Love's Blazing Ecstasy (9 page)

Wynne felt Edan’s hand tighten on her own. “Ah, it is to be the son of Regan,” Edan said with pride, for the young man chosen was his nephew.

“He is a strong warrior. You should be proud,” Wynne whispered, clinging tightly to his hand.

“I remember when it was I who was given the honor,” Edan reflected with a faraway look in his eyes, “the bridegroom of the goddess, though I yearn to be your husband now, Wynne.” His eyes bored into hers and in sadness she looked away.

Like a leaf in the wind, the raft floated on the rippling lake as the sound of singing filled the stillness. Wynne smiled for the first time since the ceremony had begun, happy for the young boy. She was filled with a sense of peace. Now all would be well. Forgotten for the moment was the face of the malevolent man who had intruded on the ceremony.

The ceremony came to an end and Wynne’s heart leapt in her breast when she was called to stand before the Council of the Druids.

“So, daughter of Adair, you have lain with a pagan, a
Roman,” one of the Druids began, an old man with white hair and mustache. “Do you deny this?”

“I have lain with the man that I love,” she answered boldly, meeting her father’s eyes. She could see his anguish and that disturbed her, but she knew she had to tell the truth.

“Do you not repent of this folly?” the old man asked with a scowl.

“I do not repent, nor am I sorry. I gave my body and my heart out of
a deep caring. There can be no stronger law than the law of love. The gods themselves must surely find favor with what I have done,” Wynne answered unflinchingly, clenching and unclenching her fists.

The seven Druids were silent as Wynne stood before them with her chin u
p, her shoulders back, determined to go to her fate with courage.

“Of course there could be a child,” one of the younger Druids murmured. Wynne closed her eyes as if willing it to be so.

“I have promised my daughter’s hand to Edan, son of Cedric,” Adair exclaimed, looking so crestfallen that for a moment Wynne felt pity for him. She had not meant to cause him humiliation or anguish.  She had always been a dutiful daughter, but she could not help falling in love.

The old Druid pulled at the ends of his mustache, deep in thought. “We will have to first find out if there is to be a babe,” he said. “If not, after she is purified she will indeed wed with Edan. If there is a child, that child will be raised in the house of Adair as his own.”

“And my daughter?” Adair asked anxiously. “”If there is a babe?”

“She will remain unmarried for the rest of her life,” the old Druid answered. “In the meantime, daughter of Adair, you are to li
ve in the small lodge at the edge of the village as an outcast for one month until the moon is full again.”

Wynne gasped. One entire month of solitude.

“You will see no one except for those who will bring food and water to you during your confinement, nor are you to go outside in the light of day nor darkness of the night. When sufficient time has passed, we will know your fate concerning the fertileness of your belly.” The old Druid’s eyes were devoid of pity. The laws must be obeyed.

Wynne p
ut her face in her hands and wept softly. She would be caged like an animal for one full cycle of the moon, away from her own lodge, away from her people, from Isolde, her father….

Yet if I
find myself with child it is not too much to suffer
, she told herself. The babe would be a part of Valerian. Wiping the tears from her face she again lifted her chin, proudly, defiantly. She would endure this punishment with dignity and grace. For just a moment her eyes met those of her father again and she knew that he wept for her in his soul. She managed a slight smile for him which told him of her forgiveness. It had been his duty to do what he had done. She could not have asked him to do otherwise.

“I am ready, Father,” she whispered. Together they walked the path to the lodge where he left her. With a sigh she began to make preparations for her confinement.

“Wynne. Wynne,” she heard Edan call to her, and looking over her shoulder she saw him running toward her. He came to her and reached for her hand, bringing it to his face as he had done when they were children.

“No matter what may have happened, know that I will marry you. I will wait for you forever if necessary. You have been promised to me. I have always known that you would be my wife.” Edan knelt before her as if to seal his pledge.

Wynne had never meant to hurt him and as she looked over at him she hoped that he would understand. “I cannot marry you, Edan.”

He misunderstood, thinking her to be reacting out of shame. “I have already found it in my heart to forgive you.  Together we can confront your shame.”

“My shame.” That was not why she was refusing him. “I love another,” she whispered, pulling her hand away.

Edan shook his head, undaunted by her words. “I will not listen. You will be my wife, the gods have told me so.” With that said, he turned and left her.  Wynne stood watching Edan go, feeling lonely and forsaken.

You are wrong, Edan
, she thought.
The gods sent Valerian to me for a reason. I know that he and I are meant to be together
. Perhaps they could work together to heal the animosities between Celt and Roman. The more she thought about it the more certain she was that this was the purpose of her gods—to create unity and peace among enemies.

Closing her eyes, she could see Valerian’s face before her eyes and said a prayer for his safety. If the gods willed it, and she believed that they did, she would be with him again.

Chapter Twelve

From the highest point of the hill, the
Roman military tribune could see the approach of the small band of men, still so far away that there were no more than dust clouds.

“They had best not be Celts,” he grumbled, “or they will not have much longer to live.” He had never liked the blond barbarians, nor this cold country of
Britain. Until these rebellious heathens were subdued, however, he would have to be satisfied with mere dreams of Rome, the land of his birth.

The tribune’s cold blue eyes again looked out across the land. Riding beside one of his centurions, he urged his horse onward, back to the camp. He had still not had time to write a letter to his old friend Publius informing him of the t
ragic fate of his son, Valerian who was missing after being separated from his men during a storm in the northwest. No doubt by now his head was adorning some Celtic wall as a trophy.

