would it do to scream and rail against fate? Gods, all the screams in the world would not alleviate his guilt!
Clywd met Caddaric when he emerged from the trees. One look at his son’s face told the Druid of the burden on the younger man’s soul and Clywd longed to take Caddaric in his arms and offer some measure of comfort. Instead, Clywd tucked his hands into his sleeves and moved to Caddaric’s side. “Pyres have been prepared. We will honor our dead before riding south.”
Caddaric closed his eyes, unable to bear the thought of Artair’s body consumed by flames. Artair should be standing at his side, a grin threatening to split his face, not lying in his arms, growing steadily colder. He should have told Artair that he forgave him his part in Jilana’s treachery, that they were still friends.
“Caddaric,” Clywd gently called, “I ache for your loss, but we have no time in which to mourn. We must bless our dead quickly and leave.”
Gods! Why had he not told Artair he was not angry, that all was forgiven?
“Caddaric!”
The urgency in Clywd’s voice penetrated Caddaric’s despair and he nodded. Following his father to a clearing, Caddaric became aware that others had been lost. The pyres filled the clearing and a single fire burned brightly in their center. Caddaric lifted Artair to the bed of dried wood, folded his arms across his chest and took the sword from his scabbard. A warrior’s sword accompanied him to Annwn, but Caddaric would bear Artair’s weapon back to his father. Caddaric’s heart wrenched; how was he to tell Heall of his son’s death?
Clywd blessed the dead in clear, proud tones and called for*the family to come forth and receive the torch which would light the pyre. A few had some family member present, but most did not, so friends and acquaintances—and occasionally total strangers—took the responsibility of acting as family. Caddaric took his torch and paced stoically back to Artair’s pyre. There had not even been time to prepare the body, Caddaric thought irrationally as the flame illuminated Artair’s features. Behind him, Caddaric heard his father extolling the virtues of the dead to the appropriate gods. As if in a dream, Caddaric watched his hand reach out and touch the flame to the wood. The tinder caught and with a whoosh the pyre was engulfed in flames.
Caddaric took a step back, out of reach of the greedy fire. “Goodbye, my friend.” He tossed the torch into the pyre and walked away without a backward glance, Artair’s sword gripped in his left hand. He would not remember Artair as a monster of charred flesh and bone.
During the hard ride south Caddaric rode beside his father, not speaking, the reins of Artair’s horse wrapped around his saddle horn.
****
For Jilana, the march took on all the aspects of torture. Despite her care of them, Jilana’s feet were blistered and cut each day, and eventually they became infected. Where the manacles chafed, her flesh fared no better, and she was hard pressed to keep the sores from Heall. The rain had lasted four days before abating, and by then Jilana was wracked with fever. That she managed to stumble along behind the wagon without crying out her weakness to Heall was due to the streak of stubbornness that seemed to increase even as her physical strength diminished. Blessedly, Heall insisted upon preparing their evening meals, so Jilana had some time to herself to clean and bind her injuries and gather the strength to pick at her food. At night she would roll into her blanket and fall into unconsciousness.
When the sun finally emerged, Jilana was gripped by a feverish chill that the sun did nothing to abate. On the sixth day, Jilana woke to the discovery that her body Had one more act of treachery to play upon her. Walking some distance from the wagon, Jilana fought back tears while she tore what remained of her undertunic into several strips and tended to her body’s needs. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she left Heall harnessing the horses and sought Ede. Ede was engaged in the same task as Heall and Jilana waited until she had the horses hitched to the wagon before she spoke.
“Ede, I need a word with you.”
Ede whirled around. A biting retort rose to her lips, but the sight of Jilana stopped the words. The Roman looked terrible! Ede had seen neither Heall nor Jilana since the first day of the march, preferring Lhwyd’s company to theirs. One of Lhwyd’s guards—less conceited than the others—had taken an interest in her, and Ede had found herself, unwillingly at first, returning that interest. Now, she discovered, her jealousy of Caddaric’s Roman mistress, which had once burned so hotly, had been all but extinguished. Ewan’s attention was a balm to Ede’s wounded pride. Ede’s stare was so intense that Jilana had to force herself to speak again.
