Seven
In the days following Gaius’s departure the bright sun of Beltane hid behind weeping skies, as if the season had decided not to turn into summer after all. Eilan crept around the house like a ghost. Days passed and Gaius sent no word. Just before leaving for the Forest House Dieda had said that she should have given herself to Gaius. Would he be more or less likely to forget her if she had done so?
After all, the high festivals existed in a time of their own. That night when they sat together watching the fires was like some dream of the Otherworld. In that time when the doors opened between the worlds, anything seemed possible – even the marriage of the daughter of a Druid to a Roman officer. But now, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of her home, she began to doubt herself, her love, and Gawen – or Gaius, as she supposed she ought to call him – most of all.
And the worst of it was that no one seemed to notice her pain. Mairi had insisted on returning to her own dwelling to await the return of her husband, and Rheis was busy with all the tasks that summer brought. She might have confided in Dieda, but her kinswoman was in the Forest House, where she must be dealing with her own heartaches and regrets. The skies wept, Eilan’s heart wept with them, and no one seemed to care at all.
At last a day came when her father sent for her. He was sitting beside the hearth in the feasting hall — only ashes now, for though the sky was grey and clouded, it was warm enough not to need a fire. An odd mix of anger and amusement softened his usual sternness. “Eilan,” he said gently, “I feel I should let you know this; an offer has been made for your hand.”
Gaius, she thought. My doubts wronged him!
“But of course it was one I could not entertain. How much do you know about the young man who called himself Gawen?”
“What do you mean?” Surely he could hear the rapid beating of her heart.
“Did he tell you his true name? Did he tell you that his father is Macellius Severus, Prefect of the camp at Deva?”
She saw the anger now beneath Bendeigid’s gentleness, and fought to still her trembling; but she nodded.
“Then at least he did not deceive you.” Her father sighed, “But you must put him far from your thoughts, Daughter. You are not yet of full age to marry -”
She raised her head to protest. Why had she not considered that her own father was far more likely to refuse permission than Gaius to deny his love?
“I can wait,” she whispered, not daring to raise her eyes.
Her father went on, “I am not used to being a tyrant to my children, Eilan; if the truth be told I have been all too gentle with you. If you feared me, you would not speak this way. But this thing cannot be, Daughter – no, hold you still,” he commanded, “I still have something to say to you.”
“What else is there?” Eilan exclaimed, flinching at his grip on her wrist. “You have refused him, haven’t you?”
“I want you to understand why.” His tone softened. “I bear no grudge against the lad, and if he were one of our own, I would gladly give you to him. But oil mixes not with water, nor lead with silver, nor Roman with Briton.”
“He is only half Roman,” she protested. “His mother was a tribeswoman of the Silures. He seemed Briton enough when he guested here.”
Her father shook his head. “That makes it all the worse. He is the bastard son of a marriage – an unlawful marriage I call it – into a race of traitors, for traitors were the Silures before ever the Romans came over the sea, stealing our cattle and poaching in our hunting runs. It would be to compound folly upon folly to marry ^f you to a child of our ancient enemies. I have even spoken to Ardanos of this and though he talks of peace to come of it, as if you were child to one of our queens and he son to a Caesar, I know it cannot be.”