For Life or Until (Love and Warfare Series Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi

  Cedric’s shoulders bent a little, a spade slung over his back. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and his shirt, wet with sweat, stuck to his chest.

  Stepping into the stream, Cedric splashed water up across his dirt-caked face. “You avoiding the Romans too?”

  She leaned back against a willow trunk as water tinkled against water and her jars filled. “They’re not all bad. The Romans built the roads and brought learning from around the world to Britain.”

  Cedric kicked a rock. It landed with a thud, splashing up water. “And brought greedy rulers and taxes.” He rolled up the sleeves of his wool shirt and glared into the sunset as he splashed water across his dust-stained forearms.

  Slipping forward, she grabbed her smaller water jar. She raised the jar high and splashed it at him.

  The water poured down Cedric’s shirt, dripping around his leather belt and down his trousers. He whipped around. “You just did that.”

  With a smile, she flaunted her shoulders.

  He caught her around the waist. His fingers spanned her hips as he pushed her toward the waterfall.

  The cold flow poured behind her, threatening a dunking, but his hands felt hotter than any chill could wash away. She tipped her chin up and swayed her hips. “You know you want to.” She rested her gaze on his lips as she dared him to kiss her.

  Cedric paused, hands still on her. “Have you ever even kissed a man?”

  The flame of a thousand hearths blushed up her cheek with a heat to turn the brook to steam. “No.”

  “Bet you wouldn’t even go through with it.” Cedric removed one hand from her waist and gestured upward. “You’d blush and turn away.”

  “Would not.” She slapped her bare foot against the moss-covered rock.

  Water splashed across his left ankle, which the frayed plaid of his trouser hem revealed. Cedric moved his gaze from her eyes to her lips.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  He dropped his other hand from her. “Naw. Don’t need trouble with the chief.” He grinned at her. “Nessite.”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “It’s like the Hittites and the Amorites in those scrolls your father reads at first-day service.” Cedric brushed against her as he stepped to the shore. “You’re just as dangerous.”

  “Am not.”

  Catching up the spade, Cedric walked back up the path to his father’s fields.

  She’d marry that man one day.

  “Fiona, Bretta.” Ness cut into the throng of noisy young women on the village green. Enni, her foster sister, followed her.

  Multiple bronze bracelets jangled on Fiona’s plump arms as she giggled. Followers of the Way gathered for First Day worship underneath the oak tree to the right of the girls.

  Sun trickled down between the branches overhead, making patterns on the girls’ colorful dresses.

  “Bretta admires someone.” Fiona jabbed Bretta with her elbow.

  The girl’s cheeks went scarlet. “Shh!”

  Ness swung her gaze to the blushing girl. “Who?”

  “The cobbler who came with the Romans. They say he might settle here.” A puff of wind blew Fiona’s hair up over her shoulders.

  “I heard the Romans won. They’re leaving this week.” Enni pressed closer to Ness and shivered.

  “You mean Brenin the cobbler?” a thin girl asked.

  “I don’t care what his name is—he’s gorgeous.” Fiona’s voice sent several small woodland creatures running for the underbrush. Fiona tilted her head. “Not devastatingly handsome, though, I wouldn’t say.”

  “What makes a man devastating?” Ness searched for Cedric out of the corner of her eye.

  “Devastatingly handsome,” Fiona dropped her voice, “that means he’s irresistible. He can set your heart on fire with a single glance.”

  “I could resist any man if I chose.” Ness kicked a stick.

  Fiona widened her saucy mouth. “Why would you choose?”

  “Tsk, tsk. There’s more to a man than a fine dressing.” Mailmura pushed herself into the girls’ circle and a beaver’s tail on her belt swished against Ness’ dress. “Choose carefully.” Mailmura pinched Fiona’s cheek.

  Jostling her bracelets, Fiona stuck her shoulders out very straight. “I’ll wed the one I want and if he doesn’t live up to his face, I’ll find myself a new one.” She looked at Bretta and made cobbling gestures.

  A nervous laugh trickled around the circle. Ness shook her head in wonder. She wanted to see the man Fiona wed.

