eyes and wheat-colored hair—seeking one utterly unlike the sloe-eyed, golden-skinned Mariam, who was half Saracen—when the bawd casually mentioned that Ludmila was new, having been bought from slave traders just that past summer.
Morgan had been taken aback by the slave markets in Sicily, Cyprus, and the Holy Land, for slavery was no longer known in the domains of the Angevin kings. But those slaves had all been Saracens, infidels. This girl would have looked at home in any European city. The bawd, puzzled by his questions, told him that Ludmila came from Dalmatia, as did most of Ragusa’s slaves, and conceded that she was Christian, although she added dismissively that Dalmatians followed the Greek Orthodox Church, not the Church of Rome, and so their faith was suspect. Not to Morgan, though, who was shocked that the Ragusans would be willing to enslave their fellow Christians, and he politely declined Ludmila’s services, feeling he’d be somehow complicit in her enslavement if he did not.
The bawd was surprised and then scornful, although she tried to hide it. His companions’ astonishment quickly turned to amusement, and Morgan knew he’d be enduring their mockery for weeks to come. But his easygoing demeanor masked a strong will, and he remained adamant. He’d wait in the tavern whilst they went abovestairs, he declared, deflecting their ridicule with a sardonic gibe, saying he was sure he’d not have to wait long. They laughed, offered a few more playful insults, and began to pick their bedmates from the assembled women. It was then that Arne amazed them all by announcing that he did not feel right about swiving a slave, either, and he would wait with Morgan.
Even Morgan was startled, although he welcomed an ally and defended Arne’s decision until the others lost interest and let their whores take them abovestairs.
Back in the tavern common room, Morgan ordered wine and found a corner table for them. They drank in silence for a time, but he sensed Arne had something on his mind and after several cups of surprisingly good wine, the boy had quaffed enough liquid courage to make a confession.
“If I confide in you, Sir Morgan, will you promise not to tell the others?”
“If that is your wish, Arne. Does this secret of yours have something to do with your refusal to go abovestairs with one of the whores?” Arne was regarding him as if he had second sight, but he’d suspected there was more to the boy’s reluctance than an aversion to slavery; he was still young enough to remember how powerful hungers of the flesh could be for a lad of Arne’s age.
Arne nodded, then ducked his head to stare intently into his wine cup. “I have been lying, Sir Morgan, lying to the king, to you all,” he confessed, flushing so deeply that even the tips of his ears turned red. “You think I am sixteen, but I am not. I was born at Michaelmas in God’s Year 1178.”
“You are only fourteen, lad?”
Arne nodded again. “When I entered my lord’s service in Austria, my uncle told him I was fourteen. It was not so—I was twelve—but I was big for my age and I’d be one less mouth for my uncle’s family to feed. . . .”
Arne’s diffidence made more sense to Morgan now; a green lad of fourteen was more likely to be skittish his first time, and to be fearful he was committing a mortal sin. Arne confirmed that by mumbling a rambling story he claimed to have heard about a youth who’d been taken by his brothers to a brothel and then shamed himself by being unable to perform. “Not only was he the laughingstock of the village when the whore told his brothers that he’d spilled his seed ere he could even get into bed, but their priest heard and warned him that thinking of a sin was as bad as doing it and so he’d still go to Hell! How fair is that, Sir Morgan?”
Morgan quickly brought his wine cup up to hide a smile. This was definitely not how he’d expected his evening to go—tutoring this fledgling in
Morgan had been taken aback by the slave markets in Sicily, Cyprus, and the Holy Land, for slavery was no longer known in the domains of the Angevin kings. But those slaves had all been Saracens, infidels. This girl would have looked at home in any European city. The bawd, puzzled by his questions, told him that Ludmila came from Dalmatia, as did most of Ragusa’s slaves, and conceded that she was Christian, although she added dismissively that Dalmatians followed the Greek Orthodox Church, not the Church of Rome, and so their faith was suspect. Not to Morgan, though, who was shocked that the Ragusans would be willing to enslave their fellow Christians, and he politely declined Ludmila’s services, feeling he’d be somehow complicit in her enslavement if he did not.
The bawd was surprised and then scornful, although she tried to hide it. His companions’ astonishment quickly turned to amusement, and Morgan knew he’d be enduring their mockery for weeks to come. But his easygoing demeanor masked a strong will, and he remained adamant. He’d wait in the tavern whilst they went abovestairs, he declared, deflecting their ridicule with a sardonic gibe, saying he was sure he’d not have to wait long. They laughed, offered a few more playful insults, and began to pick their bedmates from the assembled women. It was then that Arne amazed them all by announcing that he did not feel right about swiving a slave, either, and he would wait with Morgan.
Even Morgan was startled, although he welcomed an ally and defended Arne’s decision until the others lost interest and let their whores take them abovestairs.
Back in the tavern common room, Morgan ordered wine and found a corner table for them. They drank in silence for a time, but he sensed Arne had something on his mind and after several cups of surprisingly good wine, the boy had quaffed enough liquid courage to make a confession.
“If I confide in you, Sir Morgan, will you promise not to tell the others?”
“If that is your wish, Arne. Does this secret of yours have something to do with your refusal to go abovestairs with one of the whores?” Arne was regarding him as if he had second sight, but he’d suspected there was more to the boy’s reluctance than an aversion to slavery; he was still young enough to remember how powerful hungers of the flesh could be for a lad of Arne’s age.
Arne nodded, then ducked his head to stare intently into his wine cup. “I have been lying, Sir Morgan, lying to the king, to you all,” he confessed, flushing so deeply that even the tips of his ears turned red. “You think I am sixteen, but I am not. I was born at Michaelmas in God’s Year 1178.”
“You are only fourteen, lad?”
Arne nodded again. “When I entered my lord’s service in Austria, my uncle told him I was fourteen. It was not so—I was twelve—but I was big for my age and I’d be one less mouth for my uncle’s family to feed. . . .”
Arne’s diffidence made more sense to Morgan now; a green lad of fourteen was more likely to be skittish his first time, and to be fearful he was committing a mortal sin. Arne confirmed that by mumbling a rambling story he claimed to have heard about a youth who’d been taken by his brothers to a brothel and then shamed himself by being unable to perform. “Not only was he the laughingstock of the village when the whore told his brothers that he’d spilled his seed ere he could even get into bed, but their priest heard and warned him that thinking of a sin was as bad as doing it and so he’d still go to Hell! How fair is that, Sir Morgan?”
Morgan quickly brought his wine cup up to hide a smile. This was definitely not how he’d expected his evening to go—tutoring this fledgling in
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