by H. Barnard
“Taran, that’s two coins for Cináed and I!” Owain yelled.
Taran shook his head and reached into the small leather pouch that hung on his belt.
“Might spend them up at Elwyn’s tavern when we get back, eh?” Cináed said as he took the coin from Taran’s hand.
“Naoise’s already fathered a litter at Elwyn’s, haven’t you?” Owain laughed as he slapped Naoise on the back. Naoise smirked and strode to Taran’s side.
“I’d put ten coins on Brei against Taran,” Dylan said as he sheathed his long sword.
“Brei’s nose is crooked enough,” Naoise murmured.
Brei smiled. “Perhaps we should just discuss our plan for tomorrow?”
Naoise nodded and leaned against the stone wall, dragging his fingers through his sweaty black hair.
“We’ll split in half tomorrow,” Brei said. “Owain, you’ll lead a party south-east to the coast to watch for ships. I’ll lead the other party south-west through the Kingdoms of the Maetae and Damnnones.”
Naoise cracked his fingers. “Which party will I go with?”
“You and Dylan will stay with Taran and me. Wouldn’t you like to visit Queen Cantigerna?”
Naoise shrugged. “I guess.”
Brei looked up at the sky. Thick clouds concealed the moon.
“Are we sure soldiers even attacked that woman?” Naoise asked through the shadows.
“She said yes when we asked her if it was the Romans.”
“She had a strange accent,” Taran said.
Brei’s mind wandered again to her eyes, glowing yellow in the fire, and he shivered.
Mist rose in silver clouds above them as their breath met the wintry morning. They had slept upright, their backs against the fortress wall. Naoise was still asleep, his tousled hair sprawled across Taran’s shoulder. Brei strained his ears for a sound. Birds signalled the new day, but there were no signs of soldiers. He stood and stretched his back.
Taran opened his eyes as Brei motioned with his head to Naoise. Taran smiled and ducked down, removing his shoulder and body from Naoise’s weight in one swift movement. Naoise fell in a heap to the right, and his head landed in Cináed’s lap, jolting him awake with a yelp. Taran and Brei sniggered as Cináed shoved Naoise off and cuffed him around the ears.
“Stop it!” Naoise yelled.
Brei smirked and wandered behind the stone fortress to relieve himself.
After breakfast, Owain split off with five men, leaving Brei behind with Taran, Naoise, Dylan, Cináed, and Gruffydd. Their search through the forests was slow. The land was flat in the valleys where rivers flowed, but rough hills threatened to slow their journey. But they knew how to navigate through their lands. They knew where the marshes rose and where to cross them. On the third day, their search led them into the hilly territory of the Kingdom of the Maetae.
“Why can’t we ride further west and avoid them?” Naoise moaned as Brei pulled his horse to a stop.
Brei closed his eyes. “Because I want to ask them whether they have seen anything.” He paused, trying to control the annoyance in his voice. “Not to mention the fact we would incite a war if we passed through their lands unannounced and without seeing the king and our cousin, Queen Cantigerna.”
He turned to Taran for support, but he was watching a falcon circling overhead. Brei clicked his horse on and continued through the valley in silence. They rode to the furthest end of the valley where, perched on a snowy hill on the southernmost end of the mountain range, stood Caermhèad, “Fortress of the Maetae”.
“I’ll ride up and announce us,” Taran called to Brei as he pushed his hips forwards and his horse obeyed by breaking into a canter. Brei watched as he grew smaller, riding up the slope. Before Taran reached the summit, a group of warriors had gathered to greet him. Brei held his breath as they spoke to Taran. Then a horn bellowed from the hill, echoing through the crisp air. Brei exhaled and led the rest of the party up the hill to join Taran. When they reached the summit, Brei noticed the fortress commanded sprawling views across the surrounding land. To the south lay the snaking outline of the river called the Neidrabona, “Snake River”.
King Nechtan welcomed the party into his circular stone hall, his brothers, cousins, and Queen Cantigerna joined them.
Brunette ringlets framed the queen’s round face. She wore a green tunic trimmed with red, with a matching burgundy sash tied around her waist. “Hello, cousins,” she beamed. “And little Naoise and Dylan, how you have grown!”
Naoise grimaced but allowed himself to be kissed on the cheek.
