To Burn (26 page)

There was no reasonable answer, no answer that would mesh with what she understood of the world from her father's careful instruction.

The forest was very near. She had walked slowly, deep in thought, and without direction, yet the order of the rows had led her to the heavy shade of the wood. It was not safe here; the area had gone wild since people rarely came to it. Melania turned back toward the villa lying in its snug valley, and as she did, the crunch of crushed leaves and twigs behind her spun her around again.

The sky was darkening rapidly, the clouds thick and gray; the forest was in black shadow. If there was a wolf, she could not see it. If there was a man...

Melania turned to run, angry that she had wandered so far from the relative safety of the villa. As barbaric as the Saxons were, she didn't think they would eat her alive....

"Melania!"

She knew that voice. She would know that voice forever.

"Marcus!"

Chapter 20

She would have run to him, was in the act of running to him, when he stopped her.

"Do not come! Do not show that you have heard anything, Melania. You are followed."

Of course.
She was always followed. She had grown so accustomed to it that she had forgotten, but she must not lead the Saxons to Marcus. Marcus must remain free.

She turned back to face the villa, toying with a grape leaf, pretending to be idle. She was far from idle. Marcus was here. Marcus would help her. Her blood pounded just knowing he was near.

"Marcus," she said to the grape leaf, trying to keep herself from smiling like a fool. "Marcus, you are well? Where have you been?"

"I am well," came the voice, that beloved voice, from the shadows. "Uninjured. Footsore. Hungry."

"I'll get you something, a bag full of food."

"But I can't come with you to the villa, can I?"

Melania responded to the angry pain she heard in his voice. "No, it's crawling with barbarians. I'm sorry, Marcus. It's better if you stay hidden. I will provide for you."

"But what of you, Melania? How have you survived this invasion?"

She did not want him to know what had happened to her, the world she had inhabited for the length of the summer. "It won't be any trouble. I'll come after dark, in full dark, and give you whatever you need. Clothing? How are your shoes? I'll bring you extra shoes—"

"Melania," he interrupted harshly, "have they harmed you? Have they—"

"You can see me, Marcus. Do I look battered? No, the Saxon oafs have not harmed me.
I...
have learned to adjust."

"You do look good to me. The same girl, unchanged. Would I could say the same of Britannia."

He thought her unchanged? Strange, for she did not feel the same. "You have seen other barbarians? In other places?"

"They overrun us; from the east, south, and north they come and drive all before them. They leave burned towns and villas and fields behind them. They are a pestilence."

She had thought the same, felt the same, but it was strange to hear it from Marcus's lips. "What of the west? Have you been to the west?"

"I..."

Ceolmund climbed the hill, his long hair swaying and blowing in the wind. He stood in clear view at a distance, giving her privacy, but watching her all the same.

"Go, Melania. Come to me here when the moon is high and I will hold you in my arms while you feed me to your heart's content. I will even let you put new shoes on my sore feet."

"I'll come," she said, walking away from his beautiful voice, still trying not to grin like a fool. "But you can put on your own shoes."

Ceolmund waited for her. He did not speak to her as she neared him, not unusual for him, but she was unusually grateful for his silence. She had much to think on.

Marcus was here! At last, at last he had come for her. Marcus would make everything right. Oh, he could not defeat all the Saxons who had invaded Britannia, but he could take her away from here, away from one particular Saxon. If she were only away from here, her marriage vow would mean nothing. If Wulfred were not always in front of her, she could forget him and his ridiculous talk of vows and laws and honor. Away from him, she could forget passion.

She was still high above the villa when she saw the men come.
Barbari. More barbari.
Her heart sank as her temper soared. More? Was she expected to adjust herself to more? More pillage? More death?

Never.

Melania stormed down the hill, hardly noticing that Ceolmund followed at her heels. Hardly caring that Dorcas came running up to meet her. All she could see were barbarians streaming through her gates and into her courtyard, dropping their filthy belongings on her tiled portico, drinking from her cistern with their dirty cupped hands. It was more than any civilized woman could be expected to tolerate.

"Melania," Dorcas huffed, having finally climbed the hill from the villa. Melania did not break stride, and Dorcas fell into step behind her, bumping into a grim-faced Ceolmund as she did so. "Melania," she repeated. "Important Saxon leaders have come. Wulfred wants you. Immediately."

"He'll get me immediately, as will all of his dusty friends, though I don't think he'll be cheered by my presence."

Dorcas cast a worried look at Ceolmund. He did not return her glance. He merely unsheathed his short sword and stayed a half step behind Melania.

What this would mean for Marcus she could only guess, and all her guesses were unpleasant. Why did there have to be so many more of them right now? Couldn't they have stayed in their holes until she had left with Marcus? Whatever happened to her or the villa, she had to make sure that Marcus escaped them. Marcus must survive.

The courtyard was almost empty by the time she reached it; they had all swarmed into the triclinium to eat her food and drink her wine and drop lice on her floor. Entering the triclinium, hot with rage at this latest and unexpected affront, she saw Wulfred at the far end of the room with his men fanned out behind him. The new horde, filthy to a man, were fanned out in direct opposition.

Pushing through them, she had one target: Wulfred. Someone reached out and patted her bottom as she surged through; she turned in righteous anger, but Ceolmund was there before her. The man, a redhead, fell to the floor.

