Bee Among the Clover (267 page)

Roman felt guilty about his subterfuge. Aron would be furious with him for deliberately putting himself into danger and livid when he ignored his orders not to fight Osric. The slave in him writhed with the guilt of disobeying his master and the man he loved. He knew his betrayal was going to hurt Aron, but the rebellious side that’d been quiet too long overruled them all. He needed this. He had the opportunity to do it without fear of execution afterwards if he survived, and he was going to do it. He was only half-alive anyway. This was his chance to be reborn or die trying.

Then, as if Roman’s thoughts had called him, he knew Osric was near. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he slowed his steps, listening, sensing. When Osric sneaked up behind him, Roman danced easily out of his grasp, turning to narrow his eyes on the battle-lord. He was surprised to realize he wasn’t afraid. He was determined, cold, and calm. Ready.

“You’ve a set of bollocks on you. That’s the truth, whore. How about I carve them off and present them to the thrall after I kill you? He’d like to keep the best part of you after you’re nothing but food for the worms.”

Roman hissed and danced away from Osric’s grab again, eyes narrowing. “I’m no whore. And I’m certainly not
your
whore.”
The big ox stared incredulously at him, and Roman braced himself, spinning out of the battle-lord’s reach again, but Osric was quick despite his size, and one hand closed on his wrist. Roman hissed in fury and balled up his fist. When Osric jerked him close, Roman used the momentum and his own strength to drive his fist as hard as he could square onto Osric’s jaw.
Roman snarled, the fury taking over. Years of this man tormenting and terrorizing him rose to the surface, and he lost his senses. He clawed and bit and kicked until Osric shook off the surprise of his attack. Roman screamed in pain as the battle-lord tightened his grip on his wrist, feeling nauseous as the bones ground together.
“That’s just the sound I was looking for, whore.” Osric wiped his free hand over his face. “I’m going to enjoy dragging a hundred more screams like that out of you.”
Roman looked up and saw, across the yard, Wulfgar coming through the gate. Their eyes met, and a sense of total calm washed over Roman.
This is it
, he thought, watching Wulfgar approach. His eyes darted around in search of Aron, part of him hoping not to see him, because he would surely try to stop this. Another part of him hoped Aron was there, because there was a chance he wouldn’t live past the next ten minutes, and he wanted to see his lover one last time.
Icy resolve filled him when he saw there was no sign of him.
Forgive me, Aron. I have to.

“Release him, Osric,” Wulfgar demanded in a steely tone. Roman winced when, after a moment’s hesitation, the battle-lord obeyed. Pain shot through his arm, and Roman worried it would affect his ability to fight. It wasn’t his sword arm, however, and he hardened his resolve, meeting Wulfgar’s eyes.

The thane barely spared Roman a glance, keeping all his attention on Osric. “I’ve warned you to stay away from what is mine, Osric. I won’t do so again.”

