by Amy Jarecki
Frowning, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend riding to the fort at Newcastle to ask for assistance. I don’t believe they will take kindly to a Roman holy man and I fear for you, my dear. One look at you and they will be casting lots for your favors.”
Valeria cringed. “We must again travel under cover of darkness.”
****
The stabbing pain in his side brought him to consciousness. Taran convulsed with shivers as someone raised his head and poured water in his mouth. Choking, water gurgling, Taran opened his eyes to see Greum with the waterskin in his hand.
“Ye’re alive.”
His voice was parched as sand, but Taran managed to croak out, “Where in the blazes are we, and how long have we been here?”
“We’re safe. Our tracks are covered. Those heathens won’t find us here.”
Taran squinted, surveying his surroundings. They were in a cave. Stag was curled up at his feet, and by the darkness pervading the entrance, it had to be night. Greum had built a smokeless fire and Taran lay on his saddle blanket, his ire turning his shivers to hot fury. “Why have we stopped? I told ye to continue even if I lost me senses.”
“Benumbed ye were, and continue on we did—until the horses near dropped from exertion.”
Taran tried to sit up, but Greum pushed him back down. “How long was I out?”
Greum’s lips grew thin.
“Tell me.”
“ʼTis been a day.”
“A day? Why have ye let me sleep so long?”
“You weren’t exactly sleeping. There was no rousing ye. Ye’re fevered.”
“Bloody pig entrails,” Taran growled, balling his fists. He struggled to sit up. Greum reached over to push him back down, but Taran batted his had away. “I will not be pampered like a helpless lad.”
Greum rocked back on his haunches. “I thought we’d rest until morning. If ye didn’t wake by then I’d lever ye up on yer horse and head off.” He punched Taran in the shoulder. “Ye’re one heavy bastard even if ye are the king.”
Taran scratched his head, which was swimming in a sea of its own. He gingerly plucked the waterskin from Greum’s hands and guzzled.
“Yer wound cut through to muscle. I’ve bound it as best I could. ʼTis angry red, but I think ye’ll live.”
Taran shifted, the irritation with his weakness needling him more than the discomfort of the wound and fever. “Have ye at least caught us some food?”
“ʼTis a good sign. Ye’re cantankerous and hungry.”
Of course Greum had felled a doe and held up skewers of roasted meat.
Taran reached for the venison and tore at it with his teeth. “Ye’re a good man, Greum.”
“Aye. Ye ought to be thanking me for saving yer sorry arse.”
“Ye reckon? What would you have done? Sung Midget a ballad?” Taran crammed another piece of venison into his mouth. “ʼTis me ye should be thanking.”
Greum reached for a skewer. “Bloody ungrateful beast.”
Taran snorted back his retort. “The horses have had a day to rest?”
“Aye.”
“We’ll leave as soon as we’ve et.”
****
Yet again, hunger threatened to consume her. She rubbed a hand over the thin cloth of her dress and felt the protrusion of ribs with no flesh to smooth them. But when the walls of Vindolanda loomed against the moonlit sky, pangs of hunger were replaced by a fluttering of excitement.
Infused with renewed hope, she spurred Mia to a gallop with the bishop close behind.
They pulled up short when an arrow whizzed past her ear. Of course. She should have remembered not to rush in. They’d want to meet with her and the bishop before allowing them entry.
She scanned the charred walls of the fort, in disrepair after being sacked. A myriad of memories overcame her while they waited for the party to ride out to meet them. The last time she’d used the southern entrance to the fort, she’d been in the carriage with Elusius and Pia. Her father had waited with open arms, an embrace she would never feel again. It had also been the first time she’d seen Taran and the first time she had been witness to the ugly face of the Roman Empire.
So many things had changed. What seemed important then had become the frivolous musings of a spoiled girl standing at the door of womanhood. How quickly she’d crossed that threshold once forced. The silly child was gone. Like a butterfly released from its cocoon, a lean, spirited woman now stood in the child’s place.