Dismounting from his horse, he walked around the tents of the camp. The camp was celebrating victory over one of the Celtic tribes. The soldiers were allowed to share in the booty from the defeated peoples—including of course, women.

Going to his own tent, the tribune ran greedy fingers through his new treasures: fine tall ornamented bronze helmets, a fine wrought sword, several bracelets and rings of silver, as well as several pieces of fine cloth. These wild brutes were skilled in making many things.

Suddenly a young soldier rushed headlong into the tent. “Tribune! A band of soldiers is approaching. They have a Pict with them!”

“A Pict? Where on earth would they find one of those savages so far south?” Severus Cicero exclaimed. The tribune was clearly annoyed at the interruption, still he followed the young man out of the tent to where the horsemen even now were approaching. So these were the riders he had seen from the hill.

Severus eyed the ragged band with distaste. They looked like deserters. If that were true, he would have them returned to their general, who would most likely have their right hands cut off, the usual judgment against deserters or thieves. One rider impressed him, however,
riding on a magnificent black horse. The man was dressed as a Celt but his black hair bespoke Pict heritage. How ironic it was that of all these men he was the only one who sat tall and straight in the saddle.

Intrigued by the dark-haired rider, the tribune watched as the riders approached. When the band was close enough that he could make out their features he stiffened.  No. It couldn’t be! Ah, but it was. A hard stare from amber-colored eyes, eyes Severus remembered so well, met his own.

“Valerian,” he exclaimed.

With a grin Valerian dismounted and strode forward.

Severus grabbed the dark-haired man firmly by the shoulders. “So, you young stallion, you have come back to us. Unharmed, I see, except for perhaps a little change in your clothing.” His eyes raked over Valerian; then he laughed. “Well, welcome back!”

Together they walked back toward the tribune’s large tent. “I thought you were lost to us.” Again he looked at Valerian. “Please tell me what you are doing dressed like that.”

“I…well….borrowed these clothes,” Valerian answered self-consciously. “Remind me to tell you the entire story sometime. It is unbelievable.”

“You were forced into battle with a heathen, and when he was the loser, you stole his clothes so as to provide you
rself with a safe journey?” Severus questioned with raised eyebrows.

Valerian shook his head. “No. Let’s just say that I was aided in my return by a beautiful Celt
woman who puts Venus herself to shame. I thought at first that she was Minerva. She was magnificent! You see, she….” He had no chance to continue.

“A Celtic woman. No doubt a dirty, unwashed heathen. Did she have heads hanging from her belt?” the tribune asked sarcastically. “Ah, well, not all of us are fortunate to find
Romanized barbarians who have come to appreciate our tradition of the bathhouse, eh, Valerian?” The corners of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

The tribune’s comment angered Valerian
. To have this grinning fool talk about Wynne, who smelled of violets and summer air, with such prejudice was annoying. Wisely, however, he kept his temper in check, calming himself with the thought that he would one day bring Wynne here and let this Roman see real beauty.

“She was not a heathen,” was all Valerian said.

“They are all oafish and unkempt barbarians, unable to speak a civilized language or to write any language at all,” Severus barked. “How I loath them.”

Valerian remembered the enchantment he had felt listening to Wynne’s voice and couldn’t help saying, “you call them ‘barbarian,’ and yet as I recall the word itself was coined by the Greeks from the stammering ba-ba-ba sounds uttered by those they considered too uncouth to learn Greek—including, I might say, us
Romans.” He forced a smile.

Severus gave Valerian an icy glare. He had long been envious of this young centurion’s looks and bearing, but after a time he smiled. “Ah, Valerian. Always the wit. At times I think that you are too educated for this soldier’s life.” Taking his arm, he guided Valerian into his tent. “We are going to have a real feast tonight, a banquet to welcome you back. And right now, how would you like a nice hot bath?”

“Need I ask?” Valerian chuckled. For the moment his anger at the tribune was alleviated.

Fresh from his bath, Valerian stretched his arms and breathed deeply. It felt so good to be clean. He had been shaved, his hair had been cropped to its usual length, and he felt Roman again. Standing in his loincloth, he reached for the cup of wine brought to him by one of the slaves, a young boy black as ebony with teeth like ivory. Severus had found him during his campaigns in Egypt. Valerian felt sorry for the boy, who had the bearing of a prince and no doubt had been royalty in his own country. To be reduced to slavery must be a bitter cup to drink.

Valerian had always been uneasy about keeping slaves, human beings treated as objects—possessions over whom the slave owner had the legal power of life and death—it was wrong. Still,
Rome had been built on the backs of these slaves.

The slave boy handed Valerian his short tunic, but before he had a chance to put it on, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw a young girl standing before him. She was barely more than a child, though beautiful, with red-gold hair and eyes like jade.

“I have been sent by Tribune Severus Cicero to please you,” she whispered in a trembling voice. As he looked at her, she cast her eyes toward the ground.

Valerian studied the girl. She was lovely, her breasts just beginning to blossom, her hips curved, her waist small. She was wearing only the sheerest
chiton
, which clung to her slim body.

Hesitantly the girl started toward him, remembering what she had been told to do to please him. She started to wind her arms around his neck, but stopped when he held her away from him.

“What is your name, child?” he asked gently.

“Meghan,” she answered softly.

“Where do you come from? Are you of the Celtic peoples?”

“Yes,” she answered, trying to control the tears which threatened to spill out of her large eyes. “My people have always been friendly to you
Romans. My father was made chief of our tribe by your soldiers because he spoke your language.”

“Then how did you become a slave?” Valerian asked.

She shook her head sadly, and this time could not control the tears which rolled down her cheeks and sparkled like diamonds in the firelight.