by J. M. Hofer
Gwion burst through the kitchen door, beaming. “Good morning,” he said, setting a basket of berries on the table next to Lucia. “These are for you.” His fingers were stained purple.
“Gwion!” Lucia cooed. “How did you know I was craving berries this morning?”
“A little bird told me,” he whispered in her ear and then headed back outside. He hated being indoors, and always slept outside—sometimes under the apple trees, sometimes in the loft of the barn, sometimes down by the lake. She could not remember a single night he had ever slept in a bed.
“We also have a bit of salt pork this morning,” Aveta announced, setting more plates on the table. She took a good look at Bran as she did so, no doubt seeking to confirm her suspicions, and then left to attend to her other duties.
“Lord Bran, would you walk with me?” Lucia ventured. “I make it a habit to walk about my land each morning to see what needs tending. I’d be glad of some company.”
Bran drained his mug of goat’s milk and set it down. “Please don’t call me lord. Bran’s enough. And yes, I’ll come. Perhaps I can be of service to you.”
She imagined he could, and was glad to have him as a companion for the morning. They set out through the back door of the kitchen and passed through the garden. She motioned toward the heavy vines and healthy-looking rows as she spoke. “We’ve managed well this season. Aveta merely touches something and it grows. There’s no tree, herb or flower for miles around that she doesn’t know the uses for. Gwion’s gifted as well, but more so with animals. Your horse is in the best hands for miles around.”
“That I believe,” he answered. Though his hair was tied back, she could see it would hang to his shoulders if unbound. It flashed gold in the sunlight, and she noticed for the first time that his beard had flecks of crimson in it.
“I’d like to look in on him again, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” She led the way down the path to a large and well-built stable next to the barn and unlatched the large door. He followed her inside, where they were greeted by the smell of fresh hay and leather. “There he is, already looking much better, I daresay.”
Gwion rose up from behind the horse, brush in hand, and greeted them. Bran looked at his horse, stroking his muzzle and the side of his neck, and then walked around and patted him on his side. He looked his horse up and down with wide eyes. “I can’t believe it.”
Gwion smiled. “I’ve done my best for him. He’ll make a quick recovery given a few days’ rest and good feed. I’d say you could plan on leaving two mornings hence.”
Bran patted the horse again. “You have a gift, my young friend.”
Lucia watched them, noting Bran’s appreciation. She had no children, but thought of Gwion as a son. He inspired endless pride in her.
“It seems you live in a household of healers,” Bran said as they left.
“I do. I’ve tried to learn as much from them as I can, though I’m not as capable. What can be learned, I’m learning. What’s been gifted by the gods is another matter.”
They walked down to the path that ran along the lake and followed it.
“Tell me about your travels.”
He grimaced. “Most of them have been with my clansmen to the battlefields in the east.”
“Where are your men now?”
“Still there, fighting the bloody Saxons without me.” He spat, shaking his head in disgust.
“Will you return to them?”
“Yes, as soon as my business is done.”
“I know the Saxons come from the lands across the sea. Do you fight them on the eastern shores?”
“Yes, we do our best to destroy their ships and kill them as soon as they crawl out of the water, before they can move inland.”
“Tell me of the sea,” she said, wide-eyed. She had never been anywhere but her own small village and her husband’s villa. “What’s it like?”
“The sea?” His scowl faded away. “Powerful. Mysterious. Like a woman you can never have—something magnificent to behold.”
“I’d like to see it someday.” She looked up at the sky with wistful eyes. “I envy your journeys. I’ve only had one, and that was leaving my home to marry my husband.” She stopped walking and looked across the lake. “That was the most exciting day of my life—to finally see something beyond the horizon of that tiny place.”
“Don’t envy my travels, Lucia,” he replied curtly. “The places I’ve seen have all been bathed in blood.”
She did not say anything for awhile, convinced that Aveta’s suspicion of his identity was right.
“I’m worried about you, Lucia,” he said after a few moments. “These are dangerous times. With the Romans gone, the Saxons flow in by the boatload and don’t leave. It’s just a matter of time before they come to your door, and you three would not stand a chance against them.”
Times had indeed changed. Her husband had often talked of how Rome had forsaken its citizens in Britannia. His father had not returned to Rome when Macsen Wledig, or Maximus, as the Romans called him, had summoned his troops back from Britain, instead choosing to stay. Camulos had therefore been born and raised here, educated in the Roman tradition, but had never seen the country his father had come from.
“What of your family? Your parents? Do they still live?” He knit his brows, looking at her with concern. “If so, you should consider returning and living with your people. Take the boy and his mother with you. The Romans no longer rule this land—you have no protection here, and plenty of things worth taking. Not to mention what might happen to you.” His countenance darkened. “I’ve seen what the Saxons do to the women they capture.”
Lucia shook her head. “No. I’ll never go back.”
Bran gave her a look of disappointment. “Never is a word for fools, Lucia. Think at least of the boy and his mother, if not for yourself.”
“We’re not alone!” she finally burst out in exasperation, offended by his condescending tone. “There are five families that share my land, all of them with several grown sons who know their way around a weapon, as do I!”
