Not for anything.
The blasphemy of her thoughts thundered through her skull and she tripped on loose rocks as the goddess cast a disdainful glance her way. On her knees, palms bleeding from the fall, she watched, transfixed, as two figures materialized a stone’s throw from her.
Gawain. Talking to another man. Embracing him. Turning his back.
“No.” She heaved herself up, arms outstretched. She had seen this before, lived through this before, and, goddess show mercy, she couldn’t stomach to see it again. “Gawain.”
He didn’t hear her. Perhaps he couldn’t. The faceless warrior drew his dagger and it glinted in the ferocious gleam that emanated from the Morrigan, before he plunged the deadly blade into Gawain’s back.
And in that moment she recalled the countless other times she’d been forced to watch his murder, unable to move, unable to help, but this time she clenched her teeth, unsheathed her dagger and fought through the paralyzing fear that gripped her limbs.
She would avenge his death. It was the reason the Morrigan had brought her here, because this time she wasn’t dreaming. This time the events were real.
The warrior turned, his dagger dripping scarlet. Her heart slammed against her breast, disbelief collided through her brain and her own dagger slipped between suddenly lifeless fingers.
Gawain’s murderer was her Gaul.
Chapter 27
Her eyelids jerked open but for a moment she could see nothing, feel nothing, except for the horrified staccato of her heart and the erratic gasp of her breath. The sense of overwhelming dread seeping through every nerve and blood vessel she possessed.
Her Gaul. But there had to be a mistake. She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it.
“Are you all right?” The childish voice slashed through her turbulent denials and she blinked, trying to focus on reality. Gwyn sat cross-legged on the bed next to her, staring down at her with evident interest.
Morwyn drew in a shaky breath, lungs resistant, heart still jackknifing in protest. “Yes.” She struggled to sit up and drew the cover around her naked body, not because of modesty but because she couldn’t stop shivering. “Just a bad dream, that’s all.”
Gwyn appeared satisfied by the explanation and continued to fiddle with something on her lap. “I’m hungry,” she said at last, a hopeful note threading her words.
Just a bad dream. Morwyn repeated the mantra, and tried to believe it. It was impossible that of all the men in Cymru, she had fallen in love with the one who had murdered Gawain. She wouldn’t jump to any more conclusions without irrefutable proof. After all, she had been wrong about him killing Gervas. “Yes, we’ll—we’ll eat soon.” Distracted, she glanced around the room, although she already knew it was empty. “Where is the Gaul?”
Gwyn shrugged. “Don’t know. He said he had some business to deal with and that I wasn’t to leave the room or wake you up.” She gave a little bounce on the straw mattress. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
Morwyn shook her head. Did his business have to do with Gervas? He’d told her he hadn’t killed the other Gaul, but had offered no further explanation for why he had followed Gervas or why he’d drawn his dagger. In her heart she knew her Gaul had intended to end Gervas’ life last night. But why? And why had he changed his mind?
She hugged her knees with one arm and cradled her aching forehead with her other hand. It had just been a nightmare. Like all the other nightmares she’d suffered since moving to Mon. None of them had been visions from her goddess and neither had this one.
She no longer had visions. She would never again have visions. I don’t want to suffer from visions.
From the corner of her eye she saw Gwyn resume playing with whatever lay half-hidden in her lap. A flick of black gripped her attention and she snatched the feather from Gwyn’s hand.
“Where did you get this?” The words were hushed. She couldn’t take her gaze from the perfectly formed raven’s tail feather.
“I found it.” Gwyn wriggled. “Well, the man gave it to me. He found it outside the door when he left. But that makes it mine really, doesn’t it?”
Shivers crawled over her flesh, burrowed into her skin and chilled the marrow of her bones. The Morrigan, aware of Morwyn’s lingering resistance to accept what she didn’t want to acknowledge, had followed up her vision with irrefutable physical proof.
Her stomach cramped, lungs contracted and heart quivered in denial but she couldn’t close her eyes against the truth. Not anymore.
