Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  “I do not understand.” And Jilana discovered that she wanted very much to understand this man who was her captor.

  “Neither do I,” Caddaric muttered. He shook his head to clear it and picked up his sword and whetstone. “A hunting party from my village is going out this afternoon. We need fresh meat in order to conserve our other supplies.” From the wagon he took his bow and a quiver of arrows and a throwing spear. “If my father or Heall return, tell them I will be back at nightfall.”

  Jilana nodded and got to her feet. Knowing that the change in conversation meant that Caddaric would share no more of himself with her, she said, “We could use fresh water as well.”

  Caddaric paused long enough to check the barrels. “There must be farms, and thus wells, nearby. I will check the countryside this afternoon. With luck, at least one well will not be poisoned.”

  “P-poisoned,” Jilana stammered.

  “Aye.” Caddaric looked surprised at her reaction. “‘Tis a common enough practice to poison the wells so the enemy is denied their use.”

  “Oh.”

  “You did not know this?”

  Jilana shook her head. How could she know such things? “But you drew water from the wells at Camulodunum.”

  “They were not poisoned; the primipilus had to supply the city’s civilian population,” Caddaric explained. “These farms—whether Roman or Trinovante—will be deserted. The owners will have taken as much water as they could carry and then poisoned the well when they left.”

  “I see.” Suppressing a shudder at such actions, Jilana gathered the plates and worried about Hadrian making his way through the hostile countryside.

  As if reading her thoughts, Caddaric snapped out, “Your primipilus is safe. He did not reach his age or rank without knowing the most basic of tactics.”

  They parted on that note. Caddaric rode out on his golden stallion and Jilana was left to pass the afternoon in the camp. She was not to spend the day alone, however. Clywd stopped at the camp shortly after Caddaric left, and soon thereafter Ede came by, with Guendolen in tow. If possible, Guendolen’s hair was even blonder than it had been when Jilana had met her at Venta Icenorum, and while Jilana wondered why Ede had brought her to the camp, the reason became clear. Guendolen, it seemed, had a knife wound which was infected and needed treating.

  Using the preparations for Beltane as a reason, Clywd excused himself and Jilana had no choice but to treat Guendolen’s wound herself. When the warrior maid’s arm was cleansed and dressed, the three women sat around the fire and Guendolen and Ede began a lively discourse on everything from the rebellion to the best way to prepare a haunch of venison. Jilana found herself drawn into the

  conversation when Guendolen announced that the tunic she hoped to wear to the Beltane fire was too long but that she was incompetent with a needle and thread. Before Jilana could think better of it, she had offered her services and Guendolen had accepted with a glad cry.

  “Guendolen likes you,” Ede said when the other woman left to get the tunic.

  Jilana shrugged off the compliment. “She needed me to tend her wound and hem her gown.”

  “She wanted to see you again,” Ede snapped, and immediately apologized for her tone. “I am sorry. Guendolen has asked about you repeatedly since Caddaric found you at Camulodunum. She would have come before, but we were afraid Caddaric would not like it.”

  Jilana was forced to agree with Ede’s conclusion. “Then why did she come today?”

  “Is it not obvious?” Ede grinned. “Caddaric is gone.”

  In spite of her wariness, Jilana smiled in return. “So it is safe to visit his slave.”

  Ede’s grin faded instantly. “I do not like to hear you call yourself that.”

  “I am what the rebellion has decreed,” Jilana answered quietly. “‘Tis not your doing.”

  “Nay,” Ede replied sharply, “‘tis Caddaric’s.”

  Jilana laughed at the other’s fierceness. “He saved my life; in his eyes, I should be grateful.”

  Ede snorted. “Aye, he would expect your gratitude.” She shook her head. “He is a fine warrior, the strongest I have seen, but in his dealings with women he is exceedingly clumsy.”

  “I am hardly a woman in his eyes,” Jilana said thoughtfully. “His slave and his property, aye, but not a woman.”

  Ede gaped at Jilana, recalling the night Caddaric had drunk himself into a stupor over the Roman woman and the following morning when her memory had kept him from easing his body’s hunger with a willing Ede. Ede picked up a twig and trailed it aimlessly through the dirt.

