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

by Anne Garboczi

  With a hand to the reins, the tribune righted his own chariot and let his horses gallop to victory. As he stepped down from the chariot platform, he raised his gaze to the hill above. He looked right at her and smiled.

  So, she’d underestimated him. He didn’t have to gloat.

  Ness gave the cauldron one last stir. The sun sank beneath the horizon as villagers made merry around her. All had played the village games, stuffed their bellies with food, and mocked the day’s losers. Ness smiled. Now came her favorite part, the dancing.

  The ring of fires flickered, casting shadows on faces. Lyres and village voices began a haunting melody.

  Ness glimpsed Fiona through the shadows. Resplendent in yellow, she approached a stalwart village youth and tugged him into the ring. If only she dared ask Cedric to dance.

  Other youths approached village girls and made their request with a flair given by just enough ale. All alone by the abandoned cauldron, Ness searched the darkness for Cedric.

  The village young swarmed to the fire circle. Even Enni had a partner, Ness’ brother, Marki.

  Darkness cloaked the houses beyond the firelight and the ancient oak cast weird shadows. The sound of Cedric’s voice drifted from the shadows followed by the Pict girl’s laugh.

  Did Cedric love the Pict girl? Tears sprang to her eyes. The smoke of the dancing fires rose in front of her, vanishing above like her dreams.

  A voice penetrated the darkness. “Will you dance with me?”

  She turned to say “no” to whatever village oaf had asked. Wait, the voice had spoken in Latin.

  The tribune stood in front of her. Only a handbreadth away, his back blocked the firelight, leaving his body shrouded in shadow.

  Above the noise of festive villagers, an old Celtic warrior cheered. “See if that Roman is as quick in the dance as with a chariot.”

  She shifted her feet on the damp grass as she eyed the tribune.

  The firelight flickered on a face that had seen action, yet he bore a cultured air that marked him as more than an ordinary foot soldier. He stretched his hand out, asking.

  Father had warned her away from all-too-interested Roman soldiers, but what harm could come from one dance? She moved her hand toward the tribune’s. As skin touched skin, he closed his hand over hers. His grip on hers, he led her through a gap in the fiery ring.

  Her foot snagged a twig. She jumped forward. Her chest bumped against him. He wrapped his arm around her waist. His tunic felt soft against her skin.

  A smile flashed across the shadows of his face. “Tell me how this is done.”

  The bonfire heated her cheeks as his arms surrounded her. She should flee from this soldier before she gave him any inappropriate ideas, but she wanted to dance. She moved her gaze up past his broad shoulders to his dark eyes. “Like this.”

  Dropping his hand, she moved into the circling dance step. The sound of the mystical melody surrounded her as every few strides the fire ring gapped and dancers wove in and out in a grand combination of swirls and arches.

  As she spun back, the tribune took her hand. Ness placed her other just below his shoulder. The circle of dancers drew tighter, compacting into the next step. As they followed the dance, he tracked the others, watching the moves’ execution, but she knew every step by heart.

  The ragged edges of a scar scraped sideways across the muscles of his upper arm, the edge just peeking out from his tunic sleeve.

  So close to him now, she let her finger brush down across the line. “How did you get it?”

  Mayhap Mailmura had made that village ale stronger tonight, or perhaps the moon had struck her with its madness.

  He moved his gaze to her. “My first legion, in Germania. Best in the Empire.”

  She laughed. Who compared to the Empire? “How long ago?”

  “Four years. I was only seventeen.” He pulled her closer to him, the edge of leather bracers pressing in against her waist. “It was there that I learned of Christus.”

  The music took on a quicker pace. Without hesitation, he did too.

  She tightened her hand over his scar and gripped the tribune’s other hand. The music spun so fast she could feel her heart beat and her face flushed even in the cool night.

  The better dancers experimented. A few jumped over the fires hand-in-hand while others attempted aerials over the flames, holding their partner high for a full spin before flowing back into the dance circle.

  Releasing her one hand, the tribune spun her out underneath his arm. Her skin brushed up against his chest as she twirled. He smelled of Britain greenery and dew.

