The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  But still the other man continued onward, scarcely glancing left or right, his mount’s passage unerring. As if Dunmacos knew exactly where he was going.

  The thought crawled through Trogus’ brain like a drunken slug. Nudging him with a clouded knowledge. And then the question formed.

  Where was Dunmacos going?

  Slowly Trogus lowered his bow, but still kept hold of his arrow. He knew Dunmacos had been given leave of absence—fuck knew why. Although rumors circulated the praefectus, far from bestowing unjustified leave, had instead charged Dunmacos with a covert mission.

  Perhaps he was following up a lead. But the supposition sounded hollow. Because even if Dunmacos was tailing a suspect, how did he know exactly where he was going?

  Farther into the forest. Branches scraped against his face and tugged at his legs. An eerie silence descended, as if a blanket had been cast across the small creatures that scuttled in the undergrowth, the birds that nested in the trees. The certainty slammed into him. This part of the forest was cursed.

  A shudder inched along his spine but he couldn’t throw the feeling aside. He wanted, more than anything—even more than claiming Dunmacos’ life—to turn and flee this silent place. Before it swallowed him and his existence was forfeit.

  Sweat trickled into his eyes and his fingers were slippery on his weapon. Curse this. He didn’t care where Dunmacos headed. They had traveled deep enough. His body would remain undiscovered for days.

  Stealthily he drew back his bow, prepared to let fly. But before he could, Dunmacos, quite literally, vanished.

  Chapter 29

  The following morn, far from being invited to join military practice or meet Caratacus—something Morwyn had half expected as her right—one of the Elders from the previous night entrusted her with the care of half a dozen clearly peasant children who all looked younger than Gwyn.

  Morwyn bit back her frustration, but only just. The Elder offered her a faint smile, as if she understood Morwyn’s sharp intake of breath for what it truly was.

  “They need to be kept occupied while we arrange for the final exodus,” she said. “And while they are not of Druidic blood, they can all be taught of the Morrigan. You’re the ideal teacher, Morwyn. You are, indeed, the answer to our prayers.”

  Morwyn inclined her head, but respect was the last emotion bubbling in her breast. The Morrigan had brought her here, in order to be a childminder? She was relegated to watching over the young, and not even noble young at that, while her contemporaries worked alongside the Briton king on his great mission?

  Rigid with affront, she followed the Elder’s directions to a nearby stream, where she could supervise the children’s cleansing rituals. And there, instead of merely handing out her supplies, she sent them on search-and-find missions to discover the raw ingredients nearby. Secretly impressed by their willingness to learn, she taught them how to process their haul. Truly, it was remarkable how quick-witted they were, considering they possessed not a drop of noble blood.

  As the sun climbed to its pinnacle, she considered her thought. In the past, she had only ever taught the children of other Druids or nobility. Peasant children didn’t have the luxury of obtaining an education. As soon as they were old enough they were set to work, helping their parents, and that was the way it had always been.

  Was it the way it would always be?

  So much had changed. Morwyn was still a noble but she had no home. She was still a Druid but her clan was fragmented. These children, Gwyn included, had been born into poverty. Did that mean they should be denied the means to improve their minds, to learn to the best of their ability?

  A shiver trickled along her spine, and oddly she recalled Carys telling her, with defiance, how she taught Branwen the secret Druid ways. How Morwyn had been shocked at the blatant blasphemy.

  And how now, looking at the eager little faces before her, she could suddenly understand why Carys, although only half-trained, had succumbed to the urge to pass on her knowledge.

  It was what they did. Teach the younger generation. Without that, they were nothing. Their ways would die.

  The Romans would win.

  Her breath escaped in a shocked gasp and she pressed her hand against her breast. Children, whether they were of Druid or peasant blood, were the future. How could she, how could any of them, withhold their knowledge from any of their people who wished to learn?

  Glancing around, to ensure they were alone, she smothered the ember of guilt and began to tell them of the Creation.

