To Burn

To Burn

by

Claudia Dain

© 2002, 2011 by Claudia Welch

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This is a work of fiction.
 
Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Thank You
.

To my husband:

You rescued this manuscript from the ashes of the fire.

You are ever and always my hero.

"First of all, they killed and drove away the king's enemies; then later they turned on the king and the British, destroying through fire and the sword's edge."

—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles

Chapter 1

Melania tried moving her right leg to ease the cramping and banged her knee against the rough wall of the clay vent instead. Reaching down to rub the throbbing joint, she managed to wedge her hand against her rib cage so that she could hardly breathe and then scraped off half the skin on the back of her hand as she wrenched it free.

Through the funneling of the hypocaust, she could hear the scrape of movement above her. And the crackle of fire. It would be wonderful to bake herself warm in front of a fire, her very own fire in her very own house, its light warming the room as much as its heat. It was very cold in the underground hypocaust and very dark.

Her father was dead. This she knew. She had heard the full-throated cry, like wolves howling in animal unison; she knew it meant the Saxons had won. In the winning, they would have killed. It was their way.

Was it night? Probably. They had attacked at the cusp of daylight and darkness. It must be full dark now or perhaps even morning. She had no sense of the passage of time. She knew only that the raging heat of her fury had hardened to a cold knot of revenge fed by pride.

They would not gain victory over her, and they would never defeat Rome. She was hidden according to her father's plan. Let them think they had won. She had eluded them and they didn't even know it.

Stupid barbari.
They would move on, attacking some other poor villa or town, as was their barbaric way, and she would emerge and build her life back to what it once was. They had most assuredly damaged the villa—they were just the sort of stupid oafs to do such a thing—but that meant only that she would have the freedom to rebuild in a more aggressive fashion.

Let them come again. Just let them. She looked forward to it. But they had to leave first.

* * *

Cuthred threw another one of the library scrolls onto the fire. The satisfaction he received from the act was minimal, but all of the bigger items had already been hacked and burned.

"We are finished here. Let's move on," he said.

"You may be finished, but Wulfred is not," Cenred said lightly.

"This place is finished. There is nothing left to take or destroy. I want more fun out of this isle before we return home."

"Cuthred, you have absolutely no ability to entertain yourself. Must there always be a battle found for you? Can you not find other ways to amuse yourself?" Cenred said on a laugh.

"No," Cuthred answered.

"He says no," Balduff said, "and yet I have tried to get him to see the pleasure that a woman can provide. Look at the process as a battle if you must; she has defenses which must be overcome, terrain which must be explored, secrets and hidden places to be revealed. I tell you, a woman can entertain a man for hours before she wears thin."

"I like battle," Cuthred said.

"Yes, you like battle, as do I," Balduff said, "but women are more plentiful."

"There cannot
always
be a battle," Cenred said.

"There is no more battle here. Let's go to a place that can provide one," Cuthred said.

"We will stay until Wulfred says we go," Cynric said.

"Of course," said Cuthred, "but why does he stay? The battle is won. The enemy dead."

"Because," said Cynric, "he does not believe that all of the enemy
is
dead. Wulfred is more and more certain that there is a woman hiding somewhere, a woman of this house. A Roman woman. He will not leave until he sees her cry for mercy."