by Amy Jarecki
“Yes.” She clapped her hands. “I’d love to hear your story.”
Taran grinned and wondered how his friend would twist the old tale this time.
Looking skyward to gather his thoughts, Greum cleared his throat. “Scythia had suffered through many years of bitter cold. The summer months were so short, the growing season did not yield stores needed to carry all the people through winter. Game was scarce and our people were half-starved. The young men of Scythia got together and agreed they could not watch their kin die and the tribe’s children starve. So they built a seaworthy vessel as big as a Roman long ship. Only bachelors boarded the boat in search of a new land abundant with food. The married men stayed behind to protect their wives and children.”
Greum picked up a stick of wood and tossed it on the fire.
Taran watched Valeria’s expression, attentive. She was unusual for a Roman, caring, curious. With her command of Celtic, she seemed open and interested to learn about cultures other than her own. He wondered about her education and what had opened her eyes.
“The ship was battered by terrible storms. A giant bolt of lightning struck down the mast. The men tried to fix it, but they were adrift for weeks, at the mercy of the sea and the nasty beasts that swam beneath. With their food and water running dry, they washed up on the shore of Éire, met by a redheaded chieftain.”
“Must have been Taran’s ancestor,” Fionn interrupted.
“Aye.” Greum chuckled. “The chieftain said there was no free land on his island, but to sail across to Britannia. In the north he’d heard there was plenty of land for the taking.”
“So how long ago was this sea voyage?” Valeria asked, her eyes wide.
“ʼTwas near a thousand year’ ago,” Greum said. “But the bloody bachelors had a yen for some companionship. They asked if they could take some of the bonny maids for their wives. The king agreed on one condition—if their lines of succession would follow the female royal line. The men approved and when they landed in Britannia, each one staked a claim of his own and thus was born the Pictish Nation—and the strongest tribe of them all became the Votadini of Gododdin, our tribe.”
Valeria smiled, her teeth glowing white in the firelight. “Interesting, Votadini almost sounds Latin. Your men follow the female royal line?”
“Aye.”
She giggled. “That means you’re related to the Gaels who also migrated from Éire.”
“Not hardly,” Drust said. “We’ve been our own nation for near a thousand year’. Picts are Picts and Gaels…well, they’re plaid-wearing simpletons.”
Everyone chuckled and inched down on their saddle blankets to sleep. Taran picked up his saddle and walked around the fire to Valeria. “Ye look cold, m’lady.”
She rubbed her outer arms. “There is a chill in the air tonight.”
Pia patted her hand. “You rest under the cloak with me. I’ve got enough heat for the both of us.”
Taran had no business bedding beside the lady. But then, she’d be safer next to him. With a grunt, he tossed his saddle down. “I’ll sleep here on the other side. Me sword will protect ye both.”
Chapter Nine
The mist had formed just before dawn and shrouded the clearing. To Valeria, it seemed surreal, like a dream. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up. She reached to her left, but found a vacant spot where Taran had slept with his welcome heat radiating against her backside. All others were fast asleep.
A splash echoed through the trees. Gathering her cloak around her shoulders, she tiptoed toward the sound. Slippery moss squished cold water between her toes with each step. Even more than her wardrobe of satin gowns, she missed her sandals. Every rock and twig beneath her feet tore at her tender flesh, and though she had been mostly riding since she was ripped away from Vindolanda, her feet were as sore as her thighs—both in need of a few days’ rest.
Stag met her on the trail. His nose pushing into her palm, he welcomed her with a wag of his tail. The silver glimmer of water sparkled through the trees. She pulled a branch aside and gasped. Frozen where she stood, she beheld the most beautiful sight she had ever imagined. Taran, dripping wet, completely naked, sat beside the pond, scraping a thick growth of whiskers from his face with the dagger she’d given him in the gaol. The reflection of the sunrise against the pool cast a glow around him, accentuating the rippling of his lean muscles and the sheer alabaster of his skin.