“It’s been so long since I last saw you.” Brei took her hand. “Not since your binding… I almost don’t recognise you.”
Cantigerna smiled. “I had seen but fourteen winters then Brei. We’re all grown up now, aren’t we?” Her hands moved to her stomach. “But I still have a little growing to do.”
Taran pushed past Brei and hugged her. “Congratulations, Canti.”
“This is Cináed and Gruffydd, warriors of Caledon,” Brei said, catching Nechtan’s eye.
King Nechtan smiled. “You are all welcome here,” and he gestured for them to sit down at the long wooden table. “Come, let’s eat.”
King Nechtan’s blue tunic pulled tight against his biceps and broad shoulders. Although he was much older than Cantigerna, his face was unlined, perhaps because his auburn hair was stretched tight into a bun. “How is King Gartnait?” he asked as he took a sip of ale from a silver goblet.
“The king is very well,” Brei said.
Nechtan raised his eyebrows. “Is he? I have heard rumours of ill health.”
“Where did you hear that from?” Brei asked.
The king smiled into his goblet before taking a swig. “Why does he send you on this errand in his stead?”
Taran cleared his throat. “Brei and I have always handled these operations for the king.”
“Of course. He is more of a strategist than a warrior.” Nechtan raised his goblet. “To Gartnait’s health.”
“To King Gartnait,” Taran and Brei murmured.
Taran raised his drink towards Cantigerna. “And you have been well, Canti? How is your new life in the south?”
“It’s been two winters, Taran, hardly new anymore. But I like it here. Although sometimes I miss the ocean, the way the waves used to crash into the fortress at Caertarwos.”
“I bet you don’t miss Talorc,” Naoise smirked.
Cantigerna smiled. “I miss all my cousins in Vortriu.”
“You will return soon, to raise the child?” Brei asked.
“Of course. My little Prince or Princess of the Blood will be raised in Vortriu,” she said, patting her stomach.
Taran leaned towards King Nechtan. “But it may not be safe to travel at the moment. Have you seen any Roman soldiers in your lands recently?”
Nechtan frowned and turned to his men, who mirrored his expression. “No, we have not seen soldiers up here for many winters, not since…” He paused and looked around the table. “Not since King Uradech was slain.”
One of Nechtan’s men, an advisor called Domgal, leant forwards. “Why do you ask?”
“We had reports of Romans near Caercaled.”
Domgal frowned. “Are these reports reliable?”
Brei coughed. “We are, ah, beginning to think they are not.”
Taran sipped from his goblet. “But we are treating them as serious. The consequences of not taking any threat seriously are, as we all remember, dire. So we will continue onto the Damnnones’ kingdom soon, to the city of Gowan. But if we may stay the night, we would be much obliged.”
Nechtan cleared his throat and leant towards his advisor. “Domgal, have men sent to the west, we need to make sure Romans are not hiding on our lands.” He turned back to Taran. “Will you go to Altclud?”
Taran shook his head. “We will speak with the garrison at Gowan only, but if the reports warrant it, then we will go to Altclud and visit our uncle Alwyn, the king.�
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Nechtan glanced again at Domgal. “And of course you may stay, it is an honour to welcome four Princes of the Blood of the Kingdoms of Caledon and Vortriu.”
“And who else do you welcome in your halls? Are you still accepting Roman silver for peace?” Taran asked.
King Nechtan spat his ale back into the cup. “Steady on, lad.”
“It’s just a question,” Taran said, smiling.
“No. We are not. It’s not been offered for twelve winters, when the peace was first broken. Has Caledon been accepting Roman silver?”
“Caledon has never accepted Roman bribes,” Taran said. “And never will.”
Five
Winter, 366 C.E., Caledon
An amber light flickered within a stone chamber at the end of a black passageway. She crept towards it, stooping under the low ceiling as gravel scratched beneath her feet. Entering the chamber, she straightened to her full height and looked around. Three walls opposite the passageway were inset with smaller chambers, and inside each were stone basins. Placed on the basins were immaculately cleaned skulls, which seemed to glare at her. She peered back towards the impenetrably dark passageway. The only noise, save for the crackle of a torch that rested on the ground, was her own breath. Crouching, she reached for the torch, but as her hands grasped the wooden handle, the flame extinguished, and the chamber plunged into darkness. Blood pulsed like drums in her ears as she strained to see anything other than black. An abrasive scrape of gravel reverberated along the length of the passageway. Followed by a crunch. Footsteps in the dark. One foot after another, until the drumming sound engulfed her.
