Envoy of the Lord by S.W. O'Connell

Envoy of the Lord by S.W. O'Connell

Author:S.W. O'Connell [O'Connell, S.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Legatum Books
Published: 2021-09-21T22:00:00+00:00


Chapter 14

Fromm liked the canteen. He had already had two of the better whores. Both were Saxon women and slaves of the old Frankish warrior who ran the canteen. The warrior, named Boso, had taken over the canteen when he put down his arms. It was a fitting sinecure for a landless warrior who had served his masters well. Hook-nosed, creased of face, and bald of pate, the wily old Frank was a deal-maker with a strong sense of garrison politics, gossip, and rumor. Fromm knew the type. The deals he kept to himself. The gossip and rumor he passed on to Lothar.

“You look like you’re ready for your third wench, Norseman,” Boso said with a wink and a nod.

Squeals and grunts came from behind the dirty blankets that lined the back wall, behind which several ale-soaked soldiers thumped away.

“I’m ready. But first, let’s have another draught of that ale and a joint of something to gnaw on,” Fromm said.

“Anfelisia!” Boso made a sign and one of the slaves, a slender dark-eyed girl, ran quickly to fetch the food and drink.

“That’s a right pretty lass.” Fromm belched.

Bozo glared. “She’s no whore, Dane. If she were, I’d be a rich man.”

“I find that hard to believe. She’s the comeliest wench I have seen here.”

“Do you think you are the first sod to drool over her?”

Fromm’s mouth broke into a wide smile as the girl placed a large mug of ale and a leg of mutton before him. Her doe-like eyes and long dark hair on caramel skin were unlike anything he had seen in the north.

“You Norsemen like dark-eyed girls. That much I have learned in my forty years,” Boso said.

“Who wouldn’t? Although I do prefer a bit more meat on them. She can’t be more than thirteen. Slip of a girl, she is.”

“She’s eighteen. And a virgin, if you’d like to know.”

Fromm put his ale down. “I find that hard to believe.”

“She is under the protection of Willehad.”

“His mistress?”

“I told you, she is pure, as they say. The rumor is the fat old cleric fathered her on a journey to Italy. She says she’s a Lombard, but clearly, Roman blood runs through her veins.”

Fromm laughed. “Why didn’t the bishop marry her off? Or put her in a convent? You Christians seem to like to do that to your women when it conveniences you.”

“That’s because we are civilized. Unlike you pagan Norse. They say someday the entire race of Norsemen will sail from their homelands to raid, leaving their women behind.”

“An interesting idea.” Fromm took another gulp of his ale.

Boso leaned forward and spoke softly. “Some say Willehad plans on making her his wife. Others say he looks to sell her to the Avar chief, Dgno.”

“I don’t know which would be worse for a poor lass like that.”

Boso shrugged. “You came in with the missus, didn’t you?”

“You’re an observant man, Frank,” Fromm said.

“I rode with him once. Yes, it’s hard to believe but I once wore the brunia. Melchior was but a lad.



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