Chapter 24
I made to shrug free of the grasp, but the iron grip held firm. I glanced around to see the pompous smirk of the young warrior I had encountered the night before: Cuno, the king’s son.
Gnaeus turned from exchanging a few last words with King Ederyn and moved to his wagon—pausing when he saw the warrior holding me firmly in place. He raised his eyebrows in question. Before he could ask what was happening, Cuno spoke up. “How much for the girl?”
Gnaeus glanced at Ederyn who only gazed benignly on. “I don’t follow.”
“The girl,” Cuno repeated, giving me a little shake. “I’ll take her. How much do you want for her?”
I expected Gnaeus to laugh off the suggestion as the mistake it surely was, but his response should not have shocked me as it did. He was a trader, after all. “Well,” he said, rubbing his stubbly jaw as he regarded me with casual calculation, “she’s young and able. A good cook. A virgin, I suppose. What’s she worth to you?”
By way of reply Cuno put his free hand into the pouch at his belt, fished around in it and brought out a narrow gold bracelet. I recognized this as a form of currency sometimes used in the remote rural regions where minted coin does not flow so readily. He hefted the thin gold band in his hand, judging the weight, then broke it in two and handed half to Gnaeus, who took it and examined it closely.
Gnaeus nodded and, eyeing the other half made a beckoning gesture indicating he wanted that portion, too. Cuno shook his head. Gnaeus, blast him, shrugged, accepted the trade. He looked at the half bracelet and then at me and nodded once. “Take her. She’s yours.”
Did I hear that aright? Did he just say what I thought I heard him say?
My mind spun. Suddenly dizzy, I nearly swooned. My mind shrieked: He sold me! The filthy, lying bastard sold me!
If I could not believe what I had heard, I did believe my eyes—for Gnaeus merely stuffed the gold into his belt and, without so much as a guilty glance in my direction, turned and climbed up into the wagon.
Dazed, I stared stunned silence as the other traders, leering and chuckling, clambered into the wagons and, with a flick of the traces, one after another started off.
“Wait!” I shouted, darting forth. “You can’t—”
Strong hands seized my arms and pulled me back. “Stay!” the word came hot in my ear. “I bought you. You’re mine.”
“Gnaeus!” I shouted. “Wait!” Again and again, I called after him. But he did not so much as look my way. “Devil take you!” I spat.
Some of the warriors standing nearby laughed and one or two slapped Cuno on the back in rude appreciation of his audacity. Servants appeared just then, leading five horses. Ederyn said a few words to his son and then went to his horse and mounted to the saddle. Four other warriors joined him, and they prepared to ride away.
“You serve me now, girl.” Cunomor snarled; he turned and pulled me roughly with him. “Hearth hound I may be, but I am your lord and master. Don’t you forget that.”
Almost yanked off my feet as I was pulled away, I glanced around at the wagons with their warrior escort trundling slowly away, taking my freedom with them. Then I was marched back into the villa to begin my servitude.
Inside the walls, I was thrust into the hands the chief steward—the old gray hair with the stick. He took me aside to explain the workings of Ederyn’s household, the duties of the various servants and what would be expected of me. I tried to pay heed. Truly, I did. But inside I was so enraged and raging against my unjust fate, that I could nowise take in anything he said.
Gnaeus sold me! How could he do that? How could anyone do that? He promised to watch over me. He stole my purse and then sold me—and not even two gold bands! Traitor! The Devil take him! May he rot in Hell forever!
Such were my thoughts. If I could have set fire to Gnaeus and all the goods in his wagon right then, I would have. I would happily have struck the flame and sent him to face the judgement he so richly deserved.
“I am Nonus,” the old servant was saying. “What is your name, eh? Do you have one?”
I came to myself and had to think what he was asking.
“If not,” he shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. . . .”
“What?” I touched my ear and shook my head. “I do not hear well. You will need to speak up and let me see your lips when you address me.”
“Did your former master—” he began.
