A Painted Winter

by H. Barnard

  She leant back against the trunk and placed a large branch on the fire. The flames crackled and steamed. Rough bark pressed into her skin, and she shifted her back. Her eyes grew heavy as she listened to the crackling fire. I wonder if Mother misses me... Does she regret sending those soldiers to kill me?

  A raven cried and beat its wings. The hair on her naked arms prickled as her eyelids shivered into consciousness. Thick grey vapour had descended through the trees, propelled by an icy wind. As her eyes adjusted to the startling white, the mist swirled around two hooded figures standing knee-deep in the snow.

  They had dismounted, and each held the reins of their horses. The figures wore long capes made of greying wolf pelts. Their faces were indistinguishable under the hoods, but from their height and the broadness of their shoulders, she guessed they were men. The harsh winter light glinted against iron hilts at their waists. One man clutched a bow, and a white feather-tipped arrow was drawn and pointed at her face.

  “Borego dag.”

  She did not realise at first that the men addressed her. It sounded like the Ancient Tongue her mother had taught her as a child.

  “Borego dag? Pui hui?”

  Good morning? Who are you? She understood him but could not place his strange accent. The man without the bow lowered his hood and waves of light brown hair tumbled out, resting at his neck. His forehead was high and broad, and his cheekbones were pronounced, rising almost to the corners of his eyes. She assumed he was a few years older than her and perhaps had seen twenty winters.

  “Where are you from?” the brown-haired man asked in the Ancient Tongue.

  She frowned. What should I say?

  Her mind raced as she tried to deduce where she was. She remembered as a child her father pointing to an old peeling map painted on the wall of his private chamber. In her mind, she traced along the spidery rivers and woods of her home in Britannia to the Great Wall that cut the island in half and marked the edge of the civilised world. But beyond the Great Wall was another wall, fallen into ruin, above which the worst kind of barbarian dwelled. The Picti. The Painted People. They were so fearsome that the Romans had long since abandoned their aspirations to conquer the desolate northern lands.

  Have I been sent north of the Ruined Wall? A dull ring filled her ears.

  “I...” she began in the Ancient Tongue. Her throat tightened, and the snow-covered ground seemed to sway beneath her. “I am lost.” She shivered to mask her accent. “Please help me.”

  The brown-haired man unfastened a large U-shaped brooch with a snake slithering across it and removed his fur cape. Under the cape, he wore a brown, thick-weaved, hooded shawl with tassels falling at his waist. A woollen tunic poked out from underneath and covered down to his knees, underneath which he wore fitted skin pants. He stepped over the dead fire and wrapped his cape around her shoulders. It was still warm, and her skin tingled against the fur. His nose was kinked, as though it had once been broken.

  He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here? What happened to you?”

  “I… I was attacked…and I woke up in the stone circle.” Her brother had often told her that the most convincing lies are those closest to the truth.

  The other man lowered his bow and then his hood. Taller than the first man, his honey-blond hair was pulled into a ponytail. They shared the same high foreheads and blue eyes. “Romans?” he asked.

  If they know I’m from Britannia, they will kill me. “Yes.”

  The men shared a dark look she could not interpret. The brown-haired man reached out, and she slipped her hand into his. It was calloused, but his nails were clean and clipped. She watched his serious face as he lifted her up, but he was staring at her feet.

  “You have no shoes either?”

  She shook her head.

  “My name is Brei,” he said and pointed to his companion. “This is my brother, Taran. We’ll take you somewhere safe.”

  Brei carried her to his chestnut horse and placed her onto the saddle, both legs dangling over the same side. The roar of the river grew louder as Brei led the horse through the icy forest, crunching through the snow on foot with his long sword unsheathed before him. Leather creaked as she twisted in the saddle and looked behind her. Taran followed from a distance, riding a white horse with his hunting bow drawn. His eyes darted across the misty forest, scowling at the ghostly trees, as if expecting something to emerge.

  After less than a mile, the path dipped to the forest edge. Nestled against the northern riverbank, a small settlement sat in the clearing. It’s so close. No wonder they discovered me. Smoke billowed from the roofs of ten snow-covered roundhouses. Empty stock pens were scattered between the roundhouses, and a broad rectangular building stood on the northern side of the settlement. Only the river, a bright midnight blue, altered the white and grey landscape.

