The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  His frown intensified. “Active?” he repeated, sounding mystified. It was obvious he couldn’t imagine what she might mean. “Surely you had servants and slaves of your own, Nimue, to undertake menial tasks outside?”

  Of course she had—before the invasion. But everything had changed with the coming of the Romans.

  She opened her mouth to explain, and then realized to do so would be a grave mistake. Because how could she tell him that she had spent most days engaged in memorizing the sacred Druidic knowledge of the ages?

  As an acolyte just over halfway through her training she had also been expected to help their people whenever necessary. Her skills as a healer and special affinity with the Moon Goddess had quickly spread among the women who had sought her advice and wisdom on the complexities of their feminine cycles and fertility.

  She couldn’t tell Tacitus the whole truth. But she could share…a little.

  “I would comfort my people in need,” she said with quiet dignity. “And commune with my Goddess. All I ask is that I’m permitted to leave your quarters during the day.”

  “And am I to believe you wouldn’t attempt to run away at the first opportunity?”

  She had no intention of running away like a common thief. When the time was right, she would execute her carefully planned escape. But first she had to find the queen.

  “You have my word I won’t run away at the first opportunity.” It wasn’t a lie, so why did it feel like one? Tacitus should phrase his questions more carefully. But thank her Goddess that he did not. “Where would I go, Tacitus?”

  He cradled her face in his hand and his gaze touched her soul. “You could go nowhere, Nimue.” There was an odd note of regret in his voice. “By Roman law you would be brought back to me in chains, and gods know that’s not what I want. I’ll arrange for my seamstress to accompany you on a daily walk, on condition you don’t leave the garrison and that you’re back before I return from duty. Do you agree?”

  She bristled at the thought of one of his insufferable servants accompanying her, but at least she had negotiated a measure of freedom. She would find a way to discover the information she required without raising the suspicion of her spy.

  “I do,” she said, and when Tacitus leaned toward her and kissed the tip of her nose it was hard to remember why there were so many things she had to keep secret from him.

  Chapter 21

  By the third day the seamstress, a Roman woman well into middle age and not conversant with the Celtic tongue, had mellowed sufficiently to allow Nimue to explore the markets by herself, so long as she remained within visual contact. It was a vast improvement on the first morn when the woman had shown her disapproval with her folded arms, pursed lips and dagger-like glares.

  Clearly she believed the upstart slave would be troublesome and autocratic, and so Nimue had conversed with her in Latin, adjusted her stride to the woman’s slower pace and consulted her on the purchase of lengths of fine wool.

  Nimue wasn’t sure why she was compelled to barter two of her bracelets for the wool. Tacitus’ servants had presented her with more than sufficient clothing—even if the two gowns were far too Roman for her liking—and yet the need had been insistent and so she had succumbed.

  When they had returned to Tacitus’ quarters on that first day, Nimue had further charmed the seamstress by requesting her wisdom on the best methods of converting the wool into serviceable over-gowns. Not that Nimue was incapable of such tasks herself yet, once again, she had felt compelled to ask for assistance. And this morn, as she wandered unchaperoned among the market stalls, she understood why.

  It had been to gain the other woman’s trust.

  Surely her Goddess worked in the most wondrous of ways. For such a tactic would never have occurred to Nimue by herself, of that she was certain.

  Now when she conversed with stallholders, she could direct the conversation how she wished. She had a good idea of the structure of the interior of the fortification, and knew where the officers’ and legionaries’ quarters were, where the healer practiced his arts and the location of the heathen sacrificial altars. She had yet to discover where captives were held.

  What she had discovered, though, was that the fortification was not closed to those who lived in the surrounding settlement. There was a freedom of movement she found astonishing and while only part of the fortification was open to the general populace that was more than she’d anticipated. She was certain that, somehow, it would aid in her plans for rescuing the queen.

  “My lady. I hope you’re recovering well from your injury.”

  Nimue swung round and stared at the Roman officer who had spoken her language and stood smiling down at her. Did she know him? Why did he address her as if they were acquainted? Or perhaps he was merely enquiring after her health because he was a friend of Tacitus.

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment. And then, obscurely, the Gaul’s words came back to her. Her only weapon and means of defense was to use the Romans’ perception of her against them. She might be well on the way to full health but there was no need to let this Roman know.

  “As well as can be expected.” It occurred to her she should wince in pain, or perhaps hold her injured arm. The image turned her stomach and besides she wasn’t sure she could carry off such a masquerade.

  “Rest assured,” the Roman said, taking another step toward her, a look of concern on his face, “I personally ensured that the one responsible was duly punished for his crime.”

  The auxiliary who had approached her as they’d set up camp. She hadn’t understood why he’d been punished for shooting her but it appeared this Roman was the one responsible.

  And he expected her to be grateful for it.

  “In a battle it’s expected that the enemy will shoot each other.” She tried to keep her voice even so this Roman wouldn’t guess how his remark had irritated her but by the way he raised his eyebrows she wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. Perhaps her best course of action was to keep her mouth shut altogether.

