Bee Among the Clover (139 page)

P
ANIC swirled, threatening to take over as Roman flewswirled, threatening to take over as Roman flew toward the hall,
dodging warriors and tents and raucous drunken celebration. He was
focused on one thing and one thing only, getting to Wulfgar. Wulfgar
could stop this. He had to. Jesu, please.
All custom, manners, and propriety forgotten, Roman ducked and avoided the guards protecting the hall’s entrance, glad for his slight size
and speed as he scrambled past them and skidded to a halt just inside. His
eyes scanned the crowded hall for Wulfgar, a broken sob escaping when at
first he could not spot him.
Hard, rough hands caught his upper arms, and Roman screamed, snapping at the threat as the guards caught up with him, no doubt
believing him mad and a danger to the nobility inside the hall. He
screamed Wulfgar’s name, kicking as the guards began dragging him back. He had never in his entire existence been more grateful to see the
thane than when he stepped through the crowd. The thane stalked forward
and snatched Roman from the guards, his icy gray eyes hard down on him.
“What the bloody….” His voice cut off when Roman lifted his face, and he was too panicked to realize what a sight he made with his battered
visage, bruises forming, blood dried on his cut and swollen lips, tears and
terror in his eyes. “By the gods, Roman, what’s happened?”
Roman trembled violently, clinging to him, pleading. “Aron… they have him… Wulfgar, please, they’re… going to kill him….” He rushed
the words out between sobbing pants for breath. He shuddered in horrific
denial at the thought of what was probably happening to Aron that very moment, whimpering. “Osric and the others….”
Wulfgar’s jaw clenched, and his eyes Meeting Roman’s frantic, terrified
eyes, his commanding, and even in his near-mindless state, the slave responded to
the tone. “Take me to them, Roman. Now.”
hardened even further.
voice became firm and
Roman drew in a deep breath, trying to gather himself together, and nodded. Wulfgar would take care of everything. The thane was the one person Osric feared. Turning, he hurried out into the snow and wind again, darting ahead toward the camp, pausing occasionally to let Wulfgar catch up and noting that Brandr had followed. He tried to judge how many minutes it had taken him to get to Wulfgar and how long it would take to get back. He prayed that Osric chose to stay true to form and that it hadn’t gotten too bad yet. The battle-lord liked to drag things out, and that meant starting slow.
Jesu, please don’t let them move Aron before we get there
, Roman prayed, a wave of terror washing over him at the thought that they might not be able to find him.
Roman could hear the screams before they reached the tent, and his blood ran cold. He froze and swayed as a wave of memory washed over him. He knew better than anyone what Osric was capable of doing to drag screams like that from a person. That was Aron screaming like that. Because of him. For a second Roman could not move, and then Brandr had his arm and was pulling him along with him.
Roman trembled from fear rather than the cold, keeping behind Wulfgar as the thane stalked toward the tent and flung back the flap. The screams abruptly stopped, and instead, pained, sobbing whimpers filled the air. Roman dared to peek around Wulfgar, nausea rising in his throat at the sight of Aron. The warriors had pulled back the carpets to bind Aron on the frozen ground, his body marked nearly head to toe with lash marks. Blood stained his bruised flesh where some welts had overlapped and broken open.
Roman bit his lip hard and resisted the urge to run to him. Instead, he stayed where he was. Wulfgar would handle it, and far better than Roman ever could. The thane stalked forward, snatching the leather strap from the warrior’s hand, and tears flooded Roman’s eyes at the confused, dazed look in Aron’s pain-shrouded eyes. He didn’t appear to understand what was going on, and Roman trembled in fear for him.
Aron’s eyes shifted, landing on first Brandr; then Roman was pinned by the murky, blue gaze. He wanted to look away, shame filling him, but he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from Aron’s.
“Darkling….” Aron’s voice was thin and rough, but Roman heard him like a battle-cry shouted in his ear, flinching. Guilt tore at him, and he shook his head slightly. He wanted to beg Aron’s forgiveness, but now was not the time.
Roman hovered near the tent flap, insides clamoring at him to go to Aron, free him, but it was not his place. This was his fault. If he had only obeyed Osric, if he had not abandoned Aron, he would not have been so ill used. Osric was obsessed with him, not Aron. Roman did not even want to imagine what sort of punishment he would receive for such a thing, but he knew he would deserve it. He would welcome it, in fact.
