The Wolf of Britannia Part I

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Looking about, Caratacus shouted, “Tog! Take our friends and search the area for any intruders or outsiders, there may be other assassins on the loose.”

  Tog nodded and motioned to the six warriors who had followed them. “Come with me!” They hurried off.

  Tears flowed down Rhian’s pale face as she looked toward Caratacus. For a fleeting moment the slightest sign of a smile crossed her bowed lips before she turned her head away and began shaking.

  Caratacus stepped towards Rhian wanting to hold her in his arms, but he halted knowing that would be frowned upon, especially the night before the wedding.

  Donn, Cunobelinos, and Rosmerta, who had followed behind the Druids, rushed past him to Rhian’s side. “Are ye hurt?” Donn asked.

  Quietly, Rhian shook her head as she wiped away the tears. She inhaled deeply and seemed to will herself to stop trembling. She nodded toward the corpse. “He was going to kill me.”

  When Rosmerta attempted to console her, she was brushed aside. “I’m all right, Mother.”

  Although Rhian had nearly been murdered, Caratacus knew because she had been trained as a warrior, she would attempt to show no fear of death. But earlier she had been weeping—who could blame her?

  “Who killed him?” Cunobelinos asked, motioning with his head toward the corpse.

  “I did, Great King,” Clud answered.

  “Good man. Tell us what happened,” the king asked.

  “I was sitting over there,” Clud said. He pointed to the far corner in the longhouse. “I was repairing a bejeweled, golden pendant in the hearth’s firelight.”

  Even as Clud spoke, Caratacus saw it still glowed. Wisps of smoke drifted lazily toward the opening in the center of the ceiling, giving off the pleasant scent of burning pine.

  “I was repairing the broken latch pin on the ornament Rhian will give to the prince here as a wedding gift.” Clud nodded to Caratacus. “It was a sorry piece of workmanship,” he growled. “Earlier that day, I had gently scolded her for depriving me of the privilege of crafting it originally. Instead, she requested one of Camulodunum’s inferior, all-thumbs craftsmen to make it.” He glanced toward King Cunobelinos.

  “As I worked,” Clud continued, “one of the two slave girls,” his eyes turned to the chubby, redheaded Caledonian lass, now whimpering by Rhian’s side, “stayed behind while Rhian’s mam and da were visiting with the king to help Rhian with her weaving.” He pointed to the upright wooden loom on the opposite side of the fire pit.

  “That’s right,” Rhian said in a steadier voice. “I was weaving cloth for a tunic.” She sighed, her eyes darting to the corpse and back.

  “I heard a noise and glanced from the loom and saw the outline of this thing here,” she waved a hand toward the body. “Like a cat, he shot through the doorway with his sword drawn. You can see he was short and dark, but even in the dim light I saw his cruel and ugly scarred face.” Rhian paused and placed both hands to her ears and bowed her head. She trembled and took several deep breaths. The shaking stopped. For the length of a dozen heartbeats, she remained silent. Finally, she raised her head and lowered the hands to the side and faced the group. “A roar like thunder filled my ears. My two women screamed. I bit my tongue to quell my growing terror—I had to think of a way to defend myself—to defend them.” She went on to explain that the intruder, apparently not seeing Clud in the shadows behind him, headed for her. “My eyes darted from one part of the room to another,” she said, “searching for a way out. None. My sword hung on the wall on the other side of the hearth behind the assassin. I had only one small hope. Edging my hand along the side of my hip, I pulled a dagger from my waistband and flung it. But the stranger stepped aside, and the weapon struck the wall on the other end of the enclosure. Then he moved nearer me.”

  Rhian paused again as if waiting for someone to ask a question. No response.

  “My attendants screamed louder,” Rhian continued. “I nodded at Clud praying he understood that I was asking him to do something. Now! Quietly, Clud moved to the wall where he stowed his weapons.”

  Rhian further explained as the killer drew closer, she had seen a long-handled ax standing nearby. She grabbed, hurled it. The stranger stepped aside. He deflected the two-headed ax with his weapon and sent it crashing into a large stone quern used for milling flour.