  “The battle was over, my lady. And no warrior worthy of the name would shoot an innocent woman in cold blood.”

  How blind these Romans were. She bit her tongue and embraced the sharp pain that cleared her mind. There was no point defending her position. It would achieve nothing but the possibility of angering this officer. Instead she should use her feminine wiles, the way the Gaul had indicated. The way she had failed to use them on Tacitus, because Tacitus, despite their short acquaintance, knew her too well to fall for them.

  Besides, she didn’t wish to pretend to be someone she wasn’t with Tacitus. The one time she had tried, by refusing to embrace the orgasm that had threatened to consume her, what had she gained? Nothing but rabid frustration and an unpleasant coldness that had lingered between them until his commanding officer had shaken the shades from her eyes.

  She affected a soft sigh, as if the memory of being shot was too traumatic to recall. “I’m eternally grateful that Tacitus didn’t leave me to be rounded up with the rest of the captives.”

  The Roman’s eyes widened at her use of Tacitus’ name and again she stamped down the flare of anger. Why was it so odd that she used his name? First the healer, and now this officer reacted as if it was something extraordinary. Was she supposed to refer to him by his rank?

  Another thought occurred to her. One that should have occurred to her immediately. It was more likely that, as his slave, she should call him her master. It was how slaves referred to their owners in her society so why would it be different for Romans?

  The difference was that this time she was the slave. And even to keep up this flimsy masquerade she wasn’t certain she could force that word between her lips.

  “My lady,” the Roman said, and in her peripheral vision she saw the seamstress edge closer, clearly unsure whether to intercede or not, “such a fate for you never crossed my mind. My first imperative was to ensure your wellbeing.”

  She trawled through her memories,
but after the arrow had struck she could recall nothing clearly until waking in Tacitus’ tent. Had this officer seen her unconscious by the mountain stream? The knowledge that she’d been so vulnerable and unaware sent a trickle of unease along her spine. “You were there?”

  He smiled, and a detached section of her mind acknowledged that he possessed an autocratic beauty of his own. But almost instantly, the impact of his words wiped out any other consideration.

  He had been there when Tacitus had claimed her freedom. Did he know anything about the queen and princess?

  “I persuaded my esteemed cousin to save you from the indignity of being herded with the others. You are clearly no peasant, my lady, and deserve a better fate than that.”

  None of her people deserved such a fate at the hands of the Romans, but it was equally clear this Roman had no idea he’d just insulted her by his words. And then his other comment fell into place in her mind.

  He and Tacitus were cousins? And he had persuaded Tacitus to save her?

  Somehow that didn’t feel right. Did this barbarian think to flatter her with such talk?

  She was just about to take issue with his comment when something made her glance at the stall to her left that sold small carved timber goods. At eye level, fixed to the wooden pole that supported the awning above the table, an exquisite rendition of an owl observed her with unblinking intensity.

  Nimue only just stopped herself from sinking to her knees before the image of her beloved Goddess. The owl was a reminder that she was in the heart of the enemy’s camp, that she had to watch her tongue. With this Roman at least, she should play the weak female he clearly imagined she was.

  With reluctance, she dragged her gaze from the owl and mentally stiffened her spine. Her pride might weep at what she was about to do, but she would recover. She needed vital information.

  “Thank you. I’m most grateful for your benevolence.” How the words burned her throat. But the self-satisfied smirk on the Roman’s face was more than enough to convince her that she’d sounded genuine. “I don’t think I could survive in the pit with the other captives.”

  Goddess forgive her. Nimue felt her face glow with shame at her words, but she was following Arianrhod’s instructions. Yet even knowing that didn’t help to ease the acidic scorch of betrayal that seared her. She sounded as though she didn’t care about the suffering of her people, as long as she remained free and unchained.

  “Do not distress yourself.” The Roman’s smirk faded as though he imagined she might dissolve into hysterics. “You’ll never be put with the other slaves, as long as there’s breath left in my body.”

  Had she a dagger to hand, the breath would leave his body a lot sooner than he imagined. She fought to subdue the enticing thought, in case it showed on her face. “You’re very kind.” She widened her eyes in the hope it would stop her from baring her teeth in frustration. The Roman stared at her, seemingly entranced, and she forcibly reminded herself of the reason for this deception. “I cannot sleep at night for fear of being thrown into the pit, chained like a wild beast.”

  “No man would dare chain you.” He sounded shocked by the notion, as if the chaining of slaves was unheard of. “And there’s no pit, my lady. We’re not savages.”

  She might have been playing to this Roman’s prejudices against her sex, but she was sure they kept their prisoners in a primitive pit, without protection against the elements. Perhaps her people had got that wrong.

  “You keep the slaves inside?” She injected a note of awe into her voice. Surely he would strike her for her mockery but the Roman appeared completely oblivious to where she was heading. From the corner of her eye she saw the seamstress, a look of agitation on her face, clearly debating the wisdom of approaching while her charge conversed with another officer. It would seem Tacitus hadn’t specifically given instructions that she wasn’t to speak to another Roman, but that was likely because he never imagined she would.

