The Druid Chronicles: Four Book Collection

by Phillips, Christina

  And how desperately she wished to keep Carys’ friendship. It seemed they were both destined to live in Rome, after all. How wonderful it would have been to know a noblewoman there who hadn’t once turned her back on Antonia when she had most needed support.

  “Are you well?” Carys frowned and took a step toward her. “What has Gawain said to you?”

  She had to pull herself together. “Nothing.” At least her voice no longer betrayed her shredded heart. “All is well, Carys. I—I have good news. I am to marry the praetor.”

  Carys stared at her in disbelief. “The praetor?” Her tone left no doubt as to her disgust. “Antonia, you cannot do this. If you tell your father you don’t love him, he will never force you into this.”

  Carys sounded so certain. How odd. And yet how right she was. After the praetor had left, apparently satisfied that her shocked silence equaled acceptance, her father had barely said a word when she’d told him of her marriage plans.

  Perhaps he would have more to say this evening, when the praetor returned to make their betrothal official.

  “It has nothing to do with love.” Did Celtic nobles only ever marry when their heart was involved? Or was that something peculiar to Druids?

  Was Carys a Druid, too? The thought slid into her mind without any shock or denial. It seemed, now, perfectly possible that she was a Druid even if she had married a Roman tribune and lived the life of a patrician.

  It was, after all, only one more layer on the façade Carys portrayed to the empire.

  “But…” Uncharacteristically Carys appeared lost for words. “But this is not Cerridwen’s will.”

  “Why should your goddess be interested in my fate? I’m not a child of Cerridwen.” No, she was a child of Juno. And once again Juno had failed her.

  Great goddess forgive me. She didn’t mean her treacherous words.

  Yes I do. Juno had let her babies die. And now she merely watched as Antonia walked away from the only man she had ever loved.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow move on the far side of the colonnade. Inexplicably a shiver chased over her arms. How long had the shadow been there, listening to their conversation?

  A regal woman emerged into the sunlit court. Her long auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders and her gaze remained fixed on Antonia.

  “Mother.” Carys appeared flustered, another state Antonia had never before witnessed. “Let me introduce my dear friend.”

  Before Carys could continue, the woman held up her hand in an imperial gesture. Carys immediately fell silent. Although the woman’s eyes never left Antonia’s, she had the eerie certainty that the older woman had not only taken in her disheveled appearance but despised her for it.

  “I know who she is.” There was the faintest trace of contempt in her tone. Obviously she knew Gawain, and had overheard everything. Antonia tensed her nerves for further insult. “You are Cassia’s daughter.”

  Chapter 30

  Shock punched through Antonia’s breast. Of everything she might have imagined the older woman saying, this hadn’t even crossed her mind. How was it possible this Celtic noblewoman—queen—knew her mother’s name?

  “You knew my mother?” It was impossible, but what other explanation could there be?

  “I knew of her.” The queen paused beside her daughter, who looked as staggered as Antonia felt. “Your father spoke of her often.”

  Antonia clutched her gown in a futile attempt to make sense of the queen’s words. But they made no sense.

  “How—” She cleared her throat, tried again. “How could you know my father? He lived in Gallia until he moved to Britannia three years ago.”

  “No, foolish girl. Not the man who raised you. I’m talking about the man who sired both you and Carys.” The queen’s deep blue eyes glittered. Antonia suppressed a shudder and the urge to back away. She wouldn’t allow this woman to intimidate her, even though it was obviously the queen’s intention.

  “You lie.”

  “So.” The queen raked her gaze over Antonia. When she finally looked her in the face again some of her antagonism had faded. “You truly are ignorant of the circumstances surrounding your birth.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” But her father’s recent outburst thundered through her mind. Her mother was murdered by the hand of a Druid.

  “Is that why Cerridwen sent me visions of Antonia before I even knew of her existence?” Carys’ voice was hushed. “Is that why my goddess charged me to embrace a woman of Rome? Because she is my half sister?”