  “That’s when I sneaked up on the bandit,” Clud said, “just as he raised his sword. I grabbed the sword I had been working on and leaped for the attacker. I bellowed, ‘Assassin!’ With a single stroke, I sliced through the middle of his torso. The slash was so clean and swift the dirty maggot stood motionless for a second before toppling to the floor in two parts. The pig had the bal … er, nerve to spurt hot blood on Rhian and me.” He jabbed a finger towards the corpse and shook his head.

  “It was sickening, I nearly vomited.” Rhian unconsciously rubbed her hands along the sides of her bloodied skirt.

  “Then I kneeled and examined the body,” Clud said. “I checked around to make sure he was alone before I laid the bloody weapon on the floor.”

  “I’m not afraid to admit that I swallowed vomit,” Rhian said. “I couldn’t stop trembling—still am, and I cried.” She raised her arms and folded her hands across the elbows and held them tightly. “I didn’t care about holding in my fears any longer, I was terrified, just like the two sobbing girls huddling about me. I guess I was more afraid than I wanted to admit.”

  “Ye have nothing to fear now, Daughter,” Donn said. “I’ll see to that.”

  Rosmerta stepped to Rhian, who now allowed her mother to give her a hug.

  “So will I,” Caratacus said.

  “I can’t in the name of the Mother Goddess understand why anyone would want me dead? What have I done to deserve this?” Rhian asked.

  “Nothing, my Child,” Rosmerta said. “’Tis an evil person who would do such a terrible thing.”

  Ibor, Cunobelinos’s chief law giver, whose duty it was to investigate violent deaths, stepped forward. “I will take charge of this inquiry as my position requires.” He kneeled and examined the body. He looked up and asked, “Does anyone recognize this man?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “He is a Regni by the looks of his clothing,” Ibor said.

  “And the blunt end of his sword further confirms it,” Havgan added as he looked on. “We saw enough of those devilish weapons when we fought them last year at Bagshot Heath. Correct me if I’m wrong, Great King,” he nodded to Cunobelinos, “but unlike the Regni, most kingdoms in southern Britannia use swords with pointed tips.”

  “Havgan is right,” the high king said.

  Caratacus spotted the crimsoned weapon used by Clud. “This isn’t your sword, Clud. Whose is it?” Even the blackening blood could not hide its splendor.

  For a moment, Clud stood silent. Then a sheepish grin crossed his face.

  “Well?” Caratacus demanded.

  “I … ah, the truth is, this is your wedding present … from me. It’s made from rare Damascus steel, the best. I hate the bastard for spoiling the surprise.”

  Caratacus gasped. In wonder, he stooped and wiped the blade upon the straw. Carefully, he fingered the blade’s edge, drawing an unintentional line of blood. He stood and held the weapon in his left hand, feeling its perfect balance.

  “A magnificent sword of this quality requires a great deal of work and much expense,” Ibor said in a demeaning voice. He stood and moved away from the dead assassin. “Why did you place so much time and effort into this?”

  “I will not insult Prince Caratacus with shoddy craftsmanship,” Clud answered sharply. “He deserves a present fit for a king, nothing less will do. Always has he treated me with respect.”

  Caratacus grasped Clud by the shoulder. “Thank you, my friend. Much as I appreciate this gift,” he said, “I’m more grateful that you used it to save Rhian’s life. I’m in your debt.”

  “Your thanks is enough for me, young Prince,” Clud answered, apparen
tly embarrassed by the attention. “I shall always serve the king and his family with sword or bare hands.”

  “But the question remains,” Caratacus said, turning to his father, “Why would anyone want to slay Rhian? And who?”

  “We will investigate this matter thoroughly, Son,” the king said. “With your pending marriage, I already consider Rhian as my daughter.” The king reached out to pat Rhian’s arm.

  Rhian bowed her head. “You’re very kind, Great King.”

  “This is the work of Verica, I’m sure of it,” Havgan concluded.

  Donn scowled. “If it be so, it be a coward’s way.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Cunobelinos said. “The question remains, why didn’t the assassin go after my son?” He nodded to Caratacus.

