Celtic Maid (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 2)

by Amy Jarecki

  Once the Picts had ridden out of sight, Alerio hopped down from his horse and retrieved the swords. “We ride north, then?”

  “Not on your life.” Titus reached for a weapon. “First, Dulcitius will undoubtedly mount an attack, and second, Elspeth is locked in the stronghold tower. I shall not leave her there to rot.”

  “But will they not kill us if we return?”

  The corner of Titus’s mouth turned up. “Not if we time it right.”

  Alerio’s face twisted in question. “Huh?”

  “We need to find a place to hide where we can monitor the Roman army’s advance. We’ll make spears and arrows, anything to flank them.”

  “Are you serious? You’re planning to take on an entire century?”

  “Dulcitius won’t attack with less than a cohort.”

  “A cohort? Zeus strike me with a bolt of lightning now!” Alerio remounted. “We may as well be taking on four-hundred-eighty men as opposed to eighty. The odds of our survival aren’t much different.”

  Titus slid the sword and scabbard under his belt. “We’ll let the Picts wear them down with whatever they’ve got. When the Romans go for the gate, that’s when we’ll move in. I’m not looking to commit suicide. I want to ferret Elspeth out and show the Picts I am their ally.” Titus cracked his knuckles. “Are you with me or would you prefer to run to Raasay and hide forever?”

  The lad shook his head and grinned. “I must have lost my mind back in the Vindolanda gaol, but yes. I’m with you.”

  Titus pointed his horse southeast, betting the Romans would venture up the path he’d first traveled with Colin the Gale. After entering a dense wood, he turned down an offshoot that appeared to be a game trail—though it hadn’t taken him long to realize most of the trails looked like they were cut by deer, and possibly they were, only reinforced by the Picts.

  They rode about a ten miles in and came to a shack made of flat stone and sticks, topped with thatch. Titus inhaled. The fragrance of wood smoke told him this place was not abandoned, though no smoke billowed. “Hello the house,” he called.

  A high-pitched garble resounded from inside. Using the only Celtic he knew, Titus informed the person inside he didn’t understand what was being said. “Chan eil mi a’ tuigsinn,” he bellowed, hoping he was saying the right words.

  Alerio arched his eyebrows. “Impressive.”

  “’Tis all I have in my arsenal.”

  A very young blond woman scooted out the entrance with a loaded crossbow held to her cheek. She rattled off a series of Gaelic words that sounded like commands. Titus held up his hands and repeated that he didn’t understand, then put his fingers to his mouth and clicked his teeth together. “Food?”

  She backed, her gaze nervously shooting to Alerio. He smiled and waved. She knit her brows. He motioned for her to lower her weapon, and she threw a startled look toward Titus. Alerio motioned again. “We will not hurt you.” His soft voice sounded as if he were speaking to a newborn foal.

  She nodded and lowered her weapon away from her face. Titus peered at the palm-sized red scar on her cheek. She slapped her hand over it and raised the crossbow.

  Alerio again held up his hands. “No. We don’t mind. You do not frighten us.” He leaned forward to dismount, holding her gaze. He inclined his head and she nodded back. He jumped off his mount and stared at her. She did not look away. Alerio stepped forward and held out his hands. She tilted her head toward the hut and he followed.

  Titus wondered what had just happened and followed along after his new peacemaker—Alerio the tamer of fierce maidens. Titus surveyed the clearing and its crude stone gardening tools. A trickling in the distance made him stop. A brook babbled nearby. They could hide here.

  He pulled aside the linen cloth covering the entry and bent his head down to clear the lintel. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but the smell of butchered and salted meat made his mouth water. Stepping inside, the floor beneath them was merely compressed dirt. A fire pit recessed into the far wall and to his right hung a carcass of a boar and strips of drying meat. The only furniture was a table with a single chair and a pallet of threshes that lay in the far corner.

  Alerio grinned at him. “Her name is Seona.”

  She pointed to the chair and pulled down a strip of meat. Though Titus would have preferred not to be the only one sitting, he took the chair she offered. Alerio sat cross-legged near the hearth and Seona gave them each a portion of meat then scooped wooden cups of water from a bucket.

