Born of the Sun (16 page)

“You don’t feel c-cold at all.”

“I have more meat on me than you do.”

He settled her head into the hollow of his shoulder and felt her resistance drain away. She nestled against him. It was ten minutes before her shivering stopped completely. “Better?” he asked in a soft, oddly tender voice.

“Yes.” She sounded like a sleepy child.

“Go to sleep,” he said. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”

She was asleep almost immediately. It did not take Ceawlin long to follow.

When he woke it was dawn. There was light seeping in between the cracks in the barn wall and he could hear the birds beginning to call in the trees. Niniane was fast asleep in his arms.

Sex had not been on his mind last night when he had made this soft bed of hay for the two of them to sleep in. But his young male body had been aware of the softness pressed against it all night even if his mind had not been that way inclined. He woke and he knew immediately what it was he wanted.

Ceawlin had had his first girl when he was fifteen; Cynric had sent an experienced bower woman to initiate his son into one of the most important rites of manhood. Sex had come easily then and had continued to come easily in all the years since. There were always plenty of women anxious to take a prince, even a bastard prince, into their bed.

Ordinarily he would not have thought twice about satisfying his need. It would not take long, and then they could be on their way. But Niniane … Niniane was a virgin. He had never lain with a virgin before. All of his women had known what they were about.

Of course, they were married. She could not complain. It was her duty to satisfy him. He looked down at the small round head that was nestled so trustingly against his shoulder. For some strange reason, this girl made him feel as if he needed to protect her. It was probably because she was so small. He did not want to frighten her.

Her head moved and lifted, and sleepy, smoky blue eyes were looking up at him. He could see the pattern of his tunic’s fabric imprinted on her cheek. A strand of long hair had caught in her eyelashes. She looked surprised to see him, then she blinked and tried visibly to collect her thoughts. She looked like a kitten just waking up.

“Come,” he said. His voice was abrupt and hard. He was very uncomfortable and he blamed her for it. “If we don’t get moving soon, the peasants will find us and I don’t want that to happen.”

She sat up and pushed her hair off her face. “Of course. The sun must be up. I can see.” She smiled at him a little shyly. “Thank you, Prince. I am much warmer.”

“Good.” He stood up and brushed the hay from his clothes. “Then let us go.”

They rode out of the vil without their presence being noted and returned to the road. Ceawlin could see that Niniane was stiff from the long canter the day before, but she made no complaint. He appraised her out of the side of his eyes and decided not to push the pace too hard. She would need all her wits to face her brother when they reached Bryn Atha. And she had wits, this little British princess. There could no longer be any doubt about that.

They reached Bryn Atha in the early afternoon. Cynric had not taken his war band to the villa after his victory at Beranbyrg, so Ceawlin had never been there before. He could not restrain an exclamation of surprise and admiration as he followed Niniane in through the gate and saw for the first time that beautiful Roman courtyard.

It was deserted.

“Coinmail must be at one of the farms,” Niniane said. “Come, I’ll take you to the stables first. We had better take care of the horses.”

He looked at her with distinct approval. She was tired and sore but she was ready to take care of the horses first. He gave Bayvard a long rein and followed along beside her chestnut gelding. “Bryn Atha is beautiful,” he said, feeling he owed her a reward of some sort. “When Winchester is naught but ashes, these stones will still be here.”

He was rewarded by a smile. Her teeth were small and white and, like the rest of her, perfectly formed. For the first time he noticed that she had a dimple in the corner of her mouth.

The stable was empty too. Empty not only of horses but also of fodder. There was no sign of use at all. Niniane frowned. “This is strange. The chickens are gone too, and the pigs. Wherever can Coinmail be?”

They gave the horses water, then picketed them to graze, as there was no hay. “Let’s go to the house,” Niniane said. “I cannot imagine what has happened.”

They returned to the courtyard, where Niniane shouted first, “Brenna! Col! … The servants,” she added in an aside to Ceawlin. There was no answer.

“Let’s look in the house,” Ceawlin said.

