To Love Again - Bertrice Small [57]
Wulf Ironfist led his warriors down the hill. They stopped before the ruined building, and Cailin clambered down from the horse’s back. For a long moment she stood just staring, and then she entered. Carefully she picked her way through the atrium, stepping over the fallen timbers that lay strewn across what had once been a magnificent stone floor inlaid with mosaic designs. Wulf, Corio, and several of the other men followed her.
Reaching her parents’ bedchamber, Cailin moved into the space. Nothing was recognizable—nothing except the bleached bones, and the four skulls that lay at various angles upon the floor. “It is my family,” Cailin said, tears springing to her eyes. “He did not even have the decency to bury them with honor.” As the tears slipped down her face, she continued, “See, there. That is my mother, Kyna, upon the bed, all burnt but for a few large bones, and her skull which lies in what was once a place of loving refuge for her. And there, in a row, lie my father and brothers. My father’s skull would be the largest, I imagine.” She knelt and touched one of the smaller skulls. “This is Titus. I can tell, for one of his front teeth is chipped. I hit him with a ball when I was little, and did the damage. I did not mean to, but after that I could always tell my brothers apart. And this is Flavius. They were so handsome and so full of life the last time I saw them.”
She suddenly felt very old, but nonetheless pulled herself to her feet. “Let us go now. When we have secured my lands, we will return to bury my family with the dignity that they deserve.” She turned and walked back through the ruins, out into the morning.
Corio shook his head. “She is Celt,” he said admiringly.
“You breed strong women,” Wulf Ironfist replied. The men rejoined Cailin. “Where does Quintus Drusus have his lair?” the Saxon asked his wife.
“I will lead you,” Cailin answered him in a strong, cold voice.
The slaves in the fields belonging to Quintus Drusus saw the armed and mounted party of Dobunni coming. They quailed at the terrible sight and froze where they stood. The Dobunni paid them no heed. There was, Wulf assured them, no true sport in killing unarmed slaves. When they reached the magnificent, spacious villa belonging to Cailin’s cousin, they brought their horses to a stop. The slaves raking the gravel driveway had melted away before them. As prearranged, fifty of the men remained mounted before the villa’s entrance. Cailin, Wulf, Corio, and the hundred other men entered the house unannounced.
“Wh-Wh-What is this? You cannot enter here!” the majordomo cried, running forward as if he might stop them.
“We have already entered,” Wulf Ironfist said in a severe voice. “Fetch your master immediately, or would you prefer to be skewered upon my sword, you fat insect?”
“This is the house of the magistrate’s daughter,” the majordomo squeaked, desperately striving to do his duty.
“If the magistrate is in residence, then fetch him also,” Wulf ordered the man, and he prodded his plump midsection with the tip of his sword. “I am growing impatient,” he growled.
Giving a small cry of horror as the sword point cut through the fabric of his tunic, the majordomo turned and fled, the laughter of the Dobunni causing his ears to redden as he went.
“From Antioch to Britain they are all alike, these upper servants,” Wulf noted. “Pompous, and filled with their own importance.”
As they stood in silence waiting, the Dobunni snuck looks about the atrium, for most of them had never been in so fine a house. Then suddenly Quintus Drusus entered the room. From her place behind her husband Cailin peeked at her cousin. He had put on weight since she had last seen him, and was almost fat. He was still