Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1)

by Amy Jarecki

  “From head to toe before us all, ye shall cleanse yer body of all that is Roman,” Engus roared.

  Morag moved behind her, yanking her hair back with such force, Valeria stumbled. Her hands flew to her crown as Morag held up the knife. “No!”

  “This raven’s hair is the first to go. It bewitched King Taran with one look. Now we will see if yer beauty holds without it.”

  Valeria gritted her teeth, her mind racking, seeking any pure thought. As Morag savagely attacked her tresses, she planted her feet and clenched her fists under her chin. Closing her eyes, she recited in her mind the twenty-third psalm. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…

  When she raised her lashes, her long, black tresses lay at her feet. Morag glared at her with a harrumph and reached for a pot. She scooped a handful of mud clay and plastered it on her head, rubbing it into her scalp. “With the earth of Gododdin we wipe out the filth of Rome.”

  …Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…Valeria harbored no hate for Rome. Hearing Morag refer to her homeland as filth burned her throat. Fingernails cut into her clenched fists.

  The gray mud spilled down to her shoulders and ran in streams along her back and torso. Valeria stared straight ahead.

  “The dye of the woad will tell the nation you forsake all others and ally with the Picts,” Engus said, his arms rising.

  Morag reached for another bowl and faced Valeria. “Lower yer arms.”

  Valeria stared into the woman’s uncaring eyes and let her arms drop away from her body. …thy rod and thy staff comfort me.

  With a smirk, Morag dipped her fingers into the woad. She drew the sign of honor on Valeria’s left arm, the sign of loyalty on her right. Duty and freedom each filled a space on her thighs. Upon her stomach, Morag drew the sign of a sword. “This is to cut out all ties with yer prior life. If ye can.”

  Valeria bristled at Morag’s final words. What more was to come? She stood frozen, humiliated in front of the entire citizenship of Dunpelder, stripped of every earthly possession, clad in her meager undergarments, her beautiful hair gone, her head wrapped in clay mud.

  Morag’s hand filled with liquid woad dye slapped across her left cheek, and then the hag twisted her hand and slapped the right, running her fingers roughly across her cheek to etch in the dye compounding the marks Greum had made the night before. The smug grin on Morag’s face filled Valeria with loathing. The woman enjoyed every moment of her mortification, her shame. When this was over, she’d have her vengeance against this tyrant. She vowed it.

  Morag stepped back and Engus resumed his oration. “Valeria Fullofaudes, ye will be sent to the wood and banished from Dunpelder for a complete cycle of the moon.”

  A shocked gasp erupted from the crowd.

  “No Pict will help nor speak to ye in your isolation.”

  Valeria nodded.

  “Drust will take ye now, for ye must survive with yer wits and yer dirk.”

  “Valeria is too fine a lady to be thrust into the wild like a savage.” Manas’s youthful voice rose above the crowd.

  “Silence!” Engus roared. “It will be done.”

  Regally, Valeria walked down the steps and faced Drust. Painted with Pict symbols, her head dripping with mud, she maintained her poise. Holding her chin level, she clutched his elbow. “Lead on, Master Drust.”

  ****

  Gooseflesh rippled across his skin when Valeria’s cool and collected voice commanded Drust to lead on. How could she withstand so much humiliation without breaking?

  Taran had stood behind the cracked door of his chamber and listened to the charade. It took every ounce of self-control he had in his entire being to remain in the room and bear her taunts. In his mind’s eye, he could see Morag’s self-satisfying sneer as she destroyed Valeria’s dress, butchered off her hair and rubbed her head with mud. Never in his life would he expect this level of embarrassment to befall the woman he loved.

  From her silence, he knew she’d stood and taken her punishment with the heart of a warrior. But he could hardly fathom tiny Valeria outcast for an entire twenty-eight days with nothing but a dirk. She would not even be allowed a blanket for shelter from the night wind? This was an abomination.

  When the scuffle ended, Greum pushed into his chamber, closing the door behind him. “ʼTis worse than anyone thought.”

  “She could die of exposure in three days. The bastards, what were they thinking?”

