Read Online The Wolf King by Alice Borchardt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alice Borchardt
Ads: Link
“some day when I am at leisure, and I will instruct you in the art of creative and civilized debauchery.”
Arbeo’s look of absolute, frozen shock nearly destroyed Regeane’s composure completely.
Just then one of the working girls at the edge of the path spit at a customer. The man pulled a knife. The girl’s pimp tried to intervene and caught a nasty gash across the chest for his trouble.
Matrona rather casually grabbed the soldier’s wrist, jerked it up between his shoulder blades, and took the knife away from him. Then she kicked the legs out from under him, and when he went down on his face, whacked him hard just behind the ear on the sensitive mastoid process. The soldier lay twitching, semiconscious and paralyzed by pain.
The girl in the cart sat up. She cursed her pimp for being so inept as to let her trick wound him, then the soldier for being a stinking louse-ridden pervert.
Matrona asked, “Why?”
“He wanted a blow job. I don’t suck. I work strictly on my back.”
“We are looking for one Count Otho,” Matrona said.
“I am, too,” the girl said. “He set me up with this…” She jerked a thumb at the pimp. “I haven’t seen him in four days. This shithead—” She jerked a thumb at the pimp again. “—he takes too big a cut. And as for protection.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Well, you saw—”
“Otho has women?”
“A whole string.” The girl shook her head for emphasis. “Plenty of women. The king’s men are hot as a fuck in a haystack. Fatso’s losing money all over the place.”
“Doesn’t sound like Otho to neglect business,” Regeane said.
“True,” Barbara said. “I’m not certain that lord has a heart, but if he does, money is the dearest thing to it.”
The girl nodded. “We’re talking about the same guy, for sure. When I went to his tent, nothing. Old woman there wouldn’t let me in.”
“Where is his tent? ” Matrona asked.
“Near the king,” the girl answered.
The camp was formed roughly like a set of rings, with the king’s pavilion in the center. Around it were grouped those of the great nobles; beyond them, the
scarae;
and beyond, in outer darkness, the rabble of peasants, foot soldiers, camp followers, whores, tavern carts, and the shadow classes: cutthroats, brigands, beggars, and professional thieves looking for loot in the case of victory. But equally happy with defeat, as they would be able to despoil the wounded and the dead on the battlefield.
This was where they were now.
The Saxon offered her some silver, two or three nights’ wages for a prostitute of her class. “Show us to his tent,” he said.
She snatched the money and jumped off the back of the wagon. “Right away,” she said. “You have to watch for the horsemen. They patrol at night and don’t want any of us to sneak in.”
It was late, and once away from the revelry among the infantry, the camp grew more quiet. The shelters occupied by the wealthy were larger and farther apart. Servants were quartered there. Most had a rubbish heap and a latrine. The girl pointed to a large tent. Three rooms at least, on the outer edge of the enclave belonging to the highborn. It was set rather far away from the rest. A torch burned in front of the tent closest to it, but otherwise, it was completely dark.
“Maybe he’s asleep,” Arbeo suggested. “Maybe we should come back in the morning.” He sounded apprehensive.
“No,” Regeane said. “If he’s asleep, we’re going to wake him up.”
“He’s not asleep,” Matrona said. “Something’s wrong.”
“Is it?” the Saxon asked.
“Yes,” Matrona said. “Regeane, the wind is at our backs. We must circle, but don’t draw any closer.”
Regeane nodded and the two women began to ease around the tent next to Otho’s.
“Put out your torch,” Matrona told the Saxon.
He did, dunking it in a ditch filled with dubious liquid. Some of it rose as steam and there was no further doubt as to its
Arbeo’s look of absolute, frozen shock nearly destroyed Regeane’s composure completely.
Just then one of the working girls at the edge of the path spit at a customer. The man pulled a knife. The girl’s pimp tried to intervene and caught a nasty gash across the chest for his trouble.
Matrona rather casually grabbed the soldier’s wrist, jerked it up between his shoulder blades, and took the knife away from him. Then she kicked the legs out from under him, and when he went down on his face, whacked him hard just behind the ear on the sensitive mastoid process. The soldier lay twitching, semiconscious and paralyzed by pain.
The girl in the cart sat up. She cursed her pimp for being so inept as to let her trick wound him, then the soldier for being a stinking louse-ridden pervert.
Matrona asked, “Why?”
“He wanted a blow job. I don’t suck. I work strictly on my back.”
“We are looking for one Count Otho,” Matrona said.
“I am, too,” the girl said. “He set me up with this…” She jerked a thumb at the pimp. “I haven’t seen him in four days. This shithead—” She jerked a thumb at the pimp again. “—he takes too big a cut. And as for protection.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Well, you saw—”
“Otho has women?”
“A whole string.” The girl shook her head for emphasis. “Plenty of women. The king’s men are hot as a fuck in a haystack. Fatso’s losing money all over the place.”
“Doesn’t sound like Otho to neglect business,” Regeane said.
“True,” Barbara said. “I’m not certain that lord has a heart, but if he does, money is the dearest thing to it.”
The girl nodded. “We’re talking about the same guy, for sure. When I went to his tent, nothing. Old woman there wouldn’t let me in.”
“Where is his tent? ” Matrona asked.
“Near the king,” the girl answered.
The camp was formed roughly like a set of rings, with the king’s pavilion in the center. Around it were grouped those of the great nobles; beyond them, the
scarae;
and beyond, in outer darkness, the rabble of peasants, foot soldiers, camp followers, whores, tavern carts, and the shadow classes: cutthroats, brigands, beggars, and professional thieves looking for loot in the case of victory. But equally happy with defeat, as they would be able to despoil the wounded and the dead on the battlefield.
This was where they were now.
The Saxon offered her some silver, two or three nights’ wages for a prostitute of her class. “Show us to his tent,” he said.
She snatched the money and jumped off the back of the wagon. “Right away,” she said. “You have to watch for the horsemen. They patrol at night and don’t want any of us to sneak in.”
It was late, and once away from the revelry among the infantry, the camp grew more quiet. The shelters occupied by the wealthy were larger and farther apart. Servants were quartered there. Most had a rubbish heap and a latrine. The girl pointed to a large tent. Three rooms at least, on the outer edge of the enclave belonging to the highborn. It was set rather far away from the rest. A torch burned in front of the tent closest to it, but otherwise, it was completely dark.
“Maybe he’s asleep,” Arbeo suggested. “Maybe we should come back in the morning.” He sounded apprehensive.
“No,” Regeane said. “If he’s asleep, we’re going to wake him up.”
“He’s not asleep,” Matrona said. “Something’s wrong.”
“Is it?” the Saxon asked.
“Yes,” Matrona said. “Regeane, the wind is at our backs. We must circle, but don’t draw any closer.”
Regeane nodded and the two women began to ease around the tent next to Otho’s.
“Put out your torch,” Matrona told the Saxon.
He did, dunking it in a ditch filled with dubious liquid. Some of it rose as steam and there was no further doubt as to its
Similar Books
