Love's Blazing Ecstasy

Kathryn

Kramer

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Love’s Blazing Ecstasy

by Kathryn Kramer

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Anniversary Edition--

Copyright 1984 by Kathryn Kramer

Notice: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer
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To my family—past and present, without whom I could never have undertaken to write this novel. May the family of man learn to live in peace with each other and walk in the light of the dawn.

Author’s Note

The
Celts were a race of separate tribes ruled by kings or chiefs, rather than a nation. Of their antecedents we know little. Central Germany appears to have been their point of origin, yet they wandered far north into Britain and Ireland and as far east as the Ukraine and Poland. Because they did not keep written records, little is known of them today except through legend and through archaeological findings. But by these means, their legacy lives on.

The Celts in
Britain often fought one another—a chief leading his warriors into battle in chariots pulled by horses. For defense against enemies they built forts made out of wood and earth on hilltops. The British Celts fought bravely against Julius Caesar, sending the Romans back across the sea.  The Romans came back, however, determined to make Britain part of Rome’s empire, but again were defeated, partly because of the Celtic chariots and the fierce manner of fighting these long-haired blond warriors exhibited.  That the Celts cut off the heads of their enemies and tied them on these chariots was a psychological deterrent to their enemies.

It was nearly a hundred years later before the
Romans were able to conquer the southern half of Britain and make it part of their empire, establishing “client kings” with those Celts anxious to keep their kingdoms. Not satisfied, the Romans turned their eyes and army northward and to the west where they were more fiercely opposed by leaders such as Queen Boudicca of the Iceni tribe.

The
Roman conquest of the land the Romans called “Britannia” was characteristically brutal and eventually the Celts were subjugated by the Roman armies. The era of Roman Britain began.

The elemental powers of fire, water, air, and earth were the gods and g
oddesses of the Celtic tribes. When the early Celtic Britons were conquered by the Romans, their way of life changed dramatically under Roman rule. Dress, customs and religion all became Romanized.

The
Roman Empire embraced with open arms the local gods and goddesses of these conquered peoples and attempted to identify Celtic tribal deities and nature-spirits with gods of their own. The Romans put no bonds upon religious thought. The Druids, however, priests of the Celtic religion, represented challenge to the authority of the government of Rome in much the same way as the Christian Church. Because of this, many of the Druids and their followers were killed. Little is known about the Druids in Christian times except from fairy folklore. The elemental powers of the Celtic religion reduced to local elves, fairies, and water spirits are with us still in legend and stories. We can only guess what mysteries the Druids possessed; we may never know the contents of this ancient mystical lore.

I have tried to imagine in this story what it must have been like in those days long a
go, what might have happened to two lovers when their cultures were at odds with each other.

PART ONE: The Dove and the Eagle

Northwest Britain – 63 AD

“Oh that I had wings like a dove! For then would I would fly away and be at rest.”

--Psalms, 4:6

Chapter  One
             

The
sky was dark as the full moon struggled to escape from the clouds which covered it like a shroud. Beneath the heavens, nestled in a grove of small trees, stood the circular dwellings of the tribe of the Parisi, looking like mushrooms with their round thatched roofs. In the center of the village stood the home which belonged to the tribal bard, Adair. Within the wooden walls it was silent except for the soft moaning of the young woman named Wynne, who tossed and turned upon her bed of furs.

“No. No. Please,” she murmured softly, speaking to the images in her dream. Her flaxen gown was wet with perspiration, and her blond hair tangled around her neck like a golden rope
.

Suddenly she awakened and
sat up, her blue eyes wide with foreboding. Anxiously she looked around, her hands shaking. She was alone. There was no sign anyone had been in the room. The fire was still carefully banked in both fireplaces, the door shut. Yet she had the feeling that something was very wrong; that the elements of fire, water, earth, and air were out of alignment.

Trembling, she got down from her bedshelf, built from hardened clay and covered with furs, and walked to the door of the lodge to look out upon the night.

“It was only a dream,” she whispered. But it had seemed so real. Her heart was even now beating rapidly, her breathing heavy.

The only sight which met her eyes beyond the lodge was the glowing embers of
the tribal fire, the fire of life, which shone brightly in the distance. All seemed peaceful, but Wynne still felt uneasy; she could still feel the presence of danger, not for herself but for another.

The large communal room was dark, with only a small shaft of light from the fire. Wynne wandered around the room as if in a trance, wondering where the rest of the household was. Her father? Yes, she recalled now, he was prepari
ng himself for the morrow’s hunt, and was sleeping this night in the lodge of Cedric, the chief of the tribe. But where was Brenna? More than likely on another of her late-night walks.

As Wynne returned to her bed, a fierce desire to be outs
ide suddenly overcame her. She wanted to be away from the stifling air and close walls surrounding her. Perhaps outside where she would be closer to the gods and goddesses she could get away from the feelings that were troubling her.  The elements of nature were always soothing.

Wrapped in her cloak,
Wynne stepped out into the cool night air, feeling soothed by the soft breeze which caressed her face. She quickly made her way past the darkened lodges of her tribesmen to the edge of the forest and searched for her stallion. The large black animal nearly blended with the night.

