To Burn

by Claudia Dain

  Marcus must have felt something of the same disappointment, for his face drained of angry passion and his eyes softened. "Melania," Marcus soothed, reaching out for her. "I'm sorry. I spoke with passion and not with reason. I have been taught better."

  As had she. Melania refused his touch at first, but soon gave in to him. He offered her comfort in a world gone wild. She needed him. She had always needed him.

  "Tell me what happened," Marcus said, rubbing her back. "I will listen and not judge. Or try not to," he added with a smile.

  She buried her head beneath his chin and wrapped her arms around his waist, thankful for the familiar feel of him, feeling safe even in this unsafe place.

  "They came. They killed." She gulped back a sob. "They killed Melanius. He is buried and his place marked. He is at peace. Then they stayed."

  "I find I am not surprised," Marcus whispered, tightening his hold on her. She relished his strength. "He fought them, didn't he?"

  "Yes. He died in battle."

  "When?"

  "At the start of summer."

  "Why have they stayed? It is not their way."

  "No." She smiled grimly, turning her head to look into the blackness that was the forest. "It is not their way, but their leader wanted something of me."

  When Marcus began to curse, she stopped him with a hand to his mouth. "It is not as you think. He wanted to defeat me in a way that would give me the greatest pain; he wanted me to live and watch him live, a Saxon in a Roman home. He has a great need of vengeance against all things of Rome." After a pause, she said, "With reason."

  "Has he used you... in the way of a man? He is the one...?"

  Melania turned her face up to the sky, feeling the solid strength of Marcus, feeling the scratch of his chin against her forehead.

  "Yes."

  Marcus said nothing, but his arms tensed. She knew he yearned for a weapon; he had found his target.

  "Even that is not as you think," she said. "According to Saxon law, we are married. Of course, I did not know what he was about, not knowing their barbaric customs, but, by their law, I am his wife."

  "It is their law, the law of animals. It is not binding."

  "I will not argue it, but I was untouched until he believed us one by his law. By his own code he did not abuse me." By his own code he was honorable; what other code was there for a Saxon than Saxon law? What law for Roman but Roman law? Strange thoughts to have tumble inside her when she was held safe in the arms of Marcus.

  Marcus swallowed hard. She could feel the movement in his throat. She knew what his next question would be. She had asked it once herself.

  "Was he the one who...?"

  "No. He saw him buried according to our rituals. The Saxon swore to me he was not the one. And I have found, barbarian though he is, he does not lie."

  "For your sake, I am grateful."

  "I also," she murmured. "But there is more. More Saxons have come with a barbarian called Hensa as their leader. They came as I left you, and they are a horde. It is why I could not bring you what I promised. Oh, Marcus, I have not even a handful of bread to ease your hunger!"

  Marcus ignored her apology. He ignored her distress. He had heard one word, and that word had captured him: Hensa. Hensa was one of the most well known of Saxon leaders. Hensa made decisions. Hensa was in a position of power. Hensa would know what the Saxons would do next.

  "This Hensa, did he seem capable?"

  Melania answered the question with a snort of derision. "He is as devious as all Saxons, and a troublemaker besides." She would never forget what he had put Wulfred through at the meal, and she would never forgive.

  "But a warrior? A man of power?"

  "I'm certain he thinks so; he has the arrogance of ten Saxons."

  "Melania, think," Marcus urged, gripping her arms and searching her face in the drizzling rain. "Do not let your emotions rule your head—"

  "You did not have to eat with him—"

  "He is the leader of the Saxon raiding force. He is the mind behind their attacks on this island. What did he say of his force? Of his plans?"

  Honor. The word rang in her mind like a bell. Marcus was safety, a familiar and beloved man in a raging world. Marcus wanted her to tell him of Hensa's plans. Hensa was ally to Wulfred. And Wulfred was her husband, or claimed to be. What they had just done was the province of the married; he believed them married. Did she?

  "Did he say nothing? Is there nothing you can tell me?" Marcus pressed.