“Please, Ede; just a moment of your time.”
Ede nodded and watched Jilana approach. Her first instinct was to tell the smaller woman to sit down, but Ede stopped herself. ‘Twas none of her concern that Caddaric’s slave looked to be on the brink of death. “What do you want?”
Jilana nervously wet her cracked lips. What she was about to ask was embarrassing, and before she could change her mind, Jilana blurted out the request. “I have need of rags or strips of cloth. Can you give me some?”
Ede frowned. “Why?”
A dull flush tinged Jilana’s pale cheeks. “‘Tis personal, Ede.”
“Then ask Heall; he is your watchdog, not I.”
“I cannot!” Jilana gasped. “I—the cloth—“She dropped her eyes to the ground. “‘Tis my woman’s time, Ede,” she confided on a barely audible note, “and I have no provisions for…” Her voice trailed off in numbing embarrassment.
Ede found herself blushing as well, something she had not done since she first learned of the differences between men and women. “I understand; bide a moment.” She went to the wagon and rifled through one of the kists until she found what Jilana needed. Jilana’s heartfelt thanks when Ede handed her the cloths shamed Ede and she hesitantly offered the Roman a clean tunic.
“Oh, nay, I could not,” Jilana answered, aware of the stains on her stola and its frayed hem. “But thank you.”
Ede noted the overly bright eyes and the blanket Jilana clutched about her. Obviously Caddaric’s Roman was ill. “I have a spare cloak,” Ede said gently. “‘Twill keep you warmer than that blanket.”
Jilana shook her head. “Caddaric would not want you to interfere. Thank you again, Ede.”
It was on the tip of Ede’s tongue to say that Caddaric would not want her dead, either, but Jilana was already walking away. Shaking her head, Ede went back to the wagon. The Roman had courage, no doubt of that, but it was sorely misplaced. She should talk to Heall, tell him that Jilana was ill, but the column was starting to move. She would tell Heall tonight.
Heall was waiting when Jilana returned to their camp, and as unobtrusively as possible, she placed her bundle of cloth in the wagon. Heall, for all that he had never married, was no stranger to women and their needs. He understood what Jilana needed the cloth for and made no comment about it. Instead, he peered intently into her face.
“You do not look well.”
Jilana forced a tiny smile. “Only a chill from the rain, Heall. May I keep the blanket today?”
“Of course.” Heall placed the back of his hand against her forehead and frowned. “You have a fever.”
“A small one.” Jilana stepped away from Heall’s touch and extended her arms. “We should leave.”
“No chains,” Heall decided in a voice that brooked no argument. “Not today. I think you should ride in the wagon.”
“But Caddaric—”
“Caddaric be hanged,” Heall swore. He had had enough of inflicting the punishment Caddaric had dictated. “You will ride with me.”
Jilana was too weak to argue. When Heall picked her up in his arms and laid her on the grain sacks in the wagon she did nothing more than murmur her thanks.
“What is this?” Heall demanded.
Jilana opened her eyes and looked at Heall. Her skirt had ridden up, exposing her bandaged feet.
“Where are your shoes?”
Jilana sighed. “I thr
ew them away after the first day; they were not made for walking. ‘Twas easier to go barefoot.”
“And these?” Heall touched one of the ankles she had managed to bandage.
“The manacles chafe my skin,” Jilana explained wearily.
Heall gave an angry growl. “Why did you not tell me?” When Jilana merely shrugged, his eyes narrowed. “Do you think I would have made you walk had I known this?”
“Nay,” Jilana whispered.
“Tonight when we make camp, we will see to these.” Heall gestured to her feet. “From now on, you will ride.” At Jilana’s meek nod, he grunted in satisfaction, went to the front of the wagon and swung into the seat. “Go to sleep.”
Jilana needed no further urging. She slept throughout the day, waking only when the column stopped for the night. When Heall had helped her down from the wagon, Jilana took two of the cloths from the bundle Ede had given her and looked uncertainly about.
