The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  He knew well that the fire and blankets were not enough to prevent the corruption of her frozen toes. He dug in his mind for the remedy Rhiannon had used when he’d been a small lad. He’d wandered too far from the village during a snowfall. When he’d returned, he’d been unable to feel his fingers. He shut his eyes against the memory of his older sister alternately scolding and kissing as she’d wrapped his hands in warm, wet wool.

  Rhiannon had been twelve years his elder, the only mother Owein had known. Even though his difficult entry to the world had orphaned them both, his sister had loved him fiercely. The memory of that love might have brought a smile to Owein’s lips, had it not reminded him of all the Romans had stolen.

  With precise motions, he set about the task of heating water. Hanging his cauldron on its tripod frame, he raked a portion of the fire into position beneath the vessel and filled it with snow from outside his door. While it melted, he rummaged again in the oaken chest. He emerged with several ragged lengths of wool, singed at the edges. Would his dead wife approve of his using her handiwork to give aid to a Roman woman? His chest felt hollow as he dipped the cloth into the warming water.

  The lass drifted closer to consciousness. Her shivering was constant, though not as violent as before. A good sign, Owein thought—her body was seeking to warm itself. He crouched and wrapped her feet in the wet cloth, heating her skin, then drying it quickly.

  He warmed her hands next, running the pad of his thumb over her palm and fingertips, searching for gray patches that indicated her skin had frozen past saving. He was relieved to find none. Experimentally, he circled one of her slight wrists with his thumb and forefinger. So delicate, and her palms, though red with cold, were soft and uncallused. The floral scent of her skin mingled with the musty odor of the wool.

  She was a fragile blossom flung from a Roman garden into the wilderness. His brows drew together as he tucked the furs around her. Somehow, one of her hands remained in his, even after she’d been swaddled. As the night hours passed, he sat silently, chafing her soft skin with the roughened pads of his fingers. The chill of her body seeped into his soul, seeking his warmth.

  It was not a welcome feeling.

  Chapter Two

  Clara came awake suddenly, gasping, her body shaking like a miller’s sieve. Her hand was immersed in searing heat. She jerked back, to no avail. Something … no, someone, held her.

  Someone was a man. A beast of a Celt—large, rough, and ruddy of complexion, with long red hair and a braided beard. Backlit by the flickering light, his mane glowed about his face like a halo of fire. A single thin plait hung from temple to shoulder, the end secured with a strip of leather. His eyes were a clear, brittle blue, like broken glass.

  He had the look of a warrior about him. His broad chest stretched his buckskin shirt to the extremity of its rough seams. Despite the winter chill, the shirt had no sleeves, leaving Clara to stare at the corded muscles of his arms. He was in the prime of his manhood, sculpted like a statue of a god. The import of this observation settled over her like a blanket of frost.

  He was not the man she sought.

  She stirred, trying to lever herself upright. The fur coverlet slid across her skin. Her bare skin. Abruptly, she lay flat again, all but gagging on her panic. Straw poked through the coarse mattress, scratching her naked thighs and bottom. She was completely unclothed beneath the furs, and the wild man who must have removed her clothing was watching her closely.

  He seemed to note the exact instant she recognized her vulnerability. One corner of his mouth twitched, and his gaze sharpened. The rough pad of his thumb scraped almost imperceptibly over her palm.

  Clara was unprepared for the sensations the small movement brought. A pull deep in her belly, itching on the tips of her breasts. Something of it must have shown in her eyes, for his blue gaze flared, flicking downward, as if he knew. Though fur swaddled her body, revealing nothing, Clara’s cheeks heated.

  To her amazement, so did his.

  Quickly, he dropped her hand and averted his eyes, busying himself with a fire that did not need tending. She watched as he prodded the blaze with a twisted stick. Flames leapt, but the heat seemed far away. She was chilled to her bones, to her very soul. She wondered if she would ever be warm again.

  A dark sense of hopelessness assaulted her. Had she failed in her quest? She’d been sure the mountain she’d approached had been the Seer’s. She’d followed Aiden’s instructions exactly, but then the storm had struck, and she’d become disoriented. It was all too likely that she’d lost her way.

