by Amy Jarecki
The men roared with laughter, jutting their swords into the air, calling Midget’s name. The knot in Taran’s gut told him he’d prefer not to meet the oaf.
The Saxon motioned for silence, his black eyes meeting Taran’s. “You’ll fight to the death. If you lose, well…” He scratched his beard with dirty fingernails, raindrops showering his breastplate. “…you’ll be dead, and we’ll kill your scrawny friend. If you win, we’ll give you a head start before my men make sport of gutting you.”
With an unwashed face and a missing tooth, a dirty cur cackled. He lurched forward and snatched Blackie’s reins. Taran dismounted and the man wrapped his gnarled fingers around Taran’s bicep and squeezed. “This will be good sport indeed.” He turned to his kinsmen, raising his voice. “The Pict’s a fighter. He might last long enough for a contest worth watching.”
Taran jerked his arm away and snarled at the wretch. The idiot skittered backward while the men around him stepped in with taunts and challenges. Taran snatched Blackie’s reins from the toothless weasel. Handing them to Greum, he growled under his breath, “Be ready. The lad’s the weakest link.”
Jaw set, Greum nodded once but kept his eyes on Taran. Looking toward the young boy would give away their plan, pathetic as it was.
A tremor in the earth reverberated up through Taran’s legs. At first, he thought lightning struck the ground. He whipped around and caught sight of Midget. From the ravings of the men, Taran had guessed Midget was big, but this was an ogre of inhuman proportions. The shaggy giant stood at least twenty-one hands compared to Taran’s eighteen—a full Roman foot taller.
The bull-headed brute roared with laughter, beating his chest as he marched through the rain into the circle. His trunk as broad as Blackie’s, he wore a pilfered Roman breastplate held in place with straps of leather. About the only thing the armor protected was the giant’s heart. His tunic stretched with each stride of his tree-trunk legs, and Taran appraised his quarry with dread. If the match was a duel of brute strength, he was as good as dead.
Taran grasped his sword with both hands, facing him. With each step, Midget’s feet sucked up mud as his massive arm reached across his body and extracted his sword from its scabbard. With a sinister scowl, baring his yellow teeth, the giant hurled forward without pause, wielding his sword down with a force that whizzed through the air like the crack of a bullwhip.
Taran darted aside, drawing the brute away from Blackie. Midget pivoted after him with lightning speed. Taran miscalculated the big man’s quickness, assuming his bulk would slow him down. Taran whipped around to face him. Met by a downward blow, Taran could only lob out with his sword to deflect a mortal injury. The tip of Midget’s sword sliced through his side. Hot blood gushed from the wound.
The crowd roared with laughter.
“Give us a real fight, Pict.”
“You’re not long for this world.”
“Your hair of fire will send you straight to the bowels of hell.”
Taran stumbled backward, regaining his stance. Midget didn’t let up, but charged in, brandishing his sword over his head. Raising his blade, Taran deflected the blow. The strength of the downward motion knocked the weapon from Taran’s hand.
He caught the deadly glint in the Saxon’s eye as he dove through the mud for it. Midget moved in. Taran hurled his body at the giant who stood as solid as an ancient oak. Midget crashed the hilt of his sword into Taran’s shoulder. Sharp pain vibrated down his spine, but Taran held his grasp. He drew his knee up and slammed it into the only soft spot on the ogre’s body.
Midget wailed in pain, doubling over, grabbing his crotch.
Taran dove for his blade and spun around, kicking the sword out of Midget’s hand. The force of his kick sent Taran sliding through the mud. Fighting to keep his feet under him, he pushed against the momentum and faced his foe, legs now planted solidly beneath.
Midget recovered his sword and rocketed forward, his weapon leveled with Taran’s heart. Taran sucked in a wail and paused, eyes boring through his target. Time stopped. He could not misjudge. Midget’s assault would be fatal if the giant connected. Just as the big man’s sword came within a hand’s breadth of Taran’s chest, the Pict King dropped to his knees and thrust his blade up between Midget’s arms. Taran’s plunged under the beast’s breastplate. Embedding it deep, Taran cut though cartilage and reached his mark.