  Across the green, villagers raised their voices in sacred song, but Mailmura kept on tsking. “Easy to say, Fiona, but there are only two reasons a Celtic woman leaves her man.”

  Turning her back on the pipes and lyres that signaled them to join the service, Fiona crossed plump arms. “What reasons?”

  Mailmura held up a wrinkled finger. “If he ever leaves a mark on your body, or,” she held up a second finger, “if he’s incapable of producing children.”

  Even Fiona almost blushed, but she held her dimpled chin high. “What if he’s unfaithful?”

  “You could divorce him for that, but I would advise poison.” Mailmura dug her bare heel into the earth.

  Behind them, the music came to a crashing halt. A collective gasp passed through the crowd at the oak tree. Ness swiveled.

  A Roman soldier stood at the front of the crowd. The man’s red-crested plume cut his path as the villagers rushed to make way.

  “Rome outlawed our religion,” Enni said. Fiona shivered.

  Ness ran her tongue over her lips. “I’ve never heard of Christians fed to lions in Britain.” Then again, everything had a first time.

  “Can you see his rank?” Enni asked, her dark frame walled in by tall Celts.

  Standing on tiptoe, Ness peered over Mailmura’s gray head. The officer from the well. Unbidden, Ness dropped her voice. “He’s a tribune.”

  Up front, the man spoke to a cluster of village elders now. An older man, hollow in the cheek, parted from the elders and walked toward her.

  The elder’s hands twitched. Sweat collected on his gray brow. “The tribune, Aquilus Salvius Paterculi, has said that he merely wishes to worship. He asked for you to translate for him.”

  “I?” Ness glanced toward the tribune. He looked at her.

  “I could ask you, do you want to, but the truth is you don’t get a choice, and hurry before the tribune chooses to remember that our religion is illegal.” The village elder scrubbed his gnarled hand against his forehead as the veins on his temples stood out. “I’ll tell your father to cut the service as short as possible.”

  “Oh.” Parting from the girls, Ness walked toward the crowd. She fidgeted with her fingers as she approached the tribune.

  “Ness.” The word sounded strange in his foreign tongue.

  “How did you learn my name?” She ran her gaze over him. No adornment decorated his tunic and a signet ring of iron, not gold, circled his left-hand finger. Weren’t most tribunes noblemen? Perhaps he’d earned his rank by merit.

  “I asked. Your villagers had much to say about you.” The tribune smiled at her as Father started the reading.

  Her face heated. “Such as?”

  “They said you were the chief’s daughter.” The tribune twisted one corner of his mouth up, laughter in his eyes. “And that you had a temper to match Poseidon.”

  “They did not say that.” Ness hooked her thumbs into her belt. “Poseidon is a Greek deity. If the villagers had said anything they would have compared me to Camulus.”

  “Camulus the Celtic god of war? What about Aine the fairie queen?”

  Aine, goddess of love, who the pagans celebrated with erotic midsummer festivals. Ness slid her fingers out of her belt as her blush heated even her neck. She didn’t need a soldier comparing her to that deity. “Now my father is reading the story of Elijah and the kings.” She plunged into the translation.

  After far fewer verses than normal, Father announced the fin
al prayer. She dutifully closed her eyes. Only a faint glow of sunlight penetrated her eyelids.

  The scriptures called prayer a sacred sacrament, a joining of one’s heart with God through Christ. Just now all she could think was, I want Cedric. I truly, exceedingly want Cedric. Please, God.

  “Gratias for translating.”

  She blinked her eyes open at the tribune’s deep voice. He fixed his brown-eyed gaze on her.

  The man looked quite young despite the day’s dense stubble on his cheekbones. His short sword clanked against the metal of his armor as he moved.

  People milled around her, homespuns and plaids flapping in the wind as women chased children and young men maneuvered toward the throng of girls. All gave the Roman a wide berth. Cedric stood by the oak tree, his hand resting on his steed as he spoke to another man about the stallion. She still needed to ride that horse.

  “Are you familiar with the Latin literature as well as the Latin tongue?” the tribune asked.

