There was a slight sound—a breath of air. A cold breeze touched Selene’s cheek.
Nikolai was gone.
Selene drove her fingernails into her palms and took in a shuddering breath.
Now, at last, she could cry.
(LIKE A) VIRGIN OF THE SPRING
Susan Sizemore and Denise Little
GINGER WAS CERTAIN THAT THERE HAD BEEN A time in her life when she found public fornication shocking. That time was long behind her. Now, crossing the courtyard between the baths and the sanctuary of the sacred spring, she barely glanced at the naked couple coupling on the altar at the center.
What the pair was doing was a sacred rite meant to please the gods. She did take a moment to glance their way, and observed that the lad had a truly fine ass. The way his broad back narrowed down to his waist was a work of art. But the offering to the gods being shared out there with such energy was business, not pleasure—for her, at least.
It was spring, festival time, and people were crowding in to the stronghold from all over the countryside of southern Britain. It was a joyful season for most people, one that embraced relief at surviving the winter, appreciation of the new life emerging in field and flock, and enthusiastic participation in the fertility rites so important to the gods.
Ginger normally would have been overseeing the celebrations. But her knowledge of the darkness moving ever closer toward them overwhelmed her interest in this seasonal festival.
As priestess of the spring, she had responsibilities that ran far beyond the rites taking place on the altar. She already knew that the next few days were going to be hard on her, and she was certain that her talent as a seeress was going to be called upon on this day when she was supposed to be resting up for the festival.
The future was hers to see and to interpret for others. And now it seemed the gathering storm had managed to alarm even the highest power in this land. The Lord of Ched had called for his senior advisors to gather before him at the sanctuary. Lord Ched was there when she arrived, a big man going to fat, his grizzled gray hair cut short in the Roman manner. Despite being near to fifty, a great age, he was still handsome. It was obvious where his daughter Morga got her beauty.
Morga was chosen of the Mother and she and the Year King should have been here with her father, bracing for the coming storm, instead of outside worshiping on the altar. Ginger wondered at the exclusion, but it wasn’t just a warning from her extrasensory perception that twisted her belly with apprehension. She hadn’t always been the priestess of the well. At one time she’d been a student of history, a collector of the great stories from the past. She’d studied the manipulation of power by men strong enough to seize and keep it. Their names lived on in tales long after they died—Phillip of Macedonia, his son Alexander the Great, Caesar Augustus, Claudius, Constantius, even the cursed Vortigern, whose ill-fated dealings with the Saxons had torn Britannia apart less than a century ago.
The machinations of power and politics were as much a part of her original world as science and psychic research. But that world had changed forever when she’d decided to put her knowledge to good use. Traveling back in time hadn’t made her life any simpler. Of course, back home she’d been more of an observer than a player. She was well aware of the irony that the disaster of a time transfer gone wrong had turned her from the observer she was supposed to be into a person of importance in this time and place.
Not much importance, thank goodness. She wasn’t trying to change history—she wasn’t even sure what history was supposed to look like here. The sixth century in Britain was notorious for its lack of reliable documentation. Sources like the monks Gildas and Venerable Bede were great tellers of tales, but short on reliable details.
So now she was trying to survive in a dangerous, alien world where her psychic gift gave her a small edge. Or, to be more precise, a job. The seeress gig put a roof over her head and two meals a day in her belly, and gave her the protection of the most powerful person in the region. But all that could change soon if the invaders, who she knew were coming thanks to both her studies of history and her gift, moved inland from their raids on the coast. Not today. Not even tomorrow. But one day soon, death would be beating a path to the walls of this sanctuary.
It could only mean war.
War seemed a certainty, really. Her existence could be hanging by a thread—along with that of every person in this room. She needed to know which side to foster, which army to influence, if she was to survive. Her recent visions had shown her fire and death, but no clear images of who the victors would be.
The steward of the manor followed Ginger into the sanctuary. After him came the harried-looking commander of the guard. The bishop visiting from Wales came inside as well. It was not a large space, though the entrance was wide and open to the courtyard. The four of them gathered around the tiled basin into which the waters of the sacred spring trickled from the back of the sanctuary. Ginger made up a quick prayer to the goddess of the water and to the new God of the cross and when she was done with the blessing they got down to business.
The guardsman did not wait for his Lord to speak. “Can we make this quick? With the crowds coming in—”
“We need a new war leader,” Lord Ched cut him off. He looked around the gathering, his expression hard, daring them to argue. “Right now. This very day would be good. Do you want the job?” he demanded of the guardsman.
A scar ran over the empty socket of the guard’s left eye. He glanced toward the courtyard with his one good eye. They all followed his gaze. The couple was still busy on the altar. Morga’s thighs were wrapped tightly around the Year King’s slender waist and the beautiful young man was pistoning away with hard, swift strokes. He was covered with a glowing sheen of sweat, his muscles bulging.
Damn, but that boy had stamina!
“He’s perfect,” the guard said. “How could I take his place?”
“He’s not perfect,” Lord Ched said. “He’s an idiot, a fool, and a braggart. He pleases my daughter and her belly’s already swelling with a second brat, but he’s useless for anything else.”
“In normal times that would be enough,” the steward spoke up. He rubbed his jaw, the tough stubble on his cheeks making scratching sounds. “I suppose we could go back to the old ways. We could sacrifice him come the Planting Ceremony instead of just letting the lads wrestle for rights to Morga this year. The gods might like that. The crowd certainly would.”
“Morga would not,” Ginger said.
“Nor would I,” added the bishop.
They were both ignored.
“Even if we return to the old ways,” the lord said. “We need someone to replace the Year King first. Someone who can fight. Someone who can lead. I’m too old. Morga’s son is still with the wetnurse. Tradition dictates that the Year King lead us into battle. A battle is coming, and that boy out there isn’t up to the job.”
All Ginger had wanted when she took on this role was a little peace and quiet while she tried to find a way home, but the invaders marching up from the coast weren’t likely to leave anyone in peace. Or even alive, if the rumors they’d been hearing proved to be true. The whole point of returning to the Dark Ages was to find out what happened, to fill in the holes left by Bede and Gildas. Her simple research project had instead left her stuck in the very Dark Ages where she didn’t know what happened.
At least on a grand, historical scale. Here and now, in this little corner of the world, she knew too much. She was a board-certified psychic. She knew trouble was coming soon, marching here as fast as the old Roman roads would allow. But her gift only went so far, in certain directions, and after that she was as on her own as anyone else here.