Midget’s body barreled forward with the momentum of his attack. Taran ducked under him, clinging to his sword with every ounce of strength in his arms. Taran didn’t look back to see if the brute was dead. His instincts told him to run. Now.
His legs fought the mud as he spotted Greum. Taran leapt onto Blackie and Greum led the way, bounding toward the unsuspecting youth. Taran saw the boy dive to the side as Blackie took a leap and cleared the circle.
The horses bounded northward. Trees slapped at Taran’s face while the stinging rain pelted through him. “Stag,” he roared, aware the dog was probably already on his heels.
They weren’t out of this yet. Thundering of hoof beats clamored behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Valeria led Elusius up the slope of a craggy hill to a fissure. A large shelf protruded above, far enough for them to gain shelter from the driving rain. With the moist air, the bishop’s cough returned as they huddled together.
Sheets of rain cascaded down from the shelf like a waterfall—would it never end? Her clothes soaked through, she shivered, wishing she could snuggle into Taran’s warm body. The Pict king had enough internal heat to warm an entire room.
From their vantage point, Valeria could see for miles. All that lay ahead was the wilderness of the reaches of the Roman frontier, and though Elusius was at her side, she felt alone. The last time she’d eaten, they’d been at Una’s roundhouse. Her stomach growled, punishing her for thinking of food.
She doubted Elusius knew anything about sustaining oneself in the wild. “I’m starved,” she said.
“As soon as this rain lets up we can hunt for food. There are likely to be mushrooms nearby.”
“I could eat a whole chicken by myself.”
“We could set a snare and catch a rabbit.”
She arched her eyebrows. “You know how to make a snare?”
The bishop smiled. “I’ve not always been old, nor have I always been a priest. I grew up on a farm. Give me a leather thong and I shall trap you a rabbit.”
The rain began to ease and Valeria used her dirk to cut a slim piece of leather from one of Mia’s reins. She followed the bishop into the woods and watched him work. He drove three sticks into the ground and pulled down a sapling he tied to a stick-trigger. On the floor of the trap, he made a circle with the thong, the end fitting through a loop he fashioned with a slipknot. He took a moderately thick branch in his hand and gave Valeria a wink. “Let us see if it works.”
To test his trap, he reached in and tapped the stick trigger. The sapling snapped up and the thong tightened around his branch, just as it would around its prey.
Valeria clasped her hands together. “ʼTis unbelievable.”
“Did you doubt me?”
He reset the snare and piled some fresh grass in the center of the loop. “Let us see what food we can gather while we wait.”
It didn’t take much foraging to find good mushrooms and dandelion leaves. Valeria happened upon a patch of wild strawberries and dropped to her knees, shoving the little berries in her mouth as fast as she could pick them. Her saliva gushed from the sweet tartness and she wiped her chin with her sleeve. How mortified her mother would have been to see her cramming her mouth like a savage.
Her dress had once been light beige, but now was a muddy brown. She looked filthier than a street urchin in Rome. Even the peasant women in Britannia wore finer garments than the rags that presently draped her body. She bent her head toward her shoulder and sniffed. Coughing at her own pungent odor, she sincerely hoped the baths at Vindolanda were still in working order.
The sun had begun to peek through the clouds. Momentarily satiated on strawberries and mushrooms, Valeria strolled through the wood, finding a swollen brook. She removed her slippers and hiked up her skirts. Stepping into the ice-cold water, she pivoted in a circle. She was completely alone.
She couldn’t resist the temptation to remove her still-damp dress and crouch into the water. First she used the garment to scrub her own flesh as best she could. She rinsed her tangled hair, running her fingers through the knots to free them. Without a comb, she imagined she must look like a haggard witch, hardly a sight Taran would find pleasing.
As she scrubbed her dress against a rock, the memory of Taran’s naked body beside the pond came flooding back. She felt a tightening low in her belly. The feeling was familiar now. She knew it was longing.
