The Lion and the Lark (32 page)

     “But you’ve been feeling sick?”

     “Oh, it was probably something I ate,” Bronwen replied, wishing she hadn’t told him that. “You know Maeve is always taking over the kitchen to prepare her herbal tonics, she gave me something this morning and I think it disagreed with me.”

     “I’ll see if Scipio knows where Pallas went and try to get him back here for you,” Claudius said.  “But with all this snow it may not be that easy...”

     “Don’t worry about it,” Bronwen said, feeling guilty about his concern, which of course was not warranted.  She put her arms around his neck and lay her head upon his shoulder.  “I’m sure I will be fine.”

     He kissed the top of her head and said, “Why don’t you go into the bedroom and lie down?  I have some work to do but I’ll join you soon.  Get some rest.”

     Bronwen did as he suggested, but was unable to stop herself from crying once Claudius was occupied elsewhere.  When Claudius came back to the bedroom later she pretended to be asleep, then rolled over and stared at the ceiling until his breathing became deep and even.

     Bronwen glanced at the melting candle.  

     By morning the Iceni would be at the gates, armed to the teeth and accompanied by their allies, prepared to surprise the outnumbered Romans, who would be unable to call upon reinforcements once the battled was waged.  It was exactly what she had worked for, but at this moment she felt no triumph.

     She wished, in fact, that she were dead.

     Bronwen rose from the bed and took the dagger from Claudius’ weapons belt, running from the room and into Claudius’ study.  She sat at the desk and  turned the knife over and over in her hands, wondering if she had the nerve to use it.

     She couldn’t get Claudius to leave and she couldn’t stop what was going to happen.  She wouldn’t desert him, but even if they both survived after dawn his love for her would be dead anyway.

     There was no reason to live.

     Unless there really was a baby.

     She could kill herself, but not Claudius’ child.

     She didn’t know how long she sat there in the darkness, tears streaming down her face, the weapon like an iron weight in her hand.  Suddenly a light shone in her face and she looked up to see Claudius standing in the doorway, wearing his sheepskin tunic and holding the torch from the hall niche in his hand.

     She would never forget the expression on his face as he took in her hysterical condition and the dagger she held.  He crossed the room in three strides and stuck the torch in the brass sconce above her head.  He hauled her up to her feet in one motion, kicking the knife away from them when it fell to the floor.

     “Tell me,” he said tersely.  “Tell me right now.”

     Bronwen continued weeping, unable to answer.

     He held her with one arm and forced her chin up with his free hand.  She stared at him with flooded eyes.

     “What?” he demanded.  “Say it.”

     “The Celts,” she whispered, “are coming at dawn to attack the garrison.  The Iceni have banded with the other tribes and will outnumber you three to one.”

     His face went blank with shock and then he said in an icy tone, “How do you know?”

     “My brother told me.  He warned me to get out.”

     “Your brother!  Your brother’s dead, I’ve been looking through all the camps for him and nobody can find him.  He was lost in the battle at Drunemeton, as was reported.”

     “No,” Bronwen said, sobbing.

     Claudius shook her.  Hard.

     “He survived, he was wounded but he lived,” she gasped.  “He was captured and sold into slavery, then bought by Scipio, who was looking for a horse trainer for his daughter.”

     “Scipio?” Claudius repeated softly.  “The General didn’t know who he was?”

     “No.  And I’ve been reading your dispatches whenever I could and passing the information on to Brettix.  He planned the attack for this date because he knows that the garrison at Londinium is depleted and won’t be able to send reinforcements to help you.”  

     Claudius released her, his expression stolid.  “Why are you still here?” he finally said.

     “I couldn’t leave you,” she murmured helplessly, putting her hand to her mouth.  “But we can still get away.  Come with me now and...”

     He turned his back on her while she was talking and strode rapidly to the door, pausing to pick up his knife.  Then he turned and said, “Don’t you move from this room.  If you do I will hunt you down wherever you go and wring your neck.”

     Bronwen collapsed into his chair as she heard his running feet go down the hall.  A short time later she heard him dash through the house and burst out the door.

     She sat at his desk, the scene of her crimes, watching the torchlight blur through her tears.  When she heard a sound she looked at the door, thinking that Claudius had come back.  Instead she saw Ardus, with two brawny centurions flanking him.

     “Lady Leonatus,” he said grandly.  “I have instructions from your husband to place you under house arrest.”

     He didn’t even try to disguise the look of triumph on his face.

     The battle commenced while it was still dark; as soon as Ardus heard the noise of combat he barked an order and dashed from the room, leaving one centurion behind to guard Bronwen. 

     She sat in a daze and listened to the shouts and cries, the running feet, the pounding of horses’ hooves taking place outside as if it were a nightmare from which she would soon awake.  The din escalated until it sounded like the Greek hell of Hades at the door; the scent of smoke filtered through the house as the sun rose.  The centurion alternated between peering out the window and darting quick glances at Bronwen to make sure she hadn’t moved.  As a piercing scream sounded just outside the door Bronwen said to him in Latin, “Why don’t you run out there and join the fun, maybe get yourself killed?  I’m not going anywhere.”

     He looked at her briefly.  “I have my orders, madam,” he said.

     They both jumped as the front door crashed open with a loud report and a short time later three heavily armed Celts burst into the room, the first going for the centurion immediately when he saw the Roman uniform.

     “Leave him alone!” Bronwen shouted imperiously in Celtic, leaping to her feet as the centurion drew his sword.

     The Celt halted in mid-flight, his dagger raised, so surprised by Bronwen’s presence and her commanding tone that he held up his hand for his companions to stop also.