  “I believe Mistress Morag had something to do with the extent of the test. She openly enjoyed herself. She’s made it clear she has no love for any Roman, no matter how pure their heart.”

  “Mistress Morag best be careful, else she’ll feel the cold steel of me sword.” Taran rubbed his fingers along his hilt.

  “Aye. She’s not fared well in my opinion either.”

  “Go to Pia and ask her to bring me an item of Valeria’s clothing.”

  “Ye have a plan, sire?”

  “The elders decreed Picts cannot help her, but they said nothing of a dog. We’ll put him on her scent then send him off.”

  Greum nodded his head with a smile stretching one corner of his mouth. “Stag could keep her warm at night until she can skin a few deer.”

  “And it could take her a week or more to kill them. I didn’t teach her how to hunt with the dirk, only to defend herself. I don’t believe my lady has any training at all.”

  “Do not worry yourself. With Stag at her side, she’ll learn. Besides, mushrooms and berries will keep her alive for a bit.”

  Taran watched the door slam behind Greum. Mushrooms and berries, indeed—he was well aware they wouldn’t sustain her for a month. Her body was already weak from the journey south. She’d dropped what little weight she had. She was flesh-and-bone with nothing in reserve. Stag would need to help her sniff out food.

  The dog was adept.

  Taran’s thoughts were interrupted by relentless pounding on the door.

  “Come.”

  Bishop Elusius barreled into the chamber, slamming the door behind him, eyes red with rage. “You are aware your wife has just been banished to survive in the wild for the next twenty-eight days?”

  “Aye.”

  “Pardon me, sire? You speak as if this is a daily occurrence. Heavens, you weren’t even in the hall to support her.”

  Taran looked at him through anguished eyes. “ʼTwas forbidden.”

  “Forbidden? And where were you when that woman stripped her in front of everyone? My God, you call yourself a king? Valeria is of royal stock, with only the finest breeding. A woman of her stature would never be asked to stoop so low.”

  Taran hung his head. “ʼTis the only way.”

  The bishop raised an accusing finger. “Her death will be on your hands.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Degraded into insignificance, Valeria stood alone in the wooden cart Drust’s horse pulled down the cobblestone road and out the gates of Dunpelder. She felt like a Christian heading for the Coliseum. All the while, she stared toward the horizon, too humiliated to meet the eyes that gaped at her. The citizens watched in silence. Roars from the tribunal had been quashed when the term of her banishment was announced. Engus’s voice had echoed through the hall followed by an eerie hush. No one expected the test to be so harsh.

  It wasn’t until they entered the secluded wood that Valeria allowed a tear to escape. One drop streamed from her eye and dripped from her chin. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she glanced down. The droplet made a mark just above her exposed bellybutton. It probably cut a stream through the blue woad on her face, but she didn’t care.

  She could scarcely breathe when she thought of being turned out into the wild with nothing but a dirk and her undergarments. Though it was the peak of summer, this was the northern frontier. A chill came in the night.

  She had three urgent needs: food, clothing and shelter. She would set her mind to each one in that order.

  They’d traveled quite some d
istance when Drust pulled the wagon to a halt. He jumped down and pointed east. “There’s a glade through the trees yonder and a stream that runs clear.” He pulled his waterskin off his shoulder and handed it to her. “I’m not to assist ye at all, but I would never leave a living soul in the wild without one of these.”

  “Thank you.” Valeria took the gift and climbed down from the wagon unassisted. She didn’t meet his gaze, mortified and shamed at her appearance.

  “May your God help you, m’lady.”

  Valeria nodded and watched as Drust pulled the wagon round and headed back to Dunpelder. She stood without moving until the sound of the cart crackling through the woods muffled into the chirps of birds and the rustle of leaves above.

  Shivering with the breeze, her heartbeat quickened. Her mouth grew dry with panic. She was completely alone, abandoned. She hadn’t eaten that morning. A wave of hunger churned through her stomach. She circled in place, trying to come up with a plan, but her thoughts froze, fixated on her own ineptitude. She dropped to her knees. Am I completely expendable? Is there no soul on earth who would assist a useless Roman maid? How will I stay alive? An inhuman wail tore a raw stream through Valeria’s throat. I am hideous. How will Taran ever be able to look upon me again?

