To Burn Page 4

  Melania slumped upon her corner stool, her hands clasped around an upraised knee, her black hair a veil that swept forward to shield her from the others in the room. She sat alone in the noisy midst of them, a heaviness upon her that was not upon the rest of them because the blond giant had singled her out as a target for his roaring hatred. They had the comfort of hazy anonymity. Melania did not.

  Small and dark, Flavius approached her furtively, his every movement portraying jumpy anxiety. Flavius, his great-grandfather armor-bearer to Melania's grandfather in the days of the legion, was a boy of eleven and newly orphaned by the Saxon horde. He crouched in front of Melania clearly expecting to be slaughtered at any moment—an idle fear, for the Saxons had killed no children nor any women; in fact, they had battled only those who raised arms against them in their attack. A small mercy, but a welcome one. Theras had heard of much worse happening at Saxon hands, and he suspected that Wulfred, for all his consuming hatred, was responsible for the mercy. Melania, he was certain, would not agree.

  "Will you fight him, Melania?" Flavius asked, his voice high and thin.

  Melania pulled herself out of her reverie and brushed her hand against Flavius's dark hair, her smile gentle. "Am I not Roman, little one?"

  Flavius rested his head upon her knees and wrapped his arms around her legs; he looked as if he were clinging to her for his very life. "Yes, but he is big."

  "Rome is bigger," she said without hesitation.

  Flavius chewed his lip and brushed his dirty face against the wool of her stola before mumbling, "He is nearer."

  Melania sighed and ran her fingers through his hair as she leaned against the wall of the kitchen. They were a pair, these two, both dark of hair and slender of form, though Flavius was but a gangling boy who had not yet begun to reach adult size. Melania was full-grown and fully formed, slight as she was. They looked like what they were: children of Rome.

  "Only for now," she said. "He will not stay. They never stay."

  "Never?" His eyes looked into hers, his hungry fear consuming him.

  "Never." She smiled down at him. "That is why I must hurry and fight him, before he runs away. I won't have much time to teach him what a fierce enemy he has made here, will I?"

  Flavius lifted his head and said solemnly, "Do you need my help, Melania? Should we fight him together? I could help you."

  Melania brushed her fingers against his cheek and said with matching solemnity, "You are valiant to offer, Flavius, but I must fight him alone, his fury against mine. If we fight him together, he will be too easily outmatched. A small victory for us and not a worthy one for Romans. You stay well away from him and his kind, Flavius, do you understand? Stay away from the Saxon wolves."

  "I will, if you say, but... are you not afraid? He is so big and so fierce."

  Melania's eyes burned bright, and she looked out over the top of the boy's head, her fingers stroking his hair softly. "I am not afraid."

  "But—"

  "Have you not noticed how fierce I am? Should he not be afraid of me? I think he should, but do not warn him of my ruthlessness. My battle plan is to catch him unawares—not a difficult task, since he is a Saxon."

  Flavius looked up at Melania with all the love of a motherless child in a hostile world. "You are very brave, Melania."

  "As are you, Flavius," she returned seriously.

  Everyone froze as Cuthred stomped into the stone-paved room.

  "Wulfred. Work. You," he said in simple and harsh Latin, pointing at Melania.

  Pushing Flavius behind her, Melania glanced scornfully at Cuthred over her shoulder and opened her mouth to lash him like a wild horse; then she abruptly stopped herself and began to smile—a beautiful smile, certainly, but one that made Theras twitch in alarm and even caused Cuthred to scowl in suspicion. Grinning like a child, she jumped up from her stool and walked briskly out of the kitchen, waving Cuthred out of her way as she went.

  Theras, watching her in surprise, was not at ease.

  * * *

  The moon drifted lazily through a cloudless night, a night as serene and untroubled as all summer nights should be. The air was still and soft, a fitting embrace for that luminous moon. All nature was somnolent and quiet, save for Melania, who was still hard at work. Working, though the sun had set long ago. Working, though others were asleep. Working, though none watched her at her labors, except the moon. And Wulfred.