  He would be used to instant attention when that voice spoke. What would he do if she turned her back on him and walked toward Cedric’s horse? Probably not the wisest experiment to attempt. She swung her gaze to the tribune. “Vergil’s Georgics are my favorite. ‘Ye husbandmen; in winter’s dust the crops/Exceedingly rejoice, the field hath joy.’”

  He moved his dark eyebrows up, surprise and admiration in his gaze. “Though he glorifies the farming life, the main troubles encountered in Book 1 of Georgics are because of the death of Julius Caesar. Without politics, farmers cannot work in safety.”

  “Cicero said ‘if you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” Not that she read much of Cicero. His convoluted writing style twisted the mind into knots.

  “Yet, have you read Cato the elder’s quote on that subject?” The man gestured forward, showcasing his broad palm that led down to the sinews of his arm.

  “Of course, he disagrees. All the wretched man writes of is politics.”

  Mirth danced in the tribune’s dark eyes. “What of Zeno, heard of him?”

  Ness shook her head. Close enough to touch, the tribune’s short sword clanked against his thighs. The pommel bore an eagle and a raven.

  “He was the Greek philosopher who invented Stoicism.”

  She cocked her head. “Stoicism? Isn’t that the Spartan philosophy to wear out your body with work and never smile?”

  The tribune’s eyes lighted up like dry wood in a bonfire. “I see you have a high opinion of the Greeks. But truthfully, Stoicism has many parallels with the Way. Not the heavenly things, like Christus and salvation, but Stoics teach one to strengthen the mind and body, live by right reason, and deny the passions. Is that not what the Christian should do?”

  A puff of wind flapped her skirt around her legs as she shook her head and disagreed with a Roman tribune, yet he seemed to like honesty. She pointed to the rising hills beyond the village. “Christianity is when you stand there at the mountain’s peak. The wind whips through your hair, the sun shines on your face, and eagles swoop about. You can’t put a name to it, but you feel the power.”

  The tribune smiled, eyes contradicting. He looked better with a smile, not so severe, less chiseled.

  Now villagers clustered around the spits and kettles that held the love feast, leaving her uncomfortably alone with this foreigner. She glanced at the bandage by the armhole of his tunic. “Does it pain you?”

  “Nothing a cup of your village mead won’t right.” The tribune gestured to where Mailmura stirred a bubbling pot and other villagers passed chunks of steaming meat from hand to hand.

  “You know what they say about Celtic medicine women?” Ness arched one eyebrow up. “Their gardens brim over with hemlock.”

  A fleeting smirk turned up the corners of his mouth. “And you. Would you poison me?”

  “I don’t know.” She met his gaze and moved one shoulder up as saucily as Fiona. “Perhaps a Stoic would enjoy the pain.”

  “Only if you pledged to mop my fevered brow.” The edge of his hand just brushed hers, dark skin touching light.

  An accident? Her cheeks heated. “So, the revolt’s over?”

  His dark eyes lost their laughing light. “Five of my men died.”

  Shifting her feet, she tried to think of metal-clad legionaries as human men who could evoke such emotion.

  The tribune shoved his eyebrows down. “This wouldn’t have happened if Legate Vocula addressed tribes’ grievances.”

  Ness eyed him.

  “You somehow managed to hit the mark about Vocula and tariffs.” The tribune kicked his sandal against a protruding grass clump. “I’ve discussed it with him before to no avail.”

  She rested her hands on her hips. “You sound surprised to find me right.”

  “Should I not be?” He looked at her, a shade of amusement in his eyes.

  “No. I find myself right very often.” She smiled at him.

  He laughed, his entire face lighting with the expression. “I don’t imagine you’ve ever seen the temple of Hermes in Rome. In the myths, he had a demeanor much like yours.”

  “Of course not.” She’d never traveled more than a day’s journey from her village.

  “You’d like it. If only I could show it to you.” He cut his words off and looked away.

  She took a sharp step back. “What do you mean?” She’d never leave Britain for Rome and she didn’t like where this conversation headed. Roman soldiers had notoriously low morals and all too much power.

  “Nothing.” The tribune scowled.

  “Salve.” Turning her back on him, she moved into the crowd and the circle of bodies closed around her.

