“No, it cannot be time.” Taran looked around at the harrowed faces. “Fetch Pia, we must heal him.”
Oisean’s fingers tightened. “ʼTis better this way…The growth…death is s-slow.”
Taran cradled the king’s face with his hands. His own tears splashed Oisean’s forehead. “I love ye,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
Oisean drew in a ragged breath, a choking sound gurgling in his throat. “Protect ‘n…defend.”
Taran’s heart squeezed as he watched his uncle’s eyes roll back and blood trickle from the corner of his mouth. Tears blurred Taran’s eyes. Throwing his head back, he roared with all the pain and agony of war. “Why? Why have ye taken him?”
The anguish on Betha’s face deepened his own grief.
Bowing his head, Taran focused on his breathing and regained his composure. He cradled the king in his arms and stood. With clenched teeth, he met the stunned eyes of his people. “Gather the dead. We will grieve for the fallen and heal the wounded. ʼTis a grave night indeed. No one sleeps until the last bandage is tied. Mourn yer losses, then celebrate our victory, for Runan is dead.”
With Drust beside him, Taran laid the king upon his bed, a place where the Picts would pay their last respects. He turned to the queen. “See that his body is prepared for burial. I will have the stonemason chisel a relief of this battle and our victory. It will be a story handed down through generations, telling of Oisean’s bravery, defending Dunpelder against the bloodthirsty Attacotti.”
Betha grasped Taran’s forearm. “Ye have become a fine man. Now ye must be a king who all will revere. Never forget yer place.”
****
Standing upon the steps of the Great Hall, Valeria watched Taran’s transformation from devastated prince to Pict king in a matter of moments. She wanted to rush in beside him, but that would not be proper. She respected his courage, aware his position was greater than the man himself. At this moment, the people needed a leader, a strong chief who would guide them through their time of mourning and rebuilding.
Taran organized the cleanup, showed compassion to those with fallen loved ones, and proved himself a man all could follow without question. Valeria worked with Pia to make bandages. The wounded were carried into the hall and laid upon the cold floor. Morag shouted orders as she approached the pair. “Can ye stitch up a wound?”
“Yes. I’ll need your most potent mead,” Pia said. “Stoke the hearth’s fire. Boil a kettle of water and place iron rods in the coals.”
Morag puzzled. “Why the rods?”
“To cauterize wounds for which we cannot stop the bleeding.”
Without objection, Morag nodded and set out to organize the makeshift hospital. Pia assumed the role of chief healer and set to work with Valeria at her side.
The first patient’s bellows echoed through the rafters as Pia inspected an arm sliced clean through, hanging on by a bit of sinew and muscle. Pia pulled Valeria aside. “I marked a vial of atropa belladonna and hid it at the back of Morag’s cupboard. Boil the sharpest knife you can find and bring back the potion.”
Valeria rushed to carry out her instructions under Morag’s watchful eye, but the matron said nothing. When Valeria returned, Pia had the man calmed with mead. She reached out her hand. “Give me the vial.”
Valeria complied and Pia filled the tip of her fingernail with the potentially deadly liquid, mixing it with a goblet of mead. She held the man’s head up. “Drink, this will take your pain away.”
Pia stood back until the warrior shuddered into unconsciousness, his gray eyes half-cast. “Keep your hand across his nose to monitor his breathing. I’ll remove what’s left of his arm.”
Pia reached her hand out and Valeria passed her the knife. Pia crouched down and sawed as if she were slicing a brisket of beef. Blood spurted and bespeckled her face. “Quickly, fetch an iron rod.”
Pia grasped a cloth bandage and pressed it against the wound while Valeria ran to the hearth. Morag had the iron ready and passed it to her with a grave frown. Valeria wasted no time rushing back. Pia snatched the poker with her right hand and pulled away the compress with her left. Blood spurted. She plunged the red-hot iron into the laceration. The warrior’s body jolted. The poker singed, the stench of burning flesh wafted through the air. But the bleeding stopped.
Pia nodded and Valeria stooped to monitor his breathing. “He lives.”