  She swung her hatchet with greater ease now than she had when she had first begun; she'd had hours of practice. Quartering logs was not a task he would have set her to, not thinking she had the strength for it, but she had attacked it with a will and of her own accord. Her blade was as dull as a post by now, but still she did not relent. The rest of the house slept while the little Roman toiled on. She could hardly lift the tool anymore, and her feet shuffled in the dirt, raising dust.

  Wulfred was flatly perplexed.

  Cuthred told him that the woman had gone directly to work upon command and had not stopped since. He knew that because the Roman was never unobserved. He didn't trust her not to attack one of them. He didn't trust her not to try to escape. He didn't trust her not to burn the place to the ground in feminine fury.

  He didn't trust her.

  So first Cuthred and then Cynric and now he watched her at her labors. And labor she did. What she had tackled was no light kitchen detail. No, hewing logs into quarters was man's work. Yet she had cut quite a tidy pile of lumber. But why did she not stop? Cynric had tried to get her to stop and she had almost bitten him for his kindness, hardly stopping long enough in her work to do so. Why?

  As he watched her from his position on the slope, she suddenly dropped to her knees and then forward onto her face. He waited for her to move. She did not. Cautiously Wulfred eased down the hill, wary of a trap.

  The moon was a white light in the sky; he could see her clearly. Just as she could see him if he was not careful. He had reached level ground and was just a hammer toss from her when a wolf howled from deep within the wood that surrounded the villa's lands. The girl jerked and rose to her feet clumsily, shaking her head and grinning like an imbecile. Before the sound of the wolf had floated away into the night, she was back at her task, swinging the blade with renewed vigor.

  She was a far cry from the Roman lady of leisure she had been yesterday, before they had come to split open her pampered world like the rotten fruit it was. Her gown was split and covered in sweat and dirt, as was she. But why such zeal over a pile of wood? Did she think to fan his pity and obtain a release from her slave state?

  "It is useless to hide, Saxon," she said between swings. "I can smell you."

  She did not speak like one seeking pity.

  "You could as well smell yourself," he answered, coming into the little light cast by her lamp.

  "My sweat is of honest labor," she huffed, raising the blade for another swing. "Yours stinks of deceit and treachery."

  "Sweat is sweat, Roman. There is no meaning in it."

  She smiled at that and continued her downward swing. "You are an ignorant oaf, Saxon. Dull as the wood I chop."

  "Not so dull as your hatchet," he answered. "If you would work, use tools that will help and not hinder you." Without waiting for her response, he stepped behind her and took the ax from her hand. At once he began to sharpen it.

  "I am not surprised that you know well how to sharpen an ax to an edge. Your own ax must often grow dull from hacking at bone and tissue," she said in a hiss. She was uncomfortable at his interference and her voice revealed it.

  Wulfred smiled. "The flesh does not bother my weapon. It is the bone that dulls my blade."

  He watched her pull herself erect and grab for the ax. Had she almost been asleep?

  "Go to the hole you sleep in, monster. Leave me," she commanded in ringing tones. "I have much to do."

  "Here is my hole," he answered, gesturing toward the villa with a grim smile. "There is much to recommend it. I took it from one not strong enough to kee
p me from it."

  She ignored him. Or pretended to. Up came the blade in the moonlight and down again toward earth to mark its passage with a solid thunk. Again. And again.

  Wulfred moved off into the shadows near the villa, but he continued to watch her. She did not work for show; she labored intensely, pushing her slight body to the limit and beyond.

  Why? Why work so hard for an enemy?

  The muscles in her biceps bunched and twisted, as did the muscles across the tops of her shoulders; he could see no more in the garb she wore. Her hair was a loose and tangled braid down her back, and that braid flicked outward and back with each stroke, the ends brushing against her bottom, visibly round and full despite the loose gown that draped her. The rhythm of her movements unveiled a grace that he had not noted before. She moved fluidly, quickly, like a small and energetic stream rushing away to the sea. Lithe, she was, and sinuous. Sinuous... like a snake.

