The Lion and the Lark

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “Why did you save me,” he asked, his voice hoarse with disuse, “when you despise me so much?”

  CHAPTER seven

  Bronwen sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, her arm imprisoned by his fingers.

  Judging by the strength of his grip, he had recovered.

  “I don’t despise you,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t have spent the last several weeks trying to keep you alive if I did.”

  He regarded her expressionlessly.

  “You don’t believe me?” Bronwen asked.

  “My memory of our last evening together is far too vivid for me to believe you,” he said flatly.

  Bronwen could not meet his eyes. “I regret my behavior on that occasion,” she said to him softly. “I spoke hastily, Claudius, I was much too harsh.”

  “But you meant the essence of what you said?” he asked, still holding on to her.

  Bronwen continued to stare at the floor.

  He released her. She looked up at him, his face hollowed with illness and shadowed by his beard, his eyes burning.

  “I understand,” he said dully. “A person in my condition cannot be exposed to so ugly a truth for a second time. It’s one thing to tell a healthy man that his touch defiles you, but another to repeat such a thing to an invalid.”

  Bronwen winced when he voiced her regrettable words.

  “You don’t like hearing that?” he said bitterly. “I didn’t like hearing it much either.”

  “Claudius...” Bronwen began.

  He held up his hand. “Don’t say anything else. Just go away, Bronwen. I’m tired.”

  “But it’s time for your medicine...”

  “Leave it there,” he said shortly, gesturing to the bedside table. “I’ll take it.”

  “Claudius, I want to explain...”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” he snapped. “Go. I’ll take the noxious brew the old crone cooks up, it hasn’t killed me so far. And if there’s one thing I discovered the night your kinsmen jumped me, it’s that I do want to live. You may not love me, but someone else will. I just want to get away from here and forget I ever saw your face.”

  Bronwen stared at him, listening to his cracking voice, feeling absurdly as if she were going to cry.

  Wasn’t this what she wanted?

  “I’m going to ask Scipio for a transfer the next time I see him,” Claudius added.

  “To where?” she gasped. “It’s the middle of winter!”

  “I don’t have to go overseas to get away from you,” he said. “I can go to Londinium, I’m sure the empire can find something useful for a bright young tribune like myself to do there.” His tone was flat.

  “But what about our marriage?” she demanded.

  He gave a short bark of laughter, then coughed and grabbed his abdomen. “Our marriage?” he said sarcastically.

  “I mean the reason for our marriage, the treaty. If you suddenly go off to Londinium everyone will know that...” She stopped.

  “That our union was a miserable failure? That the whole thing was a ridiculous sham?” he inquired, raising his brows. “That the bride can’t stand the sight of the groom?”

  “The sight of you was the one thing I always could stand,” Bronwen murmured.

  His expression changed. He watched her closely, waiting for her to go on.

  “No man of my own tribe ever stirred my blood the way you do, Claudius.”

  He swallowed, still silent.

  “If you think it cost me nothing to sleep alone with you in the same room, think again. You must know from my response the last night we were together that I find you as beautiful as the famous statues in your temples. I have from the first moment I saw you marching through the woods on your way to the garrison.”

  “You saw me then?” he asked in surprise.

  She nodded. “I watched from a cliff with my brother and saw you give the order for your troops to rest. You turned to your companion and smiled, and my heart turned over in my breast. I think I knew then, though I denied it to myself.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That you would be the one to change my life.”

  “But not for the better,” Claudius said quietly.

  “Do you believe in destiny?” Bronwen asked him, after a long, thoughtful pause.

  “Fatum,” he said in a low tone.

  “Yes. My people have great faith in it. Maeve made a prediction the night we met and I ignored it. To my cost.”

  “I remember that she said something to both of us. It seemed to upset you.”

  “I should have listened to her, about a number of things. It was she who healed you, not me. She has the knowledge.”

  “I know that you were here. I saw you. And when I couldn’t see you, I sensed you.”

  Bronwen nodded. “I was helping her. Scipio sent for that Greek he has used before for his troops and even the physician had to admit that Maeve had saved you.”

  “That must have come as quite a disappointment to the general,” Claudius said.

  Bronwen smiled, and his face relaxed.

  “Do you really have to go?” Bronwen whispered, sensing an softening in his manner.

  He looked away from her. “Yes. It is senseless to continue as we are, neither one of us needs one more moment of unhappiness. When I thought there was some hope for us I was willing to do anything, but...” He spread his hands.

  “Do you think Scipio will let you go?” Bronwen asked quietly.

  “He won’t want to, but he owes me.”

  “For the marriage?”

  “And for coming here in the first place.”

  “Did you have a choice?”

  “I was the veteran of many campaigns when I was ordered here. Scipio knows that I was doing more than my share in coming without protest. My family is influential, I have two uncles in the Senate and my mother’s brother is a consul. I could have had the orders changed if I’d complained.” He shrugged. “I think he will honor my request.”

  “What will we say about our...wedding?”