Elbowing her way into them, a most revolting endeavor, she felt a pinch on her breast and spun in the direction of the attack, filled with fury and fear. Ceolmund sliced the man's finger and he howled before putting the grimy thing into his mouth and sucking on it. Before another of them could touch her, Wulfred was there at her side, filling her eyes and crowding out her vision of the horde in her home. He surrounded her, his huge body a shield that encompassed her completely as he walked her to the front of the room, one hand firmly on her shoulder and the other on her waist. He declared his possession of her and his determination to protect her with every step they shared. None dared touch her with Wulfred at her side, and she was ashamed at the thankfulness she felt at being so clearly rescued.

He was a Saxon, one of them. She was a Roman, able to take care of herself. Yet she had needed him and he had come to her defense without a word having been spoken between them. There had been no need for words.

"Is this why you have been so absent during our forays?"

"She's not much, is she?"

"Let me have at her and I'll let you know!"

"Have you all been doing her or—"

Melania whirled within the shelter of Wulfred's arms, fire on her tongue, but Wulfred spoke first.

"Enough!"
he said abruptly, his voice the throaty rumble of a wolf's. The room slowly became silent and still. Wulfred, taller than most of them, scanned the room with his eyes full of challenge and command. Melania knew the look well. "This woman will receive respect from you and nothing less. She is my wife."

Wulfred pulled her tightly to his side, his body a vibrating fortress as they faced the Saxons together; she watched their faces register shock and even horror. Standing beside him, strangely allied with him, she faced this new threat to her home; more Saxons, more strangers. Invaders.

One stood out from the rest. His clothing was richer than any she had yet seen, far richer than the plain leather garb Wulfred wore. His cloak was dyed red and lined with fur, and his boots were well-tanned leather. A leader of sorts. Wulfred's leader? A man in mastery over Wulfred; it was difficult to imagine.

"A wife," the stranger said. "Now it is clear why you kept your distance this summer. But was it profitable?" He looked her up and down. She held herself erect and stared back. She had unwillingly absorbed enough Saxon to understand the gist of what he said. If he wanted to take her measure, she would use the opportunity to take his. He would find much to commend Rome in her.

"She is a beauty, Hensa," Wulfred answered, "with enough spirit for ten warriors. She is a worthy wife."

Melania reeled inwardly; Wulfred thought her beautiful, spirited, worthy. He had said little enough of such admiration to her, not that she needed praise from a Saxon warrior.

"The villa was hers?" Hensa asked pragmatically.

"Mine then, mine now, mine stay," Melania spat out, staking her claim with her limited Saxon vocabulary.

She eyed Hensa in return, evaluating his worth as an adversary. He was a large man, taller and thicker than Wulfred, and older. Were no Saxons of normal proportions? His hair was grayed brown and just past shoulder length, and his eyes were thin slices of grayish blue. He had the look of a man who was comfortably in command and one who was uncommonly observant. That was unfortunate for her and for Marcus.

Wulfred stood at her side in silence. He did not speak for her. He did not apologize for her. He did not try to overshadow her. He stood stalwart and immovable at her side and he lifted his brows in silent comment: she was a woman of great spirit and fire, a wife of whom to be proud. He was proud of her. Melania felt the breath go out of her and had to remind herself to breathe again.

Hensa laughed in reluctant approval and said to Wulfred, "She will give you strong sons."

Wulfred crossed his arms and nodded, his smile pleasant if not warm.

Melania understood the difference. Hensa was a Saxon, but Wulfred was not at ease. She did not understand the nuances of the interaction between the pair, but she understood enough to be wary. Also she understood that Wulfred had not belittled her in front of his kind, but had shown her respect and demanded that all others respect her. Without hesitation, she aligned herself with Wulfred.

She would not disgrace him in front of Hensa and his men, not when he had done his best by his Saxon honor. She would show him that her Roman honor was more than a match for his and twice as just. Whatever battles they fought were between them; it would hardly be right to make their battles public, especially in front of one who had authority over Wulfred. Shaming him in front of his leader would hardly classify as a victory, not to her logical and unemotional Roman mind. She stepped nearer to Wulfred so that her shoulder pressed against his arm in an unemotional show of support.

Wulfred's men had watched the encounter with hands on weapons; they would have killed to save Wulfred's honor. Because of Melania's loyalty they would not have to. She had proven herself a stalwart wife, if only this once.

Now that possible conflict had been avoided, manners dictated that the visitors—she would not refer to them even in her own mind as guests—be served a meal. These barbarians would not find Roman hospitality lacking, not in her home. Deftly, Melania directed Theras in the choice of foods and in their presentation. Their resources would be stretched to the limit, but they would never show a lack to this rabble. Never would she show weakness to a Saxon.

Her servants moved among these pagans, hiding their uneasiness in exemplary service. Melania sat in her usual place and monitored everything, her eyes missing nothing, including the scrutiny with which Hensa regarded her. Wulfred sat between them, a welcome and, she suspected, intentional barrier.

The second course had been served when Hensa spoke. Melania had the uneasy sensation that he spoke to her as well as to Wulfred.

"You found rich and fertile land, Wulfred. It needs only strong men to make it produce as it should. Saxon men."

Wulfred set down his cup and picked up a chunk of bread soaked in spiced olive oil. The oil ran over his fingers. He did not seem to notice.

"I agree. The land is good. It will take much work and many years, but it could flourish again."

"Perhaps not as many years as you imply," Hensa argued pleasantly. "And there are many slaves here to help."

"The destruction and decay of years takes years to correct," Wulfred said, abandoning his bread to the table.

When Melania leaned forward to argue that her home had not been in decay for years, that the lack of anything in her home was the result of Saxon mischief, Wulfred quietly reached out and placed his hand on her knee. It was a plainly conciliatory gesture. She was plainly puzzled by it. She decided to hold her tongue. For now.