Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  Warm, brown eyes and a rough craggy face met her gaze and Jilana smiled with pure joy and threw her arms around the man’s neck. “Heall,” she breathed into the shoulder of his tunic. “Oh, I am so glad!” Over his shoulder she saw Clywd standing a few feet away and smiled her welcome.

  Heall lifted Jilana into a crushing hug, causing her chains to clash together. “So he found you, did he? I knew he would.” The chains clanked again and Heall lowly returned Jilana to the ground. His brows knotting into a frown, he held her at arm’s length, inspecting her from head to toe. A heartbeat later a low rumble issued from the depths of his chest and he rounded on Caddaric. “What are you about, boy?” The tone of his voice was less a question than a challenge.

  Genuinely puzzled by his friend’s behavior, Caddaric answered bluntly, “She is safe. Is that not what you wanted?”

  “You have chained her. Chained her!” Heall’s voice rumbled ominously and he bore down on the younger man. “She is no horse to be hobbled.”

  “Nay,” Caddaric agreed, “she is a runaway slave to be chained.” Heall’s hands transformed into fists at Caddaric’s words, and the young warrior took a cautious step backward. “My slave, Heall, to do with as I wish.”

  “Tis a degradation,” Heall growled. “She deserves better.”

  “She deserves naught,” Caddaric rejoined. “You should be thankful ‘twas I who found her; I at least took her alive! Would you rather I had killed her?”

  Heall paled and ground to a halt at that final taunt. Jilana, who had been unable to take her eyes from the two men, heard Clywd’s sharp intake of breath.

  “Let it pass, old friend.” Clywd’s urgent plea was abnormally loud in the ringing silence. “Jilana is safe and Caddaric is within the law. You have no right to interfere.”

  A shudder spasmed through Heall as he relaxed his belligerent stare. Shaking his head he turned from Caddaric to Jilana and draped a protective arm around her shoulders. “Come, let us eat.” Casting a glance over his shoulder at Caddaric, he added, “If such a simple consideration is permitted?”

  Caddaric’s jaw tightened but he said nothing, merely nodded sharply in reply. I will have to watch them closely, Caddaric decided; Jilana could easily twist the old man’s sympathy into support for a second escape. He pulled away from that disturbing thought when Clywd approached and he raised a questioning eyebrow at his father.

  When Clywd spoke his voice was low, but trembling with suppressed rage. “This is an abomination.”

  Caddaric shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. “Merely a precaution. Stop glaring, Father; ‘tis not as if I have beaten her!”

  “Nay, only humiliated her; left her without a scrap of dignity,” Clywd charged.-“Why? Why, when you have gone to so much trouble to find Jilana again, do you abase her so?”

  The question had carried to where Jilana sat and now she looked at Caddaric, violet eyes wide and questioning. Caddaric met her gaze and replied, in a cutting voice, “Contrary to your belief, I did not search for Jilana this time. Finding her was a trick of fate.”

  All the hope that had welled up in Jilana at Clywd’s words drained away and she forced down a spoonful of porridge. Of course Clywd had known she was in Camulodunum—she had felt the touch of his mind that day at the earthwall—and he had passed the information on to Caddaric. And Caddaric had not cared enough to search for her. He had stumbled across her by accident, and if he had not, his actions indicated that he would not have been troubled overmuch by her certain demise.

  “You are many things,” Clywd cuttingly told his son, “but I would never have thought you such a fool.” He led the others at the fire and smiled at Jilana but did speak when Caddaric took a place across the fire from him.

  The shared meal was quiet, tense. Heall defiantly asked after Jilana’s well-being, and she assured him in a hushed voice that she was well. Caddaric watched the exchange silently but when the meal was finished he helped Jilana carry and heat the water she needed to clean their eating utensils. Clywd disappeared without a word and Heall left shortly thereafter, telling Jilana that he would return as soon as he could.

  Jilana dried the cooking pot and carried it back to the wagon. The wagon was packed in an orderly fashion; everything that would be needed during the march or for setting up camp was within easy reach and Jilana repacked the utensils just as neatly. Caddaric stood at the side of the wagon, strapping on his sword. Jilana watched him perform this ritual and her heart tightened in fear of what his actions portended. As in Venta Icenorum, he kept his weapons well away from her; in this case, they had been stored in the wagon.

