To Love Again - Bertrice Small [68]
Cailin knew from her conversations with Anthony Porcius that his daughter had been devastated and embittered by her husband’s death; yet here was Antonia, freshly widowed, her newborn dead, behaving as if nothing at all was amiss in her little world, and acting gracious to the wife of her husband’s executioner. Cailin found herself growing more and more uncomfortable. Why in the name of all the gods had she agreed to keep this woman company, even for just a couple of days? Worse, she could not seem to escape Antonia, who seemed to be everywhere she went, and always chattering, chattering, chattering about nothing. The longer Cailin remained with Antonia, the more her voice within nagged at her, particularly when her hostess brightly informed her, “I sent a messenger to Wulf Ironfist this morning telling him to fetch you in three days.”
“How kind of you to think of it,” Cailin replied, wondering why she had not thought of it herself. Being here must be addling her wits. Well, at least this day was almost done.
The evening meal was a particular trial. Antonia had always loved good food and good wine, which certainly accounted for her plumpness. She pressed dish after dish upon her guest, piling her own plate high with fish in a creamy sauce, game, eggs, cheese, and bread. She fussed at Cailin for not eating enough. “You will offend my cook,” she said.
“I am not particularly hungry,” Cailin replied, nibbling at some fruit and a bit of bread and cheese. Her stomach was in knots.
“Are you all right?” Antonia inquired solicitously.
“Just a bit of a queasy belly,” Cailin admitted reluctantly.
The little fool was in labor! She was in labor, and she did not know it, Antonia thought triumphantly. Of course she wouldn’t know it. She had never borne a child before. But Antonia was certain of it. “Wine is good for an upset in your condition,” she counseled, and she poured Cailin a large gobletful. “This is my favorite Cyprian vintage, and you will feel much better after you have drunk it. Take a bit of bread to cleanse your palate,” she instructed, and while Cailin was thus diverted, Antonia flipped the catch on a large cat’s-eye beryl ring she wore and slipped a pinch of power from the secret compartment into the wine, where it dissolved instantly. She held out the goblet to the girl. “Drink it up now, Cailin, and you will soon feel better.”
Cailin sipped slowly at the wine while she watched the half-full dishes of food being returned to the kitchens. No one, she thought, could eat all that food. Such a waste when so many are going hungry. Then she gasped as a hard pain tore through her.
“You are in labor,” Antonia said calmly. Of course she was in labor. If her earlier pains had been but false labor, the drugged wine had ensured the onset of the child’s birth.
“Send for my husband,” Cailin said, trying to keep the fear from her voice. “I want Wulf here for his child’s birth!” Oh, the gods! Why had she promised to remain here for even a day?
“Of course you want Wulf here by your side,” Antonia cooed. “I remember when I bore my darling son how very much it meant to me to have my Quintus with me. I will send a slave for Wulf. Do not fear, dear Cailin. I will take good care of you.” She helped Cailin into her bedchamber.
Leaving her maidens with Cailin, Antonia sent for a young male slave she had intended to make her lover. It was unfortunate, she thought, but she would have to kill him for his part in this matter, and she would not even get to enjoy him for a night. “Go to Simon, the slave merchant in Corinium. He sends consignments to Londinium monthly and will be dispatching a caravan shortly. Say I have a female slave I wish to rid myself of and he must send someone tomorrow to fetch her. She is a troublesome creature, and a liar. She must be kept drugged until she reaches Gaul. I want her sent as far from Britain as possible. Do you understand, my handsome Atticus?” Antonia smiled up into the young man’s face while caressing his buttocks suggestively.
“Yes, mistress,