Diana by the Moon

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  He stepped around a woman who had backed into his path and walked on, barely missing one long step. “My presence is unavoidable, so why not pretend my company is at least agreeable?”

  Agreeable? Diana took another deep breath, this one to suppress yet again the abrupt intrusion of the memory of the stables. She pushed it from her as she had done so many times since awakening.

  “You cannot do that much, my lady?”

  “It is difficult…” Diana tried to begin.

  “Then at least pretend my company is not disagreeable.”

  Diana bit her lip. He had misunderstood her.

  Alaric’s long strides were nearly two of Diana’s and she had to hurry to keep up with him. They came to the junction of two streets and Diana waved to the left. “This way.”

  The side street was narrow and there were less people. This street held no market stalls, only a long row of shops. In these open-sided rooms, artisans, artists and craftsmen of all types plied their trade. They passed displays of pottery and ceramics, a tanner’s pile of skins and hides, a fuller’s deep pools of steaming water, filled with fabrics being cleaned and prepared and a dyer’s colorful bolts of cloth. The last in the row was a tiler’s shop and it was at this one that Diana halted.

  Sitting on a high stool behind a large table sat a wizened old man. He bent over the table, his age-wearied eyes close to his work and tapped away at something with a small tool.

  Diana stepped into the shop. Apprehension gripped her, making her stomach tighten, for it had occurred to her only now that Alaric would see Felecius as the rest of the world did. But it was too late to turn him away. She glanced over her shoulder. His face impassive but his gaze roamed, rapidly sizing up the place.

  Diana pulled out the stool that stood opposite the old man’s bench and sat. “Good morning, Felecius.” She spoke clearly and a little more loudly than usual. Even then, the old man did not respond. She had to reach over to rest her hand on his shriveled forearm before he looked up.

  He blinked at her. His eyes were rheumy and bloodshot and thick long hair jutted over them, shadowing his eyes and giving him a sleepy, sad expression that reflected his habit of slipping back into the past.

  “Hello, Felecius,” Diana said again.

  “My Lady Lucilla!” Felecius’ voice quavered.

  “Diana.” It was always this way.

  “Diana?” He frowned. “But Diana is a slip of a girl.”

  “Not any longer, Felecius,” she replied.

  He looked puzzled. “My apologies, my lady.” He shook his head. “Sometimes my mind wanders.”

  “Yes, I know, Felecius. I am not offended.”

  “Oh good, good,” he murmured. He looked up at Alaric standing at her shoulder.

  Diana knew she could not put it off any longer. With a mental sigh, she lifted her hand, palm up, toward Alaric. “This is Alaric, son of Ulric, of Guent.”

  “Good day to you, warrior.”

  “Good day, Felecius.”

  Felecius frowned, staring down at his tabletop and the pile of small blue square tiles he was creating. “Ulric of Guent…” he whispered.

  Alaric glanced at her and Diana lifted her hand up, trying to indicate that he should be both silent and patient. He did not speak.

  She turned back to Felecius. He was whispering to himself. “...and he rose up and smacked a mighty blow. The sword fell asunder and there was none who could withstand his might…”

  Uncomfortable, Diana measured Alaric’s reaction to the old man’s rambling. Alaric had his head cocked to one side, listening intently.

  Partly reassured, Diana turned back to Felecius again.

  “When he drew his sword to hand it to his bastard son, it was broken. The assembled men all fell back, afraid, for they knew it was a sign. But the son of Ambrosius, the one they called Mirddyn of the Cave, just smiled and called upon the Lady…” Felecius nodded to himself. He was caught up in memories.

  “Felecius,” she began, intending to draw him back to the present but Alaric’s hand clamped on her shoulder.

  “No, wait,” he murmured, so softly Diana wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it.

  Felecius’ head was rocking gently in time to some unheard rhythm.

  Alaric spoke, his voice melodious. “And Merlin called upon the Lady of the Lake, who brought forth a sword—”

  Felecius spoke along with him, “A magnificent sword wrought of metal that came not from this earth.”

