Jilana did not press him further. They finished the meal and when Ede offered her help in cleaning up, Jilana thanked her but refused. Clywd had gone in search of Heall and with Ede’s departure, the campsite seemed unnaturally quiet. Jilana finished her task and returned to the fire.
“I have water warmed,” Jilana said at last when Caddaric made no move to leave the fire, “and your kist is in the tent.”
Caddaric nodded that he had heard, and poured more wine into his cup.
“I am sorry about Artair.”
Caddaric looked at her then, the first time he had looked at her since his return, and Jilana caught her breath at the pain pooled in the blue depths of his eyes. “You barely knew him.”
Jilana thought of the night Artair had carried his saddle into camp to replace the one she had stolen. “Does that mean I cannot mourn his passing?”
Shrugging, Caddaric returned his gaze to the fire. “Nay, I suppose not.” He drained the cup and refilled it. “Go to bed, Jilana; I will see to the fire.”
Dismissed, Jilana took care of her needs some distance from the camp. When she returned, Caddaric was stripped to his loincloth, washing with the water she had heated. His tunic and breeks lay discarded on the ground and Jilana reached for them.
“Leave them,” Caddaric ordered in a voice so harsh that Jilana froze.
“I—I was only…” Jilana faltered at the look on his face. “They need laundering—”
“I said leave them,” Caddaric ground out. In two steps he was beside her and snatched the clothing from her hands. “‘Tis not laundering they need, but burning.”
“Oh, nay,” Jilana protested unthinkingly. “I can wash them clean—”
“Clean?” Caddaric gave the clothing a vicious shake. “What can you do that will wash Artair’s blood away?” With that he hurled the clothing into the fire.
Jilana swallowed and backed cautiously away from Caddaric. “As you wish.” His mood was violent and she had no wish to displease him.
Ignoring her, Caddaric went back to the basin and continued washing. Jilana took the lamp from the tent, lit it from the fire, and slipped back inside the leather walls. The lamp showed the two pallets she had prepared earlier and she walked to the smaller one. Would Caddaric be angry with this also? she wondered. She looked down at her stained gown and ran a hand over her wildly tangled hair. She had not bathed properly since Hadrian’s escape; surely Caddaric would understand her reluctance to share his bed in this condition. Sighing, she sat on her pallet and tried to comb her hair with her fingers.
When Caddaric entered the tent and stood silently watching her, Jilana tried to quell her rising alarm. He said nothing, however, simply watched her while he drank from a wineskin. The flickering light played over his bronze chest with its wedge of brown curls and danced down the length of his legs. Her body responded to the sight with a will of its own, and Jilana quickly folded her hands in her lap before they could betray her by reaching out to touch him.
“You look awful.”
Jilana looked down at her hands and said nothing. She could not dispute the truth of his statement.
Caddaric walked to his own pallet and sat down. When he had taken a long drink from the wineskin, he added, “You are pale. Have you been ill?”
“I—a chill, nothing more,” Jilana answered uneasily. She tugged at her sleeves, making certain they covered the scabs on her wrists. As unobtrusively as possible, she tucked her feet beneath her skirt.
Caddaric glanced between the two pallets. His was cushioned with furs while Jilana’s was nothing more than a blanket laid upon the ground. “You will be warmer here.”
Jilana’s cheeks flamed and she looked over at Caddaric. “My woman’s time is here.” Despite the blush, she bravely met his gaze. “You wanted to know, did you not? So you could be certain of my fidelity?”
“Aye,” Caddaric answered in a hushed tone. “I wanted to know.” He blew out the lamp and settled into his pallet after another long pull at the wineskin.
Jilana waited in the darkness, listening to his breathing. When she was certain Caddaric was asleep, she slid under the top blanket and rested her head upon her forearm. She thought of Heall and his pain and wept silently.
It was Caddaric’s groan that woke Jilana, though she did not realize that he had made a sound until he groaned again. A dream? Jilana wondered, frowning into the darkness. Caddaric was silent for so long that she thought the dream had passed, but then he cried out, a sound so full of pain that it brought Jilana to her feet. Groping her way through the darkness, she found Caddaric’s pallet
and knelt beside it. Harsh, gasping sounds came from just in front of her, and Jilana’s hand searched for a moment before it encountered bare flesh.
