He didn’t answer her. She hadn’t expected him to. How could he, when it was his chosen way of life she scorned?
But as they neared the forests of Cymru, he gently rested his jaw against the top of her head in silent sympathy.
***
They dismounted before entering the settlement. It reminded her of the town that had sprung up around the fortification erected near her own home village where Carys had met her Roman centurion.
Makeshift dwellings nestled between those of timber and stone; an untidy sprawl around the rigidly constructed enemy garrison that dominated the area.
There were no Roman-clad women here. Unlike Camulodunon, her people had not blindly embraced the fashion to blend in. But even so, there were countless legionaries strolling through the bustling market, eyeing up the local girls, subliminally displaying the fact they were the conquerors in every arrogant glance and word.
“Stay close.” The Gaul’s arm tightened around her in clear protection. She couldn’t decide whether she was touched or annoyed by his concern.
“I’m well trained in defense.”
He didn’t answer, but she didn’t miss the swift glance he shot her way, and the annoyance sharpened. She knew he didn’t believe her. And the irritating fact was, she couldn’t blame him.
What else could he think when he’d come upon her when she’d been spread upon the ground? The memory charred her pride. Although she’d had every intention of gutting the bastard slobbering over her, she knew her chances of survival had been nonexistent.
Until the Gaul had rescued her.
She was grateful. And that by itself was hard to accept, but harder still was the knowledge that, because of that first encounter, his view of her was forever tarnished.
“I’ll find lodgings for you before I report in.”
Lips compressed, she tugged one of her bracelets from her wrist and handed it to him. He looked at it as if he had never seen such jewelry before in his life.
“Take it in payment.” She shoved it against his chest but still he made no move to accept it. “For the lodgings.”
“I don’t want payment.” He sounded insulted.
Her own wounded pride eased a little at that. “I don’t care what you want, Gaul. Take it and sell it and use the money to pay my expenses. I won’t be in debt to anyone.”
His eyes glinted. Perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight but she didn’t think so. He may have trained his facial expression to show not a trace of his true feelings but he hadn’t completely mastered shielding emotion from those incredible eyes.
Without a word he unhooked his arm from her waist, took the bracelet between thumb and forefinger as if it burned his flesh, and stuffed it into a pouch hanging from his belt. He didn’t reclaim her waist and she slid him a sideways glance. He was staring directly ahead, a ferocious frown on his face, and looked as if he would rip the head off anyone who so much as dared to cross his path.
There wasn’t much chance of that. People scuttled out of his way as if Arawn, lord of the Otherworld, stormed among them, and Morwyn smothered the irrational urge to giggle. It was hard to reconcile the obvious fear he evoked in others with the man she knew in private. In truth, she had trouble envisaging him killing anyone outside a battlefield, and yet still Maximus’ words lingered in the back of her mind.
Her smile faded. She knew he was wrong, but why had he formed such a poor opinion of her Gaul? She burned to discover the truth, but knew she never would. Because that would involve asking him outright, and how could she do that without sounding as though she accused him of such crimes?
The lodgings were located in one of the stone buildings, and after entrusting the horse’s care to a half-starved-looking boy, he accompanied her to her room. It looked very much like the rooms they had shared on the journey.
He stood in the doorway as she sauntered across the room and tested the mattress with the palm of one hand. “Will you be gone long?” She glanced over her shoulder. He was still scowling.
“I’ll be back before sundown.”
That would give her plenty of time to explore the settlement. “Then I’ll eat when you return.” And she wasn’t simply referring to food, either. The thought caused a glow to heat her body. Gods, would she never have enough of this man?
He stepped toward her and her thoughts splintered as she stared at his raised hand.
“This is yours.” Her dagger glinted across his outstretched palm. “I trust you won’t cut my throat when I return this eve.”
Silently she took her dagger and traced her thumb over the familiar pattern of jewels encrusted in the hilt. It hadn’t occurred to her he would return it. He’d appeared quite attached to it, secured at his waist. She’d often caught him grazing his fingertips over the handle, as if the texture pleased.
“I won’t cut your throat, Gaul.” There was an oddly husky tone in her voice. She hoped he hadn’t noticed but the chances of that were small. He seemed to notice everything she didn’t want him to.
His fingers slid beneath her chin and she looked up at him. Irritation no longer carved his features and instead he looked the way she would always see him in her mind, whenever she recalled him in the years that stretched ahead.
Green eyes. She knew those eyes would forever haunt her. And his face, looking younger and less brutalized than when she’d first met him in the forest. Tough exterior but concealing so very much more than the rest of the world appeared to realize.
“Stay safe.” His voice was rough but for one fleeting moment she saw vulnerability flash across his face and glitter in his eyes. So swift it might have been an illusion.
She knew what he really meant. He knew she intended to explore the settlement. That was why he’d returned her dagger. For protection. Her throat constricted, as if she had just received tragic news about a loved one, and something twisted deep inside like a serpent coiling, ready to strike.
“I will.” Her words were barely audible but he offered her a faint smile in response before claiming her trembling lips in a tender, too-fleeting kiss.
