Rescued by the Celtic Warrior (Roman Love ~ Pict Desire Series Book 1) (25 page)

Satisfied with Taran’s story, Morgon and his men led them back to Houseteads. Valeria didn’t miss the way Seumas rushed to Pia and kissed her lips before helping her mount. Had Pia found love out here among the barbarians like Valeria had? In Rome, Pia’s feelings would not matter. She was property to be used however the Fullofaudes household saw fit.

Valeria swallowed. Right now she was the executor of her family’s property. At least until she married, which would be required upon her return, lest her lands fall into the hands of the Emperor. Presently, however, under Roman law she had complete power over Pia’s actions.
But under Pict rule, Pia is a free woman.

A clammy chill swept across Valeria’s skin when they rode into the ruins of Vindolanda. The black charred walls stood as a reminder of the fateful eve when her father lost his life. In one night, everything familiar had been ripped away. Valeria’s mind swarmed with confusion about her life, her role, her allegiance. Growing up cloistered in her father’s estate, studying under the best tutors, she’d never questioned the absolute rule of Caesar and the rigid laws of Rome. She was taught to believe she’d been born into an affluent society that had risen to power because of their superior ingenuity, knowledge and power. She had been told she was privileged and others would admire her for her station in life.
Do I now respect and honor the Roman aristocracy, Roman superiority…Roman tyranny?

Taran helped her dismount. With trepidation, she climbed the stone staircase leading to the home she’d only known for a few weeks. The tapestries, curtains, furniture, everything that could be burned was charred or turned to ash—or missing. The sulfur stench of death exuded from the walls.

The door to her chamber had been ripped from its hinges and lay across the floor. It teetered when she stepped on it and stumbled awkwardly into her room. All that remained of her bed was the charred wooden frame. Slowly, she walked in, holding herself as she bit her bottom lip. She remembered waking that fateful night, seeing the attackers scale the wall and kill the Roman soldier.
Those were Picts, or perhaps they were Attacotti.

A shimmer on the floor caught her eye. She bent down. With a trembling hand Valeria picked up her mother’s looking glass of polished brass. The sheen had been dulled by fire, making the reflection hazy. Gazing at the face in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. Her matted hair made her look like a witch. Blown by the wind, mussed by sleep, it had not been brushed by Pia since they left Dunpelder.
This is not the countenance of a Roman lady.

A tear slipped from her eye and she swallowed hard.
I shall not cry.
Across the room she spotted the scorched trunk that contained her possessions. Valeria dashed over and threw it open. Aside from the smoky odor, everything inside remained intact. She held up a rose silk peplos. It had been her mother’s.

She buried her face in the soft fabric. What was she doing riding with Picts? Was everything she’d been taught wrong? Who was she? What did she believe? What was in her heart?

On one hand, she was overjoyed something of her life remained. But grief tugged at her heart. Memories of her father’s last moments clutched at her throat and made her mouth run dry. She’d not only lost him, but now questioned everything she’d known to be true. Her heart squeezed. How could she go on?

The people who attacked Vindolanda were Picts and Attacotti. They believed they were claiming their rightful lands. The men who attacked them at the roundhouse were filthy Roman deserters, reduced to stealing horses. In the past month, all of her deep-rooted values had been challenged. Everything she once loved had been lost, and now she was on a quest to find a man to take her back to a life where she would rejoin the Roman aristocracy—take her home to become a hypocrite. Exactly like the men in the senate and her uncle Valentinian himself.

Taran appeared at the door. “Valeria.”

Her body tensed. “Please. Leave me alone.”

“Is that yer dress?”

She looked down at the expensive silken hand-stitched fabric and nodded. “ʼTwas my mother’s.”

Kneeling, Valeria stared at the contents of the trunk, the last remains of her life. Taran paid no mind to her request for solitude and clamored over the door. “ʼTis lovely.” Coming up beside her, he eyed the chest.

