The door to his quarters was unlocked. He kicked the latch, dislodging it, and the door swung open into the dim, musty chamber. Straw littered the floor and a fat taper burned on the only table in the room. There were two chairs near the smoking hearth; one of them held a body that suddenly leapt to its feet in surprise. It was a round man clad in layers of woolen robes.
“Good God,” the man exclaimed softly. “What is it that you have, Brogan?”
“I found her in the river.” Half-truth, half-lie. “I think she may need a physic.”
There were two beds in the large room, both with rough-fiber curtains surrounding them to create a barrier wall. He moved for the bed to his left and lay the woman down upon the straw mattress. Then he stood back, gazing down at her, feeling the presence of his roommate standing curiously behind him.
His companion was an old man, gnarled with disease in his joints and bent with age. But in his prime, he had been a massive man, a decorated knight with much glory. St. Alban de Sotheby moved around Brogan, feeling the lady’s pulse and lifting an eyelid. His big, twisted hand clamped around her upper arm.
“She is nearly frozen,” he said. “We must dry her off or she’ll surely catch her death.”
Brogan was cold as well. He thought it stupid not to have realized how chilled the lady was. Grabbing a rough woolen blanket from the end of the bed, he handed it to St. Alban, who began rubbing the lady vigorously.
“There isn’t much we can do about this dress,” the old man said. “She needs dry clothing. Go see if the Sirens have anything that may fit her.”
They called the barrack whores the Sirens. It seemed appropriate, naming the whores after beguiling women who lured battle-weary men into their traps. There were, in fact, three of them– Thelchtereia, Aglaope and Peisinoe, so named for the Sirens by none other than St. Alban himself. The girls had other names, Christian names, but they were only known by their nicknames. It kept a measure of anonymity to their presence.
Thel, Aggie, and Noe were thrilled to see Brogan standing at their door. He wasn’t a usual customer and his appearance brought squeals of excitement. He was an enormously large man with shoulders as wide as a door, and his granite jaw and close-cropped dark-gold hair were deliciously attractive in a world where slender men with effeminate manners were considered desirable.
Brogan stood out from the cultured norm with his thick, muscular arms and powerful build. When he spoke, it was in a rumbling voice with a heavy Germanic accent. It could be terrifying and sinister, uneducated and thick.
“Brogan,” Thel purred. “What can we do for you?”
Brogan gazed at the woman; she was petite, exotic looking with silky black hair and dark eyes. But women made him uncomfortable. The only woman he hadn’t felt uncomfortable with, besides his mother, had died eleven years ago in childbirth with his son. As he looked at the Sirens, he felt little more than disdain for the sex in general.
“Give me a gown,” he growled. “Something soft and warm. And with none of your vermin on it.”
The girls looked surprised, then confused. When their confusion translated into a long, puzzled pause, Brogan barkedat them and they scattered like frightened chickens. They ran about the room in panic more than in an actual search. But Thel soon calmed the group enough to produce a sheath of well-washed linen and a surcoat of soft lamb’s wool. Both were worn but serviceable. Without a word of thanks, Brogan snatched it from Aggie’s outstretched hand.
“Who is this for?” Thel asked. “Do you need our help, Brogan?”
He growled, not one for making much conversation. He had what he had come for and was disinclined to answer questions. But something told him that St. Alban would send him back down here for female assistance. Since Thel was the only whore of the three that he could even moderately tolerate, he motioned to her.
“You,” he said. “Come.”
She bolted after him and they mounted the steps to the second floor. Thel was giddy with anticipation but banked herself well. When they reached the room at the end of the hall, Brogan ushered the woman inside and closed the door. St. Alban’s cat, a fat orange beast, hissed at the woman when she strayed too close to it. She kicked at it as Brogan ushered her over to the bed.
St. Alban glanced up from his charge. “Ah, Thelchtereia,” he said. “How good of you to come. We have a visitor that requires your help.”
Thel’s excitement drained into confusion. She peered at the woman on the bed, buried under mounds of both wet and dry material. Now thoroughly puzzled, she put her hand on the pasty forehead.
“What happened to her?” she asked.
Brogan just walked away. He wasn’t about to explain how he, literally, bumped into her. St. Alban knew better than to press him.
“Our friend Brogan rescued her from a watery grave.” He had no idea how close he was to the truth. “We must take her from these wet clothes.”
Brogan pulled the curtain to allow St. Alban and Thel to strip the unconscious woman and replace her clothing. Odd that he felt a certain amount of anxiety as he paced the floor. Somehow, he felt responsible for the woman. On the most selfish night of his life he found himself concerned for another when he clearly should not have concerned himself. He should walk right back to the bridge and finish what he started. But he couldn’t.
St. Alban pulled the curtain back after a short amount of time. Brogan wandered over, gazing down at the ill woman; Thel was drying her hair and he could see, now that she wasn’t sopping and there was some color back in her cheeks, that she was an exquisitely beautiful creature. He found himself staring at her fine features with a fair amount of curiosity. She had been small and light in his arms, and her brown hair was drying into a delightful shimmering chestnut shade. He could see hues of gold and red intertwined as the firelight played upon the strands.
“A friend of yours?” Thel asked him softly.
He must have been staring harder than he realized. Thel’s voice pierced his thoughts and his reaction was brief embarrassment, followed by his usual growling manner. Thel smiled and it only served to inflame him. They both knew she had caught him in a moment of genuine interest.
“I dragged her from the river,” he said.
“What on earth was this woman doing in the river?” Thel held up one of the rough, red palms. “Look at her hands. They’re blistered and worn. Perhaps she is a servant and her master grew angry with her.”
