Diana curled onto her side in the dusty attic and vomited. Dry heaves wracked her body and tried to pull her soul from her. She’d never felt such pain. It was as if her heart were a glass bottle smashed to bits.
She lay, curled on her side in the attic, tears streaking down her face and into her hair, as memories continued to flash in front of her near-comatose eyes. The Romans departed, retreated after making an example of the Iceni by killing her daughters, the illegal heirs to the throne, and left her in the mud with the bodies of her children and the ruins of her tribe.
But they had erred. Diana’s hand tightened unconsciously around the hilt of the sword. Oh, how they had erred.
She’d risen that day, with nothing left to lose and the burn of rage in her soul, to exact her vengeance upon the dogs who had dared trespass upon what was hers. Had taken what was hers.
The woman she had been—mother, wife—was no more. That woman had burned to ash in Rome’s fires, but had not risen as a phoenix. Instead, she had risen as destruction, bent on vengeance. The man responsible would die by her hand alone. Rome’s efforts in Britain would be crushed. Her people would have their freedom back. She rallied the neighboring Celtic kingdoms and, with her army, cut a swath of destruction through the Roman cities and legions of southern Britain.
It was then, during the months of the deadly and mobile revolt, that she had met Cadan of the Trinovantes, the son of the king of a southern tribe and a general in his army. A general in her army.
Diana curled in on herself and a cry tore from her throat as she was hit by memories of Cadan.
He had loved her, in his way. Though she’d had no love left in her heart, she’d trusted him above all others. He’d become her rock.
Their army had struck strong and true, driving the Romans back until everything depended on one battle. The man whose death she sought, their leader, was amongst them. The scene that coalesced before Diana’s eyes was fraught with tension. She and Cadan stood over a table of maps within a large tent, arguing. The next day’s battle would determine whether the Celts of Britain lived free or beneath the yoke of Rome.
“You will lead the Trinovantes from the south at dawn.” The words scratched at her throat, stress and exhaustion her constant companions. “I shall take the rest from the north.”
Cadan gripped the back of her head and glared into her eyes. “No. You will stay behind the front lines. Have Bran lead from the north.”
“You forget yourself, Cadan.” She shook him off. “I lead this army and will not stay behind.”
They’d fought over this for months. She had rallied the troops, led them in battle, but once Cadan had lost his heart to her, he’d fought her before battle every time, attempting to get her to stay behind in a position of safety. He’d not cared that she was his queen, that she fought for something other than duty. That her fight was her everything.
Unable to look at him, she turned, never imagining that to do so would be her doom. He was on her before she could scream, had gagged her and bound her and tossed her into the hut that had haunted her dreams. The scenes before Diana’s eyes and the dreams that had plagued her began to combine into one memory.
She escaped the hut and fought at the head of her people with single minded intent. Though she found her prey, had taken his head and that of the one he loved most, it had done no good. Her rage had remained unabated. The sense of loss and failure that had haunted her these last months did not lessen. As she’d lost her daughters, she stood to lose the battle as well. Her troops were outnumbered by the Romans, their position one of weakness. Defeat was inevitable.
She stood then, on the battlefield, surrounded by the bodies of her people, and realized that it was over. With her army decimated, they had no hope of routing the Romans. As their sole leader, a woman whose name had spread across the continent, she would be hunted as a dog and taken to Rome as a symbol of Celtic barbarism. At best they would drag her through the streets and behead her, mounting her head on a spike. At worst they would use her as leverage against her people, holding their hero hostage in return for something they couldn’t afford to pay.
With her daughters dead and her people scattered, and Cadan’s betrayal burning in her breast, there was only one option. She didn’t want to fight anymore and at least she could take the honorable way out.
Cadan had found her there, in the hut where he’d imprisoned her the previous night. She shouldn’t have returned; she could have finished it on the battlefield. But she hadn’t been able to fight the part of herself that hoped to see him one last time.
And then it was over, the last of her blood dripping onto the floor. His face, that of her betrayer and her lover, was the last thing she saw.