Most Roman villas were fronted by colonnades, but Bryn Atha, built by an Atrebates prince to withstand the inclement British climate, had an enclosed colonnade that was more like a long gallery off which all the rooms in the villa opened. The main door led into the tablinum, or large reception room. Ceawlin stood for a moment in silence, slowly surveying the yellow plaster walls with their scrolls of jewellike color. Then he looked at the pictured mosaic floor. It was a hunt scene, with a golden-haired, scantily clad huntress engaged in spearing a giant boar. “What is it supposed to represent?” he asked Niniane.

“Venus. The Roman goddess of beauty,” she answered. She went to the windows, opened the glass panes, and then unlatched the shutters. Ceawlin watched as she pushed the shutters wide, then closed the window again, allowing the afternoon sun to come streaming into the room. She turned back to face him, and the sun lit her hair to the glow of autumn.

“I remember,” he said slowly. “You don’t like the dark.”

“I don’t like rooms without windows,” she said. “Or rooms that are stuffy. The house has been closed up. I don’t think Coinmail is living here at all.”

“Well, let us look,” he answered. The puzzle of Coinmail could wait for a moment; he was curious to see a real Roman house. He looked around the room. “There is no hearthplace. How do you stay warm?”

Niniane explained about the hypocaust. “It still works under the sitting room and the dining room and the small reception room,” she said, and showed him where the stoke hole was where one made the fire that would heat the pipes under the house. The dining room was a separate room, with a table that was not taken up after every meal. The bedrooms all had windows, which Niniane opened, and the floors were of brick and concrete and were covered by colorful rugs. The baths were in a separate part of the house, but Niniane said they had not worked for years.

They ended up in the kitchen, with its raised hearth stove fed by charcoal. There was no food.

“Where can your brother have gone?” Ceawlin asked.

“I have no idea. Wherever it is, he evidently plans to be gone for some time. He has taken all the animals.”

“How can we find out?”

Niniane pushed her hand through her hair and stared abstractedly at the stove. “Naille would know for sure. He is a cousin and would be chief should something happen to Coinmail.” She frowned and looked from the stove to Ceawlin’s face. “I’m not sure it’s wise to go to Naille until we find out what has happened to Coinmail, Prince.
Naille
did not promise never to bear arms against you.”

Ceawlin swore. “We heard no word in Winchester that your brother was gone.”

“Why should you?”

“We should. It’s true we don’t keep watch on the Britons and their doings, but we should.”

Niniane did not look as if she agreed. She refrained from comment, however, and said instead, “I had better go and see Geara. He has the nearest farm. He will probably know what has happened to Coinmail.”

“How far is this farm?”

“Not too far—two miles, perhaps.”

“Then let us go.”

There was the faintest of pauses; then, “I think you should stay here, Prince.”

At first he looked surprised, then he scowled. “Of course I am not going to stay here! Do you think I am afraid of a simple farmer?”

“I know you are not afraid, but until we find out …”

“Absolutely not. I am coming with you.”

Niniane set her teeth. “You could get killed.”

“Well, it will make a nice gift for you if I do. You will be home again without a Saxon husband to worry about. Come, stop talking and let’s go.”

He walked out of the kitchen and Niniane trailed along behind him, furious. What he had said was perfectly true, of course. If he were killed, her own life would certainly be easier. But for some reason she did not quite understand, she did not want him to be killed.

They saddled up the horses once again and started along the track that led to Geara’s. They rode in silence, Niniane thinking furiously of what she would say to Geara to explain Ceawlin, and Ceawlin trying to figure out how the inexplicable absence of Coinmail was likely to affect his own future plans.

As Geara’s farm came into sight, Niniane turned to Ceawlin. “Don’t tell Geara who you are. It might not be safe. We’ll just say that you are my husband and that the two of us decided to run away from Winchester together.”

His eyes always seemed to deepen in color whenever his emotions were stirred. “Run away?”

“Will you think for just one moment?” she snapped, and his eyes grew even more turquoise. “This is not a time for heroics. It is a time for sensible thinking. It is necessary for you to win the support of the Atrebates. Am I right?”

“Yes.” His answer was grudging.