Her eyes snapped open, and the thatched roof of the roundhouse whirled into focus. Sweat drenched the fur cape tangled around her body. Anwen’s face hovered above her, a flaming torch clutched in her shaking hand.
“Who are you?” Morfydd asked, brandishing a knife.
She frowned as she tried to recall what had happened. Morfydd and Anwen had attempted to question her after Brei’s departure, but she had been in no mood to talk. Lying amongst the barrels of stored wheat where they had made her a bed, her head had pounded and she had drifted into an uneasy sleep. Her dreams of home, of the vineyards that grew on her parents’ estate, strayed into dark passageways leading her mind far from civilised Britannia.
Morfydd thrust the knife forwards. “Are you a Roman spy?”
“A spy? Why do you think I’m a spy?”
“You were screaming…and you were speaking like…” Anwen closed her eyes. “Like them.”
Morfydd lunged down and pressed the knife against her throat. “Tell me your name or I will kill you.”
She hesitated. Her name was Lucia. I’d bet all the denarii in the world that Lucia is not a name of the Ancient Peoples. It’s a Roman name. “Sorsha,” she croaked against the force of the blade, recalling the name of her mother’s cousin.
Morfydd frowned and leaned her head to one side. “Sorsha?”
Sorsha pursed her lips and hoped the furious pulse in her neck was not visible.
“Where are you from?” Morfydd asked as she removed the blade from Sorsha’s throat.
“I come from south of here from…from near the wall.” She tried to recall anything of what her father had said about northern trade routes. “My father was a merchant and he…he traded with the Romans. That’s why I can speak Latin.”
Morfydd frowned. “Latin?”
Sorsha flushed. “Yes, that’s what the Romans call their language. Where am I? What is this place?” She pushed herself up and pulled Brei’s cape around her.
“This is the farmstead on the edge of Caercaled, in the Kingdom of Caledon.”
Caledon had a strange familiarity to its sound. One of the tribal labels on her father’s map had read “Caledonii”. Just one of the many barbarian tribes beyond the Great Wall. They are all the same.
Morfydd exhaled through her nose. “Anwen, keep the girls busy somewhere else. I’ll help…” her eyes narrowed, “her.”
Anwen nodded and disappeared through the gap in the screen that divided the main room from the storage area. “Ceridwen, Nia, come away from the screen and help me repair my comb.”
Twin girls shuffled forwards, and Sorsha caught sight of them briefly through the gap in the divider. One had brown hair and seemed to tremble. The other was blonde, and her eyes glistened as she peered at Sorsha before moving out of sight.
“The Romans are our enemies. Are they also your enemy?” Morfydd asked.
Sorsha swallowed. “Yes.”
“How did you get here?”
“Brei and Taran found me.”
Morfydd stepped towards her. “But how did you get to Caledon?”
“I, ah, I don’t remember. I just woke up here, in the stone circle.”
Morfydd’s eyes darted across Sorsha’s face. “I see. And you’re wearing Brei’s cape because you have no clothes? No shoes?” She pursed her lips. “I guess we’ll have to stitch you a tunic…” Morfydd ran her fingers along a neat pile of beige linen sheets. “The flax was a gift from Anwen. I spun these myself and weaved them into sheets to make clothes… They took me weeks to make.” Morfydd’s voice was so low, Sorsha wondered if she was talking to herself. From a wicker basket next to the sheets, Morfydd grabbed a handful of what appeared to be rags. “You can have these.” Morfydd thrust a fistful of scratchy wool into Sorsha’s hands.
“I am so grateful you are helping me. It was so fortuitous that Brei and…and…”
“His brother, Prince Taran?”
“Yes… So lucky they found me.”
Morfydd motioned upwards with her fingers. “Come, take that off. I need to look at you so we know how much fabric we need.”