“Come, there are some bushes a short distance from here.” Heall took Jilana’s arm and led her away from their campsite. She made no move to avail herself of the relative privacy and he understood her hesitation. “I will wait for you by the wagon. Call me when you are ready to return.”
Heall was as good as his word. When Jilana was finished, she called out softly and he hurried back to her. Another time she might have found such doting behavior amusing in such a gruff man, but now she was grateful for his assistance. She felt weaker than ever, despite her day’s rest, and when they reached the fire, she barely had the strength to stay on her feet. Heall settled her on a blanket on the ground, tugged a second blanket securely around her shoulders, and poured the water he had set to warming over the fire into a basin.
His gentleness was amazing, Jilana thought as Heall unwrapped her feet and ankles and washed them. Much like Caddaric… She drifted off during his ministrations and came to much later. She was still lying by the fire, but Ede and a man had joined Heall. Jilana tried to make her eyes focus properly, but the effort was too great. She gave up and closed her eyes again.
“Jilana, are you awake? Are you hungry?”
Jilana shook her head and instantly regretted the movement, for it increased her dizziness. Heall ignored her answer and ladled broth from the cooking pot into a small bowl. With Ede’s assistance, he lifted Jilana so that her back was against his chest and brought the bowl to her lips. “Try to drink some of this.”
With her eyes closed, allowing Heall to bear her weight, Jilana managed to swallow a bit of the broth he had prepared. When he brought the bowl to her mouth again, Jilana weakly shook her head. She heard him set the bowl aside and, with a small sigh, Jilana nestled her head in the hollow of Heall’s shoulder. Sleep claimed her immediately.
Heall gazed at the figure in his arms and his beard twitched as he frowned slightly. Jilana appeared to have lost weight in the past week, but that was easily remedied. What was of greater concern was the infection in her injuries. Her feet were the worst. By all the gods, why had she not asked him for a pair of shoes? Even as he asked himself the question, Heall knew the answer: her stubborn pride would not allow it. Foolish child, he thought, shaking his head. And her ankles and wrists were more than chafed; the flesh was scraped raw and oozing. No doubt the infection was contributing to her fever. How he wished Clywd were here; the Druid would know how to
care for Jilana. Heall brushed the hair away from her face and studied her features. Such a pretty, delicate creature, he thought with a smile. Who would have thought… He looked up to find Ede regarding him curiously. Heall lowered Jilana back to the ground and covered her with the blanket.
“Will you ride with me tomorrow?” Heall asked Ede. “I need someone to watch over Jilana.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ede consented. “Ewan will take my wagon, will you not?” she cajoled the warrior at her side. Ewan nodded and was rewarded with a lingering kiss. The two rose and, after bidding Heall good night, walked to their own camp.
Heall checked the fire and then rolled into a blanket near Jilana. Before falling asleep, the old warrior entertained himself with visions of the tongue lashing he would give Caddaric upon his return.
****
Three days later, at nightfall, the war band returned, and while the chieftains immediately made their report to Boadicea, the warriors spread out through the column to find their kinsmen. Word of their arrival spread like wildfire through the column. Heall and Ede talked excitedly as they prepared a stew from the rabbit Heall had killed that afternoon, while Jilana brought bowls and an amphora of wine from the wagon. The resiliency of the young, Heall thought, watching her. She moved slowly, but the fever had broken and a few days in the wagon had done much toward healing her feet and ankles. Much as he had wanted to, Heall had not dared remove the shackles around her ankles, but he had made padded bandages that kept the metal from irritating her flesh. Her wrists were healing as well, and were without bandages since she was no longer chained to the wagon. The raw areas were scabbing well and would leave no scars; of that Heall was proud. Not even Clywd could have done better, he thought proudly.
Jilana had laid a second fire and now water heated over it. When news of the warriors’ return had reached them, Jilana had helped Heall and Ede erect the tent. Caddaric’s kist and the oil lamp had been placed within. He would be able to wash, change into clean clothes and dine on fresh meat. Surely that would mitigate his anger, Jilana thought hopefully. She had no thought of explaining—or trying to—why she had helped Hadrian. If he did not understand the bonds of friendship, she could not explain it to him.
