To Burn (30 page)

"You told Cenred, of course," she said.

"Yes, and things have not been the same."

"I would think not. He is now to be a father. And a husband."

Yes, the blade was wondrously sharp, as was her anger.

"He—" She cried, dabbing at her face with her stola. "He has not offered for me."

"He will." Melania smiled coldly. "You stay here in the kitchen and keep the door closed. If any of the Saxon vermin enter, start screaming."

When she left the kitchen, with the door closed firmly behind her, Melania had the happy task of finding Cenred. She couldn't wait; she had a nice, smoldering anger and he was going to feel its heat. It would be entirely deserved. What did he think he was doing to leave Dorcas, who plainly adored him, in the grasp of his littermates? Did he not have any care for her at all? If not, he should never have bedded her. He should have exercised a little civilized self-control, though how a savage could do anything tinged with civilization was a mystery. Still, he should have attempted it.

She marched across the courtyard, her stola flapping violently against her legs. The sun struggled against the thick clouds that all but blanketed the sky. It was an autumn sky; summer was almost a memory.

It was truly past time for the Saxons to go.

Crossing under the portico, she entered the triclinium. It was seething with Saxon bodies. Melania paused in the doorway, scanning the room, looking for one particular Saxon: a Saxon with red hair and silver on his wrists. And she was looking for Cenred. Unfortunately, she found neither.

The Saxon warriors rose up around her like a flood, but it was not in respect. The motion was predatory. Melania clutched her knife and faced them, uncertain of their actions, but knowing their intent. They hated her.

She hated them.

It was a fair balance, except for one thing: she was outnumbered.

"What do you want here, Roman?" one of them asked in a snarl. He had light brown hair and pale blue eyes and food embedded between his teeth.
Revolting.

"What do I want?" she blazed. "In my own home? In my own triclinium? Perhaps I want you out. Perhaps I want you to return to the sty you normally habituate and to take your fleas with you! Yes," she said with a return snarl, "that is exactly what I want."

Of course, she had reverted to Latin in her rage, so he understood none of it. But he understood her intent and that was enough.

"Do you want to feel my hand between your thighs?" another one said, edging close to her.

In answer, she raised her knife meaningfully, her eyes communicating the seriousness of her intent.

"No?" he said. "Then perhaps it is my blade against your breast you ask for. I will cut you slowly so that I may enjoy you as your blood runs out."

Melania backed toward the arched doorway to the portico. She was no coward, but she was outnumbered and they were closing on her, like wolves on a stag. She had but one knife. One knife would not go far against so many.

"You speak of thighs and breasts and knives to the wife of Wulfred?" came a deep voice from behind her, a voice she knew. She looked over her shoulder to see Cynric holding his seax. She had never known him to look so good. "You are thirsty for death, it seems."

"You are a fool," Cuthred said simply.

She looked again. Now they all stood behind her, fanned out and holding weapons: Wulfred's comitatus, defending her against their own.

"I am no fool if I kill a Roman when I find one," a Saxon with white-blond hair said.

"Wulfred has claimed her. She is under his protection. She is his wife. Think on that before you bray about killing," Cynric said coldly.

"And she has you to protect her?" one asked.

"Of course," Cynric said. "We are pledged to Wulfred. Wulfred is pledged to her."

"By the gods, Cynric," the first said, "you protect a Roman against your own?"

"She is wife to Wulfred. That is all I see," Balduff said.

Ceolmund had edged in front of her, blocking her vision, but protecting her from them. Cenred stood behind. Wulfred's comitatus bristled with weapons and they brandished them in her defense. Against their own. Humiliating tears of thankfulness built up in her eyes so forcefully that it was a struggle to blink them away; she would show no such weakness as tears to any Saxon.

Balduff's remark was the excuse they needed to retreat, and Hensa's men took it.

"Ho, Balduff," she heard, "I knew you would see a woman as a woman only."

"And why not? There is no race between warm thighs and round breasts," Balduff answered pleasantly, still holding his weapon.

"But when did you start marking the difference between women and wives? You have never done that before."

"Since Wulfred took a wife," he huffed. "I have my loyalty."

