The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  When they finally reached the cromlech—how short the journey seemed now, when there was no need to circumnavigate the area and backtrack to avoid leaving noticeable pathways—few Druids remained and Druantia’s body had vanished.

  “Carys.” Morwyn rushed toward her and gripped her arm, steadfastly ignoring Maximus. “We’ve been searching for you. Hurry, we’re to leave instantly for—” She snapped her lips together and shot Maximus a suspicious glance. “To where your mother awaits you.”

  The Isle of Mon. The Druids’ most sacred sanctuary.

  “No.” Pain engulfed her heart and crushed her lungs, at the knowledge she might never see her mother again, might never see any of her kin again.

  This was the sacrifice her goddess claimed. And it was a sacrifice that would forever wound her spirit.

  But the alternative meant she would never again see Maximus.

  Morwyn shook her arm. “We have to leave. Gather our strength once again. But we will come back, and we will reclaim Cymru for our own.”

  Panic clutched deep inside, cold and deadly. Her vision had shown her the end of Druidry. The end of everything they held dear, unless they embraced Rome. But how could her culture survive alongside the unrelenting claws of the Eagle, if all her fellow Druids left?

  “Stay, Morwyn. You and Gawain and any others who will listen.” And let her mother return. “Our people need us now, before they forget all the old ways.”

  Morwyn gave her an odd look, as if she didn’t understand what Carys could mean. “They’ll never forget our ways. And we’ll return in a moon or less, as soon as the anger of the gods diminishes.” Her tone held no doubt, as if the devastating events of this eve could be easily forgiven, easily forgotten. Her fingers tightened on Carys’ arm. “Carys, you can’t stay. The Romans will crucify you.”

  “Rome will never touch Carys.” Maximus unlaced their fingers and wound his arm around her shoulders. “We’re not complete barbarians. We can honor a foreign princess.”

  Morwyn flicked him a disbelieving glance. “The Morrigan commands we leave now,” she said, turning back to Carys. “Before the cursed Romans arrive.”

  A chill entered her heart and shivered along her arteries, as a certainty threaded through her brain. A certainty that solidified and expanded and became absolute.

  She stood at the crossroads.

  The all-seeing Morrigan, who could no longer see Carys, demanded her Druids follow her down her path.

  And Cerridwen, standing by the other path, demanded nothing but the continuance of her sacred Cauldron—or perhaps her Flame—of Knowledge.

  By whatever means necessary.

  This moment was the reason the Morrigan had turned from her at the hour of her birth.

  She cupped Morwyn’s jaw and gently stroked her thumb over her split lip. “I’m staying, Morwyn, to be with the man I love. The one Cerridwen brought to Cymru.” She hitched in a shaky breath. “Tell my mother she’s forever with me.”

  Morwyn’s eyes sparkled in the light of the fires. “I’ll miss you, Carys.” There was a choke in her voice, and as they embraced, Morwyn whispered, “Goddess be with you, my princess.”

  As Morwyn pulled back and turned and fled into the forest, a great, molten rock throbbed in the center of Carys’ chest. She gasped and pressed her hands to her breasts, as the agony engulfed her in a wave of despairing grief.

  Maximus dragged her roughly in his arms and she clung to him, fighting back the tears, fighting back the sensation of utter isolation.

  “Don’t cry.” His voice was gruff. “I’m sorry it came to this. But, gods, I couldn’t bear to lose you.” His hold tightened, crushing her bones, squeezing the breath from her lungs. “I love you, Celt.” He dragged in a harsh breath. “I love you, Druid. Stay with me because you want to, not because your goddess commands it.”

  I love you, Druid. She gave a gasping laugh that sounded like a sob, but it didn’t matter because Maximus accepted who she was, what she was, even though it went against everything Rome stood for.

  “I wanted to stay with you when I thought that was the last thing my goddess wanted.” She freed her arms and speared her fingers through his hair, his short military hair that fascinated her as much now as it ever had. “I’ll always be a Druid. It’s what I am.”