The murky light of dawn crept through the hall as the night yielded to the sun. Pia and Valeria still toiled, stitching what they could, cutting away and cauterizing what they could not. Morag worked beside them with a team of women tending less serious wounds. The sun shone in the eastern sky when Pia tied off the final stich for the last injured warrior, a woman—Greum’s sister, Elspeth.
Valeria wiped her bloodied hands on the front of her gown.
“There’s bread and broth in the kitchen,” Morag said. “Ye’ve earned it.”
Valeria was too tired and traumatized to smile, but Morag’s words hit a chord. Had she finally earned the woman’s respect? Pia caught her elbow and led her into the kitchen. “A bit of nourishment might help us regain our senses.”
Valeria ambled as if in a daze. “I feel like the world is spinning.”
“It does seem an endless night, but you were remarkable.”
“Me? What would we have done without your healing hands?”
“Yes, love, but you lay the axe in Runan’s back.”
Manas had been kneading bread for Morag and met them at the kitchen door, covered in flour. “And I buried the dirk in his heart.”
Valeria embraced both of them. “I say we are quite a team.”
Chapter Sixteen
In the king’s chamber, Taran bowed his head over the bodies of five brave souls who gave their lives to defend Dunpelder and their families.
Valeria stepped beside him and gently clasped his forearm. “Are you praying to your God?” she whispered, her voice as soothing as her touch.
“I pray to Atar, the creator.”
“My God is the creator as well. He must be one and the same, known by many names.”
“Aye.” He gazed upon her lovely face and saw the concern in her eyes. Without a thought, he reached for her hand. “Tonight there will be a funeral procession. We’ll bury our dead and then I will be crowned.”
Valeria nodded. “You are ready to be king.”
“I know my place, m’lady. I may be consumed with the affairs of Gododdin for a time before I can speak to ye again.”
“I have plenty to occupy me, tending the sick. I shall await your attentions.”
He grasped her hand between his palms and gazed into her fathomless eyes. If only he could lose himself in them, but now was not the time. “Go now and rest.” She nodded and left.
Drust led Betha to the king’s bedside. Oisean was wrapped in a linen cloth covering all but his face. Little was said while townspeople passed through the king’s chamber to pay their respects. All seemed dazed by the unexpected attack. Dunpelder not only mourned the loss of their king, but also grieved for the three sons and a daughter who had fallen.
Greum entered, his helmet carried in the crook of his arm. “The Attacotti dead total twenty, sire. The remaining cowards have fled.”
Taran’s gaze flashed to his friend’s face, and he swallowed hard. This was the first time he’d been referred to as sire. Deep down he wanted to say the king lies before them, but he knew Greum was right.
“Do I have your consent to burn the savages?”
“Aye, burn them before their rotting stench invades Dunpelder.” Taran pulled Greum aside. “Is Runan’s body amongst them?”
“Aye.”
“Good. The bastard should have no special treatment. Impale his head on a stake for all to see. The queen watched him run the king through.”
Greum nodded and rested his hand on Taran’s shoulder. “At least we’ve hurt them badly. They shall not be attacking the stronghold again.”
“Not
until they lick their wounds. Of that I’m certain.”
After all had paid their respects, darkness fell and the embers of the Attacotti were snuffed out. The elders came for Oisean’s body. With Betha on his arm, Taran led the procession to the gravesite. The elder’s carried the fallen king, followed by kinsmen bearing the bodies of the other fallen Picts. A drummer on the wall-walk above beat a slow cadence.
Taran led his people out the ruined gates of Dunpelder, to the gravesites lit by torches bolted to iron posts. Images of the strong king his uncle had been flashed through his mind. Oisean had always acted fairly with the subjects of Gododdin. As a father and uncle, he taught his sons to be honorable men.
Tonight Taran would not be expected to give a eulogy, but he would speak. As the Picts gathered around, elder Engus stepped forward. “ʼTis with a heavy heart I face ye this night. For we not only have lost a king, we suffer the loss of three sons and a daughter. Oisean, Raibert, Maelchon, Hamish and Isbeil all gave their lives selflessly to protect our home. We shall miss their smiling faces in our lives. We shall miss the love they shared with us….”
