Calgaich the Swordsman (20 page)

This time she came to Calgaich robed and cloaked and sweetly fragrant. He reached out for her, knowing well enough that his hands would only pass through air. He grasped her by the shoulders and drew her down to him. She twisted loose and drew back. Her hooded cloak came loose and released a flood of her golden hair. The cloak dropped to the floor. Calgaich got unsteadily to his feet and reached for her again. He gripped the loose fabric of her woolen gown, and stripped it from her to throw it aside. She retreated back against the piled-up trusses of straw and hay.

Calgaich followed her and closed with her body. She struggled to get around him but he thrust his aching loins hard against her softness. He bent to kiss her, and her hair fell across his face. She twisted her head to one side and raised a small, hard knee to his groin. He grunted in pain and staggered back.

She tried for the door, but Calgaich thrust a leg out and she fell over it into the damp straw of the floor. He straddled her and ripped her undergown free from her squirming body. He stood up and dragged her naked to her feet, then he lowered her onto the bed of straw. “Morar! Morar! ” he cried.

“Calgaich!” she said his name just before he closed his mouth on hers. He raised his head and tore loose his belt. “They'll hear you!” she cried.

He stood up, and as she tried to get to her feet he struck her once, to drive her back onto the straw pallet. He stripped off his clothing and dropped on top of her. He had been waiting a long time for this night to come. She struggled hard. Once she bit into his lower lip and blood dripped from his chin to stain her breasts. He pressed his lips against hers and passed his hands down her breasts to her belly. He wedged his knees in between her thighs and pried her legs apart. For a moment or two she continued to struggle as he strove to penetrate her passageway. She became rigid as he succeeded in entering her, and as he probed deeper she clasped her arms about his neck and spread her legs as far apart as she could.

She cried out sharply, just once, as he forced her to his fullest extent. Slowly at first, and then faster, she began to move with him. She was awkward and not quite in rhythm until she got the feeling of the act and then she began to respond in a pleasurable manner. At last she pressed her mouth against his, loosely and yet with passion as they flowed together.

Later they lay quietly side by side, fully sated. The rain pattered on the roof. Footsteps approached outside. Calgaich sat up quickly. The footsteps receded in the distance.

“Calgaich,” she said quietly.

He looked down at her. Something in her voice made him spread the golden hair from off her face. It was not Morar, the Golden One. He was horrified.

"Bronwyn,” he cried.

"Let me up," she pleaded. “It’s cold and damp in here now that the heat has passed from both of us." She reached for her undergown, thrown to the floor beside the straw pallet.

Calgaich pressed his hands flat on the straw and forced his body upward away from her soft form. “Bronwyn!" he said again thickly.

"You knew all along," she accused him.

He stood up and stared down at her in the dim light. Even during the act he had thought that this woman seemed smaller in all respects than what he had anticipated Morar would have been like. But this had not been enough to stop him. Had he known? His mind was not clear.

As Bronwyn stood up, something metallic struck the jug of
usquebaugh.
She quickly bent to pick up her small dirk.

"Did you have that dirk with you all that time?" Calgaich asked her.

She nodded without looking at him as she pulled on her ripped undergown and attempted to fasten it around her.

"You should have used it, Bronwyn! I had no right to force you." Calgaich flushed as he remembered his strength of a few minutes ago.

"I know," she agreed quietly.

He took her by the shoulders and drew her close. "But why? What were you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me who you were? You could have cried out and brought the guards running."

"Would it have made a difference to know it was not Morar, but Bronwyn? You were lost in a whiskey haze."

He shook his head in bewilderment. "You were no bigger than a hare when last I saw you at the
dun
."

"That was more than three years ago. I was only fourteen then. You never did pay much attention to me, Calgaich." She raised her eyes to meet his gaze.

"It seems as though I have now," he said ruefully, brushing some straw from her cloak.

"It doesn’t matter, Calgaich."

"But it does! I was betrothed to Morar! Now I have raped her little sister. How can it not matter?”

She put on her cloak. “You had better not tell Morar,” she warned him. “There is no need for her to know.”

He walked before her to the door and opened it. The rain was slanting down from a dark sky. The large courtyard was empty. A faint yellow light showed from the small guardhouse near the gate.