At this, Bran let out a laugh. “Is that so?” He shook his head as a parent would while listening to the foolishness of a child.
Her blood boiled. “Yes,” she answered defiantly. Within seconds, she had the hilt of his dagger in her fist and pointed toward his throat.
“Well, well,” he said softly, taken by surprise. “It seems you do know a thing or two. Just enough to kill one, and get raped and beaten by the other ten. Well done.”
Furious, she turned the dagger around, handed it back to him and stormed down to the water’s edge. She went to work on a large berry bush near the bank. She had a temper she found hard to control at times. She had been shy as a girl, and often teased. Bran’s dismissal of her had brought back all those painful memories, but he was right and she knew it.
She cooled off and went back to find him sitting by the water. She sat down next to him, offering the berries in her hand as a truce. He took a few, absent-mindedly, and stared out across the water.
“Bran, the Saxons you speak of, how close are they?”
“They still mainly attack the eastern shores, but I can promise you, they won’t stay there.”
Her stomach tightened at the thought of losing her home. Damn Camulos for dying, and damn Rome for abandoning its citizens. “From the state you arrived in, I assume you came to us from the battlefield?”
“No. From my village, actually.”
“What?” She knit her brows. “Was your village attacked?”
Fear seized her like a vice. He said his village was a mere two days away.
He was silent a moment before continuing. “My mother and our chieftain were attacked in the night and both recently died from their wounds. Some say it was a wolf, but my mother insisted it wasn’t. I buried her three nights ago.”
“May the gods protect her, then,” Lucia said sincerely after a moment, sickened at the idea of losi
ng her own mother. She had been her only confidante growing up; the only one she could talk to about her terrible dreams. The day she died would be a dark one for her, indeed.
Bran’s gaze became cloudy as he stared across the lake, and Lucia left him to his thoughts. They sat there for some time, watching the sun glint off the water. She occasionally stole the opportunity to examine his face—his scars and weather-worn skin sang a warrior’s ballad, but the deep crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes hinted of a man who laughed often.
“I was too eager for answers,” he continued, almost to himself. “It was foolishness that brought me to your door.”
“Well, what’s done is done,” she said simply. In truth, she was thankful for his foolishness.
They returned after a few hours, boots muddy. Knowing he would be staying on a few more days, Bran insisted on repairing the damage to the rock wall surrounding the villa. That afternoon, he began working on a part of the wall outside of the room where she sat at her loom. She watched him through the window from between the long threads, the parts of him that she could see changing as she worked. Seeing his body drove her thoughts back to the Beltane festivities in the spring, and images of hilltop bonfires flickered through her mind. She remembered venturing outside and hearing couples in the fields as they made love under the stars, watching the sparks and smoke rise up into the sky.
Just before twilight, Gwion brought in some fish which Aveta cleaned and prepared for dinner. Bran was still outside working when supper was ready, so Lucia went outside to fetch him. When she turned the corner, she found him setting a stone in place, bare from the waist up.
“There’s food on the table,” she offered, wishing she had more to say.
“I’ll be in shortly,” he replied, giving her a quick smile that made her heart race. She stole a few more glances when his back was turned before leaving.
The following day unfolded in much the same way. By dusk, Bran had chopped enough wood for a month’s worth of fires. Aveta and Gwion retired early that night, leaving Lucia alone with him. Deliberately, she suspected.
Perhaps it was the comfort of the fire, or the cask of ale she had opened, but he became quite relaxed and talkative for the first time since arriving on her doorstep. Encouraged, she began telling him animated stories and succeeded in getting a few belly laughs out of him. In return, he shared a few tales of his own from his travels and the battles he had fought. She asked him many questions, surprising him with her knowledge of the places he mentioned. She had her late husband’s library to thank for that. Their conversation wound on, flowing more effortlessly through the night. From time to time, she looked up and found his eyes fixed fondly on her, that soft boyish smile upon his lips.
Eventually, the fire burned down to its coals, and he stood up. “Lucia, thank you. Tonight will be my last night here. I can’t delay my journey any longer. I must ride at first light.”
She hid her disappointment the best she could, and then took a deep breath. “Where are you going?”
“To visit someone who may know something about what attacked my mother.”
“I see.“ She relaxed a bit, glad of his trust in her. “I hope he can help you. Take what food and supplies you need. You’ve more than paid for them with the work you’ve done here.”
“Thank you, again.” He smiled. “Good night, Lucia.”
***
The next morning, Lucia woke to the cock’s crow. She lay in bed, knowing Bran was likely already gone. She stretched her limbs, pulled herself out of bed and walked to the window. The birds had all joined the rooster in a loud dawn-heralding cacophony.
Aveta was not up yet, so she stoked the still-hot coals in the hearth and poured some water in the kettle, absent-mindedly nibbling on an oatcake. While waiting for the water to boil, she sat and stared blankly into the fire.
Each moment suddenly seemed heavier.
CHAPTER TWO
The Crossroads
He had grown soft. Much too soft.