  Brei stopped outside the nearest roundhouse. A high roof, which sloped to a point, sat above a circular dirt wall. In places the dirt had crumbled away, revealing sticks of weaved hazel. Taran clicked with his mouth, and his white stallion leapt into a gallop, flicking lumps of snow into the air as they disappeared into the mist.

  Brei reached up to lower her from his horse. For a fleeting moment, his eyes flicked across her face. Clenching his jaw, he looked away. He bent under the porch and carried her into the roundhouse.

  Inside, the roundhouse seemed to have no order to it. It appeared to be both a room for sleeping, with cot beds fashioned out of animal skins arranged around the fire, and a meals area. A shoulder-height wall made of weaved hazel divided the back quarter of the room, and tanned skins and furs hung over it. Little light seemed to reach past the divider, but through a half-yard-wide gap a fire’s light shone across a wooden barrel, linen sacks held closed with heavy lumps of wood, a weaving loom, undyed wool, and finished lengths of woollen sheets stacked on top of one another. Skinned rabbits hung from a roof beam above the fire, and a pair of pheasants were being plucked by two young girls sitting on the dirt floor near the door. An unpleasant odour of raw meat, dried dung, and wet feathers hung in the air. The room was unlike any she had ever seen, and she felt a terrible distance from the shimmering marble pillars and bright, coloured mosaics of her home.

  A woman with ginger hair, streaked with white, dozed by the fire. Next to her, a younger woman with fox-red hair and shimmering blue eyes sat cross-legged, crushing grains with a smooth rock on a grinding stone. Brei placed her by the fire near the younger woman.

  “This is Anwen.” He gestured to the young woman, and then to the older woman. “And this is her mother, Morfydd. You may stay in Morfydd’s house until we can take you back to your home.”

  “You’re back late from patrol… Who is she?” Anwen asked.

  “We found her in the forest. The, ah…” He crouched in front of Anwen and placed a hand on her shoulder. “She says Romans attacked her.”

  Anwen’s eyes widened. “Where?”

  “In the forest,” Brei said as he pressed his head against Anwen’s auburn hair. “They won’t get the chance to even look at you. We’re going to take a scouting party out to find the Roman scum, and if there are any, we will slaughter them all.”

  Anwen was breathing fast, and her wild eyes flicked to the children. “Who will protect us?” She reached her pale, slender hands up and clutched around his neck. “You can’t leave me, Brei.”

  “I have no choice, I have to go with the others, darling. Please return to Caercaled, to the tower.” He turned to Morfydd. “Taran has ridden to Caercaled to ask that they send men to guard the farmsteads.”

  “I won’t leave Mother,” Anwen said with a tremor.

  “Fine, Morfydd can shelter in the tower as well.”

  Morfydd shook her head. “I’m not leaving the other farmers to perish while I cower with the gilded Snakes of Caledon.”

  “Please go to the tower, darling.” Brei stroked Anwen’s cheek with his thumb.

  Tears slid from her blue eyes. “I can’t leave
her, Brei.”

  “I wish you would.” Brei stood up. “But if you insist, I won’t leave until men have arrived to guard the farmstead. Look after the girls. I love you.” He stooped under the door, and the wood snapped against the weaved hazel and daub wall as it closed.

  Anwen and Morfydd seemed to contemplate the door. Have they forgotten I’m here? The whistle and creak of the wind soon replaced Brei’s crunching steps, and the women turned on her in unison with narrowed eyes.

  Four

  Winter, 366 C.E., Caledon

  Brei held Anwen’s cheek and wondered if he was right to leave her. This is why you can never be king. His gaze fell upon the strange woman sitting by Morfydd’s fire. Long jet-black hair fell across her pale face. As she glanced up at him, the firelight reflected in her eyes, and the green irises disappeared, replaced by luminous yellow. Brei had seen this before in forest creatures at night, in wolves drawn to the smells of the campfire, the light reflecting in the animals’ eyes like yellow moons glinting between the trees. But never had he seen it happen in the eyes of a human. The glow vanished in an instant as she tilted her chin upwards and her eyes returned to emerald green.

