Love's Blazing Ecstasy (28 page)

“Meghan, I do not know how to thank you.”

“I want no thanks. To see you safe is reward enough both for me and for Ibu,” she answered, feeling a twinge of sadness
in addition to her elation at seeing him atop the horse.  She would miss him!

“Be careful. I pray that you will not be suspected for what has transpired.”

She tried her best to sound brave.  “We won’t be. All will be well.  Just take care of yourself.”

“If the gods will it, I will see you again!” He leaned down and gently stroked her red-gold hair in a gesture of fond farewell. “Now, get back to your tent and remember that you know nothing of this night’s work.”

“I will.  Be…be cautious and take care….” She clutched her chest, certain her heart was breaking, watching as Valerian rode off into the night.

Wynne lay upon the cloak spread beneath her on the hard ground—a makeshift bed. Her entire body ached, from head to her toes, a result of the difficult journey to Eboracum she had been forced to undertake. She was used to riding, but not for so long nor so far. Already they had covered fifty miles, but they had hundreds of miles left to travel.

Her guards had been kind to her, to her surprise, particularly the young man named Burrus. Severus had ordered them never to leave her alone, and being constantly watched had begun to wear on her nerves. Only the veil of darkness gave her respite from the soldiers’ ever-watching eyes.

Wynne considered herself fortunate, for Severus had not touched her since that day in his tent, and then he had only embraced her and nuzzled her neck. His touch had made her ill with revulsion, and she wondered how she would ever be able to bear bedding him when she was forced to do so once he himself arrived in Eboracum. S
he questioned his haste in seeing her off on the journey; it was as if he wanted to hide her—but from whom? And what had become of Brenna? she wondered. How she had dreaded seeing the hate-filled eyes of her stepmother, witnessing her shame, yet strangely she had not seen the evil woman since being summoned to the tent of the tribune.

So many questions left unanswered
, she thought, determined to maintain her unemotional countenance—neither frowning nor smiling. It had earned her the nickname of “ice princess” from the soldiers but she could tell from their eyes that they admired her spunk. In the solitude of the night, however, she gave in to her frustrations and her sorrow.

Slave! Slave!
The very word haunted her nights and rang in her ears. She was Severus’ slave, his concubine, his woman.
No, I’m not his. Never will I belong to anyone but myself,
she thought vehemently. Yet she had wanted to belong to someone once—to Valerian. She had wanted to be his wife. Oh, why  couldn’t she get that murdering, lying Roman out of her thoughts?

A hand on her shoulder caused her to wince. “Are you all right?” a voice she recognized as belonging to Burrus asked.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine…just…bad dreams,” she answered in Latin.  She could thank Valerian for one thing, He had taught her several additional words  in his language that had helped her communicate with these Roman dogs, and day by day she was becoming more proficient in their tongue.  Soon she would speak it almost as well as her own.

“I’m…I’m sorry that you must be treated like a prisoner,” Burrus said.

Turning, she could see his face in the moonlight. He was handsome, though not as handsome as Valerian. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with him? At least she didn’t think Burrus would lie to her and worse yet, kill her father.  At the reminder of what Valerian had done she wanted to scream out in rage, yet she held her emotions in control. After a moment she again looked at Burrus, his kind deep-set eyes, the strong chin, the full mouth.

Why he is even younger than I am
, she thought in surprise. It was the first time she had looked at him so closely, and the knowledge of his youth was startling. It made her feel strangely protective. She who was his prisoner, his enemy.

She put her thoughts into words. “You are so young.”

“I am older than I look,” he replied. It seemed that his smile lit up the night, his teeth straight and white. He ran his fingers through his dark brown hair, untangling the wavy strands, then again touched her arm.

“Why are you kind to me?” she asked suddenly, her eyes meeting his and holding his gaze.

“Because…because…well, I admire your courage,” he stammered, glancing away.

“I am just a slave and no longer free.  I would imagine that would make a difference,” she whispered sadly.

“I don’t care what you are, slave, free….. I will protect you.”

He seemed so earnest in his admonition but she still questioned. “Will
I be safe on the journey?”  The way the soldiers looked at her was unnerving.

She felt the hand tighten on her arm in a gesture of reassurance and was surprised to feel affection for this gentle young man. He was not like the others. She could tell that he had no heart for the life he was living.

“You are safe here. No one will harm you,” he promised. And she believed him, for he was the temporary leader of the century, until a new one could be chosen at Eboracum.

“Thank you,” she answered, reaching up to touch his hand. The thought entered her mind that Valerian, too, had been a leader of these
Romans, a centurion such as the one she had heard about who had been sent away from his men in disgrace.

Oh, why must everything remind me of him?
She scolded silently to herself, lying back down upon her bed and trying in vain to sleep. The sounds of the night became louder, the blowing of the wind assailing her ears. Curling up on her hard pallet, Wynne shivered.

“You are cold,” she heard Burrus say, and felt the heavy touch of a warm woolen cloak spread over her body.

Somehow the thought that she at last had a friend soothed her, and Wynne fell into a deep, untroubled sleep at last.

Before the first light of morning appeared, Wynne was roused from her sleep to set out again upon the rough terrain. She was given her ration of bread and porridge and then told to mount her horse for the journey. How she longed for a chance to wash her hair, to rid herself of the filth from the road, but there was neither the time nor the place to bathe, and so with a sigh she climbed on a horse’s back, the one she had been told to use for the journey. Since a slave could own no property, Wynne’s white horse had been given to one of Severus’ soldiers, and she was riding a gray mare.

The crisp early-morning air was invigorating. Wynne’s cheeks glowed pink from the cold whipping her face, and she enjoyed the ride this morning, no matter where they were headed.