  “Thank you,” Titus said.

  “Se do bheatha,” she replied.

  “I think she said you’re welcome.” Alerio reached for his water. Seona sat beside him and folded her hands in her lap with a pleasant smile. Evidently she was happy to have company. Titus wondered how she had come to be living alone in the wild, but the language barrier did nothing to satiate his curiosity. If only Elspeth were there to interpret.

  ****

  Over the next several days, Titus and Alerio prepared for war. They made arrows and scouted just as they would if they were preparing for battle anywhere. Titus found a cliff with a good vantage to the south. They climbed up three times daily, and as they made their rounds, they became more familiar with the forest and the path of twenty-miles or so, leading back to Dunpelder.

  Seona’s snares provided them with an abundance of food, and Titus regained his strength. The waif proved quite useful with a keen knowledge of local vegetation. Titus could not mistake the attraction between her and Alerio. They had grown close immediately, finding ways to communicate. Both were quick to pick up words and phrases, though Alerio had still not been able to understand why she was living alone in the woods.

  Titus supposed it didn’t matter. She had provided them with food and a place to camp until the battle. It was already their seventh night in the cabin, and Titus was grateful for Seona’s hospitality. He reclined against his saddle, across the hearth from Alerio and Seona. He watched them as they pointed to items and spoke their names, each sounding awkward as they tried to pronounce the foreign words. Titus smiled. Seona had a knack for Latin, but Alerio would need to practice his Celtic diphthongization.

  Their prattle faded into oblivion as Titus gazed into the dancing flames. He pictured Elspeth there, her coppery hair reflecting the firelight. His imaginings seemed so real, he longed to reach out and run his fingers through her tresses, caress the silken wisps as they cascaded down her back. The fire ignited deep in his belly with a tightening of his manhood. Titus drew in a short breath and his eyes darted to the couple across the room. Enthralled with their own game, they had not noticed his inattentiveness.

  With a blink, his eyes slid back to the flames and a new feeling attacked his gut. Was Elspeth still locked in the tower? Guilt crept up the back of his neck as if carried on the legs of a hairy tarantula. Not all that long ago, he had gone about his business while keeping her locked in his gaol, and now she was held prisoner by her own kin. This time he would not turn his back on her—his wife. Though no one was there to witness their vows, his marriage to Elspeth was more sacred to him than his oath of loyalty to Rome, or his own honor and dedication to his father.

  He closed his eyes and saw her coppery hair. Breathing in, he imagined her scent—womanly, laced with wood smoke and the rosemary soap she used.

  “Titus, you look a thousand miles away,” Alerio said from across the room.

  Titus clenched his fists. “Just ready for the battle to begin. For the sooner it starts, the sooner we can rescue Elspeth from the tower and be on our way.”

  “Ah.” A crimson flush spread across Alerio’s face. “Will we still head north?”

  ****

  When Titus awoke the next morning, the sun streamed through the weathered boards. He rubbed his eyes. Alerio slept on his side, cradling Seona in his arms. He scratched his head and wondered if the boy had ever fallen in love. Then he frowned. They would be leaving this place soon, never to return.

  Titus stretche
d and reached for his sword and sandals. Creeping out of the hut, he saddled his mount and set out for his morning rounds. No use waking the boy. His face looked as if he had gone to heaven. May as well let him enjoy the feel of a woman in his arms—for tomorrow we may die.

  He counted their cache of arrows—fifty. Not bad for six days work without a blacksmith. Hewn from spindly willow branches, he worried about their accuracy. Some will hit their mark, and we will thwart Dulcitius’s attack.

  Titus saddled his horse and headed to the crag. From its summit, he had the best view of the region including an unobstructed view of the trail from the south. He pointed the horse up the steep incline. Though the gelding beneath him had strong bone, he missed the high-stepping spirit of Petronius. Tightness squeezed his heart. He’d probably never see the stallion again.

