The Druid Chronicles: Mystical Historical Romance

by Christina Phillips

  “It took more than a year before he regained strength enough to pick up a weapon,” Judoc said.

  “I swear,” Brennus said, “I will tear out your tongue, Judoc.” But he didn’t pull from her embrace, nor cease caressing her face with his thumbs.

  “Tell her of Caratacus’ offer, Bren. If she’s worthy enough to be your wife, she’s worthy enough to hear the truth from you.”

  Silence echoed. Finally he sucked in a ragged breath.

  “He offered me a contingent of his finest warriors to hunt down the man responsible for the death of Eryn.” His fingers slid along her face, broke contact. “We hunted, and eventually we found our prey.”

  “Three years ago.” Now it made sense. “And you burned his village, as he had burned that hamlet.” It was just. Why did the memory haunt him so?

  “We thought the village was long deserted. And it was. Only Dunmacos and his followers should have perished that night.”

  “But?” The whisper trembled between them. Because she knew what he was going to confess.

  “But.” The word fell from his tongue like iron. “The bastard had brought his young wife along.”

  She closed her eyes and tried not to let him feel the distress rippling through her body. She understood his code of honor. It was no different from hers. Justice demanded retribution. How could she condemn him for exacting such justice from his enemy’s wife?

  But, goddess. For him to have inflicted such heinous crimes turned her stomach. She tensed her muscles and smothered the urge to vomit. Refused to show him by the slightest sign how repugnant she found his confession.

  Whatever sins he had committed that night, he’d suffered for them a thousandfold every night since.

  Could she forgive him? She didn’t know. But could she leave him for seeking such justice for his own wife?

  No. Never. Because the man of that night wasn’t the man Brennus was. Not in his soul. His mind had been turned with grief, his reason blinded with bloodlust. He was not, at heart, a rapist or murderer of the innocent. He was . . . her Gaul.

  “I understand.” Her voice was faint. She needed air. Space. She needed—

  “I killed her, Morwyn. It was my fault.”

  The world was already black, but now the blackness entered her heart, filled her soul. A cold, clammy blackness that sank insidious fingers into her brain, numbing her senses. Killing her from the inside out.

  “Fuck it, Bren.” Judoc sounded furious. “You might want to be a martyr but I was there, remember? I was part of it.”

  “Yes.” Brennus’ voice was remote, as if he were no longer in the forest but reliving that blood-soaked night. “You were.”

  “So why don’t you tell Morwyn the truth? Why don’t you explain what our honorable men were doing while you and I systematically searched the huts for signs of life before setting them ablaze?”

  “I was still the reason they were there, Judoc. The reason the last moments of her life were filled with pain and terror.”

  A thread of distant light flickered in the suffocating black. Blindly she reached for him and dug her nails into his biceps. “Caratacus’ men raped her.”

  “They were animals.” Disgust filled Judoc’s voice. “They dragged her from her hut, bleeding and weeping. Threw her at Bren’s feet. And urged him to brutalize her, the way Dunmacos had brutalized Eryn.”

  “But you didn’t.” The certainty glowed in her mind, destroying the earlier crippling suspicions. How had she imagined for even a fleeting moment her Gaul was capable of such despicable acts?

  He believed in justice and fighting for his cause. But she knew he didn’t relish violence, as some men did. Bizarrely she recalled the man in the latrines whom Brennus had punched. At the time she had seen no reason for his outburst. But now, knowing the man, knowing his protective instinct and tortured guilt at having been unable to save Eryn, she realized he had defended her honor.

  His captive. A woman who believed him her enemy. And yet when the other man had called her a whore, Brennus had leaped to her defense.

  “She begged me for mercy.” His voice was devoid of emotion. Except, beneath that facade, she could hear the agony. “I took her in my arms but it was too late.”

  Chapter 35

  “No one could have saved her.” Judoc sounded weary. “You know that, Bren.”