  She doubled over, tears pouring from her eyes as her weeping echoed across the trees. The stress from the past year welled to the surface of her anguish. The death of her mother, traveling across the Empire to join her father, only to have him slain within weeks of her arrival, had landed her here in the region of barbarians. Now she was an outcast with no idea if she would ever become a Pict. They taunted her, sheared off her most cherished asset and smeared what remained with mud. She curled into a ball, her bleary eyes focusing on the blue markings painted on her thighs. She was a monster.

  Hugging herself, she rocked and sobbed. Her jaw trembled as spittle moistened her lips and chin. Every muscle in her body burned as Valeria ruminated over the raw memory of her humiliation. She wanted to die. She didn’t care about the stream or food or water. She prayed for God to send down a bolt of lightning to strike her dead. How could she survive alone for twenty-eight days? Her hair destroyed, her skin dyed blue—how would Taran ever bear to look upon her again?

  Valeria wept from the bottom of her soul—a gut-wrenching wail. No one could hear. Complete loneliness racked her entire being, forcing her to cry more. No one would help her; she had been discarded. She lost track of time. Anguish and disgrace claimed her senses. She remained curled on the forest floor, her only refuge. She rocked, her arms still tight around her body, her tears flowing without pause.

  At some stage in her wretchedness, sleep came over her, sending her into a dreamless state. In slumber, the warmth of the afternoon sun nurtured her.

  Valeria woke to a warm tongue licking her face. As she roused, the musky stench of dog invaded her senses. Absently, she batted the sloppy tongue away. “Leave me.”

  The licking stopped, but only momentarily. The dog yipped and licked again. Valeria opened her eyes. Her heart flew to her throat. Stag! She reached out her hands and yanked the smelly fur-ball to her chest. “Oh, Staggie boy! You’re here. My God. I am not alone.”

  The dog nuzzled against her with an elated moan, happy to be scratched behind the ears, on the back, everywhere Valeria’s hands caressed him. She ran her hand down his front right and stopped when it hit his pastern. She sat up, inspecting the bandage around his leg. “What happened to you?”

  Carefully she unwound the cloth, expecting to see some horrible gash, but a note tumbled out. With a trembling hand she opened the papyrus. He’d written it in Latin.

  My Dearest Valeria,

  Be strong, for soon we will be reunited. My love for you is more powerful than the fiercest storm, deeper than any sea and wider than the Pict nation.

  With all my love,

  Taran

  Valeria reread his note and kissed it. Though she now had lost everything to become a Pict, he had used her own language to write to her, further proof of the depth of his love and respect. She held it against her breast until her strength returned. Her cause was not hopeless. Though she’d always be from Rome, she would uphold the ways of the Picts but would never lose sight of her own identity.

  She reached out and scratched Stag behind the ears. “We need food, clothing and shelter all before dark.” She glanced at the unwound bandage lying before her. “Now why didn’t Taran wrap a piece of clothing around your leg?”

  Valeria stood and surveyed the clearing. She could gather food and firewood. She’d need a length of rope or two. That’s where she’d start.

  Finding edible tubers and mushrooms proved to be the easy part. Once Valeria had gathered a healthy stack of firewood, she set to lighting it the old-fashioned way. Without a flint, she resorted to the caveman method of rolling a dried twig between her palms. When a spark finally erupted in a puff of smoke, she shoved her face beside the small collection of leaves and blew. Nothing happened. The puff of smoke vanished into the air as if it never existed. Her palms burned and arms ached from the steady friction. She started again, gritting her teeth against the blistering pain.

  After what seemed like an eon of rolling the twig, another puff of smoke billowed from her pile. Valeria crumpled dried leaves over it, blowing gently. She laughed out loud when the flicker of a flame leaped from the leaves. She broke clumps of tiny twigs and stacked them vertically to ensure she would not snuff out the budding fire.

