* * *
It took Ven four days to reach the hill fort on horseback—a trip that normally would have taken six. When he arrived outside the entry gate he was met by three Brigante guards who immediately pulled out their swords. Ven raised his arms. ‘I come in peace. I wish to speak to the Chief. I am Ven of—’
‘We know who you are,’ one of the men interrupted.
‘Then why do you draw your swords?’
A large, red-bearded man stepped out from behind them. ‘It has been a long time, Ven,’ said the Chief. ‘Many months.’
‘Well met, Chief Rennyt. I hope I am still welcome here.’
‘You tell me,’ said the Chief. He tugged at his red beard and frowned. ‘We had just begun to formulate a plan for our defence and then you disappeared.’
‘I was detained in my efforts to locate a woman. I made a vow to protect her, you see. I could not forsake her.’
‘The Roman woman? Vita?’
‘She was run out by the people of my settlement,’ said Ven. He realised his hands were still in the air. ‘I swore to secure her safety. I could not let her—’
‘You love her,’ said the Chief.
Ven bowed his head. ‘I do.’
‘Stand down, men,’ the Chief commanded and the guards sheathed their swords. He motioned to Ven. ‘Come.’
When Ven stepped inside the wooden gates of the hill fort, he was welcomed by smiles and looks of surprise. ‘It has been a long time since we have seen you, dear,’ said an old woman. ‘You did right in returning.’
‘We shall not be conquered!’ someone cried, saluting him. Several others gave him welcoming pats on the back.
Ven felt his spirits returning. ‘Why do they greet me so warmly?’ he asked.
‘Because of what you represent,’ said the Chief.
‘And what is that?’
‘Our last hope.’
Soon Ven was standing inside the Chief’s roundhouse greeting the man’s wife, Orla, and his twin boys. ‘I will not rest until I know my boys will not have to kiss the foot of Rome.’
The Chief’s wife and sons retired to the far end of the space, leaving the two men beside the hearth fire. ‘I have sent a party of warriors north to investigate alliances. It is likely that we will postpone our battle with the Romans until next spring.’
‘A wise decision,’ said Ven.
‘You should be with that party, you know,’ said the Chief. ‘Our allies will be more likely to join us if they learn about the threat of Rome from someone who has lived with Romans.’
‘I believe I have an even better idea,’ Ven said. ‘It will require us to fetch the Druid priest. And he must bring his body ink.’
* * *
Two days later, Ven was back in Eboracum, standing outside the gate to the fort. ‘What business do you have here?’ asked one of the guards.
‘I wish to enrol in the army,’ said Ven, relinquishing his sword. ‘I wish to fight the northern Britons.’
Soon Ven found himself in the well-appointed tablinium of the legatus in command of the Sixth Victrix legion. Ven looked around at the elegant statues that decorated the corners of the room. For a moment he felt as if he were back in Rome.
‘So you wish to join the ranks?’ asked the legatus. He was standing at his desk dressed in a red tunic covered by a fine leather cuirass. The lavish piece of armour traced the muscles of his chest with alarming precision, though Ven wondered if the man was truly as strong as the garment suggested. Perhaps Ven was not the only one putting on a ruse.
‘What is your name?’
‘Venator of Gaul, sir. Ven.’
‘Hunter? I have never heard of such a name.’
‘A Latin translation of my given name, sir. I come from a family of hunters.’
‘You say that you are from Gaul. Which tribe?’ the legatus glanced absently at a scroll.
‘The Garumni, sir,’ Ven lied.
‘A wife? Children?’
‘None, sir.’
‘Other languages?’
‘A bit of Tungrian, sir.’
‘Can you ride a horse?’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ Ven lied. The Tungrian cohort stationed at Vindolanda was not a cavalry unit and Vindolanda was where he wished to be.
The grave patrician looked up from his scroll. ‘Why do you wish to enrol in the Roman army?’
‘Because I know that the Romans cannot be beaten.’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘I have seen what they have done in Gaul, sir, and I know that it is the same as what they have done everywhere else. I have read the histories.’
‘A historian, are you?’ the legatus said. ‘Then you will appreciate that we are trying to learn from history here in the north. I am sure you have heard of this little wall we are building?’
‘Yes, sir. To separate the Romans from the barbarians.’
‘That is what the world thinks.’
‘That is not the reason, sir?’
‘Of course not, for there are plenty of barbarians on either side of the wall. We are trying to separate the barbarians from each other.’
Ven nearly laughed. Of course that was the reason. Why had he never guessed it? The wall was being built across the territory of the Brigantes and their potential allies. The Romans were trying to prevent such an alliance from ever forming. An alliance of the tribes was the only thing that could threaten their hold on the north.
‘We cannot afford another Boudica rebellion,’ the commander said.
‘Certainly not, sir. It is a brilliant idea,’ Ven said. ‘The wall, I mean, not the rebellion.’