  A frown creased his brow, and he wondered if his mind was playing tricks. He tore himself away and pushed the door open with his palm, stepping into the snow again. Tied to a wooden post was his chestnut stallion, named Rhuad, “Red”, waiting patiently for him. A grey woollen blanket beneath the saddle ran from Rhuad’s neck to his tail, and his legs were wrapped to the knee. Brei tried to slide his fingers under the girth, ensuring it was secure. As he checked the wrappings on each leg, Brei wondered about the woman. About her eyes. Did I imagine they glowed? Why was she alone and naked in the forest? And now there are Roman soldiers raiding again?

  The rumbling thud of displaced snow echoed through the stillness of the morning air. Brei turned as eleven warriors, led by Taran, galloped across the snowy pasture. They wore grey, red and brown capes of wolf and fox pelts over leather pants and thick woollen tunics. From leather belts around their waists hung long swords in elaborate scabbards. They reined up their horses to stop in front of Brei, just as he put his foot into the stirrup and swung his leg over Rhuad’s back.

  Taran leaned forwards on the neck of his white horse. “And?”

  Brei raised his eyebrows. “‘And?’”

  Taran rolled his eyes and sat upright in the saddle. “I sent a messenger to King Gartnait and told him about the woman and the Roman soldiers. I asked a few warriors to come down to protect the farmsteads, I wasn’t sure if you’d want Anwen and the twins moved.”

  “Thanks, brother.” Brei scanned the warriors Taran had chosen. Owain, Cináed, and Gruffydd were experienced men, and he mentally checked them off as good picks. Next, his eyes fell on Dylan, who had seen but thirteen winters and resembled his brother, Naoise, also in the party of warriors. Dylan’s black hair was cropped short at his ears, while Naoise grew his long and it sprawled in a black mess over his shoulders.

  “Dylan, why are you here?” Brei asked.

  “I thought he might like to come, he needs to be blooded,” Taran said, grinning at Dylan.

  “He’s just a boy, Taran, and we don’t know how many Roman soldiers are out there.”

  “I was about his age when the Romans last raided Caercaled,” Taran said, frowning. “Or have you forgotten?”

  Brei grimaced. “Of course I haven’t.”

  “I can’t wait to shank a Roman in the kidney!” Dylan beamed.

  Taran and Naoise snorted, sharing looks of mischief as they took it in turns to push Dylan, in an attempt to unseat him.

  “An initial scouting party will ride out first,” Brei yelled over Dylan’s shrieks.

  As if spurred by an invisible force, Taran abandoned his game with Naoise and moved his horse forwards in front of Brei. He swung around in the seat to face the ten men. “The rest of the warriors at Caercaled are on alert to follow if we do not return by the quarter moon.”

  “Do you really think Roman soldiers are raiding?” Dylan asked.

  Brei scowled at Taran. “It is too soon to tell, but we will find them if they are.”

  “We will head south and make camp at the ruins at Caerdwabonna tonight.” Taran reined his horse’s head around towards the south. “Move out, lads!” He pushed up into a gallop to lead the scouting party. Brei rode at the rear, glaring at Taran’s broad back.

  Following the River Tae east for an hour before it turned, they continued south. Then the party fanned out a quarter-mile apart through the forests, to cover as much of the land as possible. But their searching proved futile, and by midday they found a clearing and ate lunch on a fallen tree trunk.

  “But how did she get there?” Naoise asked for the fifth time. “How is it she survived even five minutes in the snowstorm with no clothes?” he continued through a mouthful of bread.

  Brei sighed. “I just want to know whether there are soldiers. We can deal with the woman later.”

  Dylan leant forwards. “What if the Romans have hidden in the mountains of northern Caledon and we missed them?”

  Taran snatched the last bite of bread from Naoise’s hand. “Then the garrison at Caercaled will deal with them.”

  Naoise punched Taran hard in the shoulder.

  “What if the Romans attack the farmsteads?” Dylan continued, while Taran and Naoise wrestled on the log.