  He gave a heavy sigh and slid her braid through his fisted hand. “I’ll learn to live with it.”

  She had to tell him. “I’m glad you didn’t have to betray Rome by warning my kin. I’m glad they’d already made the decision to leave.”

  His fingers stilled on her hair. “It wouldn’t have been betrayal. I promised you I’d never harm your kin.” His sigh echoed through the core of her existence, the foundation of her love. “I’ll always honor my promises to you, Carys.”

  And in the distance, vibrating through the earth at her feet, she felt the approach of the Roman Legion.

  Epilogue

  Flanked by Branwen and Efa, Carys stood in the center of the Roman road and watched the distant Legion march steadily toward her. Despite Morwyn’s promise that the Druids would soon return there had been no word from them. And no matter how close she had grown to the two women by her side, they could never replace Morwyn in her heart. Had she even reached the Isle of Mon? Would she ever discover the fate of her dearest friend and fellow Druids?

  She drew in a shaky breath and concentrated on the advancing Legion. Today, Maximus returned to Cymru from his assignment in Britain. And soon, after she became his wife in the eyes of Rome, she would leave her homeland forever.

  Late that afternoon, when they were once again dressed after hours of frantic lovemaking, Maximus took her hand and pulled her toward him. During the six moons that had passed since the creation of the Flame of Knowledge, his burnt skin had healed, and, although he would be forever scarred, he was still the most beautiful, magnificent man she had ever encountered.

  “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”

  A brief flash of dizziness overcame her, so swift she half wondered if she’d imagined it, but there was no imagining the absolute sense of surety that flooded her mind.

  She laughed and pressed his hand against her womb. “Our daughter is conceived.”

  The conspiratorial smile on his face froze and his glance dropped. “You know this?” His tone was awed.

  “It’s fitting our first should be conceived in the land of her foremothers.” She tried to keep her voice light, so he wouldn’t guess how much the thought of moving and living among the heathen Britons still distressed her.

  She knew there was no choice. Maximus would always go wherever he was commanded, and the only way they could be together was if he commanded elsewhere than Cymru.

  It was the reason he’d been gone these last eight weeks. So Rome could have no reason to decree their union unlawful, on the grounds Maximus had taken a wife from his province.

  His prejudiced Emperor had also been influenced by the knowledge she was a princess of Cymru and had been instrumental in leading Maximus to the High Druid, who’d planned to decimate the entire country.

  It wasn’t the truth but, as Maximus had wearily explained, it was politics. And it had worked.

  “Carys.” He cradled her jaw with one hand, while his other tenderly caressed her belly. “We’ll return to Cambria. Many times. Our children will know of their dual heritage, I promise you.”

  Their children would be born Romans. To survive, she would adapt, and teach her children all she knew. And she knew that before Britain burned, they would return to Rome, and it was something she would never share with Maximus because he would insist on staying, insist on fighting, but the continuance of their bloodline was paramount and she’d allow nothing to jeopardize that future.

  Druantia’s voice echoed in her mind. Selfish.

  Yes. Perhaps she was. Perhaps so too was Cerridwen. But how could it be wrong to find a way, without bloodshed, to ensure the ancient knowledge of her people wasn’t lost forever?
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  They rode from the town on his horse, and she leaned back, soaking in the knowledge that he was back with her, where he belonged.

  “When do we leave?” Aquila was remaining in Cymru, but along with handpicked centurions, Efa, Branwen and her grandfather, who’d rediscovered the joy of living during the last few moons, were accompanying them, along with several other locals who wanted travel and adventure.

  “We’ll be married tomorrow, and leave soon after.” His arm tightened around her waist. “I know the Roman ways mean nothing to you, but this ensures you and our children have the status you deserve.”

