some disgustingly eastern gardens in Rome – they’re going to be simply marvellous, they really are – but his horribly over-the-top showpiece is his villa at Naples. It’s not far from one of my places actually. He’s had thousands of his slave-johnnies rebuild Mount Athos to bring saltwater to a whole string of simply amazing lakes. They are enormous. They make this little piss pond of Caesar’s look like a rock pool. A bloody rock pool! Simply amazing. Although again, nastily Persian. Xerxes in a toga, someone was calling him the other day. Bit unfair, but he definitely has gone a smidgen native after his jaunts out east. Those boy-shagging desert-johnnies like their ridiculous gardens, but I doubt they have anything that comes close to Lucullus’s little inland sea. He had a dolphin when I was there, but I suspect he’s eaten it by now. Wonderful chef he has, wonderful.”