To Burn (11 page)

"I do not need you, dog, to shepherd me to my tasks. I do them, as you surely know since you have me watched nearly constantly by that pack of fools you call friends. Now leave me, Saxon. What I do will not hold your interest."

"You seem very sure," he said mildly.

"I am always sure of what I think and, therefore, what I say. It is the mark of the intelligent."

"It is the mark of the arrogant," he contradicted.

"You would think so, Saxon, you who say whatever you will, no matter what you are really thinking or planning, but I say what I know, and I
know
that you are bothering me and I
know
that I want you gone. I want to be alone and I don't want you tagging along behind me like a burr on the tail."

"And you get everything you want?" he said in a quiet snarl, rubbing his hands along his thighs in irritation. "I can well believe that in the past you had but to whisper and your will was accomplished, but that is in the past, Roman, and today you must do as I want."

"So you say, again and again," she spat out, twisting her hair between her fingers, hating the sight of him, hating the feel of the food sitting so solidly in her stomach. "I am not an imbecile! I understand what you want of me. Exactly what you want of me!"

He wanted her death. It was what he had planned for her from the start of this strange summer, and there was no surprise in it. But now he was not some nameless Saxon barbarian slicing down at a Roman landowner with his seax; he was Wulfred and he wanted Melania dead at his feet.

The image appalled her suddenly. Turning, she ran out of the courtyard and up toward the vineyards, running away from him. Running away from the anger and impotent rage that choked her whenever she had to face what he had done to her life and how he was trying to manage her death.

The hill seemed steeper than before and left her gasping before she had gone far, but that was good. It meant she was weakening, sickening. Winning. She stopped at a rocky outcrop, her breath coming in gulps, and hung her head, holding back the length of her hair with a hand. With very little effort, she vomited up the contents of her stomach. It was not so difficult as it had been. In fact, it was almost effortless after so many times. But it was still a miserable exercise. It was why she ate as little as she could; it suited her better to keep such a disagreeable practice to a minimum. It would not be an easy victory, but she would attain it.

Wiping her mouth with the hem of her skirt, Melania straightened and pushed a few strands of hair away from her face. Revolting business, but such was the price of victory over the Saxon. And it was a victory. She felt so weak, so empty, so light in the head. How much longer before she simply dried up and blew away? Let him catch her then; let him try to catch the dried leaf she was becoming. In spite of the headache, she felt almost euphoric.

Until she turned around.

The Saxon was watching her.

He stood with bulging arms crossed over his naked chest, one foot resting on a small rock, his eyes full of contempt. Surprise rolled through her. She had not anticipated his contempt.

"You are as devious as a child," he stated.

"No," she argued, wiping her mouth again. "I am as determined as a Roman."

"Determined to starve yourself."

How horribly he said it; how awful it sounded when he said it.

"Determined to escape you," she answered.

"That you will not do," he said, uncrossing his arms and walking toward her, his step long in spite of the uneven ground.

"You cannot force me to live when I have chosen to die. You cannot force me to eat. You cannot stop me from rejecting my food!"

Standing over her, crowding her, pressing against her, he gripped her by the arms. It hurt. And as often as he seemed to touch her, each touch carried a spark that burned—a quick burning that sparked something within her that she couldn't tolerate, wouldn't investigate. It was because he was so vile, so barbaric; it was the only possibility. He said two words, two words that chilled the fire he had started in her.

"Watch me."

"To do that you would have to be with me constantly," she argued. He was such an imbecile. Did he not know that she would defeat him?

He only smiled and slowly released his painful grip on her arms.

"So be it."

* * *

It was worse than the vomiting. A chain around her throat would have been kinder. It was torture and nothing less.

He was with her every moment of her waking. They ate together. He followed her when she relieved herself and told her that he was listening carefully to be certain that she was not also relieving herself of her food.
Animal.
He watched her clean her teeth. He watched her talk to Theras. He watched her instruct Dorcas. He watched her preparing her dyes. He watched her forming delicate balls of gold for a brooch. He watched her and watched her and watched her.

