Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) (8 page)

Taran moved slowly through the brush. Unable to see more than a foot ahead, he used his ears and sense of smell to place each footfall. If a mere twig snapped beneath his feet, his presence would be known.

His breathing was shallow, and every nerve jumped as each step drew him closer to the Attacotti camp. Someone grunted ahead. Crouching, he glanced at Greum who nodded once. Taran slowly dropped to his knees and peered under the dense thicket. He held down a branch and scanned the camp for Valeria.

“…I demand you return her to me at once,” her voice cut through the air.

He nearly gasped. She was only a few paces in front of him.

Taran grinned at Greum and pointed his finger downward. His fingers itched to reach his hand out and stroke Valeria’s shiny black hair. She crouched, wrapped in her cloak, surrounded by six Attacotti, but appeared untouched. Their horses were tethered across the glade. Clearly they were settling in.

He gasped, recognizing Runan’s face. The bleating king himself had traveled to the wall to oversee the raid? No wonder he was anxious to run home. He’d have to return to guard his pilfered treasure of silver.

Taran wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his Roman sword. He glanced at Greum, who inclined his head back toward the trail. Taran knew he was right and carefully released the branch. They retraced their steps, taking time to cover their tracks. With expert backtracking they found Drust standing guard while Fionn and Seumas slept.

“Well?” Drust asked.

“They’re settling in for the night.”

“ʼTis best we do the same.”

Taran preferred not to wait. “I think we should ride in and have it over with.”

“Are ye serious? We’ll all fight better after we’ve had some rest.”

Taran hated the idea of Valeria spending a night in Runan’s camp, but an attack now could be dangerous.

“Taran, yer face is gaunt with hunger. Ye must eat.” Drust held out a slice of bully beef.

Taran hesitated, but grew weak at the knees when the smell hit his nostrils. He reached for the food and ripped it apart with his teeth.

Greum held out his hand. “Bloody oath, I’m every bit as gaunt as the likes of him.”

Drust passed over another piece of beef. Greum held up the smaller morsel and looked at Taran. “Must you receive the larger share of everything?”

“Just eat it.” Swallowing, Taran eyed Drust. “I’m sure they’ve made camp.”

“Traveling at night, are they?”

“I reckon so, especially since they’ll be passing so close to Gododdin. I’m sure we’re not such good friends they’ll want to stop by Dunpelder for a gathering.”

“How many?”

“I counted seven—five on seven. In a surprise attack that’s not bad odds.”

“We need sleep. Not-a-one of us has rested in over a day,” Drust said.

Taran popped the remaining bite of bully beef in his mouth. “But if we attacked now, we’d surprise them for sure.”

“In the thicket? ʼTis better to meet them in the open where we can wield our swords without getting caught up in the trees.”

“I know I’ll fight better on a full belly after I’ve had some sleep,” Greum agreed.

Drust folded his arms. “If they stay on this path, they’ll pass within thirty miles of Gododdin. Why do we not let them move a little closer? We’ll be on the run once we take the lass, and then there’ll be no stopping.”

Taran frowned but he knew his cousin spoke sense. He wanted this dirty business over with so he could finally breathe the air of home. He’d been gone for such a long time and now they were close enough to Gododdin he could smell it. “Give me another piece of meat and a flask.” He leaned toward his cousin’s saddlebags. “Ye got anything else to eat in there?”

Drust laughed and tossed him a chunk of cheese. “I knew yer stomach would see reason if not yer head.”

****

The pounding against her temple seemed worse when Runan kicked her awake, hitting her shoulder with the tip of his fur shoe. He stepped around to Pia and swung his foot back, but Valeria held up her hand. “I shall wake her. No need to be violent.” She shook Pia’s shoulder. “Miserable, insolent scoundrel,” Valeria muttered.

Pia stirred. Valeria placed her hand on the older woman’s cheek. “Are you strong enough to ride?”

Sitting, Pia stretched her arms and rubbed her face. “I think I can manage.” Her voice warbled as if choking back tears.

