Boadicea's Legacy

by Traci E Hall

  “You try my patience, my lady,” Os said stiffly.

  She held up a hand and walked past the earl down the stairs to find some cheese. Emotional affairs such as these were beginning to make her hungry.

  “Are you going after her?”

  “Nay. I am going hunting.” Os reigned in his temper and turned it to cold steel. Hard, unyielding, and deadly.

  “Wait. Now that we are certain who our man is, we can set a trap.”

  “If I was that twisted son of a bitch de Havel, I’d want to come and get what was mine. He wanted us to think that he was going to France, and he paid that little weasel from London to come and lie. Sick, but not a bad plan. He wants us to have our guard down. Warin will run to him, wherever he is hiding, and warn him that we know of his plan.”

  “My men are here, under your command. What would you have them do?”

  Os rubbed the furrow between his brows, which grew deeper every day. Having a wife was stressful. Having a pregnant wife upped the stress by three—or would that be four? He shook his head. He and the earl formulated a plan.

  “Do the cooking, make sure there is plenty of ale for my men—my men. What am I? A goat?” Ela tromped across the kitchen hall, looking up into the open night sky. She stopped, exhaled, and tried to find a reasonable bone in her body that she could perhaps use to hit Os over the head.

  There was no reasoning with a man of logic. Not when his wife and home were under threat of attack. Her body buzzed with apprehension. She could feel energy come from the mound below the keep. It kept her teeth on edge.

  What would her sisters do in such a situation? Better yet, what would Ana have done?

  It comes down to the cursed spear.

  She shook her head, thinking of all the things a spear could be disguised as. It could be anything from a bed rail to a walking staff. It was an iron stick, for pity’s sake. Bowing her head, she sent a prayer to St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes, that she could find the spear before her enemies. Britain’s enemies. Boadicea kept telling her she had it, but didn’t say where.

  That wasn’t very helpful at all.

  You believe in your power? The power that you were going to throw away on a worthless man who is even now scaling the walls of the palisade?

  Boadicea?

  Tell me I am not very helpful—pah. You are dense, girl. MY Ana would never have taken so long to do what I told her to do.

  Hey.

  Ela crossed her arms and scrunched her brow. Then she started running for her husband. “Osbert! Os—” She bumped into St. Germaine. He caught her around the arms.

  “I was looking for you.” His voice was stern.

  Warin had said he was looking for her. Was St. Germaine in league with de Havel too? She couldn’t trust anybody. She backed up, then ran around St. Germaine’s large body. “Osbert! Thomas is here, at the keep—coming over the palisades.”

  He turned to look at her from up high where he was mounted on Bartholomew’s back. She wondered if he would listen to her. Then he shouted for his men, organizing them to cover the palisades with their arrows. She ran to his stirrup with relief. “I’m willful, and I don’t always remember that I am a lady wife.”

  “And I forget that I am a husband—a lord now, who needs to remember to ask, mayhap, instead of order.”

  She blinked away tears. “Be careful, Os. Come back to me.”

  “Now who is worrying overmuch? This is what I do.” He kicked at Bartholomew, who lunged across the dirt toward the knights lined up in a row. “Go to your room,” he said over his shoulder.

  She bristled, but then remembered that it wouldn’t hurt her to do as he asked—every once in a while. Besides, she would collect all the extra knives for weapons. She could throw from her window, if she had to.

  Filled with purpose, she soon had a basket filled with throwing utensils. She opened the door to her room. Which was empty, thank all the saints. She went inside, lit more candles, and stared out the window at the scene below.

  Her blood sang. She longed to be a part of defending her home and her husband. It was in her ancestral history to be in the battle alongside her man. She tapped her toe.

  Thomas de Havel’s men were many. Paid mercenaries. She shivered, remembering what Os had said they would do if men like that caught her. Rape and plunder was part of their price.

  She grabbed her favorite knife and balanced the hilt in her hand. Whoever thought to touch her would die.

  Where was Osbert? She lost sight of him, his blond hair a halo in the darkening night.

