The Warrior’s Princess - Barbara Erskine

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at the window, not even bothering to open the book which rested on her knees. There was nothing to be afraid of. What could Dan do, even if he did come? She glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Outside in the wood she could hear two tawny owls exchanging calls, the low hoots of the female echoing round the hillside, the sharp response of the male so loud he might have been sitting in the courtyard. She shivered and slid further down in the bed.

      Publius Ostorius Scapula stood in his tent looking down at the woman who had been brought before him. She was dark-haired, slim, beautiful and very pale, the bruises on her face and throat still visible. One of his spies had given him some background on this woman. The eldest daughter of the last king of the Silures, the local and oh-so-troublesome tribe of these accursed southern Cambrian hills, she was Caratacus’s second wife. The first had died in childbirth so he understood. This second he had chosen with great acumen from the tribe in whose lands he had settled to spearhead his opposition to Rome. And she had done him proud, giving him three children, two girls and a boy and, so he had heard, her unswerving loyalty and love. She had great dignity and courage, this Celtic queen, in spite of her position as his captive.

      ‘I have news for you, lady,’ he said at last. ‘Your husband has been found.’ He saw the flash of hope in those beautiful grey eyes. ‘He was severely wounded but is, I understand, on the way to recovery.’

      ‘Where is he?’ The question came out as a whisper. She looked at him nervously, trying to be brave, meeting him eye to eye.

      ‘He fled north,’ he said slowly. ‘To the land of the Brigantes, assuming he would find succour there.’ His voice gave no clue to his feelings. ‘He threw himself on the mercy of Queen Cartimandua, who is, I understand, a kinswoman of his.’ She was smiling now. He moved across to the table, covered in maps and rolls of parchment and sat down, looking up at her thoughtfully. ‘You do not, perhaps, realise, that the queen is a client of Rome, sworn to the Emperor as our ally and friend.’

      Cerys went white.

      ‘She has done her duty to Rome and informed us that Caratacus is now her captive. When he is well enough he will be transferred to my custody. I shall have him taken to Camulodunum to await word of the Emperor’s pleasure regarding his fate.’

      To do her justice she did not flinch. Her shoulders remained straight, her face after that initial pallor without expression.

      ‘I shall send you there as well, with your daughter. I understand she was attacked by one of my men?’

      Cerys looked him in the eye. ‘We were both raped by your men, General.’

      ‘As soon as they are identified they will be punished. You have my word on that, lady. As to your other children,’ his voice softened slightly. ‘I understand every effort has been made to locate them.’

      This time she could not hide the pain in her eyes.

      ‘Has everything been done?’ He raised his gaze to that of the praefectus, Justinus, who stood at her side.

      He stood to attention and saluted. ‘Sir. If they were there to be found, we would have found them. The search has been extended over a huge area. Either they have been found by local tribesmen and spirited away into the mountains, or –’ He paused, with a glance at his commander. ‘They are not there any more, sir.’ Wolves. The word hovered between them. Out of pity for the woman’s anguish neither man said it out loud.

      Scapula was impressed by her dignity and courage. He sighed. He was as certain as maybe that the woman would never see her two younger children again. And he was prepared to waste no more of his soldiers’ time on looking for them. Her capture and that of her daughter was enough to give him leverage over Caratacus, if any were needed. Now he was sure of the man’s capture he had no real need of her at all, but no doubt parading them both before the people of Camulodunum, once the capital of this man’s father, would add to the impact of the defeat.

      Back in the tent where her daughter waited for her, Cerys sat down next to the child and put her arm around her shoulders. ‘Your papa has been found alive, sweetheart. He is wounded but not too badly.’ No point in saying he was a prisoner. No point in saying that the Queen of the Brigantes had betrayed them, betrayed her blood, her kin, her oath to her gods and to her people. She clenched her teeth desperately. They would never see Togo and Glads again. That had been made clear by the Romans. They were not unsympathetic; she had read that much in Scapula’s eyes, but there was nothing more to be done. And never, never, she vowed as she cuddled her daughter to her, would she say anything that would cause Eigon to blame herself.

       It was a game! Can we finish playing the game?

      The voice echoed through Jess’s head as she slept.

       Please, can we stop playing now?

      The words came not from Eigon but from a smaller child, her sister.

      Restlessly Jess turned over and punched the pillow. ‘She’s alive! She’s still alive! Glads is alive. Oh please, someone, go and look for her!’ She called out the words in her head but no one heard them.

      The lamps were burning low; no one had come to replenish the oil and the tent was full of shadows. Cerys could see the silhouettes of the two guards beyond the leather flap of the doorway, their profiles black against the firelight. She could see their spears as a cross, black against the flames.

      And again the thin little voice echoed round Ty Bran:

       Eigon, where are you? Can I tell Togo to come out now?

      In her sleep Jess gave a little moan.

      Outside the house a figure crept across the yard and stood for a moment at the front door. It was just growing light.

      Dan reached out and pushed the door experimentally, soundlessly rattling the handle, then he turned and tiptoed along the front of the house, pausing as he reached the corner. In the holly bush the blackbird fluttered up to its look-out post, shrieking a warning into the cold morning and upstairs Jess jerked awake suddenly, startled by the noise. The dream fled as she sat up.

      She listened nervously. Something was wrong. Throwing back her bedcovers she eased herself out of bed and moving silently towards the window she peered down. The courtyard was empty, lost in colourless pre-dawn mist. Soundlessly she pushed the window open and leaned out. There was a car parked in the lane. She could see the dull gleam of the bonnet beyond the stone wall. She couldn’t distinguish the colour but she knew who it was. Closing the window silently she hurriedly threw on her clothes and tiptoed to her bedroom door, listening. She had locked all the downstairs doors and windows the night before; she remembered clearly touring the house one last time before she climbed the stairs to bed. He couldn’t get in. Not without breaking a window. Almost as the thought occurred to her she heard the sound of breaking glass from somewhere downstairs. Bolting the door, she flew to the phone beside the bed and lifted the receiver. It wasn’t until she had dialled 999 and waited, breathlessly, for an answer that she realised the line was still dead.

      Oh please God, no. She shook the phone, tried again. Silence.

      ‘Jess?’

      Dan’s voice was right outside her door. She saw the latch lift and heard the creak of the hinges as he tried to open it.

      ‘Jess, come on. Open the door. I’m not going to hurt you. But we do have to talk, don’t we.’

      ‘What the hell are you doing here, Dan? You can’t just break in! Go away. Now. I’ve called the police.’ Her voice came over as remarkably strong. ‘Don’t be a fool. You are going to make things worse than they are already.’

      There was a moment’s silence. She thought she heard a chuckle. ‘No, Jess. You haven’t called the police. Your phone is dead, I tried it. I have your bag, and your mobile is here, in my hand.’

      She spun round staring wildly about the room. She had left her phone downstairs, plugged in to charge. The thought that he had found it and that he had rifled through her bag as he was prowling through the house at five o’clock

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