She believed in her goddess. Believed in her visions. In Camulodunon Carys had known the truth of the nightmares, and deep inside she had always known too. It was the reason she had been so angry with her friend’s insistence that the Morrigan was trying to tell her something. The reason she had left Mon with the intention of avenging Gawain’s death.
And now she knew, as surely as the sun set in the west, that the gods possessed a twisted sense of righteous retribution as vindictive as anything Aeron might have imagined.
How the Morrigan must have laughed when Morwyn had taken her Gaul as her lover as an insult to the goddess. How it must have warmed her stony heart to know Morwyn had broken her moons of abstinence with the one man she had vowed to destroy.
Nausea heaved and she hunched over the side of the bed, and the foul stench of the depth of her betrayal seared the air. Fingers clawed into the mattress, sweat dripped into her eyes and still she retched, helpless in the grip of self-loathing.
While Gawain’s body lay rotting, she had enjoyed fucking his murderer.
A small figure clambered to her side and pressed a cold, wet cloth to her cheek. Eyes still clamped shut, Morwyn took the cloth from Gwyn and covered her face. If only she could hide so effectively from the rest of the world. From her goddess.
But most of all from herself.
Moments passed. Silence heavy in the air around them. Finally she scrubbed the cloth up over her forehead and pushed back her lank hair.
She’d sworn an oath on the memory of her foremothers to find Gawain’s killer and avenge his death. It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t known the Gaul was responsible. But now that she did, it would be an easy matter to dispatch him.
He trusted her. She could poison him while he ate this night. Cut his throat while he slept by her side. And before anyone found him she and Gwyn would already be halfway to Caratacus’ camp.
Except she couldn’t do it. Even with the knowledge he might have murdered Gawain in cold blood, without provocation, purely because the other man was a Druid and her Gaul despised all Druids, she couldn’t exact justice.
How clever she thought she’d been, taunting the goddess with her refusal to enjoy her gifts. Flaunting her unsuitable lover in her face. It was madness to imagine a mortal could ever mock a deity and win.
Aeron had tried and lost his life. Morwyn had tried and lost her heart, her self-respect and her integrity. She had nothing else left to lose. If she couldn’t kill the Gaul, she owed it to Gawain to kill herself, as the failure she had become.
“Morwyn?” The anxious voice and tentative touch on her bare shoulder dragged her back to the present. Gwyn was gazing at her, her brown eyes fearful.
Morwyn sucked in a ragged breath. She had forgotten about the child. This child who, through no fault of her own, had been forced to live like a dog in filth-strewn alleys.
She didn’t deserve a reprieve from her fate, but how could she turn her back on Gwyn? Condemn her to a life of degradation and starvation?
This, then, was the reason the Morrigan had allowed their paths to cross. So that when Morwyn faced the enormity of her crime, faced the unpalatable truth that she’d rather break a sacred vow than harm her lover, she was unable to sacrifice herself instead.
The air seeped from her lungs in defeat. The great goddess wanted to keep her alive, to revel in her debasement. To punish her for daring defiance, for harboring the audacity to believe she could triumph.
“Today”—she attempt
ed to offer the child a smile of reassurance, but the look on Gwyn’s face suggested that, even in that small measure, she failed—“we’re going to the forest, Gwyn. To find . . . our future.”
* * *
Bren sucked in a deep breath and resisted the urge to slump against the stone wall as two senior centurions passed him with barely a civilized glance. He’d needed to prove his cover was still intact. If Gervas had gone back on his word and betrayed Bren to the praefectus, every Roman and auxiliary would be on full alert.
But Gervas had honored his pledge. Which was more than Bren had done.
Curse the gods, what was happening to him? He’d pledged fealty to his king long before he’d exchanged that tentative bond of trust with Gervas last night. The safety of Caratacus was paramount. He could do nothing, allow no one, to jeopardize that, and the very fact Gervas knew Bren wasn’t who he said he was put that fundamental tenet in peril.