Valeria’s breath caught when he stood, his long legs straightened to his full height, the chiseled bottom supporting a narrow waist that gave way to massive, powerful shoulders, topped with waves of auburn that kissed his shoulders and glowed like fire. Her body leaned toward him as he dove into the water. With potent strokes, he swam to the far side of the pool. Valeria was helpless to pull her gaze away.
When he swam back, she stepped forward. The branch beneath her hand rustled. He climbed out of the pool and faced her. Valeria’s mouth dropped open, her tongue completely dry. Never in her life had she seen a completely naked flesh-and-blood man.
Muscles rippled beneath countless scars. Taran’s chest heaved with every breath. Unable to help herself, she feasted her eyes on his magnificence. Copper curls glistened inches below his navel, leading to his sex. Valeria couldn’t breathe, her fingers itched to touch it. Frozen, she could not divert her gaze from his rugged beauty.
When she again rustled the tree limb beneath her hand, Taran stepped forward. “Stag?”
Valeria’s mind told her to flee, but her feet couldn’t move. His eyes met hers. Reaching for a blanket, he wrapped it around his waist and moved toward her.
She urged the dog ahead and stepped into the clearing. She licked her lips, unable to speak. What if he knew how long she’d been standing there ogling him?
Taran paid no mind to the dog. He stepped so close; she could smell the fresh pine from his soap. Brilliant blue eyes poured over her and then the corner of his mouth ticked up. “Ye told me I needed a bath.”
She swallowed to staunch her thundering heart. He remembered. She reached up a trembling hand and ran her fingers across his smoothly shaven face, his right cheek laced with a spiral of blue that swirled down his neck. “You do look a tad more civilized.” Valeria didn’t recognize her own voice, the sound low, almost husky.
As if it had a mind of its own, her finger traced the tattoo, swirling to where it ended in a circle over his heart. “Why do the Picts paint their bodies?”
“ʼTis our bond and our seal. Ye’ve seen the stones carved with our stories?”
“Yes.” Valeria nodded, her fingers still resting over his heart.
He wrapped her hand in his. Though he’d been swimming in frigid water, it felt surprisingly warm.
“ʼTis my sign.” He moved her hand to his face. “The spiral is Taran.” He retraced the line to his heart. “The interlaced circle represents Brude, me father. It means Taran, son of Brude.”
Valeria said nothing. Her eyes moved up the swirling blue pattern and continued until they met a softer, gentler blue staring back. Her body, her entire being was completely aware, the gooseflesh on her skin tingled. He then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, his eyes unwavering.
A guttural chuckle slid past his lips. “Apologies. I cannot pull me eyes away from yers.”
God in heaven, how could she resist him? Completely and utterly alive, she arched her back and raised her chin. Her heart fluttered in her chest. His head stooped, his lips moved toward hers. She closed her eyes. Oh yes, please kiss me.
“Valeria?”
She jumped at the sound of Pia’s voice. Valeria stepped back.
“Here, Pia.”
Taran reached for his tunic.
Stag let out a bark when Pia plowed into the clearing. “Whatever are you doing out here?”
“Uh.” Valeria bit her bottom lip. “I awoke and heard the water.”
Pia stood like a mother hen ready to peck. Her eyes shifted between the two.
Taran gave her a rap on the shoulder and headed back to
camp. “Ye’ve got no cause to worry, mistress. Valeria just stepped into the clearing but not two moments ago.”
Pia frowned. “You mustn’t walk off without me.”
Valeria removed her cloak and handed it to her. “I should like to bathe.”
Pia grumbled, surveying the small pond. “Very well. I’ll stand guard…and leave your tunic on.”
Valeria dabbed her toe in the water and shivered. How could Taran just jump in? All her life she’d been spoiled by hot baths. She stepped back and slapped her hands to her hips. If he could jump in, then so can I. She took a running leap and held her nose.
Ice-cold water attacked her like a million pinpricks. Her ribcage contracted. Air expelled from her lungs. Blackness filled her vision. She kicked her legs and fought to break the surface, afraid she might freeze before she swam through. She sucked in gulping breath as her head emerged and she swam to the shore.
“Ack! Oh m-my heavens. This is like b-bathing in a b-bath filled w-with ice.”
