“I will find a way to free you, Hadrian,” Jilana vowed. “Your life will not be wasted here, like so many others.”
“There is no escape for me, Jilana, only death. At least give me the dignity of choosing my own way.” Jilana applied the cloth to his wound and Hadrian pressed his back into the tree trunk, the breath hissing between his teeth at the pain.
“You will not die,” Jilana repeated fervently. “Not by opium, and most certainly not by Lhwyd’s hand.”
In spite of his pain, Hadrian laughed shortly at her vehemence. “And how will you accomplish this, little one? They have untied you only to assist that Druid; once you are finished you will be bound once again. You cannot help yourself, let alone me.”
Jilana concentrated on cleaning the wound while she formed her reply. “I am not kept with the other prisoners, Hadrian, and have some measure of freedom.” She was finished and about to draw away when Hadrian’s left hand grasped her wrist.
“Explain yourself.” When Jilana did not look at him, Hadrian raised the hand which held her wrist and used his knuckles to force her face upward. “Tell me, Jilana.”
“The warrior who claimed me in Venta Icenorum found me here.” Jilana swallowed nervously at the look of pure fury that swept across Hadrian’s face. “The Druid is his father.”
“And you are of such value to this warrior that he will help me because you ask,” Hadrian asked with a sneer. “By the gods, Jilana, leave me my honor, at least.”
“Honor,” Jilana echoed incredulously. “Honor! Of what use is your honor if you are dead?” She packed his wound and and began winding a strip of linen around his chest to hold the packing in place. “Nay, Hadrian, I have lost everyone I held dear; I will not allow you to die as well.” She knotted the linen and gathered her things. When her hand fell upon the bowl of water and opium she hesitated and then held it to Hadrian’s lips. “A swallow Only, to ease the pain.” He shot her an angry look, but obeyed, and Jilana threw the rest of the medicine away. “Have you been fed?”
Hadrian sighed and tipped his head back against the tree trunk. “A thin gruel, sometime during the afternoon.”
“When I return tomorrow I will bring food.” Jilana called to one of the guards that hovered about. “Tie him if you must, but carefully, with his arms in front.” While the Iceni carried out her instructions, Jilana built a small fire near Hadrian and fired it with her torch. “This should keep you warm tonight,” she told Hadrian when the guard had gone. “I will have a blanket for you tomorrow.” She knelt and stroked Hadrian’s forehead. “Do not be angry with me, Hadrian. I only want you to retire to your villa in the country.”
The opium had begun its trek through his veins and Hadrian smiled. “You are a fool,” he told Jilana gently, his words slurring. “I know what that Druid has planned for us.” The thought of being tortured and sacrificed had terrified Hadrian, but now he was too tired to care. The poppy’s work, he knew, but he could not resist the creeping lethargy. “How can you keep me from that, little Jilana?”
Hadrian’s eyes closed and he passed quietly into sleep. Jilana remained with him, tenderly caressing his blunt features, until Clywd came for her. As they walked to their camp, Jilana wondered at her own audacity. How could she, as much a prisoner as the others, have dared to say she would find a way to keep Hadrian alive? The depth of her stupidity astounded Jilana, yet she was determined that Lhwyd not claim Hadrian for his bloody rites. The bond that had been forged between herself and Hadrian during her few days at Camulodunum was a strong one; she would do whatever was necessary to see that Hadrian lived to a ripe old age, enjoying his country villa and raising horses for the cavalry. Caddaric was her first recourse. She would beg, offer him anything, if he would free Hadrian.
Heall, Artair and Ede were sharing the fire when they returned to the camp, but Jilana barely noticed them. All her attention was focused on Caddaric. He, too, sat before he fire, but when he saw Clywd and Jilana approach, he rose swiftly to his feet. There was a certain stiffness in his movement that spoke of emotion held tightly in check and Jilana approached him warily.
“Where have you been?” Caddaric’s voice was strained and his blue eyes glittered dangerously. The muscles in his arms rippled as he fought the urge to grab Jilana and shake an explanation from her.
“Jilana was with me,” Clywd answered before Jilana could speak. “I had need of her.”