He’d followed the other Gaul with one intention in mind: to slit his throat. The acidic sting in his gut and the insidious sense of wrongness were personal feelings, based on the knowledge of what Gervas had suffered at the hands of Dunmacos. It had nothing to do with this war. Nothing to do with the brutality of survival.
Without that shared knowledge he could have dispatched Gervas without a moment’s hesitation. Without a heartbeat of remorse.
He’d remained loyal to his king right up until the dagger was in his hand, its blade poised to end the other man’s life. But then, incomprehensibly, Morwyn’s face filled his mind, her eyes condemning, and he hadn’t been able to go through with it.
Instead, in that tortured heartbeat when his fractured loyalties thundered in his brain, he and Gervas had reached a silent understanding. And when he’d staggered back, dagger useless in his hand, Gervas had pledged to continue that silence to the grave.
I failed my king. The guilt scorched him, poisoned his veins as he finally made his way back to the lodgings. But inextricably entwined with his guilt was the stark realization that if he had murdered Gervas in cold blood, he would somehow have betrayed Morwyn’s trust in him.
He hadn’t been able to face her. Hadn’t been able to face himself. But even stinking drunk the fetid memories plagued him.
“Dunmacos.” The hated name jerked him back to his reality. He stared without masking his distaste at the speaker. Trogus. His fists clenched as the urge to punch the bastard’s teeth down his throat threatened to overcome his hard-won restraint.
Trogus strutted toward him. “Bitch didn’t murder you, then?”
With effort, Bren relaxed his fists. “Watch your mouth.” His words were low, even. Spiked with menace. He watched Trogus’ smug expression waver as if suddenly not so sure of the wisdom of confrontation.
“Just a civil question. Bi— The woman murdered my tribesman. It’s not unreasonable to think she’d do the same to any other man who got within spitting distance.”
Bren took one step forward and derived mild satisfaction from the way Trogus only barely stood his ground. “Touch her, or insult her by a single word,” he said as if they were discussing that day’s training schedule, “and I’ll break your neck, Trogus.”
Loathing flared in Trogus’ eyes, instantly smothered. “I’ve no need of another man’s whore.”
The words still echoed in the air as the tip of Bren’s dagger dug into Trogus’ neck. The other man’s eyes widened at the speed of Bren’s reflexes, at how he’d been so swiftly disadvantaged.
“I could find many legitimate reasons for ending your filthy existence.” Bren allowed a trickle of blood to stain Trogus’ flesh. “You may rest assured the praefectus would accept my reasoning.” He wiped the blade on the sleeve of Trogus’ tunic. “I can be very persuasive when necessary.”
Trogus stepped back. It appeared an involuntary movement. “Fuck you, Dunmacos. You never struck me as the type to defend the nonexistent honor of a fucking woman.”
Bren sheathed his dagger and stared at the other man until Trogus, jaw clenched, finally stalked off. Gods, he couldn’t wait for the day until he watched the last gurgling breath leave that piece of shit’s body.
* * *
Wandering through the market, Bren questioned why he wasn’t on the way to Caratacus, to pass on the information he’d gleaned from Camulodunon. There was no excuse. The praefectus had given him leave of absence. He wouldn’t be missed from the Legion.
And yet here he still was. Looking at ribbons and trinkets and trying to decide what would most delight Morwyn.
Morwyn. The reason he was still in the settlement.
His vision glazed as he stared at the jewelry displayed on the stall. Peasants and legionaries jostled him as they negotiated their way through the crowded market, but the noise of the populace, the stink of unwashed bodies and slaughtered livestock faded to a muted blur.
Morwyn had witnessed his suspicious actions last night. Had she been anyone else, he would have killed her without compunction. Witnesses were dangerous, even if they knew nothing of value. And although he’d been in no state to do anything when she confessed, he could have killed her as she slept.
But he had allowed her to live.
