Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  Clywd raised an eyebrow at his son. “Her aim is poor.”

  Caddaric grabbed his sides and bent forward until his forehead touched his upraised knees. “Father, if you could have seen the look on your face…”

  “Thankfully I was spared that indignity,” Clywd said dryly. He dropped the spoon onto the wagon ledge, brushed at the stain on his cloak, and gave in to the smile he had been repressing. “Never before have I been attacked with a spoon.”

  “Nor I,” Caddaric grinned. “She nearly broke my nose.”

  Clywd chuckled then and gestured at the tent. “Will she come out, do you think?”

  “Eventually, when she is done putting rocks under my pallet.” Grinning hugely, Caddaric pulled himself to his feet and finished the wheat cakes Jilana had started. When they were seated by the fire and Caddaric had poured them each a cup of wine, he confided, “She confuses me.”

  “Of course she does; that is a woman’s purpose in life.”

  Caddaric shook his head impatiently, his expression serious. “Is it possible that my dreams were wrong?”

  “In what manner?”

  Caddaric took a bracing sip of wine. “The dreams were straightforward enough: I would meet Jilana and she would bear my child; a child who would reflect the best of both our worlds. But now—” He sighed and stared glumly into the fire.

  “Now,” Clywd prompted. “What, my son? You no longer wish the child?”

  “Nay—I mean aye, I do wish the child but—” Caddaric ran a hand through his hair, searching for the words. “I thought it would all be so simple, Father!”

  “And it is not?”

  “‘Tis anything but,” Caddaric answered in a low roar. “I am a reasonable man, would you not agree?” Before Clywd had a chance to reply, Caddaric continued, “Aye, I am most reasonable. I am not given to fits of temper or melancholy, I am honest in my dealings with those around me, but she—she,” he pointed an accusing finger at the tent, “she does not believe me when I say I will protect her. Nay! She runs away! I forbid her to see a Roman prisoner and she not only defies my order, but helps him escape.” This was said in a low voice for, in spite of his steadily rising ire, Caddaric was still aware of the danger in such an admission. “I clap her in irons—for her own sake as well as mine—and she dares to look at me like a wounded doe! And when I punish her for her misdeeds,” he drew a shuddering breath. “Gods! ‘Tis as if the shackles are around my soul as well.”

  Ahh, the satisfaction to be derived from Caddaric’s confusion, Clywd reflected with a hidden smile. ‘Twas as if he could see the bricks fall one by one from the wall Caddaric had built around his heart. Amazing, the havoc one small Roman had managed to wreak in his too-rational son. “What is it you wish from me?” Clywd asked.

  ”Answers,” Caddaric replied harshly. “How do I rid myself of these complications?”

  “‘Tis simple enough.” Clywd took a sip of wine. “Rid yourself of Jilana and the complications will disappear.”

  The implications of the answer fell like lead upon Caddaric’s heart. “But without Jilana, the dream dies,” he protested.

  “And it is alive now?” Clywd probed. “I told you once, Jilana is your destiny. To continue as you are is to throw that destiny away.”

  Caddaric pondered his father’s words throughout the evening and acknowledged the truth of the matter. To continue like this would serve no purpose. He did not want Jilana afraid of him, shying away at his every word or gesture, but rather accepting, both of him and their circumstances. She would bear his child—aye, she would!—but he wanted her to do so willingly. Caddaric not bother to examine why it was important to him Jilana be willing; the reasons were secondary to his knowledge.

  Jilana stayed within the security of the tent for the remainder of the evening, despite the protests of her stomach. She was embarrassed to see Clywd after what had spired, but the embarrassment was unimportant compared to the fear that coursed through her whenever die thought of Caddaric’s softly spoken goad. You feel something for me, little wicca. She fought that truth until sighing, she admitted defeat. Even though she wore his shackles, Jilana could not forget that, once, things had been different between them; that she had fallen in love with him. Oh, Juno, if he ever guessed how much she cared, there would be no defense left to her. She fell asleep listening to the quiet voices outside the tent, and wishing with all her heart that she and Caddaric were not sworn enemies.

