Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) (32 page)

Valeria pulled her wet dress over her head and napped in the sun. Sometime later, a cough from the bishop woke her, and she found him cooking a rabbit on a makeshift spit over a fire. “It worked?”

“You doubted me?”

“Of course not.” Valeria inhaled the smell of roasted meat and her mouth watered. “I’m starving.”

“ʼTis nearly ready.” Elusius lifted the stick that impaled the rabbit from the two supporting branches he used to hold it. Pulling on a leg, he determined it was sufficiently cooked and let it cool on a bed of oak leaves.

Unable to wait, Valeria yanked off a leg and shoved it in her mouth as she skinned the flesh with her teeth in a single motion.

“Hardly ladylike, my dear.” Elusius tore pieces off the breast with his fingers and delicately slipped the meat in his mouth.

“I guess starvation will turn a lady into a savage.”

“You must never forget your breeding. There is no need to act like a barbarian, even when you are famished in the wild.”

Valeria pursed her lips and daintily tore off a piece of rabbit breast. “Forgive my moment of regression. I shall endeavor to ensure it does not happen again.”

Shoving food in her mouth like an uncivilized vagrant would take her nowhere. In her observation, Taran’s Aunt Betha had always acted like a lady. She sat regally beside her husband and beside Taran after Oisean’s death. She was a woman bred to be queen. Valeria had such breeding, if not to be queen, to be a lady of court. She would show Elusius and everyone else she was poised, reticent as well as benevolent. She would have included pious in her list of attributes, but piety was not a concern to the Picts.

“Once we’ve eaten, we should keep going, travel by night.” Valeria tossed a leg bone into the fire. “ʼTis what the Picts do when they are in enemy territory.”

The bishop held his hand to his mouth catching a deep, gurgling cough. “Do you think it wise? We’ve already lost our path.”

“Traveling at night is far safer than by day. Besides, if we continue north, we’ll reach Hadrian’s Wall. It cannot be far.”

****

Greum pulled up his gelding and circled back along the trail. “We’ve lost them.”

Taran leaned heavily on Blackie’s neck. “I wouldn’t be so sure. ʼTis likely the savage bastards will track us all the way to Gododdin.”

“I doubt it. I’d be heading for home and a hot meal in this deluge.”

“Aye, but I killed their prize bull. They’ll be wanting blood.” Taran strained to raise his face to the liquid sky. “ʼTis easing. We’re through the worst of it.”

Greum looked at him for the first time. “Taran. Are ye hurt? Yer face is ghostly white.”

Taran nodded and reached his hand to his side. He pulled it out and examined the color of the blood. His head felt light, and from the blood that soaked Blackie’s side, he’d been bleeding heavily. “Left them a ripe trail, I did.”

“The rain should take care of most of it. ʼTis red. That’s a good sign. Yer vitals should still be intact.”

“We’ve no time to fuss over a flesh wound.”

Taran pushed Blackie forward, knowing full well the gash in his side was no minor wound. The bleeding was good, it would cleanse the laceration. If it became putrid, he’d eventually succumb to the fever—a death far worse than being run through.

He gritted his teeth. They needed to find Valeria before something like this happened, but he wouldn’t let a wound slow him down. Blast the Saxons and blast their bleating sport. Running into Midget’s band of hoodlums was exactly why he chose to remain north of the wall. The Saxons, the Gaels, and the Attacotti were all a bunch of savage scoundrels, and he had no tolerance for the lot of them. He thanked his good fortune he hadn’t chanced upon an Anglo from the south and west of Britannia. He’d heard they were every bit as wretched as the Saxons.

Taran’s vision blurred. He blinked his eyes to no avail. Without warning, his stomach heaved. Reflexively he leaned out while bile purged from his guts. Reaching for his waterskin, he gulped back his sickness.

“Ye want to stop?” Greum asked.

