Caddaric knew the tales as well, and he understood the fear which drained the strength from Jilana’s limbs, but he was not prepared for her next words.
“Then kill me now, I beg of you,” Jilana said weakly. “If there is any mercy in your heart, you will draw your dagger and put a swift end to my life. You shame me by allowing me to live when all I love is dead.”
In that instant Caddaric forgot that her parents and sister had existed—he saw only Jilana as she had looked her betrothed’s embrace while he stood watching from the shadows. Her struggle to escape him, her subsequent request to be allowed to go free, these had not been unexpected; but her plea to follow her betrothed to the grave drove Caddaric mad with some unnamed emotion. Unable to bear the sight and touch of her any longer, Caddaric thrust Jilana away with such force that she fell to the ground.
Too shaken by the night’s events to rise, Jilana stared him. “What will you do with me now?” She asked the question not out of fear of death, but out of fear of the known.
“I will not kill you,” Caddaric said tersely. “Much as would like to slit that lovely neck of yours, I shall obey the Queen’s command.” He turned toward the stable.
“Clywd! Come out here, Druid, I have need of you.”
Jilana’s heart skipped a beat when the stable door opened and a man came forth. Hoping against hope that her father or Lucius had overcome the Iceni and disguised himself in the flowing black robe, Jilana could not help the small cry of disappointment that burst from lips when the Druid reached them. The man was unknown to her and Jilana felt the last of her hope crumble.
“Take her to the villa,” Caddaric ordered harshly. ‘Keep her there until I come for her.”
Clywd nodded. “The work is nearly finished in the stable.”
Caddaric stiffened, aware of Jilana’s sudden interest in their conversation. “Take her—I will complete the task.”
The Briton stalked toward the stable and Jilana scrambled to her feet and ran after him. “What task? What lies the stable?” Ignored, Jilana grabbed the Briton’s arm and pulled at it until he was forced to stop and look at her. ‘The gods curse you, Briton, answer me!”
“I go to finish what my men started,” Caddaric replied, a muscle working in his cheek.
“That tells me naught,” Jilana cried.
“You may accompany me,” Caddaric offered. Then, with utmost cruelty he added, “This night we found many Romans cowering in their stables. They ran like sheep, leaving their servants to defend their homes, and we treated them as such. Do you wish to see the fate your family met?”
Jilana blanched, understanding quite well what the Briton was saying. Her family and Lucius were dead, victims of the Iceni revolt. Neighbors, friends, they too were dead, or would be when the warriors found them. Her world was gone, shattered by the Procurator’s greed and Boadicea’s revenge. An ever-growing weakness stole through Jilana and as she crumpled to the ground, the last thing she saw was the Briton’s mocking face.
Caddaric sprang forward, catching Jilana as she fell. With unexpected tenderness he lifted the Roman woman in his arms and carried her to Clywd. “Hers is the corner bedchamber—keep her there until I return.”
“Was it necessary to be so cruel with her,” Clywd asked as he took the slight burden in his own arms. “You could have spared her much grief, my son.”
Caddaric’s lips thinned angrily. “I do not tell you how to speak with the gods, old one. Do not tell me how to deal with this woman.” .
“You risk much,” Clywd warned. “With this one deed you may lose your destiny and earn the Queen’s wrath.”
“Enough! I will do what I think best.” Blue eyes blazing, Caddaric stood his ground until Clywd retreated into the villa. While it pained him to have disobeyed the Queen’s command regarding this Roman family, Caddaric did not regret what had transpired here tonight. Jilana would bear the yoke of slavery well enough, but to see her family also enslaved would have been intolerable. A determined set to his jaw, Caddaric turned and entered the stable where Heall and two other warriors waited for him. This business must be swiftly accomplished so that he could find Catus Decianus and win Jilana for himself.