  ****

  The nightmare struck Caddaric again that night. His cries woke Jilana and for several moments she lay motionless, vowing she would not go to him as she had the night before. Her resolution lasted until his cry of anger turned into a choked, masculine expression of wordless ow and then she threw off her blanket and hurried through the darkness to Caddaric’s side.

  “‘Tis the dream again, Caddaric,” Jilana whispered urgently as she shook his shoulder. Beneath her hand the iron muscles trembled, and compassion swamped her.

  Caddaric came awake feeling the tremors in his body and the soothing hand upon his shoulder. “Artair.”

  “I know.” Jilana felt sympathetic tears well in her eyes. At least he was consecrated to your gods. I do not have even that small comfort for the loss of my family.” She felt his muscles contract at her words and wondered at his tension.

  “Tis cold comfort,” Caddaric grated at last.

  Jilana felt him relax and breathed a sigh of relief. “I would take it, cold or not.”

  Caddaric moved his hand until it found and covered Jilana’s. “The rebellion has taken much from both of us, even the time to mourn our dead.”

  “Aye,” Jilana softly agreed, and made to rise. Caddaric’s hand kept her firmly in place.

  “Stay,” Caddaric ordered in a low voice. And then, because he wanted her to choose freely, he released Jilana’s hand and said, “Please stay, just for a few moments.”

  Sighing, knowing it was madness but rendered helpless by the entreaty in his voice, Jilana settled back into her position beside the pallet. “If you wish.”

  “So agreeable,” Caddaric teased, his fingers lightly stroking her hand.

  Bristling, Jilana inquired, “That is what you wish, is it not?” His fingers stroked higher, raising gooseflesh along the length of her arm, and she shivered in reaction.

  “Once I did.” Caddaric cupped his hand and slid it up and down her arm. Feeling her reaction he asked, “Are you cold?” As he spoke, his knuckles brushed the material covering her breast.

  “N-nay,” Jilana stammered on a quick breath, and it was the truth. Where he had touched her the stola seemed to burn against her flesh.

  “Of course you are,” Caddaric contradicted. He swept back the blankets with his free hand. “Come, lie next to me.”

  “Nay.” This time there was no hesitation in her reply. Jilana pulled her arm free and backed away before he could reach for her again. “I am no fool, Caddaric.”

  Caddaric listened to the sounds she made returning to her own pallet and cursed silently. His impetuous action had driven Jilana away, but finding her crouched beside him once again had seemed too good an opportunity to let slide through his fingers. In the future he would have to tread more carefully, Caddaric lectured himself as he flipped the blankets back into place.

  She liked it better, Jilana decided late in the afternoon of the next day, when Caddaric absented himself from the camp. Except for two brief absences, he had been in their camp the entire day and his presence was a strain on her nerves. Not that he did anything to make her wary; his actions were quite the opposite. While Jilana baked successive batches of wheat cakes for the night’s feast, he tended the roasting venison, for which Jilana was mutely grateful, for even had she been able to raise the slab of turf which covered the pit to check on the coals, she was certain she could not endure the initial odor of cooking meat that rose from the pit when the turf was removed. Caddaric sharpened his sword—again, Jilana thought, as the whetstone rasped the length of the blad
e and set her teeth on edge—and he cut wood for the fire and he helped her with the chores and through it all he watched her. ‘Twas his still, innocent, blatant gaze that distracted her so. She did not trust it for a moment.

  Only the passing visits from Caddaric’s friends kept Jilana from retreating to the tent and staying there. The tasks which had occupied so much time when she was first learning them were now easily accomplished and time hung heavily on her hands. The visits provided her with an excuse to bustle about, pouring out wine and mead for the guests. Guendolen stopped by to pick up her gown but stayed all too briefly, despite Jilana’s urging. By the time the afternoon shadows had lengthened, the last visitors had departed and she was alone with Caddaric.

  Jilana stood uneasily by the wagon and Caddaric walked toward her slowly, aware, and puzzled, by the tension he sensed in her. Throughout the day he had behaved impeccably—not threatening or shouting when her edginess sparked his temper—while he sought a way to recapture what they had known at Venta Icenorum, before the mistrust had grown between them. But nothing he did seemed to have an impact upon Jilana; instead she grew increasingly nervous in his presence, and he could see no reason for it unless…

  “Are you planning another escape?” Caddaric demanded when he was less than a foot from Jilana.