“Caddaric?” Jilana shook him hesitantly. “Caddaric, wake—” An iron fist closed around her wrist and she gave a soft cry.
“Artair!”
The name was a hoarse croak and Jilana felt tears sting her eyes. “Nay. Caddaric, ‘tis Jilana.” She tried to relax against the painful grip. “Caddaric, ‘tis but a dream.”
Caddaric came awake, aware at first only of the cold sweat that bathed his body. A moment later he realized where he was, that he had been dreaming, and then he realized that he was holding Jilana’s wrist in a grip that threatened to crush her bones. Reluctantly, he released her. “Go back to bed.”
Jilana did not move. Her hand, resting upon the bulge of muscle in Caddaric’s upper chest, felt the sweat that dampened his flesh. “‘Twas but a dream,” she repeated soothingly. “About Artair.”
Caddaric groaned and rolled away from her touch. More a curse than a dream, to see Artair’s death again. “Leave me.” He felt Jilana’s hesitation and then heard the clink of her chains as she moved back to the side of the tent. She deserved the chains, he told himself stubbornly, but his heart spoke a different truth. Jilana deserved a better fate, as had Artair.
****
The next morning Caddaric rose early, dressed, and slipped silently from the tent. Around him, the camp slept. The Queen had decided to break the march for three days, in order to prepare for the festival of Beltane, the fire of god. A foolish decision, Caddaric thought as he wandered away from the camp. The war host needed to move swiftly; Beltane could be celebrated without elaborate preparation—the tribes had been without the Druids and their celebrations for nearly two decades, after all; they would be happy simply to have the fire kindled again—and those who had ridden north could recover during the slower-paced march of the column. Suetonius Paulinus would not rest; he would drive his men unmercifully. And therein lay the difference between the two leaders, Caddaric mused as he unconsciously headed toward one of the groves which dotted the surrounding land. One was a commander accustomed to battle and the winning of wars; the other was an untutored civilian depending upon the advice of chieftains whose last battles were over twenty years in the past and who may have confused boastful dreams with reality.
He entered the grove and gazed curiously about. Accustomed to the dense forests of his home, Caddaric found the grove a mean substitute, but it offered the privacy he craved. He found an oak tree whose branches were laden with buds and sat beneath it, awaiting the sunrise while sorting through his emotions.
In his life, Caddaric had seen many deaths, but none had shaken him as Artair’s had. The feeling of guilt would not leave him, even though he knew, logically, that the fault was not his. The guilt, Caddaric discovered with a start, stemmed partially from the fact that they had argued before Artair’s death. Had his friend died thinking that Caddaric hated him? Caddaric closed his eyes and rested his head on his upraised knees. Gods, he hoped not. And Heall; poor Heall. Alone now, childless. Would he ever be able to look upon Caddaric and not see Artair? For so many years he and Heall and Artair had been a family—stronger than most natural families because of the circumstances which bound them together—that now the loss of Artair and the possible loss of Heall was threatening to tear Ca
ddaric apart.
“Caddaric.”
At the sound of his name, Caddaric’s head snapped up and in a blur of motion he was on his feet, his right hand reaching for the place where his sword usually hung. His hand encountered air; he had left his weapon in camp. Even as he discovered this lapse, his mind assimilated the fact that he was in no danger. His father’s voice had called to him, and now Caddaric leaned against the tree and waited for Clywd to reach him.
“You have risen early,” Clywd observed as he moved through the lightening shadows. When he reached the tree, Clywd halted and studied his son. “I have disturbed you; forgive me. I will leave.”
“Nay, there is no need,” Caddaric protested. “Sit with me a moment, Father.”
A brief smile touched Clywd’s lips. Nodding, he sank to the ground and made himself comfortable against the tree trunk. Caddaric followed, and they sat in silence, watching the sun chase the gloom from between the trees until the branches stirred in dappled sunlight.
“A new day,” Clywd murmured, as if in awe of the sunrise. “No matter our sorrow or happiness, there is always a new day.”