  “Nothing. It’s acceptable for me to go to Londinium without you; the weather alone is sufficient excuse for a woman not to travel. We’ve been together long enough for appearances to be preserved. As long as there is no dramatic renunciation,” he concluded, with a deprecating smile. “I trust that will not be necessary.”

  “You seem to have given this matter a lot of thought, Claudius,” Bronwen said.

  “I had little else to do but think while lying in this bed.”

  “Are you satisfied with your decision?” she asked.

  He smiled thinly. “Satisfied? No, I wouldn’t say that. I still wish it could have been otherwise, Bronwen.”

  The sound of her name on his lips made her go weak with longing. She wanted to tell him that it COULD be otherwise, that there was time for them to repair the damage they had done to each other, but then she remembered the communiqué that she had read.

  How could she take this any further when she was betraying his trust every minute of every day? In the beginning it hadn’t mattered, her desire to hurt the Romans was so overwhelming, but now that she cared about Claudius, it did matter.

  Very much.

  Maybe he was right and it was better to end it now.

  “I just need to know one thing,” he said suddenly. “Why did you take care of me? You could have kept me here in the house but left me to the care of others, no one would have known the difference. Was it just a sense of guilt on your part, or obligation?”

  Bronwen hesitated, unsure how to reply.

  What could she say that wouldn’t be a lie?

  Maeve came through the door with a steaming bowl of soup, saving Bronwen from a response. The old lady paused and smiled when she saw Claudius.

  “Ah, our handsome tribune is looking much better,” she said to Bronwen in Celtic.

  “Yes, he is,” Bronwen replied.

  “Now drink some of this,” Maeve said to Claudius, holding the bowl under
his chin.

  Claudius surveyed it with distaste and then turned his head.

  “Come now, you must eat,” Maeve said to him chidingly.

  He understood the tone if not the words. “I don’t want any more of that gruel,” he said to Bronwen.

  “What would you like?” Bronwen asked.

  “Solid food,” he said, putting his head back and closing his eyes. “Anything, as long as it’s not liquid slopping around in a bowl.”

  Bronwen smiled to herself.

  “What is it?” Maeve asked her.

  “He wants something else to eat. No more soup.”

  Maeve grinned her toothless grin. “Well, get him something, then. Boiled chicken and soft vegetables, manchet bread without the crust. No alcohol, goat’s or cow’s milk to drink.”

  “I’ll go to the kitchen and see to it myself,” Bronwen said, walking to the door. She glanced at Claudius, who was following her progress with his eyes.

  “I’ll be back soon with your meal,” she said to him, and then left the room.

  *****

  Brettix watched Lucia walk outside through a light snow and talk to her bodyguard, who was waiting to escort her home. She dismissed the Helvetiian and then came back into the paddock to take Stella’s bridle and lead the horse around the ring.

  “Are you sure you want to do this again today?” he called to her. They were running late into the afternoon after a long lesson and she was insisting on continuing the practice, even though they were both drained and tired.

  Lucia planted her hands on her hips. “I am going to make that jump today or die trying. Larsendt said he would give me a little more time.”

  Brettix walked over to her and lifted the hem of her tunic. He pointed to a large, purpling bruise just above the waistband of her woolen trousers. “You just might die trying.”

  Lucia yanked the material out of his hand and said, “That happened two days ago. I’m going to get it now. I can feel it.”

  “I’m sure you can feel that welt too.”

  “Why are you discouraging me? I thought you wanted me to succeed at this.”

  “I do. But I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Are you saying you think I can’t do it? Ever?”

  Brettix sighed and tried to explain. “No. I admire perseverance as much as anyone, but often it can be better to take time away from something when...”

  “You think I can’t do it. Ever,” Lucia interrupted him, eyeing him narrowly.

  “You are going to break your neck!” he exploded, his patience at an end. “I don’t want to have to go to your father and tell him that his daughter was thrown from her horse and now can’t move!”

  “So you’re arguing with me about this because you’re afraid of my father?” she said maddeningly.

  Brettix stared at her. “Don’t bait me, Lucia.”

  “Are you going to help me, or not?”

  “I’ll help you. Get up on the horse,” Brettix said shortly, his mouth a grim line.

  He watched as she mounted and cantered around the ring, calling instructions to her as she gradually picked up speed. Her form was perfect, her air confident, and he saw as she approached the jump that she was going to make it. Stella hoisted her forelegs smartly and the animal and the girl flew through the air and over the obstacle, landing as lightly as a new snowfall on grassy ground.

  Brettix felt a surge of pride so intense it was like the first time he had made the same jump. He grinned as Lucia let out a whoop, vaulted off the horse and ran straight to him. Brettix hoisted her into the air and whirled her in a circle, laughing.

  “I knew it,” Lucia crowed. “I knew it would happen today!”

  “You were right,” he exulted with her as he set her on her feet, his arms still around her. “I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

  Lucia looked up at him. “I’ve had a wonderful teacher.”

  “Do you really think so?” Brettix asked, sobering. “At times I thought I’ve been too severe with you.”