“Well, until we find out what the situation is, it will be safest to keep your identity quiet. You are my husband. You fell out with the new rulers in Winchester, which is true enough, and so decided to come to the home of your wife.”

For a long moment he did not answer, and Niniane was afraid he was going to be stubborn. He was staring between his horse’s ears and his profile looked stubborn. “Prince—” she began to say, and he turned his eyes toward her.

“If I am to be merely a simple thane, you had better not call me prince.”

Thank God he was going to be sensible. She gave him an enchanting smile. “Ceawlin. It will be all right to use your name. The Atrebates know nothing of Winchester or its inhabitants.”

He looked disgusted but had the sense not to answer.

Geara was a childless old man whose wife was long dead, and he had always been fond of Niniane. She had felt he was the safest person she could apply to for information about Coinmail, and her decision was borne out by the greeting the old farmer gave her when they found him in the pig pen mending a fence. He was so clearly delighted to see her. A further factor in her choice of Geara was that he had only one man to help him do all the work of the farm, so there was little chance of word of her return getting out before she was ready.

He was delighted to see her, but he bristled at the sight of Ceawlin, who was, as Niniane had regretfully realized when she was thinking up her story, unmistakably a Saxon. He might sound British when he spoke, but there was no disguising that silver-blond hair. Niniane waxed eloquent about how Ceawlin had rescued her from marriage to the vile Edwin, risking his own life in the process. It was quite a moving tale, if she did say so herself, and it produced the desired effect upon Geara.

She glanced only once at Ceawlin’s face, then hastily averted her eyes.

“Geara,” she said at last, getting down to the main purpose of their visit, “where on earth has Coinmail gone?”

“Oh, yes. You would be knowing nothing about that.” Geara spat in his hands. “He went to your mother’s brother, the one that lives away to the west.”

“But why? And when did he go?”

“He went but a month ago.” The old man shrugged. “Why? I can’t say. He was grim as death after that there battle.”

“I can imagine,” Ceawlin murmured.

“Well, what did he do with all the livestock?” Niniane persisted. “There is nothing left at Bryn Atha, Geara. He must be planning to be away for quite a long time.”

“He did take most of the livestock to Naille to look out for. The two old folk you had at Bryn Atha died this winter, so there was no one there to look after them, you see.”

“I see.” Niniane folded her lips. “I see also that we are going to be very hungry unless I can get some of the livestock back from Naille.”

Geara spat on the ground. “No food in the house, eh?”

“None.”

“Well, it were not so bad a winter. I can spare you some.”

In the end, Geara gave them flour, corn, milk, cheese, two loaves of bread, and a chicken. He also gave them some grain for the horses. They packed everything onto Niniane’s gelding and then Ceawlin lifted her to Bayvard’s back and took the chestnut’s reins into his own hands. They left Geara’s farm, Ceawlin going first on foot, leading the chestnut, and Niniane following.

As soon as they were out of sight of the farm, Ceawlin turned to her and said, “I’m starving.”

“So am I.”

They looked at each other, then Niniane slid off the stallion’s back and they both went to look in the saddlebags the gelding was carrying. Within two minutes they were stuffing themselves with bread and cheese. Ceawlin swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked over at Niniane, and met her eyes. The two of them began to laugh.

“When we get home I’ll cook the chicken,” she promised as they restored the saddlebags to a semblance of order. When he came to lift her to Bayvard’s back, she said, “Won’t he carry us both?”

He looked down at her appraisingly. He was so tall, she thought. “He probably would,” Ceawlin agreed. “You weigh scarcely anything.” Then he put his hands on her waist and lifted her to the stallion’s back behind the saddle. In a minute he was before her, swinging into the saddle itself.

“Who is this uncle that your brother went to visit?” he asked over his shoulder.

She laid her hand on his back to balance herself. Her mother’s brother was a prince of the Dobunni tribe whose home was near the old Roman city of Glevum, close by Wales. “My uncle lives in the west,” she answered. “I have no idea why Coinmail would have gone to visit him.”

“It is very peculiar.”

Niniane thought it was extremely peculiar, but she did not say so to Ceawlin. Instead, “Perhaps he went to get married.”