  Wulfred shook himself like a dog coming out of water, disgusted. Turning away from the snake at her slave labor, Wulfred strode into the villa, through the courtyard, and into the triclinium. Cenred was sleeping closest to the door. It was Cenred who was kicked into wakefulness.

  "Watch her."

  No need to ask who. There was only one "her."

  "Watch her do what?" he asked, rubbing his hand through his hair and stifling a yawn.

  "She seeks to leave not a tree standing," Wulfred said in a growl. "She may kill every tree. She may not harm herself."

  "When she tires?" Cenred was afraid he already knew the answer.

  Wulfred smiled. "Then you may rest."

  Chapter 7

  "It's been four days and I've slept no more than a handful of moments," Cenred complained to Wulfred. "What is wrong with her that she does not tire? I am tired and I but sit and watch!"

  Wulfred had also been watching her, as he watched her now. "She tires," he answered. "It is only that she does not rest."

  Cenred had been set to the task of watching, but Wulfred had not been able to ignore the Roman. Surreptitiously he had watched her. She had given up chopping wood and proceeded to wash linen, then dig a latrine, then patch a hole in the wall and one in the roof. The results of her various labors were not worthy of praise, but she attacked each task furiously.

  And she never stopped. She never slept, or at least, no one could catch her at it. No one drove her to such extremes; she drove herself, hardly taking time to eat. Now, hard at work on her latest effort, hoeing the fields clear of weeds, he watched her. Her movements were slow and clumsy, the lithe grace of earlier days gone. Her back was bowed with effort and exhaustion and her eyes were dull. Her tirades had stilled long ago. She didn't seem to have the energy for anger.

  Wulfred frowned as he ambled toward her, the sun warm on his skin and the dirt soft under his feet. What drove her so? She was on the verge of collapse, that much was obvious, yet she resisted, working herself into a stupor. He understood what she was enduring, the effort demanded of her small frame, and wondered at it, but he felt no glimmer of pity. Four days was nothing. Yet she was a woman, young and very slight.

  And determined to get him to kill her. Yet she had not provoked him since she began her labors, having no time for him or anyone else. No time even for sleep...

  Wulfred lifted his head as suddenly as a dog lifted its nose to the scent. He knew, in that instant, what his little Roman was about.

  He strode across the furrows to her, his anger a living thing, as hot and pulsing as flame.

  "Get out of my field, barbari; have you no concept of the order of my rows? Of course not, you are a stupid pagan and know only disorder and disharmony and disloyalty and..."

  Wulfred did not interrupt her so much as allow the wind in her sails to die out listlessly. She did not even have the strength to fight him with one of her endless tirades. Oh, yes, he knew what she was about.

  "Cease your work," he commanded. "Even a slave must sleep if she is to live." Grabbing her by the chin to turn her face up to his, he added one further command: "And you will live, Roman." Her eyes flamed gold in the strong summer sunlight. Her anger flared against his spark.

  It was true; she was almost too exhausted to speak. She was not too exhausted to attack. As she swung her hoe up for a blow to his big, ugly, yellow head, the monster knocked it easily from her hands.

  "You would have done better with the ax," he jeered.

  "Your weapon? Never."

  "Your pride is easily stirred." Wulfred smiled coldly.

  "That is because it never sleeps," she countered.

  "But you shall."

  "You cannot force me to sleep," she said, stiffening her sore spine.

  "Slave," he said under his breath, closing the scant distance between them, "I can force you to do anything."

  So saying, he grabbed her in a rough grip by the upper arm and pulled her from her work, dragging her down the incline to the villa below. Literally dragging her, for Melania dug in her heels and fought him every step.

  Fought him unsuccessfully, though this latest confrontation fired her blood and fed her sluggish brain as nothing had in days. No longer was she tired. She was embattled and she was alert and she would not sleep. He was making it all the easier for her to refuse to do so. Fighting him was the best and most enjoyable work she had had in days.