  An interposing rock ruined the move’s fluidity. As she caught herself, she flicked her gaze up. The starlight made his hair look even darker. She smiled. “Drive chariots better than you dance?”

  He laughed and shook his head as if he would do better. The music continued. She’d forgotten by now how many songs had passed. This Roman had forgotten the common courtesy of switching partners.

  The dance circle twisted in a flower pattern, the colorfully arrayed couples making up the petals. He and she came to the outer edge, the fires almost touching their feet, and then, without warning, he clasped his hand beneath her arm.

  As the pipes hit the note for the spin, he lifted her up and made the spin an aerial. The power of his muscles pressed against her as he lifted her and she soared. Only a strong man could finish that move and a man needed self-assurance just to attempt it here, over the fires, where one false move meant an ungallant rendezvous with burning embers.

  The tribune held her up. She rose head and shoulders above him, light as the feathered ones.

  Her cheeks flushed hot as he lowered her, her chest sliding down across his until her feet touched the ground.

  The dancers swept forward from behind them, but she stood frozen. Or maybe it was he that stood there, neglecting the dance.

  His breath brushed her face. Both his arms encircled her now. His penetrating gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips.

  Ness willed her stiff legs to press back. Father would not be pleased and for good cause. Roman soldiers scarcely had good reputations with village girls. “I tire of dancing.”

  He paused for a moment then released her. “Walk with me then.”

  A nightingale sang in the treetops above them, and an intense darkness covered everything beyond the firelight. She took one step back.

  “Does your family have the right of jus Latii?”

  She laughed, half nervousness, half some other emotion that grew in the dim light of fiery shadows. “The legal right to establish contracts with Roman citizens? My father’s father won it for his service. Why?”

  The tribune shook his head, dismissing her question. He reached for her hand through the shadows. The lyres’ melody rose higher and his strong arms enticed her to dance within them.

  Too much attention from a man such as him invited danger and she’d already long passed the point of too much attention this night.

  “I need to go home.” With a shake of her head, she faded into the darkness.

  Drumsticks and ashes from last night’s festival still littered the village green as Ness moved toward the well. Fresh morning dew lent a clean smell to the air.

  Bretta fixed her jar to the rope. Fiona stood beside her, the wind blowing her hair back from plump cheeks.

  Standing between them, the Pict girl clutched her water jar, her pale lips moving fast.

  With an effort, Ness forced a smile and walked toward the girls. “Good morrow.” The dance was an anomaly. Surely Cedric loved her.

  Fiona looked at the Pict girl and tittered. “Cedric and you will make adorable children.”

  “What?” With a crash, the water jar dropped from Ness’ hands.

  “You ran away so early last night, you missed Cedric asking Elena to marry him.” Fiona clattered her bracelets. “He did it just as the last embers died and the last dance ended. So amorous.”

  As Ness twisted toward the Pict girl, the
village green spun underneath her feet. She felt like she would faint. No such good fortune. Efforts to delay the tears from welling up and spilling out for the world to see her shame failed. She ran.

  The morning sun, bright a moment ago, paled as she stumbled over roots and hopped ditches, racing toward home.

  At the clearing of her own house, she stumbled through the open door and crashed into Father.

  Father stared at her. “He wants to marry you.” Father’s voice had an uncertain quality, so different than the booming command that often cowed village miscreants. He didn’t move out of the doorway.

  She brushed past him. “No, he’s marrying the Pict girl.” Her head pounding, her whole face dripped wetness. She stumbled over the center hearth as she shoved through dusty shadows and the smoked meat that hung from the ceiling to the lean-to beyond.

  “Wait,” Father called after her.

  Her chest heaving with pent-in tears, she turned back.

  “Do you know why the tribune wants to marry you?”

  “The tribune?” Her jaw sagged. For a moment, shock blocked tears.

  Father balled his fists. “He asked me for your hand in marriage.”

  “Oh.” Her head ached with crying. Jus Latii, the right to make legal contracts with Romans, or to marry legitimately and the children be Roman citizens. The tribune could have just said what he meant. She must have guessed correctly that he was common born since no Roman nobleman would marry a Celt. How could Cedric love the Pict girl?