She turned to face him as she was about to leave. “Are you sure you didn’t know it was I, instead of Morar?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “I swear!” He came closer to her. “Are you betrothed?”

She shook her head, and some of her golden hair fell free of the hood.

“The men of Rioghaine are either blind or complete fools, then.”

“It isn't that,” she said bitterly.

He stared at her dim, beautiful face. “What do you mean?”

“There is not time to talk about it now, Calgaich. I took my life, or my soft hide, at least, in my own hands by coming to you tonight.”

“How did you get past the guard?” Questions were beginning to form in Calgaich’s mind, out of the haze of the whiskey and spent passion.

Bronwyn smiled a little wickedly, reminding Calgaich of the mischievous child she had once been. “He is a stupid Asturian who likes the golden women of the north, or so he said when I brought him some of the quaestor’s Falernian wine. He didn’t know I had laced it with plenty of poppy seed. His dirty hands were rougher than yours, Calgaich, but he didn’t get too far before the wine put him to sleep.”

He took her by the shoulders. “Where did you learn such a trick, Bronwyn?”

She laughed softly up at him. “From Morar. Morar knows many tricks with men.” Her voice died away as she saw the hard look on his face, and his hands gripped her shoulders harder.

“With
men?
What do you mean?” Calgaich demanded.

“I spoke in jest,” she replied quickly. “Here, you've little time to lose. Take my dirk. The guards are in the guardhouse, sheltering from the rain. You can go over the wall. The rain and mist will hide you so that you can get across the bridge and beyond the Great Wall.” He took her dirk. “Does Morar know that you are here?”

Bronwyn shook her head.

“Why didn’t she come herself?”

His words seemed to hurt Bronwyn and she looked away from him. “Morar has changed much since you left for Eriu, Calgaich. She says and does strange things. Even now, as we talk here, she is drinking wine with Ulpius and his greasy pig of an uncle, Lucius. I only wish Bruidge had not sent me along with Morar.”

Calgaich was lost in his own thoughts and did not hear the last. “Where is my father?”

“He’s imprisoned in a building in the next courtyard, the one whose gate faces the fort. You can’t get to him, Calgaich. Besides, even if you could, he’s too weak to travel. Some say he is slowly dying because of the quaestor’s wishes.”

Again he gripped her by the shoulders and studied her face. “What do you mean?”

“Poison, Calgaich.”

“Where is this drugged Asturian?” He looked beyond her to the courtyard.

“In the stables.” She wrinkled her nose as the memory of the Asturian’s rough hands came back to her.

“His weapons are with him? His cloak and helmet?” “Yes.” She narrowed her eyes. “Calgaich? You can’t hope to rescue your father.” Her voice pleaded with him.

“I was planning to do that anyway. The Romans gave me passage here. You’ve freed me.”

“But not to be caught again. I wanted you to flee. You’re mad!”

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “But a son can’t let his father die in the filth of a Roman prison.”

“But it is said he hasn’t long to live.”

“Then he must die in his own country.” Calgaich picked up the whiskey jug and drank deeply, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can you reach your quarters safely?” he asked. She should not have to die for freeing him—or worse, have to submit to the drunken advances of guardsmen.

"Let me go with you,” she cried, placing a small hand on his arm.

He shook his head, passion again rising at her touch. "Can you get into your quarters?” he repeated.

"Easily enough. The others will be drunk by now.” She turned away from him, sick with having to return to the Roman rooms.

"Morar, too?” he asked quietly.

"I don't know. I do not understand Morar anymore.”

"Where is Guidd?” Calgaich asked.

"In a room at "he stables.” Bronwyn pointed to the dark, past the guardhouse.

He opened the heavy door. "Go back to your quarters, quickly.” He looked down at her as she passed close in front of him. "I am sorry I forced you, Bronwyn.”

She paused and looked up at him. Then she smiled a little. "No harm was done.”

"You little witch! You could have told me who you were.”

Bronwyn was silent for a few seconds; then she said, "But maybe I didn't want to stop you.”