  And she wouldn’t have. But this Roman had approached her.

  “Of course,” the Roman said, as though it was imperative she believe him. “We would never subject women and children to unnecessary hardship. They are housed beyond the Veterinarium.” He indicated with a jerk of his head the direction that he meant. Nimue stared at him in disbelief at how easily he’d given her the information she sought. Did he even realize the importance of what he’d told her?

  “The Veterinarium?” She sounded out the Latin word, although she knew full well what it meant and how to pronounce it.

  “For the horses,” he said, as if explaining to a small child. “It’s next to the Valetudinarium where our physician attends to the sick and injured.”

  “You have greatly eased my mind.” She lowered her gaze to his chest so he wouldn’t see that she was anything but subservient or grateful in reality. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to Tacitus’ quarters.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, my lady. I’m sure we’ll meet again very soon.”

  She offered him a perfunctory smile and watched him stride away. Then she looked in the direction the Roman had pointed out to her.

  Seeing the owl just now had been more than a reminder to curb her words. It had been Arianrhod’s way of telling Nimue that the Roman could help her. And he had. Surreptitiously she glanced around, but apart from the seamstress, no one took any notice of her.

  She could discover where the queen was being held and let her know that Nimue was working on an escape plan. Heart thudding against her ribs she walked purposefully toward the Veterinarium. If she looked as though she had every right to be in this part of the fortification then she was less likely to be stopped. At least, she hoped.

  She saw the building she was looking for by the legionary standing guard outside. She took a deep breath, tilted her head in a regal manner and strolled toward the door. The legionary looked her up and down, and clearly liked what he saw if the appreciative grin on his face was anything to go by. Would he be so lax if she had her bow and dagger?

  “I am under the tribune’s protection.” She spoke in Latin and while the words made her feel more like a slave than ever, the effect on the legionary was dramatic. He straightened and took a step back from her, as though to get too close would condemn him to punishment.

  Perhaps it would.

  “I wish to speak to the prisoners.” Nothing would induce her to call them slaves.

  The legionary frowned. “Why?”

  Why did he think? She forced a smile to her lips and hoped he didn’t come from Gaul. Otherwise he’d never fall for her deception. “Because they are my friends.”

  He glanced around, then clearly came to the decision that she couldn’t possibly pose a threat. “Very well.” He turned and unlocked the door. “But only for a few moments.”

  Nimue took a deep breath and stepped inside. She was taking a risk but there was little else she could do. If one of the women or children recognized her and decided to betray her, all would be lost. But she trusted her Goddess and if the reaction of the legionary was anything to go by, then Arianrhod was by her side.

  The conditions were not nearly as bad as she’d feared. They were clean, if sparse, and from a cursory glance it didn’t look as if her people had been brutally whipped or been left in chains.

  As a couple of the women approached her, she realized something else. The Briton queen and princess weren’t there and panic shot through her. It hadn’t occurred to her that they wouldn’t be here and yet it should have. After all, they hadn’t traveled here on foot with the rest of the captives, had they?

  “My name is Nimue.” She spoke softly, in the language of Cymru, certain that the legionary was trying to eavesdrop. “Where is the Briton queen?”

  The women eyed her with suspicion and one of them curled her lip. “How did you escape our fate?” Her words implied that she had a very good idea how Nimue had escaped, and despised her for it.

  Her stomach knotted in distress to know that, in truth, the wom
an was right. Nimue was nothing but a Roman tribune’s whore.

  But she didn’t feel like one. She would never feel like one, not when it came to Tacitus.

  There was no time to mourn what could never be. She ignored the woman’s hostile glare and pulled the gown over her shoulder so her wound was visible. “I was shot and captured.”

  The women stared at her injury and their hostility faded a little. The one who had spoken before finally met her gaze again. “The Briton queen has never been with us. She and her daughter are in the building next to this one.”

  Relief surged through her. She’d feared the Romans had taken the queen somewhere else. She thanked the women and just as she was about to leave, a small child caught her attention. She was clinging to one of the women’s legs, and her huge eyes stared up at Nimue in silent entreaty.

  Guilt speared through Nimue’s breast. How could she leave this child—all the children—the Romans had captured? How could she leave behind the women? But how could she hope to save so many? They were bedraggled and would be caught the moment they set foot outside their prison.

  But there had to be something she could do. Her first priority was to the Briton queen but she would not—could not—forsake her countrywomen. She would ask for Arianrhod’s guidance. Surely—

  Her thoughts were severed by the sound of the legionary’s voice addressing a superior officer. Please don’t let it be the commander. Trepidation licked through her and with a feeling of dread she glanced over her shoulder.

  And saw Tacitus glaring at her.

  Chapter 22

  Tacitus stared at Nimue as disbelief thudded in his chest. It had never occurred to him that she would seek out the other slaves.

  But he should have. Nimue had made it plain that she resented her enslaved status. He reeled in his sense of betrayal, because logically he knew she hadn’t betrayed him. After all, he hadn’t specifically ordered her not to visit the slaves.