“He attacked me,” Osric snarled, holding up his hand to show the blood. “I demand satisfaction, my lord.”
“Is that true, Roman?” Wulfgar turned his full attention to him, and Roman flicked a scathing glance at the battle-lord.
“Aye, my lord. After he grabbed me.” Roman’s voice was calm, with no trace of the terror that would normally have consumed him by this point.
Wulfgar looked around at the warriors and hall folk who had gathered around to witness the aftermath of the fight. “Gaeric, go fetch Roman’s sword and shield from my rooms. It’s time this was settled once and for all.” He raised his voice, speaking to the onlookers. “Osric disobeyed my orders, and Roman attacked a free man. Let it be decided by combat, and whoever wins shall face no repercussions from any man.”
Osric hesitated only briefly, and Roman didn’t miss the flash of uncertainty in his eyes. He knew Osric was remembering the fight Roman had given him three years prior.
Roman’s heart thudded in his chest, slow and steady, a deadly sort of calm in him as Gaeric returned with his sword, the heavy leather shield, and arm braces.
Osric looked as if he was going to protest, but Roman knew he wouldn’t. To do so would make him look cowardly in front of the entire hall, and the battle-lord had far too much unfounded pride for that. Roman paid him little heed as one of the slaves helped him lace on the braces and handed him the shield and his sword.
He gave the sword a few experimental sweeps. It wasn’t as heavy or as long as Osric’s, else he’d never be able to wield it, and that was a bit of a disadvantage because it’d require him to get closer to strike. He had many advantages as well, though. Size, speed, agility, better equipment… not to mention he’d seen the increasingly frenzied look in Osric’s eyes and knew the man was nowhere near a hundred percent focused.
Still, he didn’t dare discount the threat he posed. Roman knew well Osric’s skill with the blade and closed his eyes, whispering a swift prayer for his soul should he not survive this before opening them again.
The other warriors gathered around the fence in the practice yard that enclosed the two opponents. Roman and Osric circled each other at first, searching for openings and exchanging blows designed to discover each other’s weaknesses. Roman’s wrist throbbed, but at least it was the arm strapped to the shield.
Osric rushed forward with a low growl, his greater size and weight forcing Roman to give ground. He did so, dodging and parrying nimbly, letting Osric’s own size wear him down.
It must’ve been how attuned they were with each other, because the soft cry of fear wasn’t that loud. For a split second Roman took his eyes off of Osric to meet Aron’s horror-filled gaze. He stood on the edge of the circle with a stricken look on his face.
Oh sweet Jesu, Aron
….
The distraction cost him as the battle-lord took advantage, rushing at him with a stroke of his sword designed to take Roman’s head from his shoulders. With a desperate cry, Roman swung his shield up in time, his wrist taking the brunt of the blow.
Aron was steps from the fence when Wulfgar grabbed him by the arm. “Be silent, boy, or take yourself elsewhere.”
Aron’s head snapped up, glaring at the thane. “How could you allow this?” he hissed, furious. “You have no right!”
“You forget yourself, boy. I have every right to do whatever I see fit.” Wulfgar loomed over him dangerously, but it had no effect on the livid thrall. “Have faith in your Marcus. The gods will be on his side.”
Aron drew himself up to retort. If Wulfgar wasn’t going to stop this, then he was. Was this the thane’s final revenge? Letting Roman die so neither of them could have him? He yanked his arm out of the thane’s grasp, spinning back to face the combatants at the sound of a low cry and a murmur from the onlookers.
Roman had managed to reach beyond Osric’s guard, scoring a neat line across the battle-lord’s chest. Roman stepped back, his face expressionless, his eyes hard as the blood began to seep through the battlelord’s tunic. First blood had been scored, but Roman was tightly coiled, his eyes never leaving Osric’s, giving the battle-lord the chance to walk away honorably, admitting defeat.
It surprised no one when Osric snarled and lunged at him, heavy sword swinging in a flurry of hard, killing blows. Roman dodged and blocked, managing to dart out of reach of each strike. Aron’s blood froze as what he’d already known became apparent to everyone else. This would be to the death.
Aron couldn’t take his eyes from his darkling. The thought to end this died unfulfilled in his mind, because there was no way to stop it now. His heart pounded, and his hurt and betrayal were almost as great as his terror. But he would think on that later. Right now all he could do was watch, helpless and horrified, as the two battled. He covered his mouth and bit the back of his hand hard to keep from crying out when Osric’s blade grazed Roman’s thigh on a down sweep, causing his darkling to stumble and blood to bloom on his trews.
