Bee Among the Clover (132 page)

Aron’s eyes blazed, any vestiges of respect falling from his face at the punch of pure anger in his gut. Aron gave Osric a mocking smile and made his voice insolent. “Not if they had any brains at all. Wulfgar would have their head.”

Osric threw back his head and laughed. “Wulfgar is deep in his cups with the king, and Roman knows better than to tell his lord of the way he whores himself.” The battle-lord’s eyes were sly, and there was a smirk on his lips. “I’ve noticed you haven’t spent your time watching our practice anymore. What is it that you do with your long hours? When you and the slave disappear?”

Pure fear stabbed Aron. Osric knew? If he knew, why hadn’t he told Wulfgar? His frantic mind raced, trying to come up with another reason for their absences. “I found someone better to teach me,” he said with arrogant scorn. His eyes darted to the side, looking to see if he could find a way around them or help from a passerby, but the other warriors had him surrounded, and nobody seemed inclined to be curious.

Somewhat to his surprise, a look of uncertainty flashed in Osric’s eyes before vanishing, replaced by such fury that Aron took an involuntary step backwards. “I’ve seen the way you look at him.” He half-turned and addressed the rest of the warriors. “I’m thinking the boy might like to help us have a bit of sport with the slave. Maybe he knows new ways of making him scream, eh?”

Every protective instinct Aron had rose up at the unsubtle threat to Roman. He cursed himself for leaving the tent without his darkling; he ought to have stayed inside, but the tension between them was so palpable these days that it had simply gotten to be too much, and he’d had to get away for a little while. Now he regretted it.

Aron’s voice was low, and he trembled with fury. “Roman might not tell Wulfgar if someone touched him, but rest assured, I would.”
Osric’s eyes narrowed. Then his lips curled in a silent snarl. “You, boy, are more stupid than you appear. I was offering you a chance to have a taste of the slave, but now I think you’ll just have to watch.” One large hand closed in a bruising grip on Aron’s arm, spinning him around and clamping his arm around Aron’s torso, locking his arms to his sides and lifting him straight off his feet. Osric’s laugh was mocking as Aron cursed and struggled. Terror for Roman was stronger than his own fear for himself as one of the other warriors mentioned that his tent was unoccupied. Osric clamped his free hand over Aron’s mouth, silencing his shouts.
Aron kicked and bit to no avail, finding himself half-carried and half-dragged to the empty tent. He needed to get away; he needed to warn Roman so he could hide until Wulfgar could be found. Osric cursed as Aron’s teeth bit hard into his hand and released him. Then Aron’s ears rung, black spots dancing before his eyes as he reeled back from the blow Osric dealt him.
“Tie him up while I go fetch our plaything.” There was a ruthless pleasure in Osric’s voice. “The thrall must care more than he lets on, eh? Or maybe he’s afraid for his own skin.”
Helpless, Aron watched as Osric ducked out of the tent, still struggling with the men who were binding his hands and feet so cruelly that the leather bit deep into his wrists. He knew that his shouts for help would do him no good now that he was out of sight. Everyone with authority was at the keep, and anyone else would not dare to question screams coming from a warrior’s tent.

R
OMAN sat cross-legged in front of the brazier, biting his upper lip and casting quick, nervous glances toward the tent flap. It was getting dark, and Aron should be returning, but he hadn’t seen any sign of him. He should’ve offered to go with him earlier, though in truth he had been so relieved for a break from his presence that he hadn’t said anything. He found it more difficult than he could have imagined watching Aron and knowing that he was the cause of his distress. He had been attempting to write until he gave it up as useless.

His eyes flew to the tent flap as it opened, relief quickly replaced with trepidation as Osric stepped inside. He scurried to his feet, the forgotten journal tumbling to the floor, and stepped back. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t care what the battle-lord wanted, he just needed him to leave, a trembling starting he could not contain as he was flooded with dark memories.

Osric gave him a dark smile, tsking under his breath. “The pretty little slave boy left all alone. I thought you were valuable, whore. It appears not.” The battle-lord took a step forward, his dangerous eyes glittering. He glanced at the bed, and Roman’s breath froze in his chest, remembering those nights when Osric had him screaming and sobbing. No matter how much Roman had begged, no matter how many tears he’d spent, it had never seemed enough to suit the battle-lord.

