by Claudia Dain
"He was horsed," Cuthred answered.
All eyes turned to Melania in blatant condemnation.
"It was my horse!" she shouted against their hate.
"Can you track him?" Wulfred said, ignoring his wife. At Cuthred's nod, Wulfred said, "Take what you need and go. Do not return without this man. Do not kill him. That is my pleasure."
"You take pleasure in killing a man who has left the spoils of battle to you? You would kill a man for leaving you to your victory and seeking a life for himself elsewhere?" she screamed, her hands curved like claws. Or fangs.
"I will kill him and take great pleasure in it for lying with my wife. Unlike Romans, Saxons do not turn a blind eye to adultery," Wulfred said.
Melania pulled herself up to her full, petite height; such grandeur in one so small and delicate. She looked like a snake about to strike, and she all but spat her next words.
"I don't know what barbarities you practice in your Saxon hovels, but here, within the confines of Rome, a woman does not commit adultery with her brother!"
Chapter 26
He had not expected it, but the instant she said it, everything made sense. And while Melania could deceive, she had never lied outright. It would have made his life more pleasant if she did.
Looking at Theras, Wulfred asked, "Is this true?"
Theras nodded and said simply, "She has a brother."
"My word is not good enough for you, Saxon dog!" she screamed, the cords in her neck standing out in her rage, "You make me your wife, twice, and you take my word for nothing? A servant has more credibility than I? Listen carefully, Saxon pig, listen carefully so that you will hear every word, and I vow that every word is the truth." Pausing until the room grew still, she shouted, "I hate you!" Breathing deeply, she said more softly, "You swore to love me, and I knew it for a lie, but I thought that you trusted me. I have never done you an injury from the shadows, Saxon. I fought you openly. I did not promise to protect you while sharpening my knife. I did not vow to provide while planning your death." She paused, eyeing him coldly. It was the first cold rage he had seen in her, and it burned him more fiercely for the difference. Almost quietly, she said, "I have said that I respected you, but I see now your greatest strength is in deceit. You are without honor." There was a collective gasp from all lips, but not from his. He would take all she had to throw at him and not buckle beneath her wrath. She deserved to give vent to this rage. He deserved this abuse. "I do not respect you, Wulfred."
It was the first time she had said his name.
Silence, heavy and black, followed her indictment. None could argue against what she said; Wulfred had not trusted her when she had been worthy of his trust. She had spoken no lie.
But Wulfred knew that she had lied, though without realizing it. She said he did not love her. That was a lie. Now, when the breach between them was wider than it had ever been, he knew it for a lie.
Now, when he had broken whatever trust had been built between them, he knew it. Now, as she stood in stony and righteous distance, he saw what she had become to him.
She was honor when honor was defeat and not praise. She was strength when strength was starved and bloody. She was truth when truth meant death. She was all he'd ever valued in life and she stood before him, as unbowed and proud as always, knowing no other way to be, scorning all other paths. Scorning him.
Why was it now that he knew he loved her?
There was the sound of angry voices and then a voice of command outside the antechamber. Bodies heaved as the newcomers pushed into the center of the tiny room, obliterating the Chi-Rho under their feet. Hensa appeared, dragging a man with him— a man with red hair and silver bracelets.
"Strange place for a meeting," Hensa remarked wryly. "My man, Sigred, had his interest stirred by the Roman woman—"
Wulfred pulled forth his knife and growled, preparing to leap upon his instant adversary.
"No"—Hensa held his arm—"not over a woman. Not over a Roman. He followed her and observed her having a covert conversation with a Roman warrior." Hensa eyed Melania with keen and malicious interest.
Wulfred looked down at Melania for just a moment as she stood in rigid fury to hide her fear. Whatever was charged against Melania, whatever was said, he knew where he would place his trust. He would not fail again.
"Sigred reports—"
"Cannot Sigred speak?" Wulfred interrupted.