  Not the diluted version that peasants had told among themselves for generations. But the full story. The sacred heritage of the Druids.

  For a moment Trogus froze, bow raised, body taut, eyes frantically searching the section of forest where just a moment before Dunmacos had ridden.

  Nothing. Heart jackknifing, he dug in his spurs and urged his horse forward, out from the concealment of trees.

  Dunmacos didn’t leap from an overhead branch or barrel into Trogus’ side from a hidden trap. Trogus held his erratic breath, strained his ears, but could hear no distant snapping twigs of muffled progress. Could feel no vengeful eyes upon him. No gut-deep conviction of surveillance.

  Cautiously he edged between two massive oaks, and vertigo slammed into him, almost unseating him, and he clutched the front of the saddle for balance, his weapon digging into his hands.

  Gods, he was going to vomit. The trees spun, the earth undulated, and distant, disembodied voices swam in his mind.

  “Caratacus has been expecting you, Bren.”

  “I was unavoidably detained.”

  Trogus grimaced and crouched over his saddle. He recognized that voice. It was Dunmacos.

  Bren?

  Caratacus had been expecting him?

  Instinctively, Trogus hauled reins and retreated from the oak trees. Instantly his head cleared and stomach calmed. And his brain went into overload.

  He’d discovered the hidden whereabouts of Caratacus. And Dunmacos—Bren?—had led him there.

  Despite the danger that thudded all around, a disbelieving grin cracked his face. Dunmacos, favorite auxiliary of their praefectus, was nothing more than a fucking traitor. The one who had been selling secrets to the enemy. Putting his own countrymen’s lives at risk.

  The grin faded. He could return to the garrison and share his information. The Commander would send the elite of his Legion to wipe out the rebels. Crucify Dunmacos.

  Trogus would rather deal with Dunmacos himself. Then inform his superiors.

  For several moments he remained mounted, scanning the area. There was something unnatural, something that made his flesh crawl about the trees that concealed Caratacus’ camp. Something that made him want to avert his eyes and turn away.

  Then he focused on the gap between the two great oak trees. And the insidious feeling of repulsion faded.

  Magic.

  It could be nothing else. Somehow, Caratacus was using magic to conceal himself from his enemies.

  Heart thudding, he urged his horse once more through the gap. Again the vertigo assailed him but he pushed on, gritting his teeth, and the sensation faded. He glanced around but the forest stretched in every direction, with nothing to indicate he was now within the perimeter of Caratacus’ camp.

  He had traveled scarcely the length of a full-grown oak before two blue-daubed barbarians confronted him, primitive spears pointing at his heart.

  Trogus raised his hands, dropping his arrow to the ground but leaving his bow across his saddle. “I come in peace.” His words appeared to have no visible effect. He took a deep breath. If he was wrong, he might take out one of them before dying. “At the request of my blood brother, Bren.”

  The barbarians didn’t move a muscle, but neither did they launch their spears at him. His breathing grew a little easier. “I come to fight by Caratacus’ side against the Roman bastards.”

  The barbarian on the left jerked his spear, a clear indication for Trogus to dismount. He did so
, slinging his bow across his shoulder as he landed on the ground.

  “You, follow me.” The barbarian turned to his compatriot. “I’ll send reinforcements back.”

  The other one nodded, but didn’t look overly happy by the situation. Trogus smothered a sneer. They were woefully unprepared should an attack occur. Were the Romans in charge—or even the Gauls—this entrance would be crawling with guards. Not a mere two or three.

  As soon as they were a safe distance from the entrance, Trogus dispatched the barbarian with insulting ease. And they called themselves warriors? How had such ill-prepared specimens managed to so rile the Legion?

  He hauled the body into the undergrowth, gripped the reins of his horse, and went farther into Caratacus’ lair.

  As the children used reeds to blow leaves at one another, Gwyn appeared more interested in watching Morwyn prepare darts with berry poison. It was hard to reconcile the child’s low birth with her aptitude to learn. She would make a more than satisfactory acolyte.