“Keep going,” he groused. “Tie me to me horse if ye have to.” Taran’s head weaved in and out of consciousness, rousing him when he tipped forward. Gritting his teeth, he fought to stay alert. As they rode on, Taran slouched lower in the saddle until he rested on Blackie’s neck. Wrapping his arms around the steadfast beast, he let him lead while he closed his eyes. Blackness permeated his world.

Before dawn, Valeria and the bishop came upon a Roman road. Cobbled with flagstone, it looked similar to the roads their century had traveled from Londontown to Vindolanda. Afraid the horses’ shod hooves would make a racket on the cobblestone, they agreed to double back into the wood and sleep.

Valeria took a moment to retrace their trail and used a branch to cover their tracks just as she’d seen Greum do during their travels. Her stomach growled for food again. But this was no time to set traps and it was too dark to gather. She prayed sleep would come quickly and take away her hunger.

Fortunately, she did doze.

It was afternoon when she woke. The bishop had already lit a fire. He’d again fashioned a spit, and sat twirling a skinned rabbit as he intermittently coughed.

“That smells delicious.”

He pointed through the trees “There’s a rabbit warren about twenty paces through the wood. I didn’t even have to set a trap, just shoved my hand into the hole. But the varmint bit me.” He looked at his finger and shoved it in his mouth, sucking away the pain.

Valeria crawled over to him and held out her hand. “Here, let me look at it.”

He slowly opened his palm with a grimace.

“I wish we had a kettle. I’d boil some raspberry leaves and make a salve.”

He coughed and resumed spinning the rabbit. “No matter. It will heal in a day or two.”

“I’m worried about your cough. I think you might be becoming sick again.”

“This damp air doesn’t agree with me.”

“Sleeping on a soggy bed of moss cannot be helping either.” She reached out and brushed his cheek. “If we can send a messenger to Taran, we might consider spending a few days in Vindolanda. We could sleep in what remains of the house. It would at least be dry.”

He patted her hand with a knowing smile. “If we are not murdered, you might have a good idea.”

“I think they’ll remember me. Taran met with a man named Morgon, their leader. I aim to ask him for an escort to Gododdin.”

“Good thinking. The longer we spend in the wild, the more likely we’ll be discovered by thieves. Of course I’d fight for you, but I’m old. I no longer have the strength of a warrior.”

“You were a warrior?”

“No, child. But as a young man, I learned to defend myself with a sword, and the years of pitching hay built me strong, just as it would any other man.”

After eating, they traveled up the Roman road, watching for signs of human life, especially potential hostiles. The sun was setting when they came to the vallum—the defensive trench dug by the legions, which ran along the Hadrian’s Wall. Sometimes it butted right up against it, but would strategically detour up to a mile in other sections, depending on the best military strategy for defense against possible civil uprising.

Elusius trotted ahead to a milepost. “Newcastle, one mile,” he wheezed.

Valeria pulled back on Mia’s reins feeling her head start to pound. “Newcastle? Vindolanda is a long day’s ride to the west.”

Frowning, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend riding to the fort at Newcastle to ask for assistance. I don’t believe they will take kindly to a Roman holy man and I fear for you, my dear. One look at you and they will be casting lots for your favors.”

Valeria cringed. “We must again travel under cover of darkness.”

****

The stabbing pain in his side brought him to consciousness. Taran convulsed with shivers as someone raised his head and poured water in his mouth. Choking, water gurgling, Taran opened his eyes to see Greum with the waterskin in his hand.

“Ye’re alive.”

His voice was parched as sand, but Taran managed to croak out, “Where in the blazes are we, and how long have we been here?”

“We’re safe. Our tracks are covered. Those heathens won’t find us here.”

Taran squinted, surveying his surroundings. They were in a cave. Stag was curled up at his feet, and by the darkness pervading the entrance, it had to be night. Greum had built a smokeless fire and Taran lay on his saddle blanket, his ire turning his shivers to hot fury. “Why have we stopped? I told ye to continue even if I lost me senses.”

“Benumbed ye were, and continue on we did—until the horses near dropped from exertion.”