Two Picts with their faces customarily tattooed in blue rode out to meet them. A sliver of sunlight peeked over the hills to the east giving her enough light to determine Morgon wasn’t one of the pair. A trickle of dread slithered up her spine. Their eyes narrowed, almost menacing.
The bishop steered his mount closer to her. “Let me do the talking.”
The men stared at her like hungry wolves. She lowered her gaze as customary in Rome.
The bishop cleared his throat. Valeria knew he tried not to cough. Doing so would demonstrate his weakness. “I’m escorting my lady to Dunpelder where she has dealings with his highness, Taran, son of Brude, Chief of Gododdin, King of all Picts and the most powerful Votadini Tribe.”
Valeria was impressed the bishop could rattle Taran’s title off his tongue as if he’d repeated it a hundred times.
The men scowled. The larger of the two sized up Elusius, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Why, ye’re a thieving Roman. What is yer business with the king?”
“My lady is under his protection. They recently traveled together looking for me. Once I was found, a band of Roman rogues captured my lady and me, spiriting us away. We managed to flee and have come to Vindolanda to seek assistance from Morgon.”
Valeria found it interesting the bishop used the term band. Only one man had taken them. But the little lie sounded better—it was far more impressive to escape from a band of rogues than a sole lieutenant.
The Pict said nothing and seemed to puzzle over their unlikely story. With his brows knit, he bit his lip while his gaze darted between the pair. Mia sidestepped. The tension in Valeria’s body sent a message of fear to her horse. Valeria discretely inhaled through her nose and relaxed her seat.
“Why would King Taran consider any Roman under his protection?” The smaller guard asked, advancing his mount.
She could no longer hold her tongue. “I saved his life, and he mine. We are bound by the Pict oath of loyalty. I’m to return to Dunpelder to be become a Pict woman, renouncing my allegiance to Rome. It is most urgent we meet with Master Morgon. Can you please take us to him now?”
Squinting, the guard inclined his head toward the fortress and marched them to the principia. Valeria bristled at the unkempt figure, who must have just crawled out of bed to face them. Beneath his bush of eyebrows, Morgon’s eyes flashed with recognition, but he appeared far different from the Pict warrior who had greeted his king. His unfriendly glare had a sinister sneer. Should we have requested an audience in some other way?
Morgon didn’t remove his gaze from Valeria while the bishop repeated their story. His eyes bore through her and she puzzled. If she didn’t already know the man, she’d take him for a calculating predator.
Hearing the bishop’s tale, Morgon ran his fingers through his bed-messed hair while he licked his lips. “Where did you say King Taran is now?”
“The last time we saw him, we were at a roundhouse near Pons Aelius,” the bishop said.
“Word has it your party crossed the wall at Newcastle days ago. The king was not with them.”
Valeria gasped, her eyes shot to Elusius. The swift shake of his head was subtle, but she said nothing.
Morgon drummed his fingers along his jawline. “He could have fallen, but then that would be news not easily hidden—at least not for long.”
She steepled her hands. “Can you grant us escort to Dunpelder? There we can join with the others and discover what has become of the king.”
“Hmm.” Morgon move
d to the sideboard and poured himself a tankard of mead. “I think not. This is war. My men are needed here. Besides, ye might be planning to infiltrate the Pict stronghold to provide intelligence to the backstabbing Romans.”
The bishop chuckled. “An old man and a woman?”
“I’ve seen less sinister informants.”
Valeria’s fists shot to her hips. “You jest, sir. You saw me in Taran’s company. You are fully aware I’m under the king’s protection.”
The bishop stepped forward. “If you are unwilling to provide an escort, perhaps you would be so kind as to allow us to remain under your safeguard until we can arrange other transport.”
Morgon’s gaze raked down Valeria’s body, stopping at her breasts, and then continuing to her waist where it lingered upon her hips.
The bishop placed a protective arm around Valeria’s shoulders. “I am the lady’s escort. From the look in your eye, I can read impure thoughts roiling through your mind.”
Morgon’s tongue again shot out and licked his lips. “Aye. She’s a fine wench. I might be persuaded to reconsider if she’d accompany me back to bed.”