Taran clenched his teeth against the tears that threatened to burst. He must show strength. The Picts needed to see him as a man of fortitude, who could lead them in battle and stand beside them, fighting until the last blow.
He looked through the smoky haze and caught Valeria watching him. She held her head proud, her eyes alert, her jaw set. By her slight nod, he knew he had her absolute support. The strength of her gaze clamped around his heart and supported him almost as if she stood beside him with her hand in his. He longed to have her there.
He glanced at Engus, who continued his tribute. Taran tried to focus on the words, but behind the elder was another face. Leda’s eyes swelled with tears. Taran acknowledged her with a blink. Though he knew Leda to be a caring woman, he questioned her fortitude as a queen. Would she be better suited with Drust? Taran would need to face this quandary soon, and as king he would have more influence with the elders.
Engus’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Taran, son of Brude, come forward.”
He stepped before the elder and kneeled, bowing his head.
Engus raised the king’s sword. “In this gravest of hours, we name Taran, son of Brude, Chieftain of Gododdin, King over all Pict provinces. To you I give the king’s sword and the ruby ring that identifies you as supreme ruler, lord of the Picts.”
Taran held out his hand and Engus slid the ring onto his finger. Then he accepted the sword. He inspected the golden hilt inlaid with precious stones of sapphire and ruby. The legend of the sword followed it—forged in the fires of hell, there was no metal on earth stronger. The blade was decorated with the Pictish symbols, woven together with a vine, displaying crowns for royalty, hammers for strength and daggers for cunning.
Content the sword was genuine, Taran stood. “I will honor the laws of the Picts. I am bound by blood to Gododdin and all Pict provinces. I have commissioned a Pictish stone to be erected on this very site to tell the tale of our victory. But ours was a triumph with losses, and the stone will attest to the heroism of our fallen king, brothers and sister.” Taran thrust the sword into the air. “It will be a legacy that will transcend time and tell our tale. Our kin will not be forgotten!”
All faces turned upward as Taran’s voice echoed across the across the open meadow.
Betha grasped his arm and whispered, “Well done.”
The melodic tune of the lyre rang through the silence, followed by Greum’s eerie tenor voice.
****
Taran was too young to remember when his uncle was named king, but Oisean was given the sword at his predecessor’s gravesite in a ceremony that must have been similar to the previous night’s. He should embrace his role as king, but this loss weighed heavily on his heart. The morning after the funeral, he sat in his uncle’s private chamber, which was now his. He held up the king’s sword and inspected the intricate patterns etched into the blade.
He brushed the edge with his thumb, drawing blood. Oisean had kept it sharp and deadly, a weapon like no other in the Pict kingdom. He licked the cut, the unpleasant taste of iron and salt spread across his tongue.
With a rap on the door, Betha entered. Tall with blond hair, she was still a striking woman with a broad forehead and sky-blue eyes. She held her back straight and regally walked in.
Taran slid the sword into its scabbard and jumped up to greet her. “How are you handling your loss?”
Her eyes trailed to the side. “I think I’m still numb with the shock of it all.”
“I imagine it will take time to come round.”
“Yes, but I’m not here to talk about me woes.” She took a seat and gestured for him to sit in the king’s chair across from her. “Ye are now Chieftain of Dunpelder, King of the Picts. With me nephew, I am pleased. Ye are a strong man, Taran, with much more force of mind than yer cousin Drust.”
Taran nodded. “ʼTis true I’m taller and more decisive than Drust, but he is also a force to be reckoned with. He’ll be a valued ally when he assumes the chieftainship in Fife. He’s a solid man, one I would be proud to have fighting beside me.”
“Aye, of course he is. But Taran, I’ve seen yer eyes when they look at the Roman lass. I must warn ye.” She pointed her finger directly at him. “The king need marry and bear Pict children. The elders will not tolerate yer wayward eyes for long, especially when they look so fondly upon a woman of our enemies.”
