by H. Barnard
They walked towards Gowan, a town within the Kingdom of the Damnnones on the banks of the River Clud. The stench of animals and inhabitants was overpowering. Along the city’s narrow lanes, snow was piled up against stone roundhouses with brownish-grey roofs, thatched and slanting. The murmur of a hundred conversations rose and carried in the icy air.
Brei stopped and turned to the others. “Spread out and find Damnnones’ warriors and traders. Ask whether they’ve seen any Roman soldiers. We’ll meet back at the wall before nightfall.”
Jostling through groups of market buyers and sellers, Brei pushed past two large men carrying swords outside a stall selling ale. “Are you in the service of King Alwyn?”
The taller of the pair spoke. “Depends who’s asking.”
“I’m Prince Bridei of Caledon and Vortriu. King Alwyn is my uncle.”
The shorter man raised his eyebrows. “What brings you so far south?”
“Answer my question first.”
The tall man smiled. “I am Rhodri, a warrior in the service of King Alwyn’s son, Prince Coel, and this is Aaron.”
Brei nodded. “We fear there may be Romans ranging in Caledon, perhaps planning an attack. Have you seen any soldiers?”
Rhodri glanced at Aaron. “None crossing over the Clud. But we have seen them ranging further south. Their scouts travel freely in Gwoddodin.”
“We see them quite a bit, actually,” Aaron added.
Brei frowned. “In Gwoddodin?”
Rhodri shook his head. “No, Aaron means something else.”
Brei turned to the stall owner, an elderly man wearing a grubby beige apron. “A round of ale for us, please,” he said, pressing a clipped piece of Roman coin into the stall owner’s hand. The old man dipped three wooden tankards into a foaming barrel of ale and handed them to Brei, Rhodri, and Aaron.
Brei grasped the wet wooden cup and took a sip of the bitter ale, surveying the Damnnone warriors as he drank. “So, tell me, why have you been seeing soldiers?”
Aaron smiled. “We’ve been paying visits to our friends over the Great Wall.”
Brei spat out a mouthful of ale. “You what?”
Rhodri and Aaron grinned. “There’s not many soldiers left on the wall anymore,” Aaron said. “Hardly any of the towers are occupied like they were in our grandfathers’ time. The ones that are left, they’ve been recruiting them locally and, ah, they’re a lot friendlier than those foreign soldiers.”
“And what have you been doing?”
Rhodri drained his cup. “Raiding beyond the wall. They just let us. We let them have some of our spoils on the way back through. You have to avoid the big forts but the smaller towers, they just let you right through the gate, no problems.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Aaron pulled back the cloak he wore and displayed a golden brooch. It dazzled even in the fading winter light. “I took this from a big white farmhouse. Their farmers are filthy rich, a single man ruling over an estate with slaves growing food for him. Not like our farms. But they are just as unprotected.”
“Do you worry they will launch a revenge campaign?”
Rhodri shook his head. “They don’t have the men to range very far beyond the wall. The news we have from traders is something’s distracting them, some war with the tribes beyond Gaul.”
As the sun dipped behind the forest, Brei climbed over the wall to join the rest of the scouting party.
Naoise’s cheeks were tinged with pink. “Did you hear about the raids?”
Brei nodded. “But more importantly, none of the Damnnone warriors had seen soldiers on their land.”
“And most of the army has left the Great Wall,” Naoise continued, as though he had not heard Brei. “And the Roman garrison are less hostile than normal they have been allowing the Damnnones through the wall with only a small bribe of silver.”
Brei grunted and continued walking to the woods just north of the Ruined Wall to make camp.
“What are you going to do about it?”
Brei frowned as he undid Rhuad’s girth strap. “What am I going to do?”
Naoise nodded. “Isn’t this the perfect time to strike? Get revenge for what they did?”
Brei hauled the leather saddle off Rhuad’s back. “Maybe,” he said as he led Rhuad away from Naoise. If I can get revenge against the Romans, maybe Taran will forgive me. Sticky needles grazed his hands as he tied Rhuad to a fir tree, giving him enough rope to lie down. Brei stroked Rhuad’s forehead. “We’ll be home in a few days.”
A twig snapped, and Brei turned to see Taran leading his white horse through the snow towards him. “Did you hear–” Brei began.