A tic started in Caddaric’s jaw. “You had better remember, Druid, that she is not free to come and go as she pleases.”
“My apologies,” Clywd responded, a cutting edge in his tone. “I did not realize you would begrudge the wounded Jilana’s assistance.”
Caddaric dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “You are lucky she did not plunge a knife into their hearts.”
With a gasp of outrage, Jilana took a step toward Caddaric. He arched an insulting eyebrow in her direction, daring her to contradict him. Jilana swallowed the response she would have made in her defense. She had no wish to be further humiliated in front of Ede and Artair.
“If she causes you trouble, Caddaric,” Ede purred, “you need only turn her over to Lhwyd.”
Artair laughed. “What would he do with a woman, Ede? His passion is saved for the Morrigan.” Jilana sent him a questioning glance and Artair smiled blandly. “If you wish, Caddaric, I will take this one off your hands. No doubt she can take the chill from my bed on a cold evening.”
The words were barely spoken when Heall dealt Artair a backhand blow across his mouth that sent the younger man somersaulting backward. Jilana blinked in surprise; Heall had not changed position to deliver the blow, merely swept his arm backward, and now he did not bother to look at the fallen man.
Artair reeled to his feet, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “The Queen has declared there shall be no fighting,” he began in a voice that shook with outrage.
Heall glanced at Artair and then returned his attention to the fire. “We did not fight. I taught my son a much needed lesson in holding his tongue. Jilana is Caddaric’s, so do not growl over her like a dog over another’s bone. Sit down and drink your mead.”
Stunned, Jilana looked between Heall and Artair, noting finally the resemblance the younger man bore to the elder. Both their eyes were brown and the same shape, and Heall’s gray hair and beard could easily have been the same golden color as Artair’s. It all made sense—Heall had raised Caddaric alongside his own son when Clywd had been taken. Small wonder Artair was jealous of Caddaric; in Jilana’s eyes, Artair would never be the man, or the warrior, Caddaric was. Or Hadrian.
Remembering her friend, Jilana shook off her thoughts and turned to Caddaric. She needed his help if she were to free Hadrian. “I need to wash,” she said softly. “Have I your leave to do so?”
Caddaric nodded and watched as Jilana disappeared around the side of the tent. Her hair was a wild mass of tangles, her gown streaked with blood and dirt and bits of gore, and her bearing spoke of her weariness. She needed more than a bucket of water afforded—her eyes spoke of meeting horrors with which she had been ill-prepared to deal. And he, fool that he was, wanted to take her in his arms and offer comfort. Caddaric steeled himself against that unwarranted softness and resumed his place by the fire. Jilana would receive no sympathy from him.
Jilana filled two buckets from the barrel of water on the wagon and then struggled to lower them to the ground without spilling them. The rope handles bit into the flesh of her hands, accentuating the weariness that had seeped into her very bones. After a moment’s consideration to her modesty, Jilana shrugged and stripped off her stola, short undertunic and sandals. The Celts were embarrassingly unconcerned with nudity; it was doubtful anyone would be curious about her own unclad form.
The water was cool, but Jilana plunged her hands into one of the buckets and scrubbed furiously at her arms. Next she placed one foot in the bucket and washed her leg, then repeated the procedure with her other leg.
The length of chain made such a maneuver difficult, but not impossible, although she had to take care with her balance. When the water hit her ankles, Jilana gasped at the ensuing burning sensation; the manacles had rubbed portions of her flesh raw. She had only her hands with which to work, and it was dark away from the fire, but when she was finished, Jilana was certain she was clean. She splashed water across,her breasts and abdomen, then picked up the bucket and tilted it so that water sluiced down from her shoulders. Using the second bucket, she washed her face and then pulled her hair forward and submerged it in the water. She scooped water with her hands until all her hair was saturated and then attacked her scalp and the length of curls with her fingers.