There had never been any doubt in his mind he would allow her to live. Even if she had, as he had momentarily suspected, overheard Gervas make his pledge. How could he murder her, when she put such trust in him? When she returned to him voluntarily? When she looked at him, last night, not with revulsion but with compassion?
When she had cleaned him, medicated him and held him in her arms?
When she’s the reason I failed to eliminate Gervas?
He picked up a bracelet, similar to the one she had asked him to sell for her. Similar, but not the same. Hers was of much higher quality, the engraving on the gold more elaborate, the jewels more precious.
For the first time in three years doubt clouded his mind. He knew the double life he led couldn’t last indefinitely. Sooner or later, when his masquerade was in danger of collapsing, he’d have to leave the Legion for good and take up arms by Caratacus’ side. But never before had the idea of abandoning the Legion prematurely beckoned.
Until now. When the enticing notion of being able to take Morwyn with him to his king, of not having to lie by omission to her anymore, glinted in the black corners of his soul.
She had her kin waiting for her in her village. But when she discovered he wasn’t her enemy, that they were on the same side, there was a chance she’d go with him. She hadn’t turned her back on him when she thought he’d slaughtered his cousin. He still couldn’t believe she hadn’t left him to drown in his own vomit, yet she’d tended him as if he was worth something.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt he was worth something. Apart from his skills at deception and subterfuge and killing in the name of his king, what did he have to offer?
Nothing. But when he was with Morwyn she made him remember how he used to feel. Made him hope his sordid past wasn’t an irredeemable barrier to a less-fraught future.
As long as he ensured she never discovered the truth of that night three years ago, was it possible to imagine they might have a chance together?
* * *
It was midafternoon when he returned to their lodgings. The odd notion occurred to him how satisfying it would be for them to have their own dwelling. In his own village that had long ago settled into a reluctant peace with the Romans, far from this turbulent bloodied province.
Nothing but a hollow dream. He would never return to Gaul while Caratacus fought for freedom in this land. As long as his king needed him, Bren would serve. He owed Caratacus that, and so much more.
He owed the Briton king his sanity.
As soon as he opened the door to their room, prickles of alarm skittered across the back of his neck. It wasn’t the fact the room was empty. He’d half expected it to be so. Morwyn wasn’t the type of woman to sit at home all day, and although she hadn’t confided as to what she had done the previous day,
he was content by the fact she returned.
But something was wrong. Instinctively his fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger as he stepped into the room. The sharp tang of an astringent cleanser assaulted his senses, but underlying he caught the unmistakable stink of vomit.
His fingers tightened their grip as he glanced swiftly around. The child’s—Gwyn’s—pallet was in the corner of the room. For some reason Morwyn had taken the girl under her wing. He hadn’t yet had the chance to talk to her about it, but there was nothing to talk about. If adopting a daughter made Morwyn happy, that was all that mattered to him.
The bed was rumpled. The few possessions he’d left in the room remained. There was no sign of a scuffle, nothing to indicate that Morwyn might not stroll back into the room at any moment, and yet still his senses spiked with unknown trepidation.
And then his eyes acknowledged what his subconscious had grasped instantly. Morwyn’s backpack had vanished.
* * *
Bren found Trogus on the training field beyond the garrison, practicing archery. Sword drawn, he marched through the center of the campus, unheeding of the warning shouts or the spear that narrowly missed impaling his brain.
All he could see was Trogus. All he could hear was the enraged pounding of his blood against his temples. He thrust a young legionary from his path, ignored the glances cast his way. Concentrated on the oblivious back of his prey.
Trogus let fly his arrow, and Bren wrapped his arm around the man’s throat, jerking him back, crushing his windpipe. Trogus choked, gripped Bren’s forearm, but before he could regain his senses and go for his dagger, Bren flung him around and pinned him against one of the numerous training posts fixed in the ground.
The tip of his sword pierced the soft flesh at the base of Trogus’ throat. One section of Bren’s mind acknowledged that an unnatural silence had fallen across the campus. That every eye was upon them. That no one attempted to interfere.
The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection Page 54