If only she’d known about the rite to become a Pict before they’d left Dunpelder, she wouldn’t be in this situation. She wouldn’t have killed Quintus. She might even be a Pict by now, spending her nights in Taran’s bed. The picture of his beautiful naked body had burned an image on her soul, creating an unquenchable deep desire. Her thoughts of him were so blissful and pure, they could never be sinful.
The idea of being in his bed ripped through her like a river churning over massive boulders, heading for a long cascade of a waterfall. She pressed her hands against her lower midsection in an attempt to quell the wildfire raging within.
She wanted Taran so badly it was torture to think of him. That she might be able to pass their test and become a Pict gave her hope. But at the same time, the anticipation of possible failure and humiliation made it difficult for her to breathe.
What if the Votadini Tribe made a spectacle out of her ineptitude and banished her from Gododdin? What then? She could not allow herself to think of it.
Valeria stepped out of the stream and wrapped her arms around her body, shivering. She hated the lack of control she had when her thoughts turned to Taran. Her longing was like a disease that possessed her. Could she lie with him before the Elders decided to send her back to Rome? That experience would leave her with a memory of a lifetime, but would strip her of the only bargaining chip for her future survival. My heavens, if only I had been born in another time and place, my thoughts would not stray so.
Valeria pulled her wet dress over her head and napped in the sun. Sometime later, a cough from the bishop woke her, and she found him cooking a rabbit on a makeshift spit over a fire. “It worked?”
“You doubted me?”
“Of course not.” Valeria inhaled the smell of roasted meat and her mouth watered. “I’m starving.”
“ʼTis nearly ready.” Elusius lifted the stick that impaled the rabbit from the two supporting branches he used to hold it. Pulling on a leg, he determined it was sufficiently cooked and let it cool on a bed of oak leaves.
Unable to wait, Valeria yanked off a leg and shoved it in her mouth as she skinned the flesh with her teeth in a single motion.
“Hardly ladylike, my dear.” Elusius tore pieces off the breast with his fingers and delicately slipped the meat in his mouth.
“I guess starvation will turn a lady into a savage.”
“You must never forget your breeding. There is no need to act like a barbarian, even when you are famished in the wild.”
Valeria pursed her lips and daintily tore off a piece of rabbit breast. “Forgive my moment of regression. I shall endeavor to ensure it does not happen again.”
Shoving food in her mouth like an uncivilized vagrant would take her nowhere. In her observation, Taran’s Aunt Betha had always acted like a lady. She sat regally beside her husband and beside Taran after Oisean’s death. She was a woman bred to be queen. Valeria had such breeding, if not to be queen, to be a lady of court. She would show Elusius and everyone else she was poised, reticent as well as benevolent. She would have included pious in her list of attributes, but piety was not a concern to the Picts.
“Once we’ve eaten, we should keep going, travel by night.” Valeria tossed a leg bone into the fire. “ʼTis what the Picts do when they are in enemy territory.”
The bishop held his hand to his mouth catching a deep, gurgling cough. “Do you think it wise? We’ve already lost our path.”
“Traveling at night is far safer than by day. Besides, if we continue north, we’ll reach Hadrian’s Wall. It cannot be far.”
****
Greum pulled up his gelding and circled back along the trail. “We’ve lost them.”
Taran leaned heavily on Blackie’s neck. “I wouldn’t be so sure. ʼTis likely the savage bastards will track us all the way to Gododdin.”
“I doubt it. I’d be heading for home and a hot meal in this deluge.”
“Aye, but I killed their prize bull. They’ll be wanting blood.” Taran strained to raise his face to the liquid sky. “ʼTis easing. We’re through the worst of it.”
Greum looked at him for the first time. “Taran. Are ye hurt? Yer face is ghostly white.”
Taran nodded and reached his hand to his side. He pulled it out and examined the color of the blood. His head felt light, and from the blood that soaked Blackie’s side, he’d been bleeding heavily. “Left them a ripe trail, I did.”
“The rain should take care of most of it. ʼTis red. That’s a good sign. Yer vitals should still be intact.”