****
Not until morning did Jilana recover from her faint, and when she opened her eyes to gaze about the room, she believed that she had been the victim of a nightmare. In the iron brazier in the center of her bedchamber a fire had been lit and Jilana stretched languorously, secure in the knowledge that she was warm and in her own bed. Surely no Iceni would have taken such pains to ensure her comfort! In a few minutes her maid would enter the bedchamber to dress her hair and help her into a fresh toga, and then Jilana would break her fast with her parents, Claudia, and, possibly, Lucius. From the lower floor came the sound of laughter and movement and Jilana smiled. All was well—the Iceni rebellion existed solely in her mind.
Tossing aside the bedcovers, Jilana sat up, swung her feet to the floor—and froze at the sight of the bloodstained hem of her toga. Scenes of the night past tumbled through her mind and as Jilana unwillingly touched the ruins of her once-elegant hairstyle a feeling of utter desolation ravaged her heart.
“Drink this, child.”
A drinking cup was held in front of her and Jilana recoiled with a gasp, then forced herself to look at the man who had spoken. He was tall, spare, with light blue eyes that viewed her—not unkindly—from an ageless face.
“Drink,” Clywd said again, understanding her fear. ‘Tis only a draught which will give you strength.”
Jilana violently shook her head and scrambled to the tar side of the bed. There she knelt, the bedcovers clutched protectively to her breast, and eyed the man fearfully. She remembered him now—this man was a Druid, a priest of the Britons. Druids offered human sacrifices to their gods and Jilana trembled inwardly. She would accept naught from this man!
When his prisoner did not move, Clywd sighed and retreated to a chair at the side of the bed. Once seated, he set the drinking cup aside and smiled gently. “I will not harm you, child. You have been spared for a reason and I neither question nor defy the gods’ wishes. Do you understand?” Jilana gave no indication that she either heard or understood his words so Clywd repeated what he had said, this time in the Roman tongue.
Jilana did not believe a single word the Druid had spoken. She was a prisoner, with no hope of escape, and she knew well enough a prisoner’s fate. She would be killed, or passed from man to man until her body and soul were so ravaged that some man would finally kill her because she displeased him. Better death than to be so illused, Jilana thought wildly. She must either find a way to force this priest into killing her now or discover a means of opening her veins if she was left alone for a time.
To that end, Jilana rose and stared haughtily at Clywd. In a clear, challenging voice she said in the Briton’s language, “I spit on your gods, priest! Only weak-minded fools serve them and only faint-hearted cowards follow those fools.”
Clywd stiffened angrily and then, unexpectedly, gave a short burst of laughter. “You must share your opinions with Caddaric upon his return. In truth, child, you hold much in common.”
“Caddaric?” In spite of herself, Jilana’s curiosity was pricked. “Is this Caddaric the one who masquerades as a centurion?” Clywd nodded and the violet eyes filled with hatred. “You are a fool, old man, to think I will share so much as a word with that dog. I shall curse his name throughout eternity.”
“By whose gods will you curse him—yours or his?” A knock sounded at the door and, chuckling over Jilana’s defiance, Clywd rose and lifted the bar from the door.
The door had barely opened when Caddaric strode into the room and Jilana took an unconscious step backward. Gone was the centurion who had so bewitched Jilana in an isolated glade and in his place stood a fearsome Iceni warrior whose bleak expression turned Jilana’s blood to ice. At some point in the night past, the centurion’s uniform had been discarded in favor of the rough woolen tunic he now wo
re and the clothing, as well as Caddaric himself, was spattered with blood. What drew Jilana’s attention, however, was the fresh gash which marred the Briton’s left cheek. The bloody line cut diagonally from hairline at his temple, across the cheekbone, to end at the jawline.
The dark blue eyes never left Jilana’s face as Caddaric spoke to Clywd. “The Queen plans to address the people. Go below and tell the warriors and warrior maids to assemble at the palace.”
“You are hurt,” Clywd noted anxiously. “Your wounds—”
“Are not serious,” Caddaric interrupted. “Go, Clywd. Give us.” With a last glance at Jilana, Clywd departed, Caddaric waited until no sound issued from the hall beyond the door and then, in slow, deliberate movements, unstrapped his baldric, leaned his sword against the 11 and advanced upon Jilana. Halting at the foot of the he coldly surveyed his captive. “You seem to have survived your swoon well enough. Have you eaten?” Jilana stared at him balefully and Caddaric checked a flare of irritation. The drinking cup caught his eye and he picked it up and sniffed at the contents. Satisfied, he rounded the bed and offered the cup to Jilana. “Drink is first and then we shall see about getting food for you.”
