Diana by the Moon

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Marcus tugged her hand when they reached the yawning gateway, drawing her inside. The gates lay to one side, a pile of broken beams and iron. Every time she saw them, Diana reminded herself to have new gates built. But in a whole year she’d had no time to think beyond the need to provide food for the thirty-one people who were depending upon her to keep them from starving.

  Besides, there was no one here with the strength to hew the trees or the skill to make the gates. Perhaps after Christmas she could go to Eboracum to search for a woodsmith. But first they must put aside food enough to survive the winter.

  Women had been threshing grain for generations, so this task Diana knew she could leave unsupervised. The small sacks of grain were piled against the wall in rows ready for her to count and record before it was stored, just as it had been all her life. The rows were pitifully few.

  She approached the waiting women. “You’ve finished? Good.”

  They gathered around her, pleased with her approval. “No thanks to Alfie’s help!” one jested, pushing at a red-headed woman amongst them.

  The red-head laughed, pushing back. “I did my share.”

  Then came a cry that chilled Diana to the marrow and stopped her heart.

  “Saxons!”

  Diana whirled to face the gateway, trying to speak and failing.

  Sosia’s son, a boy of ten, stood on the top of the wall. He pointed toward the Roman road. “Armed horsemen! Lots of them!”

  Someone behind her screamed and the sound released Diana’s own fear. Her gaze fell on the sacks of wheat. Dear Lord! The food for winter—if that were stolen they would not survive the year.

  “Quickly!” she told the women. “Take one sack of wheat between two and one child and head for the old beacon at the top of the hill.”

  “They’re heading this way!” yelled Sosia’s son.

  Marcus tugged her hand. “What about the women in the barn?”

  “Alfie, go by way of the barn and warn them.” Quickly, Diana sent messengers to the scattered pockets of people around the estate. She sent Sosia’s son into the forest to gather the children picking nuts, to keep them hidden among the trees.

  Diana grabbed a sack of wheat and raced through the house for the postern gate that led out onto the hillside behind the villa. She was outside among the trees before a thought bought her to a skidding halt.

  Minna!

  * * * * *

  “There was definitely a child standing on the wall, sir.”

  Alaric nodded. “Yes.”

  “And the fields have been tilled recently,” Griffin added.

  “Badly,” added Rhys, ever the cynic. “Look at those rows! I could plow a straighter furrow blind drunk with a poxy bull in front of me.”

  “You know that from experience, of course.” Griffin grinned.

  Rhys swiped at him with his fist but Griffin had already moved his horse out of the older man’s reach.

  Alaric smiled at their banter, then turned his concentration upon the villa ahead and the hill behind. The peak was a rocky plateau thrusting out of the tree line. It was perfect for his needs.

  He looked back at the villa. He’d have to cajole the owner into cooperating.

  Rhys pushed his horse level with Alaric’s and nodded toward the villa. “Looks Roman.”

  “Yes.”

  “Course, round these parts you couldn’t throw a stone without hitting a Roman.”

  “True.”

  “You want to explain to me what Arthur had in mind, sending you of all people in among the thickest congregation of Romans in Britain? Mithras!”

  “Arthur knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t explain himself to me.” Alaric looked straight into Rhys’ eyes. “And that’s the last time I allow you the freedom to question Arthur’s orders. Clear?”

  Rhys looked away. After a moment he nodded his grizzled head. “Clear,” he said roughly. “I apologize.”

  Alaric clapped him on the back. “Good man.”

  They reached the gateway. “They aren’t afraid of much. No gates!” Griffin commented.

  “They had gates all right,” Rhys said dryly, “and they’ve had their share of trouble too.” He spat on a pile of discarded timber and iron as they passed by. “Those gates were breached by a battering ram or I’m the son of Lucifer.”

  Their horses’ hooves echoed flatly in the deserted yard. As the rest of the company filed in, Alaric looked around. The courtyard was about a hundred and fifty paces a side. An ancient gnarled oak skulked in the front corner. In summer it would spread welcome shade but now it hunched darkly against the iron-gray sky, dripping tears from an earlier shower.