Pia chuckled. Stepping up to the pool, she stooped and flicked the water with her hand. “Goodness, that is cold. I’m surprised the pond isn’t covered with ice.”
Valeria’s teeth chattered while she splashed as quickly as possible, rinsed the dirt out of her hair and rubbed under her arms. A quick dip would have to suffice, otherwise she might freeze into a Greek statue. She pictured herself on the edge of the pool in the eternal marble form of goddess “Valeria.”
Pia held her cloak open and ready. “Child, you must be half crazed to stay in the water as long as you did. Look at you, your lips are blue.”
Unable to control her shivers, Valeria clutched the cloak around her body. She followed Pia back to the camp. “You best stand by the fire.”
Greum snorted. “Took a fresh morning dip I see. Unfortunate nature doesn’t see fit to heat the water for ye.”
“Most unfortunate indeed.” Valeria managed to control the chattering of her teeth long enough to reply.
Taran stepped into the glade. “The horses are ready. A half day’s ride and we’ll be feasting in the warm hall of Dunpelder.”
He took her hand and led her to Blackie. Before helping her mount, he leaned near her ear. “Ye’d be less likely to catch your death if ye take yer clothes off before you dive into one of our chilly Pictish pools. Ye also warm up a lot faster that way.”
“I shall keep that in mind next time. Pia thought it would be prudent if I left my tunic on.”
****
Trying to ignore his conjured image of Valeria’s naked body slipping into a pool of water, Taran gave her a leg up. He then moved over to Pia to do the same. Though stout, Pia nearly flew over the other side of her gelding.
“My, you do have some power in those arms, young man.”
“Aye. Strong limbs for wielding a sword to protect ye ladies.”
Taran considered letting Valeria ride with Pia but decided against it. He would be better able to defend her if she rode with him. Plus, her tunic was still damp under her cloak and his body would keep out the chill. She’d definitely be more comfortable with him.
However, he needed to avoid his involuntary reaction to her bottom pressed against his crotch. He couldn’t deny the sensation drove him as mad as a stallion in a paddock with a mare in heat, but the very core of his honor prevented him from leading the lady into the wood and tugging up her skirts—honor and the lady’s nursemaid. Valeria had no idea how much danger she’d been in back at the pool. If Pia hadn’t arrived, he could have lost control.
He’d never forget how, at the tender age of four and ten, not long before he was sent to Gododdin, he cornered Marta in the milking shed and kissed her on the lips. After thinking about the incident, he figured she might have tricked him into it because she batted her eyelashes, giggling and dancing behind the door. He followed her, and the next thing Taran knew, she grabbed him round the waist and thrust her tongue in his mouth.
He’d been only too eager to explore all the temptress had to offer right there in the hay, but he nearly jumped into the next shire when the hands of his father latched onto him and tossed him across the barn like a sack of grain.
After a good hiding, his father had figured it was time to talk. They took a walk through the glen. Seeing Da’s ruddy face red, Taran had feared he was going to burst like an overripe plum. “Son, ʼtis time ye knew the rules where lassies are concerned.”
Taran’s backside was still hot and stinging. He hadn’t a mind to say a thing. He’d kept walking, though. If he turned tail and ran, it would buy him another half-dozen lashes at least.
His father had kept his eyes ahead too, and Taran now found amusement remembering the old man’s discomfort. “I know how maiden lassies can tempt a lad, but ye must never sow yer seed where ye have no business.”
Realizing what his father was saying, the heat in his cheeks burned a fire so fierce, he was sure he was redder than the great Brude himself.
Da stopped and shook him by the shoulders. “If ye’re not ready for bairns, you’d best keep yer cock under yer tunic and yer hands to yerself.”
Da turned and plodded down the paddock, leaving Taran staring off behind him. Lesson learned—he kept his feelings in check with Valeria riding in front of him. But, he saw nothing wrong with savoring every moment with her. He may never have a chance to enjoy her in such close proximity again.
“Taran?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“How old are you?”
“One and twenty.” He wanted to ask her age, but knew it wasn’t proper.
“I’m eight and ten and now I’m an orphan.”