  She wanted to sob her frustration. But she would not do that, here, before this wild stranger. There were scars encircling his wrists, as if he’d once been bound. Was he an escaped criminal? Keeping the blankets carefully wrapped about her body, she struggled into a sitting position, wincing as her tender palm scraped the dirt floor.

  “My hands,” she said, swallowing. “And … and my feet. They are afire.”

  The Celt’s brow furrowed. “They are … frost.” He paused. “No. Frozen.” He spoke the Latin haltingly, with a strong accent. His scowl deepened as he searched for his next words. “Will hurt … a while longer … but ye will not be scarred, I am thinking.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” she answered in Celtic, trying her best to imitate Aiden’s mountain lilt. If she treated the barbarian like a civilized man, perhaps he would act the part.

  A quick flash in his blue eyes betrayed his surprise. “Ye speak the language of the Celts?” he asked in his own tongue.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Though the pronunciation of some words eludes me. I learned from one of my father’s …” Her voice trailed off.

  He exhaled a sharp breath. “Slaves, ye mean to say.”

  The contempt in his voice rankled. His statement was an accusation, one she couldn’t deny. “The lessons were freely given.”

  He snorted, the corners of his mouth drawing downward.

  She studied him from beneath her lashes. Once again, the sheer size of him overwhelmed her. Again she found herself comparing him to a statue—larger and more perfectly formed than a common man. But he was not sleek and smooth like the statues that graced the forum in Isca. No, this man was rough and solid, with a dangerous look about him. His long red beard and mustache hid the nuances of his mood. With a sudden vengeance, she wished them gone.

  She clenched her fists so tightly her fingernails bit into her palms. She hated that she was defenseless before him. Consciously, she straightened her spine. Father had always asserted it was the worst folly to show weakness before an enemy.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you. I’ll be on my way as soon as I might.” She drew a breath and met his gaze. “What have you done with my clothes?”

  He gestured to a heap on the floor. “They are wet.”

  “And my satchel?” she said in alarm. “Did you …”

  “Your wee bundle is there as well,” he said, eyeing her. “Nay, I didna paw through it.”

  She blushed. “I didn’t mean …” But she had meant it, and his expression told her that he knew. He was no fool, this barbarian. The silence lengthened between them, growing thick and heavy until she could bear it no longer.

  “I lost my way,” she said. “It was stupid of me, I know, but the trail I was following ended, and then the storm began …” She drew a breath. “I’m seeking a wise man. A Druid.”

  At the Celt’s scowl, she clutched the blanket more firmly to her breasts. “I was told he lived in this valley. Do you know of him? If you show me the path to his door, I’ll be gone as soon as my clothes are dry.”

  He raised his brows. “Ye’ll nay be going far, lass. Not chilled as ye are. Your feet willna bear even your slight weight, not for a day, at least.”

  As if to underscore his assessment, a shiver overtook her. Her body was ice cold, as if a winter storm still raged inside. She barely felt the fire, though beads of sweat stood out on her companion’s forehea
d. The musk of his perspiration reached her nostrils. It was an intimate smell, one that caused her to shift away.

  “The old Druid,” she persisted. “He’s a Seer. He can find things that are lost or stolen. Surely you know of him. Does he live nearby?”

  To her surprise, the Celt stood abruptly and gave her his back. “There be few Druids left alive,” he said without turning. “Your army has done a fine job of putting them to the sword.”

  Clara stared at the back of his head. Again he spoke the truth and again she had no answer. But she had no choice—she had to gain his cooperation. She had to find the Seer, and it was likely this man could lead her to him.

  “I mean the Wise One no harm,” she persisted. “Nor will I tell a soul of his hiding place.”

  “Ye are Roman,” he said, as if that were an answer.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied to his broad shoulders.