  Brennus tore from Morwyn’s embrace and she clawed wildly, but he’d retreated beyond her grasp. “I wasn’t there,” she said into the pitch of night. “But I’ve seen what a pack of men can do to a woman. How long had you been searching for Dunmacos? How many men had you lost to the cause?” Goddess, if only she could see his eyes. See if she was getting through to him. “If Dunmacos hadn’t murdered your wife, you wouldn’t have gone after him. If Dunmacos hadn’t brought his own wife to that village, she would still be alive.” She pushed herself to her knees, shuffled across the forest floor until she bumped into Brennus’ outstretched legs. “You did show her mercy. You gave her comfort in the last moments of her life.”

  No breeze stirred the leaves. No nocturnal creature rustled among the undergrowth. Brennus was so still he might have been one of the stone statues in Camulodunon. Except she could feel the heat from his legs, hear his ragged breath, and then his battle-scarred hand grasped hers, as unerring as if he could see through the enveloping night.

  “Caratacus pledged me his men on the understanding that if we wiped out Dunmacos and his closest followers and kin, I would take his place in the Legion. Shoulder his reputation for brutality. Use his military history as leverage.” A shudder racked through him and Morwyn edged closer until she could wrap her arms around him, offering him whatever comfort her body could provide. “We’d already slaughtered his kin before we tracked him down. But none of us had heard mention of a cousin, Gervas. Or the fact Dunmacos had recently taken a bride.”

  “War is brutal.” Her whisper barely made it past the constriction blocking her throat. Brennus had suffered at the hands of his enemies. But he suffered so much more at the mercy of his conscience.

  She swallowed, gathered her courage. Her offer was small, but all she had. If he rejected it, she would understand and never confront him with her heritage again.

  “Brennus.” She hesitated, unsure whether she could continue, but he rubbed his jaw against the top of her head in a familiar, comforting gesture, and she sucked in a deep breath. “I want to return with you to your homeland. To Gaul. Take my place by your side.”

  His arm tightened around her waist, a painful grip edged with desperation. As if, until this moment, he hadn’t been certain she would want any such thing.

  “Be my wife, Morwyn.” His voice cracked on her name. “Gods know I don’t deserve you, but I can’t help loving you. I’ll defend you to my last dying breath.”

  “Oh.” She threaded her fingers through his, glad he couldn’t see the foolish tears trickling down her cheeks. “I don’t need defending, Gaul. I’ll just take your love. If you take mine.”

  “Always.” His pledge muffled against her hair and she closed her eyes, willing herself to continue. To offer him a chance of spiritual peace.

  If he could accept.

  “I’m a chosen one of the Morrigan.” How could there be any doubt in her mind of that now? “A Druid. I can’t change that.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to.” A jagged sigh speared his body. “Morwyn, your Druidic heritage is a fundamental part of who you are. I can see now. Not all Druids are blinded by ancient prejudice.”

  “There’s something . . . I wish to offer you.” Goddess, she hoped he could not hear the tremble in her voice. “If it wouldn’t offend you, when we reach Gaul, I want to perform the sacred ritual of Arawn. The ceremony for those of noble blood who are continuing their journey.” She flicked the tip of her tongue over her lips. “For your wife, Eryn.”

  He gave a sharp indrawn breath. “You would do that—for Eryn?”

  “You have royal blood. She was your wife. She deserves n
othing less.”

  “Gods.” The word tangled in her hair and his warrior hard body shook as emotion ripped through him.

  Had she ever loved him as much as she loved him in this moment?

  She blinked back the dampness stinging her eyes. “If it doesn’t offend, I also wish to attend the restless spirit of the . . . other girl.”

  He didn’t answer. But the jerk of his head in assent was answer enough.

  With a shaky sigh she sank against him. She would call on her foremothers for guidance and strength. Invoke the ancient rituals, ease the troubled spirits of Eryn and the girl, not only because she was a Druid of the Morrigan and it was her sacred duty.

  But because by so doing, she would soothe the wounded soul of her beloved Gaul.

  Epilogue

  Ten Months Later

  Gaul

  “By the goddess, Gaul, say something.” Morwyn shook her head and then laughed before she once again returned her attention to the tiny scrap cradled in her arms.

