Page 45 of The Dragon Ring
Her intentions for Tegan were as plain as the nose on her round face. Could this be a brothel?
Tegan looked very pleased with herself. She shot a smug smile at poor Maeve, who was hovering nearby, probably in the hope that Lucretia would change her mind about sending her to the kitchens.
Taking Arthur by the arm in a proprietorial fashion, she beamed up at him. “This way, milord.”
I wanted to slap her hand away from him, which shocked me. I should have felt sorry for her, plying the oldest trade in the world, but I didn’t.
Still smiling, Arthur allowed himself to be led back toward the main doorway out into the courtyard, and his men fell in willingly behind him.
“Don’t you worry,” Lucretia said to them complacently. “There’s plenty more girls working over in the bath house. Plenty to go around.”
It was definitely a brothel. There was no other explanation. I hesitated, unsure what to do next. I’d certainly never been in one before, but I badly wanted a hot bath.
Merlin put a restraining hand on my arm. “Not you. It’ll be no place for a woman. I’ll have hot water brought to your room.”
I bristled with indignation. “Typical! I’ve been looking forward to a hot bath since we got here. Why should only the men get one?” Not to mention whatever other services those girls had on offer.
Ignoring my annoyance, Merlin turned to Lucretia. “This is the Lady Guinevere. See her to your best room and provide her with the means to wash, and a maid to help her change into more becoming clothing for a lady. She’s had a hard day, and she needs your best care.” Lucretia’s best care for a visiting lady wasn’t up to much. I certainly didn’t get a pretty, young maid. She must have been saving them up for the men. Instead, I got a scrawny old woman with no teeth and abnormally strong body odor. And the promised hot water turned out to be tepid. I had a very good wash all over and, even though I hadn’t been able to soak my aching limbs, began to feel a bit more human.
I rinsed through my underwear myself, and the old woman, whose utterances were unintelligible but who seemed to have no problem understanding me, helped me into a terracotta-colored gown and laced it up the back.
The trouble was, unable to have a conversation with her, all I could do was think about that bath house and those girls and Tegan with her possessive hand on Arthur’s arm and what might be going on over there. In my experience, men who are offered sex with no strings, take it. They’d have to be monks not to. And none of them were that. But you assign your own morals to other people, and I’d done that with Arthur and Merlin, and my morals were a bit prudish even for the twenty-first century.
Consequently, I was feeling disappointed they so obviously didn’t have the moral fiber I’d invested them with. It was silly, really. They were free agents, both of them. They were living life very much from day to day, and barely twelve hours ago they’d been attacked by a band of ferocious Saxons. On top of that, Arthur was on his way to see his dying father. What better way to relieve stress than sex?
Okay, I’d forgive them. They were men and they couldn’t help their urges. No, they were Dark Age warriors, whose urges might be more primitive than those of men like Nathan. That made me think of him. He and Arthur were so unlike each other. Nathan was well-educated, sensitive, caring, gentle, in touch with his feminine side and, above all, understanding. He’d always put me first at every turn. I didn’t think any of the men I’d met here so far would do that for me or any woman. And they didn’t appear to have a feminine side to get in touch with.
The old woman brushed out my hair for me, then picked up the ties and began to braid it with deft fingers.
When she’d finished, I stood up and looked myself up and down as best I could. The dress fitted my slim frame perfectly, sweeping down to just above ground level. Long enough to be elegant and yet short enough that I wouldn’t get the hem all muddy or trip over it. On an impulse, I picked up my dagger and fastened the belt around my waist. Best to be on the safe side in a place I didn’t know. Last night had made me wary.
The common room of the inn was full of mostly empty chairs and tables. A roaring fire blazed in a central hearth, and torches smoldered in iron brackets on the walls, their smoke rising into the rafters to filter through the thatch and out into the cold night air. In one corner of the room, planks had been set on barrels to form a makeshift bar and looking at them, I realized I must be inside a Dark Age pub. Was the fat man behind the bar some relation of Lucretia’s? A son, maybe?
In one corner, two men playing dice glanced up at me in curiosity, and beside the fire an old man crouched on a stool, gumming a piece of bread to death with toothless jaws. Apart from them, the room was empty, and when I looked round I realized that my old maid had done a vanishing act as well.
But I was a twenty-first-century girl, and thirsty, and I wasn’t about to let being the only woman in a pub put me off. I walked with dignity up to the bar and stood in front of it, waiting for the barman to notice me.
He was wiping out metal tankards with a grimy-looking cloth and standing them along the bar. They were a mixed bunch, size-wise. He wouldn’t have got away with using such disparate vessels in my time, not with weights and measures inspectors on the prowl.
He went on polishing the tankards industriously.
I gave a polite little cough. Instead of looking at me, he spat enthusiastically into one of the tankards and proceeded to give it a vigorous polish, taking no notice. I made a mental note to avoid that particular vessel.
The two men who’d been dicing were staring at me. I began to feel a bit self-conscious, but I was determined not to be put off. I wanted a drink, and I was going to get one.
“Excuse me,” I tried, and knocked my knuckles on the plank bar top.
Nothing. Was he deaf? He just took some more tankards out of a box behind the bar and started polishing them up, as well.
One of the dicing men got up and swaggered over to stand beside me. He was about my height but twice my width, with a disconcerting look of animal power about him.
“Morgan, gi’ the lady a drink. She’s standing ’ere dyin’ o’ thirst.”
The barman looked up at me and gave an elaborate start, as though seeing me for the first time. His fat cheeks made his eyes into narrow slits, and his belly wobbled above a low-slung belt.
With a grunt, he picked up one of the tankards, not the one I knew he’d spat in, thank goodness, and turning to a row of barrels behind the counter, stuck it under the wooden tap. Golden liquid flowed, and when the tankard was brimming, he stood it on the counter in front of me.
“Thank you very much.” Politeness cost nothing. I picked up the tankard and took a sip. Strong cider, sharp with the taste of apples. I took a thirsty gulp. It was very good indeed.