  Words began tumbling from her lips, as they always did when her blood pounded in her ears. “But I have no reason to alert the authorities. Just the opposite. I was directed to the Seer by an old Celt sla—friend,” she amended hastily. “He told me the Wise One’s heart is kind and true. I’m in sore need of his magic.” She inhaled. “Please. Will you take me to him?”

  The Celt was silent for several long heartbeats. Finally, he turned, eyeing her, clearly deciding whether she was worth the trouble of an honest answer. She resisted the urge to squirm under his scrutiny.

  At last he spoke. “And who is this friend—” he said the word harshly, as if spitting out the uglier term she’d almost used—“ … who told ye tales of a Druid?”

  “A Celt elder. An old man who lived in these hills, before …”

  Her voice trailed off in the face of the Celt’s scowl. She wondered, not for the first time, if she’d lost her wits completely to embark on this wild quest, even with Aiden’s encouragement. A knot of fear tightened in her stomach. But then she thought of Father huddled in his sickbed.

  She stiffened her spine. “He lived in these hills before he came to dwell in the city.”

  “Before Sempronius Gracchus and the Second Legion enslaved the last of the free Celts, ye mean.”

  Clara fought to control her expression as the Celt spat out her father’s name. “Yes,” she said.

  “Where are your companions?” Venom laced his tone. “A wealthy woman such as ye would travel with an escort. Were there soldiers? Did ye lose them in the storm?”

  “I came alone.”

  The Celt’s piercing blue gaze bored into her. “If that be true, then ye are surely mad.”

  Her fingers twisted the edge of the fur blanket. “No doubt you’re right. But I had no choice. Please. If you know the Wise One, take me to him.”

  A veil dropped over his eyes, blanking their expression.

  She went still. “You know where he is.”

  He hesitated, and she thought perhaps he would deny it. But a moment later, he nodded once. “I ken the one ye speak of. But I wouldna name him wise. Nor kind.”

  “It matters not what you would call him. Only that you take me to him.”

  His gaze sought the fire, where it lingered moodily. Finally, he sighed. “Ye’ve found him already, lass.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He gave her a pointed look, brows lifted.

  Several seconds passed before she grasped his meaning. When it did, her breath left her. No. It wasn’t possible. She sought an old man. An elder.

  Didn’t she?

  “You?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “Ye look a bit green about the gills, lass. Am I nay what ye expected?”

  A shiver saved her the embarrassment of a reply. She rubbed her arms, drawing up her knees to her chest. The scowl returned to the Celt’s face as he poked the fire yet again. The flames leapt, giving off a shower of sparks.

  Oh, gods. She’d imagined Aiden’s Wise One as a barbarian Aristotle, wizened and ethereal. Never once had she considered the possibility he’d be a virile young male. But Aiden had assured her the Druid who had guided his clan was a gentle, holy man.

  Clara tried to picture this burly, red-bearded Celt passing an hour of quiet contemplation. She couldn’t summon the image. Surely he spent far more time chopping wood.

  And yet … Her gaze drifted to the charred logs in the hearth. Didn’t a wise man need warmth as much as a fool?

  She examined the Celt from under her eyelashes. His body held more power than she could contemplate—and having lived her entire life in military fortresses, she was well suited to judging the strength of men. But perhaps his wild clothing, fashioned entirely from animal skins, influenced her perception. His shirt bore fur, turned to his skin. Rough hide braccas encased his powerful legs. His footwear was hardly more than skins bound to his feet and calves with a crisscross of thongs.

  She caught his eye and he lifted his brows. Quickly she averted her gaze. The curved daub-and-wattle wall enclosed his simple circular dwelling. His furnishings were crudely made and haphazardly arranged. A chest, a table, a chair. His hearth wanted sweeping. Overhead, an untidy bundle of herbs hung from a smoke-blackened timber.

  It was the dwelling of a man who didn’t expect much from life. Had it always been thus for him?

  “You are young,” she said finally.

  “Nay so young as you, lass.” She thought she heard amusement in his voice, but when she searched his face, she saw no trace of it. “No Roman knows of my presence in these hills,” he said. “And no Celt would dare speak of it to one such as ye. Who was this old man who sent ye to me?”