When she was finished, her scalp tingled and her hair hung in a wet mass down her back so that trickles of water ran over her buttocks and down her legs, but she felt clean. Jilana refilled the buckets and washed out her stola and undertunic. The smell that rose from her wet clothing revolted her and Jilana scrubbed and refilled the buckets until her nose told her that her clothes were no longer offensive. As she had done with the other laundry water, she emptied the buckets some distance from the tent and then returned them to the wagon and placed the lid back on the water barrel. She draped her clothes on the bushes to dry and thought longingly of her pallet.
It was only then that it occurred to Jilana that she had no dry clothing to wear, and in her present state she could not return to the tent. Groaning softly, she sank to the ground and began wringing the water from her hair. A gust of wind hit her and she shivered with a chill. She dared not call on Caddaric for help, for he would probably parade her stark naked in front of his friends to the tent and that she could not bear. She would simply have to wait until her clothes were dry enough to wear.
Caddaric listened to the conversation swirling about him with only half an ear. Clywd had gone—the gods knew where—and the others were boldly retelling their exploits in battle and discussing the booty they had taken from Camulodunum. Artair left first, his lower lip bruised and swollen, and when Ede failed to draw Caddaric into conversation, she too took her leave. Caddaric nodded to her when she rose, but his mind was on Jilana. The splashing sounds of her bath, and the clank of her chains, had ended some time ago but she had not reappeared.
Caddaric started when a package was dropped into his lap.
“For Jilana,” Clwyd explained, standing over his son.
Caddaric peeled off the wrapping and snorted in disgust. The package contained a small wheel of cheese and a loaf of bread. “I provide for what is mine, Druid.”
Heall had risen and now stood beside Clywd. “‘Twill do her no harm, Caddaric; she is not yet accustomed to our fare.”
“Nor will she be,” Caddaric told his mentor, “if she continues to eat what we do not.”
“Caddaric,” Clywd broke in, “she has not eaten since midday, and she lost that after tending a terrible wound. Surely you do not intend to starve her.”
“Of course not,” Caddaric growled, recalling with a twinge how little Jilana had eaten the night before. He got to his feet and faced the two men. “I give you both fair warning: do not think to cosset Jilana. She must adapt to our ways and that she will not do if you intercede on her behalf.”
“She was more help to me today than any other I have trained,” Clywd informed his son. “If you wish her to adapt, you might try kindness.”
“When last I tried kindness, Jilana knocked me senseless,” Caddaric exclaimed, but he found himself addressing his father’s back. Frustrated, he turned to Heall. “You understand what I must do.”
Heall stroked his silver beard, then shook his head. “She is a gentle creature, confused and frightened by the violence erupting all around her—”
Caddaric laughed harshly. “Gentle! The first night she sought to bury a dagger in my heart and a week later she hit me with a shovel so that she could escape. I would hardly call her gentle!”
“She fights for her life. Why do you find that so difficult to understand?” Heall argued heatedly. “From the first you have bullied her, and you continue to do so. That is foolish—look what your treatment has brought about thus far! Think, Caddaric,” he implored. “She went willingly with Clywd and helped our people. Does that not prove that she responds to kindness?”
“It proves she wants to save her own skin,” Caddaric decided cynically. “See how she pits father against son— even you and Artair have come to blows. We must never forget that she is our enemy.” He calmed himself with an effort. “Go now, my friend. The hour is late.”
Heall departed, and Caddaric knelt to bank the fire for the night. He heard the soft clink of chains and, turning slightly, he saw Jilana peer cautiously around the corner of the tent. “If you are done hiding,” he taunted, “get the lamp from the tent and light it.” When she neither answered nor moved, Caddaric’s brows lowered into a frown. “Did you hear me, Jilana?”
Jilana worried her bottom lip before replying, unaware that the action sparked Caddaric’s temper. “Caddaric, please, may I have a blanket?”
Caddaric’s head snapped up and he rose quickly to his feet. “I told you last night where you would sleep; I have not changed my mind.”
“I remember,” Jilana said hastily, feeling the blood creep into her cheeks. “I do not intend to disobey you but—”
“But?” Caddaric inquired in a tone that chilled her even further. To add to her consternation, he began walking toward her. “Why do you meekly obey my father all day and then seek to thwart my simplest request?”