“Quintus will come for us soon. We must hold on and remain strong.”

“What if your Quintus is fighting those beasts below? Didn’t you see? The entire wall was under siege.”

Valeria frowned. “Don’t let your mind cloud with thoughts of doom. The Roman army will not be struck down by a pack of marauding barbarians. Father and Quintus
will
come.”

Pia clutched her arm. “I cannot survive another night like the last. We must keep our wits, for they’re all we have.”

Runan marched across the glade and stood with his hands on his hips before them. Pia gasped, drawing her fists up under her chin, her eyes wide with fear. He uttered something Valeria figured was “to eat” because he threw a chunk of dried meat in her lap.

Valeria looked at the withered clump with dismay. “How civilized.”

She pulled the jerky apart and gave half to Pia. “Eat. We shall need our strength.”

Pia held it to her nose and nibbled. “Venison. It tastes gamy.”

Valeria watched the others ripping off portions with their teeth and decided if it wasn’t killing them, she might as well taste it. She had no idea where the next meal would come from, or where in this God-forsaken country they were taking her.

Darkness shrouded the forest as Runan helped her mount. Again she would ride in front of him. Her bottom complained, unaccustomed to the cramped saddle, sitting astride a horse. She could tell it was bruised by the pain shooting up through her bones when she slid into the saddle. In Rome, women were not even allowed to ride sidesaddle in public, let alone straddle a horse. It was considered unsophisticated and unladylike. However, sophistication and chivalry were two qualities she was sure her escort knew nothing about.

She shivered against the cold and forced herself to sit upright, her entire body tense. His arm resumed its frequent tugging at her waist as he pulled her against him, constantly adjusting her in the saddle. Was Runan as uncomfortable as she?

Valeria finally stopped fighting him and rested against his chest. He felt warm and he cut away the chill from the breezy night air—she hated that. But he relaxed too and his blasted arm left her alone. Sitting back allowed for enough room in the saddle to stop the pinching.

It was a cloudless night and the moon lit the trail. The forest opened to a meadow, and the smell of fresh grass came alive with the season. When she looked up, the stars winked at her as they always had, somehow giving her hope.
Mother, if you are watching, please send a legion to save us from these wretched men. Rome must be victorious and reclaim Hadrian’s Wall.

Stag planted a slobbering slurp across Taran’s lips. Opening one eye, he watched the dog animatedly spin in a circle. He let out a whine, his tail shaking his entire body. “Are they on the move, Staggie Boy?”

Another lick followed by rapid panting confirmed a definite yes. Taran sat up and nudged Drust. “ʼTis time.”

Pulling a parcel of goat cheese out of his saddlebags, Drust split it between the men. The oldest warrior, Seumas, broke oatcakes and the band of Picts shoved down a rushed meal while saddling up.

“After this, there’s not much left.” Drust shoved the last of the cheese in his mouth.

Fionn, the youngest, held up his slingshot. “I’ll watch for rabbits.”

Taran slapped his shoulder. “Ta.” He looked the lad up and down. “Fionn, ye’ve grown two heads since I left, but ye’re as skinny as a lance. Are they not feeding ye at Dunpelder?”

Drust laughed. “Fionn eats twice that of any other man. We’ve got no idea where he stows it.”

“Mayhap he has worms,” Greum said, mounting his horse.

“I haven’t got worms. I’m still growing. That’s what me ma said.”

Taran smiled. It was good to be back among his own, even if they were waylaid on the trail, chasing a mob of bloodthirsty Attacotti.

They took turns backtracking to ensure Runan hadn’t circled around. Taran could trust that man about as much as he could trust a snake—less, probably. Runan would sooner sell his mother than give up a fight. He’d experienced it in battle before when the Attacotti attacked Dunpelder. Oisean’s sword clashed against Runan’s, the two men matched well. But the dragon-hearted Attacotti were no match for the Pict fortress.