  “Sir!” Griffin whispered, drawing Alaric’s attention. The boy nodded toward the house proper, lining half of the yard. Ten paces from the graceful columns bordering the tile verandah stood a young girl. Her huge eyes were wide with shock.

  “She looks ready to bolt at the slightest noise,” Rhys said quietly.

  “Where is everyone else?” Griffin asked, puzzled.

  “Scattered,” Alaric replied. “If they’ve had trouble before, they’ll be wary about armed men approaching them.” He looked behind him. “Stay here,” he told his men. “If we panic her we’ll never find the rest of the household. Griffin, Rhys, come with me.”

  He slid down from his horse and threw the reins to one of the men. Griffin and Rhys followed him.

  Alaric moved toward the girl. Closer, he saw that fear kept her pinned down—pure terror. There was no curiosity at all.

  “We mean you no harm,” he called out as he reached her. He lowered his voice. “Where are your kin, child?”

  She gave no answer. From between her legs urine trickled and puddled at her feet.

  Rhys gave a snort of disgust. “For Mithras’ sake, we’re not going to eat you, girl!”

  At the sound of Rhys’ gruff battle-roughened voice, the girl’s eyes rolled up and she fell to the ground in a tired, boneless heap.

  “Dear god!” Griffin whispered, horrified. “You’ve killed her!”

  Rhys cleared his throat. “I did no such thing!”

  “It’s all right. She’s simply fainted or some such thing.” Alaric pushed his sword aside and crouched down to check the girl was still breathing. In repose her face was irresistibly beautiful. Flawless, as only a child’s could be before life stamped its lines and markers. Before his reaching hand made contact there came a piercing, alarming cry from inside the house. It was a war cry.

  Alaric leapt to his feet as Rhys and Griffin both drew their swords.

  From the far corner of the verandah came a tiny man in trews and tunic, a knife in his upheld hand, his face contorted with rage. He raced along the verandah, leapt onto the dirt and ran toward them. Alaric knew he was protecting the child—he thought they meant the girl harm.

  He was almost upon them before Alaric thought to draw a weapon, so astonishing was the idea that this little person would attempt to attack fully armed soldiers.

  Griffin and Rhys stepped in front of him. When the man leapt, Griffin, the taller, caught his knife hand and Rhys, the heavier, buried his elbow in the man’s stomach, snapping him over and pushing the wind from him.

  And a long tightly bound skein of hair swung over and brushed the dirt.

  “Hell’s hounds…it’s a woman!” Rhys gaped at the woman hanging between Rhys’ and Griffin’s grip on her arms. She was trying to draw in air with temporarily stunned muscles, her head hanging down.

  Rhys and Griffin looked accusingly at Alaric, their expressions both guilty and defiant at once. Alaric knew what they were thinking. How could you let us hurt a woman like this?

  Alaric pondered on what to do. The woman had plainly meant him harm and she had been armed too. As he wavered, she breathed in noisy jerks and that decided him.

  “Rhys, sit her on the ground. Griffin, move the little one out of the damp air.”

  Rhys lowered the woman until she was seated while Griffin picked up the unco
nscious child and took her under the verandah roof.

  Alaric crouched in front of the woman. She leaned on one hand, holding the other to her chest. Prudently, he kept his hand on his knife hilt.

  “Don’t fight to breathe,” he told her. “Relax, and it will come. If you fight, it will take longer.”

  She understood, for her shoulders lowered as she followed his instructions. Her breath immediately eased. It shallowed but drew easily.

  “Stay seated,” he advised her. “You’ll be dizzy for a moment or two.”

  She nodded, keeping her head lowered.

  “We’re friend, not foe…you understand?”

  Again, the nod.

  “Where is everyone else?”

  “Hiding,” she said, her voice low.

  “I need to speak to the head of the household. Who owns this estate? What is his name?”