     “I am Bronwen, princess of the Iceni, daughter of King Borrus, and this man is my guard.  I command you to leave him unharmed and depart my house at once.”

     The men, who were Regni, exchanged glances, and then the leader said, “You are Bronwen who was married to a Roman officer as part of the old treaty?”

     “Yes.”

     “This man is not your husband?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard above the cacophony outside.

     “No, my husband is with his men out there, and probably dead by now.  Go back to the battle and leave us alone.”

     The leader looked at the Roman, who was frozen, his sword at the ready; the Celt was obviously itching to cut his throat.

     “I will tell my brother Brettix that you defied me,” Bronwen said in a silky tone.  “He does not favor interference with civilians.”

     “That,” the Regnus said viciously, pointing his weapon, “is not a civilian.”

     “You were instructed not to enter the residences!” Bronwen yelled at him, wondering if the Celts would kill her and then blame it on the Romans.  The Regni were new allies and not overly fond of the Iceni.

     The leader glared at her defiantly.

    “What are you doing in this house?” she demanded.  “Were you planning on looting it?  Cutting the servants to pieces as they cowered in their quarters and then robbing them?  Half of them are Celts!  If you don’t leave immediately I will make sure my brother hears of this!”

     That convinced the interloper.  He jerked his head toward the hall and ran out of the room, the others following close behind him.

     The centurion let out his breath in a long sigh.

     “Why did you do that?” he asked warily.

     “I don’t know,” Bronwen said.  “It seemed important not to see one more person die.”

     “You were very brave.  Three of them could have overpowered me.”

     “Bravery is easy when you have nothing to lose,” Bronwen replied.  She was suddenly conscious of the thickness of the air and added tonelessly, “Is the house on fire?”  She didn’t really care.

     “The house is made of stone, madam, and the roof is too wet with snow to burn.”

     “Then what is burning?”

     “The wooden ramparts inside the fort walls,” he replied, going to the window and looking out of it.  “I can’t see much through the smoke but the flames are brightest in the direction of the gates.”

     “Is it over yet?”

     “Not yet,” the centurion replied quietly.  “Listen.  You can still hear the clash of swords.”

     Bronwen heard nothing more than a general, hideous din; to her inexperienced ear the individual sounds were lost in it.

     “Do you think there will be anyone left alive to execute me?” she asked disinterestedly.

     “Execute, madam?” the centurion said.

     “I am a hostage bride,
centurio.
  With this open violation of the treaty my life will be forfeit.”

     “Surely Tribune Leonatus will not let that happen,” he replied soothingly.

     Bronwen smiled sadly but did not answer him.

     Gradually, over the course of the morning, the sounds of the battle decreased, and then Bronwen heard the blast of a Celtic horn, the
dubh broch,
sounding the retreat.  Not long after she saw Maeve standing in the doorway, and the old woman rushed into her arms.

     “I was afraid to leave the quarters,” she said in Celtic.  “I’m so relieved to see that you are all right.”  Then she saw the centurion and said, “What is he doing here?”

     “Guarding me,” Bronwen answered.

     Maeve looked at her.

     “Claudius knows,” she said briefly.

     “How?”

     “I told him.”

     Maeve glanced at the guard.

     “He doesn’t understand us, don’t worry,” Bronwen said.  “I told Claudius in the middle of the night, so the Romans had some advance warning.  They were expecting the raid when it came.”

     “They still couldn’t produce more men on such short notice.  It probably didn’t matter very much.”

     “It matters to Claudius.  Very much.”

     “Shall we look outside?” Maeve asked.

     “You do it,” Bronwen said to her, turning her head.  “I don’t have the stomach for it.”

     Maeve left the study as the Roman watched Bronwen, making sure she didn’t follow.  A short time later the old woman returned, her expression sober.

     “The ramparts and the headquarters building are on fire,” she reported.  “The smoke is so thick I couldn’t see much, but there are bodies piled everywhere.”

     “Did anyone win?” Bronwe asked sarcastically.  “That was the point of all this, as I understand it, to win.”

     “You wanted to win, too,” Maeve said to her.  “Once.”

     “Yes, I know,” Bronwe said, sighing heavily.  “It’s difficult to remember that now.”

     “I’m sure Brettix and his force did a lot of damage,” Maeve said.  “Maybe enough for the Romans to give in on some of the points they have always refused to negotiate before; they won’t want a repeat of this any time soon.”

     “That’s enough talk!” the centurion broke in sharply, speaking in Latin to Bronwen.  “Dismiss her.”

     “Is everyone safe in the house?” Bronwen asked.

     Maeve nodded.

     “Then go back to the servants’ quarters and keep them all calm,” Bronwen said.  “Tell them I’m fine and we now await the return of the master.”

     “If he’s coming back,” Maeve said, watching Bronwen’s face.

     “Until I hear differently I am proceeding on that assumption,” Bronwen said, with more confidence than she felt.  She waved her hand to dismiss Maeve and sat once more at Claudius’ desk.

     It was nightfall before Claudius returned; during the day Bronwen was permitted a meal, which she did not eat.  For all the long hours until her husband entered the study her guard did not move from his position, not even to sit or to walk around the room, and he was clearly relieved to see his superior officer come through the door.

     But not nearly as relieved as Bronwen was to see her husband still alive.

     “You’re dismissed,” Claudius said to the centurion, barely looking at him.  “Report to Quaestor Ardus Cappius for the burial detail.”

     The man fled, glancing once searchingly at Bronwen before leaving the room.