  "It's not as if I am fluent in Saxon, and you can be assured that he spoke no Latin," she answered, evading him.

  And he knew it. His hands dropped from her arms and he stepped away from her, his eyes cold and measuring.

  "You're right, Melania. I don't understand you. Do you give your loyalty to the murderers you shelter from the rain? Have you forgotten who you are?"

  "You don't understand anything at all!" she flared, furious with him for questioning her loyalty to him and for constructing a loyalty for the Saxons that did not—could not—exist...

  "I want to," he said, maintaining the gap between them, "I want Melania the way I remember her. Melania before the Saxons."

  Now she turned her back on him, needing the space he had given her. Melania before the Saxons had been a girl, both proud and naive; that girl was retreating into the mists of dreams with every day the Saxons lingered. But even if... even when they left, she would never be the same. She could not return to that arrogant and innocent girl. That girl had died on the same day as her father. Couldn't Marcus see that?

  "I am the wife of a Saxon warrior," she said bluntly. "How can I ever again be the same?"

  "You are Roman," he answered just as bluntly. "How can a barbaric ritual have any meaning for you? You owe this Saxon nothing. Nothing but a blade in the back."

  But there was meaning between them. There was... something. Something more than the hatred they both vowed and the vengeance they both hungered for. When he looked at her, sometimes there was reluctant approval in his eyes, even respect. Sometimes... it almost seemed that he understood what her honor demanded, and she could half believe that he would not ask her to cross that line of personal honor because, in his way, he had honor of his own.

  Did Marcus understand her system of personal honor as well as Wulfred did? At the moment it did not seem so. He urged her to act against her own inclination, using guilt to persuade her; when had Wulfred ever done that?

  Yet wasn't Marcus merely telling her what she had so often told herself? What meaning was there for her in empty Saxon ritual? None. But there was Wulfred, and he was not so easily dismissed. It was Wulfred they spoke of, not some nameless Saxon warrior. And because it was Wulfred...

  "Easily said, Marcus," she said, turning aside from her twisting thoughts, "and not so easily accomplished. I have tried. Repeatedly. Saxon hides are tough."

  "Like the oxen they are," he said.

  But Wulfred was no animal, and she bristled to hear Marcus refer to him so.

  "Give me a day to prepare. I will come to you at the break of dawn on the day that follows this and I will bring you food and clothing."

  "And information?"

  "I will bring whatever I can to help you, Marcus," she hedged. She didn't know what she would do; her thoughts were a muddle.

  "I will wait," he said. "Come to me again in the apple orchard. I will wait behind the far fence for you." He paused and studied her, taking one of her hands in his. "I will leave with the dawn, Melania; staying here is too dangerous. Bring enough food for two."

  "I will bring enough for ten."

  "Use the day to think over what you will do. I need you, Melania."

  "As I need you," she choked out, her voice full of tears. "Now go. I must return... I have been gone too long."

  He melted into the misty forest before she had quite finished. She stared at the place where he had been and sighed. It would have been so simple, if only he had come before... If only he had come befor
e Wulfred had touched her.

  Things were no longer simple.

  Walking gingerly through the wet brush to a leafy bush, Melania squatted and emptied her bladder. That, at least, would be the truth.

  She was becoming more barbaric each hour, to squat out in the open to relieve herself as she had just done. Lord God of all, what was happening to her?

  Melania hurried down the path to the villa, muttering under her breath.

  Chapter 22

  Melania awoke to the sound of birdsong. The rain had stopped. Wulfred was gone.

  She had returned last night, soaked, and endured Wulfred's attentions while the memory of Marcus was very strong within her. He had stripped her of her clothing—it was amazing how quickly he had mastered the complicated workings of the stola and palla—and wrapped his arms around her as they lay entwined on the small couch. She was warm and dry very quickly. Very, very quickly.

  She needed a bigger couch.

  But not too much bigger.