“Roman, fetch your cloak and cut the boy loose,” Wulfgar said, his voice startling the slave from his guilt-ridden daze. Roman nodded once and scurried around Brandr to drop to his knees beside Aron, not meeting his eyes as he worked to untie the bonds. He must have made a sound of frustration, because before he could ask, Wulfgar was holding out his belt knife to him, and Roman took it gratefully.
“Osric, I trust you have a good reason for this.” Roman glanced up when the thane spoke. His tone indicated that he found it unlikely.
“They attacked us, my lord,” Osric replied, heat in his voice. “Look at Aethlyn’s throat. Roman took a knife to him.”
Roman blanched, meeting Wulfgar’s gaze for an instant before ducking his head and resuming work on freeing Aron. A slave attacking a free man, let alone a warrior, was a crime punishable by death, but he did not regret it. He wished he’d killed the man, would do it again. He only wished he’d been able to get help quicker, his heart aching at the multitude of injuries on Aron. Roman cut the rest of the bonds away, making a sound of distress when he saw how deep the cuts were on his wrists and ankles. Aron might scar if they weren’t properly taken care of.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Aron spoke up. “You lie,” he croaked, fury and pain in voice. “He lies, my lord. He took us both, Roman from your tents, and he gave permission for Roman to fight back.” Roman’s eyes widened, and he could only stare at Aron. How could he defend him, after what had happened? “You have to believe me!”
Tears started in Roman’s eyes as Aron spoke up for him. He didn’t deserve it. He gathered up his cloak and Aron’s as well, swathing them both around Aron as best as he could to stave off the shivers that racked him.
“Surely you aren’t going to take the word of a thrall before ours,” Aethlyn spat. “I tell you, he was flaunting himself,” he continued, pointing toward Aron. “They asked for what they got and more. I demand justice, my lord.”
Wulfgar held up his hand to forestall any further discussion. “Meet me tomorrow with the lords each of you is bound to. Osric, you’ll present yourself at my tent first thing in the morn.” Saying nothing more, the thane knelt down next to Aron and gathered him up in his arms. Sorrow struck Roman deeply as Aron cried out.
Roman trembled, staying close to Wulfgar as the thane lifted Aron, not daring a glance back at the group of battle-lords as he followed Wulfgar from the tent. At the entrance, he paused, catching sight of his journal lying forgotten on the ground. He bent to scoop it up and scurried after Wulfgar, clutching it to his chest. He was immensely relieved by the presence of Brandr, who kept himself just behind them, guarding their backs. He hadn’t noticed the cold until Brandr swung his own cloak around his shoulders. Part of Roman wanted to refuse the kindness, insist he didn’t deserve it, but instead he gave the battle-lord a weak nod and returned his attention to Wulfgar and Aron.
Wulfgar was trying to be as gentle as he could, but Roman had glimpsed Aron’s back as he’d wrapped the cloaks around him, and there was no way to carry him without causing him pain. Tears stung Roman’s eyes when the thane bent his head and whispered to Aron, “Be at ease, boy, all will be well. Trust me.”
And oddly, it seemed as if Aron did. He curled against Wulfgar like a small child in a parent’s arms, his eyes closing as the four of them hurried back to Wulfgar’s camp and the thane’s tent.
Once inside, Roman hurried to stoke up the brazier, knowing how cold Aron was, ignoring the chill in his own bones. He then turned to hurry to the chest beside the bed, dropping to his knees and digging in it for his medicinal supplies. His heart ached at the low groan from as Wulfgar eased Aron down onto the furs with great care. He was unsure how much good he could do, but a salve for the cuts, poultice for the bruising, perhaps a mild draught to help Aron find a healing sleep. The mundane tasks kept his mind from being idle and wandering where he would rather it did not.
“I’ll go and take Osric in hand, my lord,” Brandr spoke up from the entrance. “I’ll make sure he stays out of mischief until the morn.”
Roman’s mind raced as he set a basin of water on the brazier to heat and began sorting through the medicines in his pouch. He would have to make sure that Aron’s wounds were thoroughly cleaned before bandaging them. He hoped that none of the cuts needed sewing. Aron had been through enough tonight, and all because of him. He steeled himself against the shaking that wanted to start again. Aron needed him now. He could break down later.