Osric had been sent to retrieve him after he ran away. And the battlelord had never forgotten his humiliation when Roman had disarmed and wounded him, nor the shame of having two warriors under his command killed by a slave. Roman was alone and unarmed now. He posed no threat. He’d learned long ago the punishment for raising his hand against the thane’s men was not worth the cost, but his submission to his enslavement wasn’t enough for the battle-lord. Osric ever sought new ways to humiliate and terrify him.

“I believe I have something you might be interested in, slave.” Osric’s smirk was dark. “Does the thrall scream as prettily as you?”
Roman’s eyes widened in horror; the thought of Aron with Osric made his stomach roil with nausea. Wulfgar wouldn’t be back to the tents for several more hours, and he suspected that the thane would be inebriated to the point of insensibility. Sweet Jesu. What could he do? “Os….” He trembled harder, his tongue flickering over his lips. He had to buy time. “Master….” It was all he could do to choke the word out. “Please, let him go.”
“I see you recall what I taught you, whore.” Osric grabbed a handful of Roman’s hair, giving it a cruel twist, and Roman gave him the response he knew the battle-lord wanted: a soft, sobbing whimper, which made Osric smirk. Roman stared up at him mutely, his breath coming in quick, frightened pants, dark memories battering his mind. Osric shoved Roman hard onto his knees, and the slave could see Osric’s arousal pressing against his trews, and he trembled harder. He could not begin to guess what Osric planned, but if it kept him from Aron, kept him from going through what he had…. Roman just prayed he had strength to survive. He could already sense the edges of his mind starting to unravel.
“You’re going to go with me, and maybe if you serve me well, I won’t have a use for Aron tonight. Grab your cloak. I don’t want you to catch a chill,” Osric said, his voice courteous, which made it all the more taunting.
Roman’s hands groped for his cloak. Why wasn’t Wulfgar ever there when he needed him? He tried desperately to think of a clue he could leave behind for the thane, though he probably wouldn’t find it in time to save them.
Roman dragged his cloak around his trembling shoulders and cried out when Osric grabbed his journal, reaching for it without thought.
Osric laughed and struck his hand away, tucking the journal under his arm. “I wonder if Wulfgar knows what secrets you keep in here, whore. I think he wouldn’t be too happy to know your real thoughts behind your soft smiles.”
Roman bit his lip hard, looking away, knowing he’d given the battlelord another weapon to use against him by showing he cared. He flinched when Osric gripped his arm hard enough to leave marks as he led him out of the tent and toward the outskirts of Wulfgar’s camp. Panic flooded through him when they left the boundaries and entered a neighboring one. Sweet Jesu, as if it weren’t dangerous enough, now there was no hope that another one of Wulfgar’s men would hear or see them and stop Osric, small a chance as it had been. As they passed through each new camp, moving further away from Wulfgar’s, from the keep and any semblance of safety, Roman’s terror grew.
Osric pulled him along, and he made no attempt to flee. The temptation to jerk away and run was overwhelming. The battle-lord thought him cowed; he wouldn’t expect it, and then he could alert Wulfgar. And tell him what? He didn’t know where Aron was being kept, so running would do no good. Finally, they stepped into another tent, and Osric ripped Roman’s cloak from him and tossed him forward. He stumbled and dropped down onto one knee. Osric chuckled, the sound chilling. “Don’t bother getting up, whore. Your knees are just where I want them.”
Roman’s eyes sought Aron’s, seeing the horror in them as Aron snarled in fury and jerked on the ropes binding him. Roman stayed where he was, his hands clenched hard in the folds of his tunic. Strangely, he was a little less afraid in Aron’s presence. It didn’t look as if Osric had touched him yet, besides roughing him up a little. He lowered his eyes to the ground, praying that Osric would let Aron go. Roman didn’t want him to witness what was going to happen. He couldn’t bear it. He bit his lip hard to keep from begging the battle-lord to free Aron. He knew how Osric’s mind worked, and he was not about to give him any more leverage against him.
Aron was hissing and spitting in his fury, struggling to get at Osric, who was smiling at the sight of Roman on his knees, his hair falling around his face. The fear and anguish he’d seen in his darkling’s eyes made his heart clench painfully.
The battle-lord smirked at the other warriors, nodding toward Aron. “He rises above himself, see that? The boy thinks he has rights to Roman’s fate as if he was the slave’s owner instead of another whore.” Osric chuckled wickedly. “Now, Roman here understands, don’t you, Roman?”
“Aye, Master,” Roman replied, his voice barely audible.
“Say it,” Osric growled.
“I’m a whore.”
