He had only seen Cynric once after leaving the house of Bendeigid . . .One day in the market town of Deva he had turned and recognized the blond young giant bartering for a sword at a smith’s stall. Cynric was so deeply engaged in conversation with the weapons seller that he had not seen Gaius, and, in spite of his upbringing, Gaius had turned on his heel and fled. It was just after he had received his reply from Bendeigid. If the household knew of the offer Gaius would be shamed, and if not, what could Cynric, seeing the lad he had befriended wearing the uniform of a Roman tribune, presume but that they had been betrayed?
He wondered who had written the Druid’s Latin response for him. Gaius had burned the wax tablets on which they were written, but the words remained engraved on his memory. They were simple enough. The Druid did not feel he could give his daughter in marriage, because of her youth and Gaius’s Roman heritage.
Gaius had resolved to put the whole thing completely out of mind. After all, he was a Roman, trained to discipline both mind and body. But it was proving harder than he had expected. He could control his thoughts during the daytime, but last night he had dreamed once more that he and Eilan were sailing westward together on a white ship. Yet even if there were any land to the west where they might flee, he did not have the faintest idea how one would go about abducting even a willing girl, nor whether Eilan would be willing to run away. He had no intention of facing down all his kinsmen, to say nothing of hers. Nothing could come of that except misery for them both.
Perhaps Eilan was betrothed to somebody else by now, despite what her father had said about her youth. Certainly most Roman girls were married by that age. His father could go ahead, if he wished, and pledge him to whomever he willed. Licinius’s daughter was young too, so perhaps he need not face it for a while. Better, Gaius thought, to stop thinking about women entirely. The gods knew he had tried. But now and again, seeing – perhaps in some Gaulish slave – a flash of fair hair and grey eyes, her image would return to him so vividly he wanted to cry.
He would have liked to learn from Cynric how the family fared. But by the time he had got up his courage again the young giant had vanished. And all things considered, it was probably just as well.
Eilan woke suddenly, blinking as she tried to remember where she was. Had the baby cried? Had she dreamed? But Mairi and the babe lay quiet in the bed box on the other side of the fire. As she moved, her nephew, Vran, turned in his sleep and nestled closer against her. The priestess, Caillean, lay still against the wall. Eilan, at the edge of the bed nearest the fire, had slept badly, restless. If she had been dreaming, she could not remember it; she knew only that she was awake and staring at the red coals where the fire had burned to embers.
In the dark Caillean said softly, “I heard it too. There is someone outside the house.”
“At this hour?” She listened, but there was only the dripping of water from the eaves and the hiss of the fire.
But Caillean said with peremptory haste, “Be still.” She slipped from the bed and silently tested the bar across the door. It was secure in its slot, but after a moment Eilan heard again the sound that had wakened her and saw it bow slightly as the door was pressed inward.
Eilan shivered. She had been weaned on tales of raiders, but had always lived in the great house of Bendeigid, protected by her father’s armed men. The two serving men who helped with the farm work slept in the other roundhouse, and the homes of the other men oathed to Rhodri were scattered through the hills.
“Get up – quietly – and dress as swiftly as you can,” whispered Caillean. The door shook again, and Eilan obeyed, trembling.