  Alaric fell silent again, while Felecius continued. “None dared touch the magical weapon, save for the bastard son of Uther. Arturos laughed and drew the sword from its sheath and held it up high for all to see. And they saw too, that Arturos was the one who would lead them from the darkness covering the land…”

  Felecius’ voice trailed off again. Diana stared at him, astonished. Arturos was the Roman name for Arthur.

  “Were you there, Felecius?” Alaric asked quietly.

  But there was no answer.

  “It happens this way,” she explained quietly. “He just…fades away for a while.”

  “For how long?”

  Diana shrugged. “He may stay that way for the rest of the day. If the day draws to a close and he is still lost, his friends in the adjoining stores will walk him home to his granddaughter’s house.”

  “How would he know about these events he speaks of?”

  “I don’t know. There are many who come and talk to him about the old ways. Perhaps he heard the tale from someone who was there.”

  Alaric nodded. “Perhaps. Merlin made a ballad of that day. Felecius might have heard it. He knew some of the words.” But the answer did not satisfy him.

  “Ulric. Captain to Uther,” Felecius said suddenly, his voice clear and strong. Diana stifled a little gasp. He was looking at Alaric, his eyes bright and clear.

  “He died with Uther, didn’t he, lad? Along with one of his sons. They died slaughtering Saxons. Arthur rallied together what was left of them that day and forged a victory out of defeat.”

  “Yes, they did,” Alaric replied calmly. Diana realized they were talking about the death of Alaric’s father and brother.

  “Ulric,” Felecius mused. “He married a Princess, one of Ban’s lot, I recall. Same King that begot the mother of that heathen harper of yours. Merlin.”

  “My cousin, yes,” Alaric agreed.

  Cousin? Diana blinked, trying to assemble the fast flow of facts about Alaric’s heritage.

  Felecius was nodding again but this time it was the preoccupied nod of someone who is receiving confirmation.

  “You knew my father?” Alaric asked.

  “I was born in Isca Silurum, that you pagans call Caer Leon.” Felecius cackled—an old man’s wheezy laughter. “Many, many years ago now, that was. But even in the north, I listen and hear much of that land.”

  “You were there when the Roman legions still marched the roads?”

  “Ayah. And we were hated there like your sort is hated here. The legions, despite their might, never did get more than a toehold on that wild land of yours, did they?”

  “No.” Alaric was smiling. “Were you there the day Uther acknowledged Arthur?”

  Felecius was smiling too. “No, but a lad you might know well was there and he is good about pausing to tell me the tales as he passes through here on his way back home.”

  “His name?”

  “Gawain. Of Strathclyde, in the wilds north of the wall.”

  “Gawain.” Alaric spoke the name as if a guess had been confirmed. His smile broadened. “Your informants are wide, old man. It would not surprise me if you have learned of my doings too.”

  “Ayah. And also your brush with that ferret Theophilus.”

  Alaric threw his head back and laughed. “Ferret,” he repeated. “Yes, that fits.”

  The two men looked at each other and it was as if an unspoken message passed between them. Mutual respect and liking dawned in their faces. She relaxed.

  “
You must come again, pagan and we’ll talk of home,” Felecius said. He looked at Diana. “And you too, child. How did your harvest fare with the early scything I recommended?”

  Diana smiled, pleased that he had remembered and that she could report good news. “You were right, Felecius. We harvested early and there was a wind three days later that would have laid flat all our fields if they had still been standing.”

  “Gales of the equinox. They blew hard last year.” He frowned and Diana watched his eyes glaze over. “Equinox. We ignore the old gods…Constantine and his worship of Christ—the old rhythms are lost…”

  His chin sank down to his chest and it would be easy for a passing stranger to assume he was asleep. Diana stood up. “Come,” she whispered to Alaric. “Let’s leave him to his memories.”

  Alaric nodded, his gaze on the old man.