  At the wood they dismounted. Why was he taking her to the Flame of Knowledge? Her people, deprived of all contact with their Druids since that fateful night, had turned Cerridwen’s Cauldron into a place of pilgrimage. Carys had expected the Romans to punish the worshippers, perhaps even attempt to destroy the enigmatic Flame. But instead they, too, were enthralled by the phenomenon, convinced Minerva was responsible.

  Minerva, sister goddess of Cerridwen. Had Maximus been right, all those moons ago, when he suggested the same gods answered to different names?

  Trepidation hammered against her ribs, but she didn’t know why she had the sudden, irrefutable certainty that her life was about to change forever.

  Her life had already changed forever. How could it possibly alter more without her continuing on her journey?

  And she had no intention of leaving Maximus behind, not yet, not for many years, until they were both ancient and could scarcely count the number of their descendants.

  He led her into Cerridwen’s sacred place. Her breath strangled in her throat and she clutched onto him, having the insane desire to laugh and weep, and her heart overflowed with a love so fierce it consumed the serpentine tendrils of sadness that had been a part of her since the night of Druantia’s murder.

  “There are Druid enclaves in Britannia.” He urged her forward, toward the ivy entwined arbor of twisted branches, toward the group of Celts and Romans who stood waiting for her, toward the elderly Briton daubed in ceremonial blue, who held his hazel rod with quiet authority.

  Aquila saluted, Efa smiled at her, and Branwen nodded with gentle approval. Her friends, who had spent all afternoon preparing her wedding glade.

  But none of this would have been done without Maximus’ approval. He was the one who had taken the time to discover her rituals, arrange for this ceremony. Despite his Emperor, despite his loyalty to Rome, he was willing to accept her heritage and culture as, tomorrow, she would accept his.

  “You’ll do this—for me?” She turned to Maximus, and he was blurred, beloved, her life.

  He bent his head, and his breath whispered against her ear. “I’ll do anything for you, my Druid princess.”

  Captive

  Book 2

  Copyright Christina Phillips 2011/2016

  Captive was previously published by Penguin US in 2011

  A Druid priestess falls for the wrong man – the warrior who’s taken her prisoner…

  Chapter 1

  Summer, AD51

  The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Her horse shifted in clear unease and Morwyn glanced at her three companions.

  “What do you see?” Einion’s voice was hushed.

  What did she see? Did they think her a seer, a tool of their cursed goddess, the Morrigan?

  She half expected an unearthly fire to consume her for her treacherous thoughts, but none did. She loosened her grip on the reins and took a deep breath.

  Her companions believed in her powers. It was the reason they’d left the Isle of Mon and ventured with her back into the occupied territories of their beloved Cymru.

  If she were successful in her quest to discover the heart of the rebellion, they would return to the Druid sanctuary and tell the others. She wasn’t the only one who longed to fight for freedom rather than hide in sacred groves dedicated to cowardly gods. And then a great army of Druids would join the displaced Briton king Caratacus, who was causing such disruption to the despised Roman Legions.

  “Caratacus is close.” She knew that, and it had nothing to do with visions from the gods. She no longer had visions. No matter what her fellow Druids might think. Her knowledge was based on information gleaned from those who had arrived on Mon over the last few moons, and her resolve to join the insurgents had strengthened when Gawain left the Isle to stand by the Catuvellauni king.

  A sharp pain speared through her breast, raw and savage, jagged with guilt, as she recalled Gawain. The man who had loved her. The man she had tried so hard to love in return, but never had.

  Because her heart had belonged to another.

  Her grip tightened on the reins. She would avenge Gawain’s death with the last breath in her lungs and the last drop of blood in her veins. He had loved her, and he deserved nothing less from her.

  She would never succumb as a slave of Rome. She’d rather a glorious death in the midst of battle, securing the freedom of her people.

  “How close?” Drustan, another young Druid and, like both Einion and Morcant, not yet fully trained, glanced around the edge of the glade as if expecting the Briton to miraculously appear before them.