  As the horse climbed, Titus tried to picture the near future. His very existence was in question. When the Romans attacked, he would be fighting against them and this time the numbers would include his men, no doubt—something that he would have considered unconscionable only a few months ago. The only thing he could focus on was to end this feud with Dulcitius and take Elspeth into his arms and never let her go. He would not allow King Taran, Greum or any other man stand in his way this time.

  When Titus reached the summit of the crag, his gut clenched. He didn’t have to look twice. The reins slid in his sweaty palms. In the distance, a dust cloud announced the approach of the enemy—his very own countrymen, led by a tyrant. A century alone would not kick up that much earth. As he predicted, Dulcitius rode with a cohort of at least four hundred men. Titus had never known Dulcitius to do anything on a small scale. He had fought with him enough he could predict his tactics. Fortunately, the dense forest forced the cohort to move single file. Doubtless, the Picts would be alerted of their approach long before the Romans reached the stronghold.

  Titus galloped down the slope and hollered for Alerio. The loyal optio stumbled out of the hut rubbing his eyes. “They’re coming, are they not?”

  “Yes.” Titus hopped down from his horse. “We have some time. I want to let the Romans pass, then we shall creep in behind them.”

  Alerio looked back over his shoulder toward Seona. He pointed to the cache of arrows and understanding crossed her face. She flung her arms around Alerio’s neck, wailing. The anguish on the lad’s face tore a hole through Titus’s chest, but he clenched his teeth. Alerio knew where his loyalties lay.

  “Load up the arrows and say your goodbyes,” Titus said, drawing his sword and checking the blade for sharpness.

  He could no longer watch when Alerio showered her with kisses, and the pair of them nearly drowned in tears, pantomiming their declarations of undying love. He turned away and let them be, for he knew very well what it was like to be apart from the love of his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  From her pallet in the tower, Elspeth could hear the earth rumble, pummeled by a mounted cavalry. She had regular visits by everyone from the king to Manas—everyone but her brother. Greum still brooded over her misshapen condition. Though Valeria was already plotting to raise their bairns to be twins, her brother considered Elspeth’s pregnancy forged in the fires of hell.

  Elspeth wanted to bash him over the head with a hammer and wallop some sense into him.

  But now her stomach sank with the realization that the Romans were marching on Dunpelder. As leader of the archers, she needed to be on the battlements. And where was Titus? She prayed he’d fled to the north. That’s where she intended to go as soon as King Taran released her from the tower.

  She sprang to her feet and pounded on the door. “Release me! I am the leader of the archers. I. Must. Be. Released. Now!”

  The door creaked open, and Elspeth fell into Valeria’s outstretched arms. “The king has granted your pardon.”

  “Pardon?” Elspeth pulled back and brushed herself off. “I did nothing wrong.”

  Valeria nodded. “Yes, we both know that.”

  Manas held up her bow and quiver. “The Romans are coming.”

  “Aye, and how are we planning to hold them back?”

  “The fires have been lit to boil the kettles on the wall-walk,” Manas said.

  Valeria pointed to the tower steps where warriors were filing up to man their stations. “The mangonel catapults are ready. All we need is our lead archer.”

  Elspeth grabbed her bow and tossed the arrows over her shoulder. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Leave it to Greum to see to it I was locked away until he needed me upon the battlements.” Elspeth started out then stopped and turned. “I will have a reckoning with him when this is finished. Mark me words.”

  Manas skittered to her side. “Can I help the archers? Greum says I’m too young to swing me sword.”

  Elspeth shook her head, but Valeria caught her eye with an imploring look. Putting her hands on her hips and knitting her brows with the sternest look she could muster, Elspeth regarded the lad. “Do ye think ye are fast enough to keep our supply of arrows coming?”

  “Aye, mistress. Ye’ll have so many arrows the battlements will be overflowing with them.”

  “Good. I will hold ye to yer word.”

  Manas ran toward the armory, and Valeria rested her hand on Elspeth’s shoulder. “Thank you. The boy needs to help us defend the keep.”

  “Aye? I think he would be best guarding ye in yer chamber like he did when Runan attacked.”

  “I will be fine.” Valeria threw her arms around Elspeth’s neck. “Shoot long and straight—and go with God.”