Sigred smiled and said easily, "Of course, Wulfred. The Roman asked her about Hensa and about his plans for this rain-soaked land. He was one of Arthur's men and spoke of going west to join him in their battles against us. He would bring whatever information she gave him to Arthur and his cohort. Why would he ask her? Unless she is a spy."
Wulfred did not answer, but asked a question of his own. Like Sigred, his manner was easy—as easy as a swinging blade.
"And what was my wife's answer to these questions?"
Sigred shrugged. "I could not hear it."
Melania jerked forward in angry spasm, crying out, "Liar!" in hoarse Latin.
Wulfred pulled her back by the arm and held her firmly against his side. He would protect her even if she fought him every step, as was her way.
"You must be the only man alive"—he smiled, looking out across the men who had gathered for this sudden trial—"who cannot hear a response made by Melania."
He was rewarded by chuckles and outright guffaws from many of the men, certainly from his own. Hensa had not laughed. Nor had Sigred. It would be a pure pleasure to see to it that Sigred never laughed again.
"Who was the man?" Hensa asked, looking at both Melania and Wulfred. "Her... behavior with him was blatantly compromising, no matter what she did or did not say."
So. They would have Melania for any reason if treason could not be proved. Wulfred understood the game, praying to all his gods that Melania did not.
"He was... is her brother," he said calmly, projecting confidence with his very ease.
Hensa looked unmoved by that testimony. "Loyalty to her own blood would run strong, especially in a woman of such passion. And especially as she makes her hatred of Saxons no secret."
"You have said it," Wulfred said. "Nothing of this woman, my wife, is done in secret."
"Then her hatred is true," Hensa concluded.
Wulfred would continue no longer on this rabbit chase; Melania would not be condemned or saved because of her temperament.
"Is Melania being accused?" he asked outright.
It was that one question that gave Hensa pause. To make an accusation was a serious matter, never done lightly and never in haste. And Hensa was leader, an example; would his hate rule him, or would his head?
"If the man was her brother, the charge of adultery is invalid." Hensa paused, weighing the evidence. "But the charge of treason stands."
Wulfred did not hesitate. Melania was his. She had his trust and his love, though she did not know it.
"I stand as proof," he declared, his voice ringing against the walls of the tiled room. "Melania would not betray me, even to blood kin. This woman knows only the path of honor, no matter what trouble it brings her. If she betrayed me, her pride would demand that she proclaim it to my face. She has freely given her vow to be my wife, and Melania of the Romans would never betray her husband."
Wulfred looked out over them all, his eyes meeting without hesitation those of his brothers in arms. His hand was still upon her arm, his touch as solid as a tether and as gentle as goose down. He claimed her by his touch and by his word. "Her word is true. By her own vow she has taken a Saxon for a husband. Melania would not betray me. To anyone. I stand as proof to all that I have said."
Without pause his comitatus rose like a tide to cover rocks of destruction. Their voices rang out, as loudly as Wulfred's had done, proclaiming her innocence on the strength of their own honor. Melania would not stand alone against Hensa's condemnation.
"I stand as oath-helper," Cynric said firmly, standing to Wulfred's left. "What Wulfred says is true.
She would not betray him."
"I stand as oath-helper," said Balduff. "Melania is true to her husband."
"I stand as oath-helper and declare that Melania is a loyal wife to her Saxon husband," declared Cenred.
"I stand as oath-helper," said Cuthred. "She would not fight against her husband from the darkness."
Ceolmund, who stood at Melania's back, shielding her from the hatred she could not see, said simply, "I stand as oath-helper. Wulfred knows the heart of his wife."
Melania felt the sting of hot tears behind her eyes. She would not let them fall and so disgrace herself or the husband who defended her so staunchly. His comitatus defended her; publicly and formally, they defended her. Why? When had this mob of hairy, naked men become her allies? Or were they more than allies? Friends? No, that could not be. Why had Wulfred defended her? Did he not hate and distrust her as she hated and distrusted him?
And she did hate him. She hated the man who stood so strong at her side, holding her hand protectively in his. She hated the man who had twice tricked her into marriage. She hated that he had distrusted her. She hated him so much that tears fled from behind her eyes, where they belonged, to flood her vision as she looked up at him.
