Bee Among the Clover (212 page)

A
RON longed to sit, to lean back against the wall and rest his aching feet,
but he didn’t dare. The one time he had, the first day of his punishment,
he’d tasted the lick of the whip for his laziness. As often happened in the
lulls of the day, Aron’s mind wandered to Roman. He’d seen no glimpse of him the past week, and every hour that passed lay heavy on Aron’s mind. Was he all right? Was he healing properly from the brand? Were
Osric and the other battle-lords keeping Wulfgar’s warning in mind and
staying away from him? Aron had a hundred burning questions and no answers. It was enough to drive him out of his mind.
A group of village women approached the gate, and Aron stiffened
his spine, tilting his chin
up in a show of arrogance. “I am Aron Sverrison,” he called out to them as they neared. “I betrayed my thane and broke my oath to him.” He got withering looks and a jeer or two, but for
the most part, by now everyone had heard him proclaim his crime and paid
him little mind as they came and went.
The first few days had been the worst. A group of the village children had pelted him with small stones until the gate guards, having gotten bored of the amusement, shooed them away. The womenfolk had
spat at his feet, several in his face, and the warriors and battles feet, several in his face, and the warriors and battle-lords had
gotten great fun from turning their irritation with the rising heatwave on him in the form of fists. He couldn’t even defend himself, shackled as he
was hand and foot, and more than one night he’d been dragged back to
Wulfgar’s chamber at nightfall with bloodied lips and bruised ribs. It had taken an order from Wulfgar to cease the attacks, but Aron noticed the thane had allowed it for several days. To teach him a further lesson, no
doubt.
Aron’s thoughts were jerked back to the present with the appearance
of Wulfgar at the gate. He stiffened, not saying anything before tightening his jaw and meeting the thane’s eyes steadily. “My lord?” There was a

“I wish to speak with you.” Wulfgar crouched down to unlock the shackles around Aron’s ankles, as well as the ones manacling his wrists, gesturing for Aron to follow him as he headed toward a stand of trees not far off.

Aron followed without comment, casting one last, futile glance back toward the yard. Still no sign of Roman. Trepidation plagued him; he was unsure what the thane wanted to speak with him about, but had no choice but to follow.

Wulfgar slowed as they stepped amongst the trees, turning to face Aron and crossing his arms over his chest, giving him an assessing look. Aron met his gaze unflinchingly. He refused to cower before him like a whipped dog.

The thane didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did, his voice was low, calm. “You care for Roman?” he asked, and wariness leapt inside Aron.

He drew a breath, squaring his jaw and narrowing his eyes. “Yes.” He saw no reason to lie to the thane. Wulfgar couldn’t punish him for feeling.

