Love's Blazing Ecstasy (24 page)

The last rays of the day faded into the darkness of the night in the clearing, the sacred grove of the oak trees, as the seven white-robed figures joined in their circle to thank the gods for their prosperity. Unaware of the brutal slaughter of their people, these Druids rejoiced in the beauty of the world. The silence of the grove was broken only by the singsong of the voices raised in praise to the gods and goddesses. But soon another sound overtook the chanting as their fate approached them, marching toward the grove.

Doom was thick as fog in the air. They were trapped, with nowhere to run. Terror gripped them as they looked into the eyes of their vanquishers. With horror they watched as their sacred trees were hacked down before their very eyes, then set aflame.

“A curse upon you,” the oldest Druid threatened, only to be put to the sword as soon as the words were past his lips.

Just as Severus had threatened to do, he had destroyed the great stronghold of Druidism, and soon the very word “Druid” would disappear from all
Roman writing and thought. But his brutal act of terror would never be forgiven or forgotten.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Wynne awoke, her head throbbing; she was confused. Where was she? She could tell by the slant of the light that it was early morning but didn’t know where she was. Putting her hand to her head, she tried to remember what had happened, and shuddered as the memories came flooding back. She had nearly been violated by the Romans and would have been if not for Edan. He had saved her—but had he been able to save himself?  Her father?

She tried to raise herself up but her bruised and battered body was too stiff and cramped to move. Tears of anger sprang into her eyes as she began to curse the
Romans. She could see the fires of their camps close to the wreckage which had once been her village, and was overwhelmed by anger and loathing. How could she ever have been so foolish as to trust one of them?

“Because I loved Valerian,” she whispered to herself, feeling anew the grief at his betrayal. As she wept, part of her, deep inside her heart, wanted to believe that he had loved her, that there was an explanation for what had occurred, that he had not lied to her. At first her horror at what was happening had clouded her mind, but now she felt that she must talk to Valerian and give him a chance to explain to her what had gone wrong. Why had his soldiers swooped down upon her village, killing and burning? Why? She had to know.

Struggling to her feet against the pain which ravished her, Wynne looked around. Everywhere she saw the mask of death. As if in a trance she walked closer and closer to the center of her village. She was hungry and thirsty, yet at the same time knew that it would be a long time before she could force anything to pass her lips.

She was filled with fear as she neared the lodge of her father; her home. Was her father alive? What about the others—Tyrone was dead she knew, but what about Isolde?  Was the woman who had been so kind to her alive? She shuddered as she remembered that her cousin’s wife had been ravished.  Isolde’s screams would be forever implanted in her memory.

“Edan…..” Had he  rescued her only to endanger himself? And Cedric—what had happened to the chief of the tribe? As if in answer to her question, she looked in horror upon his dead body. He had been hacked to pieces by a Roman’s sword. Recoiling in horror, she was ravaged by grief and swore vengeance on these hated killers who had so callously wiped out a people with no more thought than if they had been stepping upon a hill of ants.

With tears streaming down her face, she made her way to the lodge and entered, praying to the gods for her father’s safety. Moving toward where he lay, she called to him, but he did not move.

“Your father is dead,” Brenna said coldly.

“No!” Wynne stared a
t the lifeless form upon the ground, numb with an all-consuming anguish, then she screamed as the terror and horror of what had happened hit her full force. Throwing herself upon her father’s body, she clung to Adair and whispered his name over and over, and told him how much she loved him, how much she would miss him, until her voice was just a croak.

Her eyes sought solace from Brenna, her only comfort now, assuming that they would be companions in grief. Together they wished Adair a quick return to the world in a new life.

“Who did this to him?” Wynne demanded, brushing her tears away with the sleeve of her tunic. “He will not escape my wrath.” To have struck down a helpless unarmed man was unfathomable.

Brenna eyed her stepdaughter triumphantly, seei
ng a chance to even the score of a hundred imagined slights over the years. “I saw clearly with my own eyes the slayer of your father,” she answered.

Spring to her feet, Wynne was on Brenna, shaking her by the shoulders in her frenzy to know the identity of her father’s murderer. “What did he look like? Tell me. I must know. I will search the entire camp of the
Romans to find him and strike him down so that my father can find peace in his new life!”

Brenna pulled free of Wynne’s grasp, wanting to avoid her eyes. “He
was a tall, dark-haired young Roman,” she said clearly, remembering the Roman who had escaped her clutches that night so long ago, when he was saved by the hand of her husband’s daughter. She would never forget his face. “His eyes were of an amber hue, his cheekbones high, his nose finely chiseled. He had a cleft in his chin, like so.” She pressed her Thumb hard into her stepdaughter’s chin.