Impossible man to confuse everything this way. He had faced down his leader on her behalf. He had distanced himself from his people to stand in defense of her. Oaf. She would never forgive him for putting himself in such a precarious position. Could she ever forgive herself for being the cause?
"It is not your oath that must be given," Hensa said, clearly surprised by the support she had among his own. "It is Melania's, and she cannot be trusted because she is not one of us."
"She is my wife. I take responsibility for her actions."
"You knew she met with her Roman brother?" Hensa prodded, looking for a weakness and finding it.
"No," Wulfred answered truthfully, his expression almost pained.
What was coming? What was he protecting her from?
"Then..." Hensa drawled, clearly reaching some sort of conclusion.
"Then"—Wulfred took the initiative—"I propose an ordeal to settle the question."
The room almost flew away with the buzz of voices that his declaration inspired. Cynric clasped Wulfred on the shoulder, his own eyes filling with tears, and whispered warnings into his ear. Cuthred banged his seax against his shield and coughed roughly to hide his emotion. Balduff shook his head and looked down at his feet before looking up at her with an expression of melancholy. Ceolmund, behind her, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder in a comforting embrace. The tension was suffocating, yet she did not understand the cause.
Hensa eyed them both, his gaze long on Wulfred standing so protectively beside his wife. An ordeal... it was the way, yet he had not thought Wulfred so attached to his little Roman wife.
"An ordeal it shall be."
With that, the room dissolved of people. Melania and Wulfred were left alone in the antechamber, the Chi-Rho of the Christ appearing almost miraculously beneath their feet. The silence in that small room was frightening.
Wulfred still held her hand. She jerked it out of his grasp, angry because she wanted to throw herself into his arms and weep.
"What, under all of heaven, is an ordeal and why are you engaging in one? I know it must be some monstrous pagan ceremony designed to pacify your pathetic, pretend gods, but why is everyone so set on having one now? And what has this to do with the charge of treason against me?"
She was frightened; she could admit it, but she would not show it. Not now, not when it felt that the edge of the world was rushing toward her. She certainly would not show Wulfred her fear.
"There is nothing for you to fear," he began calmly.
"Oaf! Have I said that I am afraid? You will never hear such from me! I fear nothing you Saxons can devise, so just get on with your pathetic explanation of this barbaric Saxon ritual." His studied calm escalated her fear like wind fanning a fire.
"Your word, your honor, has been questioned. I will now prove you innocent of wrongdoing."
"Am I supposed to care that some filthy Saxons question my word? And do I need you to take care of me? I can well take care of myself, you insignificant barbari...."
It would have been more convincing if she could have stopped her tears from falling.
"I took a vow" —he smiled gently, teasing her— "as you may remember?" He tugged the ends of her hair, urging her into the solace of his embrace. "It was to protect you. It is a vow I intend to keep."
"I remember," she grumbled, brushing her hands hard against her cheeks. "You don't need to prove anything to me."
"Don't I?" he all but whispered, then added hoarsely, "Perhaps not, but I need to prove something to them."
The tension swirled all around them like the licking flames of a fire; she could feel it, and wondered that Wulfred could stand so quietly in the roar of such swirling heat. Something terrible was going to happen. This "ordeal" was some sort of horrible Saxon custom that would hurt Wulfred. She thought of his scars and shuddered. Wulfred must never be hurt again.
"Let me do it," she said, her voice rough with tears. "Let me do whatever it is."
"No, it is my place," he said, holding out his arms, inviting her to enter into that safe place near his heart.
She could not. She was too afraid. She had never known such soaring fear. And it was for Wulfred, not for herself.
"I think even your Christ would agree, Melania."
"Now you bring my own God against me?"
"I do what I can." He smiled softly, his blue eyes melting in their intensity. "You are less than cooperative, as I have said."