And then he was gone.
***
It had been many moons since Morwyn had walked among so many of her own people. In Camulodunon she had felt as if she’d been transplanted to Rome itself. But here, despite the overwhelming presence of the fortification and the ever-present military, there was a sense of belonging. Of having returned home, despite never having been in this part of her country before.
She made her way back to the market, and caught furtive glances thrown her way. Eerie shivers raced along her spine as she caught some of the looks, only to have the curious hastily drop their eyes.
It wasn’t the way people had stared before when her face had been newly injured. The bruising had faded to a dull yellow and she doubted it was noticeable from any distance. It was as if these people knew her from somewhere.
She had never been here before. And yet familiar faces teased her memory with every other step. As if she had somehow slipped through time and was once again walking through the village of her childhood.
An older woman suddenly stepped in front of her, and Morwyn pulled up short, staring at the careworn face and the untidy graying hair, and again the sensation of knowing shivered through her.
“Mistress Morwyn?” The woman’s voice was scarcely above a whisper, as if she didn’t want anyone overhearing. “Is it truly you?”
“Deheune?” The name tumbled from her lips as recollection flooded her mind. “What are you doing here?” The woman was from her village; before the invasion she had taken in laundry and mended clothing for many of the Druids who had no time to attend to such mundane tasks.
Tears glistened in Deheune’s eyes and she grasped Morwyn’s hand, brushing a reverential kiss across her knuckles. “A lot of us left after that night the gods shook the earth and rained fury from the skies,” she said. “We’ve been here for almost a full turn of the wheel now.”
The night Aeron had ca
lled on the sacred Spiral of Annwyn to annihilate all but his chosen few. The night the gods had risen against their High Druid and in retaliation for his betrayal had almost wiped out the populace of Cymru.
The night Morwyn’s faith had begun to crumble.
She took a deep breath. “It won’t be this way forever, Deheune.”
Deheune gave a wistful smile, as if she knew otherwise. “As you say, mistress.” She inclined her head as a mark of respect. Peasants did not openly disagree with members of their ruling elite. Then she looked back up, and eagerness had replaced the disbelief. “I’m so happy you’re here, mistress.”
Morwyn smiled uneasily and wished the woman would release her hand. “I’m glad you’re safe. Did all your kin escape?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m so happy to see you. My daughter gave birth to a son four moons ago—my first grandchild.” Deheune fairly glowed with pride, and a chill shivered along Morwyn’s spine as suspicion bloomed.
“May blessings be upon you.” Her lips were stiff. It had been so long since she’d uttered such words. And even so, the words uttered were incomplete. The startled look Deheune shot her reminded her forcibly of that.
“I—” Deheune hesitated, as if Morwyn’s stunted blessing had disorientated her. “Mistress, you’re almost the first Druid any of us have seen since that night. We feared—we feared the Romans had slaughtered you all. All but our princess, but she was sacrificed to one of their officers to appease the foreign gods.”
“I heard.” Gods, what else could she say? That Carys had turned her back on her people and gone willingly with her Roman? How would that help Deheune and all the others struggling to survive?
And how could she blame Carys for leaving, when she and all the other Druids had abandoned their people also?
At least Carys had retained the courage to follow her convictions, to follow Cerridwen, however misguided Morwyn thought she was.
Finally Deheune released her hand. “You’re an acolyte of the great goddess.” Her voice was a whisper, almost lost against the noisy babble of the nearby market, the snort of horses and the panicked thud of Morwyn’s heart. “Truly, you’re the Morrigan’s chosen one. I know you blessed our babes before that terrible night, mistress. Will you bless my grandson in the ways of our ancestors? Welcome him into the arms of the Morrigan?”
Nausea roiled in the pit of her stomach and she struggled not to let her horror show on her face. It was true; she had taken on the role of Druantia, their ancient Queen, and blessed new-born babes after the invasion. She wasn’t fully trained, but in all the ways that mattered she was. And she had passed on the Morrigan’s blessing in the ways they had been passed on for generations without number.
But how could she bless an innocent babe now, when she no longer believed in the Morrigan or her selfish, destructive ways?
The woman before her chewed on her lip, anxiety clouding her tired eyes. Morwyn might not believe, but Deheune did. And maybe that was enough.
Chapter Twenty
Bren handed the dispatch over to the praefectus of his auxiliary unit, who would ensure it was delivered up the chain of command to the Legatus.
“How did you find the mood in Camulodunum?” The praefectus dragged his thumb over the seal of the dispatch and obviously satisfied it hadn’t been tampered with glanced up at Bren.
“Subdued.” His king’s elderly advisor had trained him well in the art of opening sealed documents without leaving noticeable trace. The information contained within this dispatch would boost Roman morale. He had to convey what he’d discovered to Caratacus, and soon, so they could plan debilitating strikes against the Legion before reinforcements arrived.
The praefectus made a sound of assent. “More civilized than this hellhole, I don’t doubt.”
Camulodunon had been raped and molded into the Roman ideal. That wasn’t his idea of civilization. But the praefectus clearly expected an answer, and a favorable one at that. “A town worthy of Rome.”
