Now, she felt old and frail, and she found herself looking at the ring more often, wondering when she would be called back to the spiritual world. She could still feel the wound in her side, a pain that ran all the way through her, where the Roman had driven the spear. By the will of the gods, she had survived. Her fellow druids had recommended burning an effigy of the soldier and summoning curses to ensure that his soul was damned for all eternity. But, as painful as the wound was, she could not bring herself to do it, and she thought that very strange. Something about the Roman lingered with her, even now. She hated all Romans with every bit of her existence. Had she not been put on earth to stop them? But there was something about that one soldier’s face that had awoken unfamiliar feelings in her. And then there were the troubling dreams of late, the dreams in which she imagined herself as a young Roman woman with a Roman husband and several children, all speaking the accursed language of the Romans, and living in a Roman colony. Such outlandish dreams could only portend wicked times.
The Romans had to be stopped. They would be stopped. She had foreseen it. The omens from last night’s sacrifice were all favorable. Boduognatus and his mighty army would bring the invaders to their knees.
Just then, a crackle sounded behind her, and she turned to see several of the druids rushing away from the smoldering bonfire as one of the larger logs holding up a good portion of the structure cracked and sent the embers on top of it crashing down, releasing a shower of sparks that shot in every direction and singed the robes of several of the nearby priests. At the same time, a lone wolf howled in the distance, clear and distinct in the night. When the sparks had finally settled, all of the priests turned to look on the druidess, a look of horror on their faces. She looked back at them, equally disturbed.
It was the worst possible of omens. What had they done wrong? Why would the spirits have encouraged them up to this point, only to remove their favor on the eve of battle?
“What has happened?” she said accusingly to the assembled druids. “Which of you has an impure heart? Tell me, or I will find him out!”
They all remained silent, and each averted his eyes as the black-hooded woman limped around to study each face.
“I can find nothing in any of you,” she said, out of breath after examining the last. She thought for a moment, and then asked, “Last night, after I left the circle, were all of the rites performed, and the words said, just as I told you?”
“Yes, sacred one,” the chief priest replied. “All was as you directed. The Romans were burned alive, just as you instructed.”
“And you are certain that all died?”
The priest gave a hint of a smile. “No man could have survived that inferno, sacred lady, and none escaped.”
One of the other priests spoke up. “None, but the one Roman we pulled out of the line.”
“One Roman did not burn?” the druidess snarled incredulously, suddenly enraged. She spun around and limped over to the man who had spoken. She moved so abruptly that he took a few steps back at her approach. “Why was he spared? Tell me why!” She demanded.
“Boduognatus instructed us to remove him. His daughter wanted the Roman spared as a slave.”
The sacred lady closed her eyes, fearing the worst, for this was certainly the source of the ill omens. Then, at that moment, another terrifying thought suddenly crossed her mind.
“This Roman,” she said evenly. “Did he have a scar on his face?”
The priest’s eyes widened with amazement before he answered. “Yes.”
“All of you, come with me!!” the sacred lady snapped at the assembled druids. There was not much time. It was worse than she had feared. They had to act now or all would be lost. “Quickly! We must move quickly!”
XX
“Gertrude, daughter of Boduognatus!” the voice intoned outside. “Come forth! Come forth and surrender the heathen!”
The voice was haunting, and it woke Gertrude from a deep sleep, a sleep in which she had dreamt that she was a queen of a mystical kingdom on the shores of the great sea, and the Roman her slave, and how she ordered him to bathe in front of her every day.
Gertrude rose and donned a cloak to answer the call. A stick rapped impatiently on the doorframe. She opened the door and was met by a cluster of white-robed druids flanking the slight figure of the sacred lady. Their faces were grim. Two of the men carried torches, and the rest held freshly cut wood and kindling.
“Where is the infidel?” the old woman said curtly. Gone was any trace of the affection that normally trimmed her tone when she spoke to Gertrude. “Bring him forth, at once!”
Gertrude looked at the old woman for several long moments. Her father was a chieftain, and she a chieftain’s daughter. She would stand up to these fanatics.
“The Roman is my father Boduognatus’s property,” she said. “You may not have him until my father agrees to yield him to you.”
“Your father is away leading the army, girl!” one of the priests spat.
“Then you will have to wait for his return.”
The priest was enraged. “Your father would never defy the will of the seer. Surrender the heathen, now, girl! He must burn in flame. The spirits of oak and fire have spoken!”
Gertrude half wished that the guards were still around. These priests might not be so bold if they were facing swordsmen. Still, she was determined not to back down.
“You are not welcome here. When my father returns, you may discuss such matters with him. But for now, the Roman is a slave, and he shall remain in my keeping.”
“The man must die, child,” the sacred lady said, this time in a more congenial tone, as a mother might tell a child of things that must be. “He brings death to our people. He brings death to your father. Would you choose the Roman over your own father?”
Gertrude fought to keep her voice firm. She was confused, torn between what her heart told her, and the prophecies of these extremists which she only sometimes believed.
“Enter this house, and you risk facing the wrath of Boduognatus! I will tell him how his daughter and his property were treated by you of the forest. He will not forget!”
“Hold her!” the old woman commanded.
One of the druids near Gertrude lunged for her hands, but she batted him away and swiftly kicked him in the groin. As the man groaned with pain, another of them came at her, but she had retreated inside the door, and already had the door shut by the time he could reach her. She had hoped to bar the door, but before she could a set of white-robed arms grabbed her from behind. The druids had sent some of their number to the rear of the house without her noticing, and had entered through a back window while she was distracted by those at the door. It took three of them to finally restrain her, but not before she had scratched one across the face and crushed the testicles of another.
The slave quarters were located in an adjoining structure, entered from inside the main house, and the druids rushed into the chamber while she watched. After several exclamations and curses, the priests emerged from the room empty-handed.
“He is not here!” the chief priest exclaimed. “No one is here, sacred lady!”
“Where is he, child?” the old woman asked after stumbling over to Gertrude and wrapping her bony fingers around the young woman’s thin neck.
Gertrude winced from the pain. It was like being squeezed by a skeleton – a skeleton with a surprisingly strong grip.
“Where is he? He must die! He must die!” The old woman sounded desperate, and shook Gertrude as she spoke each word, as if she might wrench the information out of her.