“I am neither slave nor bondmaid,” I declared, my temper flaring up once more. “I am the daughter of the Tullius Paulinus, Magistrate of Venta Silurum. My name is Aurelia and what happened out on the road just now is an injustice that will not stand.”
This put old Nonus back on his heels. He looked around as if expecting aid to come to him from some distant quarter. But there was none to be found—for either of us, it seemed. He knit his old gnarled hands together and pursed his wrinkled lips while giving me a slightly wary gaze of appraisal. Finally, he said, “I do not know what happened out there . . .” He flapped a hand vaguely in the direction of the front gate. “But I do know that if a mistake has been made as you say, then the mistake, however unfortunate, will stand. I have served this family long enough to know that nothing good will come of trying to change it now.”
“How can that be so?” I demanded. “I must speak to your lord at once.”
“Ederyn has departed.”
“Departed . . .” My heart sank. That, at least, was true. I had seen him ride off in escort of Gnaeus and the other merchants.
“ . . . going to Mamucium, I believe,” the chief steward was saying. “He will not return for some days and has left his son to rule in his stead. If you would speak to someone, it must be Cunomor.”
“He’s the one who bought me!” I snapped, my voice rising. “Cunomor is a low, scheming rogue.”
The elderly servant gave me a sympathetic look, then shrugged. “There is no one else.”
In that moment, I realized just how gullible I had been—accepting the lies of Gnaeus. That pig muck merchant probably never had any attention of making good on his promises to return my money and set me free. He sold me at first opportunity and never looked back. My one great fear had come to pass: I had fallen into a nest of vipers.
Ignoring my tears, Nonus endeavored to move me past this awful truth. “Come, I will take you to the kitchen where you can get something to eat,” he said—though, still shocked and fuming, I only half heard. “Then I’ll have Lydia give you something to do.”
He led me away and, attempting distraction, told me a little about his life. A sympathetic fellow, as it turned out, Nonus explained that he had joined the service of Ederyn’s father, the illustrious Padarn Beisrudd—old Red Robe himself. The faithful servant had remained with the family after his term of service had been repaid and, since the life of a servant was the only life he had ever known, he served them still as chief steward of the house. “Worry not,” he told me kindly. “You will learn to live with them in time.”
I was not worried in the least, because I did not intend to live with them any length of time whatsoever. I would not stay in that place so much as a single day. This I vowed and swore and oath on my father’s life: before the sun rose again, I would be gone.
Nonus delivered me to the kitchen and told those working there that I was a new bondmaid, purchased by Cunomor to join them, and he suggested that I might begin by serving in the cookhouse and at table until other work could be found. Of course, it infuriated me no end to stand there and pretend to be what I was not, but it was no use protesting to the other servants. What was the point? At best, any moaning or complaining on my part would only annoy them, and at worst turn them against me.
No, I decided, my best course would be to accept whatever I could get by way of food and drink and calmly bide my time until nightfall. If I could but hold my peace until then, I would count that a victory.
Thus, I was put to work in the cookhouse doing various little chores: chopping things, stirring things, carrying things from place to place. The other servants—two older women and two younger—showed but little interest or curiosity in me and I was happy with that. Since I did not plan to see any of them again after tonight, it was all the same to me.
Cunomor and most of his men had been out hunting all day and they returned hungry and, of course, thirsty. Their efforts had been successful: two large boars were hauled to the yard behind the cookhouse and left there to be hung and skinned for roasting in a few days’ time. The dogs were rewarded with the viscera and entrails of the kill which they rolled in, fought over, and snaffled down in the most abhorrent display imaginable. Like their masters, they were uncouth beasts.
The triumphant hunters herded into the hall, clamoring for beer as they replaced their weapons on the wall and took their places at the board. The older servants rushed to fetch the drink and vessels; myself and one of the other servants—a young woman with the long fair braids of the Saecsen folk—were given the task of serving at table.
While not an onerous chore, it might even have been somewhat pleasant—if not for the boorish men. True, they were all young fellows in robust good health and full of the high spirits following a good hunt. Even so, I find it hard to believe that this gave them full warrant to indulge what our blessed Tomos so often called “the baser animal instincts”—those low, crude, vulgar behaviors some folk so readily embrace in the mistaken belief that it makes them somehow appealing. And, judging from those loutish lads gathered around the long table, those baser instincts were low, crude, and vulgar indeed!