“I see that you are feeling better this morning,” she heard a voice behind her say. Looking back, she saw the now familiar face of Burrus. His brown eyes were looking at her with admiration, his dark brown hair ruffling in the breeze.

“Better, yes. When I ride, I feel free; at one with the earth.” She smiled at him then. It was the first time he had
ever seen her smile, and he was dazzled by her beauty. He hated himself for being the one to take her to the confines of the camp at Eboracum. She deserved far better than Sevrus, though he dared not let her escape or he would face the same fate as Valerian. At the thought of his friend, he winced as if struck. There was little doubt that the tribune would carry out his threat of beheading the centurion for it was obvious that he envied him to the point of insanity.

Noticing the sad look in the young man’s eyes, Wynne cocked her head to look at him closer. “What is wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing. I…I was just thinking of my centurion. We were friends, he and I, and I fear he has been unjustly sentenced to die. You see, you are not the only one who has been wronged by Severus Cicero.”

“Your centurion, what was he like?” Wynne asked in curiosity, carefully managing her horse so that she rode beside Burrus’s own mount.

“Honorable, peace-loving, strong, brave. All the things I want to be. He hated war and the violence and death it brought, and for that he has been punished.” He looked at her, his brown eyes mirroring a sadness, a disillusionment of hopes and dreams, which struck a sympathetic chord in Wynne. The world was not the place he had imagined it to be; it was cruel, hard, and lonely.

“This centurion of yours does not sound like a
Roman to me,” she answered. “To me, most Romans are heathen dogs, animals who enjoy bloodshed.”

“He is
Roman all right. I can vouch for that. Perhaps you will see him once we arrive at Eboracum.” The young centurion focused his eyes upon the horizon. Alarm coursed through his veins. “Halt!” he ordered, seeing before him in the distance the black specks of an army, looking like ants. In this area of the country, Celto-Iberian tribalism survived in its more primitive forms, and he feared an attack.

Seeing the drift of his senses, Wynne looked also in that direction.  “Brigantes,” she said.

“Brigantes?” Burrus repeated, ashamed at the fear he was feeling. “Are they peaceful or are they warriors?”

“They are enemies of my people,” she answered. “We have fought them many times in the past. They are heathens—take human sacrifice.  My people the Parisi do not spill human blood!” And yet they had been slaughtered, she thought angrily.

“They make human sacrifices?” Burrus asked with a shudder.

“They wors
hip the god Taranis,” Wynne continued, “god of thunderstorms.”

“Jupiter1” Burrus exclaimed. “they wors
hip our god of thunderbolts, our supreme god, then. Why, surely they could not be heathens if they do so.”

Wynne shook her head impatiently. “They take heads,” she said. “They are dangerous. We must keep out of sight.”

Burrus had heard about the custom of taking heads, the warriors attaching them to the necks of their horses to later be embalmed in cedar oil and displayed on the walls of their lodges or on their chariots as trophies. Wisely he veered his men off in the opposite direction from the Brigantes. It was only a few years ago that the Romans had been killed in great number by the tribe of the Iceni in the southeast of Britain. He knew all too well how one incident could lead to another, until both sides were guilty of great wrongs. He would avoid any chance of such a thing happening today.

“Retreat,” he ordered, leading his men off to the right. This
moorland half of Britain was the chief area of military occupation, patrolled by some forty-thousand men, with great fortresses  at Eboracum and Caerleon, yet it was miles away to the nearest legion. He could not afford to take any chances.

Riding like the wind, Wynne struggled to keep up with the cavalrymen. A sudden urge to escape overtook her. It was now or never. The men were so concerned with their own welfare that they were
hardly paying any attention at all to her. Heart beating wildly, she crested the top of a hill; there was no army behind her now, nothing but grass and hills before her. Urging her horse onward, she plunged ahead to freedom.

As she plunged down the hillside Wynne could hear the thundering sound of hooves behind her.  The taste of freedom was like sweet wine to her senses. No one could catch her now.

“Stop! Stop!” Burrus shouted as he followed in hot pursuit. He could not let her escape, not now, not when there was danger. There was no telling what might happen to her at the hands of the Brigantes. It was better for her to be safely among his men than to be sacrificed to some heathen god. He forgot all else but the golden-haired woman riding on horseback so far ahead of him.

The wind tore at her face as Wynne rode onward. She had no thought but escape. It did not matter that she could not go back to her people for fear of being captured again by Severus or that she had nowhere to go. She only knew that she could tolerate the bonds of slavery no longer. Heedless of the rutted landscape, she rode faster and faster, looking back from time to time to see if the young soldier still followed her,  amazed at his horsemanship as he pursued her.

“Look out!” came his hysterical warning, but Wynne
was too preoccupied with her escape to heed his warning until it was too late.

The horse lurched suddenly and Wynne felt herself falling. Images of her father’s accident flooded her memories and she screamed in fear and pain.

Hearing her cries, Burrus rode toward her like one demented. “Let her be alive,” he groaned, feeling a strange kinship with her. She was so proud, so brave. She didn’t deserve the fate which had been dealt to her.

He spotted the gray mare and breathed a sigh of relief to see that the horse was uninjured; perhaps then, the Celtic girl had also escaped serious wounds. He whistled for the horse, but the animal, still frightened by its fall, galloped out of sight. Cursing, Burrus let it go and rode on through the trees until he saw Wynne lying still and silent on the rocky ground.

Dazed and shaken, Wynne desperately tried to get to her feet, terrified that she would be helpless as her father had been after his fall. To her relief she realized she was bruised and scratched but no bones were broken. Her ankle throbbed, but she was sure it was just a sprain. Looking up, she saw a horse and rider approaching her.