  Father rubbed his knife hilt. “Heaven grant me tact for this refusal.”

  A footstep thudded. She looked to the entrance. The door silhouetted Cedric’s frame.

  Oh, to scream, but she could only stand there, the humiliation of tear stains all too evident on her cheeks.

  He looked at Father. “I need you to post the wedding bans for Elena and I.” He had the good grace to turn a little red.

  Father pressed his hand to his forehead. “Not now. I have to deal with this business of the tribune asking for Ness’ hand.”

  Cedric took a sharp step back. His head struck the door lintel with a resounding crack. “That Roman wants to marry you?”

  Ness nodded. At least someone wanted her.

  “You can’t marry a Roman.” Cedric dug his fingers into the doorframe, his knuckles white.

  No, who she couldn’t marry was Cedric, no matter how much she loved him. “Why not?”

  “He’s a foreigner. He’d probably abandon you or beat you.” Cedric stood tall, disapproval in those tense muscles he intended to wrap around the Pict girl.

  Tears burned behind Ness’ eyes. Cedric had almost kissed her only a fortnight ago at that waterfall. “What’s it to you?” She clashed her gaze against his. “I thought you were getting married.”

  “I am.” Cedric dropped his hand from the doorframe.

  “So am I.” Ness caught up her bungled weaving from the wood chest behind her and looked toward the lean-to.

  A footstep sounded in the yard. Sunlight reflected off metal. The tribune.

  Father frowned, his mustache turning with the motion. “I don’t trust him. A pretty native girl catches his eye and suddenly he proposes marriage? Cedric’s right, who knows how he’ll treat you. You’re not marrying him, Ness.”

  “Even if I didn’t want him, you’d have to flout the might of Rome and risk him razing this village to say no. You won’t hazard that when I say I want him.” She swept by Cedric into the dirt yard where ducks nibbled at the grass.

  The tribune smiled at her.

  “Salve.” Ness stepped in front of him. Her pulse raced, but the tribune had started this, not her. She forced her gaze up to his. “If I marry you, where will we live?”

  “I’m stationed in Camulodunum.”

  Camulodunum, a city a day’s journey east, close to home, with the most lovely grazing land for sheep. She could imagine living there.

  “The bridal veil.” The tribune held out a cloth the color of fire.

  Was he so certain she’d say yes? Ness dragged her nail against the fine cloth. How had he afforded linen that soft? “There’s no veil in the Celtic ceremony.”

  “We’re not having a Celtic ceremony.”

  “Why not?” Ness held her chin high. He wanted a Celtic woman for his wife. What quarrel did he have with a Celtic ceremony?

  “I’m not marrying by some barely legitimate handfasting.”

  “I’m not appearing like some seven-headed monster in flame red.” She crossed her arms. She hated Cedric, but perhaps he’d spoken wisely when he told her not to marry a Roman. No, she didn’t hate him. She loved him. Ness choked on the tears she tried to hide.

  “The seven braids of the Roman bride wrap around the head not hang down, like the vestal virgins.” The tribune swept his hand across the curve of her brow. His fingers caught in the strands of her hair. “And you could never look anything less than lovely.”

  The tears bubbled up and streaked down her cheeks. She fought to keep her chest from heaving with the sobs.

  Concern in his gaze, the tribune touched her waist. His cold iron armor brushed her arm as he pulled her next to him. “What’s wrong?” He touched her tear-stained cheek.

  Cedric stepped out of the house. Dirt lined the calluses of his big hands, sweat dripping down his crooked nose. “If you think marrying him will make you happy, you’re a fool.”

  The tribune looked to her. “What did your brother say?”

  Brother? Ness felt her heart pound. “I’ve no wish to translate it.” Wiping at her cheeks, she pulled back from the tribune.

  Behind her, Cedric glared.

  A genuine smile tugged at Ness’ mouth. She touched the tribune’s hand. “When do you wish to marry?”