Putting two fingers into her mouth, she made the shrill sound which always brought him to her. When he approached, he nuzzled he
r hand and nickered in greeting and Wynne patted his head.  “You want to run free just as much as I do, Sloan,” she whispered to him, then sprang upon his back with expert nimbleness.

The black stallion tossed his head fretfully, eager to run, and Wynne decided to let the animal have his way.
This would not be the first time they had ridden at night and she knew that the horse was familiar with the landscape. Moving together in a dynamic motion as if they were one, they sailed through the air, the rider and horse racing with the wind.

Onward Wynne rode
guided by moonlight, past the shallow stream, beyond the steep incline. She thrilled at the feeling of freedom she always experienced on the stallion’s back, as if all her troubles and worries had vanished. The powerful horse responded to the softest of whispers, the lightest touches on his mane.

When at last they came to the far side of the forest, they stopped for a brief rest. Now, again, Wynne sensed danger, heard the wa
rning voices within her. She remembered  her dream and questioned its meaning and if it was a warning or just a nightmare. Who was the dark-haired stranger whose face she had seen so clearly? Even now she could see him as vividly as if he were standing before her, could feel a power beyond herself pulling her onward.

It’s just my imagination or some kind of delusion
, she thought. And yet the dream had seemed so real.  Shaking her head as if to clear it of such visions, she guided the horses onward.

The wind chilled her to her very bones as the stallion galloped on. Or was it something else which made her tremble, a touch of the fey, perhaps, or the sense of something fatal about to occur?
  She knew that there were others who were prone to foresight and had the ability to see the future, but she had never had such a vision before.

Reining in her horse, Wynne paused and looked up at the moon, so beautiful with its pale golden low. Her people worshipped all the great forces of nature: moon, sea, sun, wind, earth, and fire
—gods and goddesses who influenced their lives.

Again Wynne was struck by a feeling of danger and strained her ears and eyes to the night. Were her senses deceiving her or did she in truth hear a soft chanting sound carried by the wind through the forest? Perhaps it was the spirits of the woodland
, she thought. No, she heard them clearly now and she smelled smoke.  Straining her eyes she was certain that she could see the glow of a fire in the distance.

I should go back.  There could be danger
, she thought, but her curiosity got the better of her.

Cautiously she urged her horse forward until they came to a small clearing where the oak trees rose majestically against the sky. It was there that she saw him—the man in her dream. He
was nearly naked, wearing only a loincloth, and his bare feet were bound. Quietly she moved forward for a better look.

He was tall and powerfully built; it would have taken more than one warrior to subdue him. He was tied securely to one of the oak trees, his arms bound above his head. It appeared that he
was unconscious, for his head dropped to one side and his eyes were closed. She wondered whose prisoner he was—there weren’t any rival tribes in the area and the Romans never came this far north.

Suddenly
she could hear the drone of chanting that had started up again, and an icy chill of dread traveled up her spine as she contemplated the man’s fate.  She had no doubt but that it would be gruesome.

I should go back!
she thought, but something—some force beyond herself compelled her to move forward and probe into what was going on.

Dismounting, she made her way cautiously through the foliage until she was near the stranger. A warning echoed through her brain as she heard the snap of a twig; she stopped quickly and ducked into the undergrowth just as three dark-cloaked figures brushed by her and came to the side of the dark stranger, forcing him to drink from the wooden cup that they held to his mouth. The man lifted his head, snarling his defiance at his captors.  Wynne could sense his rage
, as if he had spoken to her and his suppressed passion touched her very soul. She knew at that moment what awaited him. He was to be a sacrifice to the cult of Domnu, burned alive in the wicker work cage as an offering to the old gods.

No!
she thought vehemently. Despite the fact that she did not know him, she could not bear to have him killed in this manner. No human being should be made to suffer in such an agonizing way.  But what could she do about it?  If she tried to help him they would undoubtedly kill her too.  And yet…..

As if sensing her presence, the stranger stared in her direction, and although she knew he could not see her, her eyes were fixed upon him.
If only I had a weapon
, she thought with frustration, for to try to rescue him barehanded was sheer folly.

A gleam of metal caught her eye. As soon as the hooded figures were gone, she carefully made her way toward it, holding her breath, not daring to hope. She found
that it was a sword hidden in the undergrowth. Did it belong to the stranger? Undoubtedly. Perhaps he had barely had time to conceal it before his captors fell upon him.

Her fingers caressed the weapon like a lover. It was not at all like the swords of her people. It was heavier, of a different metal.
A Roman sword
? The truth struck her--he was a Roman! An enemy. Scrutinizing him more intently she could see that the stranger was
not
one of her kind—he was taller, darker of hair, clean shaven. Remembering all the brutality and hardships the soldiers from across the ocean had inflicted upon her people, she turned her back. And yet, if she did not help him she would be no better than the Romans.

Wynne waited, watching from her hiding place as the three figures continued their ceremony, then started to abandon the captive.  When at last the prisoner was alone, she ran forward lifting the gleaming object up by its hilt. She must cut the prisoner’s bonds before the cloaked figures returned, or she might not get another chance.