Wulfgar nodded, his expression thoughtful, and then arched a brow. “Yet you risked his life with your stunt. An interesting way to express it.”
Aron’s jaw clenched. The thane wasn’t saying anything Aron didn’t already know. He never should’ve left Roman. He should’ve been stronger, stuck out the last six months of his term or taken Roman with him. Anything but abandon him here. Hearing it aloud wasn’t easy, though. “I….” He bit off a nasty reply and forced his tone to remain respectful, though it was a challenge. “I did. I risked his life and put him in danger. I’m aware of that, thank you.” The respectful tone was giving way as the bitterness swelled inside him. Was this another punishment, forcing Aron to hear his crimes against Roman listed now?
The thane shook his head, looking away. Aron said nothing, unsure what Wulfgar might be thinking and in no condition to try and decipher it. All he wanted was Roman, or at the very least answers about him. He didn’t dare speak up and ask for information, though. After their betrayal, Aron doubted the thane was of a mind to give either of them anything. He flinched when Wulfgar looked back at him and reached up to touch the bruise on his cheek. He steeled himself and met the thane’s gaze.
“Roman is mine.”
Aron stiffened, but the thane wasn’t finished.
“It seems he’s gifted you with something he never saw fit to give me. I care not that he loves you, but guard it closely, boy.”
The sentiment surprised Aron. He’d expected Wulfgar to be jealous and angry, but he supposed all Wulfgar was concerned with was that they do their duties and not betray him. Aron did not care, however, for the thane attempting to give him advice about his darkling.
Wulfgar sighed. “Roman’s ill. The brand has become infected, and he’s delirious with fever.”
Shock filled Aron, followed by heart-pounding terror. He opened his mouth to speak, but the thane held up a hand and continued.
“I’ll let you see him, tend him if you wish, but first you’ll listen to me, boy. The belief is Roman won’t live out the week, but if he should, don’t be so stupid as to try and plot against me, do you understand? Whatever plan you have will fail, and the next time Roman betrays me, he’ll find himself spending the last of his days servicing every man in the hall. So before you think you can take him from me, remember that. You’ll fail and he’ll pay the price. Are we understood?”
Aron seethed inside at the dire threat to his darkling, but he would’ve agreed to anything to get to him, to see him again. His heart ached, chest tight with fear. Roman was ill, might die. He gave a short nod. “Yes, my lord.” Aron glanced anxiously toward the hall and then back to the thane. “I promise, no more subterfuge. Just please, let me go to him.” What if he did die, without knowing how sorry Aron was, how much he cared, without ever being able to touch his face and…? Aron bit back the unanswerable questions and waited for the thane’s decision.
Wulfgar’s eyes searched his own, and Aron held his breath. Finally, the thane nodded. “Go, boy. Don’t make me regret my decision.”
Aron was running before the words finished leaving the thane’s mouth, his feet pounding on the path toward the slave quarters. It was unbelievable to him that his darkling might die. No, he couldn’t. The fates weren’t that cruel. He entered the low bungalow where the slaves slept and was struck immediately by the smell of putrefying flesh and the sound of low, restless mutters.
His eyes searched the dim light until he found Roman’s outline on a rough pallet in the corner. The others must’ve separated him when they realized he was sick, isolating him instead of helping out of fear that the fever might spread. “Gods, darkling, no,” Aron breathed, rushing to his side. He could feel the heat radiating from Roman’s body before he even touched him. With as hot as Roman was, he should have been soaked in sweat, but his skin was dry, and Aron knew that couldn’t be a good sign.
Aron touched a hand to Roman’s brow and flinched. A fever like that could kill a man or leave him a husk of what he once was. Roman stirred at his touch, his hollowed eyes fluttering open, the darkness dull and glassy. He muttered something under his breath, his lips cracked and dry.
Aron leaned down and pressed a kiss to his scorching forehead before rising and crossing to the doorway, calling over one of the other slaves who seemed to be idling in the yard. Grateful his position, low as it was, still held authority over them, he ordered cool water and clean cloths from one, then sent another to Wulfgar’s rooms for Roman’s medicinal pouch.
He returned to Roman’s side, kneeling beside his pallet and brushing his tangled hair from his forehead, insides knotted in fear. “I’m here, darkling. Shah, now, it’s going to be all right, I promise.” He prayed he could keep it. The thought of Roman leaving him now, when he’d just gotten him back, was too horrible to bear.