  “Aye, m’lady. Now slip down below before they mount their attack.” Elspeth kissed the queen’s cheek and raced for her station in the center of the front wall, directly over the four-foot thick wooden gates.

  “Good to see ye, Elspeth,” Niall said, a fellow archer. “We feared we were going to have to fight without ye.”

  “Greum is no’ so thick-headed he would keep me locked away when the castle is under siege.”

  “’Tis good he came to his senses.” Niall pointed to the line of Romans who were amassing at the tree line. They were too far away to strike with the catapults. All the Picts could do now was wait and prepare for their advance. A Pictish rider crossed the open lea with a scroll in his hand.

  “What?” Niall asked.

  “’Tis a missive telling them Titus is not with us.” Elspeth didn’t have to guess at the contents of the missive. She knew telling them they would not find their quarry was the best way to avert an attack and prevent bloodshed of hundreds.

  She recognized the man who received the missive—Paulus, Dulcitius’s optio. Her heart raced as he handed it to the legionary in the center—he did not wear the sideways horsehair crest of a centurion. When he turned his head, Elspeth gasped. He wore the black-and-white crest of a dux, a general. “Dulcitius has come to lead the battle.”

  Elspeth loaded an arrow into her bow and stretched it back. She aimed it at Dulcitius. Her heart beat faster and had a slight tremor to her breath as she pulled the string back as far as her arms allowed.

  Niall placed his hand on her fist just before it released the arrow. “’Twill only raise their ire if they see an arrow fly while our sentry awaits their reply.”

  She nodded once and lowered her bow. “I was just lining up me sights.”

  The wall erupted in a roar of outrage when Dulcitius drew his sword and cut down the Pict sentry—murdered him in cold blood. His savage act of barbarism ensured there would be no chance of parley.

  Niall smoothed his hand over this throat. “Atar save us.”

  “The only thing that’ll save us this day is our weapons. That man’s got the heart of a dragon, mark me.”

  Dulcitius and Paulus remained safely at the edge of the wood while the Roman soldiers marched ahead.

  “Too milk-livered to ride with yer men are ye, Dux?” Elspeth raised her hand to deliver her command. “Load yer bows!”

  Her team of archers stood ready, await
ing the drop of Elspeth’s arm. Heavy-boned Roman warhorses pulled catapults into place as the cavalry barreled forward. Down below, Greum sat atop his horse wearing Pictish armor. A row of mounted Pict warriors lined the fortress, with six rows of foot soldiers behind. King Taran had called in support from the neighboring tribes.

  “Hold,” Elspeth commanded, waiting until the Romans were in range. The earth thundered while she focused on her target—the lead Roman soldier barreling ahead, bellowing his battle cry. She dropped her arm. “Fire!”

  It had begun. Elspeth’s archers were the first to strike. She pulled arrow after arrow from her quiver. Keeping her eye on Greum, she fired at the Romans as they approached him. The battle raged. Elspeth reached for another arrow and felt only air. “Manas! Arrows!”

  The lad raced to her side and replenished her supply. Greum spun his horse as he swung his sword, hacking down the enemy as they attacked with a seemingly endless sea of men. The fighting grew bloodier as swords and battle-axes chopped and spears flew through the air.

  The Roman catapults started by firing their heavy stones, hitting the protective ditch. The wall shook when a stone hit its mark. Elspeth eyed the legionaries as they loaded the next boulder. It was a stretch, but she had to try. Holding her breath she lined up her sights, then arced her bow in the sky and let her arrow fly. It hit the Roman in the foot and the legionary fell, writhing on the ground in pain. Just a minor adjustment and the next shall be a kill.

  The catapult ricocheted with a thunderous twang. Its stone whistled through the air, slamming into the battlement, shaking the archers. Elspeth snatched an arrow and eyed her target. This time she arced her bow higher and released with the reverberating thwack of the string. The arrow sliced through the soldier’s neck. She reached for another arrow and took out the third legionary.

  Another thud down below drew her attention. The Romans were ramming the gate. The Picts poured the boiling water from the battlements, but that didn’t slow the enemy down for long.