  They headed back toward the market roads. “Were you there too, that day Felecius spoke of?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  His tone made her glance up. He was wearing a faraway expression similar to Felecius’.

  “Was the day as magical as Felecius speaks of it?”

  “Magical?” Alaric gave a snort. “There was nothing magic about it. The magic and wonder are ingredients Merlin and the bards wove into the tale to make it something no man would forget. That day was probably one of the bloodiest, most desperate days in Britain’s history. We were so close to being taken under by the Saxon host.” He shook his head. “It was sheer fortitude and courage that won that day, not magic. When Uther fell on the battlefield, the few men who were left lost their courage and the Saxons knew it. It was only Arthur’s relentlessness that saw us through. He fed his determination into every man there. He drove them to pick up their swords and shields and fight again with renewed strength. To this day I don’t know how he did it. We had given up.” Alaric glanced at her, to see if she was following him. “I was sixteen,” he added. “It was my first battle.”

  “Oh,” Diana murmured inadequately. She could think of nothing appropriate to say. Platitudes aplenty sprang to mind, along with the sound of her mother’s dry voice as she had oft repeated them but Diana rather doubted that Alaric wanted to be told that even the most miraculous occurrence was simply Christ ensuring his intentions were met.

  Alaric shrugged. “I apologize, my lady. I forgot for a moment that talk of Arthur does not sit well with you.”

  Diana wanted to protest this was not so but couldn’t. For it was true that talk of Arthur usually irritated her like a bur under the saddle but that hadn’t been the case this time. Felecius—a Roman who fiercely maintained the old ways—had been reciting the story of Arthur’s ascendancy with a voice ringing with pride. While she had not known who it was that Felecius spoke of, Diana had been drawn into the tale, fascinated by the words of power, courage and victory. It might have been any one of dozens of Legion victories that Felecius had been speaking of, save that they did not usually involve magic, or talk of defeating Saxons. The name Arturos had come as a shock to her.

  They turned into the street where the market stalls were and Alaric looked around, searching for something.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Someone who sells food. I am hungry.”

  “I don’t eat until I get home. The stall owners here usually demand money rather than bartered goods.”

  Alaric smiled. “Don’t worry about that. Which is the best food stall? Show me.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can eat.”

  “At the most expensive stall?” Her frugal instincts were offended. “Do you have coins?”

  His smile broadened. “That is of no concern. Let’s indulge ourselves, just this once. I saw you sniffing the aromas and swallowing, when we came this way before.”

  “Why would you want to do this?”

  “Because your leanness offends me, if you must have an excuse, my lady. Will that do?”

  Diana stopped and faced him. He gazed just as steadily back at her and crossed his arms. It felt like a challenge. She could see nothing in his eyes that would give her a clue as to his real intention.

  “All right,” she agreed at last.

  “Good. Now, hurry and show me the best stall. I was not jesting when I said I am hungry.” He growled the words out irritably, as if she was causing him a large inconvenience. Yet as he turned away, Diana caught a glint in his eyes that she thought might be self-satisfied pleasure.

  She moved off down the street looking for the Greek’s stall, feeling her own genuine pleasure at the idea of sharing a meal with the man who strode next to her without having the rest of the household sitting at their elbows.

  Anything might happen.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alaric drank from the wineskin and glanced idly around the forum as he passed the skin back to Diana. There were a few people in the dilapidated old square but they were merely passing through. Diana and he were the only ones who were actually sitting on the crumbling tiers that formed one side of the forum, in a sunny corner protected from the wind by the buildings that butted up next to the tiers. He had taken his cloak off long before.

  They’d come here after purchasing food from a great brown man with a dazzling white smile and a raucous laugh—olives, crusty bread and a soft white cheese. Wine. A handful of thin slices of pink meat shaved from a cured side of pork and another handful each of dried apricots.

  The meal was refreshingly different, lacking the herbs and spices that Romans adored and used extensively. The wine was much older than Alaric had ever tasted and headier than he was used to. They’d eaten well and were now munching on the remaining apricots and sharing the wine.