“Are you going to let us all have a chance at them both, Osric?” another voice leered, its speech slurred with drink, and Roman swayed as if he were going to faint.
Aron snapped, snarling in absolute rage, eyes locked on Osric. “He doesn’t belong to you!”
Osric snorted in derision, his hand fisting in Roman’s hair, jerking his head back. His other hand came to the slave’s face, fingers brushing across his lips in an obscene caress. “He belongs to whoever has the strength to take him. Isn’t that right, whore?”
“Yes.”
Aron’s heart twisted in his chest when Roman agreed, his voice sounding strange and far away. His imagination tortured him, sending him images of what Osric was going to do to the slave next. Roman had never said exactly what had happened, and he’d never pressed him; now every single horrible suspicion came crashing down around him, and he couldn’t do anything to save his darkling, nothing but watch and struggle.
The battle-lord tossed something down in front of Roman, and Aron’s eyes widened when he saw Roman’s journal. At first he couldn’t understand why Osric brought it, unless he wanted to make Roman destroy it. Gods, no, not that. He had some inkling of how much it would hurt him.
“Pick it up,” Osric ordered, cruel laughter in his voice.
Roman obeyed, his hands trembling as he did, his head dropping lower so his face was completely obscured by the dark screen of his hair. Aron thought he’d snap from the tension as Osric and his companions traded jokes about the forlorn figure kneeling in front of them, clutching the leather-bound journal to him like a shield.
“Open it up, someplace toward the end.” Osric waited until Roman had done so. “Lift your head, I want to see your face, not have it hidden from me.”
“Stop it!” Aron shouted, going cold at how white Roman’s face was, how numb his eyes looked. One of the warriors cuffed him across the mouth and snapped at him to shut up.
Osric’s eyes were gleaming as he watched the slave. “Now read, whore. What traitorous thoughts do you keep in those pages?”
Aron had always been curious about what Roman spent his time scribbling about. But he didn’t want to find out in this manner. Two spots of color appeared on Roman’s cheeks, stark against his skin, the humiliation evident in his eyes. “Don’t do it, darkling,” he said softly, hoping the other man would find some courage within him to defy Osric.
Roman was mute. His eyes darted between the battle-lord and Aron, clutching the pages so hard his fingers ached. He hadn’t even glanced at the page to see what was written there. He didn’t have to; whatever it was, it was too much.
“I said shut your yap,” the other warrior snarled, hitting Aron again, and Roman cried out, swaying. He was going to be ill. No matter how his thoughts turned, he couldn’t find a way to free them.
“Read, Roman,” Osric said. “I’ll have Aethlyn carve a strip into the thrall with every moment you make me wait.”
Roman bit his lip, tasting blood, and dropped his eyes to the script in front of him, his heart lurching violently.
I know not what Aron did to me. I have tried to pretend that what happened between us was just a passing thing, a natural occurrence considering we share the thane’s bed, yet I know I lie. Because it is not his kisses I crave, nor his touch. It’s watching his eyes when he’s laughing, the way he won’t call me Roman, how he seems to want to know who I really am instead of the identity I have made for myself. I wish I could share it, only I cannot, because he is only here for a time, and when he leaves, I cannot let him go with the one part of me remaining to myself.
“Stay away from me, bastard.” The sound of Aron’s roar of fury cut through Roman’s daze, and his eyes snapped up to see Aethlyn drawing out his dagger and moving toward Aron as he fought his bonds.
“No, wait,” Roman cried. “I’ll do it.” He looked back unseeing at the page, his voice trembling and halting as he spoke. “Preparations for the trip to King Eadric’s keep have been halted for the day.” Roman’s mind whirled as he improvised on the spot, trying to remember enough details to make it convincing. “There was a dispute in the village, and Wulfgar took me along while he listened to the….”
Sudden pain flared in his jaw, and Roman gasped, falling off balance as Osric backhanded him. “You lie, slave,” the battle-lord hissed, his beady eyes livid, and Roman’s gut clenched in terror. He wanted to glance at Aron, but he didn’t dare look away. What if Osric took it out on him instead?
Roman dug his hands into his thighs, fighting the instinct to protect himself as Osric struck him again, praying the battle-lord’s attention stayed on him. He whimpered, casting his eyes down. “No, Master, I know better than to lie to you.” He couldn’t stop the paralyzing thought that Osric was going to make him tell what was really written on the pages. He could do it. It was only a matter of time. Again his awareness started slipping away to that other place.
“We’ll see if you still say the same after I’ve stripped the hide from you,” Osric snarled.