  She reached up to touch his cheek. “You got results,” she said softly, running her finger through his beard and then across his mouth. His lips parted almost involuntarily as she touched his tongue experimentally, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He turned his head and caught her mouth with his.

  He pulled her closer, slipping one long arm around her waist and drawing her against his body. His lips took hers more hungrily as Lucia wound her arms around his neck, hanging on him while his tongue probed hers. She could feel the tension increasing in his large frame as he made an involuntary sound of pleasure and straddled her. He ran his hands down her back caressingly and forced her into the cradle of his hips.

  Time stood still. The hissing of the snow past the open door, the rustling of the horses, the sighing of the winter wind: all sounds were lost in the hectic pace of their own breathing as they stood locked together, lost in the magic of a first embrace. When Brettix finally released her Lucia looked up at him and started to speak, then fell silent as the guard’s gray shadow loomed across the doorway.

  “I have to go now,” she said loudly, pointing to the door with one hand and putting her finger to her lips with the other. “Thanks for today. I’ll see you next nundina here at noon.”

  Brettix nodded to indicate that he understood.

  Lucia grabbed her cloak. “Goodbye,” she called, and ran lightly out of the paddock, her long hair flying behind her.

  Brettix stood looking after her, wanting to stop her, afraid of what would happen if he did.

  His stunning burst of fierce need had taken him by surprise. He had known that he was attracted to her, but when her felt her yielding and womanly in his arms it was almost impossible to hold back and be sensible. Only the faintest, distant call of who he was and where he was had kept him from losing his head.

  He felt like a hypocrite. He had chastised his sister for desiring her Roman husband, and he was no better. And he knew he had to handle Lucia carefully. Her budding sexuality was fragile and her confidence shaky; he could strike a heavy blow to both by behaving clumsily.

  But he wanted her, and he knew from her response that she wanted him too. Their unspoken mutual attraction had flowered suddenly and leapt into the open with one kiss, and now he could not ignore it any longer.

  What was he going to do?

  Claudius listened carefully, but he heard nothing. Bronwen and Maeve had left him alone, unusual in itself, and he planned to take advantage of his solitude to take a walk. He had not been on his feet since the night he was attacked, and he could feel his leg muscles turning to eel jelly. He threw off his lap robe and stood gingerly, closing his eyes as the room spun around him. When it steadied he let go of the chair and took a tentative step, his calves protesting mightily. He took another, then another, and he was walking around the room determinedly when the door opened and Bronwen stopped short on the threshold.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “I’m walking,” he said shortly. “And don’t try to stop me or I’ll thrash you.”

  Bronwen sighed and watched him pace past her. He finally stopped and looked out the window.

  “I want to go outside,” he said.

  “Claudius, the snow is as high as my waist out there...”

  “Just to the portico. The servants have already cleared that, haven’t they?”

  Bronwen was silent.

  He turned to look at her. “Well?”

  “Claudius, this is not a good idea,” Bronwen said slowly, as if speaking to someone with arrested mental development.

  “You don’t have to come with me,” he replied, pulling his uniform cloak over the tunic and trousers he wore.

  “Of course I’m going to come with you,” she snapped. “Do you think I’d take a chance on you falling?”

  He was moving past the chair on which his cloak lad lain when he saw the courier pouch which had been hidden beneath it.

  “How long has that been
there?” he asked Bronwen sharply, pointing at it.

  She shrugged, affecting an air of indifference. “I don’t know. Since you were hurt, I guess.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Let’s go.”

  “Just let me get my wrap,” she said, slipping into the hall and to the room next door, where she had slept since Claudius’ illness. Her heart was pounding as she put on her boots and donned the hooded, ankle length cloak the Iceni had adopted from the Gauls.

  Had Claudius forgotten the pouch until he saw it just now, or did he know something? His impassive expression had given her no information at all, so she returned to him, trying to put the incident out of her mind for the moment.

  “Ready?” he said.

  She gave him her arm and he stared at it.

  “I’m not blind,” he said shortly.

  Bronwen withdrew her arm and they walked, slowly, through the hall to the back of the house and out onto the covered porch, the timber roof of which sagged beneath its load of snow. Claudius inhaled deeply as Bronwen closed the double doors behind them.

  “Fresh air,” he said with satisfaction. “It seems such a long time since I smelled it.”

  “Do you want to sit down?” Bronwen asked, indicating the stone bench with its carved images of Ferrina and Anna Perenna, the Roman agricultural goddesses.

  “I want to stand up,” he replied, looking across the open space to the small stable behind the house.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Much better now that I am out of that bedroom,” he answered fervently.

  Bronwen watched him as he scooped up a handful of snow and ran it through his fingers. He made a strange figure in his native clothes with his uniform cloak, the badge of Roman authority, tossed carelessly over his shoulders.

  “At least I got to see this miracle,” he said softly, as if talking to himself.

  “Snow?”

  He nodded. “Caesar described it in the journals from his campaigns in Gaul and I could never imagine it. Crystals of rainwater? It seemed impossible.”