Runan’s man had to pull him away, but the tip of Oisean’s blade had slit open his cheek. “I’ll be back and I’ll rape your women and destroy your seed…” Taran spoke enough of the Attacotti language to understand Runan’s threat. The bastard’s words echoed across the stronghold as he rode away, wiping his bloody cheek with the back of his arm. The memory had haunted Taran many a night. He vowed he would protect the kingdom of Gododdin from the Attacotti, and any other bastard who threatened their freedom. He detested them all—Romans, Gaels, Saxons—anyone who attempted to plunder Pict land would face his ire.

Taran snapped back to the present. The terrain became more familiar. He urged his horse alongside Drust. “We’re nearing the ruins of the Antonine Wall. That’s the best place to mount our attack.”

“Do ye think they’ll bed down soon?” Greum asked.

“Definitely before they reach Antonine. In another mile or two, the sun should start to rise. We’ll ride around their flank and cut them off.”

“Aye,” Drust said. “Good plan.”

Taran led the men off the main path along an arm they knew well. If his intuition was right, Runan would lead his band into a glade to sleep through the day. When they headed out at dusk, Taran would be waiting for them.

Blackie cantered smoothly across the grassy trail. With Stag at his side, Taran wished he could ride forever. The crisp breeze at his face calmed him—exactly what he needed to clear two years of pent-up hostility.

Behind him, a thud pummeled the ground. Fionn’s youthful voice bellowed an agonizing wail. Taran pulled up and rounded his horse. “What the bloody hell?”

He didn’t need a reply, Fionn’s anklebone jutted out at an awkward angle. Writhing, the lad rolled side-to-side, making a terrible racket. Taran hopped down from his horse and grabbed a stick. He shoved it between Fionn’s teeth. “Bite down on this and keep yer voice low, ye squawking magpie.”

Drust kneeled beside them. “Och. That’s a nasty break. We’ll need to take him to Morag.”

Taran frowned. “Ye think ye can hold on until this business is over? We can sit ye by the stone with Stag.”

Fionn nodded, his breathing rapid, beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He’d gone white as his tunic.

Taran stroked the boy’s head. “We’ll have ye fixed up, but ye must bear it for a time. Show us the man ye are.”

Greum came up beside him, leading Fionn’s gelding. “He’s lame, but nothing’s broken. A month in the paddock ought to fix him right up.”

Taran looked to the skies. “ʼTis all we need.”

He stooped and shoved his hands under Fionn’s backside. “Bite down on your stick.” He hefted the lad into Blackie’s saddle. The poor blighter panted with a strained cry. Taran glanced at Drust. His stern frown reflected everyone’s fears. Fionn’s racket had been enough to wake the dead.

They rode past an old Pict stone, which stood twenty-four hands. On the top was carved the sign of an ancient king named Erp, indicated by a seabeast and dagger. Under it was a Z-rod over a shield, the sign of King Ferat. It meant Erp, son of Ferat, and the carving beneath depicted the story of the battle Erp and his men forged on that very spot.

They propped Fionn against the ancient stone. Taran set a waterskin beside him. “Ye’ll be safe here. The spirits of our ancestors will hide ye from our enemies.” He held his palm in front of Stag’s nose. “Stay.”

When they set out for Antonine, the sun had already begun to rise. They’d lost precious time.

“I don’t like it,” Drust grumbled.

“Nor do I.” Taran’s fist tightened around his reins. A mishap like this could cast bad luck upon their mission, but they couldn’t stop now.

Taran held up his hand when they approached the decaying ramparts of the wall—another fifty paces and the rotting wooden fortress would be in view. The four Picts slowed their horses to a walk and scaled the grassy hill.

Mounting the crest, Blackie reared. An arrow whizzed within a stone’s-throw of his head. Taran jerked the horse into submission, staring down the loaded bows of Runan and his men.

With no time to regroup, Taran roared the battle cry. Galloping at full speed, he led the attack.

With blood curdling bellows, the Picts charged into battle. Arrows soared over their heads. Taran barreled forward, sword drawn. Without fear, Blackie carried him into the fight. Runan waited, glaring, broadsword held high. Taran leapt from his mount and faced the most deadly man in all of Britannia.