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that Caddaric sees you too much as a woman.”

  Jilana laughed aloud in disbelief, but her laughter died when Ede fixed her with an intent glare. “You cannot be serious.”

  “But I am. Caddaric runs from you,” Ede pointed out. “Have you not noticed?”

  “Only because he will strangle me if he remains,” Jilana tried to jest, “and if I am dead, who will fix his meals?”

  “You frighten him,” Ede argued. “I wonder why?”

  Guendolen returned and the matter was set aside by tacit agreement. The afternoon passed with Jilana hemming the gown and the two Iceni women telling stories of their youth and battle prowess, some of them so blatantly embroidered that Jilana laughed until tears welled in her eyes and blinded her. Their laughter drew attention from the rest of the camp, and little by little, other Iceni joined them. By dusk, a dozen people were ranged about the fire, entertaining themselves with stories. Jilana was, by turns, entranced, horrified, and amused by the tales. The sewing lay forgotten in her lap while she listened as a young man, not much older than herself, recounted his daring in a raid against one of the neighboring villages near his home.

  ‘Twas a new world these people opened for Jilana and she hung on every word, trying to imagine herself in their place. Would she have been like Ede, Jilana wondered, had she been raised an Iceni? The thought of holding a sword—aye, even using it!—was not as abhorrent as it would have been a month ago. Oh, the freedom with which Ede had been raised, Jilana thought enviously, remembering her own furtive, cherished, morning rides alone. Ede did not have to bow to her father’s wishes, no matter how well-intentioned they might be. She could choose her fate, rather than accept a decision that was made for her. Jilana thought of Lucius and her attempts to please him, attempts that required forfeiting her own wishes and desires.

  With a start, Jilana realized that, had the rebellion not come to pass, she would have married Lucius and spent the remainder of her life bowing to his will. She would have been, virtually, his slave, a possession for him to arrange and order about. She would have lacked the chains, Jilana admitted, glancing at the hateful iron around her ankles, and she would have been called Lucius’ wife, but she would have been a slave nonetheless. At least with Caddaric, her position was honest—if painfully so.

  Jilana’s attention returned to the storyteller just in time to hear him say, “‘Twas different at Venta Icenorum, of course, for great stealth was required to enter the houses…” His voice trailed off and when he looked at Jilana, his gaze was filled abject apology.

  Jilana smiled her forgiveness, and her thanks for his regard for her feelings. She was still too raw to hear this particular tale. “You must have another tale to tell,” she gently encouraged when the young man made to leave. His reply was stilled when another voice intruded.

  “I think there have been enough stories for today.”

  Caddaric’s voice came from behind Jilana and she scurried to her feet to the accompanying rattle of chains. “Lord,” she acknowledged breathlessly, her arms crushing the red gown into a bright splash of color against her chest. “I did not hear you return.”

  Caddaric grunted and paced toward the group, a blanket-wrapped object slung over his shoulder. “The hunt was successful.”

  As if the statement were a command, the visitors rose as one, said their goodbyes, and drifted
away. As Caddaric approached the fire, Jilana nervously wet her lips and clutched the gown more tightly. “I did not shirk my duties, lord,” she hurried to explain the lack of an evening meal. “Ede said you would undoubtedly want the fresh meat tonight.” The strange look Caddaric gave her sent Jilana back a step. “Truly, lord, had I known—”

  “Jilana,” Caddaric interrupted gently, “I am not angry with you.”

  Jilana swallowed convulsively. “Oh.” It was all she could think of to say and Jilana felt extremely foolish for her outburst.

  Caddaric’s face centered on the red tunic. “Where did you get the gown?”

  Blinking, Jilana looked at the tunic, as if surprised to find it in her hands. “Tis not mine. I am hemming it for Guendolen.” She looked at him inquiringly. “I did not think you would mind.”

  Her explanation sent relief through Caddaric and he shook his head. “Nay, I do not.” He set down his burden and gestured to Jilana. “Come, see what the hunt yielded.”

