Jenny: Hawk

Ambrosius raised his brows. The scene was almost comical in its absurdity: Domitia sleeping like a child on the ground, the two young men facing each other like bulls, and Master Lucius attempting rhetoric. The only thing that kept it from being totally absurd was the knife between his feet.

The Saxon dropped at once into a passive stance by his master, but the Irish bull faced him, dark with anger, too angry for an outburst. He stood silent and looked the other unblinkingly in the eye for several minutes, in no hurry to brush him aside, in no hurry to let the boy walk away without knowing who he was flinging insults at.

When the dark colouring in the other's face had sunk a little with the passing of time, Ambrosius said, "There are two things you need to know, lad. The first is that you are in no position to speak to me in that tone, and that if it were not for that girl you would be in the hypocaust with the rest of the prisoners. The second is that no one treats women better than we do. Now pick up your knife, put it in your sheath, and do not ever, so long as you are breathing in my valley, draw it from that sheath again, or you will have my fist to answer to this time."

Master Lucius coughed significantly into his hand and looked worried.

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