  Brei watched as they tumbled onto the snow-covered ground. He stood up and stretched his arms above his head. “Guards were sent to the farmsteads.” Brei cracked his neck and felt that if he heard “What if the Romans…?” one more time he would have to give Dylan an early taste of the violence he seemed so keen for.

  By nightfall, they reached the bridge near Caerdwabonna, “the fortress at the two rivers”. The bridge crossed where the River Tae met the Eryn. Brei gazed across the water at an ancient abandoned fortress. He used to play there as a boy. On a cloudless day, he could see from the river mouth to the River Tae that curved up to the north and the smaller River Eryn that flowed in a straight line to the west. Green hills and grey water for miles.

  “No fire tonight, lads,” Brei grunted as he led them into the round stone fortress. The roof had caved in long before he was born, and its only occupants were tufts of grass creeping between the mortar of the stone floor. He walked across to the southern-facing side and watched as shadows raced from behind the forest across the field towards the hill. Gruffydd joined him, leaning against the remains of the tower’s stone wall, and handed Brei a pigskin drinking pouch.

  “Mead?”

  Brei grunted and took the leather bag and raised it above his lips. The mead tasted of honey with a hint of heather. He licked his lips, and Gruffydd grasped the bag from Brei and had a swig. Gruffydd was the eldest of the scouting party. A cousin of Taran and Brei’s mother, Derelei, on the male line. Gruffydd’s hair was dark auburn brown, with the first hints of grey about the temples. A soft-spoken man, he had known Brei his entire life and often provided quiet counsel when they rode together, patrolling the kingdom’s borders.

  “There are no signs so far of any soldiers,” Gruffydd murmured.

  “I know. It’s strange. Perhaps they retreated north?”

  “Unlikely, in this weather. The Romans never attack in winter, not for hundreds of winters, anyway.”

  Brei nodded and fingered the brown tassels of his weaved woollen hood.

  “Where’s your cape, lad?” Gruffydd asked.

  “The woman has it.”

  “I’ll let you have a corner of my pelts tonight. But no cuddling, mind.” Gruffydd smirked.

  Brei laughed and tugged the mead pouch from Gruffydd’s hand.

  As the light faded from the distant hill, the sound of metal grating on metal interrupted them. Brei and Gruffydd turned. In the centre of a circle of warriors, Naoise and Dylan were sparring with their long swords. Owain, a red-haired warrior who had served with King Uradech, grinned. “A silver coin on Dylan,
” he said to Taran.

  Naoise glanced at him and smirked. “May as well give Taran that coin now, Owain.”

  Brei and Gruffydd joined the circle around the brothers. Taran stood opposite Brei and nodded his chin upwards at his older brother. “Chuck us that mead, Brei.” Brei raised his arm high and lobbed the leather mead sack over Dylan and Naoise’s heads. Taran caught it and smiled.

  Dylan grasped his sword with both hands and glared at Naoise. “What I lack in size, I make up for in focus, Neesh. You’ll get bored in a second.”

  Naoise snorted. “Convenient timing, little brother, it will only take me a second to whip you.”

  Dylan stepped forwards and lunged at Naoise, who caught Dylan’s blade against his, the metal swords scraping against one another.

  Cináed, a warrior of the same age as Brei, looked over at Taran. “A silver coin on the boy as well.”

  “I’ll whip you next, Cináed,” Naoise grunted as he leapt back.

  Brei laughed. “Ten coins on Cináed.”

  Dylan leapt forwards and struck Naoise’s arm. Naoise hissed and clutched his wrist.

  Dylan raised his eyebrows. “Do you concede, Neesh?”

  “Come on, Naoise!” Taran roared.

  Naoise grinned at Taran and twirled his sword in his right hand, blood streaking from his scratched wrist.

  “Dylan, you’ve got this,” Brei yelled. “Neesh is a little pig, look how tired he’s getting.”

  Gruffydd and Cináed snorted.

  Naoise whipped around and aimed his sword at Brei’s stomach. “That’s big talk coming from you, Brei.”

  Brei glanced at Taran, whose eyes glinted in the fading light.

  Dylan danced behind Naoise and pressed the blade against his brother’s pale neck. “I knew you’d lose focus.”