Christina Phillips - [Forbidden 02] (43 page)

They left the enclave that afternoon, the last of the Druids, the few remaining children, and a strong contingent of warriors to guard the king. Including Brennus.

As they traveled through the green valleys, skirted the peaceful hills and forded the sparkling rivers of her beloved homeland, she caught sight of him more often than her heart could bear. Sometimes she imagined he watched her, also, but she never caught his eye. Even in this he honored her wishes and kept his distance.

It crucified her to know that, deep inside, she’d hoped he would try to change her mind. That he would present her with an explanation so supremely justified for his actions it would somehow negate her blood pledge to her foremothers.

Allow her the luxury of cleaving unto him, without the crippling guilt that was eating her alive every moment of every day.

And night. The visions worsened. The first night of their journey the vision had descended instantly, plunging her into the battle without any preliminary.

This time Gawain had heard her frantic calls. Had turned to her. And as Brennus approached, dagger glinting, Gawain’s features had melted, twisted, morphed into Caratacus.

And Brennus had stabbed his king in the back.

The second night, fearful of repeating her embarrassing performance during which an Elder had been summoned to quiet her feverish terrors, she took a sleeping potion.

And the nightmares flourished, in vivid hues of green and scarlet, the scents more pungent, the sounds of battle and death escalating. And this time Gawain murdered Caratacus.

Drenched in sweat, she jerked awake, shivering as icy chills rattled over her bones. The Morrigan was trying to show her something, but all she could see was the two men she trusted with her life betraying every fundamental principle she believed in.

Brennus would never betray his king. And Gawain—Gawain couldn’t stab anyone in the back because he was already continuing his journey.

In the black of the night a tiny, vulnerable doubt flickered.

Gawain was dead.
Wasn’t he?

On the second day they arrived at Caratacus’s destination. Steep mountains soared all around the valley, and as they forded the treacherous river and led their horses up the nonexistent pathways of the highest peak, a dread certainty coalesced in the pit of Morwyn’s stomach.

This was the place she had seen in her dreams for so many moons. The bloodied killing fields where, no matter how many stirring speeches Caratacus gave his followers, carnage would ensue.

Rocks were strewn across many gentle access points. The ramparts she’d seen in her visions. And hidden farther up the mountain several tribes had laid claim to their own campsites, as if they’d been there some time, and children played mock battle with sticks and stones.

Druids dispensed wisdom, gave sacrifice to the gods, strategized with the king and tribal chieftains. On the third afternoon after leaving the enclave, as Morwyn watched a group of blue-daubed warriors practise their war cries, a cold sensation of finality washed through her.

No matter how just the fight or brave the cause, against the mighty Roman army her people would lose.

Her skin prickled with awareness and she turned, to see Brennus standing some distance off, watching her. Her heartbeat sped; her breathing stumbled. She should go. Ignore him. It would be easier that way.

But instead she picked her way across the rocky incline until they stood within touching distance. His warmth and vitality reached for her, ensnared her, battled against her conscience, and she remained rooted to the spot only by sheer force of her ingrained Druidic willpower.

And then he spoke. “You should go, Morwyn.”

His rejection hurt. More than it should, but wasn’t this what she had asked of him? To keep his distance? But why, then, had he sought out
her
?

She stepped back, unable to trust her voice, and instantly his hand gripped hers. Strong. Comforting. Memories flooded through her of entwined limbs and heated kisses, but overriding all else the memory of his tender touch before he had left her on the morn before Gervas had intruded into their delusory existence.

“I mean, leave this mountain.” His voice was low, his focus on her absolute. “Before it’s too late. Take Gwyn—gods, take as many of the children as you can—and get out of here, Morwyn. It’s a death trap.”

She knew it was. But still the Morrigan had led her here. For a purpose she could not yet fathom. “Is there no way we could claim victory?”

His grip on her hand became less brutal, as if he’d expected her to try to pull free or dispute his words. The gentle caress of his thumb across her knuckles threatened to shatter the fragile barrier she’d erected around her heart.

But still she allowed him to hold her hand. It might be the last time he ever would.

“No.” It was just one word, and filled with fatalistic despair. And she knew it was the truth.

“I can’t leave.” Her voice was soft, but her resolve implacable. They couldn’t win, but she couldn’t leave because the time had not yet come to pass. She couldn’t explain it to Brennus; couldn’t explain it to herself. But when could any mortal truly explain the twisted, contradictory messages of the gods?

All she knew was when the Morrigan decreed the time was right, she would know.

“I’ve had enough of all this.” He jerked his head at the warriors. “It’s been my life. Kept me sane. But . . . now I’ve had enough.” As if he couldn’t help himself he tugged her closer. And, weak fool that she was, she allowed him to. “I dared to dream of a different life with you, Morwyn.” Raw pain gave his whispered words an agonized edge. “Dared to imagine we could overcome my past. But you’re right. I don’t deserve a second chance. This is all I’m fit for.”

