To Burn

by Claudia Dain

  Wulfred said nothing at first, but his eyes grew flat and his mouth tightened. Cenred clamped his mouth shut and moved away, caught off guard by the censure in Wulfred's eyes.

  "You will watch your words and your actions concerning Melania, Cenred. She is not your woman. She is mine. Remember that when next you see her."

  Into the sudden and heavy silence Cynric intoned, "Your sons will have a Roman mother."

  "And a Saxon father," was Wulfred's quick reply.

  "You go far in your vengeance," Cuthred said.

  Wulfred slammed his beer down onto the low Roman table. The contents spewed up and slapped down on the smooth surface of the table, sounding like heavy rain—or the crackle of a fire newly lit.

  "I can never go far enough."

  They said little after that. What was there to say? Melania would be crushed under the wheels of Wulfred's revenge. It was why they had stayed as long as they had.

  Theras, watching and listening from the shadows of the columns that fronted the triclinium, studied Wulfred. Little had been revealed that he had not already understood, yet...

  There was in Wulfred's manner toward Melania... something... something that told him that Melania was not as repugnant to Wulfred as the Saxon liked to think. After a long, hot summer, Theras had some understanding of Wulfred, and he would almost swear that Wulfred was coming to value Melania for her fighting spirit alone. Of course, there was much more to her than that.

  Theras was becoming more certain with each passing day that Wulfred knew it.

  * * *

  "Will you really marry her?"

  Wulfred looked down at the group of boys clustered around his legs and smiled. They were practicing their swordplay with hewn tree limbs and fallen sticks—little boys of Rome working so diligently to become good Saxon warriors. A good revenge, if he chose to see it that way. Strangely, he could not. Whether Roman or Briton or Saxon or Frisian, these boys would become men, and men must fight. To fight and win was to survive. Looking down at them, their faces dirty and their eyes bright, he hoped that each one would survive and win.

  "Will you?" Flavius asked again. He was the one who spoke for them all. Wulfred knew it was because of the bond that had been forged between them that day in the courtyard.

  "Yes."

  "Melania said she would marry you?" Petras asked.

  "Yes." Wulfred smiled.

  "Did she say it like she meant it?" Aquilas asked.

  Wulfred crossed his arms and looked down upon the troop. "Does not Melania always say what she means?"

  "Well, yes," Flavius said, frowning in concentration.

  "Then...?"

  "Do you always do what you say?" he asked, chewing his lip. "I mean, I remember... we all know... we all heard you say that you..."

  Wulfred stopped smiling. They had all heard him say that he would kill her. He had said it. He had shouted it. He had even dreamed it. But not recently.

  "I will marry her," Wulfred repeated.

  "Why?"

  The question was asked with as much innocence as could be summoned from a boy who had seen his world plundered and torched.

  The man who had held the torch had no answer to give.

  * * *

  "Do you think she'll go through with it?"

  "Will he?" Dorcas whispered against her lover's neck.

  Cenred smiled and answered, "Yes. Wulfred has stated it, and he is not one to deviate from his purpose."

  Dorcas leaned back against the circle of his arms. "And what is his purpose? To kill her in the marriage bed?"

  Cenred lost his smile and released his hold on Dorcas. "His purposes are his own. I would caution you not to stand in his way."

  Dorcas took a step away from this Saxon who had so easily charmed her. And bedded her. Perhaps it had all been a little too easy for Cenred.

  "Because I would find myself with a seax in my back, Cenred? Is that what Wulfred plans as Melania's husband?"

  "His plans are his own," he repeated, turning from her to face the ancient avenue of vines.

  Dorcas adjusted the fall of her stola as she studied the back of Cenred's blond head. The Saxons were fanatical in their devotion to Wulfred; trying to pry into the motives of their leader was like peering into a rainstorm—all was obscured. But she did know one thing, something that was certainly no secret: Wulfred hated Romans, Melania in particular. Therefore it was certain that this marriage was not in Melania's best interests.