  “The owner’s name is Diana, daughter of the late Marcellus Aurelius.” She looked up then. She had eyes the same deep blue hue as the sky late in the evening, the blue rimmed with black. Eyes startling in their strange coloring. She looked straight into his. “You speak to me.”

  * * * * *

  Rhys turned his back so the woman and all those ranked behind her would not hear. “Sir,” he addressed Alaric. “You can’t deal with a woman over a matter like this!”

  “Why not?”

  Rhys looked surprised. “She’s a woman!” he said, as if that was explanation enough.

  Alaric suppressed a smile. “You heard her as well as I. Her father is dead and there are no older brothers. She is clearly in control of the people here. So it is she I must deal with.”

  Rhys’ craggy face looked troubled.

  Alaric shrugged. “Do you wish to return to Caer Leon? Will you explain to Arthur that you failed to follow his orders because you would not deal with a woman?”

  “There are other hills!” Rhys protested

  “Not on the direct line from Eboracum that we need. This one is perfect.”

  Rhys’ unhappiness deepened and Alaric patted his shoulder. “Cheer up!”

  “It’s not right,” Rhys grumbled.

  Alaric moved around Rhys to where the woman stood waiting, her arms crossed tightly. “My lady,” he acknowledged.

  “Diana will do,” she said coolly, lifting the sharp chin to look at him. She was tiny. Her head barely reached his breast and the people who stood behind her were all taller than her, yet she was clearly their leader.

  Her defiance was surely bravado. She seemed too delicate to defend herself. Her figure under the manlike garb was small and her face was finely proportioned. The lifted chin and high well-defined cheekbones emphasized narrow, hollow cheeks and a high forehead. She was all bone. The impression of fragility was increased by her hair— pulled back tightly behind her head so that no locks strayed and the shape of her small head was clearly outlined.

  But her intelligent expression and the gleam of quick thought in her odd eyes gave lie to her less than substantial appearance. She had no trouble looking him straight in the eye. Her own eyes had dark smudges underneath them. That was the product of long-term exhaustion and lack of sleep, he judged. But she had her full wits about her.

  Behind her, the reassembled members of her household stood watching his every move, suspicion and wariness emanating from them like a wave of heat.

  Romans. Alaric gave a mental sigh.

  “What do you want here?” she demanded, surprising him.

  “My name is Alaric,” he began, attempting to ease her into a more cooperative frame of mind. “I am an officer in the army of Arthur, the Pendragon.” He meant simply to establish his identity but the effect was the same as if he had said he was a barbarian from the east. Her face grew stony, the nostrils flared and her jaw rippled under the tightly drawn skin. For a moment hurt flickered in her eyes before it was washed away in a flood of fury.

  “Then you have no business here.” Her voice was low, controlled.

  “On the contrary. Arthur charged me with establishing a line of signal beacons between Lindum and Aberach and—”

  “Aberach? You mean Eboracum?”

  Alaric mentally cursed. Merlin had warned him the Romans were apt to take offense at the British version of their city’s name.

  “My apologies—I do mean Eboracum. I am here to set up beacons and to establish a cavalry outpost in this area.”

  “What have I to do with your orders?” When she was not controlling her tone, her voice was naturally low pitched and mellow. It was surprisingly pleasant to his ear.

  “I have set the beacons from Lindum to here. I have one last beacon to set before Eboracum itself. The hill behind this villa is the hill I need.”

  “No.” Her response was quick, without consideration.

  “There are no other suitable summits in the area. This hill has a clear line of sight to the next beacon.”

  From behind Diana a tall, deeply tanned middle-aged woman carrying a suckling infant stepped up close to Diana’s shoulder. “There has been a beacon atop the hill since Constantine’s time,” she said, her voice slow, placid. Deceptively placid, Alaric realized. The woman’s eyes were shrewd.

  Diana shook her head. “No.”

  Puzzled, he tried again. “We would not interfere with the day-to-day workings of the estate. It is only the summit we need. There would be two men there at all times—”

  “I said no!”