  Father stepped out of a knot of village elders. He laid his hand on her shoulder and glared in the tribune’s direction. “Stay away from him. I don’t like that he asked for you to translate.”

  “I will, Father.” Ness scanned the milling villagers, looking for Cedric and his horse.

  Chapter 2

  The heat from the cooking fires that had roared since first light bathed Ness’ front as she sliced yet another vegetable into the huge cauldron on the village green. Two ceramic jars of oil sat to the left, payment for the food the soldiers had eaten. The tribune had proved more decent than most Romans.

  “What’s this chariot race your village elders invited me to join?” The tribune’s voice broke the silence. He stood a pace from her and smiled at her when she looked up.

  The onion slid from Ness’ hand as she spun toward Mailmura and spoke in Celtic. “Why did the elders invite him to race? The village has managed to survive the last month of soldiers without incident and now the elders plan to infuriate the soldiers’ commander by inviting him to an event he’s sure to lose?” She’d talk to Cedric, only she already knew he didn’t have the sense to let the Roman win.

  The tribune tilted his head, searching her face. “You don’t want me to race. Why?”

  She bit her tongue. The man couldn’t speak Celtic, but he could read voices and expressions better than she’d given him credit for. She fingered one of the poles the cauldrons hung from. “It’s just that you’ve been quite decent to the village. We don’t need to bring down your ire when you lose.”

  Shoulders out, he grinned at her. “That assumes I lose.”

  “Cedric always wins.” She nodded to where he led his horses to the track, the glorious brown-black stallion on his right pawing up dust. The chariot path the elders had marked for the race spread out around hillocks and woodland.

  “Interesting.” The tribune smiled at her.

  A flash of red emerged from the trees. A legionary led a chariot and horses to the tribune. The tribune took the reins.

  With a groan, Ness hurried to where the villagers gathered. In the valley below, Father signaled the participants into line.

  The sun flashed off the gold torc at Cedric’s neck. A roar of cheers erupted. From Cedric’s shoulder-length hair to his sleeveless jerkin to his sturdy boots, he looked the
Celtic warrior as he led his horses forward. He ran his hand down the brown-black stallion’s arched neck, calming it.

  Other charioteers strode forward, many bare-chested. Ness plucked up a foxglove by the roots and tore at the flower. This race would end badly.

  “Hope the tribune doesn’t mind eating his pride.” An older Celtic warrior sloshed his mead goblet against another’s.

  The village elders could have chosen not to invite him. Ness dug her fingers into the grass as she watched the tribune lead his horses to the starting line. Roman horses pulled a Celtic chariot. The muscles on the beasts’ sides proved their worth, but they stood lifelessly still, trained like a Roman legionary to obey without question.

  The charioteers edged into position, horses snorting and pawing at the turf. Well-oiled harnesses jangled with the impatient movement. Father raised a horn and the crowd subsided into near silence.

  The horn blared. A roar rose from the crowd. The charioteers lurched ahead. Some gripped the sides of chariots, struggling to balance, but not Cedric. He leaned forward, one with the movement.

  Dust and the rumble of chariot wheels filled the air as horses made the first turn. For a few moments, trees blocked the view, and then the foremost charioteer appeared again. Cedric.

  The Pict girl stood and cheered wildly as Cedric tore around the spectators.

  Two more laps to go. The second time around the village green, Cedric still led, but the tribune followed closely. He held his reins differently, twisted around his body so a fall would not just send him hurtling to the ground, but also drag him.

  Third time around. She clenched a fistful of grass, her gaze riveted on the race. If only Cedric had the sense to let the Roman win, but Cedric flicked his reins, driving his horses faster.

  The tribune drove his horses to the right, invading Cedric’s space.

  Unlike the giant tracks in Londinium, the Roman city to the east, only grass lined the edge of this chariot track. Still, one slip and the tribune’s horses would run their legs into Cedric’s chariot instead of his steeds.

  Cedric’s brown-black stallion spooked and reared. The leather of his chariot tack tore. With a face to rival a winter blizzard, he yanked the other horse to a halt and swung down.