  “I am only surprised,” the queen said, turning to Carys, “that Cerridwen didn’t share this knowledge of your blood kin with you sooner.”

  “But my father—”

  “He never hid the fact from me that a Roman patrician had captured his heart during the time he lived in Gaul.” The queen looked back at Antonia. “He loved me. But I always knew Cassia was his beloved.”

  “No.” Antonia’s chest constricted and she took a step back, her hand raised in denial. She knew who her father was. This foreign queen lied. “No.”

  “You’ve always known I had a half-sister?” There was a note of disbelief in Carys’ voice.

  “Of course.” The queen sounded impatient, as though her daughter’s question was irrelevant.

  “And you didn’t think to tell me of this? Even knowing how dearly I’ve always longed for a sister?”

  “I’m not your sister.” Panic coiled deep in Antonia’s chest, spreading through her limbs, threatening to close her throat. How dare Carys and the queen suggest her mother had been unfaithful with a Celt? “My father is Drusus Antonius Faustus, a merchant from Gallia.”

  “Why would I speak to you of your father’s eldest daughter, Carys?” The queen angled her head in a regal manner. “His other daughter was nothing to me. But I chose to accede to his wishes in the matter of your education. He was adamant you learned Latin like a native of Rome. Not only because of the advantage it would give you when confronted by your enemy. But because he wanted both his daughters to be equally educated.”

  “I refuse to listen to any more of your lies.” Antonia infused her voice with all the contempt she could, but her feet refused to move. She remained rooted to the spot, staring at the queen with rising dread.

  She didn’t believe a word. Of course she didn’t. But a tiny kernel of doubt wormed through her breast, rendering her immobile. Forcing her to listen as the queen spewed more of her insanity.

  “I knew this day would come when his daughter of Rome met his daughter of Cymru.” The queen paused for a moment, lost in the past. Lost in the web of her lies. But why would she lie about such a thing? What could she gain by it? “He told me Cassia’s daughter would unite our fractured land.”

  “You are mad.” Antonia retreated another step and glanced wildly around for her slave. She had to get out of here. “I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving to marry the praetor.” The queen gave a soft, scornful laugh. “How like your weak-minded Roman mother you are.”

  Antonia froze. “Do not speak ill of my noble mother.”

  “Your father begged her to go with him. She may have loved him but she didn’t possess the courage to face an uncertain future with her lover.” The queen raised one eyebrow in condemnation. “In what way are you different?”

  But she wanted nothing more than to share her future with Gawain. The queen didn’t know everything. The queen would never know everything.

  “My mother was scarcely fifteen when I was born. She was just a girl. You have no right to presume to know what she may or may not have done. Just as you have no right to presume you know the reasons for my actions.”

  Silence screamed in her ears. Both the queen and Carys stared at her with identical expressions on their faces. As though they had never truly seen her before.

  Heat washed through her. Had she said too much? What had she said?

  “Then perhaps you should rethink your strategy,” the queen said a
nd Antonia glared at her. She had no strategy. All she could hope to do was save Gawain’s life. “The strength is within you. After all, no Druid gives their heart lightly.”

  She might have meant Gawain. But Antonia knew the queen was referring to the man she insisted was Antonia’s father.

  The panic reared again, searing her breast and flooding her veins with a wild frenzy. Before she could stop herself the words spilled from her lips.

  “I’m not a Druid.”

  The queen’s lip curled. “You may possess the blood of one of the greatest Druids of our Age, but unless you are also chosen by the gods then no. You are not a Druid.”

  Her heart hammered in her breast. Her palms were sweaty, breath restricted. She’d not been chosen by the gods, because the queen referred to her heathen, Celtic gods.

  But Juno’s blessed me with visions ever since I was a small child. Visions that had terrified her. Delivered by a goddess who looked nothing like Juno was depicted in the temples. A goddess who spoke to her in an unknown language. A language that made perfect sense to her until she awoke.