  Jilana had no desire to view the kill, but she dared not refuse, so she edged closer.

  “You see?” Caddaric opened the blanket with a flourish and viewed its contents with pride. “A fine stag. We will carve part of it for tonight and roast the rest tomorrow for Clywd’s celebration.”

  Averting her eyes from the sight, Jilana struggled to subdue her protesting stomach. She had adjusted to the dried and cured beef, but the raw venison in front of her was a different matter.

  Caddaric saw the look on her face and understood immediately. “I will cut the meat and teach you how to season it.”

  Jilana nodded weakly and backed toward the tent. “I will just put Guendolen’s tunic away.” Inside the safety of the tent, she drew several deep breaths as she folded the tunic and placed it atop her chest. She would manage this next trial, she told herself fiercely. She would show Caddaric that her strength was equal to any Iceni maid’s.

  “You dropped the thread.”

  Jilana gasped and spun around to find Caddaric standing just inside the tent, the twist of matching red thread lying across his open palm. He closed the distance between them and extended his arm. Jilana snatched the thread from his hand and turned back to place it on the tunic. Caddaric sighed inwardly. The set of her shoulders bespoke her nervousness, a nervousness that had been absent when she sat with the others around the fire.

  “Did you enjoy the afternoon?”

  Smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the tunic, Jilana nodded. “Ede’s friends were most kind. I liked their stories—they reminded me of the ones Artair used to tell.”

  “Artair would have made a good bard,” Caddaric agreed. “Come now, help me prepare the meal.”

  Reluctantly, Jilana followed Caddaric from the tent and watched while he carved a portion for the evening meal and explained how they would prepare the remainder. “Tomorrow morning I will spit the venison; and while I dig a roasting pit, you will rub the seasonings into the meat. Then we will lower the meat into the pit, smoor the fire and let the meat roast all day. We will feast when the ceremony is finished.” He thrust an iron skewer through the small roast and ordered, “Build up the fire.”

  Jilana obeyed. “How is Beltane celebrated?”

  Caddaric paused in his work for a moment, considering his answer. “Outside of my village there is a sacred mound—built many years ago, long before Albion had heard of Rome or Caesar—with a wide, stone altar upon ch the Druid would build the fire of Beltane to honor the god Be’al.”

  “Be’al,” Jilana repeated, frowning as she sought to translate the name. “The life of all things?”

  “That is close,” Caddaric nodded. “The fire welcomes the return of the sun after the cold desolation of winter. There are songs and dancing and offerings to Be’al.”

  “Offerings?” Jilana’s blood ran cold and her next word ended the tenuous truce between herself and Caddaric. “Sacrifices?”

  Caddaric’s eyes snared hers across the blaze. “My fain case you have not noticed, does not hold with living sacrifices. He believes that Be’al holds all life sacred and frowns upon blood offerings. Clywd’s offerings to the gods take the form of grain and wine.”

  “I did not mean to offend.”

  “Lhwyd is in love with death,” Caddaric snapped as he settled the spit over the fire. “Do not judge us all by that priest.”

  “I try not to,” Jilana said defensively. “Just as you do not judge all Romans by the actions of Caesar and his Procurator.”

  The barb drove straight into Caddaric’s heart. His eyes darkened with sadness as they stared at one another and silently acknowledged that the chasm which yawned between them was unbridgeable. “Do you hate me,” he asked at last.

  Jilana rose and went to the wagon to gather the ingredients for wheat cakes. “I have no feelings for you at all,” she brazenly lied, “just as you have none for me. Your Queen’s rebellion has thrown us together and when the war is over, whether you win or lose, we will not see each other again. You have said as much.”

  ”So, you can endure my presence because you know it is only temporary?”

  “Aye.”

  Caddaric mulled that over. “If Boadicea loses, your world will return and you will be able to forget all that has happened.”

  “Aye,” Jilana answered again.

  “You can forget me so easily?”

  Jilana’s fingers tightened around the wooden spoon she was using. “Nightmares are to be endured and quickly forgotten.”

  Caddaric stiffened at the verbal slap and barely managed to hold on to his temper. “And if Boadicea wins?”

