Love's Blazing Ecstasy (7 page)

“It’s true. I saved a
Roman from their bonds!” Wynne cried in desperation, regretting her words as soon as they had passed her lips.

“A
Roman? A barbarian!” Her father was incredulous. “Is it he who has become your loved?” When she nodded, Adair raised his eyes toward the heavens. “Better that you would bed a serpent than one of our hated enemies; enemies who even now seek to strangle us, to tear our dignity from us. I will not rest until every Roman has been pushed into the sea. They will not do to us what they did to the Queen of Iceni.” He clenched his fists and began to beat his breast  in the age-old gesture of mourning.

Grieved by his lack of understanding, Wynne put her arms around his shoulders, once more trying to explain.  “Father, please listen to me.  I saw the
Roman in a dream…then when I rode out on Sloan, I saw that…..”  Angrily Adair shrugged her arms off his shoulders.  “They were going to burn him alive.  I couldn’t let that happen….and he..he is not like the others.”

“They are all alike.  Animals!” he exclaimed. “And now you have defiled yourself with the filth of such a beast.” At the sight of the tears misting her eyes he felt a pain of remorse, and reached a hand out to her.

“A Roman!” Brenna shrieked, seeing that Adair was softening. He quickly withdrew his gesture. “May the gods be merciful to us. May they protect us as the full moon descends upon us.” At her reminder that the summer solstice was nearly upon them, a time of purification, Adair’s anger returned in full.

“Get out of my sight. I cannot bear to look at you,” he said to Wynne.

She stared at him in horrified disbelief. Never had her father talked to her this way. Looking from her father to her gloating stepmother she could see that Brenna held him in the palm of her hand.  Shaking her head sadly, she walked towards the door, wondering what she could do to regain her father’s love. Gathering her courage, she turned toward him again.

“I have done no wrong,” she said, “I have saved a human life and given shelter to one who was in need.  And I have loved. I can find no shame in that. Be he
Roman or Celt or heathen Pict, I still would love him,
do
love him.”

“Go to your cousin’s lodge until I decide what must be done,” Adair ordered, moved by her speech but not wanting to discuss the matter any further. “I will confer with the council to decide how we will proceed.”

Somewhere deep inside her soul, Wynne had the feeling that although she suffered anguish at this moment, all would be well on the morrow. The gods would not turn their backs on her as her father had just done.  At the door she hesitated and looked back at him. He would not meet her eyes, but she could tell that he was as grief-stricken as she at their angry parting. Still, being a man of pride, he would not call her back.

Feeling as if her heart had stopped beating, as if she were one of the dead, Wynne walked out into the dark of the night.

Perhaps it would be better if I were dead
, she thought.
Then I could return again quickly to this earth and not have to bear this sorrow.

The fresh air revived her spirits as she made her way to the lodge of her mother’s sister’s son. She took a deep breath, determined to face tomorrow with bravery. Whatever happened, she would show courage, just like a warrior.

Wynne spent three nights in the dwelling of Tyrone, her cousin. It seemed as if her father had forgotten her, for he sent no word to her concerning her fate.  Then, when she had begun to fear the worst—that she was never to be forgiven—he sent word to her that no judgment would be made until after the festival of the sun. That she would be allowed to attend set her mind at ease. At least she was not to be banished from the tribe.

Isolde, her cousin’s wife, was a pleasant enough companion in the days she spent away from her own hearth. Although woman’s work had never much interested her, she found that without Brenna there to constantly berate her efforts, she could tolerate the spinning, weaving, and cooking.

She had a fondnes
s for Isolde, for it was she, not Brenna, who had been with her at the ceremony which had taken her maidenhead and made her into a woman who could now be betrothed. Isolde had calmed her fears, held her hand when the membrane had been severed, and dried her tears when it was all over.

Now and again she could see a questioning look come into Isolde’s eyes, a look of sympathy and she knew that no matter what she might have done, no matter how much she would be cursed in other’s eyes, Isolde would always be her friend.

“You always have a home with us. I want you to know that,” Isolde said to her one evening as the family sat around the fire.

“I know that, and I thank you, Isolde. And you too, Tyrone,” Wynne answered. She was holding the couple’s son, Llewellyn. The baby tried to suckle at her covered breast, and she laughed. “No. I think you must have your mother for that.” Cradling the baby filled her with a longing to have a child of her own. Valarian’s child.

She thought about the Roman, wondering what he was doing, if he were safe.

“Valerian,” she murmured, forgetting for the moment where she was.

“What did you say?” Tyrone asked.

“Nothing….I…I was just thinking aloud,” she whispered, looking down again at the child she held in her arms.

Her quiet reserve, the faraway look in her eyes, unnerved her cousin. What had happened to the boisterous young woman who frolicked about laughing and joyful like a boy? Somehow she seemed more womanly to him now. Was it true, then, what was being said of her?

“I do not understand you, cousin. You are not as before,” Tyrone said sternly. Looking up, Wynne found him staring at her with his piercing eyes, eyes which nevertheless held kindness. She wondered if he had been told that she had bedded a
Roman. How could she make him understand that love knew no boundaries or tribes, that she could not help loving the Roman any more than she could stop herself from breathing.

“Leave her alone, Tyrone. Wynne has suffered enough these last few days. It is not for you to judge her.” Isolde interrupted, gently taking the baby. The tone of her voice told Wynne that she understood what it was to love.

Tyrone answered his wife’s words with an angry glare at being rebuked, and stalked out of the lodge, pausing only to remind them about the coming festival. “Tomorrow night is the eye of the full moon,” he said. “When the ceremony is over, Wynne must be chastised for her transgression. It is the law of our people.” With that, he was gone from the lodge.