Sorsha stood but did not remove the fur cape until Morfydd stepped forwards and tore it off. Her skin prickled as Morfydd fitted pieces of rough-spun wool. When Morfydd had collected enough scraps to fit Sorsha’s frame, they sat on the floor in silence, fastening the pieces together with a needle made from deer bone. Morfydd’s method of instruction involved pointing, grunts, and curt slaps if Sorsha made a mistake.
As dusk frosted over the farmstead, Sorsha pulled the finished tunic over her head and tied a strip of leather around her waist. The beige fabric dropped to her ankles and rested in a modest position on her chest. The gusseted arms were loose and came to her wrists.
Morfydd fingered the hemming on one sleeve. “Tomorrow we’ll make an apron and socks.”
“Thank you,” Sorsha mumbled.
That evening, Anwen and Morfydd hung an iron cauldron from metal rods across the fire. The liquid inside gurgled ominously, and Sorsha noted the distinct absence of a delicious scent. Ceridwen, who did not seem to share the same fear of Sorsha as her twin sister Nia did, held up small, carved wooden bowls as Anwen ladled out a beige, puffy slop. The fire fluttered across Ceridwen’s heart-shaped face, which she had inherited from Anwen, but her braids were blonde, like her uncle Taran’s hair. Nia sat hunched over on her cot bed, murmuring to herself as she played with a polished wooden horse. She shared her father’s stern expression and light brown hair.
Ceridwen shuffled to Sorsha and held up a bowl of what looked like soupy grains.
Sorsha smiled down at the child as she accepted the warm bowl and a ruggedly carved spoon. “What is it?”
Ceridwen frowned, and Sorsha wondered if she had given herself away.
“It’s porridge. Oats and water,” Ceridwen said.
Morfydd glared at Sorsha over the cauldron. “Eat back there and go to sleep!”
Sorsha slid behind the screen and sat on the bed of skins, squashed between a loom, spinning wheel, and stacks of woollen sheets. Her stomach rumbled, but the lumpy beige muck looked unappetising. She swallowed a mouthful of creamy grains and watched Anwen and the twins join Morfydd by the fire.
“What do you think?” Anwen whispered to Morfydd.
Morfydd glanced towards the storage area. “I don’t trust her.”
&nbs
p; Sorsha slid back into the shadows.
“What can we do?”
“Nothing until Brei gets back,” Morfydd whispered and then, raising her voice, said “there are warriors guarding the farmstead and the forest if anyone were to try anything!”
Six
Winter, 366 C.E., Maetae
Brei and his scouting party departed Caermhèad at dawn and crossed the Neidrabona. Riding their horses at a gallop, they curved around the mountain range before the land flattened into grassy lowlands. The change in geography marked the border between the Kingdoms of Maetae and Damnnonia.
As the sun reached its highest position, Brei raised his hand to slow the rest of the group as he surveyed the ruins of an abandoned Roman wall. A ditch lay in front of a grass mound, carpeted in snow, about three yards high. It stretched to the horizon on either side. On top of the grass wall were the remains of a wooden fence. In many places, it had rotted away, enabling them to see through it from horseback.
Brei looked to the west, waiting for Owain and the others to join them. Gruffydd and Taran watched southwards through a gap in the fence. The city of Gowan lay near the wall, but there was no evidence of a disturbance.
Riders galloped from the west along the wall. Owain and his group of scouts reined up in front of them. Owain leant against his horse’s neck to speak to Brei, red hair plastered to his sweaty face. “Nothing. A few trade ships heading south from Caertarwos, but other than that, nothing. We passed a good many farmsteads on our way. None had seen any sign of Romans, not for many winters.”
“We saw no traces of soldiers in the forest either.”
Owain dismounted. “So, what now?”
Brei had been trying to process the same question in his mind. “I think we should still enquire with the Damnnones.”
Taran leaned against the wooden fence. “If the Damnnones saw nothing coming through here, then we should revisit King Nechtan on our way back to Caercaled to see if his scouts found anything.”
Brei nodded, his thoughts returning to the strange woman, who he was now certain was lying. Why?
Brei, Taran, Naoise, Gruffydd, and Cináed stood on the southern side of the wall and watched as Dylan slid gingerly down through the snow on his bottom. Brei helped him stand as the others sniggered, having managed the distance at a jump themselves. Dylan’s cheeks reddened as Taran ruffled his black hair.