She was gaining weight steadily, and she knew she was the source of his increased good humor.

She was miserable.

Of course, he not only accompanied her on all her tasks, but forced her to accompany him.
Odious oaf.
They stood now in the courtyard watching his men practice with their clanging weapons. He did not touch her; he did not have to physically force her to stand by his side; they had passed through that phase of their warfare. At first she had fought him, fought his constant proximity, but he was bigger and stronger and more primitive. He had held her to him, along the hard and unyielding length of him, held her until she was painfully aware of every bump and bulge, held her until she thought she'd vomit from the heavings in her belly. His touch had been worse than anything, and so she had relented. To keep him from touching her. To keep him away from her.

Balduff, his perpetual grin firmly in place, faced Wulfred in the courtyard they had claimed as their place for mock battles. Their sword tips touched briefly in metallic salute before the battle dance began. These Saxons were so battle-hungry that they fought each other when no other foe was at hand. She had seen such play many times now. She had watched Wulfred countless times raise his sword above his head and charge down upon his opponent. She had noted the play of muscle beneath his golden skin. She had seen his biceps bunch at the contact of steel to steel and traced with her eyes the sweat that ran in a languorous trickle down his breastbone to soak the waist of his leather leggings.

Melania ran a hand across the sweaty line of her collarbone, suddenly very hot in the treeless courtyard. She had seen him perform in the sun of the courtyard day upon day but only because he had forced her to attend him. Only that. She would not be here now if not for his bullying, as he well knew. It was not for love of looking that she waited now, not when the sun beat down and her knees felt weak with the heat.

He was an oaf of a man to keep her waiting for him while he played away the day.

Balduff blocked Wulfred's blow and swung in, throwing an elbow to connect with Wulfred's belly as he spun out of sword reach. It was a devious and dishonorable move: a Saxon move. Wulfred absorbed the blow without even a catch in his wind and stuck his foot between Balduff's feet, tripping him neatly. Melania smiled in spite of all her best intentions and watched as Balduff rolled to his feet, covered in dust and still grinning like a fool, sword in hand. Wulfred also grinned as they continued their sparring.

It was almost intolerable for him to have such a knee-buckling grin and to throw it so casually at Balduff.

The circle of spectators around the courtyard was growing, as it always did when the Saxons played their barbaric games. Melania had abandoned all ideas of trying to stop them.

Balduff was backing away from Wulfred, his brow sweaty and his cheeks red. Wulfred, the oaf, looked much as he had when they began. He clearly had the endurance of an ox. Melania could hardly let herself be impressed by that; he was an animal. All Saxons were animals.

Wulfred charged boldly, his sword gleaming white-hot in the sunlight of the summer day. Balduff blocked, metal rang, Wulfred twisted, and Balduff's sword whizzed through the still air.

Flavius watched, mouth agape, as the sword flew at him like a hurled missile.

Before Melania could run more than a handful of steps toward Flavius, Wulfred threw himself into a roll that raised a cloud of dust, lifted his sword, and blocked the flying blade. Metal clanged and echoed as Balduff's sword dropped to the dirt near Flavius's bare feet.

Flavius looked down at Wulfred, crouched at his feet. He began to shake, the tears rising to fill his dark eyes. Before they could fall, indeed, before any of them could think what to say or do, Wulfred pulled the boy down into his lap.

"I've got you," the Saxon said gruffly, his hands rubbing the boy's slender back. "I've got you now."

Flavius snaked thin arms around Wulfred's neck and clung, his sobs smothered against Wulfred's chest, his legs curled upon Wulfred's lap.

None spoke. Balduff walked softly near and rubbed a hand across the boy's head before retrieving his sword and edging his way into the circle of people in the courtyard, disappearing, as had his smile.

When Flavius had settled somewhat and his legs had uncurled, he wiped frantic hands across his reddened eyes. Wulfred continued to rub his back, his movements measured and supremely unhurried. His expression showed no embarrassment at Flavius's emotional display.

