Chapter Sixteen
It was a feast for Boreas, the God of Winter, and Caelian Hill, as well as the village of the warriors, was filled with the light from a thousand torches.
Since Cam’s cottage was right on the edge of the village, he could hear the wagons of gamblers rolling in, the happy chatter of men who’d had too much to eat and drink.
Caelian Hill had a great hall and, tonight, it was put to good use as patrons wandered in and out, enjoying the food and good wine on a mild winter’s night.
Big tables had been set up in the warrior village around a great central bonfire where two enormous sides of beef were roasting on a spit. Patrons were kept out of the village, but the warriors could wander into Caelian Hill to mingle with the patrons.
It was a night of food and merriment, but Cam wasn’t in the mood. He kept to his cottage, drinking wine, his mind lingering on the one thing that had occupied it since his conversation with Isadora.
She was a Keith.
He didn’t know why he was so distressed about it. He’d suspected it, so he wasn’t sure why confirmation had him so upset.
But it did.
He’d spent the afternoon in muddled silence but his rage was evident in his actions. He’d been forced to apologize to Galan for taking it out on him, but he didn’t say why. He wasn’t willing to draw the man into his personal battles.
What he had to do, he had to do alone.
Therefore, he’d spent the past several hours debating what to do.
He could probably sneak into the cottage housing Isadora’s father and brothers and kill them all, but that wouldn’t solve the problem.
It was the clan as a whole that was responsible.
Cam wanted vengeance against the Keith, but he never planned out exactly how that was to happen.
He hadn’t gotten that far in his scheme.
But now, something was coming together.
Isadora had mentioned that her father was looking for a warrior to lead their men.
Cam hadn’t taken her seriously, but now he was—what better man to lead the Keith warriors into defeat but him?
Rather than command them to victory, he could command them straight into destruction.
The entire clan could be badly decimated with the loss of their warriors, led by the grandson of a man they’d killed.
And they wouldn’t realize it until it was too late.
All he needed was the opportunity.
Tomorrow’s games.
As he mulled over his future plans, his door lurched open and Galan entered, cup in hand—and all indications were that he was already drunk.
“I have been searching for you,” Galan declared. “Why are you in here, hiding out from all of this food and drink?”
Cam smiled weakly. “I spend so much of my time with men that I suppose I wanted tae be alone,” he said. “But ye sound as if ye’re enjoying the drink at the very least.”
Galan grinned, slapping him on the shoulder so hard that Cam actually winced. “Get up, my fine lad,” he said. “Get up and come with me. Let us enjoy this evening as men of honor should.”
Cam had little choice as Galan dragged him out into the night that smelled heavily of roasting meat.
It was bright, too, with more torches than Cam had ever seen.
They continued on to where servants were passing out great trenchers of beans and beef, and Cam took his food, settling down near the fire to eat in warmth and comfort.
Galan gulped his wine, looking up at the star-strewn sky.
“I think this is the first moment of levity I’ve known since arriving here,” he said. “I did not realize how much I would miss something as simple as a feast.”
Cam shoved beef into his mouth. “Sometimes my village would have feasts tae give thanks for a good harvest.”
“Were you a farmer, then?”
“A smithy.”
Galan glanced at him. “So you wrestled with horses and iron all day long, did you?”
Cam grinned. “Some days it seemed like that. My grandfather was a smithy, too. He taught me the trade.”
“And your father?”
That was a little more complicated to explain, but Cam tried.
“A Northman,” he said. “He came in a raiding party and fell in love with my mother. After that, he ended up protecting my village from the raiders by placing his mark on the village. A few Northmen came, but when they saw that mark, they would leave. One of them told my grandfather that it was the mark of a great prince, a nobleman and well respected, and they dared not cross it.”
A smile pulled at Galan’s lips. “You are a Viking prince,” he said. “I knew it. There is something transcendent about you. Does Clegg know?”
“He knows.”
The smile on Galan’s face faded. “That is why they keep close watch on you,” he said. “Now it is coming to make sense. They have the bastard son of a Viking prince on their hands and they expect greatness from you.”
“I suppose we shall see.”
Galan took another drink of his wine. “You have a great legacy, Cam,” he said.