“Nay, Caddaric, I do not.” Jilana held out a hand as if to ward him off and tried to make her body disappear into the leather of the tent. A few more steps and she would no longer be concealed by the corner of the tent. Embarrassed, she blurted out, “I washed my gown and have naught to wear! Please, Caddaric, may I not have a blanket?”
Caddaric came to a sharp stop and then he was moving again, a low growl issuing from his throat as he came around the corner of the tent. “By the gods, woman, have you taken leave of your senses?” He grasped her by shoulders and was appalled by the coldness of her flesh. She was trembling, too, but Caddaric was not certain whether that was caused by the chill or fear of him. Wordlessly, he lifted Jilana in his arms and carried her swiftly into the tent and bundled her into the furs of the pallet. He took the lamp outside to light it and when he returned he also carried the package Clywd had left.
Jilana pulled the blankets higher around her shoulders as Caddaric set the lamp beside the pallet, and tried to still the shivering that had seized her limbs. She burrowed further into the furs, watching Caddaric through wide eyes.
“There are blankets in the wagon. Why did you not search for them?”
“I did not know you had more blankets,” Jilana managed to say. “And even if I had, they are yours, not mine.”
Caddaric’s jaw tightened. “Do you think I mean for you to freeze?”
Jilana looked away. “You have said I am your slave; I am doing my best to be obedient and keep within the boundaries you have set.” Caddaric said something Jilana did not completely understand, but his explosive tone was unmistakable. She closed her eyes and waited.
The power he had wanted to wield over Jilana was now his, but Caddaric felt no satisfaction. He had wanted Jilana to depend upon him, to accept what he could give without comparing it to the life she had once known. But the fact that she was afraid to take so much as a blanket to warm herself without his permission left a bitter taste in Caddaric’s mouth. A length of chain spilled from beneath the blankets to the ground and Caddaric looked away from the sight. Gently, he laid the package he carried upon Jilana’s stomach. “Bread and cheese,” he explained gruffly when she glanced from the package to him. He rose and began preparing for bed.
Jilana broke off a small piece of cheese and chewed it slowly. “‘Tis thoughtful of you, Caddaric. Thank you.”
Caddaric sat on the edge of the pallet to draw off his boots. After a long sil
ence, he responded, ‘“Tis a gift from Clywd.”
Her appetite fled, forcing Jilana to choke down the last mouthful of cheese. She should have known Caddaric would not have bothered with this small kindness, Jilana berated herself. She rewrapped the package and set it aside. When Caddaric asked if she had finished, she nodded and curled deeply into the pallet.
“Here.” Jilana looked up to find Caddaric standing over her, a tunic in his hand. “Wear this tonight; ‘twill keep you warm.” When she hesitated, Caddaric extended the garment toward her. “‘Tis not contaminated, Jilana,” he growled. “If you can accept food from my father, surely you can accept my tunic.”
“Thank you.” Jilana sat up, reaching for the tunic with one hand while she held the blanket to her breast with the other.
Do not thank me, Caddaric wanted to snap, but he bit back the words. This little wicca split him in two, engendering powerful, dangerous emotions. He vacillated between wanting to punish her for running away and longing to take her into his arms and protect her from the cruelty of the world. Her gratitude for so small a thing as a garment was as offensive to him as the shackles around her ankles, but Caddaric knew no other way to insure Jilana’s safety as well as her dependence upon him. He blew out the lamp and heard Jilana move to the far side of the pallet. No doubt the only reason she stopped was because the tent wall was at her back, he thought bitterly as he settled onto the spot Jilana had so recently vacated. The sound and motion of her movements as Jilana drew on his tunic evoked taunting images in Caddaric’s mind and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the memories of the beauty of her slender body meshing with his own.
“Caddaric?”
Her voice came hesitantly, provocatively, out of the darkness and his body stirred at the sound of his name on her lips. “What?” His question came out in a low snarl and Caddaric cursed silently when Jilana pulled even further away. With an effort he drew a tight rein on his emotions and repeated, “What?”
Defy the Eagle Page 29