  Terror gripped her and she turned and fled from the courtyard.

  * * *

  Back at her father’s townhouse, she found Elpis in her room, sewing. She tore off her palla and flung it onto the bed. Elpis’ eyes widened and she leaped to her feet.

  “Domina, what has happened? Are you all right?”

  Antonia whirled on her. “I’m no longer your domina.”

  Elpis held her hands and Antonia drew in a deep breath, but it failed to calm her shredded nerves. Could it be true? Had her father lied to her all these years?

  “You need to bathe, my lady.” Elpis was so calm, so serene. For some reason that fueled Antonia’s agitation.

  “Tell me.” She snatched her hands free and twisted her fingers together. “The first time you heard me speak in the language of the gods. How did you know, Elpis?”

  Elpis swallowed and refused to meet Antonia’s eyes. “I don’t understand, my lady.”

  “Please, Elpis.” Antonia took the other woman’s hands. “This is so important. How did you know, all those years ago, that it was Juno speaking to me?”

  Elpis shifted uncomfortably. “Your father was so panicked, my lady. He feared you had been possessed by evil shades of Tartarus. I told him what I thought would calm him. And…it did.”

  Antonia stared at her in disbelief. “You lied to him?”

  “Not exactly.” Elpis finally stopped fidgeting. “I’d heard the language before. In the temples of Athens. But it was not the voice of Juno I heard speaking through you. It was the voice of Hera.”

  Chapter 31

  Gawain entered the massage room in the public bathhouse and saw the praetor sprawled face down on one of the benches. He closed the door and shoved a small stone table in front of it. He wanted no interruptions.

  “Finally.” The praetor, his head turned toward the opposite wall, sounded irritated. “I’ve been waiting far too long. This standard of service would never be tolerated in Rome.”

  Gawain flexed his fingers. The image of plunging his dagger through the Roman’s throat flashed through his mind. But no matter how much he desired the praetor’s death, there was no honor by killing him in such a manner.

  Instead, he wrapped his hands around the man’s neck, his fingers jabbing into his windpipe, his forearms across the Roman’s shoulder blades, pinning him in place. The praetor gagged, struggled and then clearly realized the futility.

  “Just so you know.” Gawain leaned over the man and spoke by his ear. “You’re at my mercy.” He increased the pressure around the praetor’s throat to underscore the Roman’s vulnerability before relaxing his grip. “Get up.”

  As the praetor struggled to sit up, Gawain unsheathed his dagger and pressed the blade against his thigh. It was an unsubtle reminder that the Roman remained weaponless.

  “In Rome you would never have got through the security.”

  “We’re not in Rome.” Gawain twisted the hilt of his dagger and didn’t miss the way the praetor glanced at it. It had been easy enough to bribe his way in. Loyalty to the invaders only extended so far. “I heard a rumor that you intend to coerce Lady Antonia into wedlock.”

  The praetor stiffened. “You would be wise not to speak Lady Antonia’s name in my presence, Celt.”

  Gawain tightened his grip on his dagger. “She’ll never belong to you.”

  “You think she would choose you above me?” Despite being at a grave disadvantage, the praetor showed no outward fear of Gawain, and it irked. Another man would be sweating, stuttering, glancing around for a means to escape. But the praetor looked him in the eye, and his bearing was proud.

  “At least I don’t have to resort to base threats against an innocent child to secure a woman’s favor.” All he needed to do was ensure Antonia didn’t wed this man before her daughter arrived. Then, no matter what protest she might raise, she was accompanying him north.

  “An innocent child?” The praetor stood, his face mottled with affront. “Your sources are misinformed, Celt. Your obsession with Lady Antonia is addling your brain. She makes her own decisions in such matters.”

  Gawain narrowed his eyes. He wanted to believe the praetor was lying but his gut told him otherwise. Yet if the man hadn’t threatened Antonia’s daughter then why was she going to marry him?

