Thorne and Miranda: A Tale of Roman Brittania

The Threat

When Miranda awoke, Thorne was gone. The sun was up, so she assumed he was drilling with Doku and the other guards. She reached into her pillow-slip and found the mending she worked on in the rare moments she was alone. "Green for mountains," she murmured, mending one last tear in what appeared to be a narrow blanket. "Green grows the grass. Blue runs the river and blue stretches the sky. Yellow is the least, for gold and for grain."

She'd only half-mended the tear when she heard her maids outside her door. Hastily, Miranda hid the cloth and pretended to just be rising. She cherished her private talks with her guard, when his voice was low and smooth as silk; loved hearing about his dreams and the life he'd left behind. Miranda found herself wondering what kind of life Mara had left behind and then felt foolish when Mara herself walked through the door.

"Mistress, where is your guard?" Mara asked when she spied the forsaken blankets beside Miranda's bed. The clash of spears and sounds of straining men drifted through the window. "With Doku? But his arm is not yet healed!" Mara shook her head. "He seems determined. Let us hope he leaves himself energy for the remainder of the day."

Miranda thought of the clothing she'd been mending. "Something tells me he will give all at whatever he does."

"MacEwyn women are to be envied, to have such men," Mara commented and went to draw her mistress a bath, oblivious to the reaction she'd garnered from the opinion.

The slave's comment left her mistress feeling unsettled. How would Mara know about things like that when Miranda didn't? Why should Miranda even care about women so far away, women Thorne wasn't likely to ever even see again, let alone envy them? She shook off the sadness that the idea of Thorne never seeing his family again brought to her. Why in the world should she care about Thorne himself?

Silently, Miranda chastised herself. Of course, she should care! Did Scripture not command masters to treat their slaves as brothers, since both served the same master in the Christ?5 She was just finishing her bath when Thorne returned to the hall of women. He eyed her wrapper and immediately turned his back without comment. Miranda found his blush endearing.

He was soaked with sweat and clearly exhausted by his workout with the other guards. She could smell his perspiration and had no desire to be accompanied the entire day by the odor. "The water is still warm, if you would like to wash," Miranda offered quietly.

"What of the others?" Thorne asked cautiously.

Miranda had to grin at his reticence. Clearly, he was afraid of walking in on bathing slave women. "I did not offer it to them. Mara attends me alone in the morning while the others tend the kitchen and stable chores. They all wash in the kitchen."

"Linger in the tub a while," Mara added from behind her mistress. "We have sewn you another tunic, and I shall fetch it as soon as Mistress is properly gowned for the day."

"Thank you, Milady. I would enjoy being clean again." The two women watched in amusement as Thorne edged toward the bathing chamber, keeping his back to his mistress.

Miranda made no move to dress until her guard was clearly involved in his bath. When he was, she hurried Mara along with one eye toward the open bathing chamber doorway. She'd never seen the need for a door between the two rooms before, but now Miranda was wondering if a curtain should be hung.

As soon as Mara was satisfied with her mistress' appearance, Miranda bade her to hurry and fetch Thorne's tunic. Mara was clearly shocked when her mistress lifted a comb and began to work through her own damp locks. The slave hurried away as if she feared her mistress would foment some mischief during the delay. Miranda had to grin. Thorne's question the night before had made her think. Why couldn't she comb her own hair?