  "As are Melania's," she said with some bite.

  Cenred turned to face her, his smile pleasant while his eyes were clouded. "But she will marry him."

  "Her plans are her own," she said with acidic sweetness.

  Cenred's smile froze for a moment, and then he forced a laugh. "She has no choice, Dorcas. She will marry him; Wulfred has decided it."

  "There are always choices, Cenred, and you know Melania."

  It was not a statement that inspired easy confidence.

  "Yes, "he said, pulling at his chin. "She is very... proud, very difficult."

  "Don't you mean to say that she is very Roman?"

  Cenred smiled warmly and reached out to take Dorcas into his arms. Dorcas took only half a step back before he was embracing her. She had not tried to elude him with any diligence; certainly Wulfred would not have subdued Melania as easily.

  And Melania had received a proposal of marriage.

  "Very Roman," Cenred agreed, trailing a finger down her spine. "Very proud, very arrogant, and very stubborn."

  "You could be describing Wulfred," she said, still thinking of Melania, soon to be married.

  "Wulfred?" Cenred chuckled. "No, he is a great Saxon warrior—"

  "And very proud, very arrogant, and very stubborn. I could also add vindictive."

  "With reason."

  "There is always a reason, but only vindictive people feed it."

  Cenred dropped his mouth to the top of her head and said under his breath, "You do not know the reason."

  "Then tell me," she whispered against his chest.

  "It is just," he said as he kissed her brow.

  "Is it kind? Will he treat his wife kindly?"

  Cenred pulled Dorcas back by the arms and stared into her eyes. "Why do you ask what will happen to her? She is nothing like you...."

  "Why do you say so? I am as Roman as she!" Dorcas flared. Melania was beautiful, intelligent, eloquent. What was she?

  Cenred kissed her softly on the lips, saying, "Because she is teeth and claws, rattle and fangs. You are soft and warm and..."

  "And?"

  "Mine."

  But only for now. She was not to be married. Melania was. Wrapping her arms around Cenred and returning his kiss, Dorcas considered that it was, perhaps, time to show Cenred her claws.

  * * *

  "I'm quite sure he means to go through with it, if only to harass me," Melania answered, fiddling with the shoulder folds of her stola.

  Flavius ran his hand over the stick Wulfred had given him, smoothing the bumps with the friction of his movements. "And you will? You will marry him?"

  Melania looked down at Flavius, covered in dust from his battle play and with at least ten bruises on his shins. A forthright boy who had, strangely, come to no harm from the Saxon horde. The memory of Wulfred rushing to the boy's defense rose with the familiarity of the sun in her mind. How many times had she relived that moment? Wulfred had touched a vulnerability in her heart with his act that all the scoldings of her father had failed to harden.

  And therein lay her failure. To be soft, sentimental, was to be weak. She could not be weak and be Roman.

  She could not admire a Saxon. She could not yearn for such tenderness to wrap itself around her as Wulfred's arms had wrapped themselves around Flavius. If she did, if she gave in to her growing desire for laughter and tenderness and respect from the man who was responsible for the death of her world, she would kill the very essence of her father's life as surely as the Saxons had taken his bre
ath. She could not kill the memory of her father and the legacy he had striven for. She could not be such a weak and emotional Roman daughter.

  "Will you?" he asked again, his brown eyes solemn.

  Melania smiled and crossed her arms over her chest playfully. "Have I not told him I would? Does he not believe that I will?"

  "I think... I don't think he believes that anyone can defy him, especially a Roman," Flavius murmured, his stick making a hole in the dirt.

  "How well you know him," Melania murmured in reply, her smile rueful. "But what do you think, Flavius? Do you think that I will be a docile Saxon wife?"

  "No." Flavius smiled suddenly, tossing his stick in the air so that it tumbled end over end until it fell back into his hand. "I don't think anyone thinks that."

  "Not even the oaf?"

  "Especially not him."