  “You are going into the city?”

  Caddaric paused in the act of swinging the baldric across his chest and looked at her as if he had just become aware of her presence. It was all pretense, of course; in spite of himself, he had followed her every movement. He adjusted the baldric and checked his long sword by sliding it out of its sheath before answering. “There is still a pocket of resistance that must be eliminated. Aye, I am going into Camulodunum.” He looked at her. “Is it necessary for me to set a guard on you?”

  Jilana lifted her head to a proud angle. “Where would I run? And how?”

  “Just so you understand your position.” Caddaric slipped a dagger into his belt and reached into the wagon for his battle-axe.

  His careless words cut Jilana to the quick and she lowered her eyes so that Caddaric could not see the pain reflected there. “My position is very clear, Caddaric.” And then, in spite of herself, she asked, “What do you intend to do with me?”

  A sharp ache went through Caddaric at the pathetic bent of her question, but nothing of what he felt showed on his face. What did he intend to do with her? He knew what he wanted to do, had wanted to do since setting eyes on her yesterday. He wanted to strip off that expensive, tasteful stola she wore and the white undertunic beneath it and bare her soft body to his gaze. He wanted to kiss her until she cried out and lose himself in the drugging excitement of her mouth; cover her body with his own and feel his hair-roughened flesh slide against her silken skin until this strange hurt in his chest—and the more familiar pulsing in his loins—was lost in their mating.

  The handle of the battle-axe grew slick in his grasp and Caddaric realized that his hands were sweating. He pushed the fantasy away, knowing that he could not trust Jilana enough to risk taking her as a bed partner, and answered as honestly as he could. “I intend to keep you, Jilana; ‘tis that simple.”

  And that complicated, Jilana thought as Caddaric walked away from her. She wanted to beg him to be careful, but she did not dare. At best he would laugh at her cautioning words and at worst—at worst, he would not believe she cared whether or not he was hurt.

  She had to fill the time until Caddaric returned, but had no idea how to do so. She walked around the tent, examining the structure and the stakes that held it firmly to the ground, then added more wood to the campfire. That was probably the wrong thing to do, for at other campsites some of the women were banking the fires and wandering off. There were children in the Iceni host, and they dashed about energetically in their play. A few children—as well as adults—walked past her several times and looked at her with open, but not unfriendly, curiosity. No one spoke to her before moving on, and Jilana grew increasingly uncomfortable being the object of such scrutiny. Accordingly, she withdrew to the tent, but after she had straightened the pallet, there was nothing for her to do here, either.

  What she would really like to do was bathe and change into clean clothing. All of which was impossible, of course. If she used the water from the barrels in the wagon she had no way to replace it, and Caddaric would undoubtedly be furious at such a frivolous use of water. He had bathed, Jilana reminded herself, but the thought left as quickly as it had come. It was his water, to do with as he pleased. Just as she was his.

  But clean clothing, perhaps that could be managed. And a brush or comb to work her hair into some kind of order. Doubtless
her trunk remained in her chamber at Venta Icenorum, but surely Caddaric would not mind if she borrowed his comb—and somewhere in his kist there must be an old tunic with which he could part. She actually worked up enough courage to open his kist, lift out its contents and find a worn tunic that suited her needs before she sat back on her heels and gave a sigh of defeat. Only two weeks ago, after their time in the bath, she would have felt secure enough of Caddaric’s feelings to borrow whatever she needed, but not now. Even his physical desire for her was gone, as dead as the fierce protectiveness he had once evinced.

  Jilana refolded the worn tunic and carefully repacked the kist. She gave the wooden comb lying atop the neatly folded garments a last, longing look before closing the lid and trying to work through her tangled mass of curls with her fingers.

  That was how Clywd found her, and he found the expression of gladness that flitted across Jilana’s face heartrending. She came to her feet immediately, and Clywd winced at the sound of her chains coming together. To see Jilana hiding away like some frightened animal was more than Clywd could bear.