His eyes darted to the bed, and he felt ill as Wulfgar drew back the cloaks and they got their first clear look at the damage that had been wrought. Skin that had once been flawless and smooth was now mottled with bruising marks and streaked with blood. Another wave of nausea rolled through Roman when Aron whimpered and tried to push the thane’s gently probing hands away from his injuries.
Aron stared up at the thane and opened his mouth to speak, his voice broken and rough. “My lord… please… it was my fault… you cannot let them….”
Wulfgar raised a hand, shaking his head, and his eyes gentled a bit. Though his fury was still apparent, it was clear to Roman it was not directed at either of them. “Cease, boy. I won’t let them do anything. Rest, let Roman help you. I’ll handle this come the morn, I promise you.” Roman could see the guilt in the thane’s eyes and knew he must blame himself as well. Roman wanted to tell him not to, that it was all
his
fault, but fear stayed his tongue. He put some of the now-heated water into a cup and sifted some herbs into it before handing it to Wulfgar, knowing that the thane would want to take care of this task. “It will help him sleep,” he murmured, not meeting the thane’s eyes and turning away once he felt the cup taken from his hand.
“Neither of you will hang for what happened this eve.” Roman glanced up at the thane’s words, wondering if he could really promise that. But Wulfgar’s face was determined, and Roman ducked his head, not saying anything. In truth, he hoped for a punishment, something to atone for the pain he had caused the innocent thrall.
Aron didn’t protest further, and when Roman dared to look at him his heart wrenched at the tears that spilled down Aron’s cheeks. Jesu, the pain he must be in to show that weakness, for Aron’s pride was nearly as great as Wulfgar’s. He watched as Aron gulped down the warm water thirstily, Wulfgar’s hand smoothing back his hair, and Roman looked away.
Roman flinched at the sound of a choked sob behind him, and he looked over his shoulder, his hands freezing in the act of sifting more herbs into the water when he found hazy blue eyes locked on him. Wulfgar was wrapping another fur around Aron. “Hurry up, Roman,” the thane ordered tersely.
He nodded, grabbing the water, the cloths, and the rest of his things. He moved over to kneel next to Aron and met his eyes, his heart wringing at the abject misery in them. “Relax, Aron,” he murmured, placing his hand on his chest. “You’re safe now.”
As Roman worked quickly to clean and bandage what wounds he could, applying soothing poultices to the worst of the bruises, he could see that Aron was drifting, the draught doing its work to ease him. His sleep would be heavy once the mending was done. Roman could not bring himself to meet Aron’s eyes again, though he felt them on him as he worked, forcing the trembling from his hands and instead focusing on doing everything he could to help Aron.
Finally, he could do no more. He sat back on his heels and lifted his eyes to the thane, who gently drew a fur over Aron and bid him sleep. Roman moved to leave the bed of furs when he felt a hand on his arm and looked up to meet Wulfgar’s gaze.
The thane said nothing and glanced down at Aron, who was already drifting into an aided sleep. Wulfgar rose then, bringing Roman with him. He forced himself to meet Wulfgar’s eyes when he tipped his chin up and examined his face. The thane’s voice was quiet and tense. “Did they harm you otherwise, Roman?”
He shook his head. “No, my lord. Aron… no, they didn’t. A few blows, but nothing besides.”
Wulfgar seemed as if he would question Roman further but then nodded. “Come, let me.” He took the bowl of water and cloths from Roman, and he obediently remained still, allowing the thane to carefully clean his split lip and the cut on his cheekbone from the ring Aethlyn had worn. When he was done, he studied Roman for a long moment. The slave squirmed inwardly, a riot of emotions twisting inside him, and knew he was close to breaking down.
Relief nearly stole Roman’s breath when the thane chose not to press him and instead lay back on the furs, gathering the slave close against him. For the first time in years, Roman didn’t mind the closeness, curling tightly against Wulfgar and letting the strong embrace soothe the terror of the night.
Wulfgar’s voice was quiet in the darkness that invaded as the fire in the brazier burned down to coals. “Sleep, Roman. All will be well.”
He closed his eyes tight, obediently trying to find sleep, but it evaded him. He could only pray that Wulfgar was right. If not, he would take his punishment and hope in some way it would make up for what Aron had gone through because of him. He had no doubts that Aron would despise the very sight of him from now on.
He chose deliberately not to think about that as he forced his mind to stop and drifted into a fitful sleep.