“We’ve no time to fuss over a flesh wound.”
Taran pushed Blackie forward, knowing full well the gash in his side was no minor wound. The bleeding was good, it would cleanse the laceration. If it became putrid, he’d eventually succumb to the fever—a death far worse than being run through.
He gritted his teeth. They needed to find Valeria before something like this happened, but he wouldn’t let a wound slow him down. Blast the Saxons and blast their bleating sport. Running into Midget’s band of hoodlums was exactly why he chose to remain north of the wall. The Saxons, the Gaels, and the Attacotti were all a bunch of savage scoundrels, and he had no tolerance for the lot of them. He thanked his good fortune he hadn’t chanced upon an Anglo from the south and west of Britannia. He’d heard they were every bit as wretched as the Saxons.
Taran’s vision blurred. He blinked his eyes to no avail. Without warning, his stomach heaved. Reflexively he leaned out while bile purged from his guts. Reaching for his waterskin, he gulped back his sickness.
“Ye want to stop?” Greum asked.
“Keep going,” he groused. “Tie me to me horse if ye have to.” Taran’s head weaved in and out of consciousness, rousing him when he tipped forward. Gritting his teeth, he fought to stay alert. As they rode on, Taran slouched lower in the saddle until he rested on Blackie’s neck. Wrapping his arms around the steadfast beast, he let him lead while he closed his eyes. Blackness permeated his world.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Before dawn, Valeria and the bishop came upon a Roman road. Cobbled with flagstone, it looked similar to the roads their century had traveled from Londontown to Vindolanda. Afraid the horses’ shod hooves would make a racket on the cobblestone, they agreed to double back into the wood and sleep.
Valeria took a moment to retrace their trail and used a branch to cover their tracks just as she’d seen Greum do during their travels. Her stomach growled for food again. But this was no time to set traps and it was too dark to gather. She prayed sleep would come quickly and take away her hunger.
Fortunately, she did doze.
It was afternoon when she woke. The bishop had already lit a fire. He’d again fashioned a spit, and sat twirling a skinned rabbit as he intermittently coughed.
“That smells delicious.”
He pointed through the trees “There’s a rabbit warren about twenty paces through the wood. I didn’t even have to set a trap, just shoved my hand into the hole. But the varmint bit me.” He looked at his finger and shoved it in his mouth, sucking away the pain.
Valeria crawled over to him and held out her hand. “Here, let me look at it.”
He slowly opened
his palm with a grimace.
“I wish we had a kettle. I’d boil some raspberry leaves and make a salve.”
He coughed and resumed spinning the rabbit. “No matter. It will heal in a day or two.”
“I’m worried about your cough. I think you might be becoming sick again.”
“This damp air doesn’t agree with me.”
“Sleeping on a soggy bed of moss cannot be helping either.” She reached out and brushed his cheek. “If we can send a messenger to Taran, we might consider spending a few days in Vindolanda. We could sleep in what remains of the house. It would at least be dry.”
He patted her hand with a knowing smile. “If we are not murdered, you might have a good idea.”
“I think they’ll remember me. Taran met with a man named Morgon, their leader. I aim to ask him for an escort to Gododdin.”
“Good thinking. The longer we spend in the wild, the more likely we’ll be discovered by thieves. Of course I’d fight for you, but I’m old. I no longer have the strength of a warrior.”
“You were a warrior?”
“No, child. But as a young man, I learned to defend myself with a sword, and the years of pitching hay built me strong, just as it would any other man.”
After eating, they traveled up the Roman road, watching for signs of human life, especially potential hostiles. The sun was setting when they came to the vallum—the defensive trench dug by the legions, which ran along the Hadrian’s Wall. Sometimes it butted right up against it, but would strategically detour up to a mile in other sections, depending on the best military strategy for defense against possible civil uprising.
Elusius trotted ahead to a milepost. “Newcastle, one mile,” he wheezed.
Valeria pulled back on Mia’s reins feeling her head start to pound. “Newcastle? Vindolanda is a long day’s ride to the west.”