by Captive
But then, the Romans didn’t assign much credit to the peasant population. The praefectus likely thought if Bren dressed as a Celt of Cymru, he’d be taken as one. The concept that the natives in their far-flung provinces possessed as much loyalty to their own as did the Romans—more, if what he’d learned about their blood-soaked Senate was true—was inconceivable.
To Romans foreigners were inferior, in both blood and intellect. Since Bren’s duties hadn’t taken him in direct conflict with the locals, the praefectus—and Legatus—obviously believed the populace hadn’t noticed him.
“You want me to live in the town?” His voice was level but perhaps not as neutral as he’d imagined as the other man flicked an autocratic hand in a dismissive gesture.
“It’s unpalatable. I know. But if your cover was exposed, your skills would ensure the likelihood of escaping unscathed.”
Meaning his reputation for dispatching those who crossed him was a definite benefit as far as the praefectus was concerned.
The initial distaste of such a task faded, as possibilities filtered through his mind.
“Would this assignment be confined to the town or should I attempt to search for information farther afield?”
“If you need to follow up your suspicions, then you have permission to leave the immediate vicinity without obtaining leave of absence.” The praefectus offered a chilly smile. “Within reason, naturally.”
He could hardly believe it. The praefectus had just handed him carte blanche to come and go from the town as he pleased. Instead of waiting until his next official leave, he could ride from the town on the morrow to find Caratacus.
“I doubt I’ll have reason to leave the town.” He maintained eye contact. “I merely wished to clarify my position if such a circumstance arose.”
“Obtain lodging.” The praefectus flicked a glance over him. “And lose the chain mail. Report in at the end of the week. If you haven’t made any progress by then, we’ll have to abandon it—you’ll be needed in the ranks again.”
He only needed a week. During that time he could visit with his king and pass on conflicting and disturbing information direct to the Roman officers. Unlike other occasions when he’d needed to ensure the rumors couldn’t be traced back to him, this time he didn’t need to cover his tracks.
It was risky. But he’d lived with risk for too long to let that deter him. They hadn’t linked him to the acts of sabotage plaguing the garrison or as the source of demoralizing morale among the ranks. And should suspicion ever be cast his way, he planned on being far from here. Standing by the side of his king.
It was done. In the dingy one-roomed dwelling Deheune had taken her, Morwyn handed the squalling babe back to his beaming mother and a small whisper of heat flickered through her barren soul.
May the blessings of the Morrigan be upon you.
When she’d started the ceremony, trepidation had crawled through her belly, as if her actions were sacrilege and prayers blasphemous. But the words had fallen from her lips, feeling as right and natural as if she uttered them every day. The mother and her kin surrounded her, their faces transfixed as she prepared a makeshift concoction from her limited supply of herbs and potions, before invoking the ancient rituals of the great goddess.
“Thank you, mistress.” The mother, a girl who looked several years younger than Carys, had tears glittering in her eyes. “I was so afraid the Morrigan would never welcome him. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? About his father, I mean.”
A ripple of barely contained fury stirred among the others in the room, but the girl didn’t appear to notice. She was once again gazing at her child with near-reverential awe.
“No.” Morwyn’s voice was strong, assured. No one would dare doubt her word. “The Morrigan has accepted him. Our heritage is his.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she spoke for the goddess, as if she had every right to do so. But she couldn’t let these people see her doubt. For them, her faith had to appear strong and shining and eternal. They believed she was still the Morrigan’s chosen one, a Druid dedicated to the gods and all they represented. What right did she have to shatter those beliefs? When she had nothing of value to offer in their stead but a scorched sense of desolation?
Several times since the invasion, before she had fled to the Isle of Mon, she had assured distraught girls that as long as they brought their child up to honor the great goddess, the heritage of the father meant nothing.
Why should it, when the father neither knew nor cared that his brutal actions had sired a babe?
But back then, she had believed in the Morrigan with all her heart and soul. Had loved her unconditionally and without reserve. Had believed, unequivocally, in her benevolence and justice.
She had never before had to fake her faith.
Yet underneath her disdain, the need to believe flourished. And even though she couldn’t embrace her goddess, couldn’t forgive how the Morrigan had demanded they flee from Cymru on that night of devastation, she couldn’t deny the comfort these people drew from their deity’s name.
It was a small sacrifice. To pretend nothing had changed when everything had if it made such a difference to so many. She gathered her things, tried to smother the odd tug deep in the pit of her belly.
She didn’t need this. She hadn’t missed it. This bestowing from the goddess was no longer her calling.
“Mistress.” Deheune hurried up to her and then paused, anxiety flashing across her face. She held out a small bundle. “It’s not much, but I pray it’s acceptable to the goddess.”
Heat burned Morwyn’s cheeks. She clamped her lips together against the words that tumbled on her tongue. By the look of things, these people could scarcely manage to feed and clothe themselves. She didn’t want to take their meager offering from their mouths. But to refuse, no matter how delicately she worded it, would only cause grave offense.
“I thank you on behalf of the Morrigan.” She took the bundle, felt like a thief. In the past, these naming rituals were a great and wonderful celebration; a cause for lavish sacrifice and feasting. Several babes would be blessed at the one ritual, the cost spread among countless kin and enjoyed in the sacred oak groves of their ancestors.