“Aye,” Caddaric agreed, although his thoughts followed a different path from Clywd’s. “Another day to be endured.”
“Is that how you see life,” Clywd asked, astounded, “as some loathsome task to be undertaken?” When Caddaric did not answer, he considered the idea for a few moments, then said, “Aye, of course you would. What little joy there has been in your years has been taken from you. First our family, then your life here on Albion, and now Artair. Always the pain to follow the joy.”
“It does not matter,” Caddaric lied. “I am happy enough with my life.”
“Do not lie to me,” Clywd softly chided. “I am your father, Caddaric. No matter your opinion of my road in life, you are my flesh. I see the way you close yourself away from those who care for you. Because an ending is inevitable, you refuse to allow a beginning.”
Caddaric sighed. ‘“Tis easiest that way, old one. You have only to look at yourself and Heall. You took your beginning and lost a family—save for a son who mocks your gods and does not pretend to understand you. Heall lost his entire family. What is left to either of you?”
“Memories,” Clywd replied. “Bright, warm memories. When I think of your mother, your sisters and brothers, ‘tis a welcome visit from past loves.”
“How can you have forgotten the pain?”
“Forgotten?” Clywd’s eyes grew bright with tears. “I have never forgotten their loss, but I have accepted it.”
“And you have me,” Caddaric said sarcastically.
Clywd blinked at his biting tone. “You think I am not grateful that you were spared?”
Caddaric shrugged and stared at the tree tops and in that moment Clywd glimpsed the uncertain adolescent that he had never seen. “I know I am a disappointment to you. I lack the gift of sight and the art of healing which you have. I am a soldier, and even in that I am more Roman legionary than Iceni warrior.” He shook his head. “You must wonder how you could have sired such a changeling.”
“I have never wished you differently,” Clywd began, carefully feeling his way, as if he were removing a twisted blade from a vital organ. “On occasion—frequently— your actions mystify me, and that is when I challenge your judgment, but never, never, have I wished you other than yourself.”
“When we first returned to Albion, I used to watch you with Artair,” Caddaric confessed, “and be filled with envy.”
“Why?” Clywd was stunned.
“Because he made you laugh. And because you always seemed to approve of his actions,” Caddaric admitted.
“Ah, gods,” Clywd breathed. “Do you not know that it is always hardest for children to win approval from their parents than it is for another child, someone else’s child?” He hesitated before adding, “Artair was the happy one; he found the laughter in life and helped everyone else find it, too, but he could never equal your skill as a warrior, no matter how he tried. And that was the source of his envy.”
“I know.” Caddaric’s voice was strangled. That aching lump was back in his throat and he could not dislodge it. “I used to tease him over his lack of skill.”
“Just as he used to tease you about your serious nature,” Clywd countered. “‘Twas natural, Caddaric; it did not alter the bonds between you.”
Caddaric clenched his jaw and swallowed, hard. “I shall miss him.”
“We all shall, but as long as we remember him, Artair is not really dead.”
Caddaric did not mock the statement. Instead he asked, “How is Heall?”
“Sad, grieving.” Clywd closed his eyes. Would the gods forgive him for being grateful that the centurion’s blade had not found his son’s heart as well? “He wishes to be alone for a time.”
“When he returns, the two of you will make your camp with me,” Caddaric decided.
“A generous offer,” Clywd replied, the gray streak in his beard twitching with concealed amusement, “but I think the two of us would rather not intrude.”
“There would be no intrusion,” Caddaric said grimly, his mind turning to Jilana. Had it been the wine and his weariness, or had Jilana truly looked ill? Aye, she said she had taken a chill, but would that account for the odd way she had moved?
“How is Jilana?” Clywd inquired blandly, knowing well where his son’s thoughts had fled. “Heall said she has been ill.”
Caddaric frowned and turned to look at his father. “Heall spoke of Jilana?”
Clywd spread his hands. “He is fond of the girl, and concerned over your treatment of her.”
“Why do you and Heall think you know how I should treat her?” Caddaric asked through clenched teeth.