  The Saxons and the Britons who composed the population of the villa watched Wulfred drag Melania toward them with delight. Cenred was grinning from ear to ear, and Ceolmund was nodding approvingly. The Britons were less obvious in their pleasure, but Theras looked plainly relieved. All this Wulfred saw in a quick glance as he pulled the twisting and clawing Roman behind him. She hadn't been this energetic for two days. Fighting him pleased her as no other activity had yet, and he understood well that she was using this fight as a way of keeping herself awake. But she would not succeed. He had determined that she would sleep. She would sleep.

  When they reached the level ground of the villa, Melania's fight against the monster's hand that held her doubled in intensity, and she punched the oaf's shoulder with all the strength of her anger. Her fist landed with a solid thunk, but the pagan fool did not stop and so she hit him again. And again. Most satisfying, even if it didn't seem to do any good. And then the barbarian grabbed both of her hands in one of his and continued his march into the villa courtyard.

  "Let me go, you stupid barbari! You cannot make me sleep if I do not choose to do so, and you will soon find that I will not be forced to do anything not of my own will. Son of a monstrous toad! Blind and leprous ass! I will not go! I will not!"

  Wulfred had known she would resort to curses and proclamations; it was her nature. But she was tossing out her words at such a furious rate that he could make out only a word here and there. However, even that paltry sum was enough for him to understand her meaning. And her anger.

  It was then that she bit him.

  He was not surprised.

  Giving her a hard yank, Wulfred dragged her through the courtyard, to the pleasure and entertainment of his comitatus, and tossed her into a small chamber that was not too badly destroyed. She landed on the only furniture in the room, a couch.

  "Sleep," Wulfred commanded in ringing tones, clearly not expecting to be disobeyed.

  "I do not choose to," Melania answered in just as regal a tone as he had used, springing up from the couch and its softness.

  He took a step farther into the plastered room, his very size intimidating. "Slaves do not choose. Slaves obey."

  "You are so right." She smiled thinly in response. "Slaves obey, and if you command me, I will not obey. I am no slave."

  "Your logic is faulty, Roman. I have the might to make you what I will. Your denial means nothing when I have the strength to prove you wrong."

  She stood proudly before him, defying him with every gesture and every word. Four days of no sleep had not softened her spirit or her resolve in her pointless fight against him. Her plan was to push herself physically
until she sickened and died of exhaustion. He had seen too many men die in just the same way not to recognize the signs now. She was living on will alone, her body ravaged by unending labor. He had not thought her capable of it, not a pampered Roman. And not a woman. She was not what he had expected when he had thought to smoke her out of her hiding place. But he was coming to know her, and to know what to expect of her. This challenge she had created by refusing to sleep was like meat and drink to her; it fed her diminished energy and allowed her to ignore her exhaustion. This fight must stop.

  "Why are you so afraid to sleep?" he asked, changing tactics.

  "I am not afraid!" she said, bristling.

  "Nothing will harm you," he promised, backing away from her to ease her tension. "The couch is soft and the chamber quiet." He said it so quietly, his voice hushed in the still air. "No one will disturb your rest."

  "I do not want to rest," she responded wildly. "I do not... unless it is the rest of the dead."

  "That rest you will not find!" he shouted, past his brief attempt at patience. She was impossible, completely unreasonable.

  "Then I'll have none at all!" she yelled, the cords in her throat standing out in sharp relief against the thin column of her neck.

  "You'll have what I choose for you to have," he said, and advanced on her as he said it. She'd lie upon that couch if he had to hold her there, and that was what he fully intended to do.

  She fought him, of course, but she was no match for his strength. In a matter of moments he had her pinned on her back, one long leg thrown over both of hers and his arms pinning hers to her sides. She hissed her fury and threw her weight against him, cracking her head against his chin in the process. That slowed her enough so that she reverted to her favorite weapon, her adder tongue.

  "You stink, barbari pig, and your hairy body irritates me at every point." He could feel her breath on the hair of his chest, an odd and not unpleasant sensation. "I could not have planned a better torture for you than to force you to touch your enemy for as long as I choose because... I will not be still... and you will... have to... stay..."