It was the truth; she had caused him little except trouble, as had been her purpose. Somehow, over the course of the summer, things had changed. Or maybe it was that she had changed. She no longer was as certain of the truth; the truths her father had taught her were insufficient to the times. The lessons she had learned, or, more accurately, the lessons she had been taught in childhood, were like smoke trails in the sky: thin, ragged, disintegrating.
Wulfred was solid, immovable, and she found reassurance in his unflagging strength. It no longer mattered that Wulfred was Saxon and she was Roman. Only Wulfred mattered.
Peace, Melanius.
"It has never seemed to stop you," she said with tearful wryness.
"Nothing stops me, Melania. Especially concerning you," he said softly.
Cynric came upon them then, his face as somber as Melania was sure hers was terrified. Never had she known such nameless panic; not even the attack of the Saxons had rendered her so enfeebled, because then she had known something of what was coming. Now all she knew was the roar of panic and the blinding blaze of imminent danger. And the danger was for Wulfred.
"All is ready, Wulfred," Cynric said. "They await."
They await.
Wulfred took one deep breath and then led them out of the antechamber, Melania's hand firmly in his. The Saxons, all of them, had formed two rows down the length of her courtyard. They stood with weapons out and shields up, and they stood staring at Wulfred. Releasing her hand, Wulfred walked to the end of the line, his spine stiff and his head high, looking each man in the eye, letting them measure his confidence in his wife and her honor.
Melania studied the scene, looking for the cause of her tumbling panic. She found it at the end of the row. There, resting quietly in a hot fire, was a length of iron, the end of which was beginning to glow red.
It was when Wulfred began to walk toward the glowing iron that she began to scream.
"No!" She ran forward and pulled him back, her arms wrapped around his waist. "Stupid, pagan barbari," she screamed, sobbing, "to do this! What does this self-mutilation prove? Except that you are a hopeless pagan and an imbecile..."
Wulfred turned within her arms and held her, his arms strong and sure while she jerked in her sobbing. He bent his head low—she could feel his breath on the top of her head—and she clung to him as he spoke
.
"If you are innocent of wrongdoing, then I shall heal cleanly. Have no fear. Have no doubts," he whispered, kissing her brow. "As I have none."
"Why?" she cried, turning her face up to his, uncaring that the whole Saxon world watched them.
"Because I trust you, Melania," he said, kissing her softly on the lips. "Now give me your strength, not your fear-driven rage. This cannot be stopped. I would prove to them that you would never betray me. I would prove to you that I..."
He did not finish. He squeezed her gently and then turned again to face his ordeal, an ordeal she had precipitated. But she would not crumble under the weight of that guilt now. Now she would give him what he had asked of her. She would give him her strength and her courage and her faith that God would not allow this man to be harmed even in such a pagan ritual.
She watched him walk to the fire. She watched him with her spine stiff and her head up, as he had shown her how to do. She watched him pause as the iron spat heat up into the misty air and the flames engulfed the metal he must touch.
She did not cry out; she would bite her tongue off first. She did not weep; her tears were blown dry by the heat of this ordeal. He would not see her weeping; he would not think that she in any way doubted him. She would give him her trust and her love.
Her love. She paused as the word took root, suddenly understanding that the seed had been cast long ago. Yes, he had her love. She would give him nothing less.
With his right hand, his sword hand, he grasped the glowing metal almost with eagerness. This he did for her. Melania's right hand clenched in futile imitation until she punctured her palm in shared sacrifice.
The hiss and stench of burning flesh blew back to her almost immediately. She gagged down her sobs and faced him proudly. He turned in place and then, step by slow step, walked the length of that endless line of men. Walked back to her. With her love for him as her only prop, she watched him and waited for him, his every step echoing in her heart as the blood ran down her hand to the ground.
The Saxons banged weapons to shields, a sign of their approval. The pounding roar was nothing to her; she lived in a world of only Wulfred and he was walking toward her. She would be there for him. She would not fail. She knew the color had left her face, but she would stand as straight and tall as a lance for him. He would come to her, and when he did, the ordeal would end.