The Lion and the Lark (27 page)

     Bronwen closed her eyes.  “You’re going to get us all killed, dear brother.”

     “It got me here tonight, didn’t it?  Now what is it that you have to tell me?”

     Bronwen took a moment to recover from the sight of her brother dressed like an enemy soldier and then said, “The troops are being withdrawn from Londinium to Magiolagos on February 13th.  If you strike after that date the garrison at Londinium will only be at half strength and will be unable to send sufficient reinforcements here.”

     Brettix smiled with satisfaction.  “Anything else?”

     “They’re planning to start sending the men home from Magiolagos in April, once the weather breaks.”

     “Are you certain of all this?”

     “I read it myself in the garrison communiques.”

     “Is your Latin good enough?  Are you sure you’re not making a error in the translation?  All our lives could be depending on this.”

     “Dates are hard to misunderstand, Brettix.  The months and the numbers were clearly set out.  Now go before somebody walks past here and sees me talking to you.”

     Brettix clasped her hands tightly for a moment and then kissed her on the cheek.

     “You’ve done very well,” he said, and then slipped soundlessly out of the house.

     Bronwen stood looking after him, wondering if she had just made the biggest mistake of her life.

     Lucia lay sleepless in her bed, watching the firelight cast dancing patterns on the walls, wondering how long it would be before she saw Brettix again.

     If she ever saw him again.

     She knew what her father was like when he was determined about something, and he was determined to punish his daughter for her familiarity with a slave.

     There would be no better way to punish her than to subject Brettix to Roman justice.

     Lucia sighed heavily and turned on her side.  Her father could be the most loving and even indulgent parent, as long as she was doing exactly what he wanted.  But when she flouted his authority he became completely unreasonable; too accustomed to the instant obedience of his soldiers and the docile domesticity of his wife, his daughter’s independent streak drove him wild.

     Lucia was too much like him for his taste.

     She was drifting off to sleep when she heard a sound outside her window.  Instantly alert, she scrambled out of bed, running to the door which led from her room to the back portico.  She could see nothing, but when she opened it a little, just enough to let in a cold blast of air, she heard Brettix say in Celtic, “Lucia, it’s me.  Let me in.”

     Lucia pushed the door open and stepped aside, her pulse leaping.  When

he came inside she flung herself into his arms.

     “I never thought I would see you so soon,” she gasped in delight, hanging on him.

     He held her with one arm and pushed the door closed with the other.  When she released him to take his hand in hers she stopped short and stared at him.

     “Brettix, what is this?” she whispered, amazed.

     “I’m in disguise,” he said dryly.  “I had to do something to get past the guards and into the fort.”  He unclasped the cloak from his shoulders and draped it over his arm.

     She stood on tiptoe to take off the helmet and finger his short hair, then ran her hands over his clean shaven face, feeling his features as if she were blind.

     “Now I know who you are,” she said softly.

     “What?” he replied sharply, alarmed.

     “Several months ago, at the end of the summer, I was out walking on the battlements one night and saw a young man just outside the walls.  He was tall and blond, I saw him for just an instant.  When I looked again he was gone.”

     “That was you?” Brettix said incredulously.

     She nodded.

     “I remember that night.  I wondered why I wasn’t caught.”

     “I didn’t recognize you until just this moment.”  She smiled.  “You had too much hair.”  She touched his shaven cheek tenderly and said, “You’re so handsome.”

     “In this?” he asked, gesturing to his clothes.

     “
Id tibi praebet speciem lepidissimam,”
 she said.

     “What?” he asked, baffled by the sudden spate of Latin.

     “That’s what my mother says to all of her friends when they wear something new,” she told him, smiling.  “It means that it looks wonderful on you.”

     He laughed.  “The uniform works quite a transformation.  As soon as I put it on I felt like ordering people around and conquering the world.”

     Lucia giggled.  “You feel like that anyway.”  She stared at him, bemused, adjusting to his changed appearance.  “You know, before I came here I was told that Celts dressed their hair in spikes with whitewash and had blue tattoos all over their skin.  And they went into battle as naked as newborns.”

     He made a dismissive gesture.  “Romans exaggerate everything.  It’s true that generations ago my people fought naked, but it was for sanitary reasons.  Dirty cloth infects wounds easily.”

     “I was told it was to show they were not afraid.”

     Brettix shrugged.  “Maybe that too.”

     “And did they dance and leap about like stags, chanting stories of their conquests to terrorize the enemy?”

     He grinned.  “That sounds a little closer to the truth.  But the eastern tribes in this area never used limewash on their hair, that’s the custom of the Silures and some others in the west.  And the tattooing is just face painting with woad, it washes off easily.”

     “If I saw you coming at me in battle, face painted or not, I would be afraid,” Lucia said teasingly.

     They both froze as a tap sounded on the door to the hall.

     “Lucia?” Drucilla’s voice called.  “Are you awake?”

     “Don’t answer,” Brettix whispered, seizing her arm.  “She’ll think you’re asleep.”

     Lucia shook her head violently.  “She’ll just come in.”  She pointed to the floor on the far side of the bed.  “Lay down there and stay still.  I’ll get rid of her.”

     Brettix obeyed immediately, seizing the helmet, acutely conscious of what would happen to him if he were discovered in the bedroom of General Scipio’s daughter wearing a Roman centurion’s uniform.