  They expected her to proclaim a sign. She was the most senior Druid here, and yet even she hadn’t finished her training before the bloodied invasion had devastated their existence. But no older Druid from Mon had wanted to take the chance of returning to Cymru without solid, irrefutable proof of where, precisely, the Briton king commanded his rebels.

  No light summer breeze rustled the leaves on the looming trees. The air hung heavy and still as if waiting for the wheel of life to turn, to irretrievably alter her course forever.

  An eerie shiver inched along her spine and chills scuttled over her arms, raising the fine hairs. Instinctively she curled her fingers around the jewel-encrusted dagger secured at her waist. She no longer believed in her gods and no longer received their signs, and the only thing that was about to change was that Rome would discover her mistake in enslaving Cymru.

  Wind rushed, barely a handbreadth from her face, and Einion lurched from his

  horse, an arrow embedded in his throat. For one agonizing moment Morwyn froze as she watched him slide to the tangled undergrowth, shock glazing his dying eyes, before her warrior training and self-preservation kicked hard in her gut.

  She swung her horse around, rejecting her dagger in favor of her spear, as a handful of riders emerged from the concealing trees. This isn’t the way Romans fight. But she had no time to curse their tactics nor berate her lack of foresight as the forest erupted with Druid war cries, barbarian yells and the frenzied snorts and thundering of attacking horses.

  Sweat and blood and the stench of fear from animal and man drenched the air. They were outnumbered. But not outmatched. Morwyn drove her spear upward at an angle, pierced through the shapeless mail shirt worn by the enemy, and scarlet pumped over his scale armor, staining man and beast and trampled forest floor.

  Savage satisfaction pounded through her veins as he opened his mouth in a silent scream. They would teach these Romans to ambush them, to take them by surprise, to—

  Her breath punched from her lungs as something slammed into her back, pushing her forward, dangerously close to impaling her breast on the blunt end of her spear. And then she was falling, with the loathsome weight on top of her, and she hit the ground with bone-splintering force.

  “Fucking barbarian bitch.” He hissed in Latin, his mouth by her ear as she tried not to suffocate on the churned and bloodied earth that pressed against her cheek and nose and mouth. “Teach you to respect your masters.”

  Muscles tensed as he ripped her gown from her neck, exposing her back to the elements and the accompanying jeers of the remainder of the enemy. Where were Drustan and Morcant? Had they perished? Was she the only one left?

  Nausea rolled through her stomach and clogged her throat. She was willing to die for her people, but she’d envisaged a great and glorious battl
e, not an insignificant skirmish. Not degradation and rape. Panic gripped her, paralyzing her reflexes. Don’t let them sense my weakness. She was a warrior and she wouldn’t dishonor her people by begging for mercy. She blocked out the obscenities being thrown her way and stealthily reached for her dagger.

  Brennus rode through the forest, taking unseen paths and hidden tracks so there was no possibility of the Legion’s auxiliary exploratores discovering an unwary passage to the stronghold of the mighty Caratacus.

  If the Legion discovered who Bren truly was, even crucifixion would be considered too easy a death. But he had no intention of letting the Roman bastards discover his true identity, not until it was too late for them to do anything about it.

  Not until their Roman blood drenched the earth and the conquered lands were free once again.

  Within moments of leaving the hidden enclave he heard the unmistakable sounds of battle ahead and pulled up short. He couldn’t be seen. By now, he should already be across the border on his way to the Roman headquarters at Camulodunon—Camulodunum—in Britain, one hundred and sixty miles to the east, to deliver a military dispatch. The dispatch he’d just smuggled to his king.

  Something drew him closer. Trees thinned, and he caught sight of the very exploratores he served with. The battle—such as it had been—was over. From the coarse comments it was clear a woman had been taken captive and they weren’t wasting any time before enjoying their spoils.

  His gut tightened with distaste. To preserve his deception he had, in the past, fought in the line of duty to Rome, even slaughtered compatriots. Sacrifice a few to ensure the freedom of many. War was a bitch and casualties a fact of life. Warriors knew the odds—defeat or victory.