The pain in her voice pulled on his heart and he strengthened his grasp around her waist. “Ye must be mourning your loss, lass.”
Her body racking against his chest, she wiped her face with her sleeve. “I don’t even have a handkerchief.”
She began to weep again, this time unable to stop. Taran cradled her in his arms, wishing he could do something to bear the burden of her pain. He nuzzled her hair and closed his eyes. “ʼTis okay, lass. Let it go and ye’ll feel better on the morrow.”
Half the morning had passed when her staccato breath slowed and she regained control. “I’m sorry to burden you with my troubles.”
“ʼTis nothing. Ye must feel a terrible hole in yer heart.”
“Yes, and I have no idea what I shall do.” Her head bowed with a ragged inhale.
“Ye shouldn’t worry about that now, m’lady. We’ll be at Dunpelder by noontime and we’ll find ye a proper dress and a bed where ye can rest.”
“Thank you. You have been more than kind.”
“Yer own kindness at Vindolanda did not go unappreciated. I vow to protect ye until you no longer need me sword.”
Valeria sat a bit taller in the saddle and inclined her face toward his. “Well then, gallant knight, lead on.”
Chapter Ten
Valeria’s spirits lifted when a massive fortress broke through the mist on the horizon. Built upon a natural butte, the castle sat so high, it appeared to touch the heavens. Battlement walls encircled the stronghold. In the center, rising above the mighty walls, a donjon stood at least five stories high.
“Dunpelder awaits,” Drust bellowed, spurring his horse to a canter.
“Home,” Taran said, the relief in his voice unmistakable.
As they neared, the fortress grew larger—almost as grand as Vindolanda herself. A castle such as this could harbor hundreds of people. It was built atop the colossal rock, which meant archers would have clear sight on all sides. “It looks to be a formidable fortress.”
“Aye, that it is. There’s only one way up across the moat. Our sentries can see enemies approach for miles.”
“I didn’t expect it to be quite so spectacular.”
Greum leaned forward on his horse. “Dunpelder is the largest Pict stronghold and Gododdin the greatest kingdom in the Pict nation. ʼTis the seat of the king.”
Taran slapped his rei
ns and drew in beside Drust. The wind picked up Valeria’s hair. She threw her head back and laughed.
They rode past shaggy cattle grazing and a healthy flock of sheep. At the base of the butte, Valeria craned her neck. The path led up a steep incline to the fortress gate. How on earth could anyone fight against a keep as daunting as Dunpelder? She’d only heard derogatory remarks about the savage people beyond Roman Britannia and had assumed they all lived in hovels in the ground. If their architecture was an indication of the power of the Picts, there was no question why Emperor Hadrian had chosen to erect the wall and decree the land beyond untamable. The Picts would not be easily conquered.
The fortress gates opened and Valeria beheld a courtyard of activity. The blacksmith’s shed clanged with hammers working iron. The smell of baking bread made her mouth water. Two men chopped wood, chickens cackled and ahead, young lads practiced swordsmanship.
A boy raced up to Blackie. “Prince Taran, och aye, ʼtis good to see ye.”
Taran hopped down and gave the reins to the lad. “Tomas? My oath, ye’re nearly a grown man.” He reached up and helped Valeria to dismount.
“I’m two and ten,” the lad said, puffing out his skinny chest with pride. “The king’s waiting in the great hall.”
“Ta.” Taran gave the boy a friendly pat on the head.
Valeria tapped his shoulder. “Prince?”
Taran shrugged. “It is the way of the royal female line. I’ll explain later. Come, meet me uncle—Oisean, Chieftain of Gododdin, King over all Pict tribes.”
Valeria dug in her heels. Taran had just disclosed he’s the heir to the throne, and now she must meet the king? “You cannot be serious. I’m not dressed, I have not combed my hair in days and I have no shoes. I shall not be presented to a king in this shambled state of dress.”
Drust rolled his eyes. “The way she carries on, you’d think she was related to Emperor Valentinian, himself.”
“Her ladyship is his niece,” Pia said, folding her arms.
Valeria straightened her spine like a board. She tipped up her chin. Both Taran and Drust looked from Pia to her and back.
