To Burn (34 page)

"You use trickery and deceit, again, to win your way, Saxon," she blazed, her eyes points of fiery light. "Is this the way of honor?"

"This from the woman who stuck a finger down her throat to lose a meal and rob her body of strength?" he struck back, releasing her from his hold. If he touched her again, he would kill her for her deceit. And for the arms she had let embrace her. Roman arms. "Do not speak to me of deceit, Roman, unless you wish to instruct me."

Yes, she had deceived him. It galled him to admit it even to himself. She was soft and hot in his arms, and he had believed her passion to be for him alone; until he had seen her in the arms of a Roman warrior, for a man of such bearing could be nothing else. She had seduced him with her heat so that she could return to the arms of her Roman lover. And he had even begun to admire her, she with her rigid pride and unshakable honor. What honor in a woman who runs to a lover? What pride in selling her body to the enemy so that she could protect the cowardly Roman who hid behind her curves?

No pride and no honor. She was a Roman and she was... hideous. He looked down at her, ignoring the black fall of her hair and the vivid sparkle of her golden eyes and the delicate and proud line of her jaw... Yes, he could ignore it all. But he had not been able to ignore her this morning. This morning he had felt her eyes scouring him even in his sleep and he had awakened with his manhood as hard as a fist. Thinking she went to empty her bladder, he had waited. When the wait grew tedious, he had become suspicious. With suspicion he had summoned Cuthred and Cenred and the three of them had tracked her.

Wulfred swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at thinking of how he had worried over her. He had thought her waylaid by Hensa's men. He had thought her defenseless and in need of a protector, and he had flayed himself with more vigor than any Roman had for leaving her alone and unprotected in a house full of Saxons seeking an enemy to best.

And when his heart had begun to tear itself from his breast in anguish over her, he had seen her clutching the Roman to her bosom with all the fervor of a lover. Had seen her hold him to her in tearful parting. Had seen her give him Optio and watch with love-inspired tears as he walked away from her. Then he had known what it was she had done to him. All the love that was in her, she had given to the Roman warrior. Of course, she had deceived him; she was a Roman and they knew only the path to their own ends. But she had also tricked him into believing that there was something more than hatred between them—something of laughter and respect and trust.

Trust. With a Roman. He had been the worst sort of fool. He had been the imbecile she named him. But no longer.

"Then let us speak of pride, Saxon fool," she taunted.

"Let us," he countered. "What pride in sneaking off from a husband's bed—"

"It is my bed!"

"To meet another man. Is this the value you place on a vow? But I forget; you are Roman."

"You may have forgotten it, but I have not. I will not!"

"Certainly you will also not forget the man, the Roman, whom you held against you so passionately. And, speaking from experience, I am certain he will not have forgotten you. Cuthred and Cenred are pursuing him. When they bring him to me, you will have the privilege of watching him die. That is also something I pray to my gods you will not forget."

"You rant in your blundering Saxon way and I hear but one thing," she choked out, her rage a living heat. "You trusted me and found your trust betrayed. Why, Saxon?" she smiled with sharp cruelty. "I have never told you I feel anything for you other than blind hatred. Did you expect devotion? Loyalty?"

"Passion?" He smirked.

"Hatred is a passion. And I am very passionate where you are concerned."

How she turned everything, every moment between them, into a twisted distortion of what he had believed. She truly was a most adept deceiver.

"You have just sworn, by your own god, to respect me. Have you no passion for your faith?"

"I do," she said. "And I did not lie in my vow. I do respect you, for your strength and your leadership. My vows are genuine, unlike yours."

Never had he seen her so angry, and he had seen her angry often. He understood enough of her, or thought he had, to see that she used her anger as a shield. Anger was her response to fear, to danger, to sadness, to embarrassment... to love? No, she did not love. Not him. Did she fear? If she did, it was fear for her lover that had her blazing so hot and so high.

The small antechamber was now crowded with people, his people, and they crowded around his little Roman wife with glowing animosity. They but awaited his word to kill her. They would continue to wait. He would not kill her until he had the man she loved killed before her eyes. That man would die, because Wulfred would not share the smallest part of Melania with anyone; she was his. She had been his from the beginning.

Cuthred and Cenred elbowed their way into the room until they stood by his side. They were covered in sweat and bits of grass and broken leaves; they had chased their man far. Why did they come in alone?

"Wulfred"—Cenred breathed hard—"he escaped us. Your pardon."

"How is this possible?" Wulfred said furiously.

"He was horsed," Cuthred answered.

All eyes turned to Melania in blatant condemnation.

"It was
my
horse!" she shouted against their hate.

"Can you track him?" Wulfred said, ignoring his wife. At Cuthred's nod, Wulfred said, "Take what you need and go. Do not return without this man. Do not kill him. That is my pleasure."

"You take pleasure in killing a man who has left the spoils of battle to you? You would kill a man for leaving you to your victory and seeking a life for himself elsewhere?" she screamed, her hands curved like claws. Or fangs.

"I will kill him and take great pleasure in it for lying with my wife. Unlike Romans, Saxons do not turn a blind eye to adultery," Wulfred said.

Melania pulled herself up to her full, petite height; such grandeur in one so small and delicate. She looked like a snake about to strike, and she all but spat her next words.

"I don't know what barbarities you practice in your Saxon hovels, but here, within the confines of Rome, a woman does not commit adultery with her brother!"

Chapter 26

He had not expected it, but the instant she said it, everything made sense. And while Melania could deceive, she had never lied outright. It would have made his life more pleasant if she did.

Looking at Theras, Wulfred asked, "Is this true?"

Theras nodded and said simply, "She has a brother."