“Even if I didn’t, Naoise has made sure we are all informed.”
“He is nothing but enthusiastic,” Brei said and smiled.
Taran twisted another rope around the tree. “What do you think?”
He cleared his throat. “I want revenge, Taran. More than I want to sleep or to eat. I want to kill the men who murdered our father, our uncle, and who took our mother.”
Taran raised an eyebrow. “And the men who hurt Anwen?”
Brei clenched his jaw. “Obviously.”
“This woman is a sign from the Gods. She led us here, soldiers or no soldiers. Now we know they are weak and we can strike. It’s destiny.”
Brei studied Taran’s face. He had the colouring of their mother, but the looks of their father. “We should speak to King Gartnait.”
Taran grinned. His milky white smile was seldom bestowed on Brei alone, and Brei felt the colour rise in his cheeks as he grinned back.
When they had built a fire, Brei sat on the icy ground. His bones creaked as though they had aged beyond his years in the space of a few days. He moved his feet closer to the fire, relishing the luxury of heat.
“Why would someone lie about being attacked by Romans?” Cináed shook his head.
“Perhaps she’s a spy?” Owain said.
Gruffydd raised his eyebrows. “A spy without clothes?”
“Maybe to lure us into taking her in?” Owain shrugged.
Brei closed his eyes and wished he had trusted his first instinct not to leave Anwen alone with the woman.
Taran reclined and rested his head on his saddlebag. “Do you remember the stories of the Gallar? They disappeared and reappeared wherever the Gods sent them, always where there was evil or sickness. Didn’t they always have green eyes?”
Brei recalled the haunting glow of the woman’s eyes, and he began to second-guess himself. Perhaps he had not imagined it, after all. Maybe the light of the fire really had reflected yellow in her eyes. Like a wolf.
Naoise threw a twig at Taran. “No, it’s faeries that have green eyes.”
“No, they don’t!” Dylan yelled. “Faeries have purple eyes. Like summer heather!”
Brei grew deaf as his thoughts turned inwards. Beads of cold sweat dripped down his sides and he closed his eyes. He imagined returning to the farmstead, hearing Nia and Ceridwen scream “Papa!” as they raced towards him with smiles. But there was no sound except the faint creaking of tall pines swaying in the wind. In his vision, he walked to Morfydd’s roundhouse, but when he reached the door, blood seeped out, turning the snow red.
Seven
Winter, 366 C.E., Caledon
The days blurred into one as Sorsha helped Morfydd and Anwen around the farmstead, making woollen sheets on the loom and grinding husks to make flour. By the third day, Sorsha’s palms were forming calluses. Dark circles spread beneath Anwen’s eyes and her movements became erratic. Sorsha seldom left the smoky confines of the roundhouse, but when she did her eyes trailed across the hardened faces of the guards Taran had sent to watch over them. When the chores were completed each night, Sorsha was banished to languish in her place behind the weaved hazel-branch screen and furs. While it was warm in the roundhouse, the pungent stuffiness of smoke, dried herbs, and raw sheep’s wool had Sorsha longing to be outdoors, even if it meant freezing. S
he was relieved when, on a bleak morning, Morfydd told Sorsha to search for hazelnuts in the forest.
It had snowed hard the night before, and her boots sunk knee-deep into the crunching snow. As she walked up the rise, at the eastern edge of the clearing, she came upon two warriors cloaked in greying furs. Their cheeks were icy pale beneath shaggy red hair. One had freckles leaping across a pronounced nose, while the other had skin so smooth it looked as though it were frosted over. They glanced at each other as she approached.
“Hello,” Sorsha said as she stopped where the shadows of the forest met the brightness of the snow.
“Are you the woman Brei found?” one man asked.
Sorsha tilted her chin upwards. “Yes. And who are you?”
“The warriors sent to guard you,” the man with freckles said. “I am Brin, and this is Deryn.”
“Guard me?”
“Well,” Brin cleared his throat, “not just you. Everyone in the farmstead, in case those barbarian Romans come back.”
Sorsha raised her eyebrows and wondered how they could hope to defend the farmstead against professional soldiers.
“But it’s not just us,” Deryn said. “This is just our post.”
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, stepping towards the forest.
Brin stepped in front of her. “Where are you going?”