  Diana had been a pleasant companion and the lack of opposition allowed Alaric to relax. He suspected it was because she was not on the estate and surrounded by her concerns that she could lower her guard in this way. He should have brought her to Eboracum a month ago.

  He shifted uncomfortably against the hard stone seat and stood up, stretching his legs. Diana held up the wineskin for him to take and left her face turned up into the sun. Her legs were curled up next to her on the tier. She looked like a cat lying and soaking up the sun, as cats were wont to do. No sign of claws and teeth today.

  It made him uneasy.

  He pushed his thoughts away from the dangerous activity of speculating about Diana’s thoughts, moods, or needs and instead gazed about the square.

  A group of women accompanied by three armed men crossed the square in a tight formation. The men were slaves or freedman, judging by their features and clothing. One of the women was obviously a senior matron for she sailed ahead of the rest with the regal bearing of one who was used to being obeyed. Behind her came three maidens.

  All of them were dressed in the very formal Roman attire that was common in Eboracum—mantles and veils, long finely pleated tunics that trailed on the ground, ornate jewelry and makeup and elaborate hairstyles. They were alien. Exotic. They moved in such a different world from his they would not be able to communicate, for they had nothing in common with him from which he could draw useful references. What would such pampered creatures know of Saxons, battles, the fate of all Britain? Did they even know that Britain was fighting for its life?

  He turned away from them, marveling that people could live such insulated lives and his gaze fell upon Diana.

  She was one of them but was so unlike them that it took conscious effort to remember that she was a Roman too. The frankly tied hair, the workman’s clothes, the ridiculous belt. She wore no jewelry, no makeup. Her finely drawn skin glowed with the touch of the sun and that was all. Even her full lips, bare of any reddening ochre, seemed moist and…

  Alaric straightened up abruptly and thrust the wineskin at her. “Tell me,” he said quickly. “How is it that a Roman maiden should not go anywhere unaccompanied, or without an armed guard, yet you do just that?”

  She seemed to laugh up at him, or perhaps it was just that her smile
was so rare it seemed more joyous when it appeared.

  “I am accompanied by an armed guard. You appointed yourself my protector, remember?”

  “Yes but you do not dress as they do.” He pointed to the tight little group on the far side of the forum, heading away from the markets. They were probably returning home to rest for the afternoon, a common practice among city dwellers.

  Diana’s smile faded. “I have moved far beyond that.”

  “Why?”

  She stared after the women but Alaric suspected that she was no longer consciously studying them. He thought she wasn’t going to answer his impulsive question but then she began to speak, her voice quiet.

  “All they have to look forward to is life as a married woman, or cloistered in a nunnery somewhere when they pass beyond a marriageable age. A year ago, that was all I had to look forward to too.” She looked up at him then. “Then the Saxons came and suddenly there were no men and no women more senior than me who were fit to take charge of the estate.”

  “So you did,” Alaric finished.

  “I had to. Apart from being the oldest surviving member of the family, in the beginning it seemed like I was the only one who could put together two related thoughts. And too, I was the only one who could read and find answers to puzzles from my father’s books.” She looked away, with a sigh.

  “Was it as bad as I’ve heard?” Alaric asked softly.

  “It was bad. We lost three people to hunger that winter. Two of them children and the other one of the oldest among us.”

  He knew she took full blame for those deaths. It was a trait that all leaders shared.

  “If it was so hard, why do you fight to keep control of the estate?” he asked. “By rights your brother—”

  “My brother deserted us, just as he deserted you,” Diana snapped. She shook her head. “He no longer has fair claim on the estate. Besides—” She bit her lip. Horror and surprise flitted across her face. Quickly, she looked away.

  “Besides?”

  She remained silent.

  “Diana? What is it?”

  She sighed again and turned to look at him. “Besides, Verus once told me that if…if Britain is to survive, we must examine all the old ways of doing things. Something like that. He said if marriage, or the nunnery, was not for me, then I should find my own place in the world.”