"My word is not good enough for you, Saxon dog!" she screamed, the cords in her neck standing out in her rage, "You make me your wife, twice, and you take my word for nothing? A servant has more credibility than I? Listen carefully, Saxon pig, listen carefully so that you will hear every word, and I vow that every word is the truth." Pausing until the room grew still, she shouted, "
I hate you!"
Breathing deeply, she said more softly, "You swore to love me, and I knew it for a lie, but I thought that you trusted me. I have never done you an injury from the shadows, Saxon. I fought you openly. I did not promise to protect you while sharpening my knife. I did not vow to provide while planning your death." She paused, eyeing him coldly. It was the first cold rage he had seen in her, and it burned him more fiercely for the difference. Almost quietly, she said, "I have said that I respected you, but I see now your greatest strength is in deceit. You are without honor." There was a collective gasp from all lips, but not from his. He would take all she had to throw at him and not buckle beneath her wrath. She deserved to give vent to this rage. He deserved this abuse. "I do not respect you, Wulfred."

It was the first time she had said his name.

Silence, heavy and black, followed her indictment. None could argue against what she said; Wulfred had not trusted her when she had been worthy of his trust. She had spoken no lie.

But Wulfred knew that she had lied, though without realizing it. She said he did not love her. That was a lie. Now, when the breach between them was wider than it had ever been, he knew it for a lie.

Now, when he had broken whatever trust had been built between them, he knew it. Now, as she stood in stony and righteous distance, he saw what she had become to him.

She was honor when honor was defeat and not praise. She was strength when strength was starved and bloody. She was truth when truth meant death. She was all he'd ever valued in life and she stood before him, as unbowed and proud as always, knowing no other way to be, scorning all other paths. Scorning him.

Why was it now that he knew he loved her?

There was the sound of angry voices and then a voice of command outside the antechamber. Bodies heaved as the newcomers pushed into the center of the tiny room, obliterating the Chi-Rho under their feet. Hensa appeared, dragging a man with him— a man with red hair and silver bracelets.

"Strange place for a meeting," Hensa remarked wryly. "My man, Sigred, had his interest stirred by the Roman woman—"

Wulfred pulled forth his knife and growled, preparing to leap upon his instant adversary.

"No"—Hensa held his arm—"not over a woman. Not over a Roman. He followed her and observed her having a covert conversation with a Roman warrior." Hensa eyed Melania with keen and malicious interest.

Wulfred looked down at Melania for just a moment as she stood in rigid fury to hide her fear. Whatever was charged against Melania, whatever was said, he knew where he would place his trust. He would not fail again.

"Sigred reports—"

"Cannot Sigred speak?" Wulfred interrupted.

Sigred smiled and said easily, "Of course, Wulfred. The Roman asked her about Hensa and about his plans for this rain-soaked land. He was one of Arthur's men and spoke of going west to join him in their battles against us. He would bring whatever information she gave him to Arthur and his cohort. Why would he ask her? Unless she is a spy."

Wulfred did not answer, but asked a question of his own. Like Sigred, his manner was easy—as easy as a swinging blade.

"And what was my wife's answer to these questions?"

Sigred shrugged. "I could not hear it."

Melania jerked forward in angry spasm, crying out, "Liar!" in hoarse Latin.

Wulfred pulled her back by the arm and held her firmly against his side. He would protect her even if she fought him every step, as was her way.

"You must be the only man alive"—he smiled, looking out across the men who had gathered for this sudden trial—"who cannot hear a response made by Melania."

He was rewarded by chuckles and outright guffaws from many of the men, certainly from his own. Hensa had not laughed. Nor had Sigred. It would be a pure pleasure to see to it that Sigred never laughed again.

"Who was the man?" Hensa asked, looking at both Melania and Wulfred. "Her... behavior with him was blatantly compromising, no matter what she did or did not say."

So.
They would have Melania for any reason if treason could not be proved. Wulfred understood the game, praying to all his gods that Melania did not.

"He was... is her brother," he said calmly, projecting confidence with his very ease.

Hensa looked unmoved by that testimony. "Loyalty to her own blood would run strong, especially in a woman of such passion. And especially as she makes her hatred of Saxons no secret."

"You have said it," Wulfred said. "Nothing of this woman, my wife, is done in secret."

"Then her hatred is true," Hensa concluded.

Wulfred would continue no longer on this rabbit chase; Melania would not be condemned or saved because of her temperament.

"Is Melania being accused?" he asked outright.

It was that one question that gave Hensa pause. To make an accusation was a serious matter, never done lightly and never in haste. And Hensa was leader, an example; would his hate rule him, or would his head?

"If the man was her brother, the charge of adultery is invalid." Hensa paused, weighing the evidence. "But the charge of treason stands."

Wulfred did not hesitate. Melania was his. She had his trust and his love, though she did not know it.

"I stand as proof," he declared, his voice ringing against the walls of the tiled room. "Melania would not betray me, even to blood kin. This woman knows only the path of honor, no matter what trouble it brings her. If she betrayed me, her pride would demand that she proclaim it to my face. She has freely given her vow to be my wife, and Melania of the Romans would never betray her husband."

Wulfred looked out over them all, his eyes meeting without hesitation those of his brothers in arms. His hand was still upon her arm, his touch as solid as a tether and as gentle as goose down. He claimed her by his touch and by his word. "Her word is true. By her own vow she has taken a Saxon for a husband. Melania would not betray me. To anyone. I stand as proof to all that I have said."

Without pause his comitatus rose like a tide to cover rocks of destruction. Their voices rang out, as loudly as Wulfred's had done, proclaiming her innocence on the strength of their own honor. Melania would not stand alone against Hensa's condemnation.