  Remembering the sensation of his huge hands on her bare flesh caused her skin to burn and tingle. Was she blushing? She hoped not. How hopelessly unsophisticated.

  And how very uncomfortable it was to remember the wonderful feeling of lying in his arms, the long length of him a solid force that pulsed with energy and strength. It was embarrassing to admit, even to herself, how safe she had felt with him. Safe. With a Saxon.

  Unbelievable.

  Unadmittable.

  Luckily, no one was asking her to admit anything, and she would certainly not dwell on it herself. Last night was best forgotten and, if not forgotten—for how could she truly forget the passion that he had scorched her with?—then at least pushed to the darkest shadows of her thoughts, where they would die for lack of light.

  But, given the strength of her memories, it would be a full fifty years before she forgot the passion he had elicited in her last night.

  Melania sighed and rose from her couch. It was best to be up and face the day. Even fifty years must start with a single day.

  She ached, deliriously so, and it took her far longer to dress than usual. What had he done to her to make her skin so sensitive? Her nipples rose up at the slightest friction of cloth, so that she wanted to rip off her clothing and stand naked. With Wulfred in the room. At just the thought of him the throbbing began, throbbing for which she now knew the remedy. Curse the man, where had he gone?

  With such a start to the day, it was understandable that she would be a little on edge. Actually she was flatly irritable. The sweating, lice-ridden horde in her triclinium did nothing to soothe her. She had forgotten in the warm darkness of Wulfred's arms how they had multiplied yesterday.

  She avoided them and made her way to the kitchen. Perhaps Wulfred was in the courtyard, or loitering around the kitchen....

  He wasn't.

  Adjusting the drape of her stola, Melania ate the morning meal. Even without Wulfred watching her, she ate. She was being very reasonable today, and he wasn't even around to notice. Where was he?

  Dorcas all but flew into the kitchen just as Melania had finished eating. She was wild-eyed and breathing hard, like a hare on the run.

  "What is wrong, Dorcas?" Melania asked, rising to her feet.

  "Oh, Melania," she said in a gasp, "I was... they were... and I didn't do anything... but then I... it was..."

  "Calm yourself, Dorcas, so that I may understand you. I know already that only Saxons provoke such a response in reasonable people. Now, where have you been?"

  "The triclinium," she said on a shaky breath.

  "Which Saxon did this to you?"

  Dorcas's face lost some of its healthy color and she bit her lower lip. "I don't know their names, and it was not just one, and they—"

  "How many?" Melania could feel her own color rise.

  "Three." She trembled, ready to cry.

  "Did they touch you?"

  "Yes," Dorcas whispered, twisting the ends of her stola.

  "Did they hurt you?" Melania asked, her voice rising as Dorcas's dropped in volume.

  "No, not really."

  "But they frightened you? Yes, of course they did," Melania said with a snarl. "Did they threaten you? Can you gather your wits about you enough to tell me what they said? What they did?"

  Dorcas kept looking over her shoulder and twisting her stola, but she did speak.

  "They cornered me near the portico. Cenred, all of Wulfred's men, were out of the room. One of them, with red hair and silver on his wrists, grabbed me... touched me ... between the legs."

  Melania kept listening as she began to search the kitchen for a nice big knife.

  "The other two," Dorcas continued, "held my arms and told me what they would do to me when they had the time."

  When they had the time. Pigs. Arrogant pigs.

  "I didn't know what to do." Dorcas began to cry. "They are Saxon; they have the power. What can I do to stop them? What can I do?"

  "Avoid them; that is all you can do. But I think what I will do is set a Saxon against a Saxon. And if that is not enough, I have a knife."

  A good knife. Bigger than the last one.

  "We will set Cenred on their tails," Melania explained. "He should care that you have been molested by his brothers in arms. And if he doesn't care, I'll teach him to."

  Dorcas's head jerked up at the mention of Cenred and she gulped a sob.

  "Things are not as they were with Cenred," she said, crying harder. "I... I am pregnant."

  Melania narrowed her eyes and fingered the blade; it was satisfyingly sharp.