  Jilana was overjoyed at the prospect of companionship. “Will you sit, Clywd? Caddaric has gone and…” Her words trailed off and she glanced helplessly around the tent.

  “Nay, Jilana, I cannot stay. In truth,” Clywd answered as an idea took shape in his mind, “I hoped that you might aid me in my work,”

  Anything, Jilana decided, was better than remaining a prisoner in the tent. “I will help in any way I can, but,” she cautioned, remembering her ignorance of that morning, “there is little I can do.”

  Clywd smiled. “I will teach you what you need to know. Come.” He lifted the flap of the tent and held it while Jilana passed through. He followed and picked up a large, rectangular box from the ground.

  Jilana stared curiously at the box as Clywd placed its strap over his shoulder. The workmanship was beautiful; the wood was intricately carved with writhing scrollwork and faces so fierce as to be frightening. Clywd took her arm and led her away from their campsite.

  “Where are we going?” Jilana asked.

  “Where we will do the most good,” Clywd replied. “You are much like me, I think,” he continued in a gently reassuring tone. “Tell me, did you feel me that day you stood at the earth wall?”

  Startled, Jilana did not even attempt to lie. “I felt something, like the touch of a hand upon my shoulder. But I did not know—that is, I could only guess that it was you.” She shrugged. “‘Twas Caddaric I searched for.” And then, because it seemed right to do so, she told Clywd of the vision she had had of the temple of Claudius and the disbelief with which it had been met. “The temple still stands, of course,” she concluded, “so perhaps I do not have this ‘gift’ after all, only terrible dreams.” Even as she spoke, she knew the truth. No one had dreams while they were awake. “I do not want the sight,” she exclaimed fiercely.

  “The sight chooses you, not the other way around,” Clywd said after a moment. “Yours is not strong—not yet—or else you would have found my son when you searched. If you wish, I can teach you how to use the sight, how to channel it.”

  “Nay!” Jilana burst out, horrified by the thought of being continuously assaulted by such visions. Then, more quietly, “I have no wish to know the future.” Because, she thought, I could not bear to know that Caddaric was going to his death and be unable to prevent it.

  Clywd drew her to a halt, his hand like a vise around her wrist. He stared hard into her eyes and Jilana knew lat he read her thoughts. Unable to withstand his scrutiny, she forced her gaze away.

  “So, even now you care for that foolish son of mine.”

  “Only because he stands between me and certain death,” Jilana felt goaded into saying. Clywd’s knowing chuckle did nothing to settle her turbulent emotions.

  “All will be as it was intended,” Clywd said cryptically. He laughed, softly, when Jilana shot him a fierce look. “The chains about your ankles work both ways; Caddaric is as securely bound to you as you are to him.”

  Jilana gave a snort of disbelief. “You said you needed my help,” she said pointedly. Minutes later, Jilana wished she had refused to leave her tent. What Clywd intended, for whatever reason the gods only knew, was that she learn the arts of healing.

  The top tray of the carved box he carried contained herbs, ointments, powders and potions whose names were as confusing to Jilana as their functions; below the first tray lay a second which held well-honed knives, an array of bone needles and stiff coils of thread which, Jilana learned, were not thread at all but fine pieces of cattle gut. Once soaked, the strands became flexible and were used to sew up gaping wounds. The explanation made Jilana faintly nauseous, and when Clywd told her that once the wound was healing the strands had to be removed, she felt herself pale. The bottom of the box contained material for bandages.

  All of this Jilana learned at their first stop, where Clywd was welcomed by the family of a wounded man who lay close to the fire. Jilana took one-look at the man’s blood-soaked side and blanched. Clywd was apparently unaffected. He smiled reassuringly at the warrior, handed Jilana the case he had carried and told her to open it. The man’s wife was instructed to bring vinegar and warm water, and their three children were sent off to play. While Clywd pulled away the bandage, he explained the contents of his case to Jilana. Jilana was ready to flee back to the safety of her tent before Clywd finished his explanation, but before she could say as much, Clywd had her cleaning the wound with the mixture of water and vinegar. The man groaned whenever Jilana touched him.