  "Yet he will marry me." She shrugged, losing her lightness of mood though she struggled to keep it wrapped around her. "Or so he says."

  Flavius said nothing. Poor child—the world was as confused for him as for her, yet he bore all bravely and with little show of fear. Initially, all had feared the worst of the Saxon conquerors, most especially the children. But time had eased such worry. The Saxons had been temperate, even kind... loving, toward the children of her villa. The image of Wulfred holding Flavius in his arms, gently stroking, assuring the boy of his protection, comforting his tears, assaulted her again. Her father would never condone such a memory or the confused longing that accompanied it.

  "Tell me, Flavius," she said, throwing off her melancholy, "how should a proud and fearless Roman—"

  "He says you are not fearless," Flavius burst out, and then bit his lip in embarrassment.

  "Proof that he does not know me at all," she answered quickly, stung by the indictment.

  Flavius looked up at her, his stick twitching at his side, his lip caught between his teeth.

  "Tell me all he said and I will negate each point with proper Roman logic," Melania prodded, eager to defend herself and ease the boy's fears.

  "It was when I told him that you were never afraid, right after the sword missed me. He told me it was all right to fear. I told him that you were never afraid and he told me... he told me..."

  She remembered the moment, that whispered moment. She had wondered what the oaf had whispered to the child. Now she would know.

  "Yes, he told you...?" she prompted.

  "He told me that you were more afraid than anybody, but mastered it better than anybody and so you were the bravest person he had ever known."

  Proper Roman logic collapsed. She did not know if she'd been insulted or complimented. Remembering the source, she decided it had to be an insult. And a lie. She was not afraid, not of any of them, and certainly not of him.

  He thought her brave?

  There was no logic in that, just as there was no logic in the warmth those words generated in her. Did she expect logic of a Saxon? Did she expect praise from Wulfred?

  "Melania?" She jerked her thoughts back to Flavius and gave him a weak smile. "Are you afraid?"

  "Not of him." It was the stark truth. "Then... you will marry him?"

  "I've said I will." A marriage that would not last an hour.

  "Do you think... do you think he might... like you?"

  "Absolutely not."

  A logical answer, deeply rooted in evidence. Her training dictated that she allow no other impressions to cast seed in her mind. Her father would have been proud.

  Chapter 16

  Time passes slowly to those who wait, but the summer was waning fast, and Wulfred had still not said one word as to when this mock marriage would occur. How long had she been made to wait? Two weeks? Three? And how much longer would she be forced to wait in ignorance?

  Until he had enjoyed her frustration to the fullest, of course. Not that she wanted to marry him, but this waiting for him to pronounce that today or tomorrow would be the day, as if he were God himself, directing the fate of all mankind... it was so very typical of him.

  Oafish pagan.

  Drooling imbecile.

  Murder victim.

  Oh, yes, that was truly what he was. Though it would not actually be a murder, but an execution, and she the happy executioner. It was so difficult to wait for him to tire of making her wait; she had so much true eagerness for the day to come, and yet she knew that if she displayed even the smallest part of her impatience, he would spin the waiting out even longer, happy in his torture, delighting in her defeat. And so she waited. Patiently.

  Well, as patiently as she knew how. Unfortunately, patience was not one of her gifts and, also unfortunately, she was not getting any better at it with practice.

  Still, he was such a barbarian, how would she even know if the thing had been done? Saxon ways, hardly above the animal, were inexplicable to her. Perhaps she was already married.

  Impossible. He would have forced her to bed, if only to humiliate her. In fact, she couldn't help wondering why he hadn't forced himself upon her already. It was amazing that a barbarian could show such restraint.

  Unless it wasn't restraint. Indifference? She ran her hands up the nape of her neck, smoothing her hair. Impossible. He had all but admitted that he desired her, and she had felt his heat herself that day by the river. But since that day, he had kept his distance from her—for which she was grateful, certainly. It was not as if she wanted the oaf near, spouting words of seduction and desire, touching her, perhaps even kissing her.... Ridiculous! She was profoundly grateful that he was keeping the distance that she demanded.