  "You told Cenred, of course," she said.

  "Yes, and things have not been the same."

  "I would think not. He is now to be a father. And a husband."

  Yes, the blade was wondrously sharp, as was her anger.

  "He—" She cried, dabbing at her face with her stola. "He has not offered for me."

  "He will." Melania smiled coldly. "You stay here in the kitchen and keep the door closed. If any of the Saxon vermin enter, start screaming."

  When she left the kitchen, with the door closed firmly behind her, Melania had the happy task of finding Cenred. She couldn't wait; she had a nice, smoldering anger and he was going to feel its heat. It would be entirely deserved. What did he think he was doing to leave Dorcas, who plainly adored him, in the grasp of his littermates? Did he not have any care for her at all? If not, he should never have bedded her. He should have exercised a little civilized self-control, though how a savage could do anything tinged with civilization was a mystery. Still, he should have attempted it.

  She marched across the courtyard, her stola flapping violently against her legs. The sun struggled against the thick clouds that all but blanketed the sky. It was an autumn sky; summer was almost a memory.

  It was truly past time for the Saxons to go.

  Crossing under the portico, she entered the triclinium. It was seething with Saxon bodies. Melania paused in the doorway, scanning the room, looking for one particular Saxon: a Saxon with red hair and silver on his wrists. And she was looking for Cenred. Unfortunately, she found neither.

  The Saxon warriors rose up around her like a flood, but it was not in respect. The motion was predatory. Melania clutched her knife and faced them, uncertain of their actions, but knowing their intent. They hated her.

  She hated them.

  It was a fair balance, except for one thing: she was outnumbered.

  "What do you want here, Roman?" one of them asked in a snarl. He had light brown hair and pale blue eyes and food embedded between his teeth. Revolting.

  "What do I want?" she blazed. "In my own home? In my own triclinium? Perhaps I want you out. Perhaps I want you to return to the sty you normally habituate and to take your fleas with you! Yes," she said with a return snarl, "that is exactly what I want."

  Of course, she had reverted to Latin in her rage, so he understood none of it. But he understood her intent and that was enough.

  "Do you want to fe
el my hand between your thighs?" another one said, edging close to her.

  In answer, she raised her knife meaningfully, her eyes communicating the seriousness of her intent.

  "No?" he said. "Then perhaps it is my blade against your breast you ask for. I will cut you slowly so that I may enjoy you as your blood runs out."

  Melania backed toward the arched doorway to the portico. She was no coward, but she was outnumbered and they were closing on her, like wolves on a stag. She had but one knife. One knife would not go far against so many.

  "You speak of thighs and breasts and knives to the wife of Wulfred?" came a deep voice from behind her, a voice she knew. She looked over her shoulder to see Cynric holding his seax. She had never known him to look so good. "You are thirsty for death, it seems."

  "You are a fool," Cuthred said simply.

  She looked again. Now they all stood behind her, fanned out and holding weapons: Wulfred's comitatus, defending her against their own.

  "I am no fool if I kill a Roman when I find one," a Saxon with white-blond hair said.

  "Wulfred has claimed her. She is under his protection. She is his wife. Think on that before you bray about killing," Cynric said coldly.

  "And she has you to protect her?" one asked.

  "Of course," Cynric said. "We are pledged to Wulfred. Wulfred is pledged to her."

  "By the gods, Cynric," the first said, "you protect a Roman against your own?"

  "She is wife to Wulfred. That is all I see," Balduff said.

  Ceolmund had edged in front of her, blocking her vision, but protecting her from them. Cenred stood behind. Wulfred's comitatus bristled with weapons and they brandished them in her defense. Against their own. Humiliating tears of thankfulness built up in her eyes so forcefully that it was a struggle to blink them away; she would show no such weakness as tears to any Saxon.

  Balduff's remark was the excuse they needed to retreat, and Hensa's men took it.

  "Ho, Balduff," she heard, "I knew you would see a woman as a woman only."