Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (26 page)

Bren handed the dispatch over to the praefectus of his auxiliary unit, who would ensure it was delivered up the chain of command to the Legatus.

“How did you find the mood in Camulodunum?” The praefectus dragged his thumb over the seal of the dispatch and obviously satisfied it hadn’t been tampered with glanced up at Bren.

“Subdued.” His king’s elderly advisor had trained him well in the art of opening sealed documents without leaving any noticeable trace. The information contained within this dispatch would boost Roman morale. He had to convey what he’d discovered to Caratacus, and soon, so they could plan debilitating strikes against the Legion before reinforcements arrived.

The praefectus made a sound of assent. “More civilized than this hellhole, I don’t doubt.”

Camulodunon had been raped and molded into the Roman ideal. That wasn’t his idea of civilization. But the praefectus clearly expected an answer, and a favorable one at that. “A town worthy of Rome.”

“A shame the barbarians in this western peninsula refuse to see that.”

Bren didn’t answer. He wasn’t known for his conversational skills and yet still the praefectus attempted to draw him out every time they met. Sometimes he wondered if the Roman suspected his loyalty. But if that were so, he would never have been entrusted with delivering the dispatch.

“When this cursed Briton rebel is crushed beneath the Eagle, the people will finally see there’s no point in fighting the inevitable.” The praefectus gave Bren a calculating look. Bren returned the look, unflinching. “The Legatus wants a man on the ground. Your name was mentioned. I want you to spend time in the town, incognito. Listen to the gossip. Find out what you can about Caratacus. There must be people here feeding him information, and that goes both ways. I want to know what that bastard’s up to.”

Only years of brutally subduing his emotions and the rigid training he’d received under the Legion prevented Bren from reacting. This Roman was asking him to spy on his own people. Did he really think anyone would talk in front of him, knowing he was attached to the enemy?

But then, the Romans didn’t assign much credit to the peasant population. The praefectus likely thought if Bren dressed as a Celt of Cymru, he’d be taken as one. The concept that the natives in their far-flung provinces possessed as much loyalty to their own as did the Romans—more, if what he’d learned about their blood-soaked Senate was true—was inconceivable.

To Romans foreigners were inferior, in both blood and intellect. Since Bren’s duties hadn’t taken him in direct conflict with the locals, the praefectus—and Legatus—obviously believed the populace hadn’t noticed him.

“You want me to live in the town?” His voice was level but perhaps not as neutral as he’d imagined as the other man flicked an autocratic hand in a dismissive gesture.

“It’s unpalatable. I know. But if your cover was exposed, your skills would ensure the likelihood of escaping unscathed.”

Meaning his reputation for dispatching those who crossed him was a definite benefit as far as the praefectus was concerned.

The initial distaste of such a task faded, as possibilities filtered through his mind.

“Would this assignment be confined to the town or should I attempt to search for information farther afield?”

“If you need to follow up your suspicions, then you have permission to leave the immediate vicinity without obtaining leave of absence.” The praefectus offered a chilly smile. “Within reason, naturally.”

He could hardly believe it. The praefectus had just handed him carte blanche to come and go from the town as he pleased. Instead of waiting until his next official leave, he could ride from the town on the morrow to find Caratacus.

“I doubt I’ll have reason to leave the town.” He maintained eye contact. “I merely wished to clarify my position if such a circumstance arose.”

“Obtain lodging.” The praefectus flicked a glance over him. “And lose the chain mail. Report in at the end of the week. If you haven’t made any progress by then, we’ll have to abandon it—you’ll be needed in the ranks again.”

He only needed a week. During that time he could visit with his king and pass on conflicting and disturbing
information
direct to the Roman officers. Unlike other occasions when he’d needed to ensure the rumors couldn’t be traced back to him, this time he didn’t need to cover his tracks.

It was risky. But he’d lived with risk for too long to let that deter him. They hadn’t linked him to the acts of sabotage plaguing the garrison or as the source of demoralizing morale among the ranks. And should suspicion ever be cast his way, he planned on being far from here. Standing by the side of his king.

It was done. In the dingy one-roomed dwelling Deheune had taken her, Morwyn handed the squalling babe back to his beaming mother and a small whisper of heat flickered through her barren soul.

May the blessings of the Morrigan be upon you
.

When she’d started the ceremony, trepidation had crawled through her belly, as if her actions were sacrilege and prayers blasphemous. But the words had fallen from her lips, feeling as right and natural as if she uttered them every day. The mother and her kin surrounded her, their faces transfixed as she prepared a makeshift concoction from her limited supply of herbs and potions, before invoking the ancient rituals of the great goddess.

“Thank you, mistress.” The mother, a girl who looked several years younger than Carys, had tears glittering in her eyes. “I was so afraid the Morrigan would never welcome him. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? About his father, I mean.”

A ripple of barely contained fury stirred among the others in the room, but the girl didn’t appear to notice. She was once again gazing at her child with near-reverential awe.