The bishop’s face turned scarlet. “Subdue your insolence, sir. Her breeding is impeccable. You and your men would be wise to remember that. As she said, she has the backing of King Taran. I understand the Pict creed includes honor and loyalty. I pray you live by those words.”
A corner of Morgon’s mouth turned up in a mocking sneer. “I see.” The fingers drummed again. “How can I be sure your word is true?”
“You saw me with the king himself,” Valeria insisted.
“That means nothing. Ye could have slit his throat whilst he slept for all I ken.” Morgon slammed his fist on the table. “You’ll remain here under arrest. Raibert, show them the same hospitality they showed to our very own Taran during his stay at Vindolanda. I’m sure the king will understand our reasoning.”
Raibert clapped his hands. Guards moved in and seized them, weapons drawn. Valeria pulled away. “Please. Help us find King Taran. This is an outrage!”
“Aye, m’lady? ʼTis the gaol or me bed. Which shall it be?”
The guards pulled them away and marched them down the winding steps to the gaol. Never in her life did Valeria think she would be incarcerated in her own father’s prison.
There were no other inhabitants in the depths of the dank and musty dungeon. Locked in an adjoining cell, Elusius reclined against the stone wall, his color paler than usual. Valeria, herself, had fallen into a pit of despair. She was beyond hungry. Her ragged clothes were filthy. Her matted hair could pass for a semblance of Medusa. No wonder Morgon had feasted his eyes upon her as if she were one of the prostitutes who lived outside Houseteads.
How would Taran ever find her? What would Morgon do to her—to the bishop? Just as Elusius had feared, they’d fallen right into the hands of their enemies.
****
Morgon, son of Baird, had reason to detest King Taran. Morgon’s father had been chief of a small tribe from the north. Upon his death, following the royal female line, his mother’s brother succeeded as heir. Because the region of Katica was small without access to a major waterway, there was no place for Morgon to succeed. The best he could hope for was to prove himself a worthy warrior and build his own following. He hated the succession. All leaders should have to prove themselves worthy. To Morgon, birthright meant nothing.
He’d visited Oisean at Dunpelder upon announcement of a gathering, where he learned of the invasion. Of course he stepped forward and volunteered to lead the raid on Houseteads. He’d ridden with the detested Drust so they could save the future heir and king of the Picts from the gallows. To his relief, he was ordered to remain behind and hold the wall.
Morgon sliced a piece of meat from the leg of mutton on the table before him. Chewing thoughtfully, he kept his mind fixed on the seductive body of the woman he’d just sent to the gaol. Though she remained a vision of beauty, he guessed by her haggard appearance, her spirit might be about to break. A week or two of rations in the dank dungeon would be what he needed to ensure she was completely broken. Once she realized her life wasn’t worth a pittance, he’d convince her to side with him and share his bed. He could force her, but then he’d have to kill her. One could never trust a wench filled with hate.
Raibeart, his second in charge, gulped his mead, the froth running down his chin. “What if the king comes searching for the lass?”
“He will, most likely, but he doesn’t need to know she’s here.” Morgon slammed his dirk into the meat. “Make sure the men keep their traps shut—an extra ration of mead for the lot. Anyone who spills their guts will have their throat cut.”
Raibeart laughed, food spewing from his mouth. He wiped a greasy hand across his face. “Ye aim to keep her for yer own?”
Though Raibeart was his most loyal friend, it was too early for Morgon to reveal his hand. “Possibly.”
“She’s a fine wench, but I’d bet she’s more trouble than she’s worth.”
“Aye. ʼTis why she’s been sent to the gaol to ponder her lot in life.”
Morgon suspected Taran had sent his party back to Dunpelder so he could chase after the Roman. But dangers could befall a Pict traveling through Saxon territory. If the king were truly following Valeria, he’d materialize within a week, mayhap two. If he showed, Morgon would be ready.