Jilana turned her head aside and gazed out of the win-low. She would not countenance speaking to this man, let lone accept nourishment from him. If all other resources failed, Jilana would starve herself to death!
“Tis not poison,” Caddaric said, thinking he understood her refusal. He took a sip of the liquid and once more extended his hand. “Bitter, mayhap, but not deadly. Come, drink—”
Jilana’s arm struck out, sweeping the cup from Caddaric’s hand. Clywd’s draught spattered them both and with studied contempt Jilana brushed at the droplets on her toga. Anger flashed in the Briton’s blue eyes but she refused to give in to her own fear.
Caddaric glanced first at his tunic, then at the mess on the floor, and finally at Jilana. “You are a foolish woman,” he said in a deceptively soft voice.
Jilana tossed her head defiantly and presented her back to her captor. Juno, let him kill me now, Jilana begged as a vision of her family and Lucius appeared before her.
“Since you will neither drink nor eat,” Caddaric told the slender back, “you will tend my wounds when I have bathed. I would not have my Queen see me thus.”
Jilana swallowed the enraged retort which came to mind. Calling upon every Roman god, she silently rained curses upon this Briton’s head and pleaded with the gods to give the barbarian a long, torturous death.
Caddaric’s temper rose with each moment that passed and he felt the last vestiges of control slipping away. When Jilana’s shoulders resolutely squared themselves, Caddaric clamped a hand around her left wrist and spun Jilana about. “Though you hate me with every fiber of your being, you will obey me, Jilana.”
“Nay,” Jilana spat, unable to remain silent any longer. “If Caesar himself so ordered me, still I would not obey you.”
“Your Emperor is in Rome, surrounded by Praetorian Guards and no doubt dining on honeyed fowl,” Caddaric ground out. “You, however, are here. Alone.”
“Aye, alone,” Jilana echoed bitterly. “You saw to that, did you not, Briton?”
“I am Caddaric.”
“I know well your name,” Jilana hissed. “That shriveled priest told me. You are no brave soldier, Briton; you are a murderer who slays innocents in their beds! A true man faces his enemy squarely but you hide in darkness and revel in the slaughter of women and children.”
Caddaric’s eyes darkened. “Do you still court death so eagerly? You are a greater fool than I had thought. Worse still, you are a danger—not only to me but to every Iceni.”
“A threat!” Jilana laughed incredulously. Then, a venomous expression on her face, she added, “Aye, I am a threat, Briton, for given the opportunity I will kill you and yours as carelessly as you dispatched all those I held dear. This I vow.”
Her words held the ring of truth and an icy finger touched Caddaric’s spine. He was, above all else, a soldier, a veteran soldier of not inconsiderable experience, and he was possessed of the soldier’s intuition which told him that the most dangerous enemy was the one to whom you showed mercy and then took into your own camp. Caddaric released Jilana’s arm, drew his dagger from its sheath, and slowly pointed it at Jilana’s breast.
Jilana’s heart lurched painfully against her ribs and then she sighed softly. The gods had heard her prayers. Jilana drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. “A clean stroke I beg you, Caddaric.”
For what seemed an eternity Caddaric gazed at the delicate face so close to his own. Fascinated, he watched the point in Jilana’s throat where her pulse beat, even while he steeled his arm to drive the dagger into her heart. Caddaric was no stranger to death, yet he found his hand refused to obey his commands when it came to this woman, she was his enemy; she had sworn vengeance against him—and she was his destiny. No matter what his soldier’s instinct told him, Caddaric could not kill Jilana. He gave a snort of disgust over his own weakness, Caddaric sheathed his dagger and watched as the violet eyes fluttered open and filled with dismay.
“Why?” Jilana asked pitifully. “Why?”