  Suddenly there were small fires everywhere. Thomas was using fire arrows! Ela couldn’t just sit back and watch from her ivory tower like a princess without a brain. She hefted her knife. Without a weapon.

  A flaming arrow landed at her windowsill, and the roof smoldered. She glanced around for anything to put the fire out with. Her bed linens were too fine and would catch fire. Her tapestry. Thick cloth.

  No.

  Her new home, or the legend that she could keep passing down? Tears filled her throat as smoke curled beneath the window frame.

  Her home. Osbert’s home. Her children’s home. “Forgive me, Gram.”

  She yanked the tapestry off the wall, but it wouldn’t come. The painted rod was set in half rings attached to the wall. She pulled harder. The tapestry was sewn around the rod, and it wouldn’t come down. Smoke filled the room.

  Ela climbed on her bed and reached over to slice the tapestry from the rod. Who knew how old this tapestry was? The yarn wrapped around the rod was practically solid. Stiff with age.

  The rod.

  She started to laugh.

  A body crashed through her window, breaking expensive glass. It wasn’t Osbert, she could tell right away. It was de Havel.

  He grinned, bleeding from a head wound. “My lady Ela.” “I want a bedroom without a window.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  You are mine,” he said, his pinched mouth cruel, his narrowed eyes desperate.

  “I am married now to Osbert. What do you want?”

  “You’ll be a widow soon, if all goes well. My half brother hired some of my own mercenaries to be your knights.”

  Betrayal. She had to warn Osbert—or trust that he already knew.

  She jumped down from the bed as if his words didn’t affect her. “Help me get this tapestry, I would try and save it from the fire.”

  He walked over and used his sword to slash through the center of it. “You don’t need a tapestry, my lady. I’ll lay claim to you on your own feather mattress.”

  Ela, on guard for such a move, had her dagger out and pointed at his throat. “You forget I am not a wilting violet.”

  Using his sword, he pushed the dagger away and lunged for her, so that he was straddling her on her own bed. “‘Tis what I like best about you.” He leaned down and licked her cheek. “You are unusual. Like me.”

  She shoved him off, and he fell to the floor. “I am nothing like you.”

  “You’re strong,” he grinned.

  She stood on the bed, determined to reach the rod, or she knew then and there that she would die. Never would she let him rape her. Boadicea wouldn’t allow it.

  “You are weak,” she said, reaching out for the rod, balancing carefully on the edge of her bed frame. Her fingers barely brushed the cool metal.

  “Wench.” His teasing tone disappeared. “My mother was like you. A bitch in heat. Panting after men for their money and land. I see you married the one that could get it to you?”

  Ela used the tips of her fingers to push and—she got it, just as she slipped, bouncing off the mattress.

  Thomas caught her by her hair.

  “Let go. You said you didn’t want me.” She clenched her jaw and tightened her grip on the six-foot rod.

  “That was before I knew about your special healing abilities.” He yanked her head back, exposing her throat. “Heal me.”

  Ela blinked. Was that w
hat he had wanted all along? She remembered the old man saying how Thomas knew he was depraved. Did it go further than just his desire for male flesh? She softened her voice, unable to ignore anybody’s personal pain. “I can’t heal you. You are soul sick. A sickness in the spirit. If it was only your body, I could do it. I would do it.”

  His face hardened, and he yanked a lock of hair from her head. “Liar! What good are you to me then? Warin taunts me, King John doubts me—aye, but if I had the spear I could show them both. I could kill Arthur. I could take the throne!”

  Ela’s eyes watered as he stared at her, his revulsion for her sex clear in his clouded gaze.

  “Give me the spear, and I will make you my queen.”

  “There is no cure for being a sodomizing bastard,” Ela shouted, her spirit bruised at being so close to malevolent evil. “I would rather die than see you on the throne!”

  Ela took advantage of his momentary confusion by hitting him in the face with the blunted end of the rod. She then leapt through the smoke, hoping to find the broken window. Her flesh caught on a jagged edge of glass, but she made it through—with the spear.