  Startled, Jilana dropped the jar she had been holding. It crashed to the ground and shattered, showering wine over both their feet. “Oh!” The cry was a mixture of embarrassment and consternation. “See what you have made me do?” Jilana would have picked up the shards of pottery, but two strong hands closed around her upper arms and lifted her bodily from the mess. Instinctively, her fingers curled around Caddaric’s muscular forearms for additional support and, dismayed, she looked directly into Caddaric’s eyes. “P-put me down.” Her voice was sadly lacking in both command and dignity; indeed, it sounded more like a whimper.

  “When you answer,” came Caddaric’s blunt reply. “Are you planning to run again?”

  Jilana shook her head vehemently. “I am well and truly beaten, lord. Now will you put me down?”

  He did, but kept a hand around one of her arms. “I found a pure well yesterday. We will take the wagon and fill our water barrels.”

  “N-now?” Why could she not seem to rid herself of the stutter?

  Caddaric quirked an eyebrow. “Everyone will be in camp, preparing for Beltane. We can be assured of privacy, and an unlimited supply of fresh water.” Jilana’s frown showed her confusion and Caddaric clarified, “I would like to bathe; I thought you might as well.”

  She would have dearly loved to refuse, but the offer was too tempting. Tomorrow, after the noon meal, they would march again, and the thought was enough to make Jilana feel as though she were once again covered with dust. “As you wish,” she replied calmly. Caddaric’s eyes turned cold, but Jilana was too relieved that he had dropped her arm to notice.

  The ride to the farm was accomplished in silence and Jilana was only too happy to drop down from the seat without waiting for Caddaric’s assistance. The site of the well was a small, deserted farmstead and while Caddaric about building a fire, Jilana looked about in dismay. The buildings consisted of a byre with a rudely-fenced pen and a house. The house was small, timber-framed, covered with daub and capped with a wattle roof—it came as a shock to Jilana, accustomed as she was to the buildings of two or more stories of Venta Icenorum. It dawned on Jilana then that, despite having spent her life on Britannia, she had taken no notice of how the Iceni lived. The door to the house stood ajar and she entered the structure.

  There were no separate rooms as she knew them. The door opened directly onto a large room which held a table and two stools, both of which lay on the dirt floor. Jilana unconsciously righted them as she passed by on her way to examine the fire pit in the center of the room. Looking up, she could see the smokehole cut into the roof. The windows had wooden shutters, but they gaped open now, admitting the afternoon sunlight. To her left, two curtains were suspended from the ceiling rafters and she cautiously pulled back the first. Inside was a small bedchamber containing two mattresses which, Jilana guessed from their scent, had recently been filled with fresh straw. The second curtain revealed another bedchamber, just slightly larger than the first, but here, instead of the straw-filled pallet residing on the floor, it reposed on a bed with roped framework. The adults’ bedchamber, Jilana thought; the other would have been for the children. With curtains in place of doors, there would be little privacy. Jilana grimaced at the thought. Where was the family now? Had they joined Boadicea or had they fled before the onslaught of the rebellion? Their ghosts seemed to haunt the structure.

  “Jilana?”

  Jilana cried out in alarm and spun around. Caddaric stood silhouetted in the doorway. “You startled me.”

  Caddaric ignored the accusation as he stepped into the house. The door frame was low and he had to stoop to enter. “What are you doing?”

  “Only looking at the house.”

  Blue eyes traveled around the interior before coming to rest on Jilana. “Seeing how we barbarians live?” Caddaric could not help the mocking taunt; the look on Jilana’s face spoke eloquently of her distaste for her surroundings.

  Fighting down the blush that was an answer in itself, Jilana countered, “I was wondering what had happened to the family who lived here.”

  “They left.” Caddaric raised an eyebrow, telling her that the fate of the family was obvious.

  “But where did they go?” Jilana persisted, thinking of the two small pallets in the first bedchamber. “Do they fight with your Queen or against her? They had children; where are they? Are they safe or—”

  “Jilana, stop this.” Caddaric’s voice cut across her questioning with the surety of a knife. He prowled the perimeter of the house, pausing to look inside the bedchambers, and came to a halt in front of her. “They are gone. They loaded their possessions into a wagon, took their horse and cow and drove away. ‘Tis that simple.” He threw her an impatient look and strode from the house.