Had Caddaric been wounded? Jilana wondered as they waited impatiently for their three friends. She should wish that, Jilana knew; she should want him to. suffer as she had suffered at his hands, but she could not bring herself to hope that he was hurt—or dead. The thought sent a chill through Jilana and she moved closer to the fire. Ede greeted her with a smile, which Jilana returned warily. Though the Iceni warrior maid had been nothing but kind during the past three days, Jilana still did not trust her completely. Ede was, after all, Lhwyd’s sister, and Jilana did not doubt that the Druid’s attitude toward herself had remained unchanged. Aye, the sooner Caddaric returned, the better.
Caddaric and Clywd rode slowly into camp. They barely had time to dismount before Ede and Heall were upon them. Jilana hung back, not wanting to intrude on the reunion, but an unseen smile of relief curved her lips when she noted how easily Caddaric moved. So he had not been injured after all!
“The stew is nearly ruined,” Ede laughed, hugging first Caddaric and then Clywd. “What has taken you so long? Were you successful? What of the Roman legion?”
“The Ninth is defeated,” Caddaric answered slowly, allowing the reins to trail on the ground. “A few survived, including Petilius Cerealis, the commander. He has fled to his fortress.”
“Another victory!” Heall laughed and embraced the two men. “We will hear of it while we eat.” He peered into the shadows beyond the camp. “And where is Artair? What has he found that is more important than greeting his father?” Heall grinned and looked expectantly at Caddaric and Clywd.
Clywd came forward and rested a hand on Heall’s shoulder. The gentle, reassuring movement drove a spear of dread into Heall’s heart and he shook his head slightly. In the heavy silence, Jilana closed her eyes and waited.
“He is in Annwn,” Clywd told his friend. “Artair died in the battle.”
Ede cried out once and then there was silence. Voices and laughter echoed from the neighboring campsites, a vile intrusion that seemed to mock Clywd’s quiet announcement.
“How?” Heall’s question was barely audible.
Caddaric looked to Clywd for guidance, and when his father nodded, Caddaric explained the circumstances of Artair’s death. “‘Tis my fault, Heall,” Caddaric concluded grimly. “I should have warned him—”
“My son…” Heall cleared his throat. “My son fought bravely?”
“Aye, my frie
nd; he did.” Caddaric turned to his horse and took from the saddle an object wrapped in what was plainly Artair’s cloak. He handed it to Heall.
With trembling hands, Heall reached out and took the burden from Caddaric. He unwrapped it slowly, knowing what he would find. When at last Artair’s sword was revealed, Heall clutched it to his breast and bowed his head. His eyes were tightly shut, but even so the tears streamed down his cheeks. The cloak fell unheeded to the ground.
Jilana felt the wetness on her own cheeks and knew that she wept for all of them: for Artair, who had lost his life, and his father and friends who had loved him. Mutely, she offered up prayers to her own gods for Artair’s spirit. Without speaking, Heall stepped away from Clywd’s hand and left the camp. The shadows swallowed him and for a moment the four who remained stood motionless, trapped in the depths of their loss. Ede was the first to recover.
“I will see to the horses,” Ede said briskly, although sorrow lent her voice a husky quality. “Jilana, serve the stew before it burns.”
Jilana picked up Artair’s cloak, folded it, and placed it in the wagon before returning to the fire. As she handed Caddaric his bowl, she noticed the weariness that etched his features, but otherwise his face betrayed no emotion. Was it possible that he did not feel Artair’s loss?
“Shall I make you a pallet here?” Jilana asked when she served Clywd. Before, Clywd had spent the night with Heall and Artair at their camp but Heall had not made a separate camp for himself since taking charge of Jilana.
“Nay.” Clywd smiled as he accepted the stew. “I will go after Heall and we will spend the night in the forest.”
Jilana glanced at Caddaric and then knelt beside Clywd. “Did you know this would happen,” she asked in a whisper. “Did you see Artair’s death?”
Clywd shook his head. “I saw pain for my son, but I did not know its cause. I suspected—” He broke off and stared at his food. “The sight can be illusive and my suspicions were wrong.”
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