  Once that was done, Jilana’s legs were shaking so badly she doubted she could get to her feet, so she stayed where she was and handed Clywd whatever he needed. The sight of the exposed wound made her stomach lurch and when Clywd took a piece of gut soaked in vinegar and began to stitch up the man’s side Jilana had to look away or be violently ill. At Clywd’s order, she washed her hands in a bowl of clean water and vinegar, repacked his case and then rose shakily to her feet.

  “You should have told me what you intended,” Jilana said accusingly when they had left that family behind. “I cannot do what you ask.”

  “This is the hardest part of battle, I think,” Clywd replied thoughtfully, as if he had not heard Jilana’s protest. “The suffering is sometimes unimaginable, and there so little that can be done to alleviate it.” He sighed. ‘The families of the injured began calling for me yesterday and still there is no end in sight.”

  For the first time, Jilana noticed the purple shadows curving like bruises beneath Clywd’s eyes. “Have you rested since this began?”

  Clywd laughed softly. “Do you worry about me, Jilana? I thank you, but you should save your concern for the wounded. When this is ended I will rest and recover; if I do so now, many will die. That I cannot allow.” He glanced at her. “I understand, though, why the lives of these people are not important to you. You need not stay with me.”

  ‘“Tis not that they are unimportant,” Jilana protested, coming to a halt. “I simply do not see how my fainting or being sick will help you.”

  “I understand.” Clywd nodded and continued walking.

  Jilana watched him go. “They do not want my help,” she called after him. “I am their enemy!” The only reply Clywd made was to raise his hand in a brief salute and Jilana grimaced. For all his height and the voluminous robes he wore, Clywd made a fragile figure. In the week she had spent with him at Venta Icenorum, she had come to know Clywd well enough to know that he was as stubborn as his son. He would work at the task before him until he dropped. Reluctantly at first, and then with as much speed as her shackles would allow, she trailed Clywd and at last caught up to him. “You are a canny old fox,” she told him when he looked over at her. “And you will regret choosing me as an assistant.”

  Clywd merely smiled and pointed to another campsite. The wound here was less serious and Clywd took the time to explain to Jilana what he was doing and why. By midday Jilana had lost count of t
he wounded they had tended. Her stola was soiled with blood and bits of other things she would rather not remember; Clywd’s robe was no better, but since it was black the stains did not show as clearly. Her head was brimming with hastily imparted knowledge and her body was weary. When she was about to ask Clywd if they could rest, they were hailed by a very tall, dark-haired woman and with a sigh she trudged after Clywd.

  Instead of being asked to treat yet another wound, however, she and Clywd were invited to share this family’s midday meal. Jilana gratefully accepted the offer of water, and after washing her face and hands she sank to the ground by the fire. The meal was simple: bread and the same dried meat Caddaric had given her the night before, all washed down with a large quantity of mead. Like Clywd, Jilana refused the fermented honey drink and drank water instead. The food settled heavily in her stomach, but she thanked the woman with the same grace she had once bestowed upon the hostess of an opulent feast. The Iceni woman smiled broadly and launched into a speech that told Jilana she had become the object of gossip once again. Word had spread throughout the camp that the Druid was accompanied by the red-haired wicca who had befriended Boadicea at the flogging, been captured at Venta Icenorum, vanished without a trace, and then magically reappeared. ‘Twas hardly magical, Jilana told herself dryly, remembering how Caddaric had slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, but she did not disabuse the woman with the truth. Wicca—witch. Caddaric had often called her that, but no longer. He knew better than to consider Jilana magical.

  And where was Caddaric? Jilana wondered with a sudden pang of anxiety. Was he safe? From Camulodunum came rhythmic pounding that she had learned was the sound of a battering ram against the iron-plated doors of the Temple of Claudius. What survivors of the city remained had taken shelter in the temple and barred the massive double doors. Had Faline made it to the temple in time? Had Hadrian? So much waste and death, on both sides, she thought sadly. Clywd gave her no time to dwell on such dark thoughts. He thanked the woman, who seemed more than a little in awe of him, and they were on their way once again.