Wulfgar laid his hand on Aron’s shoulder, seemingly not so much to restrain him now as to comfort him in a way, squeezing in reassurance as Roman regained his bearings and began his own onslaught of offensive strikes, each coming close but blocked at the last second.
Aron couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe it seemed, shaking with fear and worry, horror filling him as he, along with everyone else, watched Roman begin to lose. He knew it for what it was; Osric’s blows were becoming heavier, knocking Roman to his knees, and the slave was barely able to rise again before the next strike.
It was a nightmare the likes of which Aron had never imagined. Standing there, less than ten feet away, watching the one he loved about to die and helpless to stop it.
Marcus, please don’t leave me
….
Roman hadn’t realized just how strong someone could be when madness overtook them. Fighting Osric was like fighting three men. It was all he could do to keep the bigger man’s sword from him. He was so tired, and sharp pains shot through his arm every time Osric’s sword hit his shield. Soon it would be worse than useless. His leg throbbed, and he could feel warm blood trickling down to pool inside his boot.
Osric chuckled. “Get on your knees, whore,” he panted. “That’s a fitting place for someone like you to die.”
Rage flashed through Roman.
How often are you going to let him win?
The thought spurred him on, gave him a new surge of energy and a strength he hadn’t known he possessed. He feinted, buying himself enough time to get his feet steady underneath him.
Think, you damned fool, you’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment.
His mind raced as the battlelord came in for the attack again, and he noted where he placed his feet, how he angled his body.
Osric’s blows came in a hard flurry again, but the battle-lord was overextending himself, confidence overcoming his usual good battle sense. The larger man expected a killing blow with each strike. Roman narrowed his eyes and let his left arm droop as if it couldn’t carry the weight of the shield anymore. In truth, he didn’t know how it was.
The battle-lord’s eyes blazed in triumph, his sword arcing around in a vast overhand sweep. Roman snarled, stepping in under Osric’s guard. The blow struck his hastily raised shield and glanced off his arm, Roman’s own sword driving hard up into the battle-lord’s body. Those horrible piggish eyes widened in surprise, and Osric took a confused step back, his sword falling to the ground.
There were gasps and murmurs from the onlookers. Only Aron and Wulfgar remained silent. Roman jerked his sword from Osric’s body and stepped back, dark eyes glaring at the stumbling battle-lord. He panted hard and almost hunched in on himself, flinching when Osric fell.
For a long moment of silence, no one moved and no one spoke, and it was Aron who broke it, spurring forward with a cry, catching Roman as he sagged. His arms wrapped around him, dropping to the ground with him, eyes frantically running over Roman, searching out wounds.
Roman shook with the force of what had just happened, what he’d just done. It was as if the wall that had held back his every emotion other than rage during the fight burst and it all came flooding in. The next thing he knew, he was clinging to Aron, trembling hard, barely feeling the pain in his arm or his thigh.
Roman watched with hard eyes as the slaves began carrying away the battle-lord’s body to prepare it for the funeral rights. He lifted his eyes to see Wulfgar standing there, the thane hesitating and then touching Aron’s head, nodding toward the hall when Aron looked up at him.
“Take him inside. I’ll give you both some privacy, you needn’t worry about that.” The thane’s voice was gruff as his hand shifted to touch the top of Roman’s head as well, before stepping back. “Go, tend to him, boy.”
Aron nodded without a word and helped Roman unstrap his arm from the shield. He cried out as pain swept through him from his injured wrist, and then Aron was scooping him up into his arms and striding to the keep. Roman could only cling to him, laying his head down on his lover’s shoulder. Aron called for hot water and cloths as he entered the thane’s room and deposited Roman onto the bed with a tenderness that struck his heart.
“Aron….” He lifted his eyes to his lover’s, trembling. “Aron, I’m sorry.” Guilt tore at Roman from the worry and fear in Aron’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I had to, you understand.”
“We can discuss it afterward,” Aron said, his voice terse, though his hands were gentle as he peeled off Roman’s tunic. Right now, he could only concentrate on one thing, and that was making sure Roman didn’t lose too much blood. Then he could let out the anger he was working so hard to suppress. Oh gods, it had been so close. Too close. He’d almost lost his darkling. His hands shook as he finished undressing him, and he forced them to steady.