He narrowed his eyes and put a hand on her shoulder. Tendrils of her golden hair touched his hand. "So the struggle you put up was just an act.”

"The struggle, perhaps. But not later.” She drew away from him. "It was to happen to me soon anyway. I wanted you to be the first.” Her voice was bitter. She was no longer a girl. "And now I must return.” She faced him once more. "You can think any way you like, Calgaich. I shall always have tonight. And aren’t we lovers now?” With that, she disappeared quickly into the misty drizzle, leaving Calgaich puzzled and open-mouthed. Perhaps he should have taken her along. He did not like to think of what she was returning to in the fort beyond, in the care of the Perfumed Pig. But it was too late for regrets.

Calgaich eased open the door of the stable and found the drugged Asturian guard sprawled in the straw. Calgaich relieved him of his sword and short spear, then stripped off his helmet and cloak. The guard started to arise. His own sheathed sword came down on his skull.

Calgaich catfooted to a barred door. "Guidd?” he whispered.

"Calgaich? Is that you?” Guidd replied.

Calgaich opened the door and thrust the spear into the woodsman’s hands. "Follow me. My father is imprisoned here. We’re going to free him.”

Calgaich donned the Asturian’s helmet and swung his cloak about his shoulders. Guidd found a worn saddle blanket which he draped about his head and body and tied with a bridle rein.

Like two drifting shadows they crossed the misty courtyard. The gateway between the two courtyards of the villa was open. They passed into the darkness of the second courtyard. Calgaich drew Guidd into the shelter of the wall. "Go now, if you want to,” he whispered. "They’ll never catch you on a night like this.”

Guidd shook his head. He raised the spear. "I am still your father’s hound, Calgaich. Lead the way, my brother!”

Calgaich and Guidd stood in the shadows and watched the lone legionnaire who stood guard outside a long building with barred windows. The Roman stood under the low, overhanging eaves behind a thin curtain of water running in leaden-colored streams from the tile roof. The structure had been built using the rear wall of the courtyard as one side. To the left, across the puddled courtyard, was another such edifice, in which small windows glowed with dim yellow light. The faint sound of voices came from within it. At one end of it was the outer gateway facing the south wall of the fort across a narrow field. Another guard stood there, huddled in his cloak against the chill drizzle of the rain.

“I’ll take one of them and you take the other, Calgaich,” Guidd whispered.

Calgaich shook his Head. “We can't risk an outcry. If we can get my father and then win free of the fort, we'll be on foot, so it will have to be done by stealth.” He pointed to the lighted building. “See who is in there.”

The woodsman vanished into the dimness as silently as a hunting cat. In a few minutes he came back. “It’s a barracks, Calgaich. There are some legionnaires in there, but mostly auxiliaries, Asturians from the looks of them. There's a dice game going on and the wine bottles are passing back and forth merrily. The guard at the gate is an Asturian.”

“Did you see their commander?”

Guidd shook his head. “But I know who he is. It's that bastard Montanas. The stable guard told me when he warned me not to try to escape. I pray to the gods that he tries to stop us.”

“I pray to the gods that he doesn’t find out, at least until my father is safely out of this place and across the border. Then, old wolf, you’ll have to reach that damned centurion before I do, for I’ll not leave much of him for anyone else.” Calgaich drew Guidd close to him. "Watch the gate guard. See that he doesn’t come toward the building where I’m going.”

Calgaich swathed the cloak about himself and waited until Guidd had returned toward the gate. Then he walked quickly across the courtyard to where the legionnaire stood guard.

"The centurion sent me to check the prisoner,” Calgaich said.

"Why? He’s all right. I looked in on him an hour ago. He was sleeping like a babe.”

"I’ve got my orders,
caligatus!”

"Damn you! Be careful how you address a legionnaire of the first cohort of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix! Listen, auxiliary, we regulars of the legion take no nicknames from you!
Caligatus?
I’ll plant
my caligae
against your Asturian rump!”

Calgaich almost grinned. The slang name for legionnaires among themselves was
caligati,
the "booted ones,” and they jealously guarded their name for themselves.

"Pass on, Asturian rump of a goat!” the Roman snapped. He spat at Calgaich’s heels as Calgaich passed him.