“This is all that remains of my life.” Valeria had no more tears inside her. Desperate hollowness filled her bosom. She rummaged through the lovely silk and woolen garments, the ornate hair combs and ribbons, Roman sandals. She hesitated as she eyed a book,
Distichs of Cato
. She lifted it up and held it to her breast as if it were a long lost pet.

“We can hitch up a cart and take yer things with us.”

She tried to smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

“ʼTis a full day’s ride to Pons Aelius. I thought we’d camp here for the night. Morgon has ample food for all.”

She wanted to leave Vindolanda and its memories behind. Valeria sighed. Everyone needed rest, including the horses. “Very well, but I’d like to leave at first light.”

Stag meandered in, the door clanking under his huge paws. He seemed to sense Valeria’s melancholy mood. He sidled up to her and placed his head on her shoulder with a whimper. The dog wagged his tail and shook his body, as if trying to make her happy. When that didn’t work, he planted a wet slurp on Valeria’s cheek.

“Enough, Stag,” Taran scolded.

Valeria petted him. “I want to find Mia.”

Locating Mia wasn’t difficult. Valeria and Taran walked straight into the stables, which had been spared from the fires. The mare stood, munching hay without a care, as if time had not passed since that fateful night.

With a squeal of joy, Valeria flew to the stall. “Mia! I cannot believe you’re still here.”

The horse snorted and whickered when she caught Valeria’s scent.

“There, there, girl. It looks like the war has passed you by.”

A Pict warrior bounded through the stable. Helmeted with a bent nose guard, he appeared as ferocious as a gladiator. “Remove yer hands of me horse.”

Valeria whipped around, hands on hips. “
Your
horse? I’ll tell you…”

Taran stepped in front of her. “This mare belongs to her ladyship.”

The warrior’s eyes nearly popped out of his helmet. “Her
ladyship
? From the sound of her, she’s a bloody Roman wench.”

Taran’s fingers wrapped around his hilt. “She’s under the protection of Taran, son of Brude.”

The warrior stepped in and examined the symbol tattooed on his cheek, then lifted his hand and pulled aside the V in Taran’s tunic. “Ye’re Taran, are ye not?”

“Aye.”

“Apologies, sire.” The warrior stepped back and bowed. “She’s a fine mount—too good to be wasted on a lady.”

Taran kept his hand on his hilt. “This is not just any lady. But we can make a trade. We have a Pictish mare with heavier bone, better suited to your weight. If you agree, you will sit in a place of honor at the next Dunpelder gathering.”

The warrior eyed him suspiciously but kept his hands away from his weapons. “Why are ye protecting the Roman?”

“The woman saved me life, and now I’m repaying the favor by allowing her to live.”

His chainmail clanked when he stepped closer. The warrior’s eyes trailed from the top of Valeria’s head and stopped at her breasts. He then continued his inspection, his eyes moving down to her hips, appraising them like he would a prized heifer. “She’s a fine lass indeed.” He winked. “I’ll bet she keeps ye heading for ye bed at night.”

Taran’s knuckles grew white. “ʼTis no talk for a lady’s ears.”

Valeria stepped forward. “Thank you for your generous trade, sir. Your kindness shall not be disregarded.” Sensing Taran’s tension ease, she placed her hand on his shoulder. “We’d best join the others for the evening meal.”

The Pict king backed away from the warrior. Once out of danger, he grumbled under his breath. “I’ll remember his face and one day, give him a much needed lesson in manners.”

****

The journey east to Pons Aelius passed quickly. Upon their arrival, Valeria wasn’t surprised when the Pict warriors told Taran they had neither seen nor heard of the bishop.

They did, however, direct Taran to shelter for the night. A widow called Mistress Una who lived just outside the fort took in travelers. As they neared her roundhouse, she appeared none too friendly, facing Taran with a loaded Roman crossbow.

Sitting on his horse, Taran removed his helmet. His tangled red hair blew in the wind, making him look even fiercer than usual. “The sentries on the wall tell me ye make a fine stew and take in travelers.”