It is not my place to judge them, I know. There is a righteous judge on high who marks well enough their failings; he does not need me to point them out. Nevertheless, it seems I failed to keep my innate disgust sufficiently disguised. I expect my efforts might have been more strenuous in this regard, but my disdain must have shown plainly on my face, for I had but made one circuit of the board with my jar of mead when a hand snaked out from one I had just served and snagged me by the arm as I turned away. I glanced down as a leering mouth inquired, “Who are you?”
With the chatter and clatter of voices in the lively room, I was not certain I had heard. I gazed at the dark-haired, young warrior on the bench before me and waited for him to repeat the question. He declined, and shouted. “I asked you a question, bitch!”
I looked around innocently. “Are you talking to me?”
“I don’t see anyone else.”
“As you used the word bitch just now, I assumed you were speaking to one of the dogs.”
The fellow sitting next to him heard what had passed and laughed out loud, giving his companion a nudge. “Ha! She’s got you there, Turon!” Across the table, another piped up, “Bettered by a bondmaid.” And he nudged the one next to him and repeated the exchange, and soon others were laughing, too. “What do you say to that, Turon?”
This merriment at his expense beggared churlish Turon’s slender means of composure. His face grew red and his neck bulged. He tightened his grip on my arm and squeezed hard. I tried to pull free, but he held tight and came up out of his seat.
“Bitch!” he sneered, raising his other hand to strike. I cringed away from the coming blow and the mead jar slipped from my hands and shattered on the stone floor. “Now look what you’ve done!” he raged.
He let fly with an open hand. I flinched and he caught me a glancing blow on the jaw below my cheek. This angered him more, so he reared back to strike again—a fist this time.
His fist swung down and . . . stopped. Hanging there in mid-air. Cunomor standing behind him, gripping the offending arm in his fist. “Sit down, Turon,” he said, his voice tight. “You’ve made your point.”
“Did you hear what that slut said to me?” whined Turon.
“I heard enough,” Cunomor said. “Sit down and drink your mead.”
Turon fell into his chair. “She has to be put in her place.”
“She is mine to deal with as I see fit,” Cunomor declared. To those looking on, he said, “Did you hear? The girl is mine to deal with. Touch her and you answer to me.” Turning to me, he pointed at the broken jar and spilled mead on the floor. “Go and fetch another jar, and clean up the mess.”
I lowered my eyes and hurried from the room, burning with rage, indignity, and anger, my cheek throbbing from the blow. Back in the cookhouse I paused to catch my breath and scrape together what little dignity I had left, if any.
Another jar was poured and put into my hands. With a nod and a gesture, I was pushed back into the hall to resume my duties. Though I did my best to pretend that nothing had happened, I could sense the snickers, the sideways glances and sly nudges as I moved around the board filling cups and bowls. No one spoke to me again. I expect no one dared make another remark.
When the food was ready my fellow serving maid and I put out the platters and saw to it that they remained filled. Gradually, the board emptied as the warriors quit the table and, hunger satisfied, went in search of other amusements. Cunomor was among the last to leave and when he finally rose, those with him rose, too, and started for the door. Cunomor came to where we were clearing the remains and said, “You gave good service tonight.” He gave me a wolfish grin and said, “Let’s see what other services you can perform, girl. Come to my chamber when you finish. You will spend the night with me.”
I stiffened, a platter half-way off the table.
“Did you hear?” he said, and repeated the command more loudly. “You sleep with me tonight.”
There came a call from the doorway and Cunomor turned and followed his men out. I stood motionless, my heart pounding. I knew what lay before me and I did not see any way to escape. My serving companion saw how stricken I was and, reaching out, put a warm hand on my arm. “Sometimes they give you presents,” she said, trying to soften the blow. “It isn’t so bad.”
“To me it is,” I replied, my voice cracking. “To me it is.”