A slave came in, depositing a bowl of steaming water on the table with some rolled cloths. She fetched Roman’s bag of herbs and then left again without saying a word. Aron took a deep breath and washed the wounds. The one on his thigh didn’t seem too bad. If it was cleaned and wrapped up well, it’d heal. The one on his arm was more problematic; deep and almost as long as Aron’s hand.
“It’ll need to be sewn,” Roman said calmly, and Aron nodded, pursing his lips to remain silent.
With Roman directing him, Aron was able to sew up the wound neatly, amazed his hands remained steady for it. He cleaned it, bandaged it, and then did the same to the wound on Roman’s thigh, working in silence, taking directions from Roman for what herb went into each poultice, mixing one up for his wrist, which was already beginning to bruise horribly.
Finally, Roman was as bandaged and tended to as he could be, and Aron could see the worry in his eyes. He shook his head and ignored his unspoken pleas, rising and striding over to replace Roman’s medicinal supplies in the trunk where he kept them.
“I’m sorry, Aron. Please understand.”
Aron lifted his head, jaw clenching before meeting Roman’s gaze. “I understand perfectly, Marcus. And by the gods, I’m sick to death of fooling myself into believing you feel for me even a fraction what I feel for you.” His jaw tightened, and he bit down the hurt, shaking his head again. “Yet again you make it painfully clear who it is you prefer to belong to, who it is you would choose.”
Roman didn’t deny it, staring at him silently, and Aron felt ill, hurt welling in him stronger than before.
“I made a mistake asking for you as my boon, I know that. You made it perfectly clear that was exactly what it was, a mistake. You’ll be free of me in two months time,
Roman
, and if Wulfgar will take you back as his slave, then he’s welcome to you. I’m through chasing a prize that doesn’t wish to be caught.” Aron spun on his heel and stormed from the room, slamming the door hard after him and hurrying from the hall. He was unsure where he was heading, but somewhere far from Roman, far from the pain that seemed to go hand in hand with the slave.
Roman flinched violently as if struck when Aron threw Wulfgar’s pet name at him. For a moment, he just sat stunned, unable to respond, and then Aron was gone. He was torn between chasing after him, demanding Aron listen to his side, and staying put, accepting the punishment due him for deliberately disobeying. Marcus or Roman. Which one was he? Aron had never made it clearer that he owned him than he had just now. Roman could never have imagined Aron would be so angry he’d give him back to Wulfgar, but the threat was real, and it was what finally made his decision for him.
He was torn between sorrow and rage as he dressed, pain sweeping through him with every movement. Aron had proven what he wanted was a perfect, obedient slave who loved him. So, until they left, that was exactly what Aron would get. Roman would learn to anticipate what Aron wanted and adapt the same way he had with Wulfgar. He’d become what Aron wanted because there was no way he was going to risk being left behind with no chance of ever being free again.
He sank down on the pallet and composed himself to wait for Aron to come back, trying to figure out a way to appease his anger. He understood what caused it. It was a horrible betrayal for Aron when Roman had taken the thane’s authority over his master’s. With Aron’s pride, that would grate on him for a long time. Roman wasn’t so foolish as to discount the other reason. Aron had been genuinely afraid for him, and that warmed his heart despite the anger and hurt. But what good was his life if he was shrinking back from shadows for the rest of it?
He curled up on the pallet, heart aching worse than his body did. Tears filled his eyes and streaked down his cheeks as the enormity of the day struck him. In the span of a few hours, he’d slain his greatest dragon, but in the process he might have lost the person who had, ironically, given him the courage to do so.
“I don’t want to belong to anyone, Aron, but if I had a true say in the matter I would choose you until the sun sets on my last day. I love you so much I cannot conceive of ever feeling about anyone else the way that I feel about you,” he said quietly to himself. “You had no right to deny me my request, though. You of all people should have understood.”
As much as he loved Aron, as much as he’d always love him, he couldn’t live like this anymore. He couldn’t give himself wholeheartedly to someone who would always seek to control him. Aron loved him. Of that, he had no doubt, but he realized now that Aron would never be able to treat him as a true equal.