  The roof was on fire. She stood, searching the scene below. Men screamed, and she saw Os fighting valiantly, side by side with the earl, who was holding his arm close to his chest as if injured.

  They couldn’t lose.

  Not to paid mercenaries. And on behalf of a scheme that would have Britain become one with France.

  She ran to the edge of the roof and jumped, landing on her feet like a cat. The energy from the rod flowed through her body, and she felt filled with ancient power.

  Tossing her head back, she raised the spear and mimicked Boadicea’s battle cry.

  Os’s head jerked up, and his mouth opened in shock.

  She wondered what he saw.

  “To me, to me!” she yelled.

  What was left of the Edyvean knights—the real ones—and the earl’s men gathered around her, fighting the enemy back. Some of the men lifted her to the top of the blacksmith’s shed. She waved the spear. “Fear not, for I’ve Andraste’s spear.” The men cheered, answering an ancient call. “Kill the mercenaries, take their plunder.”

  She stumbled as a flaming arrow almost caught her in the belly.

  The spear slipped from her fingers and slid down the roof.

  Thomas de Havel was running for it, understanding and fury on his face.

  Os flew from Bartholomew’s back to catch the spear before it hit the ground. Ela’s breath caught in her throat as he held it up to the cheers of his men.

  What would he do?

  They met each other’s gazes, each finally understanding why they’d failed so many times before. He was a warrior trained to protect—he had to have faith and accept her status as a woman born to lead.

  He turned and handed the spear up to her with a short bow. “Lead us, my lady. We will follow.”

  Ela took the spear, and the power flowed through her body. She was Ana, she was Boadicea, she was Andraste. Shaking the spear, she ran off the edge of the roof to the ground, where she landed like an acrobat. The negative energy dissipated beneath the onslaught of her power; the very magic within the earth rose up to overwhelm the enemy.

  Though the mercenaries outnumbered the knights, the knights won with not another injury to be had. Celebrating the victory, she turned to find Osbert. Antonias.

  Thomas, the coward, was running from behind a wagon to stab her husband, her eternal love, in the back. “Nay!”

  Osbert turned at her loud shout, then he shot an arrow in her direction at the same time that she lobbed Andraste’s spear, aiming directly for de Havel’s heart.

  And the instant she was without the magic of the spear, Warin stabbed her in the back of the neck.

  Thunder and lightning played across the sky, and she felt her life force ebb into the earth. She sank down. Floating. Os knelt over her, rain gathering in his stormy eyes. “I never meant to bring you to tears.” She reached up to smooth his bloodied face. “I will come back again.”

  “Nay. This is our last time,” he said. “You can’t leave me.” He scooped her into his arms and rocked her. She thought she saw the old man who’d been in their keep flash his pure light from behind Osbert. Next to him towered the giant woman warrior who had been her mother once.

  I don’t want to die. I want Osbert to be happy. He has to meet our children.

  You found the spear. Now hide it again. Remake the tapestry.

  Does that mean I can live?

  You are a whiner. My Ana was never a whiner.

  And I get to keep my powers?

  Oh, so now suddenly you appreciate them.

  I am sorry, Boadicea. Sorry that I didn’t trust in your protection.

  Was that sincere?

  Aye. Are you going to rest now?

  There is no rest for me. And no rest for you either. I give you this life, and you must find Diyani’s children. They are lost to me.

  How did I get to be so lucky?

  Watch it …

  Sorry.

  Diyani went to the marshland. She gave me a burial to be proud of. And then she disappeared. Find her kin.

  Ela gasped at the pain of living, then choked on the raindrops falling in her face. “Os, Osbert. Stop shaking me, I feel nauseated.”

  He dropped her to the mud. “Ela?”

  “Aye—could you be more gentle please? I have a knife wound, here. I think I’m bleeding … a lot. Get Bertha to boil water. Do you have the spear, er, rod?”

  “Rod?”

  She whispered into his ear. “My tapestry was sewn to it. How could I know?”