“There musts be many
Romans who look the same,” Wynne whispered, ignoring the icy ball of foreboding she felt in the pit of her stomach.

“He was a leader of his people. A centurion,” Brenna continued. She managed to calm her voice, closing in for the kill. “I heard the other
Romans call him Valerian.” How many times had she heard her husband’s daughter cry out that name in her sleep.

“No!”

“Yes. That was his name,” Brenna said triumphantly.

Wynne was suspicious of her stepmother and had no reason to trust her. “You are lying. Tell me the truth or I swear….”

“I speak the truth.” With icy control Brenna met Wynne’s eyes with her own, to give the force of truth to her words. “Why would I lie to you?”

Wynne knew that Brenna had no love for her, but reasoned that she had made a mistake. 
There had been so many soldiers.  “Perhaps Valerian is a common name and…and many of the Romans have dark hair.” Valerian was not the kind of man who would ruthlessly strike down an unarmed man.  No, Brenna must have been seeing things.

“I like you, want to see Adair’s murder avenged,” Brenna exclaimed.

“Do you?”  Wynne couldn’t forget how uncaring Brenna had been after the accident, nor that she had taken a lover.

Knowing that her stepdaughter doubted her, Brenna made every effort to sound convincing. “I am telling you the truth. I heard the
Roman himself speak his name.  Valerian. I heard him argue with your father, telling him that he wanted you to be his concubine, that he would provide for Adair as long as he found you desirable. He said he would take your father with him to his camp to assure that you would freely grant him your favors. Your father vowed that as long as he was alive he would keep you from the hands of such as the Roman. In anger he struck your father down.”

“No. Valerian would never do such a thing!” She remembered how he had listened so patiently and exhibited caring when she had told him about her father.

“Oh no? Your Valerian murdered my husband, talked of peace with his serpent’s tongue, playing you false while all the time he plotted to use our defeat for his own glory.”

“No.” Wynne put her hands over her ears. “I will not believe you. He would never strike down an unarmed man, and not my father!”  And yet Wynne was bewildered. How would Brenna know so much about the
Roman—his eyes, his face, the dimple in his chin—unless she had seen him? And how had she known his name?

With a smug smile on her lips, Brenna went to retrieve the sword. How fortunate for her that she had witnessed the capture of the
Roman by his very own men, had seen where the sword fell. By blaming the Roman for Adair’s death, she would be taking all chance of discovery from herself. No one would ever know that she had killed the Druid herself, and besides it was such a sweet triumph to bring Wynne such pain.

“Here is the
Roman’s sword,” she said, thrusting it into her stepdaughter’s hands.

Wynne examined it carefully, remembering the feel of it in her hands that night when she had wielded it herself. She remembered the hilt, the unusual markings, like no other, the small nick she herself had made in the sword as she had fought with the hulking giant who had sought her death. It was Valerian’s, of that she was certain. Still, in her heart she could not believe that he was responsible for this foul a deed.

Brenna perceived the doubt in her stepdaughter’s eyes. “Is it because he said that he loved you that you doubt the truth of my words? Did you perhaps believe him because he used your soft white body to quench his desires? Did he promise you eternal faithfulness? Oh, Wynne, you fool. Men are all alike. They say soft words of love while their manhood is stiff, but by the light of the day those words blow away like the wind.”

Wynne could stand no more. Sobbing hysterically, she fled the l
odge to seek solace in the  trees of the sacred grove. She ran as fast as her feet would carry her, oblivious of her bruises and wounds. But the sacred grove was no more; in its place were charred stumps, among which lay the slain Druids. “You could not even spare us that which we hold sacred,” she lamented.  Pouring out her heart to the gods, she said a prayer for those who had died.

“May all who have fallen here be brought again to new life, moving through all the next lives without fear, without pain,” she intoned. “Death and birth in their never-ending circle, move quickly before our eyes.” With her right hand she drew an imaginary circl
e in front of her face, the sign of life eternal.

Sinking to her knees, Wynne felt as if she herself were one of the dead, for surely the woman that had once been was gone forever, killed by the
Roman’s lies and treachery.

“Vile
Roman!” she raged. “Liar.” She rubbed her hand across her mouth to remove the feel of his kisses.

A sound behind her caused her to start, but it was only Edan. “I mourn for your father and share your grief,” he said sadly. “He was a great man and will be missed.”

Wynne stood up and ran to him, relieved to see that he still lived and that he was free of the  Romans. “Oh, Edan, you are alive! So many have died that I feared for you.” She buried her face in the shelter of his arms as she had done since childhood.

