Medieval 01 - Untamed

lead.”
    â€œUm. I see.” Beneath Dominic’s beard, the corner of his mouth kicked up slightly. “Will you attend my bath, brother? I trust no one else at my back in this keep.”
    â€œI was going to suggest that very thing. I like it not that your betrothed evades you and your host is ‘too ill’ to greet you in a proper manner.”
    â€œAye,” Dominic said grimly. Dominic unfastened the big Norse pin holding his cape in place and tossed the fur-trimmed cloth over the trestle table standing near the door.
    The cape settled over the small chest Simon had brought into the room and set the candle flames to shivering in their holders. Also on the table was a pot of soft soap.
    Simon lifted the lid and sniffed.
    â€œSpice. And a bit of rose, I believe.” He looked at Dominic, blandly, trying not to show his amusement.
    â€œGod save me,” Dominic said without heat. “I’ll smell like a sultan’s harem.”
    Simon’s black eyes danced. He snickered behind his blond beard, but was careful not to laugh out loud.
    With quick motions, Dominic laid aside the rest of his clothes, completing the burial of the small chest. In the wavering light, the long scar that cut diagonally across his muscular arm and torso had the nacreous shine of a pearl.
    Dominic stepped into the bath and sat, threatening to send water overflowing out onto the floor. He made a sound of pleasure as the hot water lapped to his chin, easing the ache that came from his old injury when he was particularly tired.
    â€œSoap?” Simon asked blandly.
    Dominic held out his hand. A glob of soap plopped onto his palm. A fragrance that was almost familiar drifted up to his nostrils. Frowning, trying to remember where he had smelled that scent before, Dominic began working the soap into his hair and beard.
    â€œNow,” he said through the lather, “explain this nonsense about the lord of Blackthorne Keep being cursed.”
    â€œHis wife was a witch.”
    â€œThe same could be said of many wives.”
    Simon laughed curtly. “Aye, but Lady Anna was Glendruid.”
    Dominic’s hands paused in their scrubbing of beard and hair. “Glendruid…Have I heard that name?”
    â€œThey’re a Celtic clan,” Simon explained. “A kind of matriarchy, from what I can discover.”
    â€œHell’s teeth, what foolishness,” Dominic muttered.
    With that, he lowered himself completely beneath the water, rinsing out the fragrant lather. Moments later he emerged with a force that sent water flying. Cursing, Simon jumped aside.
    â€œGo on,” Dominic said.
    Shaking water from his tunic with one hand, Simon used the other to slap soap onto Dominic’s palm with enough force to draw a hard look.
    â€œA man who takes a Glendruid wife will have fields that prosper,” Simon said, “lush pastures, ewes that give twins, industrious and obedient vassals, brimming fish ponds, and—”
    â€œA staff like a war stallion and eternal life,” Dominic interrupted, impatient with the superstitious nonsense.
    â€œOh, has Sven talked to you already?”
    Dominic gave his younger brother a glittering gray glance.
    Simon grinned widely and his black eyes danced with amusement.
    â€œWhere is this benighted Glendruid place?” Dominic asked dryly. “To the south where the Celts run amok?”
    â€œSome say so.” Simon shrugged. “Others say to the north. A few say east.”
    â€œOr west? The sea, perhaps?”
    â€œThey are people, not fish,” retorted Simon.
    â€œAh, that is a relief. It would be arduous indeed to bed the daughter of a flounder. A man wouldn’t know how to grip the creature. Or precisely where .”
    Laughing, Simon held out a large drying cloth to his brother. As Dominic stood, water ran off his big body in cascades, splashing and gathering until it reached the gutter and dropped unheard into the moat far below.
    â€œThis Glendruid nonsense will end within the year,” Dominic said, “when my son is born.”
    Simon smiled slightly. He knew well his brother’s determination to found a dynasty. Simon had the same determination himself.
    â€œUntil your heir is born,” Simon said, “take care what you say in public about the Glendruid tale. It is a superstition dearly held by the local people.”
    â€œIn public I will believe. But the bedchamber is a private place.