Melania frowned in confusion. Such had not been the way with her Roman father. Such a display of fear would have elicited brusque rebuke or poorly masked distaste. But for Flavius there was tender compassion and a warm embrace. From a Saxon.

"Swords are fearful things when they come at you," Wulfred said easily. "It is why a warrior trains, to learn to defeat his fear of them in mastery."

"I...
I was not afraid," Flavius whispered, his voice full of unshed tears.

"I was afraid," Wulfred admitted with a small smile.

"You were?" Flavius said with another swipe across his eyes before looking up at the man who held him.

"Yes. Weren't you?"

"Well," Flavius said, holding his shoulders stiff as he took a shaky breath, "I am Roman."

Wulfred smiled. "I think even Romans are allowed to be afraid... sometimes."

"You do? But... but Melania is not afraid. Melania is never afraid."

Wulfred turned to look at her, and she hoped her frown was still firmly in place; she knew her confusion was. Wulfred bent to whisper something to the boy held within the curl of his arms. Melania watched Flavius shake his head as Wulfred shrugged and nodded, his smile a gentle gift to the child.

"Then you will continue your training," Wulfred said firmly, raising the boy to his feet with one hand, the private moment and their whispered words over. "It is a good lesson for a warrior: beware the sword not in your own hand; it seeks your life."

"I think I knew that before," Flavius mumbled to the dirt at his feet.

"But now, I think, you will never forget it." Wulfred chuckled, raising the boy's chin with his hand and looking into his eyes. "And stand farther off when you watch us train. I will let you know when you
may
enter into the circle for your own game. For now, use the stick and the club given you, strengthen your arm, train your eye, and tame your fear. These are the lessons for now."

"Yes, Wulfred," Flavius said, walking off. He was without shame and it showed in his walk. Wulfred had given him that.

It was not what her father would have done. It was nothing like what her father would have done. But Melanius, her father, had been a wonderful man, an honorable man, a Roman. That was the important thing, the only thing. The only thing worth remembering. The only thing worth knowing.

But she would love to know what it was that Wulfred had whispered to Flavius.

The courtyard, once a place of refinement and peace, was now a place for arms practice. It was a sight that physically pained her. Her father had so loved this place, this home of theirs. He had cherished it as a bright jewel of Rome in a land that was coming to forget its heritage. Rome had flourished in Britannia for hundreds of years; Britannia was of Rome, yet some now, in these uncertain times, had lost the use of Latin. Unthinkable, yet true. But it would never be so with her. She was Roman. She would remain Roman. As her father had remained Roman.

Her father... it was better he was dead than to have lived to see this occupation of their home. He had died fighting while she had lived on, well fed and well rested, thanks to the Saxon. It felt almost a sacrilege to have survived. She hadn't thought much about her father since... since the moment she had seen his bloodless face and mutilated body. And seen the Saxon's face just behind it, greedy to feed off of her grief and despair and defeat. She had pushed her sorrow for her father to the depths of her being, focusing instead on outwitting the Saxon murderer and stealing his ultimate victory, but now... now she had time.

She had believed in the beginning that her own death was hovering over her like an angel, ready to pluck her from this horror and carry her to God's arms; but she had already lived longer than she had planned and might live longer still. It seemed the barbarian wasn't quite as stupid as she had hoped. Suddenly she wanted to say her farewells to her father, even if only in her heart.

The Saxon was absorbed in watching his men play with their stupid weapons, smiling his approval, grunting in that pagan language of his.

"Where is my father?" she demanded.

Wulfred turned to look at her over his impossibly large shoulder, his eyes very blue against the pale gold of his skin. He was shirtless—again and always.

"Where do your beliefs tell you he is?" he asked mildly.

"I know where he is, imbecile. He is in heaven with the saints of God and where, I am thankful, no barbarian will ever touch him, but where are his remains?" She asked it fearfully and hated knowing that Wulfred could detect the emotion in her voice, but she was so afraid that her father had been burned or dumped in a heap of slaughtered bodies. Christian she was, but she had a Roman's sense of burial.