****
Greum rode beside Taran as they approached Vindolanda. Taran stretched his back and adjusted his seat. He didn’t want Morgon’s men to perceive any weakness. The rocking motion of the saddle put a great deal of strain on his wound. The pain shortened his temper. Greum had ridden alongside him for the past fifteen miles without saying a word.
As expected, an arrow pierced into the ground before them and they stopped their horses to await an escort.
Two sturdy Pict men, Iain and Horas, rode out to greet them. Once Taran revealed his identity, they smothered him with compliant adoration.
He leaned forward in his saddle. “Tell me, have ye seen much action along the wall since it fell?”
Iain had a grin fixed in place and he bobbed his head eagerly. “There wasn’t much left of the Romans after we finished with them. There were a few raids in the beginning, but we’ve not seen a fight for near a month or more.”
“ʼTis good news, but possibly short lived. I’ve had word there’s a Roman legion marching our way. I’ll speak to Morgon about the need for reinforcements.”
Horas held up a brawny arm, flexing his bicep. “We can hold them. The Romans built the wall here because they couldn’t conquer the Picts and they never will.”
“Aye. One Pict has five times the heart of a Roman.”
Arriving at the principia, Taran bowed his head toward the two escorts. “Thank ye, men. Keep an eye on the horizon, and in a year’s time we’ll have a gathering in Dunpelder to celebrate our good fortune.”
Taran and Greum entered the Principia announced by a disagreeable man named Raibert. The welcome they received from the man his uncle had placed in charge was far cooler than that which he received from the subjects outside.
Morgon forgot to bow or even nod. He looked Taran in the eye. “I feared ye were dead when word came yer party had crossed the wall at Newcastle.”
Taran folded his arms and tipped his head back, looking down his nose at the much shorter man. “Ye ken as well as I if I were dead, word would have been spread with haste.”
Morgon’s eyes darted toward the window. “One is never sure.”
“My friend and I were separated from the Roman woman, Valeria. We thought she may have passed through Vindolanda to seek your help.”
“Aye, she was here, poor woman.”
“Did she request an escort to Dunpelder?”
“With her last breath.”
Taran stood stunned, as if the wind had just been knocked out of him. Had he heard right? There had to be some sort of mistake. His hand covered the hilt of Seumas’s sword. “Just exactly
what are ye saying?”
Morgon stepped back. “When we found her, scarcely a soul could understand what she was saying for the wheezing.”
“What wheezing?”
“The poor girl had been exposed to the elements for days. She was out in a devastating thunderstorm, and nature got the best of her. I suspect it was the sweat.”
Valeria dead? Taran couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be true. He’d only just held her in his arms a few days past. She was healthy and spry as a spring lamb.
Every muscle in his body clamped taut. “I want to see the body.”
“Impossible.”
Greum stepped forward. “Oh?”
“We burned it. Couldn’t take a chance on her disease being contagious. My oath, it could have been a plague. She could have infected us all just by coming here.”
Taran’s knees threatened to buckle as he turned and walked to the heavy wooden table and leaned forward, supporting his weight on both hands.
“What of the holy man who traveled with her?” Greum asked.
“Holy man?”
“She had no escort?”
“No. The young lady was alone,” Morgon said in a monotone. “Only Atar knows how she got this far.”
Taran staggered out the door with Greum on his heels. “I’ve failed her.” He pushed Greum away. “Leave me be.”
Overcome with grief, he untied Blackie and spurred him into a frenzied gallop. He wanted to die. He had not been strong enough to protect her. Taran threw back his head and bellowed from the depths of his bowels. Blackie surged forward in the open lea. If only he had not been detained by the Saxons…he could have saved her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thundering hooves echoed through the tiny dungeon window. Valeria jumped up to glimpse what had happened to require such urgency, but at her height, all she could see was the blue sky above with wisps of white sailing by.
Their guard had taken a liking to her. At her request, he’d added chicken to their ration of bread and water. Though she was filled with despair, the food gave her energy and her mind rifled through her options. She still had the dirk bound against her thigh. She didn’t want to kill the guard. He’d been kind, but she may have no other choice.