“A shame the barbarians in this western peninsula refuse to see that.”
Bren didn’t answer. He wasn’t known for his conversational skills and yet still the praefectus attempted to draw him out every time they met. Sometimes he wondered if the Roman suspected his loyalty. But if that were so, he would never have been entrusted with delivering the dispatch.
“When this cursed Briton rebel is crushed beneath the Eagle, the people will finally see there’s no point in fighting the inevitable.” The praefectus gave Bren a calculating look. Bren returned the look, unflinching. “The Legatus wants a man on the ground. Your name was mentioned. I want you to spend time in the town, incognito. Listen to the gossip. Find out what you can about Caratacus. There must be people here feeding him information, and that goes both ways. I want to know what that bastard’s up to.”
Only years of brutally subduing his emotions and the rigid training he’d received under the Legion prevented Bren from reacting. This Roman was asking him to spy on his own people. Did he really think anyone would talk in front of him, knowing he was attached to the enemy?
But then, the Romans didn’t assign much credit to the peasant population. The praefectus likely thought if Bren dressed as a Celt of Cymru, he’d be taken as one. The concept that the natives in their far-flung provinces possessed as much loyalty to their own as did the Romans—more, if what he’d learned about their blood-soaked Senate was true—was inconceivable.
To Romans foreigners were inferior, in both blood and intellect. Since Bren’s duties hadn’t taken him in direct conflict with the locals, the praefectus—and Legatus—obviously believed the populace hadn’t noticed him.
“You want me to live in the town?” His voice was level but perhaps not as neutral as he’d imagined as the other man flicked an autocratic hand in a dismissive gesture.
“It’s unpalatable. I know. But if your cover was exposed, your skills would ensure the likelihood of escaping unscathed.”
Meaning his reputation for dispatching those who crossed him was a definite benefit as far as the praefectus was concerned.
The initial distaste of such a task faded, as possibilities filtered through his mind.
“Would this assignment be confined to the town or should I attempt to search for information farther afield?”
“If you need to follow up your suspicions, then you have permission to leave the immediate vicinity without obtaining leave of absence.” The praefectus offered a chilly smile. “Within reason, naturally.”
He could hardly believe it. The praefectus had just handed him carte blanche to come and go from the town as he pleased. Instead of waiting until his next official leave, he could ride from the town on the morrow to find Caratacus.
“I doubt I’ll have reason to leave the town.” He maintained eye contact. “I merely wished to clarify my position if such a circumstance arose.”
“Obtain lodging.” The praefectus flicked a glance over him. “And lose the chain mail. Report in at the end of the week. If you haven’t made any progress by then, we’ll have to abandon it—you’ll be needed in the ranks again.”
He needed only a week. During that time he could visit with his king and pass on conflicting and disturbing information direct to the Roman officers. Unlike other occasions when he’d needed to ensure the rumors couldn’t be traced back to him, this time he didn’t need to cover his tracks.
It was risky. But he’d lived with risk for too long to let that deter him. They hadn’t linked him to the acts of sabotage plaguing the garrison or as the source of demoralizing morale among the ranks. And should suspicion ever be cast his way, he planned on being far from here. Standing by the side of his king.
***
It was done. In the dingy one-roomed dwelling Deheune had taken her, Morwyn handed the squalling babe back to his beaming mother and a small whisper of heat flickered through her barren soul.
May the blessings of the Morrigan be upon you.
When she’d started the cerem
ony, trepidation had crawled through her belly, as if her actions were sacrilege and prayers blasphemous. But the words had fallen from her lips, feeling as right and natural as if she uttered them every day. The mother and her kin surrounded her, their faces transfixed as she prepared a makeshift concoction from her limited supply of herbs and potions, before invoking the ancient rituals of the great goddess.
“Thank you, mistress.” The mother, a girl who looked several years younger than Carys, had tears glittering in her eyes. “I was so afraid the Morrigan would never welcome him. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? About his father, I mean.”
A ripple of barely contained fury stirred among the others in the room, but the girl didn’t appear to notice. She was once again gazing at her child with near-reverential awe.
“No.” Morwyn’s voice was strong, assured. No one would dare doubt her word. “The Morrigan has accepted him. Our heritage is his.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she spoke for the goddess, as if she had every right to do so. But she couldn’t let these people see her doubt. For them, her faith had to appear strong and shining and eternal. They believed she was still the Morrigan’s chosen one, a Druid dedicated to the gods and all they represented. What right did she have to shatter those beliefs? When she had nothing of value to offer in their stead but a scorched sense of desolation?
Several times since the invasion, before she had fled to the Isle of Mon, she had assured distraught girls that as long as they brought their child up to honor the great goddess, the heritage of the father meant nothing.
Why should it, when the father neither knew nor cared that his brutal actions had sired a babe?
But back then, she had believed in the Morrigan with all her heart and soul. Had loved her unconditionally and without reserve. Had believed, unequivocally, in her benevolence and justice.
She had never before had to fake her faith.
Captive (The Druid Chronicles Book 2) Page 17