Taran sucked in a deep breath and folded his arms. “Did ye love me uncle?”
“Whatever do ye mean, of course I loved him.”
“Did ye love him when ye married him?”
Betha smiled with a faraway glint in her eye. “Aye, I was lucky that way. But love can grow between a man and a woman, make no bones about that.”
“But do ye believe there is one mate intended for each soul?”
“Aye, but ye may not know it when ye see it.”
Taran hesitated searching her eyes. “Betha, is there no other way?”
“No, it has never been done.”
“I love her.”
She gasped. “For the love of yer kin, Taran.” Betha’s gaze trailed to the window. “The woman would have to become a Pict in mind, body and soul and the elders would pass a stern judgment if they considered it at all.”
His heart flickered with a hint of hope. “Is that possible?”
Frowning, Betha shook her head slowly. Her eyes steeled with disapproval. “You cannot plant the idea in her head. She would have to choose to give up everything—and then the odds are she would fail.” She spread her palms deploringly. “Please, ye must return her to her people—the bishop she spoke of. You must do it soon. The Picts need a solid leader with a strong Pict woman standing behind him.”
Taran rose and kissed her cheek. “We’ll leave at once. I will postpone the gathering and set a new date upon my return.”
Once she left, the walls of his chamber closed in, sucking the life out of him. He wanted to race to Valeria and declare his love. Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel her lips as they pressed against his in that fleeting moment before his world crumbled. He could think of nothing else but to have her in his arms again, if only for a night.
He bounded through the hall and out to the stables. “Tomas, bring Blackie out.” Taran needed some air. He had to think and clear his mind.
After he’d mounted, he galloped through the meadow beside the stronghold, and the wind in his face gave him renewed strength. His uncle had died defending this home. Oisean and his father had chosen Leda as his mate long ago, before the pair had even reached puberty. Then there was Leda herself, a lovely girl. She cared for others. Why couldn’t he feel for her the deep love he harbored for Valeria?
Blackie grunted, meeting the demand of Taran’s clicking heels. The horse and Taran became one, with Stag running beside them. Taran’s mind continued to race. Upon one subject he was firm. His dedication to the Picts, God
oddin and the souls of Dunpelder was unwavering. He would die upholding the four corners of the Pict creed and would defend his land with ferocious abandon just as his forefathers had done before him.
Taran rounded the corner to the backside of the stronghold and pulled Blackie up short. Valeria stood only twenty paces before him, holding the reins of a horse while she picked wildflowers. Her mare reared at the sudden movement, and Valeria whipped around, her flowers flying as she took charge of the reins. Stag ran to her excitedly, further incensing the horse.
Taran trotted up beside the spooked mare. He grasped the bridle and gave a quick yank on the bit. “This filly’s a bit spirited is she not?”
Valeria reclaimed the reins and pulled the horse in a circle, calming her with gentle tsks of her tongue. “What would you expect with a big black stallion barreling down the meadow at her?”
Taran chuckled. He did enjoy the lassie’s spirit. “And what are ye doing outside the castle walls without an escort, m’lady?”
Valeria looked up at the clear blue sky. “When I saw the gate open wide, mother earth called to me. On this glorious day I could be caged no longer. Besides, the enemy is vanquished. Is it not safe?”
“ʼTis never safe, no matter how secure ye feel.”
Valeria mounted her horse. “I wanted to pick some wildflowers for Pia, but now they have scattered with the wind.”
“Ye’re fond of flowers?”
She gave him a cheeky grin. “What woman is not?”
“Ride with me a bit. I need to talk with you.” Valeria’s scent drifted on the breeze when she reined her horse beside him. Of course she’d be drawn to flowers. She smelled sweeter than an entire meadow of blooms. A tingle shuddered along Taran’s skin. “I wish ye were riding in front of me again.”
“Why? So you can fondle me?” Valeria teased, but her eyes remained downcast. “We both know it is no use.”
Taran bit his bottom lip. Of course he wanted to caress her, he wanted more than that, but she was right. “I believe it is time to take ye back to the Romans.”
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