     Lucia hurried across the floor, her diaphanous gown floating around her legs, and opened the hall door a crack.

     “Did I wake you?” Drucilla asked, when her daughter’s face appeared behind the door.

     “Not really.  I was just falling asleep.”

     “I wanted to check on you and see how you were feeling.  Have you had any more vomiting?”

     “No,” Lucia replied, feeling a sudden pang of guilt about causing her mother this needless worry.  “The nausea has passed.”

     Drucilla nodded.  “Good.  Maybe it’s one of those agues that comes and goes in one day.”

     “I think so.”

     “Do you want anything?  A drink, a comfit?”

     “Nothing, thanks, but I am feeling much better.”  Lucia leaned forward to kiss her mother’s cheek.  “Go back to bed.  I’m fine.”

     Drucilla patted her daughter’s shoulder and then walked off down the hall, her dark hair gleaming in the torchlight.

     Lucia closed the door and then fell back against it, trembling.  When Brettix came toward her she collapsed into his arms.

     “I was so scared,” she whispered.  “She can be so nosy, what if she decided to come in here?  You’re too big to hide for long.”

     “Why is she wandering around at this hour?” he asked, annoyed, as if Lucia’s mother were the intruder and not himself.

     “Oh, she sleeps poorly, and she’s concerned about me.”

     Brettix held her off to look at her.

     “I pretended to be ill so my father couldn’t send me to Londinium,” she said, shrugging.  “I told you I would.”

     “So it worked?”

     “It turned out to be for nothing, the weather’s bad to the south and the trip was cancelled.”

     “What did you do?”

     “I drank salt water and wood ash.  It induces vomiting.”

     He looked dumfounded.  “I imagine that it would.”  Then he started to laugh and released her, turning to sit on the edge of the bed, helpless with mirth.

     “Will you be quiet?” Lucia hissed, punching his arm.  “My mother will hear you, she has ears like a Nubian jungle cat’s.”

     He pulled her down on top of him, rolling with her to the middle of the bed and then pinning her under him.

     “You are an amazing girl,” he said softly, sobering.

     “For a
Romana
?” she asked.

     “For anyone.”  He kissed her, and she responded eagerly, opening her mouth under his and sinking her fingers into his shorn hair.  When he bent his head to kiss her neck, she turned her head to ease his access, sighing blissfully.  Then her eyes flew open when he sat up suddenly, turning away from her and rising from the bed.

     “What is it?” she asked, distressed.

     “Lucia, I can’t do this.  Not until you know everything.”

     “What do you mean?  What else is there to know?”

     He sat again, leaning back on one arm and studying her profile, which was half in shadow.  When she reached for him he put her hand aside gently, saying, “Don’t touch me.  Just listen.”

     She fixed her gaze on his face.

     “Ariovistus found me at a slave auction in Magiolagos and bought me to teach you to ride.  That much is true.  But we knew each other before that day and I’m not an Ordovice from the west who was captured in a coastal pirate raid.”

     She continued to stare at him, waiting.

     “I’m an Iceni, from the village just north of here.”

     “King Borrus’ village?” she said, puzzled.

     He nodded.  “King Borrus is my father.”

     Her mouth fell open in shock.  “You’re THAT Brettix, the Iceni prince who was killed at Drunemeton?”

     “Not killed but left for dead.”  He recounted the story while she listened, unmoving.  He concluded with, “So I saw an opportunity to become attached to your household and possibly get some information to help me work against your father.”

     “And did you?” she asked quietly, speaking at last.

     “Yes.”

     She rose and walked away from him.  “So you were using me the whole time?” she said quietly.

     “It started out that way,” he replied honestly.  “But it changed as we got to know each other...”

     She turned to face him squarely.  “And now?” she said, interrupting him.

     “Now I’m in love with you,” he replied, almost unable to believe that he was saying the words.

     Lucia returned and sat next to him on the bed, her huge dark eyes searching his face.

     “Do you hate me?” he asked quietly, his heart sinking at her inscrutable expression.  He had been ready for almost anything but this calm acceptance of what she could only view as his betrayal of her trust, innocently and freely given.

     She didn’t answer.

     “I’ll go,” he said, and rose.

     Lucia put her hand on his arm.

     “Don’t,” she said softly.

     He turned to look at her, daring to hope.

     “Can you forgive me?” he asked.

     She took his large hand in her small one.  “There’s nothing to forgive.  In your position I would have done the same thing.  If your only interest in me was getting information about my father’s doings you would have gone back to your village and never seen me again.  You wouldn’t be here right now, risking your life to spend a few stolen moments with me.”

     Brettix held her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly.  She really WAS an amazing girl.  When he released her hand Lucia put her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder.

     “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

     “I’m going to come back for you, Lucia,” he said flatly, stroking her hair.  “If you can be ready to go with me at any time, I’ll take you away with me.”

     She looked up at him, her gaze radiant.  “I’ll be ready to go at any time,” she said.

     He smiled.

     “But where?” she asked.

     “To my people.”

     “Will they accept me?” Lucia asked anxiously.  “They hate the Romans so much, especially my father.”

     “They’ll accept my choice, no matter who she is,” Brettix replied firmly.

     They heard the sound of booted feet tramping through the snow, and Lucia looked toward the window.

     “Is that the changing of the watch?” Brettix asked, surprised.

     She nodded.

     “Can it be so late already?” he said.