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Virgin Slave, Barbarian King. Louise Allen
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Автор произведения Louise Allen
Издательство HarperCollins
Chapter Six
Julia stepped silently away from the entrance to the tent. Smoke padded round the corner and eyed her. ‘We are both in disgrace,’ she told him. ‘You for acting like a dog, me for being me, I suppose.’ Further defiance seemed pointless. She would end up hungry and thirsty, Wulfric would be no worse off than he had been before she had come into his life and Una would carry on looking after two households.
The sun was low now, the smell of food wafted from cooking pots all around, the noise levels were rising as the men returned and the children ran home after play.
It was too late to start preparing food, even if she knew how. If Wulfric told Una not to feed her, then the other woman would obey him, but surely tonight she would help.
Una came out of her tent as Julia approached, her small daughter peering round her skirts at the stranger. ‘I have clothes for you,’ she said before Julia could speak. ‘I do not know the names in your tongue, but here.’ She held out a pile of fabrics and smiled as Julia took them. ‘Soon, they will be too little for me.’ She gestured at her swelling figure. ‘I will teach you, you can make more.’
‘Thank you. Will you teach me to cook too? After tonight, Wulfric says I must cook, or not eat.’
Una smiled, a twinkle in her eyes that made Julia blush. Wulfric’s voice raised in a roar would not have been stopped by canvas walls. How much had their neighbours heard? ‘Help yourself.’ She gestured at the fireside. ‘Berig had already brought me two chickens, they will be ready soon. There is bread here, butter in the crock in the tent.’
Julia thanked her again, smiled at the shy little girl and made her way back, passing Berig laden with two buckets of dirty water as she did so. She had no intention of going into the tent while Wulfric was in goodness knows what state of disturbing undress, so she set the new clothes on a stool, poured the cool, greasy water off the dirty dishes and set to washing them.
They were draining in the bucket when Smoke lifted his head and his tail began to thump, cautiously. She turned, just as warily.
Wulfric was bare to the waist, a towel thrown over his shoulder, a bone comb in his hand. He nodded to her as casually as though they had been discussing the weather just a few moments before, tugged the wolf’s ears and hooked a stool towards him with his foot.
If I tell him to put his tunic on, he will realise just how much he disturbs me, wandering about half-naked, she fumed, managing a tight smile. Berig, his friend at his heels, vanished into the tent, reappearing at length with the tub. Julia dragged out the trestles and set them up, decided she could not manage the board by herself and began to collect up the stools.
When she turned back to Wulfric, he was sectioning off a wide strand of hair. It was, now she saw it both wet and combed out, almost as long as hers. It would be a thorough-going nuisance, getting caught in chain mail, sticking to sweaty skin in battle, blowing in his eyes. All the men wore their hair long, so it must be the fashion, she supposed, but she had not thought Wulfric so bound by such trivia that he would overlook the disadvantages. Roman soldiers cropped their hair even shorter than most, which seemed eminently practical for a fighting man.
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