  Bren glanced at Gwyn, who sat on his hip with one arm hooked around his neck. She also appeared transfixed.

  “I fear words fail me.” Gingerly he sat beside Morwyn on the bed, once again gazing at the bundle she cradled so tenderly. His son.

  “Because you’re awed by my cleverness in birthing such a perfect babe.”

  “Yes.”

  Morwyn looked up at him, sweaty hair streaking her face, remnants of the severity of her labor etched around her eyes. Faint scars from Trogus’ dagger traced her nose, and her forehead was forever marked with the claw of the sacred raven.

  She was beautiful. Brave. And his.

  “He is perfect,” she whispered. “Because he’s yours.”

  A year ago, he had nothing but a blood pledge to his king and bittersweet memories to keep him alive. Now he had everything. A wife whose strength of will would never ceased to astound him, a daughter he adored and a newborn son.

  Was this was why the gods had kept him alive?

  He tugged Gwyn’s braid. “What do you think of your brother, princess?”

  She reached out one tentative hand and he angled her over the babe, so she could trace her finger over his dark thatch of hair. “Soft.” Her tone was reverential. She glanced up at Morwyn and her plump lower lip trembled. “Safe.”

  One arm around Gwyn, he slid his other around his wife and she melted against him. So deceptively soft and fragile a man could be forgiven for thinking she needed protecting.

  But she was a warrior, a Druid of ancient stock. As willing and able as he to defend herself and their family against the enemy.

  Yet she was and would forever be his vulnerability.

  He’d have it no other way. She had dragged him back from the precipice, demanded that he open his eyes and his heart, and in return she had given him a new world.

  Beloved.

  Author’s Note

  In Captive I’ve woven historical fact into my fantasy world. Caratacus was king of the Catuvellauni tribe, in the east of Britain, at the time of the Roman invasion in AD 43. He became leader of the anti-Roman campaign and eventually moved west into the mountainous region of Cymru, where he and his rebels continued to resist the invaders.

  Enslaved

  Book 3

  Copyright Christina Phillips 2013/2016

  Enslaved was previously published as Betrayed in 2013

  When a Druid priestess falls for her Roman captor she’s torn between her duty to her goddess and her love for the enemy…

  Chapter 1

  Cymru, AD 51

  “I’ll find your daughter.” Nimue unsheathed her dagger and glanced over to Caratacus, where he stood glaring at his warriors. It was obvious the Briton king wanted to stay and fight the barbarous Romans, yet equally clear if he did, he would be captured. “Where are you heading?”

  “The land of the Brigantes,” one of the warriors said. Nimue gave a brief nod, turned and ran farther into the mountain, to where she had last seen Caratacus’ queen and daughter.

  She knew of the land of the Brigantes, even if she had never been there. It was in the north, one of the few places left in Britain that had not succumbed to Roman rule.

  Will my beloved Cymru succumb, now that the rebellion has failed?

  She wouldn’t think of it. Couldn’t think of it. The notion of Romans swarming over her land chilled her blood and sickened her stomach. She tightened her grip on her dagger, crouched low behind concealing rocks and sent desperate prayers to her Goddess, Arianrhod.

  Let me find the Briton queen before the enemy does.

  Battle cries split the blood-drenched air, the clash of sword and shield echoed through the mountain passes and the earth vibrated with the relentless march of the Legions. Nimue pushed back her sweaty hair and glanced over her shoulder. For the moment, she was alone. She leaped to her feet, sprinted across the trampled grass to the small stand of trees where, beyond, she hoped the queen remained along with other non-fighting women in the secluded hollow.

  “Choice is yours.” The coarse Latin accent punched through Nimue’s senses and she froze. She was too late. The Romans had discovered the hiding place. “You or your daughter.”

  Heart thudding high in her breast, Nimue edged toward the source of the voice. If there were only one or two legionaries, she might stand a chance. The queen was no warrior and the princess scarcely more than a child, but Nimue’s aim with the arrow was unerring. Stealthily she sheathed her dagger and primed her bow. The trees thinned and relief scudded through her blood.

