Gwen inspected the contents of Breena’s mortar, avoiding Rhiannon’s gaze. The lass was rhythmically reducing a lumpy root to a dull gray powder. The strong, pungent odor was unfamiliar. “What herb is this?”
“Valerian,” Breena replied. “It aids in sleep. Though in my case, it’s not effective.”
“If the Great Mother wishes to send ye a message, no herb will prevent it,” Gwen agreed. “How often are ye visited by visions?”
“There’s no pattern to it. I can go months without one, then suddenly I’ll be visited every night.” A shadow passed over her expression. “That’s how it’s been for the past fortnight. Each night has been worse than the one before.”
“Tell me a little of what ye See.”
Breena met Gwen’s gaze briefly, a shadow crossing her blue eyes. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Please. If I am to help …”
Breena’s knuckles went white as her grip on the pestle tightened. “In the past—even as a small child—I’d see flashes of the future, or sometimes people and things that were lost. The visions would be repeated over and over, until the event I saw came pass, or whatever was lost came to be found. These new visions are different. I can hear nothing. I See very little. Only the figure of a woman, veiled with silver shadows.”
Silver. The same color Gwen had seen in Breena’s aura.
Breena set the pestle on the table. “There’s nothing distinct at all, and yet I know …”
“What?” Gwen asked gently, exchanging a glance with Rhiannon. The older woman’s eyes were very grave.
“It’s not what I See that’s upsetting. It’s what I
feel.
The woman … I’m linked to her emotions. Someone is enraged with her. Beating her, choking her … I feel her terror, her helplessness. Somehow I know I’m the only person who can help this woman, but … how can I? I cannot move. I can’t get to her.”
Gwen absorbed Breena’s words, reflecting on them for several long moments. “I cannot tell ye what the vision means. Ye must discover that on your own. But I can tell ye this: the Great Mother would not send ye a vision without guiding ye to its meaning. Once ye learn to banish the pain, perhaps ye may be able to find the vision’s meaning.”
“I hope so.” Breena picked up a small silver spoon.
With a trembling hand, she scooped the powdered valerian root from the mortar into an earthenware jar. Gray dust spilled down the sides of the container.
Rhiannon spoke. “I thank the Great Mother for sending ye to us, Gwen. Surely your arrival here when Breena is in need of your skills was not by chance.”
Gwen was grateful for the quiet conviction in Rhiannon’s voice. It did much to ease her conscience. If the Great Mother had guided her steps to Isca, surely leaving Avalon had been the right decision.
Rhiannon layered her bundles of herbs in a long, low basket. “Lucius will soon return from observing the planting of the north field. And Aiden will be finishing his morning walk. They’ll both be wanting the noon meal.”
“Will Marcus be eating with us as well?” Breena asked. “I haven’t seen him yet today.”
“Marcus went into town,” Rhiannon told her. “He doesna expect to return before supper.” Depositing the last bundle in her basket, she rose. “I will see how Alma’s meal is progressing.”
Breena sprang to her feet and urged her mother back to her seat. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You were up half the night with me, and you’ve already done far too much this morning. Sit and rest while I make you another draught of raspberry leaves and honey.”
Gwen rose. “I’ll see to the meal.”
Breena shot her a grateful glance. “Thank you. The kitchen is at the end of the wing.”
Gwen didn’t tell Breena she already knew well enough where the kitchen was. Once there, she found Alma and two helpers, a stout old Celt woman called Mab and a slight, pretty Roman girl named Celia, laying out the noon meal on two large trays. Gwen had never seen such a variety of food in her life. Meals on Avalon consisted most often of barley stew flavored with venison or fish and whatever wild greens or fruits Avalon’s women gathered. Hard barley bannocks served as both bread and spoon. Only rarely did she have wheat bread, and then only dense brown loaves—never light, herbed bread that gave off such a heady aroma that it caused her mouth to water.
Alma’s meal was a dizzying medley of texture and color. Gwen did not even know what most of the food was. The stout, smiling cook was more than happy to enlighten her.
“Coddled eggs to start,” Alma declared. “Followed by a plate of oysters and mussels cooked in spiced wine—Master Lucius is especially fond of that dish. For the main course, a hare stuffed with chestnuts and thyme; sliced veal in a sauce made with raisins, honey, and vinegar. Leeks and asparagus. For dessert, soft cheese and fresh forest berries, and a peppered sweetcake.”
