She shook her head, still averting herself. "I am dishonored."
"Not so!" he said harshly. "If you would—" He glanced at Flavius, who raised brows and smiled. Then he put his lips by Hwicca's ear to breathe: "I gave him no true oath. We can sacrifice him in Gaul; that will remove all stain from you."
"No!" She cried it aloud, pulling free of him. The face he looked upon was filled with terror.
"As you like," he floundered. "Whatever you wish. But remember, I am your husband. It is for me to say if you are guilty, and I say you are not."
"Let me alone," she pleaded. "Let me alone."
Eodan sat listening to her dry sobs. He hefted his sword, dully thinking about its use. He had never fought with such a weapon; the Cimbrian blades were for hewing, and this was for stabbing....
Phryne crept over the narrow space and touched his arm. "Wait," she whispered. He saw a helpless look in her eyes, as if she sat watching a child being burned out by fever. "Give her time, Eodan. I know not what the Cimbrian law is—I suppose your women were chaste—it means more to her, what has happened, than you can know."
"I do not understand," he said. "There is some witchcraft here. I do not understand her any longer."
"Wait, Eodan. Only wait."
He squatted into his own corner, under the low roof, and looked across to Flavius. The Roman had closed his eyes and stretched out; could he really sleep now?