  Only one filthy legionary loomed over the queen who shielded her terrified daughter with her body. As the legionary shoved the queen to the ground and prepared to mount her, Nimue let fly with her arrow and bared her teeth in satisfaction as the poisoned tip ripped into the heathen’s vulnerable neck.

  His strangled scream ended with a gurgle before she even reached the queen’s side. There was no sign of the other women. Clearly they had fled as the battle approached.

  “Where is the king?” The queen pushed herself to her feet and wound her arm around the princess. “We were about to follow the others farther up the mountain when that dog accosted us.”

  Thank the Goddess they hadn’t left this hollow. Nimue would never have found them otherwise.

  “I’m to take you to your king.” She slung her bow over her shoulder and glanced around to ensure they were still alone. But they would not be alone for much longer. “If we make haste we might catch up with them before they leave the mountain.”

  “Is the battle over?” The princess, barely twelve summers old, looked at the fallen legionary and shivered.

  Nimue reined in her impatience to leave this cursed mountain and turned to the girl to offer what comfort she could.

  “No. The battle will never be over. Always remember that.”

  “The Druid speaks the truth.” The queen smoothed her daughter’s tangled hair back from her face. “Be brave for a little longer. When we rest, she can tend your wound.”

  Her wound? Only then did Nimue see the bloodied cloth tied around the girl’s calf and another wave of impatience rolled through her. If only she possessed a sturdier frame, instead of the slender build she had inherited from her mother. While she was fast and agile on her feet and trained brutally to strengthen her muscles, she knew the princess was too big for her to carry any distance. She hoped the injury wouldn’t slow them down.

  “We don’t have time to rest.” Her voice was harsh, in an effort to convey how grave the situation was. “Come quickly, before the barbarians smother this mountain.”

  Without waiting for a response, or to see if her blunt words caused offense—they were not, after all, her queen or princess—she turned and led the way back through the trees. To her right, farther down the mountain, she saw the Romans’ continued advance. No longer did they hold their shields over them in an impenetrable shell. There was no need. No Celt archers remained behind to rain death on their heads.

  Th
ere was no time for sorrow, but still the acidic pain clenched deep inside. As she gestured for the queen and princess to crouch low and follow her, she recalled how certain she had been of her people’s victory.

  This battle should have been decisive. It should have crushed the enemy underfoot. Caratacus had persuaded them with his vision of triumph to leave the safety of their magical enclave and follow him to this quagmire of devastation.

  They should never have left the enclave. They should have stayed and continued with the isolated attacks on the Legions. And she could have continued to unravel the mystery of the Source of Annwyn. The power the great High Druid, Aeron, had harnessed from the cradle of the gods themselves with the help of Gwydion, the greatest of the Magician Gods. The magic Aeron had used, through the sacred bluestones, to conceal his clan of Druids from the invaders.

  She ignored the labored breathing of the princess and the hushed encouragement of the queen to continue onward. Of course they had to continue onward. Just as she would continue onward with her quest.

  Her fingers instinctively curled around the small leather pouch attached to her belt. After Aeron’s heroic death, the immense bluestones that had protected his clan had shattered, catapulting precious shards across Cymru. From those shards, a second enclave had been created, a safe haven for the rebels in the midst of their enemy. And just before they had left their retreat, she’d stolen one of the shards and hidden it in her pouch.

  This defeat would not deter her. The shards of bluestone had protected and hidden the rebels from the Romans sight, but they were a faint echo of the original magic. Not even the wisest of the Druids had been able to comprehend how it worked. Only that it did. But she would discover how Aeron had manipulated the Source to his will. When she completed her mission, she would return to the enclave and pursue the sacred knowledge. Gwydion would not assist her, a lowly acolyte. But, as mighty as he was, he was not the greatest of the gods. Her beloved Arianrhod, the powerful Moon Goddess, surpassed him in wisdom and knowledge. And Arianrhod would assist Nimue so she could follow Aeron’s lead, and eliminate all Romans from the land of her foremothers.