“No.” Morwyn’s voice was strong, assured. No one would dare doubt her word. “The Morrigan has accepted him. Our heritage is his.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she spoke for the goddess, as if she had every right to do so. But she couldn’t let these people see her doubt. For them, her faith had to appear strong and shining and eternal. They believed she was still the Morrigan’s chosen one, a Druid dedicated to the gods and all they represented. What right did she have to shatter those beliefs? When she had nothing of value to offer in their stead but a scorched sense of desolation?

Several times since the invasion, before she had fled to the Isle of Mon, she had assured distraught girls that as long as they brought their child up to honor the great goddess, the heritage of the father meant nothing.

Why should it, when the father neither knew nor cared that his brutal actions had sired a babe?

But back then, she had believed in the Morrigan with all her heart and soul. Had loved her unconditionally and without reserve. Had believed, unequivocally, in her benevolence and justice.

She had never before had to fake her faith.

Yet underneath her disdain, the need to believe flourished. And even though she couldn’t embrace her goddess, couldn’t forgive how the Morrigan had demanded they flee from Cymru on that night of devastation, she couldn’t deny the comfort these people drew from their deity’s name.

It was a small sacrifice. To pretend nothing had changed when everything had if it made such a difference to so many. She gathered her things, tried to smother the odd tug deep in the pit of her belly.

She didn’t need this. She hadn’t missed it. This bestowing from the goddess was no longer her calling.

“Mistress.” Deheune hurried up to her and then paused, anxiety flashing across her face. She held out a small bundle. “It’s not much, but I pray it’s acceptable to the goddess.”

Heat burned Morwyn’s cheeks. She clamped her lips together against the words that tumbled on her tongue. By the look of things, these people could scarcely manage to feed and clothe themselves. She didn’t want to take their meager offering from their mouths. But to refuse, no matter how delicately she worded it, would only cause grave offense.

“I thank you on behalf of the Morrigan.” She took the bundle, felt like a thief. In the past, these naming rituals were a great and wonderful celebration; a cause for lavish sacrifice and feasting. Several babes would be blessed at the one ritual, the cost spread among countless kin and enjoyed in the sacred oak groves of their ancestors.

Not hidden inside a drafty shack, away from disapproving enemy eyes.

A dull ache gripped her heart. Just because she had discovered their gods were nothing but weak, malleable cowards, she realized she didn’t want their names and ways to be lost, crushed underfoot by the equally despicable Roman deities.

But that wasn’t going to happen
. When the battle was won, when the invaders were driven from their lands, order would be restored. And in that order, their gods would once again reign supreme.

She just wasn’t sure that when that happened, she could stomach taking her rightful place with her fellow Druids.

“I’ll pass the word, mistress.” Deheune’s whisper was conspiratorial. Morwyn stared at her, uncomprehending. “To the others,” she added. “There have been a great many births since the night of devastation. Your arrival’s like . . . It’s like a miracle, mistress.”

Her mouth dried as panic kicked in her gut. How could she bear to repeat this ancient ritual, mouth the holy words, invoke the spirit of the great goddess
when she didn’t believe
?

Sweat prickled her skin, her palms clammy. She couldn’t do it. And not just because of her personal feelings. She was leaving, to join Caratacus. To fight for these people’s freedom. Surely that was more important than staying and blessing innocent babes?

Deheune gazed at her, at first with wide-eyed trust and then with growing apprehension, as if she guessed Morwyn’s thoughts. The notion horrified.

“Don’t be distressed.” Deheune dared to lay the tips of her fingers on Morwyn’s wrist before hastily snatching her hand back as if she couldn’t believe her audacity. “Only some have embraced Rome. Most of us long for the old ways. We know whom to trust, mistress. Your presence among us would never be betrayed to the enemy.”

Because if the enemy captured a Druid, even a lapsed Druid, they’d crucify her without a moment’s hesitation as a warning and reminder of their cursed Emperor’s edict.

As they would Carys, if they discovered her true identity in Camulodunon.

Chills scuttled over her arms. That hadn’t occurred to her at the time. Morwyn had scarcely thought twice about Carys’s confidences. But if the Romans found out she was not only a Druid but also passing on her knowledge, pregnant or not, crucifixion would be the least of her tortures.

She stared into Deheune’s anxious eyes, and realization dawned. Carys might not intend to take up weapons and fight the enemy in hand-to-hand combat. But, in her own way, she was fighting them all the same.

How could Morwyn refuse to bless these people’s babes? It would give them renewed hope and strengthen their faith to keep strong under the enemy’s thumb. She could still find her way to the Briton king. She would just leave a few days later than she’d first intended—that was all.

A smoky vision of her Gaul drifted across her mind and she smothered a sigh. Yes, it meant she could also enjoy a few more days of his company, but that wasn’t the reason she was staying.

It wasn’t
.

The thought thudded in her skull.
Liar
.

“We’d only share the knowledge of your presence with those we trust.” Deheune edged a little closer. “There’s one other Druid in hiding here. One of the Elders, a chosen one of Belatucadros. Those who’ve kept his presence secret these last five moons would never betray you, mistress.”

Light was fading when Morwyn finally returned to their lodgings. Her head throbbed and heart hammered and blood thundered through her veins, yet despair dampened her excitement at the knowledge she could share nothing of what she had done or discovered with her Gaul.