A few kind words did nothing to endear her. “And why would ye be traveling with two women and a child when the ground’s still damp with the blood of Romans?”

“These women have helped the Picts and wish to be reunited with a holy man.”

Her eyes shot to Valeria along with her crossbow. Taran walked Blackie between them. “Mistress, please lower yer weapon. I wouldn’t want it to misfire.”

Una took her time considering his request, glaring at the unlikely band of travelers. She pointed the weapon back at Taran. “What do ye aim to pay?”

“I’ll give ye a piece of silver for each soul in me party. I’d say from the look of yer place, seven pieces of silver is near as much as ye see in a year.”

She lowered her crossbow, a smile spreading across her face. “Well, why didn’t ye tell me ye could pay in silver?”

“Me mistake, Mistress.”

The bow raised again. “But ye’ll pay in advance.”

Taran dismounted and pushed the weapon down. “I do not much care to be staring down the shaft of an iron arrow. I’ll pay ye half now and half on the morrow.” He reached into his saddlebag and held out the coins.

Her neck craned as she looked up at his enormous frame. Mouth gaping, she nodded her acceptance of the terms. “Come with me. Ye’ll be wanting to wash afore your evening meal.”

She led them to a trough of water and pointed to a well-used rag nailed to a post.

The accommodations of the one-room hovel were not much more comfortable than the abandoned roundhouse. She spread straw in front of the hearth to soften the hardwood boards beneath. Una also proved a decent cook, serving up ample servings of mutton stew.

“This is delicious,” Valeria said.

“Ta.” The woman offered a gap-toothed grin. “The soldiers would come from miles for a taste of me stew.”

Greum chuckled. “Just a bite of stew, hey Mistress?”

She patted the back of her hair, her eyebrows shooting up twice. “That’s what I said, young lad, and if ye want more stew, you’d best be seeing me later.”

Taran’s shoulders shook as he tried to swallow his food. “Sounds like ye’ve got an invitation ye cannot refuse, Greum.”

Valeria pursed her lips. “I think I may pay a visit to the privy.” An outhouse stood behind the hovel and provided slightly more comfort than she’d experienced on the trail. With her belly full, recovering from two days of high emotion, Valeria looked forward to the meager bed beside the fire. Her head already felt heavy. She’d surely sleep well.

Opening the door to the privy, Valeria gasped. Una stepped out from the shadows. “He said you’re looking for the holy man?”

“Yes. He is my guardian.”

“I heard word he’s holed up in a cave on the shore near Sunderland.”

Valeria’s head filled with questions. “Why did you not mention that to Taran when he told you we sought him?”

“He’s a Pict, that one. I’m no Pict. I’m a Saxon. I’ll not tell any heathen where a man of God hides.”

“You are a Christian?”

“Aye, m’lady.”

“Then we are sisters in Christ.” To demonstrate her word, Valeria took Una’s hand and kissed it. “The Pict warriors with whom I’m traveling are honorable men. They rescued me and my sl…and Pia from the Attacotti.”

Una’s look of horror was terrifying even in the moonlight. “Ye were kidnapped by the bloody Attacotti?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Then you’re lucky your heart still beats, m’lady.”

“That I am.” Valeria started toward the house but turned back. “How long is the trip to Sunderland?”

“ʼTis not far, mayhap a day.”

“Do you know if we’ll encounter Roman soldiers along the way?”

Una batted the air with her hand. “Romans? Those who survived have fled to Londontown.”

“Thank you. I shall ask Taran to keep your words confidential.”

****

Valeria thought Taran would be happy when she told him about Elusius’s location, but his lips thinned. He nodded, his blue eyes turned dark and then he looked away, not meeting her gaze again.

He said nothing the next morning while he hitched the cart to Blackie.

However, Greum stepped a bit lighter, a broad grin spread across his face as he tossed the saddle on his mount.

Fionn chuckled. “Looks like ye took the widow up on her offer.”