  “A … servant in my father’s household. He’s called Aiden.”

  “Aiden?” Raw emotion lit his eyes, then was gone. He shook his head, his startled expression resolving into wry amusement. It made him seem almost human.

  “Curse the old fool,” he said. Then, tentatively, “He is well?”

  “Yes,” Clara said. Once again her fingers found the edges of the furs. “Though … his joints ache at times. He rubs his fingers with a salve I procured from a Celt healer—he would not abide by the leeches suggested by the Greek physician. But I don’t think he truly wants to banish the pain. He claims the rhythm of the ache helps him predict the fall of the dice.”

  “ ’Tis Aiden, to be sure. A more superstitious man ye’ll nay encounter. The idiot sees signs in every turn of the wind, each squawk of the crow. Even the shape of his own spittle upon the ground.”

  “And you don’t?”

  The amused expression fell from his face. “True power ne’er comes so easily.”

  “But isn’t magic a gift from the gods? To be used for the benefit of men?”

  “Gods are capricious beings. They gift and curse with one stroke. They never grant power without demanding payment.” He spat into the fire. “ ’Tis a wise man who leaves the immortals to their own devices.”

  “And yet, if the need is great—”

  “Whatever it is ye came for, dinna ask me to provide it.”

  Clara pursed her lips. He couldn’t refuse her request. Her father’s life depended on it. “I’ll pay you well.”

  “I’ve no need of Roman coin.”

  “Then help me for Aiden’s sake.” She watched him closely. “He gave me a message for you.”

  The Seer grunted. “What message?”

  “He said to tell you it wasn’t your fault.”

  The Seer flinched as if he’d been struck. Rising abruptly, he strode to the wooden chest and jerked it open.

  “If you would but listen …” Clara cried.

  He extracted what looked like a garment from the chest. For a moment, he stood motionless, staring down at it. Then he tossed the fabric in her direction.

  She caught it. “What—?”

  “Put that on.” Giving her his back, he headed for the door.

  “Wait! Where are you—”

  Too late. She saw a sliver of daylight through the open door; then he was gone. />
  “Oh!” Clara pounded the ground with her fist. Pain shot up her arm, but she welcomed the sting; it helped ground her anger. Rude barbarian! How dare he walk out on her when she’d traveled so far to find him? She scowled at the door, wishing she had something substantial to throw at it.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t. She had only his spare shirt. She shook it out. It wasn’t like the crude one on his back, but a real garment, woven of linen, well worn and soft. She eyed her own clothing, crumpled in a sodden heap on the floor, her sleeve pins scattered in the dirt nearby. A hot surge of irritation flushed her cheeks. That embroidered wool had come all the way from Rome. How like a man, not to think to spread it to dry. The least he could have done was collect the pins into a pile.

  Keeping one eye on the door, she let the fur blanket slide from her shoulders. She slipped the Seer’s shirt over her head. The garment was far too large. The sleeves hung well past her fingertips and the hem trailed as far as her knees. Her breasts gaped through the open front. She rolled up the sleeves and tied the front laces as tightly as she could.

  The shirt smelled of herbs, and of … him. Already she knew his scent—she suspected she would recognize it even blindfolded. It was a wild odor, not unpleasant, but not anything she’d encountered in Isca, or before that, Eburacum. Or before that, Londinium.

  She clung to the memory of those places, because in them her father loomed large and strong, invincible in his Legionary armor. So different from how she’d last seen him—thin and wasted under his blankets, his face sunken and hollow. The Greek physician had proven useless and even Rhiannon, the Celt healer whose husband had once been an officer in the Legions, offered little hope.

  Only Clara could save her father now—but only if the Druid lent her his aid.

  Her gorge rose, but with her stomach empty, she tasted only bile. She clamped one hand over her mouth, praying she would not retch. The scent of the Seer’s shirt, of all things, helped her nausea recede. The fabric smelled of pine and heather, mist and mystery. Magic and hope. When its owner returned, she would plead again for his assistance.