  The ember of guilt didn’t ever stir. She’d take that as a sign the Morrigan didn’t disapprove. Yet in a small, rebellious section of her mind she wondered—wouldn’t she continue to teach Gwyn, whatever the opinion of her goddess?

  An elderly peasant woman hobbled to the stream, to inform Morwyn the midday meal was ready. As they returned to the cromlech, Morwyn excused herself. She was in dire need to relieve herself.

  She walked some distance from the cromlech and found a suitably concealed patch of earth behind some bushes. How odd that in such a short space of time she’d got used to the convenience of Roman latrines.

  A jagged sigh escaped and no matter how she tried to skirt the thought, her Gaul intruded. Was he angry that she’d left him? Would he miss her at all? Or had she been so blinded by her own feelings that she’d imagined that tender look in his eyes?

  Approaching footsteps and raised voices, taking no care for stealth, headed her way. Goddess, she hoped they didn’t intend to march right through her privacy. It was one thing to share such necessities of life with friends, but she didn’t relish being caught by strangers with her gown around her knees.

  She hunched lower, willing them to hurry and pass so she could finish in peace. Now they were so close she could distinguish the words of their conversation.

  “It’s no good shouting at me, Bren.” The man sounded exasperated, as if he had repeated that statement many times in the past. “We don’t have the resources to man the entrance the way you’d like. Four warriors is the maximum we can spare.”

  “There were only three.” The voice vibrated with fury. Morwyn choked on a breath and leaned forward, squinting through her prickly green-leafed shield.

  She was mistaken. She’d been thinking about her Gaul, and her depraved mind had allowed her to hear his voice in place of the stranger’s. Her Gaul couldn’t be here, in Caratacus’ enclave, because that would mean—

  Chills streaked along her arms. Did it mean he had followed her? Had she led the enemy into the king’s camp?

  From her vantage point she could see only their legs. Even their feet were invisible, concealed by the tangled undergrowth. Goddess, let her be mistaken. My Gaul can’t be here.

  Chapter 30

  “Yes, so now our resources are more stretched than ever,” the first man said.

  “Why?” It was a demand, and it was most certainly her Gaul. Morwyn held her breath, as if he might be able to hear her, but she couldn’t quell the thunderous staccato of her heart that echoed around the forest in horrified disbelief.

  “No doubt the king will inform you.” The voice grew fainter as they marched farther into the forest.

  “No doubt.” Even from a distance, her Gaul sounded grim.

  She fell onto her knees and dug her fingers into the dried earth. Her Gaul—Dunmacos. She would call him Dunmacos because he wasn’t her Gaul. He never had been her Gaul except inside the deepest recess of her heart. And no matter what the other man called him, no matter what lies Dunmacos had woven, she knew the truth.

  And he was being taken directly to Caratacus.

  She scrubbed her hands in the dirt, as if that might scrub the stain from her soul, but still the ache of betrayal consumed her. Staggering to her feet, she peered into the forest and caught a glimpse of the men ahead.

  The other man knew him. Called him by name, even if it wasn’t his true name. That meant she hadn’t led him here. That meant he had been here before. Was trusted enough to be taken to Caratacus.

  Nausea turned her stomach and caused her limbs to shiver. She’d thought she had nothing left to lose. She had been wrong.

  Dunmacos was her enemy. He had murdered Gawain. But until now she’d never doubted his loyalty to his Roman masters.

  It was, she now realized, something she’d clung to. His innate integrity.

  Even that illusion was now torn from her. He possessed no integrity. No matter how much she hated the invaders or disliked the fact her Gaul had chosen a career as an auxiliary in their Legion, she’d drawn comfort from the knowledge he’d never lied to her. He hadn’t pretended to be on her side. Hadn’t tried to manipulate her by telling her what she wanted to hear.

  He had pledged himself to the Roman Empire. She had grown to respect his choice even if she could never embrace it.