“Your life is not mine to take.” Caddaric pivoted away from Jilana and crossed the room to reclaim his sword. When he spoke again his voice was oddly strained. “Queen Boadicea has commanded that you be given to the warrior who captures Catus Decianus. You and the Procurator are the reason for the assemblage at the palace, Jilana.”
“But the Procurator—” Jilana started to protest.
“Be silent,” Caddaric ordered curtly. His failure to find Catus Decianus during the past bloody hours weighed heavily upon Caddaric. Soon he would be forced to
turn this woman over to another man. What then would become of his destiny?
“Where are you going?” Jilana asked when Caddaric opened the door.
“To bathe,” Caddaric replied shortly. “We shall leave for the palace when I return. Prepare yourself.”
Fear and sorrow threatened to overwhelm Jilana the moment the door closed behind the Briton and she brushed at the tears which flooded her eyes. Denied an honorable death, she was to be made a slave to whatever man lied and claimed credit for capturing Catus Decianus. The Procurator had escaped the massacre—Jilana clearly remembered Lucius saying the Procurator had left for Londinium—so how could a warrior offer proof of what was impossible? Jilana swallowed the lump in her throat and gathered her fragmented thoughts. She was alive—and terribly alone. Her fellow Romans were undoubtedly dead, or, with luck, had been able to flee. Jilana was isolated from all which was familiar and surrounded by those who hated what she represented. But she would not treat the Iceni to the spectacle of a broken, whimpering Roman, Jilana resolved. She would meet her fate with as much pride and dignity as Boadicea herself had shown.
To that end, Jilana stripped off her soiled toga and cleansed herself as best she could with only a ewer of water, a basin, and a piece of soft linen. The water was cold, but Jilana ignored her protesting flesh and, placing the basin on the floor, she stepped into it and poured the last of the clean water over her shoulders. Shivering, Jilana hastily toweled herself dry and arrayed herself in the finest toga her chest held. The snowy material fell in graceful folds from her shoulders to her ankles and was edged at the hem with interlocking green rectangles, the color of her father’s house. Her father’s house. Tears started once again to Jilana’s eyes and she shook her head violently. She would weep later, when there was no possibility of some barbarian intruding upon her grief. Trembling inwardly, Jilana seated herself at her dressing table, unbound her hair and carefully removed the strand of pearls from the red-gold curls. Methodically, Jilana drew a brush through her waist-length hair until the heavy mass crackled with a life of its own and then she struggled to braid the willful tresses and wrap them around her head. The result was disastrous, as Jilana saw when she looked into the polished metal of her hand mirror. The braids were helplessly lops
ided. Jilana pulled the combs from her hair and untwisted the braids. She must try again.
The door flew open and, with a gasp of dismay, Jilana turned to watch Caddaric stalk into the bedchamber. He spared Jilana a brief glance before crossing the room to deposit what appeared to be a roll of clothing into his own chest. Still clutching her brush, Jilana rose and eyed the Briton uncertainly as he strapped his baldric over his shoulder. At least he was clean now, Jilana noted. The soiled tunic had been replaced by a fresh garment and his short hair glistened with droplets of water.
By the gods but she is lovely, Caddaric thought as he adjusted the baldric. Visions of his dream sprang to mind and the need to take Jilana, to make her his, overpowered all else and without conscious thought Caddaric crossed the room to stand in front of Jilana. “Witch,” he murmured.
Jilana swallowed convulsively at the word and stood breathless as Caddaric’s large hand twisted through her hair. He has taken leave of his senses, Jilana thought wildly, for she could think of no other reason for the madness dancing in the dark blue eyes. Undoubtedly Caddaric meant to violate her, to punish her for the crime of being Roman. Caddaric’s lips touched her own, but instead of meeting with violence Jilana discovered an unexpected gentleness in the Briton’s kiss. A strange lassitude crept through Jilana’s veins, and when Caddaric deftly parted her lips for his questing tongue she made no protest. Reality spiraled away from Caddaric as he circled Jilana’s waist with his free arm and crushed her against his chest. Though Jilana gave no response, neither did she resist and with a growing urgency Caddaric devoured the sweetness of her mouth.
Defy the Eagle Page 6