  “You have said you would release me.”

  “Not precisely. There was a condition,” Caddaric reminded her silkily. “A child.”

  Jilana whirled on him then, the spoon grasped like a weapon in her hand. “If Boadicea is victorious, why would you want a child who was only half Iceni,” she demanded bitterly.

  Caddaric sorted through several answers before deciding upon the truth as he knew it. “Because the gods have so ordained,” he answered simply.

  “Your gods, perhaps, but not mine,” Jilana retorted hotly. With a shrug of his massive shoulders, Caddaric dismissed her objection. The action infuriated Jilana, and fore she could stop herself, she hurled the spoon at his ad. The weapon was ill-balanced and wildly thrown, so the purest chance—or the intervention of the gods— lowed it to land with a solid thwack against Caddaric’s forehead. Wheat batter splattered into his hair and dripped down his nose and he roared in outrage. Jilana completely ignored his outrage in favor of her own. “I will cook for you, launder your clothes and follow behind wagon like some chained dog, but I will not bear you child. Never, do you hear me?” Caddaric blinked owlishly at her, admiring the beauty her anger brought forth even while he wiped the wheat batter off his face. “Why?”

  “W-why?” Jilana sputtered in wide-eyed disbelief. Why?” Her voice rose to a high, carrying pitch. “Be-I am no brood mare for the continuation of my owner’s line!”

  “That you are not,” Caddaric heard himself concur. “You are the other half of myself.”

  The quiet assurance in his voice took Jilana aback. “You are mad,” she said breathlessly when she finally found her voice. “As insane as Caligula.”

  “Mayhap.” Caddaric came forward until he stood directly in front of Jilana so that she was forced to tilt her id upward in order to see his face. “If so, then you are source of my madness. Have you considered that?”

  He leaned forward, his arms on either side of Jilana, crowding her back against the wagon until her breasts brushed his chest. Her breathing stopped, her knees went and she closed her eyes, awaiting his kiss. And knew, in that instant of waiting, that she was as mad as for she wanted the touch of his mouth. The metallic rattle from the wagon snapped her eyes open and she discovered that Caddaric was pulling back, the basin dangling from one hand and a faint smile hovering on his lips.

  “I need to wash.”

  Jila
na stared, open-mouthed, while he poured water into the basin and proceeded to wash his hair and face. Caddaric had had no intention of kissing her! She spun away, a hot blush suffusing her cheeks, to finish the wheat cakes and remembered that she had thrown her spoon at Caddaric. She stomped over to where the offending utensil lay and scooped it into her hand.

  “I think you lied,” Caddaric said goadingly when her back was turned.

  “You feel something for me, little wicca.”

  Uttering a shriek that fairly split Caddaric’s eardrums, Jilana whirled and threw the spoon at him once again. This time, however, her aim was far from true. It sailed harmlessly past the side of his head, across the wagon and struck the black-robed figure who had chosen that unfortunate moment to step into camp.

  Clywd grunted in surprise and peered down at the splotch of dirty wheat batter on his chest. Leaving a sticky trail in its wake, the spoon slid slowly downward for several inches before letting go of the fabric and falling to the ground.

  Ahh, Juno, I have struck a Druid, Jilana moaned silently. Her fingers pressed against her lips in an attempt to hold back a groan. What was the punishment for such a transgression?

  Caddaric stared in disbelief. Jilana’s aim was either incredibly good or incredibly bad, depending upon one’s point of view.

  Clywd’s bewildered gaze traveled first to his son and then to Jilana, both of whom were frozen in place, before retrieving the spoon. “What else are we having for the meal?”

  Caddaric’s great shout of laughter echoed across the campsite. Jilana gave a cry that was half embarrassment, half thwarted rage, and fled into the tent.

  “Were I you,” Clywd intoned as he walked around the wagon, “I would see that Jilana never has access to a knife.”

  The advice sent Caddaric into another bout of laughter that finally ended when he was sitting on the ground, his back braced against the wheel for support. “Sh-she was aiming at m-me,” he managed to say.