Roman stirred again, eyes fluttering open, staring through him. His skin was drawn, and a soft whimper escaped him, incoherent mutterings Aron couldn’t make out. He pressed a gentle finger to his lips.
“Shh, don’t try to speak. I’m here, Marcus, I’ll take care of you.” Aron lifted his head as the slaves returned, taking the items from them and shooing them away. They cared not for his darkling, or he wouldn’t be in this condition. He’d do what he could for him here, then have someone fashion a litter to bring him to Wulfgar’s room, where it was clean and warm and Aron could care for him better.
Pulling back the fur covering his darkling, Aron tried to be as gentle as he could as he peeled down Roman’s trews. The fabric was stuck to the inside of his thigh, and prayers fell from Aron’s lips as he carefully cut and cleansed, working it loose. Several basins of water later, he eased Roman’s legs apart to get a look at the infected brand. His stomach roiled at the sight: the smooth skin now mottled and an angry red, puss oozing from the raised, blistered flesh, the redness fanning out in long lines. Aron knew from watching his mother care for wounded crofters before that this wasn’t good; the infection was spreading.
He raised his eyes to the ceiling, closing them and praying hard for a few seconds before setting to work. He had not his darkling’s skill with healing and wished suddenly that Cate were there. She would know what to do.
“
Sum Marcus Atellus! Pater
….” Roman’s voice was hoarse but firm, and Aron looked up, startled at the sound as his darkling clutched at him with surprisingly strong hands.
Hope stirred—mayhap his darkling had regained some of his senses and could help him with this process—but it faded as soon as Aron saw his eyes. Roman didn’t know where he was, who he was with. “Shhhh, darkling. Save your strength,” Aron murmured, prying Roman’s hands from his tunic and trying to ease him back.
Aron took a cloth and poured some cool water on it, pressing it to Roman’s forehead. Roman continued to toss and turn, muttering under his breath again as Aron went back to cleaning the wound. As he got closer to the actual brand, Roman began pushing his hands away, trying to crawl away weakly, whimpering in pain.
“You, hold him down.” Aron raised his eyes to one of the slaves standing around watching him. The man recoiled, suspicion and fear on his face, but when Aron’s expression hardened, he moved forward and knelt behind Roman’s head, imprisoning his hands. The necessity of it broke Aron’s heart. He knew that wherever his darkling was in his head, he didn’t understand what was going on, only that he couldn’t move and it hurt. Aron went back to work, blinking back the tears in his eyes so he could see.
“Please… please, my lord. Don’t let him hurt me anymore.” Roman fought, cursed, and begged, sometimes in a language Aron didn’t understand. Then, mercifully for the both of them, he screamed and passed out cold. Aron’s hands were shaking, and he wanted to vomit.
Aron clenched his jaw as he worked, determination fighting with disheartenment in him. Roman would live. The brand was horribly infected, though, and he didn’t quite know what else to do when one of the slaves spoke up behind him.
“It needs to be cut away. The flesh is dead and will only rot and make him sicker.”
Aron bit his lip, eyeing her and then looking back down at the wound on Roman’s thigh. She was right. His stomach lurched again at the thought, but he’d do whatever necessary to save him. He placed hot cloth after hot cloth over the wound, drawing out as much of the infection as he could, then thrust a dagger in the fire. His heart ached at the thought of causing more pain for his darkling, but thankfully, he was still unconscious. Mayhap he wouldn’t feel it?
It was a long, nauseating process, cutting away the dead flesh, cleaning the now-open wound and applying one of Roman’s healing poultices to it before bandaging the entire thing. Sweat was dripping down Aron’s neck by the time he was done. There was nothing left for him to do but wait; he knew nothing else that might help.
Sending the female slave to see about transporting Roman to Wulfgar’s room, Aron lay down on the pallet beside him, blinking hard against the tears that wanted out. He brushed his fingers across Roman’s flushed cheek and gave a soft, shaky smile when he turned his face into the touch.
“Darkling, I’m so sorry.” He kept his voice to a soft whisper, leaning in and pressing his lips to Roman’s hot temple, the fear so great he could hardly breathe. “I love you, my darkling.”
The slave returned with a stretcher made from a blanket and some poles and laid it down next to them. “Are you going to take him to the village?”
“No, I’m taking him to the hall.” It was cleaner there, and Roman needed constant care. “Get someone to help me here.” He wasn’t going to drag his darkling and have him jounced around.