“I am confident you will live up to it because you are one of the best novices here. But what had you so angry this afternoon after you spoke to that red-haired lass who has become your dedicated admirer? Did she say something to upset you?”
Cam didn’t want to discuss it, not even with Galan. Swallowing the bite in his mouth, he set his food aside and stood up.
“Nothing a woman could say would upset me,” he said. “I must find my own drink. I’ll return.”
Galan waved him off, stealing food from his trencher even as Cam walked away.
But Cam didn’t care, because he had no intention of returning.
The mention of Isadora had hardened up his mood again and he wanted to be left alone.
He was halfway to his cottage when he caught sight of a limping woman in the distance, making her way toward him.
It took him a moment to realize that the woman was Isadora.
*
The feast given in honor of a Roman god Isadora had never even heard of was a strange affair, indeed.
A lot of food, a lot of men, and the women were segregated because that was the Roman way.
With her father and brothers out enjoying the feast and wine and music, Isadora sat in the tent with more food than she could ever eat.
There was beef as the main course, sauced with raisins and vinegar and honey, which had a savory-sweet taste to it.
There were plenty of beans, a cabbage potage, and a tart made from nuts, eggs, milk, and honey.
In all, it was delicious fare, but Isadora was bored out of her mind sitting by herself, surrounded by women who weren’t particularly friendly.
Once her beef was finished, she decided to return to the cottage she shared with her father and brothers.
Drinking the last of her wine, she headed out into the dark and cold night.
Quickly, she made her way down a path that ran between the great walls of Caelian Hill and the village, making her way through trees and trying to stay away from the guards who were patrolling the feast, keeping the sexes segregated.
She was afraid that if they saw her, they would make her return to the women’s tent, so she tried to stay hidden.
And that was when someone grabbed her.
He came out of the darkness of the trees and grabbed her by the arm. She smelled alcohol on the man’s breath as he pulled her against his big, sweaty body. He had her arms pinned in such a way that made it difficult for her to fight back as he lowered his head to nuzzle the side of her face.
“Stop fighting,” he slurred. “Be friendly, girl.”
His words spurred Isadora into action. She managed to get a hand free and ram him in the nose in a brutal move, but it did the trick. He dropped her as his hands went to his face.
“Och,” he groaned. “Why did you do that?”
Isadora had fallen awkwardly, twisting her ankle in the process. She pushed herself off of the ground and tried to run, but pain shot through her ankle and she nearly fell again. Panic began to set in when she realized she probably couldn’t run faster than he could.
“Leave me alone,” she snarled. “Touch me again and I’ll do more than hit ye in the face.”
The man took his hands away from his nose, looking at the blood. He went from a relaxed, drunken state to enraged all in a swift moment.
“You foolish bitch,” he growled. “I’ll make you pay for this.”
Isadora knew she had to do something or this could go very badly for her.
Looking around quickly, she spied a heavy, dead branch on the ground a few feet away.
It was half buried in leaves, but it was a weapon, and she needed one desperately.
Ignoring the pain in her ankle, she rushed to it.
With the club held up in front of her, she tried to back away.
“Get away from me or ye’ll be very sorry,” she said again, praying that those guards she’d been trying so hard to avoid might see what was going on and come to help. “Do ye hear me? Get away from me or I’ll scream!”
The man scowled and unsheathed a rather large dirk. “Not before I slit your throat,” he said. “This is a fight you cannot win, girl.”
“Underestimate me at yer own peril.”
His eyebrows lifted with surprise and then he laughed without humor. Suddenly, he rushed at Isadora with the dagger held high and she dodged out of his way so that he ran past and slammed into the tree behind her.
The dirk in his hand went flying.
Isadora didn’t want him to get up and have another run at her. As he crumpled over from having smashed into a tree, she lifted her club and hit him three times, very heavily, across the back of the head.
He fell still.
She stood over him a moment, kicking at him, but he didn’t move. Convinced he wasn’t going to rise up and attack her again, she tossed the club aside and quickly rushed off as fast as her painful ankle would allow.
God, just let me make it to safety where others are, she prayed. She was doing an odd run-skipping thing, trying to put weight on the ankle. Soon enough, she was in the clearing near the warriors’ village and she could see Cam heading toward her.
She wanted to cry out to him.
Help me!