  “Whatever misbegotten tactics you’ve used won’t work. Your men won’t surprise me a second time, Roman. And be assured that I can outmaneuver any security detail you assign to protect yourself. If I decide to have your blood on my hands there’s nothing you can do to prevent it.”

  “You believe that murdering me will gain you favor in Lady Antonia’s eyes?” Contempt dripped from every word.

  “No.” He knew Antonia far better than to believe that of her. “But at least it will stop you from having her.”

  The praetor’s nostrils flared and he bared his teeth. “The way you have had her?”

  Gawain’s grip tightened around his dagger as the inviting image of ripping the praetor’s tongue from his throat filled his mind.

  “One day she will belong to me, Roman.” Barely leashed rage thudded through every word. “And I will have her in every sense.”

  The praetor gave a harsh laugh. “You delude yourself, Celt. She is of Rome. Even if she returned your infatuation do you really think she would give up everything for you and live like a barbarian?”

  Infatuation. The word pounded in his head, fury mounting with every thud of his heart. Raw boys suffered from infatuation. It was a calculated insult, intended to distract him, to give the Roman an advantage.

  Antonia’s faced flooded his mind. The memory of her soft voice calmed his temper. Control balanced. He curled his lip at the Roman.

  “It is not I who is the barbarian in this room, Praetor.” He gave the man’s official title the contempt it deserved. “Lady Antonia is more than the sum of her blood heritage.”

  “You’re wrong.” The praetor sounded as arrogant and assured as though he were wearing his full patrician regalia instead of standing naked before his dagger-wielding enemy. Gawain slaughtered the flicker of respect that attempted to ignite for the other man’s courage. “We are all the sum of our blood heritage. There’s no denying or escaping the call of our forefathers. Do you deny yours, Celt, simply because of current circumstances?”

  “I’m not ashamed of my heritage.” They both knew what he was. But Gawain would never give the praetor the satisfaction of hearing him say the words.

  “And you would willingly drag Lady Antonia into your world, knowing your heritage would taint her as surely as it taints yourself? That a death sentence would hover over her head because of her association with you?”

  Denial roared through Gawain. He could protect Antonia. She would never know he was a Druid, and he would never do anything to let such a suspicion arise in her mind. The Romans didn’t rule in the land of the Picts. The Picts would not betray
him the way the queen of the Brigantes had betrayed Caratacus.

  But suppose they did? Suppose Antonia was captured and her protests of innocence ignored because he had knowingly forced her into danger?

  The praetor gave a low, scornful laugh. “I see your lustful plans had not extended that far ahead.”

  His plan had extended as far as taking Antonia and her daughter away from Camulodunon, to where his heritage didn’t have to be concealed.

  But he’d always intended concealing it from Antonia. Just as he’d always planned on looking after her and ensuring she wanted for nothing.

  It was a grand, noble plan. Except it was hollow. Because he couldn’t promise to give Antonia every luxury she deserved. He couldn’t even promise to protect her from tenacious, vindictive Romans should they come hunting in the far north.

  And how could he expect her devotion when he kept such a vital element of who—what—he was a secret from her?

  Yet that wasn’t the reason why his lungs burned and chest ached. It was because Antonia hadn’t even wanted to accompany him. It had nothing to do with the praetor coercing her. She had chosen a life of comfort with a man she didn’t love over a life fraught with uncertainty with Gawain.

  There was nothing to prevent him from abducting her and taking her north by force. But what would that gain him?

  He stepped back. Victory gleamed in the praetor’s eyes. He knew he had won.

  But there was something the Roman had to know. “Everything your precious empire believes of those who are descended from the ancient gods is but a shallow glimmer of the truth.” He sheathed his dagger. Maintained eye contact. Because by all the gods that existed in the Otherworld, he would avenge Antonia if this bastard failed to respect her as she deserved. “If you ever harm Lady Antonia I will find you. And unleash the wrath of my ancestors on your bloodline.”