“No.” Before she could stop herself her free hand cradled his jaw, her thumb grazing the rough stubble that darkened his features. She couldn’t be with him, but goddess, she wanted him to find some peace in his life. Some happiness. “You’re worth so much more than this, Brennus. You have to survive this battle. You have to find that other life you crave.”

A smile twisted his lips, a smile that wrapped itself around her heart and magnified her despair a thousandfold. A smile that told her more clearly than any clumsy words that, without her, such other life was nothing but a fragile dream.

Dimly she became aware of a cacophony of shouts, of sudden movement, of frenzied excitement. Sliding her hand from his face to his shoulder, she followed his glance and saw several Druids, chieftains and warriors ascending, doubtless on their way to Caratacus.

“And so it begins.” Brennus sounded resigned. “And I can’t persuade you, a Druid of honor and integrity, to remain out of the line of fire with the non-fighting women and children?”

“Can I persuade you to do so?”

His free hand clasped the length of her braid, allowed it to slide against the palm of his hand. Then he released her hand and stepped back and the chill of this final parting invaded her heart, her soul.

“Grant me one last favor.” The incredible green of his eyes captivated her, as they had captivated her from the very first moment they’d met. “How did you find out?”

She swallowed against the rising constriction that threatened to choke her. “The Morrigan showed me.” Her voice was husky, filled with tears as yet unshed. Treacherous words trembled on the tip of her tongue and she flung caution aside. Her Gaul, her Brennus, was more important to her than placating her goddess who for all her power was still vindictive. Still cruel.
“I wish she hadn’t.”

From her vantage point, concealed behind a natural barrier of rock and bush, Morwyn crouched beside Nimue. Chieftains went from rank to rank, encouraging their warriors, and Caratacus appeared to be everywhere bolstering morale and appealing to his forefathers for victory.

In the valley, already fording the river, the Roman Legion advanced.

“It should be easy to defend our position.” But even as she spoke Nimue frowned as if she hadn’t imagined the army would be so vast. “We have the advantage of height. They will drop like flies before our missiles.”

And at first it seemed as if they stood a chance. She and Nimue aimed their arrows true into the enemy ranks. Roman soldiers fell and a flicker of hope ignited deep in Morwyn’s breast. Maybe they could defeat the might of the Eagle, after all.

But then, in sudden precise movement, they re-formed their ranks and raised their shields in such a manner as to protect the entire Legion. Arrows glanced off the makeshift roof, missiles had no impact and, impervious to attack, they began to systematically tear down the stone ramparts.

“Should we advance?” Morwyn wiped sweaty hair from her eyes and glanced at Nimue, who appeared transfixed as legionaries felled their woefully ill-equipped warriors with swords and javelins.

“No. It appears our warriors are retreating.” Nimue stood. “Let me find out, Morwyn. I’ll be back directly.”

Morwyn remained in place and watched the pitched battle between half-naked tribesmen and fully armored Romans. Courage didn’t come into it. They were being slaughtered because the enemy possessed strategies and equipment foreign to her people.

“Nimue.”

The male voice came from behind and sounded strangely familiar although, distracted by the bloodshed, Morwyn couldn’t quite place it. As Nimue changed direction and began to run up toward the source of the voice, Morwyn pushed herself to her feet so she could see the speaker.

The battle cries faded. Her heart gave a mighty thud against her ribs, then appeared to die. Her peripheral vision narrowed until all she could see was Nimue.

And Nimue was talking to Gawain
.

He was alive. The thought pounded against Morwyn’s skull but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. As if hypnotized, she continued to stare at him, and as her vision blurred and the landscape undulated, shivers trickled along her spine.

Gawain turned his back on Nimue, but it was Caratacus’s face who stared blindly at Morwyn. And as Nimue drew her dagger, her hair rippled and changed from honey to gold, and it was Carys who plunged the deadly blade into the displaced Briton king’s back.

Jagged gasps tore from Morwyn’s throat and her borrowed bow fell to her feet as, in slow motion, she watched Gawain and Nimue turn toward her. In the heartbeat before recognition hit Gawain, comprehension flooded, singeing her blood and causing nausea to roil.

The Morrigan had never told her Gawain was dead. She had shown her, over and over, betrayal by a trusted one. But Caratacus was the one who was betrayed, and only after she had met the king, after she could recognize his face, had her vision changed.

But why show her Carys?

The answer swam into her mind, in perfect clarity.
Royal blood
.

“Morwyn?” Gawain made as if to approach, but in that instant a strong arm wrapped around her shoulders, dragged her against a chain-mail-protected chest, and a bloodstained hand gripped her jaw, forcing her to look up.