  “Maybe he did,” Caratacus said, “and when he found I was drinking with too many of my companions, decided Rhian was the next best target. Our betrothal was no secret.” He stepped to Rhian’s side and looked into her eyes. A rush of heat swept through his body. “Your death would have pained me as much as if he had slain my prize gelding—more so,” he said softly.

  A smile flashed across her lips. Rhian grazed his wrist with her hand. “You honor me, Caratacus,” she said formally. “I know being compared with a prized horse is the highest compliment that a warrior can pay to a woman.”

  “You are an accomplished rider, you deserve such praise and more,” Caratacus said.

  Cunobelinos glanced to Ibor and back to Caratacus. “Still the attempt on your life puzzles me.”

  Caratacus looked at his father and nodded. “It’s because I killed his son, Gwynedd, at Bagshot Heath. He wants revenge. He’ll take it in any way possible, by any means.”

  “We will never be certain, Great King,” Ibor said. “The assassin’s death leaves that and many other puzzles forever unanswered.”

  “Too bad he wasn’t taken alive,” Cunobelinos said, “then we’d have pulled the bloody truth out of him!” He motioned as if ripping a tongue from the dead man’s head.

  “The assassin figured he could kill and flee amid the panic,” Cunobelinos continued. He eyed the two whimpering slaves with disgust. He motioned the iron maker forward. “Not only does our son, but all of us, owe thanks to our friend Clud, the iron maker and master craftsman,” Cunobelinos proclaimed. “Had it not been for his courage, one close to all of us would have died a needless and savage death.”

  A chorus of “ayes” and “well done” came from the grateful group of onlookers.

  Caratacus stepped towards Clud, reached out, and shook his hand. “I won’t forget what you did for Rhian today. I swear one day you will ride by my side into battle.”

  *

  The next day, Caratacus and Rhian stood beneath a knotted tree in the Great Forest of oaks near Camulodunum, waiting for Ibor to complete his prayers to the gods.

  Rhian, bejeweled with gold bracelets and torcs, wore the great, gold pendant given her on the night of the betrothal. A deep-blue, woolen cloak covered her green-and gold-trimmed, silk dress. Tightly drawn into a braided crown upon her head, her hair was encircled by a wreath of purple and white wildflowers. Caratacus found her more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.

  Caratacus wore a deep-brown-and-white-striped, long-sleeved tunic and trousers. A belt of gold-ornamented leather, clasped by the dagger-shaped buckle given by Rhian, was wrapped around his waist.

  When the priest finished his incantations, he gathered up his flowing robe and sprightly climbed the tree. With a bronze sickle, he chopped the tough stem of a mistletoe branch growing in one of the clusters. The mistletoe tumbled below, caught as planned in a white cloak held by Havgan and a young, female acolyte. Returning to the ground, Ibor blessed the poisonous berries containing medicinal and magical qualities. He held the plants above the young couple and chanted the indecipherable words of a long-dead, ancient language. When finished, two white bulls tied to a nearby tree were led to the altar. As two acolytes held the beasts tightly by ropes, Ibor approached and slashed the drugged beasts’ throats as an appeasement to the gods. Blood spurted on Ibor, the acolytes, and the altar—a good omen.

  After Ibor’s invocation, Cunobelinos came forth to give his fatherly blessing. The king wrapped a leather cord around Caratacus and Rhian’s joined wrists. He intoned loudly the blessings of the Three-Mothers that the marriage be prosperous, long, and fruitful. “May Rhian be blessed with many children. Henceforth,” he proclaimed, “you are a daughter of the House of Cunobelinos!” The crowd cheered.

  A weight seemed to roll off Caratacus’s shoulder as his muscles relaxed throughout his body. He hadn’t realized how nervous and tense he had felt. He turned and grinned at Rhian who gave him a loving smile. Caratacus wanted to hug and kiss her, but custom forbade any show of affection during the wedding ceremony. Despite his earlier doubts, he was proud that Rhian now belonged to him. She would be a good wife, and he prayed that he would be as good a husband. He silently prayed to the Three Mother Goddesses that all would go well in their marriage.