  She had asked Theras days ago for information about the ritual of Saxon bonding, and he had promised to find out what he could. Obviously he had found nothing yet. Perhaps there was nothing to know. It was probably based on something as primitive and improbable as the color of the moon or the pattern in a stone toss. Dorcas had known nothing either, claiming no Saxon had said anything to her about marriage. A sharp enough answer for a simple question, Melania had thought. Someone had to know about Saxon marriage rituals. Oh, yes, someone did, but she wasn't asking him.

  Melania sat up straighter on her stool and consciously eased the tension in her shoulders and across the top of her back. The Saxon was to blame for that. She had never had a moment of tension until his appearance in her life; at least none that she would admit to.

  She had taken refuge in her favorite pastime: jewelry making. It was fine work and required total concentration. An excellent method for forcing thoughts of a blond, near-naked barbarian from her mind—a barbarian too big to be physically managed, too ignorant to be reasoned with, and too naked to be comfortably ignored.

  Obviously, jewelry making was not a perfect method of controlling her thoughts.

  A hand on the back of her neck almost sent her vaulting off her stool. Only one hand, one touch, one man caused such a violent response in her.

  "Oaf! Can't you see I'm working?"

  "I see you playing with bits of gold. Hardly work."

  She would not look at him. She would ignore him. She would patiently hold her tongue until he left her alone.

  Patience was not one of her gifts.

  "It takes great skill, not to mention creativity, and it is also one of the few tasks you have authorized as acceptable for me. Or had you forgotten?"

  "Only a lazy Roman would call this work. It is pointless."

  She ignored him, or tried to. His hand still lay lightly on her nape. His legs pressed gently against her stiffly erect back. She could hardly breathe for his nearness.

  "Only a stupid barbarian would demean artistic effort."

  "Perhaps that is because I see nothing artistic about it."

  An insult? He was insulting her creative ability? Her skill as an artisan?

  "You would have me believe that you Saxons have none among you who fashion articles of adornment for the dual sake of beauty and function? Are you truly so bestial? And let me hasten to add that I would have no difficulty in belie
ving it."

  She looked up at him as she said it, unable to resist the desire to insult him to his face. It might have been a mistake.

  He towered over her, his loins at her eye level as she sat upon the stool; she couldn't help staring at the tiny golden hairs that swirled in flowing precision below his navel. A lump rose from her chest to fill the small space at the top of her throat. With effort, she forced her eyes to his face. That might also have been a mistake.

  The Saxon smiled down at her with sickening superiority before idly contemplating her efforts. He stepped even nearer to do so and bent down so that his broad chest was a handspan from her face. Surely that had not been necessary. The lump in her throat began throbbing in rhythm with her heartbeat.

  "No," he answered. "We also have jewelers among our people. Skilled artisans."

  "Workers of gold?" she asked skeptically, closing her eyes against the sight of him.

  "Workers of gold. Of bronze. Of copper. Of steel."

  He straightened and moved slightly away. She thanked God.

  "Stolen metals, I would guess," she managed.

  "And where did you come by your tiny hoard of gold? Dig it yourself?"

  "We traded for it."

  She kept her eyes on her work. She would not look at him again. She was heating the golden circle so that the tiny balls would fuse to it. He was trying to distract her; he wouldn't.

  "Ah, yes, the famous Roman trade. 'Give us what we want and we'll let you live on the land of your ancestors.'"

  She looked up at him swiftly, her concentration broken. She set aside the gold, removing it from the heat.

  "And what of the Saxon trade? 'Give us what we demand and you may live another day.' "

  "But Roman," he said under his breath, running his hand through the coils of her hair, "you have not given me what I want."

  "And I do not want to live another day." It was not exactly true anymore, but she had said it so often that she could think of no other reply to his taunts. "I also do not want you depositing your fleas in my hair! What took an hour to achieve you have destroyed with a single touch! How very Saxon of you."