Arthur Britannicus Read Online Free PDF Page B

their freedoms.
    By the time the Gael left the slave market, the rain had begun and it was full dark. All trading was done and Filwen’s leather purse was heavy. Time for wine, food and a girl. He glanced at the rain swept square, flinched as a rat scuttled across his path and pulled a little tighter his wolf fur cloak, which was fastened at the shoulder with the heavy amber and silver brooch he’d taken from the dead Aulus.
    He glanced to make sure the two crewmen he’d brought as bodyguards stayed close. He saw they walked with their hands on their daggers. The thought made him reach inside his cloak, where he’d had a piece of horn sewn in, to attach his knife and purse. His fingers fumbled around. The scabbard was empty, his dirk was missing. “Where’s my short dagger?” he asked his servants. They fumbled at their own tunics. “I don’t have it, master,” said one. “Not me, master,” chimed the other. “Damn,” said the raider. “I must have dropped it somewhere.”
    He turned abruptly from the darkened square where two flickering rush lights advertised the wine shop, to go back into the auction hall, bumping against one of his bodyguards. The sailor murmured: ’No, you don’t,” and brushed aside Filwen’s thick cloak, opening it to the wool tunic underneath.
    The old raider knew at once what was happening, and reached again for his missing dagger. His fingers brushed on the empty scabbard just as the punch into his abdomen took the air from his lungs. The blow created a sharp, searing explosion that tore inside him. It hurt deeply as the sailor drove his long knife up and under the Gael’s ribcage, tearing through the fat and abdominal muscle, ripping past the lungs and stabbing cleanly into his heart.
    The force of the killer’s powerful arm lifted the raider to his toes and rocked him backwards. Filwen felt his short ponytail grasped from behind and his head was pulled painfully back. He tried to shove the second sailor aside but his arm was inexplicably weak and as his mind puzzled at the phenomenon, a rasping, sawing sensation stung his upturned throat. The Bastard sucked for air, and heard an odd whistling gurgle from his own slashed windpipe. The world was going dim. There was a gurgling noise like water draining, and a gout of warm blood splashed over the attackers, soaking them from wrist to elbow, spattering the first sailor’s face, but Filwen never knew it, nor would he ever know that the heavy purse of gold, the wolf fur and the big amber and silver brooch all had new owners now.
    Back at the jetty where Wavehorse and Fleetwing were tied, the two murderers scooped up a leather bucket of seawater to sluice away the blood from their hands and weapons, then went aboard to collect their possessions. No point staying with the ships, in case some officious busybody came asking questions, and although it was a pity to give up their share of the spoils from selling the few remaining captives, the gold they’d taken from the Bastard was plenty. 
    “We should release these slaves”, said the first sailor, “It will give us time. People will think we’re hunting them.” The other agreed, and paced quietly up the deck to the high prow where the Britons were fastened. Mullinus, the house slave who could read and write, looked up questioningly as his hemp bonds were unfastened. “Go, get off the ship,” ordered his liberator.
    Mullinus began to move towards the gangplank and the sailor turned away. “I’ll take that wolf fur,” he told his accomplice. “Curse you, it’s mine,” was the snarled response. In seconds, the argument escalated and the sound of the scuffle drew a watchman from the dock. He ran up, his heavy stave raised, to stop the fight. Mullinus crouched in the shadows under the gunwale.
    The assassins were already in combat, slashing at each other with their knives. The discarded cloak lay a few feet from the slave, who cautiously dragged it to cover himself. The