“No,” Aron broke in, and Roman cut his eyes toward him, silently begging him to be quiet. Aron couldn’t obey that plea, however. “Is this how you show your strength, Osric?” he sneered as the battle-lord’s eyes jerked from Roman to him. “By striking him when you know he dares not defend himself? Show your cronies here you have the strength to take him as you claim. Give him permission to fight back. Or let me go and I’ll do the fighting for him.”
Osric glared at him. “You overstep yourself, boy.”
Aron held his breath, gambling that the battle-lord couldn’t just ignore his challenge. It would make him appear weak in front of the other men, and Osric would not allow that to happen.
“Very well, it’ll add a good deal of pleasure to the conquest. You have permission to fight me, slave, should you choose to bear the consequences of forcing my hand.” Osric smirked, obviously considering the trembling slave no threat at all. Roman’s eyes closed as the men gathered around him. Aron’s heart pounded faster in horror. Roman wouldn’t be able to fight off six men weaponless, no matter how inebriated they were. Osric hauled Roman to his feet, and the slave whimpered, cringing back from the blow that knocked him to his knees again.
“Please….”
Aron roared, struggling so hard that the leather bonds cut into his skin and he felt the warm trickle of blood on his wrists. Why wasn’t Roman fighting back? Instead, he let himself be dragged back up while the others took turns cuffing him, knocking him back down. And all the slave did was beg in that pathetic, small voice, his eyes shut, a trickle of blood coming from a split lip. Aron realized that Roman wasn’t going to do anything but let it happen, and he didn’t know whom he was more infuriated with.
“Fucking arses. Fight me,” Aron screamed, every muscle in his body tense with the need to do something, grunting as one of the other warriors kicked him hard in his ribs, knocking him over. He didn’t care. If they let him go, he was going to kill every single last one of them, even if it meant he would hang for it.
“See, whore,” Osric said to him, picking Roman back up again. “He has no fight left in him. I destroyed that a long time ago.” There was deep pride in his voice as he smirked at the furious thrall.
“Bah, he’s no fun,” one of the other warriors replied, turning toward Aron. “I bet he has a little sport left in him.”
Something snapped inside of Roman as they turned from him to threaten Aron, and he darted to the side, snatching the dagger from the warrior’s belt quick as an adder. He fisted his hand hard in thick brown hair, yanking his head back. The point of the dagger pressed hard enough against the warrior’s skin to pierce it. Not Aron. They could do whatever they wanted with him. Not Aron. Roman whimpered, fighting off the insanity that threatened him. He was so tempted to slit the warrior’s throat and let the others kill him in repayment. No, no, no. He needed to get away. He could bring Wulfgar then, and the thane could save Aron. He started backing away toward the tent flap, hissing in fury as another tried to flank him, the dagger point digging deeper into the warrior’s throat.
Osric was staring at him incredulously; then his expression twisted into a wrathful glower. He took a threatening step toward Roman, pausing when he hissed again, letting the dagger draw a thin trickle of blood from the warrior’s neck.
“What are you going to do, whore? Kill Aethlyn? You’re already going to hang for this and you know it,” Osric sneered, taking another half step closer. “Let him go and take your punishment or the thrall will take it for you.”
Roman shook his head, eyes darting between Osric and the others, finally landing on Aron, who was frozen and staring at him. He whimpered and gave Aron a pleading, desperate look before shoving the warrior away and bolting from the tent. He ran back toward Wulfgar’s camp and the king’s hall, praying, sobbing, the cold biting him, stinging the tears on his cheeks. Aid was so far away. Sweet Jesu, Jesu, please let him be quick enough.
Osric darted out of the tent, but when he returned a few moments later, he was alone. Aron sagged in relief. Roman had gotten away. A cruel smile twisted the battle-lord’s lips as his hard eyes fixed on Aron.
The battle-lord stalked forward and grabbed a handful of Aron’s hair, wrenching his head back to glare down at him. “The slave might be spared for now, boy, but we still have you. And I think you’re going to provide every bit as much entertainment as Roman could.” He backhanded Aron hard, and he felt his lower lip split from the force.
Aron clenched his jaw to keep from crying out, eyes narrowed as he met Osric’s gaze glare for glare. He held no illusions that he would be rescued. Roman would get to safety, and that was what mattered. He could take what these bastards wanted to inflict on him. And then he’d kill them all. One by one.
The warrior Roman had attacked stepped forward, touching the side of his neck where the cut was still slightly bleeding, fury on his face and shame in his eyes. “Between the two of them they tried playing us for fools, Osric. Go ahead and kill him. I’ll pay half the weregild.”