Not hidden inside a drafty shack, away from disapproving enemy eyes.
A dull ache gripped her heart. Just because she had discovered their gods were nothing but weak, malleable cowards, she realized she didn’t want their names and ways to be lost, crushed underfoot by the equally despicable Roman deities.
But that wasn’t going to happen. When the battle was won, when the invaders were driven from their lands, order would be restored. And in that order, their gods would once again reign supreme.
She just wasn’t sure that when that happened, she could stomach taking her rightful place with her fellow Druids.
“I’ll pass the word, mistress.” Deheune’s whisper was conspiratorial. Morwyn stared at her, uncomprehending. “To the others,” she added. “There have been a great many births since the night of devastation. Your arrival’s like . . . It’s like a miracle, mistress.”
Her mouth dried as panic kicked in her gut. How could she bear to repeat this ancient ritual, mouth the holy words, invoke the spirit of the great goddess when she didn’t believe?
Sweat prickled her skin, her palms clammy. She couldn’t do it. And not just because of her personal feelings. She was leaving, to join Caratacus. To fight for these people’s freedom. Surely that was more important than staying and blessing innocent babes?
Deheune gazed at her, at first with wide-eyed trust and then with growing apprehension, as if she guessed Morwyn’s thoughts. The notion horrified.
“Don’t be distressed.” Deheune dared to lay the tips of her fingers on Morwyn’s wrist before hastily snatching her hand back as if she couldn’t believe her audacity. “Only some have embraced Rome. Most of us long for the old ways. We know whom to trust, mistress. Your presence among us would never be betrayed to the
enemy.”
Because if the enemy captured a Druid, even a lapsed Druid, they’d crucify her without a moment’s hesitation as a warning and reminder of their cursed Emperor’s edict.
As they would Carys, if they discovered her true identity in Camulodunon.
Chills scuttled over her arms. That hadn’t occurred to her at the time. Morwyn had scarcely thought twice about Carys’s confidences. But if the Romans found out she was not only a Druid but also passing on her knowledge, pregnant or not, crucifixion would be the least of her tortures.
She stared into Deheune’s anxious eyes, and realization dawned. Carys might not intend to take up weapons and fight the enemy in hand-to-hand combat. But, in her own way, she was fighting them all the same.
How could Morwyn refuse to bless these people’s babes? It would give them renewed hope and strengthen their faith to keep strong under the enemy’s thumb. She could still find her way to the Briton king. She would just leave a few days later than she’d first intended—that was all.
A smoky vision of her Gaul drifted across her mind and she smothered a sigh. Yes, it meant she could also enjoy a few more days of his company, but that wasn’t the reason she was staying.
It wasn’t.
The thought thudded in her skull. Liar.
“We’d only share the knowledge of your presence with those we trust.” Deheune edged a little closer. “There’s one other Druid in hiding here. One of the Elders, a chosen one of Belatucadros. Those who’ve kept his presence secret these last five moons would never betray you, mistress.”
Light was fading when Morwyn finally returned to their lodgings. Her head throbbed and heart hammered and blood thundered through her veins, yet despair dampened her excitement at the knowledge she could share nothing of what she had done or discovered with her Gaul.
In the morn she was returning to Deheune’s home, where she’d be escorted to the Druid Elder, the chosen one of the god of war and destruction. It was his calling, the woman had explained without even a trace of resentment, that prevented him from participating in any of the Morrigan’s rituals. Even though, as Morwyn well knew, he would be more than capable of undertaking such ceremonies.
The Gaul was leaning against the stone wall of the lodgings, arms crossed, looking formidable and deadly. And obviously waiting for her.
A sharp pain stabbed through her heart, as if he had plunged a dagger into her breast. Her breath stumbled, and for a moment the notion fluttered across her mind as to how different this would all be, if only he hadn’t pledged his loyalty to the Romans.
But he had. And she was forever pledged to rid her land of the invaders. The pain dulled, curled into a hard knot, and she dragged in a deep breath in an attempt to dislodge the constriction blocking her throat.
Somehow, despite everything, she’d begun to like her Gaul. As she drew level with him, his harsh features relaxed and the faintest smile touched his lips, as if he hadn’t been certain she intended to return.
Like him? Who was she trying to fool? She more than liked him, no matter how many times she reminded herself of the abduction or the way he’d chained her.
She cared for him. And it could lead to nothing but despair.
“You didn’t lose your way.” It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact. He threaded her fingers through his, as if he didn’t care who saw them, and tugged her against his side.
“Of course not.” When had she started to care for him? She’d tried so hard to keep her distance. But she should have known back in Camulodunon. When she’d declined Carys’s offer to remain.
“Been shopping?” He glanced at the bundle she still grasped in her other hand. She’d almost forgotten about it. “There was no need. Food’s included in the price of lodgings.”
She didn’t know precisely what was in the bundle, except it felt like an assortment of root vegetables. A rich sacrifice, but an odd mixture of choice if she had truly bartered for their meal that eve.