“Yes, I’m alive,” he said bitterly. “No thanks to your
Roman. Would that I had been able to kill him, to avenge our dead.” The sunlight shone upon his red hair, making it shine like a glowing fire.

“Why did the
Romans do this?” she cried. “They have even ravaged our sacred grove.”

Edan gently brushed back a lock of her hair. She was so very dear to him, he had always loved her so. “Because they are like animals, yet they deem themselves to be our betters. How I hate them. All of them, especially your
Roman. He mocked me in his babbling tongue as we fought.”

“You fought with him?” Wynne broke away from the secure warmth of his arms to look into his face.

“Yes.” Taking hold of her arms, he sat her down and told her his story of their battle. How he had recognized Sloan, had pulled the Roman from the horse, how they had fought. “He was intent upon going into your father’s lodge. I tried to stop him and would have had I not been taken from behind by a group of his fellow Romans. But I soon broke free again.”

His words were like a dagger to her heart. “Then it is true. He did kill my father.”

“He murdered Adair?” Edan exclaimed, aghast at this news. “I had no idea of the depth of his treachery. Ah, my poor Wynne…to be so betrayed.”

Wynne could stand the torment no longer. She had to be alone with her grief. “Please leave me,” she whispered, looking at him with pain-filled eyes. Understanding her feelings, he did as she bade him.

Wynne beat her breast in grief as was her people’s custom; tears of rage and sorrow filled her eyes. She had loved Valerian, really loved him—more than life itself, and he had betrayed her, rewarded her love and her loyalty with murder. She had saved his life and he had taken the life of her father.

“I will avenge my father,” she vowed. “Somehow, someday, I will see justice done.” So saying, she fell upon the ground, giving vent to her anguish.

Wynne’s eyes were dry at he father’s funeral. She had cried out her soul these last few days; there were no more tears to shed. For her people death was usually a time for celebration, not grief, a time when the spirit moves on to a new life; and yet there was no joy this day. How could the spirits of the dead go peacefully to a new life amid the ruins of what had once been such a peaceful village?

The death toll had been taken: thirty had been killed, including all twelve of the Druids. Among the dead were Cedric, Tyrone, and Adair.  Many people had been wounded. If the gods were kind, they would survive.

Dressed in her tunic of red—the color of death and blood, symbolizing the return of the spirit to the fire of life—Wynne looked down upon her father for the last time. “I will avenge you, Father,” she vowed, with her hand on her dagger, “if it takes me eternity to do so. You will be revenged.”

Following Celtic custom, the bodies of the dead were cremated in a round barrow, the ashes scattered to the winds to speed the dead on their journey to a new life. Wynne remained dry-eyed during the ceremony, as her sorrow turned into hatred for those who had taken everything she held so dear.

Seeing Brenna standing nearby and noticing that she was wearing her father’s amulet, Wynne approached her and yanked the charm from her stepmother’s throat. “That is mine by right of law,” Wynne said firmly, and turned her back.

Brenna put her hand to her throat, her eyes blazing with fury. “You will pay for this insult, Wynne. That I promise you,” she hissed.

Sitting numbly before the ashes of the fire of life, Wynne stared at the place which once had symbolized the soul of her people. Never would she forget the atrocities she and her people had suffered.

Feeling a hand touch her shoulder, she jumped, and a scream started
in her throat as she imagined that she was once again to be assaulted by the filthy conquerors. 

“It is only I. Isolde,” came a voice she knew so well.

“Oh, Isolde,” she cried, gathering her cousin into the safety of her arms. She had not spoken with her since that terrible day in the granary. 

Friends even before Isolde had married Tyrone, they had always comforted each other, even as children when one of them had been punished or frightened in some manner. Now Isolde gave vent to her sorrow, weeping tears of grief and humiliation, then stepped back to look upon Wynne’s face.

“We have both suffered so much. It is as if I too died that day…my spirit did,” Isolde cried.

“The
Romans! How I hate them,” Wynne replied, contorting her fact with anger.

Isolde shook her head. “Hate is a feeling which destroys,” she said softly. “Don’t let your feelings destroy you, Wynne. What is done is done.”

Wynne looked at her with an incredulous expression. “How can you not feel loathing for these barbarians who have killed your husband?”

Isolde’s eyes were filled with her sorrow as she bent her head. “I loved Tyrone, but he would not want me to let the worms of evil rancor eat away my heart. I will mourn him, but I will not give in to my hatred, and you must not do so either. There is much
to be done now, rebuilding, taking care of our wounded…”

Though Wynne knew that her cousin spoke wisely, she also knew that it would be hard to put the past behind her.  Her anger was too deeply entrenched. Bidding her cousin good-bye, she left the fire of life to wander back toward the lodge. She could hear the shrill sound of Brenna’s laughter cut through the silence of the night. Turning in the direction of the sound, Wynne could see the buxom woman who had once been her father’s wife, surrounded by
Roman soldiers. Indeed, the dark-haired woman did not seem to remember that it was by their swords that her people had been so savagely murdered. Clenching her fists in anger, Wynne looked up to find Edan staring down at her.

