One man's journey
She was nothing but trouble.
He should have realized that when he stumbled upon the naked, mud-caked body of a Celtic warrior-princess.
By Jupiter! he swore, she was not only trouble, but now, she had pushed him to cursing. God would forgive a Roman curse, but would he forgive the other thoughts in Marcus' mind?
He should have left her there in the ravine. What was he thinking? At the time, Marcus never stopped to consider that he might someday regret saving her life. She was his proof that he finally had a purpose for being there. Now, he could show everyone there was a reason he had come to Ere. He would finally save one Celt.
That morning, like every other day, Marcus could not decide whether it was the cold or the damp he disliked most. An ever-present mist crept into his clothing and hair and even through his skin to his bones.
He fastened his mind on his mission. Thus far, it had been easy to tack resolve to the edges of his thoughts for moments like this when all of his determination and commitment oozed out between his toes like the black goo that passed for soil.
But, today, discouragement clung to his mind like the mud on his feet. The doubts, the fears, the disappointments began to creep in along with the relentless chill that sucked any body heat harbored in the folds of his fur-lined mantle. Could he really have been so wrong about his calling?
Find one Celt and convert him. Then, Patrick will welcome me even though I cannot pay the price to become a monk.
So, Marcus slopped through the mire, trying to find one Celt who would listen to him. Night would soon be upon him, and he pulled his cloak more tightly around himself. His stomach responded with a growl as he brushed against the lump in the pouch tied to his belt.
One stale, hard oat cake. One fist-sized chunk of tasteless, solid, horse feed separated him from starvation and death.
At that moment, he thought he might rather choose starvation.
Tucking his chin against his chest, Marcus plodded on. He had not traveled far when he stumbled on something. Of course, the ground was not level, where in ire would there not be a hill? He slid straight down, head first into a ravine where a refreshing, little ice-cold stream should have been.
Plopped instead into a sea of mud, and covered with it himself, he looked about for any feature of the landscape he might use to pull himself from the mire and climb back up the slope. He suddenly realized that he was face to face with . . .
A body!
Another person out on the moor in this weather? A face a mother would have had difficulty recognizing, eyes closed in repose, or perhaps death, and droplets of mist captured by a single curl plastered to a cheek.
Marcus reached out to touch the body for any response, but before his hand met the shoulder, a faint moan slipped from the lips. There was life, at least for the moment. He raised to his hands and knees and slid across the muck. He could tell nothing about the person, nor why anyone had ventured out onto the desolate moors in such inhospitable weather rather than being at home tucked into sleeping furs.
The shock of encountering a body did not prepare him for an even greater surprise as he rolled it over.
It was a woman, and she was naked. Completely naked, except for mud, and, she was painted for war. He stared hard for a moment trying to decide if he were hallucinating from hunger. Stretching a tentative hand toward her shoulder, he touched her again to be certain she was real. She moaned.
He acted without thinking, without stopping to consider whether she was alone, how she came to be here or why she was painted for war. He quickly pulled off his mantle, wrapped it around her, and picked her up. His arms cradling her like a baby, he hurried along the mud-choked stream bed looking for a place to climb back up the slope more easily.
There was shelter nearby, a souterrain he had been calling home for several nights. Probably an old burial site, he judged from the odd placement of stones and the steps into an underground chamber. He would take her there, then decide what to do next.
He had not walked far when he heard voices. He could not determine who or where they were. Sounds could travel great distances, through the mist and fog, or the speakers might be only a spear's length away.
The voices grew louder. Marcus paused to listen.
"She must be here. I am certain she came this way."
He glanced down at the woman wrapped in his cloak. She was smaller than he thought at first. Masses of her muddy curls tumbled across his shoulder. A smear of blue paint streaked across her cheek and shoulder, disappearing down the arm tucked under his mantle.
Should he call out and alert them that he had found her? Someone searched for her, perhaps kin, or perhaps foe.
"Why this way and not another? She would have no reason to come to here. I say we return to the fort and wait for her there."
"Besides, the weather continues to worsen. If she is out on the moors, we'll never find her. This is her land."
"And she'll never find her warriors either."
"Ye forget who she is and the power she has."
"Stop arguing! Mortan, take your men and go back to her fort, and the rest will continue to search the moors. Find her and when ye do, ye know what to do."
The hairs on the back of Marcus' neck alerted. Some sixth sense told him not to call to the unseen men.
From her size, he judged her to be barely beyond childhood. Even covered with mud and wrapped in his damp mantle, she weighed nearly nothing. And yet the warriors feared her for her power?
Perhaps she was a ban-drui, a druidess. But, would a druidess paint for war?
No matter, he decided. She was a woman, injured, in danger and exposed to the elements. It was his God-given obligation to help her, to save her life and her soul.
Marcus, who longed to be a monk, finally had his first convert. Perhaps if he could save her soul, Patrick would permit him to join his band of followers. But, it wasn't saving her soul that worried him most now.