Over the past few days, his brow had relaxed and a smile had sparked where nothing but the stern focus of a warrior had been for years. It vexed him, for he knew he could afford no such distractions.
He had not slept much the night before and rose eagerly at the first sign of dawn. He collected his things, visited Lucia’s pantry to take the provisions she had offered, and then went down to the stable. He was pleased to find Gwion waiting for him and Gethen already saddled.
He shot the boy a grateful smile. “Good morning.“
“Good morning, Lord Bran.”
Gwion seemed a bit melancholy. Bran suspected it was because of how attached he had grown to Gethen over the past few days. The boy had worked miracles in the short time they had been at the villa. Gethen’s black coat gleamed from brushing, the cracks in his hooves had all but disappeared, and the wounds he had suffered in battle were nearly healed.
The night before, in passing, he had overheard Gwion speaking to Gethen in the stable and stopped to listen. He had not been able to make out the words as they were muffled from inside, but the cadence and rhythm of the boy’s voice had been full of gentleness. He wondered if he might ever have been that kind and innocent when he was a boy. He did not think so.
“I want to thank you for what you’ve done for Gethen,” he said to Gwion sincerely.
The boy smiled and nodded, reluctantly handing over the reins, and then wrapped his arms around Gethen’s neck and stroked his muzzle in farewell.
“He won’t forget you,” Bran reassured him, “and neither will I, lad.”
The look in the boy’s eyes was heartbreaking.
“I’ll be sure to stop and visit whenever my travels take me this way,” he added, hoping to cheer him up.
“Until next time, then,” Gwion said with mature nod of acceptance.
Bran tousled the boy’s hair affectionately. “Until next time.”
He wished he could promise a visit sometime soon, but he knew that was a promise he could not make, and he dared not disappoint him.
The sky had begun to grow rosy above the hills, and Gethen pawed the ground restlessly, ready for the ride. He put his foot in the stirrup, settled into the saddle, and rode toward the tree line. Just before reaching it, he made sure to turn round and wave a final farewell to Gwion before disappearing.
The sun peered over the horizon just as he reached the lake. He took a deep long breath of the fresh earthy air, relieved to be on his way again.
It was time to find Talhaiarn.
***
Bran needed to reach the river by nightfall, so kept Gethen at a good pace. Summer was dying, but the day grew extremely warm in defiance as the sun climbed higher. He continued along the tree line for the remainder of the afternoon, reaching the river towards evening, as planned. They meandered along its banks until he found a suitable place to bed down. He soon had a fire going, and then pulled off his tunic and went to the river to wash and fill his goatskin. Gethen came over to drink beside him. Bran enjoyed the moment with his companion, grateful he was well again. As if sensing his thoughts, Gethen pushed his nose against him affectionately. Bran splashed and played with him, happy for a distraction from his dark thoughts, but it was not long before they returned.
“What the hell was it?” he whispered to Gethen, peering into his black eyes as if the answer might be found there. Gethen looked at him blankly in response and shook his mane, as if to say, how should I know? and then nuzzled him in reassurance. Either that, or he smelled the apple in his pack. Bran smiled and pulled out the fruit. “Here you go, you greedy vulture.” Gethen nobly ignored the insult, took the apple gracefully between his teeth, and was soon chewing contentedly.
Good idea. He sat down by the fire and dug into his pack for his own supper. He found a loaf of bread and tore off a piece, eating it quickly. Gethen dined far more leisurely. He finished the apple and then went to work on his second course—a nice patch of long, green grass by the river.
; Bran shoved his pack under his head and stretched out to sleep. He tried calming his mind by looking up at the stars and listening to the steady flow of the river, but sleep did not come. His thoughts wandered inevitably to his mother, bringing fresh pangs of guilt and sorrow, and then to Talhaiarn.
Talhaiarn had held the title of High Priest of the Crossroads and was the Druid counselor to the clan chieftains of the Great Circle since before Bran was born. He had always held Bran’s mother in high regard, both as a queen and a priestess. No doubt as a favor to her, he agreed to teach young Bran to read and write when everyone else had given up on him.
To study under Talhaiarn was an honor envied by many, but Bran suspected it was nothing more than a plot by his stepfather to get rid of him. Cadoc had always resented the bond between Bran and his mother, envious of his wife’s fierce love for her son. “Quit fawning over that boy!” Bran could still hear it, and it made his blood rise. His mother never fawned.
From a very young age, he tried to win Cadoc over by becoming the strongest and most promising warrior in the clan, but Cadoc never once offered him any praise or encouragement. One day, he had asked his mother why.
“You’re not his, Bran,” she told him without apology, “and that is the simple truth of it. Before you dare to pity yourself, though, remember that Cadoc treats you fairly, beats you only when you deserve it, and feeds and clothes you. That is more generous than most men would be to another man’s bastard.”
Cruel words, perhaps, but they were true. From that day on, Bran no longer sought Cadoc’s love or approval. His mother sent him away soon after. She insisted it was her will, not Cadoc’s, but he could not help but feel forsaken. He did as he was bid, however, for he would never shame his mother with disobedience.