  Jilana followed slowly, carefully shutting the door behind her. Seeing the courteous action in a world turned upside down, Caddaric shook his head and began drawing water from the well.

  “The house will be burned,” Caddaric informed her when she reached the well.

  Jilana stared at him, horrified. “Why?”

  “The Romans will assume the occupants were rebels and the war host will assume they were Roman sympathizers.” Caddaric shrugged. “Either side will destroy the house in order to teach the owners a lesson in loyalty.” He poured water into one of the three buckets that rested at his feet. “Start filling the barrels.”

  They worked in silence for a long time before Jilana dared a question. “Is your home like this one?” She glanced over her shoulder as she spoke and the breath caught in her throat. Caddaric had removed his tunic. The breeks that clung to his narrow waist and hips served to emphasize the broad wedge of his chest and shoulders. As he hauled on the rope that lowered the pail into the depths the well, his muscles bunched and relaxed beneath the

  bronze flesh. Like an awe-struck mortal in the presence of she forgot the bucket in her hand and admired the sight of him.

  Caddaric laughed harshly. “Nothing so grand. My father and I share a bothie.” He straightened, turned slightly to fill another bucket, and found her looking at him. “What is it?”

  Dazed, Jilana could only shake her head and stumble forward. When Caddaric turned back to the well, she found her voice. “Bothie?”

  “A hut—about the same size as our tent—with a turf roof.”

  “Oh.” Jilana filled the barrel mechanically, unable to drag her eyes away from Caddaric. Praise Juno he did not took at her again! Every time she turned for a full pail of water she could see the tiny beads of perspiration that formed between his shoulders and trickled down his spine to disappear into the waistband of his breeks. She felt hot and cold all at once and her lungs were not functioning properly. She for
ced her eyes away but it brought no relief, for now she could hear his deep, even breathing and catch the faint scent of sandalwood which clung to him. And, worse, she could remember the taste and texture of his skin beneath her lips, the feel of his chest hair as it abraded her breasts.

  “Jilana!”

  Jilana screamed, the bucket she had been holding went flying, and she would have jumped as high as the wagon had Caddaric’s hand not been on her shoulder, holding her firmly to the earth. She looked down and found rivulets of water running around and under her feet, soaking the ground. The rivulets were caused by the steady stream of water from the wagon which was caused, in turn, by the overfilled water barrels. Ahh, gods, you have no mercy at all!

  “Jilana?” This time Caddaric’s voice was softer. He used the pressure on her shoulder to turn her so that she was facing him, puzzled by her labored breathing and the flush that suffused her face. And then he cursed under his breath. “Your feet; I should have remembered how tender they are.” He swept her into his arms and carried her to the back of the wagon where he slipped off her wet sandals.

  “Nay, Caddaric, you need not—” Jilana’s protest ended abruptly when Caddaric caught the calf of her right leg in his hand and raised it to rest on his left thigh so that he could unwrap the bandage.

  “Hold still,” Caddaric ordered when Jilana tried to squirm away.

  Jilana closed her eyes and endured his touch. Endured, she mocked herself. His hands were callused, yet gentle, and she loved the way they felt against her flesh. Inadvertently, her toes curled into the material of his breeks in response to the pure pleasure of his touch.

  Caddaric nearly groaned aloud at the small, kneading motion. How glorious if he could replace her foot with her hand.. .images of her long, tapered fingers splayed against his thigh sent a shaft of desire through his groin and Caddaric nearly bent double under its force. As if in a dream, he lifted her left foot to his right thigh to unbandage it. She had lovely legs, strong but not corded with muscles; and her thighs, revealed by the creeping hem of hex gown, were slender but well-formed. He remembered their strength when they had closed around his waist, drawing him deeper …. A sharp pain sliced into his knee. Astounded, Caddaric looked down and found a link of Jilana’s chain crushed between his knee and the wagon. He had been gradually lowering himself toward her—only the chain had stopped his descent. Straightening, he released her legs. “The day grows short.” His voice was thick with desire, but there was nothing he could do about it. Offering Jilana his hand, he helped her down from the wagon. “The water should be heated by now.”