The commander nodded thoughtfully. ‘I wish I could take credit for it, but it was Emperor Hadrian’s idea. He has read more histories than you or I combined. Divide and conquer, he always says.’
‘Roman strategy at its finest.’
The commander sighed, as if bored. ‘Due to our construction schedule and current needs in the north, I am afraid I would require you to be stationed in this region for your entire career. You were not hoping to travel, were you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You will be required to swear allegiance to Rome, of course, every New Year, and to worship at the shrine of our Divine Emperor. Do you have any problem with that? I know those Gaulish gods of yours can be rather jealous.’
‘No problem, sir,’ Ven said. Besides, there was only one goddess that he truly worshipped.
‘You are rather old to be enlisting. You are aware that this is a twenty-five-year commitment, correct? Citizenship is granted only at the end of that period of time. You must be sure that you find such a commitment to be worth the prize.’
Ven thought of the true prize, which had nothing to do with citizenship. ‘I find that it is worth it, sir.’
The commander sat back in his chair. ‘Why do I feel that you are speaking of something else entirely?’
The man was smarter than he seemed. Ven searched his mind for a way to put him off. ‘It is not citizenship I am seeking, sir,’ Ven said. ‘I would like to be a part of something larger than myself.’
Such as the last stand of the northern tribes and my role as their informer.
‘I see that you have a tribal tattoo.’ The commander gazed at Ven’s forehead. ‘What are those strange figures across your forehead there?’
‘They are deer,’ Ven said, his heart beating. Time slowed.
‘A rather fresh tattoo.’
‘A recent hunt.’ The commander raised a brow. ‘I have others,’ Ven added, though it was not true. He moved to lift his tunic. ‘I can show you them if you like.’
The commander frowned. ‘No, no, that will not be necessary.’ He glanced back down at his scroll. ‘Army rules stipulate that you cannot marry, nor can you drink, nor carouse with whores. Is that clear to yo
u?’
Ven nodded gravely, wondering how Britannia’s hundreds of taverns managed to get by. He supposed he could ask one of the many of the women he had seen in the streets and doorways, children clinging to their skirts, looking very much like wives.
‘You will be stationed in the north with an auxiliary unit of Tungrians who are helping the the Sixth Victrix build the wall. It is something greater than yourself for certain, though you will never be a barbarian warrior again.’
‘If I can help build Hadrian’s Wall, then my life will have been worth living,’ lied Ven.
The commander smiled and held out his hand. ‘In that case, welcome to the Roman army.’
* * *
It took Ven two days to ride to Vindolanda, though the legatus had given him five. Before heading down to the fort, Ven paused at the top of a familiar rise. It was here that he and Titus had stood months ago and witnessed the wall’s beginnings. There had been much progress since then: the sides were nearly half the height of a man in places and actively being filled with rubble and cement.
Ven noticed that work had also begun on the southern ditch, the existence of which finally made sense. The wall was being built to keep the Brigantes on either side of it from joining forces. Thus the defensive ditches were necessary on both sides of the wall. They were the first line of defence against the one thing that could defeat Rome: unity.
Soon Ven was standing at the entrance to the vicus before a group of guards. He presented his enrolment papers and they stepped aside, heralding his passage with a Roman salute. ‘Welcome to the First Tungrians,’ their leader said.
Ven nodded his thanks. ‘Can you tell me the residence of a tavern keeper called Vita Sabina?’
‘Just by the wheelwright’s shop,’ the man said, pointing the way down the main street.
‘Gratitude,’ Ven said and raised a salute of his own.
His legs grew weaker as his made his way down the street. His hands appeared to be trembling. What in Hades was wrong with him? It was not as if he were headed for the whipping pole.
Still, he could not help but feel nervous. Finally, the time had come to see her, his one true love, and he did not even know if she would open the door.
Perhaps she would not even recognise him. He had shorn his hair since they had last met and got a new tattoo. He was wearing the standard red tunic of the military now, along with a chainmail shirt and scabbard belt for his newly issued dagger. He was no longer her barbarian warrior, nor even her rebellious slave. He was a soldier in the Roman army.
It was for that reason alone that they could be together and that reason alone that he would never regret what he had done. He had vowed to her that he would never let her go again and he would honour that promise to the last. If she could not come to him, he would come to her.
He spied the sign for the wheelwright and turned towards it, his heart beginning to pound in his throat. It had been the right decision to come here, no matter what happened between them. Even if she did not wish to see him again, he would still be living near. He could watch out for her from a distance. He could keep her safe.
Meanwhile, he could help his kin by providing them with information about the Roman threat. He would keep his ears open in the barracks and on the march, looking out for Brigante interests. He could warn them when the tribute collectors were coming and where the next cattle thieves would strike.
Still, it was not for his kin that he had committed the next twenty-five years of his life. He had done it for her. It was all for her.
