The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  She hugged her knees and leaned forward as if that would help pierce the encroaching darkness. “In my visions, I saw Gawain murdered. That’s why I called out his name.” She could feel the truth shimmering between them, insubstantial and fragile. She had to find the right words, had to discover what Brennus thought she knew. “I don’t love Gawain, Brennus. But he is the reason I left you.”

  She could scarcely see him, but she knew he tensed. Fleetingly she wished Judoc would have the decency to leave them alone, but obviously he possessed no such sense of honor. She blanked him from her mind, and concentrated solely on the man she loved but was so perilously close to losing. “On that final morn, the Morrigan showed me the face of Gawain’s murderer. It was you, Brennus. I thought she was showing me you, my beloved, had killed the man whose death I’d vowed to avenge. That’s why I left. Because I couldn’t bring myself to kill you.”

  For a moment the silence of the forest was absolute, as if it held its breath, waiting for the final denouncement. And then, so suddenly she scarcely saw him move, he was kneeling before her, his hands on her knees, her legs pressed against his chain mail.

  “Morwyn.” There was an odd crack in his voice that tore her heart anew. “I thought the only reason you accompanied me this day was because Gawain turned his back on you.”

  She threaded her fingers through his. “No.”

  His head dropped and his lips moved over her fingers, gentle, reverential kisses that seared the core of her being. “Come with me to Gaul. Build our lives together.”

  Her head dropped also, their foreheads touching, breath mingling. Her heart implored her to agree, agree to anything and everything because it was all she wanted. To be with him, build a life together, share her knowledge of the old ways with all those willing to learn.

  But she couldn’t. Not until she knew the entire truth.

  “Why did you think I left you? What did you think the Morrigan had shown me?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” His heated words grazed her lips and his hands cradled her face. “Nothing else matters, Morwyn. Only this.”

  It would be so easy to agree. To push the questions to the back of her mind, allow them to rot into obscurity Except if she did, the past would forever haunt her; a decaying fog of suspicion and doubt.

  It couldn’t be connected to his wife. And yet somehow she knew that it was. Knew it was intrinsically connected to that night six years ago that he’d told her of. And the night three years ago—that he had not.

  “Tell me what happened that night at Dunmacos’ village.”

  His fingers bit into her flesh, molding the bones of her face, but she refused to flinch, refused to cry out. Refused to defend herself because she knew his reaction was purely instinctive, without malice.

  “Nothing happened.” His voice was guttural. His brutal grip lessened. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  She threaded her fingers through his hair. She wished she could see him but there was a false sense of safety in this darkness. “What happened that was so horrific you thought I could leave you because of it?”

  Air hissed between his teeth. “Leave it, Morwyn. I’ll never speak of it again. Not to you, not to anyone.”

  She tightened her grip on his skull. “It’s killing you, Gaul. From the inside out, it’s eating you alive. And I won’t let it. Do you hear me? I won’t let it.”

  “She’s right.” The disembodied voice shocked her for a moment. She had forgotten Judoc’s presence. There was no longer any trace of amusement in his voice. “You’re consumed with guilt and you have no reason to be. What you did—”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Have you even told her of Eryn?”

  “Yes.” Morwyn wound her ankles around the backs of Brennus’ thighs. He refused to surrender to her touch but she clung on regardless. If he left her now, physically or emotionally, she would lose him forever.

  “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 beg
ged 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 nothing 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.