  He threw back his head. He didn’t laugh, and he didn’t howl, which Ela took as a good sign. “I surrender to the whims of fate. I cannot understand you, but I love you. It has to be enough.”

  “My lady,” St. Germaine said loudly. “‘Tis dripping wet, and ye’re bleeding like a stuck pig. Mayhap we can move inside, where it isn’t raining?”

  “The rain’s a miracle,” the earl said. “It will put out the fires de Havel started. Perverted arsonist.”

  “He’s dead now. Good shot, my lady.” Albric led the way to the keep. Bertha’s scullion maid stood at the kitchen door with towels, and when those ran out, bed linens for people to dry off with.

  “I killed him?” Ela leaned into Os as her heart skipped. “I am a healer.”

  “You saved my life. That spear throw was surreal.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling again the sting of Warin’s blade. “And you saved my life too … excellent aim, Husband.”

  “An equal partnership.” He kissed her nose and held her close. “You won’t die on me?”

  Already the blood was slowing. “Nay. I am a fast healer, remember. But your questing days are not quite over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Boadicea needs our family to find Diyani’s children.” “Well … damn it then. Are you up for an adventure?” “Not at the moment. Don’t forget about the babies.”

  “As if I could.”

  “We could bring them with us. Better yet, we can send my brothers.” She paused, her spirit heavy. “Osbert?”

  “Yea?”

  “I am sorry for each time I was angry at you for protecting me. ‘Tis your nature to be a hero, and … I’m sorry.” She reached for his face, cupping his hard jaw in her hand. “I forgive you. For choosing my life and our love over Britain’s fate. I was the one who wouldn’t let you forget your Roman birth. I used my pride to exclude you. Can you forgive me for that?”

  He closed his eyes, and she wondered if he would refuse her. When he opened them again, she saw all the love he had for her in his blue-gray orbs. He kissed her then for all he was worth, and the royal blue shimmer of his aura exploded in color around his body. “We made it,” she said with a slow smile.

  “How do you know?”

  “I see your aura.”

  “What color am I?”

  “Royal b
lue, my lover. Noble, loving, honorable. A perfect complement to my silver.”

  They shared another kiss, one destined to last through eternity.

  One More Moment

  Check it out! There is a new section on the Medallion Press Web site called “One More Moment.” Have you ever gotten to the end of a book and just been crushed that it’s over? Aching to know if the star-crossed lovers ever got married? Had kids? With this new section of our Web site, you won’t have to wonder anymore! “One More Moment” provides an extension of your favorite book so you can discover what happens after the story.

  medallionpress.com

  A special presentation of Theater of Illusion

  by Kathy Steffen

  Prologue

  September 18, 1900

  The Spirit of the River, Premier Riverboat on the Ohio River

  Jared’s eyes locked on his sinning, betraying wife. She stood on the deck of the riverboat, hands fisted around the handle of a skillet, knuckles white. She didn’t have the grit to swing it.

  Emma Perkins was not a woman of courage.

  She didn’t even possess the backbone to be a decent kind of wife, never mind raise his children. He’d been forced to take them from her. He had no choice. She coddled them, made their lives easy, filled their heads with foolishness from books. Taught them to read and draw and sing. Why, his son was growing up to be a nancy boy. He’d have none of that.

  Emma froze before him, like a timid, hunted animal. He grinned. She’d never escape him—he knew it sure as day. Now she knew it too. No matter where she ran, who she met, what she did, there was no place to hide. She was his. To do with as he saw fit.

  And he saw fit to finish this lesson. Oh, he was gonna teach her good, all right.

  Her whore of an assistant, Lilly, wriggled under his foot. He leaned more weight on her chest to stop her from squirming. Damn puny slut, he’d crush the life out of her right here. In front of his wife, the woman who promised to love, honor, and obey him.

  Emma didn’t obey so good.

  “You gonna hit me with that thing?” Jared asked his wife, and laughed. “You didn’t have the guts before in our bedroom.”