  *

  The glowing embers of the hearth cast a soft light on the wolf-skin blankets covering the bed-pallet. Caratacus, lying naked beneath the cover, waited for Rhian as her attendants adorned her for the wedding night. She emerged wearing a revealing blue and white, woolen gown. In the fading light, he fixed his eyes on her graceful body scented with sweet jasmine. As she knelt beside him, the warmth of her closeness seeped into every pore of his body. Rhian slid down alongside her new husband, but Caratacus sat up, the blanket falling to his waist.

  A moment passed before Rhian forced a smile through tightly-set lips.

  Caratacus softly touched her rouged cheek, smooth and warm. He let his hand linger a second longer. “Let’s talk for a while.”

  “Could we?” she asked. The tension drained from her face. “I’m not afraid to admit that I’m a little nervous.”

  “I know.”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “Aye, but I guess that is to be expected. What would you like to talk about?”

  She thought for a moment. “You. We’ve known each other since childhood, but I really know little about you.”

  Caratacus sighed and his breath made a tickling, exciting feeling in his chest. His loins ached, but he had to be patient. Rhian mustn’t be rushed. “There isn’t that much. I need to know more about you.”

  Rhian softly kissed him on the mouth. “What about me?” She smiled and snuggled closer. “I think I’m a little boring, don’t you?”

  “Hardly,” he said in a husky voice and kissed her soft lips. “If you’re not busy in the household, then you’re out training horses or drilling for battle.”

  “Well … I suppose so. That’s just the way I am.” She raised her free hand and stroked the bridge of his nose.

  “There is nothing wrong with that.”

  “Maybe, but … but I want to be a good wife. I’ve … I’ve loved you all my life!” she blurted. Her face flushed. “Now, I’ve said it. I hope you don’t think me too bold.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “I usually don’t hold in my thoughts, except … except that sometimes I have when you were around. I don’t know why.”

  “Then don’t. Always be honest with me, always.”

  “One of these days you will be king, a great one.”

  Caratacus pushed the thought of being king to the back of his mind. “Perhaps. Either way, you’ll be at my side as my queen—a warrior queen.”

  She smiled. “I just want to be a good wife and bear your children, that’s all I really want.”

  Their conversation progressed, they said more with fewer words and greater intimacy. Even in silence, the feelings they conveyed seemed to reach one another in the dark shadows of their bed-pallet.

  *

  Caratacus awoke. Where had the time gone? The night had rushed by faster than he remembered. He and Rhian had been touching and kissing with increasing pa
ssion and soon were making love. Now, as dawn approached, he looked about and saw Rhian leaning on her elbow watching him. She brought one hand to his cheek, reached over, and kissed him. But his curiosity about where she had learned her lovemaking skills, and from whom, stirred again.

  “Gods, you were so good, Rhian, where … how? I’m almost embarrassed to ask?”

  Her green eyes looked deeply into his. “Please believe me, you are my first, my only man.”

  “I believe you, but how?”

  “Mother sent me to the tribal wise women, the crones. They taught me how to please a man. And they said not to be afraid and hold back nothing!”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I didn’t want anything to spoil our first lovemaking. If I thought it would have brought you to me sooner, I would have offered myself long ago.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Mother said it wouldn’t be the same unless we were truly husband and wife. She said it was better to wait.”

  “She is a wise woman.”

  “Did I please you?”

  He grinned. “Mother Goddess Anu couldn’t have pleased me more.”

  She snuggled next to him. “Do you think that you can ever love me?”

  For a moment Caratacus was silent. What were his true thoughts about her? He cared for her more than he realized. His face contorted as he attempted to find the right words. “I am in many ways like my father. Sometimes I have difficulty expressing my true feelings. But I know now that I love you, and I want you to be the mother of my sons. Truly, you are a joy to me.”

  Rhian kissed him. “That is more than I have dared to hope. I’ve always wanted to be your wife and have your children. They’ll be the most beautiful in all Britannia, because you’ll be their father.”

  They loved again, more gently, and slept, arms embracing. How long before we can love again? Caratacus thought. He wanted the memory of this time together to last forever.