Taran tried to sit up, but Greum pushed him back down. “How long was I out?”

Greum’s lips grew thin.

“Tell me.”

“ʼTis been a day.”

“A day? Why have ye let me sleep so long?”

“You weren’t exactly sleeping. There was no rousing ye. Ye’re fevered.”

“Bloody pig entrails,” Taran growled, balling his fists. He struggled to sit up. Greum reached over to push him back down, but Taran batted his had away. “I will not be pampered like a helpless lad.”

Greum rocked back on his haunches. “I thought we’d rest until morning. If ye didn’t wake by then I’d lever ye up on yer horse and head off.” He punched Taran in the shoulder. “Ye’re one heavy bastard even if ye are the king.”

Taran scratched his head, which was swimming in a sea of its own. He gingerly plucked the waterskin from Greum’s hands and guzzled.

“Yer wound cut through to muscle. I’ve bound it as best I could. ʼTis angry red, but I think ye’ll live.”

Taran shifted, the irritation with his weakness needling him more than the discomfort of the wound and fever. “Have ye at least caught us some food?”

“ʼTis a good sign. Ye’re cantankerous
and
hungry.”

Of course Greum had felled a doe and held up skewers of roasted meat.

Taran reached for the venison and tore at it with his teeth. “Ye’re a good man, Greum.”

“Aye. Ye ought to be thanking me for saving yer sorry arse.”

“Ye reckon? What would you have done? Sung Midget a ballad?” Taran crammed another piece of venison into his mouth. “ʼTis me ye should be thanking.”

Greum reached for a skewer. “Bloody ungrateful beast.”

Taran snorted back his retort. “The horses have had a day to rest?”

“Aye.”

“We’ll leave as soon as we’ve et.”

****

Yet again, hunger threatened to consume her. She rubbed a hand over the thin cloth of her dress and felt the protrusion of ribs with no flesh to smooth them. But when the walls of Vindolanda loomed against the moonlit sky, pangs of hunger were replaced by a fluttering of excitement.

Infused with renewed hope, she spurred Mia to a gallop with the bishop close behind.

They pulled up short when an arrow whizzed past her ear.
Of course
. She should have remembered not to rush in. They’d want to meet with her and the bishop before allowing them entry.

She scanned the charred walls of the fort, in disrepair after being sacked. A myriad of memories overcame her while they waited for the party to ride out to meet them. The last time she’d used the southern entrance to the fort, she’d been in the carriage with Elusius and Pia. Her father had waited with open arms, an embrace she would never feel again. It had also been the first time she’d seen Taran and the first time she had been witness to the ugly face of the Roman Empire.

So many things had changed. What seemed important then had become the frivolous musings of a spoiled girl standing at the door of womanhood. How quickly she’d crossed that threshold once forced. The silly child was gone. Like a butterfly released from its cocoon, a lean, spirited woman now stood in the child’s place.

Two Picts with their faces customarily tattooed in blue rode out to meet them. A sliver of sunlight peeked over the hills to the east giving her enough light to determine Morgon wasn’t one of the pair. A trickle of dread slithered up her spine. Their eyes narrowed, almost menacing.

The bishop steered his mount closer to her. “Let me do the talking.”

The men stared at her like hungry wolves. She lowered her gaze as customary in Rome.

The bishop cleared his throat. Valeria knew he tried not to cough. Doing so would demonstrate his weakness. “I’m escorting my lady to Dunpelder where she has dealings with his highness, Taran, son of Brude, Chief of Gododdin, King of all Picts and the most powerful Votadini Tribe.”

Valeria was impressed the bishop could rattle Taran’s title off his tongue as if he’d repeated it a hundred times.

The men scowled. The larger of the two sized up Elusius, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Why, ye’re a thieving Roman. What is yer business with the king?”

“My lady is under his protection. They recently traveled together looking for me. Once I was found, a band of Roman rogues captured my lady and me, spiriting us away. We managed to flee and have come to Vindolanda to seek assistance from Morgon.”