“I didn’t realize.” She glanced at a tiny beggar crouched by the side of the dwelling. “Here.” She held out the bundle and after a moment of clear astonishment the ragged creature darted out and snatched it from her hand. Dark hair matted, skin embedded with grime, it was impossible to tell whether it was a girl or a boy.
With a silent sigh Morwyn turned away from the sight of the beggar tearing open the bundle. There was nothing she could do. Beggars appeared to proliferate under the mighty Roman occupation.
Once inside their room, the Gaul opened one of his pouches attached to his belt, turned her hand over and tipped a pile of coins onto her palm. “Your change from the sale of your bracelet.”
Impressed, she stowed the coins in one of her own leather pouches. “You must have remarkable bartering skills.”
“I don’t get cheated, if that’s what you mean.”
“I can believe it.” She rose onto her toes and brushed a kiss across his lips. Why not enjoy his touch while she could? She wanted to make as many memories with him as possible. Memories she could savor for the rest of her life.
“Tempting.” He pulled back, a grin illuminating his face. She sucked in a shocked breath, tried to rearrange her thought but couldn’t.
He was definitely grinning. And it transfigured his face even more fundamentally than his elusive smiles. Mesmerized, she stared, uncaring of the passage of time or how hunger growled in the pit of her stomach.
If only she could capture this look, seal it for eternity, so every smallest detail would remain fresh in her mind no matter how many seasons might pass.
“More than tempting, if you continue to look at me with such adoration in your eyes.” His tone implied he was flirting in the most outrageous manner. Her Gaul, flirting, when only days ago she had wondered if he even knew the meaning of the word.
“It’s tragically obvious your eyes require a thorough cleansing.” Except she had the worrying notion he had seen more in her look than she intended. She accompanied her remark with a haughty toss of her head, in hopes of distracting his attention.
“Maybe.”
Gods, and still he flirted. Fascinated, she could only continue to stare at him as if she had never seen him before. And it was almost as if she hadn’t. He seemed . . . different. She couldn’t place it. And then something odd about his appearance occurred to her.
“You’re not wearing your chain mail or helmet.” He always wore his armor, unless they were readying for bed. It was as if their absence lifted a great weight from his shoulders, and not a physical weight but spiritual.
“And that’s why,” he said, sliding his arm around her waist and escorting her to the door, “I have the strength to resist your charms in favor of eating first. Because I can spend the night with you.”
Confused, she smiled up at him. Of course he was spending the night with her. Where else would he sleep?
They entered a room that was dark, stuffy and filled with a tantalizing aroma of simmering food. A swarthy man took one look at her Gaul and lumbered over to them, jerking his head to indicate they should follow. He then proceeded to grasp the hair of two youths sitting at a corner table and toss them across the floor.
“Here,” he said, wiping the spills on the table with the sleeve of his tunic.
They sat opposite each other. “Wine?” The Gaul took a pottery amphora from a serving girl and picked up a goblet in readiness.
“This eve you offer me wine?” She raised her eyebrows. “Every other time you gave me water.” Not that she minded. Had she wanted wine after that second night, she would have taken some whether he’d offered or not.
“You’re welcome to have water. I thought you might prefer wine for a change since we’re unlikely to be watched.”
“Watched?” Involuntarily she glanced around the crowded room, where Celts ate with relish and drank local ale and Roman wine with abandon. There didn’t appear to be any Romans. Unless they dressed as locals when off duty.
“Rome,” the Gaul said, “
doesn’t approve of women enjoying wine.”
“Rome,” she said, “doesn’t approve of women.”
He laughed, and didn’t try to smother it. She forgot about her wine and smiled back, entranced by his humor. “You’re not of that same mind, then?”
“No.” He took a swallow of the dark golden liquid. “Taken in moderation, why not?”
She leaned over the table, careful not to touch the sticky surface. “Is it an edict from their gods?”
“I doubt it.” The faintest trace of derision threaded his words, although the smile still hovered on his lips.
There was so much she wanted to know about him. So much she knew she never would. But perhaps he wasn’t entrenched in Roman culture. Perhaps she might be able to tell him a little of herself, after all.
“Do you worship their gods?”
He hesitated for the merest moment, not as if he didn’t trust her with his answer but as if he’d never before been asked such a question.
“No.”
Her heart thudded against her ribs in sudden excitement. “Our gods?” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. Even if her faith had diminished, it would still be a bond between them. She didn’t even bother analyzing why she wanted to find a bond between them.
“Do you believe in them, Morwyn?” His voice was low, his eyes mesmeric. Her breath caught in her throat, amplified her heartbeat.
“I don’t know.” It was a breathy whisper, and in that moment she truly didn’t know. Only knew she wanted, more than anything, to believe in him.
He smiled again, but this time it was tarnished with bitterness. “All gods are the same.” He finished his wine, poured another. “They speak through priests and oracles, or”—his gaze lanced through her—“Druids.” The word dripped with venom.
It was as if he’d physically punched her in the face, and she only just prevented herself from reeling back in shocked reaction. His face was no longer twisted with revulsion, as it had when he’d spat Druids at her, but the image was burned into her brain.