  But it was a duplicitous facade. He had done nothing but lie to her from the moment they’d met. He was a Gaul, pledged to Rome and betraying them to the Britons. He was nothing more than a traitor to his people.

  Just like Aeron.

  She kept to the shadows as she followed the two men deeper into the forest. She may not have struck the blow that killed Aeron, but she had been the means to his destruction.

  Just as now she had the means of destroying . . . her Gaul.

  The forest opened to a clearing, where half a dozen steep slopes cut into the surrounding tree line. As she darted from the cover of one tree to the next she saw a group of men, who pulled back from their leader as Dunmacos and his companion entered the dusty clearing.

  “Bren,” the man—Caratacus?—said, and Dunmacos fell to one knee in greeting. Morwyn shivered in distaste at his hypocrisy and slid cold fingers over the hilt of her dagger.

  Caratacus jerked his head at his men, who instantly left the clearing. She pulled back into the shadows and held her breath, but none of them came close to her hiding place. Goddess, what lengths had Dunmacos gone to in the past, in order to have secured the king’s trust that he would dismiss his warriors?

  When she returned her attention to the Briton, Dunmacos was once again on his feet. She edged closer until she was at the perimeter of the clearing, until she was a child’s stone’s throw away from the two men.

  “. . . feared something had happened to detain you,” Caratacus said.

  “No.” Her Gaul no longer looked deferential. In fact, he looked as if he was trying to hold on to his temper. “I thought you’d discarded your plans for outright combat.”

  Queasiness churned. Dunmacos had inveigled himself very close to the seat of power if he could suggest such things without being accused of treason.

  “No, Bren. You want to discard our plans. Not I.”

  “Gods’ sakes, Caratacus!” The words erupted from his mouth. “The Romans will fucking slaughter us. Our warriors don’t have the discipline to meet them as equals on the killing fields.”

  She huddled against the trunk of the tree, the rough bark scraping her face. Why was he cautioning against open combat? Just because he was betraying Rome didn’t mean he possessed any loyalty toward the Britons. Why would he care if Caratacus’ followers were slaughtered?

  Was he was trying to prevent needless bloodshed for the Legion?

  Except if he was deceiving the Romans, that makes even less sense. Whose side was he on?

  For the first time anger flashed across Caratacus’ features. “Our warriors are fearless. We’re more than a match for the spineless Roman barbarians.”

  Dunma
cos swung on his heel and marched directly toward Morwyn. As if he knew her hiding place. But then he whirled and paced back to the Briton. “Our tactics are working. They’re sending the Legion of Ostorius Scapula from Camulodunon to boost morale. Continue as we have been and we will prevail.”

  “Another Legion?” Caratacus expelled a breath between gritted teeth. “All the more reason to change tactics, Bren. They won’t be expecting it. We can wipe them out.”

  She had never heard of Ostorius Scapula, but it was clear Dunmacos had gleaned that information from the dispatch he’d opened that night in Camulodunon. Goddess, she was so confused. Was he betraying the Romans or Caratacus?

  An unsavory answer slithered into her mind. Both?

  “And nothing I say can change your mind?”

  “It was already done the last time we spoke, Bren. The last of our Druids and warriors are leaving this enclave today. I was waiting only for your return.”

  Breath ragged, she stealthily retreated as a sickening realization clawed into her heart. Whatever the truth was, Caratacus believed Dunmacos was loyal to him. The Briton wouldn’t believe the word of her, a stranger, above that of a man he obviously trusted.

  But it wasn’t that that sickened her. It was the knowledge she couldn’t expose her Gaul as a traitor, even now. Not to the Briton king, not to the Roman Legion.

  She had no love for the Romans. But something deep inside her soul withered at the evidence Dunmacos could so easily betray those to whom he’d given his pledge.

  The tip of a blade pierced between her shoulder blades and she froze. She’d been so intent on watching her Gaul, so intent on her tumultuous thoughts, she’d given no heed to where she was going. Would she be hauled before the king for eavesdropping, thrown at his feet in an ignoble heap?