A shiver of fear ran through Wynne’s body at his words. She wondered just what her punishment would be. Yet, no matter what happened she knew she must be brave.

“So, tomorrow the festival begins,” Isolde exclaimed, breaking into Wynne’s reverie. Her gentle hand touched Wynne’s shoulder. “Do not fear, your father will see that you are treated fairly. The laws of the Druids are just.”

Wynne knew that Isolde spoke the truth, and she also knew in her heart that no matter what happened to her, what punishment she was forced to suffer, she would not trade for one moment that night she had spent in Valerian’s arms. It
was worth a lifetime and she felt in her heart that someday she would see him again.

Chapter Nine

The sky was a blaze of light as the gods threw down their lightning bolts like spears from out of the heavens. Valerian looked up at the dark clouds with a feeling of frustration. What else could go wrong to hinder his journey? Already he had been riding more than a week and still had not been able to catch up with his cavalry. It was as if they had vanished from sight. And now once again he would have to stop.

“Easy, Sloan,” he commanded. He still marveled at the
beauty, grace, and strength of the horse. Like Wynne, he was now able to control the animal with the lightest of touches on the reins.

Coming to the shelter of a ruined building, Valerian guided the horse inside. The roof was in disrepair, but it would shelter them for the night. He looked inside the leather sack that he carried to see what was left of the provisions that Wynne had given him and was not surprised to find that he had only a small piece of bread, most likely moldy by this time, a half flagon of ale, and a morsel of dried deer meat.
Wynne had done what she could for him, it was only that neither one of them had envisioned such a long journey.

“Wynne…” He said her name reverently. How many times these dark cold nights had he dreamed of her, ached to hold her in his arms. If only he could have taken her with him. He smiled to think of what an impression she would make in
Rome, where blonds were rare. Surely the emperor himself would think her a goddess, as he himself had thought that magical night. No woman could ever compare with her. Her beauty was breathtaking. Someday he would return for her, take her to see the splendor of Rome. He wondered what she was doing at this very moment—talking and laughing with her tribesmen around the fire, no doubt, listening to the tales of valor and legends of her gods.

Valerian wolfed down the food. He had become spoiled while in Wynne’s care, acquiring a taste for meat. The food in the legion camp was simple—bread or porridge, some vegetables,
salted fish, sour wine; rarely did they eat animal flesh for there was no time for hunting. He thought about the days he had spent as a soldier, a bittersweet experience. It had been his father’s choice for him, as the third son. He had been educated for war from childhood, had studied military art, and spent ten years of his life in the field, yet he would never get used to the killing. It was just not in his heart.

“Perhaps w
hen this business with the Britains is over I can think about another life, a life without constant battle,” he said aloud.

Self-consciously he tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck--it had grown quite long. Reaching up he felt his now bearded face—proof that he had not taken time to shave.  As for bathing—he would no doubt offend the vilest heathen.

“I must look just like a Pict,” he thought with a grimace. How he loathed those barbarians of the North. Had they not been almost more than a match for Caesar himself? Well, at least he was warm and dry in his
braccae
and tunic. Reaching for his cloak, he fashioned himself a bed and lay down to catch a nap before he must start out again.

The rain pounded upon the roof of the dwelling, lulling him to sleep. The air was damp, chilly, and brisk. Drawing his cloak around him, he fell into a deep slumber, seeing again the flawless face of his golden-haired lover.

Valerian was rudely awakened from sleep by the pressure of something on his chest. Through the veil of awareness he could hear the whinny of Sloan and reached for his sword.

“Not so fast, barbarian!” ordered a gruff voice. He found himself staring into the faces of several Roman infantrymen. His sword was kicked aside and picked up by a grinning youth who looked to be just barely out of the schoolroom. In anger he struggled with his captors, three brawny men who held his legs and arms to the ground.

“My, my, my, our heathen friend certainly can put up a fight, eh, Darius?” said a tall soldier—laughing. Valerian realized
how he must look to their eyes dressed as he was, and with his straggly beard and uncut hair.

“I’m not a barbarian. I’m a
Roman soldier,” he answered angrily, seeing for the first time just how callous his countrymen could be.

“And I’m Julius Caesar come back to life!” said another soldier sarcastically, giving Valerian such a hard kick to his ribs that he cried out in pain. “Let’s see if he is carrying anything of value on him.”

While Valerian watched in outraged silence, they searched his possessions, that were very meager to say the least. Only his sword was of any value.

“I see you killed a
Roman and stole his sword,” growled a leathery-faced man with small beady eyes. He looked at him as if he wanted to murder Valerian right then and there in retaliation.

“I am a
Roman soldier, I tell you. My name is Valerian Quillon Tullius, son of Publius Quillon Tullius, a senator of Rome!” Valerian met the man’s beady eyes with blazing anger in his own.

The tall soldier looked him up and down and let go of his legs. “He does speak
perfect Latin,” he said loudly.

“Some of them do. You’d be surprised.”
The soldier eyed him skeptically.

“
But there is something in his manner.” He poked Valerian in the ribs. “He might be a Roman.”

The second soldier shook his head. 
“Then why is he dressed the way he is?”

Seeing that their attention was diverted for a moment, Valerian kicked viciously with his legs, knocking both his captors aside. Reaching out for his sword, he took the young beardless youth by surprise. Brandishing his sword with a grace which spoke of his prowess, he held the small band of men at bay.

“Now listen to what I say to you. I am Valerian Quillon Tullius, centurion of the tenth century. I became separated from my men and came into the hands of a group of barbarians. I escaped with my life and my sword and that is all, and I consider myself fortunate to still be breathing.” All eyes were turned toward him as he talked. “I want you to lead me to Severus Cicero. Do you understand me?”