  At her exclamation, Alaric’s men’s heads lifted from the tight circle they had gathered into. They’d started a dice game.

  He turned back to Diana. There were two angry lines slashing between the arched brows and her jaw was tight. She would not prove easy to coax.

  He wanted that hill! The beacon was strategically vital. There was no other way to send an alarm across Britain in a matter of moments. They had learned in the last four years of campaigning against the Saxon invaders that mobility and speed were their crucial advantages.

  One last time. He gathered his patience. “We must have the hill, my lady. It is important to Arthur’s campaign against—”

  “I don’t care,” Diana interrupted. “Why should I?”

  “He fights for all of Britain,” he said truthfully.

  “Then where was he when we needed that force?” Diana’s mouth twisted with bitterness. “Your Pendragon is good at calling men to his banner but he takes them from where they are needed most. Find yourself another hill, warrior. You are not welcome here.”

  Alaric stared at her, flummoxed. “Romans,” he said at last, with a snort of disgust. They were impossible to reason with.

  Her face tightened even more, the eyes narrowing. The people behind her stirred, muttered.

  “Leave here at once,” she said. Her tiny frame was vibrating with anger. She glanced down at his waist then drew herself up straight, in direct challenge. Behind her the tall, tanned woman stepped another protective pace closer.

  Alaric realized that he was convulsively clutching the hilt of his sword. He forced his hand to loosen and drop to his side. Taking the hill by force was against every tenet that Arthur fought for. They would be no better than the Saxons they were trying to rid from the land. Or the Romans who had taken what they wanted at the point of a sword too.

  He took a step back, placating, then turned and strode back to his horse and calling for Rhys and Griffin to gather the men. He climbed onto his horse and wheeled its head for the gate, careful not to look back.

  Romans! He growled under his breath. Damn her!

  * * * * *

  Diana did not move while the soldiers filed through the gateway.

  “Was that wise, Diana?” Sosia asked from her place just behind Diana’s shoulder. “They could provide a little protection for us while they man their beacon.”

  “The Pendragon’s men?” Diana recalled the moment when they had learned that Verus had deserted them during the night to go to his precious Arthur, leaving them alone and helpless. “They don’t dese
rve our cooperation.”

  “Where do you think they’ll go now?”

  “Eboracum.” Diana felt a laugh squeeze itself past her anger and let it out. It felt good. “Eboracum,” she repeated, amused. “He’ll find even less joy there.”

  The thought was deeply satisfying.

  Chapter Three

  Aberach. Eboracum, Alaric corrected himself. He hated it already.

  He leaned back on his horse so that when he stretched his head back he could look straight up the sides of the high walls to the overcast sky above. If he looked to the left, the wall stretched unbroken except for the south gate and the bridge over the river Ouse. To the right ran the same unscalable expanse of brick and mortar, then the east gate and bridge over the Fosse.

  Not a person was to be seen. They had panicked and locked themselves inside at the first sight of Alaric’s company.

  Alaric and his lieutenants had been waiting at the main gate ever since. Alaric had been polite, and had given his credentials to the quailing gatekeeper, including a signed letter from Arthur with the rampant dragon seal. Word had gone all the way to the Bishop’s house. Then all the way back again, with a demand to know their business.

  Alaric had resisted pointing out that the transaction would go much more quickly if the Bishop himself came to the gate. Instead he cited his business as the concern of the Bishop alone.

  That was some time ago and they were still waiting. Despite a brief shower of rain and a cold wind that whistled down the river valley, none of Alaric’s men had broken ranks. They sat two abreast in tight formation, spread out across the bridge and onto the road serving it. For their discipline, Alaric was grateful. They were good men, mostly, and far from home—they sensed their welcome here was dubious.

  At last the inspection hatch opened once more.

  “Would you please come close to the hatch?” issued a high man’s voice.

  “I’m as close as I can get.” His horse’s nose was blowing steam against the ancient beams of the gates.

  “On foot, please.”

  Alaric bit back a curse. What was this foolishness? Wordlessly he got off and walked to the inspection hatch.