She made him laugh, made him lust, made him think. She forgave him for the worst of his sins and had taught him to forgive himself. She was the only person in the world who understood the load he carried, for she carried it, too. Part-Roman, part-barbarian.
When he had finally escaped Rome, he thought he had gained his freedom. He had been wrong. The truth was that she was his freedom. He loved her, more than anyone he had ever known, and nothing—not even Hadrian’s towering wall—could ever keep them apart.
Those eyes—sometimes brown, sometimes green. He would see them soon and, hopefully, they would see him. He knew what they reminded him of now. He had known it all along, deep in his heart. They reminded him of home.
He lifted his fist and knocked on the door.
Tap, tap.
* * *
If you enjoyed this story, why not check out
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Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book of the Tudor Christmas Tidings trilogy, Christmas at Court by Blythe Gifford.
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Christmas at Court
by Blythe Gifford
Chapter One
The first Christmas
Christmas Eve 1483—Westminster Palace
The messenger entered the chamber and, with the smallest of nods to her, began to speak. ‘I have a message for Lady Alice. From Dame Elizabeth.’
It took Alice a moment to recognise the name. Until a few months ago, ‘Dame Elizabeth’ had been Queen of England. The one who had been Queen when Alice was born.
‘I am Lady Alice. Give me the message.’
The messenger, taller and older than most who did such duties, looked around. ‘The message is only for your ears.’
She motioned her attendants to leave, then clasped her fingers so he would not see them tremble. Her father had warned her that Christmas at court would be treacherous.
Until this year, she had known only one king: Edward, fourth of that name, who had been sure and steady and warm as the sun. A man full of life and a happy family, overflowing with children. Her parents had been often at court. And while she had heard there had been fighting over the throne, that had been no more than a distant memory with a happy ending.
But, suddenly, this year, King Edward had died. And nothing was as it had been. Or should be.
She studied the messenger, who stood, eyes downcast, waiting.
‘Now,’ she said, uneasy, ‘what have you to say?’
‘Dame Elizabeth summons Lady Alice to a meeting concerning a matter of great personal importance for your future.’
‘You will need to be brave,’ her father had said, before she left. ‘You will hear from our former friends. Honour them.’
Was this what he meant?
Alice frowned, looking out of the window towards Westminster Abbey, looming black against the winter-grey sky. The former Queen had fled to the Abbey six months ago, after Richard had killed her brother and seized her two sons along with the throne.
No one had seen the boys since.
To protect her daughters from a similar fate, the former Queen had claimed sanctuary at the Abbey’s Abbot House. Would a visit to her there raise the very suspicions her family was trying to avoid?
But Alice could not ignore the message, nor would she want to. She and the oldest royal daughter, also Elizabeth, had played together in the nursery. Ali and Bessy, they had called each other.
Still, such a visit could be dangerous.
She studied the messenger, wondering how the former Queen knew him well enough to send him with this summons. His face was all bones and angles, cheeks, brow, chin. His expression was hardened, even suspicious.
Well, this was not the time to be too trusting.
‘Is it allowed? For me to visit?’ Sanctuary, they called it, but the former Queen’s situation had more in common with prison. Monks guarded the door. Pries
ts and doctors could visit, but few others were permitted.
He nodded. ‘Come alone. You are expected before vespers.’
A little time, then. She glanced down at her dress. Not the one she would choose for a meeting with royalty, current or former.
She looked back at the man. His piercing eyes were not helping her concentration. She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. ‘Tell Her Grace... I mean, Dame Elizabeth...that I will be there.’
A pause. He waved a hand above his head. ‘Without the...’
She raised a hand to her headdress. Tall, horned, distinctive. The height of fashion. It would draw unwanted attention.
So her visit might be allowed, but must not be noticed.
She nodded. ‘I understand.’
Did he smile as he bowed and left? And could his information be trusted?
Her parents had trusted her to come to court alone. Now she must justify their trust.
* * *
A few hours later, garbed in a gown of green velvet, Alice was admitted to the Abbot’s House tucked close to Westminster Abbey. The black-robed monk at the door waved her in. A woman visiting a woman...well, he saw no great threat there.
Though only a few steps from Westminster Palace, the Abbot’s House was far from the comforts of the court. The large hall was full of mismatched chairs, tables and trunks, taken hastily when the Queen fled, now piled as if in a storeroom.
And at the end of the room, Elizabeth, the former Queen, sat on a simple stool.
Alice dipped a knee, even though she was the length of the hall away. The Queen, for so Alice still thought of her, motioned her ahead.
Alice glanced around as she walked the length of the hall, hoping to see Bessy, but there was no one else, not a single attendant, in the room. So, it seemed, the visit, as well as the message, was for her ears only.
Stopping, at last, before the woman who had summoned her, Alice made her inclination. The Dowager Queen was as fair and lovely as Alice remembered, still with royal bearing and composure, though her family had been of humbler stock.
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