"I thought your first loyalty was to the little warrior between your legs—"

"You ox, Cynfrid," Baldruff roared good-naturedly. "My warrior is a giant. Do not judge me by your own stunted standards."

Slowly, gradually, the confrontation ended. The Saxons, bickering in their typically vulgar fashion, drifted back into the triclinium. Ceolmund and Cynric stayed with her, moving her like a dumb animal out into the courtyard. They obviously didn't want to take any chances with the changeable mood of the mob, but she had something to say to Cenred; Cenred would not disappear into the triclinium to drink her beer with his unwashed brethren.

"Cenred!" she said firmly. "Do not think to slink away with your brother wolves!"

He stopped and turned to look at her over his bare shoulder. What was wrong with these Saxons that they went about nearly naked day upon day? If he had been clothed, perhaps Dorcas would not have become enamored of him and had her heart bruised. But then again, perhaps not. Clothing, or lack of it, seemed to have little to do with the
at
traction Dorcas felt for him. The ignorant lout— did he not have even the slightest feeling for her?

"Do you call me back to thank me, Melania?"

"You
are
a fool, aren't you?" she spat, angry that he might be correct. Gratitude for their interference was probably in order. But to thank a Saxon? She couldn't do it; besides, they had defended her because of Wulfred, not because of her. Wulfred should thank them.

"You're welcome." He smiled, turning again to go.

"And do you thank Dorcas when you pleasure yourself on her? Or is it the men you claim brotherhood with who get your thanks... when they assault her?"
There.
That stopped him.

Cenred turned and faced her fully, his warm brown eyes suddenly stormy. Ceolmund had not left her side, and Cynric, although distancing himself, remained near. She did not care if she had an audience. Cenred would do the right thing, or... well, she still held the knife.

"What did you say?" Cenred asked, his voice low and tight.

"I said," she said clearly, "that Dorcas has been threatened with rape by the men you run with. The woman who carries your child. Is that clear enough for you? Of course, since you practically raped her yourself, you might not object if more of you Saxons avail yourselves of her body. Still, she does carry your child, and such rough work might dislodge the babe. I don't suppose you care. But whether you care or not, you will marry her, Cenred." Holding up her blade so that it pointed at his throat, she added, "I'll even supply the matrimonial knife."

Cenred hardly heard her. His face was a mask of astonishment and fury.

"But why? Why Dorcas?"

"Why not?" she returned bluntly, pleased to see the fury building behind his eyes. "Did you not use her in the same way? And are you not all Saxons? She has no husband to protect her, Cenred. What do you think will happen to her every time a band of barbarians decides to descend upon us? Will they leave her untouched because you have been there first?"

He answered none of her biting questions. He hardly could. Melania smiled her pleasure.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"She is in the kitchen, waiting for a proposal of marriage."

After watching him walk toward the kitchen to assure herself that he wasn't going to miss it or become waylaid, Melania turned to Cynric. For a man who had just defended her, he looked less than pleasant.
Poor Cynric.
That must have been hard duty, defending a Roman for the sake of honor. Melania caught her breath at the direction of her thoughts—again, this notion of honor. Saxon honor. Where had she acquired such aberrant thinking?

"Cynric?" she asked. "Where is he?"

Cynric hesitated. Perhaps he thought that Wulfred had disappeared to escape her. Perhaps he had. Still, he would be found. She wanted to talk to him about the matter of Dorcas and Cenred. It was a good excuse.

"I'll leave the knife with you, if that's what worries you," she chided, trying to shame him.

"He is on the rock that overlooks this place. Take the knife, if it suits you," he said, turning from her. Apparently he was unshamed.

Glad for a destination, Melania left the villa courtyard and Cynric and all others behind as she climbed the hill to the rock. Ceolmund was not left behind, however. He stayed with her, at a discreet distance, obviously having decided that she needed a personal guard of sorts. After her experience in the triclinium, she was disinclined to walk alone.