“Are you all right, Wynne? You look as if you are preparing yourself for war.”

“Oh, how I wish that I could.” She fought for a moment against the tide of fury which threatened to engulf her. “My father has not been dead long, and already that woman is playing the traitor.”

“She is looking out for herself, but then she always did.  If only your father’s eyes had not been blinded because of her beauty.”

“Beauty,” she scoffed.  “She has always been ugly to my eyes because I could see into her soul. And now she is using her wiles to turn our tragedy into a victory for herself.”

“She seeks to gain power and favor with our new masters,” Edan said thoughtfully, sharing her loathing for Brenna.

“Well, you can soon put an end to that when you are chief…..”

Edan shook his head.  “If she has her way, I fear that I will not be chief after all.”

“Not be chief? But it is your right as son of the slain chieftain. Even the Romans dare not take this honor away from you, though you will no doubt have to bow to their yoke.” But a voice inside her head told her that Edan was right. The Romans were the masters now, and all their lives, their fates, were in Roman hands.

Edan tightened his grip on Wynne’s shoulders. “How I wish that I would be chieftain with you by my side.”  His eyes were hopeful that after all that had happened she might have changed her mind about marrying him.

Wynne pulled away from him. “No, it cannot be.” She would never give her heart again.

“Is it because you still love the
Roman that you deny me?” Edan asked jealously.

“Love the
Roman?” She whirled upon him, her eyes blazing. “I do not love the Roman. He betrayed me and murdered my father. Were he standing before me now, I would take his life and be glad of it.”

“Wynne……” He reached out to her.

She ran quickly to the door of the lodge. Edan deserved much better than a woman who was hollow, soiled, and had bedded another. At the door she paused. “Someday you will find a woman to love, who loves you, Edan. One who will make you forget me.”

“I will never love another woman as I love you,” he answered.

Unable to bear the pain on his face, she sought the safety of the familiar dwelling where she now lived all alone. Sinking to her knees in her own sorrow, she knew for a certainty that she would never love again. That in spite of all her words, all that he had done, it was true—she still loved the Roman. As she recalled with anguish his loving face, his tender touch, she suddenly thought it odd that she had not seen him with all the other Romans these past days in the village.  Was he avoiding her or was he gone?

“No doubt he is on his way back to his chieftain’s city, to
Rome and his glory,” she thought angrily.  “Perhaps I will never see him again.” Strange how that thought brought her such pain, a stab of grief that she rationalized as being caused by her fear that her father’s death might never be avenged.

Manacled and chained like a slave, Valerian was brought before Severus in his tent. The beady eyes of the tribune swept over him with amusement and triumph. “So the mighty Valerian, the brave centurion, is here to answer to my justice.”

“Justice.  Is that what you call it.”

With a shove Severus humbled Valerian, pushing him so that he sprawled at his feet. “Yes, justice. And no power on earth can save you now,” he taunted.

“You murdering swine!” Valerian exclaimed, his eyes blazing, heedless of the danger. He was already destined to be executed; what more could Severus do to him?

“I would be careful what names I let tumble from my lips, centurion, lest you lose your tongue as well as your head.”

“You slaughtered unarmed men, men who wanted only peace. They were going to lay down their arms and talk with you. Your victory could have been had without a drop of blood spilled.” Valerian pulled at his chains, anxious to come upon this grinning baboon and tear him limb from limb, but he was securely bound. He managed to stand up, but Severus struck him with his sword hilt, nearly knocking him senseless. Still, the hatred continued to glow from the centurion’s ey
es. He would never grovel before this murderer.

“You expect me to actually trust the word of the barbarian Celts, a people who sacrifice men by the dozen to their pagan gods at their fire festivals? They are animals, uncivilized brutes,” The tribune snorted, reaching for his cup of wine and gulping it greedily.
Wiping his mouth with his bare arm, he sneered again at this prisoner.

“And what are we? You call murdering men civilized? What about our gladiators, or the Christians who
se death amuses our emperor, or the executions which take place every day, or the murder of helpless slaves?”

“That is different. It has to be done in order to keep the peace! The priests of these people burn large wicker baskets filled with humans. They draw omens from their death agonies.
” Severus took another drink of wine, swished it around in his mouth, then spit it on the ground at Valerian’s feet. “Rome may not always be merciful, but our gods themselves must be horrified by this brutality.”