“Because we are older and wiser,” Clywd said with a chuckle. Then he sobered. “To put her in chains, Caddaric—”
“If you knew what she has done, you would not think me harsh,” Caddaric interrupted.
“If I knew?” Clywd lifted an eyebrow and stared pointedly at his son.
Caddaric’s eyes narrowed and he came to his feet. “My plan for Jilana is simple enough… or it was, before you and Heall decided to meddle in it. The two of you are born troublemakers.”
“Aye, it has always been thus,” Clywd agreed, rising. “When we were young, Heall and I were the despair of our families. Between them, our fathers killed a score of trees in their search for switches for our backsides.”
A smile tugged at Caddaric’s mouth. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh?” Clywd smiled in return and stepped past his son. “On a dare I kidnaped your mother, one of the fiercest warrior maids in our village. Within a month we were wed. A scant eight months later your eldest brother was born.”
“You jest!” Caddaric shouted at the retreating figure.
“Ask Heall,” Clywd called over his shoulder. A moment later he was gone; only his laughter remained, floating on the air.
Caddaric mulled over his father’s parting words on his way back to camp. ‘Twas hard to believe his father could ever have been that impetuous, yet on the other hand, Caddaric had never known his father to lie. But to kidnap a woman? It happened occasionally, if the woman was overly coy or the suitor impatient, but Caddaric found it hard to reconcile the image of his father as an impassioned suitor with the calm Druid he had become. And yet…
Jilana scrambled to her feet as soon as Caddaric set foot in their camp. The fire was going and Caddaric saw a pan of oat cakes baking over the embers on one side of the fire. All was in readiness for the morning meal and Jilana stood waiting to serve him. The sight should have pleased him, but it did not. Instead he had the impression that something precious had been lost.
“Will the others be joining you?” Jilana asked when Caddaric settled before the fire.
Not us, but you, a verbal acceptance of the boundaries he had set forth. Caddaric flinched inwardly. “Not Heall and Clywd; I do not know about Ede.”
Jilana
doubted Ede would appear—Ewan had seemed to command most of Ede’s time the last few days—but she kept her thoughts to herself as she set out a small pot of preserves, sliced cold meat upon Caddaric’s plate, and took the oat cakes from the coals. The oat cakes were dark brown on the bottom, but edible, and Jilana could not help the tiny rush of satisfaction she felt when she served Caddaric the meal. Even the fact that Caddaric did not comment upon her accomplishment could not dispel her satisfaction in the task. When Caddaric had been served, Jilana took an oat cake, spread it with preserves, and sat down across the fire from Caddaric to eat.
His appetite surprised Caddaric, as did the fact that when he made to refill his plate, Jilana anticipated his actions, took the tin plate from him, refilled it, and returned it to him. All without a word; the only sound she made was the clinking of her chains when she walked. The perfect servant, anticipating her master’s wishes. His heart squeezed painfully and he suddenly found it difficult to finish his meal.
Caddaric set his empty plate aside and drank the last of his mead. He started to rise but before he could complete the motion, Jilana was at his side, gathering his dirty dishes. Obviously, she did not want his help. He cleared his throat uncertainly. “I will tend to the horses.”
“‘Tis done,” Jilana told him as she walked carefully to the wagon. Her feet and ankles were still tender, but if she walked slowly, the discomfort was minimal. “I will pack the wagon.”
“There is no need,” Caddaric said, watching her scrub the dishes. He approached the wagon cautiously, aware that Jilana kept as much distance as possible between them. When she looked up warily, but did not move away, he leaned against the wagon and explained, “The Queen has declared a three-day respite so that Beltane may be celebrated tomorrow night.”
Three days, Jilana thought, nodding. In three days she would be recovered sufficiently to resume the march.
Caddaric’s eyes swept her from head to toe. The red-gold hair was an untamed mass of curls; her gown was frayed and stained and bare feet peeped from beneath the hem. Her hands were rough, and the long, oval nails he remembered were gone, broken or bitten to the quick. Outwardly, nothing remained of the gracious Roman patrician he had met at Venta Icenorum and the knowledge saddened him.
Defy the Eagle Page 38