Wulfred sat on the large, flat rock wedged into the hillside like a king on his throne surveying his holdings—in this case, her villa. The sun had overcome the heavy bank of gray clouds for the moment and shone down on the hillside in golden splendor, shimmering on rain-covered leaves and sparkling in puddles. Below, the valley remained in shadow under the advancing cloud front.

Wulfred did not welcome her by gesture or word. Melania was highly aggravated. Had he not held her in his arms all night? Had he not kissed her so passionately her lips were all but seared? Had he not claimed to be her husband?

Had he not disappeared, effectively avoiding her?

"If you had bothered to stay within the walls of the villa, you would be aware that those animals you call allies assaulted Dorcas this morning." When he did not react except to look up at her as she glared down at him, she added, "And when I went to condemn them for it, they all but attacked me!"

Again he said nothing, merely looked toward Ceolmund, who confirmed her words with a slow nod.

"And now I have... strongly advised Cenred to do the decent thing and marry the girl he impregnated so casually, and I want you to add your voice to mine. He is your man and should do as you tell him. Cenred must marry Dorcas!"

Wulfred looked up into her face for a moment longer and then, saying nothing, looked out over the valley again. How could he act with such blatant superiority when she was standing over him?

"Did you hear me?" she snapped.

"Of course, who does not hear Melania when she speaks?" he said with a chuckle. "But I know you did not climb this slippery hill to talk to me about Cenred. Or about Dorcas."

"What are you babbling about? Of course I did. Why else—"

He turned to look at her, and the sun lit his hair to molten gold and his eyes to lapis. "I think you wanted to find me. I think you wanted to be with me." Turning away again, he added, "I thought you more direct."

How had he known? Regardless, she would never admit it. She could hardly admit it to herself.

"Direct?" she countered. "Wasn't it you who always accused me of being devious? Are you so ignorant that you do not understand that the two words are in direct opposition?"

"You have always been very direct... in your deviousness." He smiled.

Now he was amused. He was not going to be amused at her expense.

"You are a complete oaf. Do you know that?" she said in a soft snarl.

"I've been told," he said just as softly, looking at her over his shoulder. Which, of course, was as bare as the day he was born. And rippling with muscle in the strong sunlight, And gleaming gold in color. And...

"I can read it in your eyes, you know," he said, his voice low and throbbing. Just as she was throbbing.

"What?" She licked her lips, distracted.

"Your desire, Melania. It's as blatant as a fire in the night. And just as beckoning."

"This is... hardly polite conversation," she said.

Wulfred smiled slowly. He reached for her hand and held it to his mouth. Gently he traced the line of her veins with his tongue. She couldn't even think to pull her hand away.

"When have I ever been polite?"

Never. He had never been polite.

Was it important?

"Wulfred."

Who had said that? Oh, Ceolmund. Melania pulled her hand away and rubbed it, but his touch would not leave her.

Wulfred stood, placing her just behind him while keeping her in view. Saxons, strange Saxons, were coming out of the trees behind them.

One of them had red hair and silver bracelets.

Melania stepped forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Wulfred while Ceolmund closed the distance he had left between them. Wulfred pushed her firmly behind him; the expression on his face kept her there. Three Saxons walked through the brush. Melania rubbed her hand on the hilt of the knife, thankful she had kept it.

"Ho, Wulfred," Red Hair saluted. "Ho, Ceolmund."

"Does not my wife deserve a greeting, Sigred?" Wulfred asked coldly.

Sigred smiled tolerantly and saluted Melania, Roman fashion. "Hail, Roman."

"You seem preoccupied with her origins." Wulfred smiled in return. "She is my wife. She is Saxon now."

Under different circumstances, Melania would have howled her objections to that statement. Now she held her tongue—nearly bit it off.

"If you say so—"

"I do," Wulfred interrupted.

"What are you doing up here?" Sigred asked, changing the subject, coming to the point. "Your people are below in fellowship. Why do you seek to be alone?"

"I am not alone," Wulfred said. "Or have you no eyes to see?" He gestured to both Melania and Ceolmund.

"But they have just come," one of the others said.

"Yes,"—Wulfred eyed him coolly—"and you would know that only if you had been in the triclinium, while my wife was there. Was Walfric there, Ceolmund?"