  “I have to get back to the garrison. Legate Vocula has new tasks. Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” Her gasp burst in his face.

  The tribune touched her shoulder, his fingers warm against the cloth of her dress. “A new adventure for you and me?”

  Adventure? She looked into his eyes. He seemed an interesting man anyway. “Yes, I’ll marry you tomorrow.” She placed the veil in his hands. “But I’m no daughter of Rome.” He should get his money back for that cloth.

  The tribune opened his fingers and let the cloth fall to the dust. “Celtic clothes, Roman ceremony.”

  “Agreed.” She twisted back to the house. She’d need to pack up her seeds for next spring’s harvest. Camulodunum must have some adjoining fields where she could plant. She’d bring some flower seeds as well as grain and vegetables. What if she forgot something?

  There was no need to worry. She’d come back to visit at least every month.

  Ness fidgeted. The long arms of a gnarled oak spread above her and the tribune as her entire village looked on. A chill breeze whipped through the yellowing leaves above, circulating hearth smoke from the wattle and daub houses that surrounded the open green.

  The tribune’s red cloak lay over iron armor that clanked softly against the short sword at his belt. His army-issue sandals trampled the village’s green grass. He reached for her hand.

  His skin scraped against her, his body so close that she could see his chest move with each breath. He touched her other hand, drawing her closer. His dark-eyed gaze on her, the tribune said the Latin marriage vow, “Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius, where you are mistress, there am I master.”

  She looked at the villagers. Gold and copper hair hung down over festive plaids, every face familiar, but she searched for Cedric. Ness gave herself a shake. Had she gone mad? She shouldn’t marry a stranger just because the man she loved had broken her heart.

  The bright autumn sun pouring through the trees above splashed up against Cedric, turning his shaggy hair into a blaze of light. The faint blister of horse reins cut across his wrist as he stood hand in hand with the Pict girl.

  Cedric’s betrothed squirmed closer to him, pressing her lusterless hair against his shoulder. Like the willows she twisted to
make the baskets on her family’s hearth, Ness’ heart twisted over itself.

  Moving forward from the crowd, a village elder extended the wedding loaf.

  Her mouth went dry. She shifted her gaze to the tribune. He was dark and square everywhere—in his shoulders, his firm chin, his forehead. There, though, black hair softened the sharp lines, curling around his temples. He stood shorter than the Celts but built strong and still taller than she. “Ubi….”

  Cedric clashed his gaze against her.

  She bore her teeth down on her tongue.

  The village elder cleared his throat. “This is the time you say the marriage vow, Ness.”

  Cedric mouthed some phrase at her, then rolled his eyes, the same expression on his face as when he’d called her a fool for accepting this marriage.

  The tribune touched her shoulder, wrinkling the sleeve of her dress. “Is something wrong?” He looked at her, a puzzled expression in his eyes.

  Had he perhaps realized that he’d put the entire village in a most awkward situation asking for her hand? Any Celtic father who valued his life wouldn’t say no to a Roman officer even if his daughter was already betrothed. Ness clenched her hand. She had no betrothed and she would marry this Roman, Cedric’s opinion notwithstanding. “Nothing’s wrong. Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia, where you are master, there will I be mistress.”

  The tribune circled his arm around her waist, his other hand behind her shoulders, pulling her to him for the kiss that sealed the marriage in a Roman ceremony.

  The scent of leather clung to him, the iron of foreign-made armor cold to the touch. Ness’ heart pounded faster. As he tugged her closer to him, the metal of his chest plate scraped her arm. Her palms felt slick. A chill wrapped around her beneath her warm wool dress. He still looked at her, his dark eyes so very close now. She jerked her gaze out to the crowd as she struggled for a breath.

  Cedric looked at her. Did amusement swim in his light eyes as if he expected her to back out now rather than brave kissing this Roman?

  Sliding her arms around the tribune’s neck, she tilted her chin up and pressed her lips against this stranger. No fear, she kept them there; made the awkwardness of a girl’s first kiss look passion-filled; probably gave this tribune more than he’d anticipated in the Roman paradigm of the bashful bride.