Gwen could only shake her head in wonder. “It all looks delicious. May I carry one of the trays for ye?”
“Ah, no need, child. Has the master arrived yet?”
“Rhiannon expects Lucius any moment.”
“Good. He hates when his dinner grows cold. Celia, tend to the drink.”
The slight lass, who could not have seen more than eight summers, hefted a pitcher of
cervesia
and another filled with wine onto a tray. When Gwen offered to carry one of the pitchers for her, she shook her head with a smile. “I’m strong enough,” she said proudly.
“Go back to the table,” Alma admonished Gwen. “There’s no work for a guest here.”
Sensing it would be an insult to the cook to insist, Gwen retreated. Being a guest in a Roman household, even one as informal as the Aquilas’s, took some getting used to. On Avalon, there was always more work to be done than there were hands to do it.
Returning to the hearth room, she found Lucius and Aiden already seated with Rhiannon and Breena. Gwen slipped into an empty chair as the kitchen women entered with the meal. The food had barely been served when Gwen heard the faint tang of the gate bell.
Breena grinned. “That will be Lavina. She has uncanny knowledge of our meal hours.”
Lucius rose. “I’ll go see.”
When her father had gone, Breena turned to Aiden, her eyes dancing. “Adenarius says Lavina has brought Marcus a dessert.”
“Ah, lass,” Aiden responded with a croaking laugh. “Surely ye doan’ think I’m fool enough to take such a losing wager. The woman never arrives without a sweet for your brother.”
Rhiannon smothered a smile. “Lay an extra plate on the table, Breena. Did ye invite Lavina?”
Breena rose and took a plate from the cupboard. “I did, when she brought a pudding a few days ago. And I am vexed that Marcus isn’t here to greet her. Lavina would make a lovely sister.”
Gwen nearly spit out a mouthful of
cervesia.
“Marcus means to marry?”
“Oh, he doesn’t
mean
to,” Breena told her. Aiden chortled and sipped his beer. “But he can hardly avoid it. My brother is handsome, strong, uncommonly good-natured, and well past the age when most men marry.”
“He is only five-and-twenty,” Gwen protested.
“He’ll fall soon—it’s inevitable. Lavina isn’t his only admirer, but I much prefer her to Claudia or Portia.”
“What of Marcus? Whom does he prefer?” Gwen found herself asking, though she really did not wish to know.
Rhiannon sighed. “None of them, though they are all fine lasses. Marcus was smitten with Clara for such a long time—since she married Owein, no other woman has held his interest.”
“Except the kind of woman a man doesn’t bring home to his family,” Breena interjected darkly. “At least whenever Rhys is here. The two of them spent more time at that brothel—”
Aiden coughed loudly.
“Breena.” Rhiannon’s tone was sharp. “Mind your tongue.”
“Yes, Mother,” she muttered. Then, under her breath, “It’s only the truth.”
Gwen took a deliberate sip of
cervesia.
It did nothing to calm her churning stomach. She knew what a brothel was—Dera, who had come to Avalon from the northern city of Eburacum, had told her of houses where men paid to couple with women. But it had never occurred to Gwen that her staid and cautious brother frequented such places.
It should not bother her. She’d never assumed Rhys was chaste, and she hardly expected Marcus to be celibate. They were men, after all. That rationalization, unfortunately, did little to ease the sudden tightness in her chest when she thought of Marcus with another woman.
She was even more discomfited when Lucius returned with Lavina. She was lovely—young, and dark and lush in the way of Roman women. Small and curvaceous, she had black hair, generous breasts, and lips the color of wine. Gwen felt suddenly scrawny and pale. Last night, Marcus had mentioned more than once how thin Gwen was—had he been comparing her to Lavina? She eyed the covered basket that swung on Lavina’s shapely arm. The anticipated sweet, no doubt.
It soon became clear that Lavina’s family had been friendly with the Aquilas since Lavina’s childhood. Rhiannon asked after Lavina’s young son. Gwen gathered the woman was a widow from a neighboring farm. She could not be more than twenty—her marriage must have been over soon after it had begun. For Lavina’s benefit, and Lucius’s, the conversation switched from Celtic to Latin. Gwen’s head soon ached with the effort of translating.
Lavina was disappointed to find Marcus away from home, but she accepted a place at the table between Rhiannon and Gwen. Her basket contained the same honey-dipped pastries Marcus had declared his favorite the night before. Apparently, Lavina was well versed in Marcus’s likes and dislikes.