  With the sun rapidly diving to the western horizon, she used her dirk to cut clumps of cattails. She arranged boulders, creating a bowl of water in the creek. She soaked the cattails and stripped the bark from a half-dozen green willow branches, reserving the moist green-yellow center.

  Though the day was warm, she kept the fire burning. A glance at the ragged blisters on her palms assured her she didn’t want to start another fire any time soon. Stag wandered off while she worked the stripped twigs into tight braids, making a rope. The grumble of her stomach and lightheadedness warned she’d not be able to live on tubers and dandelion leaves for long. To maintain her strength, she needed meat.

  She uncorked the waterskin and drank. Tenderly, she made her way around the perimeter of the glade. Twigs cut into her feet. How long would it take to form callouses so walking barefoot would not cause so much pain?

  The sky had nearly lost its light when Stag bounded back into the clearing. He dropped a rabbit at Valeria’s feet and nudged it toward her with his nose. “Is that for me?” He wagged his tail and spun in a circle.

  Valeria rewarded the dog with a pat on the head and a warm hug around the neck. She made quick work of skinning it and thanked God Elusius had shown her how to make a spit. Soon she was twirling the rabbit over the fire with Stag drooling beside her.

  “You like your meat cooked too, do you not, boy?”

  Darkness shrouded the glade when she pulled their dinner off the spit. She cut away half and tossed it to Stag. He demolished it with a gulp. Valeria turned her back and devoured her half. She ripped away the delicious flesh with her teeth, unwilling to share more with the dog.

  Together they rested beside the fire and Valeria inspected her bleeding and cracked feet. The rabbit skin would come in handy, but would only cover one foot. Tomorrow she’d set a snare with the rope she’d made—possibly catch a rabbit or something bigger.

  At the moment, with her belly full and her emotions spent, she backed against the dog and gathered the surrounding leaves in a pile for her head. The fire stacked with wood, Valeria slept as the chill of the night air encapsulated her body, except for the part nestled against the warm and faithful dog.

  ****

  The gift from Stag didn’t last, and after three days, Valeria seriously thought she was going to die. She’d lost control of her wits due to hunger and her fingers shook while she braided twig pulp for yet another rope. She’d set three snares, switching the rabbit skin to whichever foot hurt the most. She checked her traps seve
ral times per day. With each pass, the snares remained as empty as her stomach. Even Stag’s hunting efforts had been for naught and Valeria wondered if the dog would leave and return to Dunpelder for a meal.

  When a week had passed, Valeria stopped hunting. Too weak to move, she lay on the mat she’d woven from cattails. Stag rested beside her, and though she figured he must be finding sustenance on his frequent romps, he hadn’t caught anything large enough to share.

  Valeria closed her eyes. If God intended to take her, she prayed for him to act swiftly, for the agony of hunger was too much to bear. All she could think of was food, piles of it spread along the huge dining table in the great hall. Her mouth watered at the memory of roast lamb with onions and cabbage. What she wouldn’t do for a piece of cheese right now. Crabapples had to be in season. Pity there were none nearby.

  At first she thought she imagined it in her semi-conscious state, but when Stag sprang to his feet and barked, Valeria pushed herself up and looked toward the trap she’d set by the creek. Though the foliage of the forest concealed it, she sensed something there. She crept to the edge of the glade, slowly pulling aside the brush. She gasped.

  With a wave of energy, Valeria snatched her dirk from the binding on her leg. A black boar squealed, trapped by its leg. Lunging forward, she swiftly sliced the blade across its neck.

  Her mouth watered. “Stag. We shall eat for days.”

  Valeria dragged the pig to the fire, careful not to damage the rope she’d toiled to braid. She would need it again.

  After a meal of spit-roasted pork, Valeria used the fat to scrub the blue woad staining her skin and what remained of the clumped clay from her hair. She held out her arms and inspected the stains from the Pict markings Morag had made. They faded a bit with washing, but it would be a long time before the blue tint was completely gone. Valeria’s heart swelled with an unusual sense of pride while she traced her finger over the patterns of honor, loyalty, duty and freedom. They were symbols representing her reason for being there, icons of what she’d sacrificed. She bore the markings of a Pict—anyone who found her now would identify her as such.