The slave’s eyes widened. “But he was banished. The thane isn’t going to allow him to remain there. With him dying an’ all as well.” The thanes and battle-lords often went out of their way to avoid someone who was sick or dying unless they had taken a wound taken in battle. Then it was a cause of celebration.
Aron’s jaw firmed. “Aye, he’ll allow him to stay.” He would make certain of it. Something told him the thane wouldn’t turn them away.
Aron carefully picked up Roman, setting him down on the stretcher, his mind whirling. “Why the village?” He couldn’t imagine Roman would get any better care there.
“Mother Haide might be able to aid him.” The tone of her voice was doubtful.
“Is she a healer?” He didn’t know if he trusted the village wicce. He worried at his lower lip. Maybe he could get her to come to the hall. He could keep an eye on her then.
The slave shrugged. “Some say healer, some say wicce. Most don’t care to risk it though.”
Aron nodded, mind turning. He couldn’t give Roman the care he needed, not to heal him. At best, he could make him comfortable to die. His stomach revolted at the thought. He wouldn’t die. Aron wouldn’t allow it. If he had to beg and plead and offer his very soul to the gods, he would. Roman would live.
He watched with a careful eye as the slave returned with three others, the four lifting the litter and starting toward the hall. Aron stayed right beside them, Roman’s hand in his, freezing and tensing when their path was blocked by the one person he least wanted to see. Aron gave Osric a hard glare, prepared to just ignore him and continue on his way.
The battle-lord sneered. “Where do you think you’re taking the whore? Wulfgar’s orders were for him to stay in the slave quarters.”
Aron tilted his chin, his eyes full of hatred. “The thane gave me permission to care for him. I choose to care for him inside the hall.”
Osric would’ve spoken, but then Wulfgar himself appeared beside him, a hand on the battle-lord’s shoulder. Aron stared at him, holding his breath, afraid he’d deny him. He watched as Wulfgar’s eyes flicked to Roman, and his jaw tightened before he spoke. “Go, boy, care for him as you see fit.” He gave Osric a silencing look. “Leave it be, Osric.”
Aron nodded, his entire focus returning to Roman. He held the door for the slaves to carry the stretcher into the hall and nodded toward Wulfgar’s room to indicate they bring him inside there.
Quickly, Aron made a spot for him near the fire. Roman was beginning to stir, muttering again under his breath. He transferred his darkling with great care to the pallet and ordered the slaves out of the room. He covered Roman with a light blanket and fetched some fresh, cool water, replacing the cloth on Roman’s forehead.
The fever had to break if Roman was going to have any chance of surviving. He wondered if Wulfgar would be willing to send for the healer. He had seen the brief look of almost-guilt in the thane’s eyes and had a feeling that he would probably allow it. But what worried him was many of the village healers knew next to nothing. His cousin had died at the hands of one, and Aron was terrified of risking Roman’s remaining strength for something that might not work.
Roman’s mutterings increased in agitation, and he tossed on the pallet, his fingers scrabbling on the furs. Aron took his hand, wondering when he’d last eaten or been given any water. He squeezed some water from a cloth over his darkling’s lips and watched as he took it in. Mayhap he should ask for some broth.
“Shhhh, darkling, I’m here,” Aron said, hoping his voice would soothe him.
“Aron… Aron….” The sound of Roman’s voice was reedy, and his shoulders shook.
Aron’s heart broke at the pitiful sound of his name on Roman’s lips. He shifted down to lay beside him, brushing his tangled dark hair away from his face. “I’m here, Marcus, I’m here. Rest easy, darkling.”
Roman’s eyes fluttered, and Aron dragged the damp cloth over his cheek, heart aching. “Father….” His voice was soft and pleading. “
Mea culpa… mea culpa….
”
Aron took the clean cloth and dipped it again, squeezing some of the cool water onto his darkling’s lips. He knew nothing else to do, had no idea which powders to give him to drink. He didn’t know which ones would help him rest or which could break his fever. He needed help; he couldn’t do it alone. Gods, he had never been so overwhelmed.
Roman’s hand gripped the front of his tunic, holding on weakly. “Don’t leave me, Aron. Please, Jesu… Aron.” Another harsh shudder shook his frame.
Aron’s eyes widened, his chest so tight it was hard to breathe. “I’m not going anywhere, darkling. I’m right here next to you.” He took Roman’s hand in his own, his thumb stroking the fine skin over his knuckles.
“Promise? Promise?” Roman licked at his dry lips, his feverish eyes intent on Aron’s face, moving restlessly on the pallet and kicking the blanket off.