She did not seem to know what to make of Gwen, whom Rhiannon introduced as a visiting cousin. Gwen did not elaborate. Lavina’s eyes were inquisitive; she darted glances in Gwen’s direction all through the meal. At last, her curiosity could not be contained. She addressed Gwen directly. “From what town do you come?”
The question caught Gwen off guard. “Dumnovaria,” she blurted. It was the first Roman town that came to mind.
“Indeed! Why, I have an uncle who lives in Dumnovaria. Felix Cassius. Do you know him?”
“I’m sorry, I do not.”
“But you must! It’s such a small settlement, and my uncle is the town’s only textile merchant. You must know his name, at least. It’s not possible that you—”
“Lavina,” a male voice said. “How good to see you.”
Lavina looked up, her expression brightening with pleasure, the mystery of Gwen’s home forgotten as swiftly as yesterday’s weather. “Marcus! Rhiannon did not expect you.”
“Nonetheless, I am here.” Marcus sent Gwen a swift glance as he strode to the table.
Gwen could not take her eyes from him even after he looked away. The room seemed smaller for his presence, somehow. And warmer. He did not look like a man who had worked through the night without sleeping. His short, curly hair was tousled, and his dark eyes sparkled with health and recent exertion. He must have ridden into town, for he smelled pleasantly of horse and leather.
Rhiannon smiled as her stepson strode to the table and greeted her with a touch on the shoulder and a kiss on the cheek. “We would have waited before eating had we known ye would be home for dinner,” she said.
“Don’t trouble yourself about it.” Marcus turned to clasp Lavina’s outstretched hand. He slid into the empty seat beside her without looking again at Gwen. “My business in town concluded earlier than I expected. I trust there’s still some food left?”
“Of course,” Rhiannon said.
Lavina smiled sweetly and laid a proprietary hand on his arm. “And I brought dessert—honeyed pastries. Your favorite.”
Marcus looked discomfited, but he managed a charming smile. “Er … how nice.”
Breena smothered a laugh with her hand. Rhiannon shot her daughter a reproachful look. Gwen looked down at her food as Lavina fussed over filling Marcus’s plate.
She was no longer hungry.
“Dumnovaria?” Marcus asked Gwen later, after Lavina’s horse-drawn cart had rattled out the front gates. Gwen had never been so happy to see a woman go. Marcus had eaten fully half of her honeyed pastries. And he had clearly enjoyed every one.
It was irrational, Gwen knew, but his pleasure made her feel inadequate. She hated cooking. If she were to attempt to make a honeyed pastry, no doubt it would taste like a honeyed lump of charcoal.
“Her question surprised me. Dumnovaria was the first town that came to mind.” They stood in the center of the herb garden, where Marcus had sought her out after seeing Lavina to her cart. “Rhys was in Dumnovaria last autumn,” she added defensively.
“Dumnovaria is little more than a cattle track. You might have said Londinium. That city is huge, and far away. Lavina’s never been there.”
“Ye would know, wouldn’t ye?” She did not care for the notion that Marcus had intimate knowledge of Lavina’s comings and goings.
He looked at her, clearly baffled. “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve known Lavina since she was eight years old and I was Breena’s age. Her husband was one of my best friends. He died of a fever two years ago.”
“Oh!” Gwen felt suddenly very mean-spirited. “Ye must have been saddened by his death.”
Marcus crossed his arms, still eyeing her. “I was.”
She made a show of examining some yellow mustard flowers. “ ’Twould be fitting, then, if ye married Lavina.”
“Jupiter.
That’s Breena’s wish, not mine. I’m no more eager to marry than you are. Lavina’s beginning to lose patience with me already. Soon she’ll turn her efforts to a more likely prospect.”
“I don’t know why ye would not want to wed her,” Gwen said perversely. “She’s a lovely woman. Very … shapely.”
“Yes, she’s shapely enough, but she chatters incessantly.”
Gwen made a dismissive gesture. “All women chatter.”
“You don’t.”
“Aye, well, I am different from most women.”
Marcus laughed. “That’s true enough. Most women are not prickly, wild-born Druidesses.”
Something in his tone raised her ire. “I am not
prickly.
Nor am I wild-born, much to my regret. I was born right here, in Isca Silurum.”
Marcus’s brows shot upward. “You were? You and Rhys both?”
She sent him a look of amused disdain. “Of course, both of us. We are twins, after all.”