“In there.” She pointed to tall pine trees shrouded in the snow that lined the edge of the forest. “I’m looking for hazelnuts for Morfydd,” she said, holding up a leather pouch Morfydd had given her.
“Well, don’t stray too far,” Deryn said. “There are more warriors in the forest, and they are shaky enough to shoot anything that moves.”
Brin touched the hilt of his sword. “You’re lucky you stumbled on us first, not everyone is as steady as us.”
“Right. I’ll keep an eye out,” she said and continued into the forest.
Breathing in the fresh winter air, her shoulders relaxed for the first time since she arrived in Caledon. She trudged through the white forest without a clear sense of direction, hoping to find a coppice of hazelnut trees, but with no urgent desire to return to the farmstead. At times she tripped and fell in the snow. Her skin tingled beneath a film of soot as the crisp air swirled around her, and she longed to bathe in the hot spring baths that were so common in her homeland. At last she spotted a solitary hazelnut tree standing desolate among the pines and oaks. She crouched down and dug in the snow underneath the tree to find any hazelnuts that had fallen during autumn, and that squirrels had not taken. By the time she had collected over twenty nuts in the leather pouch, her stomach was growling.
Despite her hunger, she did not want to return. Instead, she lay in the snow in an oak grove and watched the clouds. They had turned from fluffy white to ominous grey. She flirted with the idea of leaving, of returning to Britannia. I wish I knew what to do, wish there was a Druwydd I could speak to. They would know what I am here for. Her stomach knotted and ached as she thought of home, of her mother. I wish our last words hadn’t been in anger. Tears rolled across her cheeks and into her hair. I wish I could tell her I was sorry. If only I had listened to her lessons. If I had accepted the inevitable, I would know what to do right now. She imagined stealing a horse from the stables and riding south for as long as it took. Maybe I can leave. Maybe I can return to her and go back to my old life. Her throat constricted, as though invisible hands choked her. She spluttered and coughed until the tightness subsided. Through a watery veneer, she watched a snowflake twirl in the breeze until it landed on her forehead.
“Sorsha?”
She sat up and dragged the back of her hand across her cheeks.
Ceridwen crunched across the clearing. “Are you okay?”
With a drawn bow and arrow, Taran followed her.
Sorsha scrambled to dust off the caked snow. “I’m fine.” She looked at Taran. “Is something wrong?”
Taran put his hand on the child’s shoulder. “Ceridwen was worried because you were gone for so long when it looked like another snowstorm was coming in.”
Sorsha looked down. “Sorry, you startled me.”
Ceridwen stepped closer to Sorsha. Her cheeks were flushed and her blue eyes sparkled against the snow. “Why were you sleeping?”
Sorsha frowned. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
“Then what were you doing…?” Taran asked, the right side of his mouth curling up.
“Are you crying, Sorsha?” Ceridwen asked.
“No.”
“But I could see tears.”
“I… yes, well, I guess I was. I’m just tired.” Sorsha surveyed her knees, surrounded by hardening snow. “When did you get back?”
Taran fingered the feather tip at the end of his arrow. “Just recently. Why have you been gone for so long?”
Sorsha took out the leather pouch and gave it to Ceridwen. “I was collecting hazelnuts.”
Ceridwen investigated the contents of the pouch. “You didn’t find many!”
“Oh, I thought I had quite a few.”
Taran smirked. “Perhaps you should spend less time lying on the ground.”
Sorsha glanced at the bare oak branches, covered in snow, and said nothing.
Taran tugged at one of Ceridwen’s blonde braids. “Come, Ceridwen, let’s head back. Dinner will be ready.”
Sorsha followed them out of the grove. “Dinner? I didn’t realise it was so late.”
Ceridwen extended her hand towards her. “That’s why we came looking for you.”
She accepted Ceridwen’s small hand. “How did you find me, anyway?”
Taran frowned. “There’s an entire garrison of warriors guarding the farmstead. Surely you didn’t think we’d let you roam around unfollowed? Plus...” He smirked. “We could see how many times you’d fallen over.”
Her walk into the forest seemed like days ago, and tripping over was already a distant memory. “Oh.”
Beneath dark clouds Brei stood outside the roundhouse with an older man. Brei still wore the same tasselled shawl. She pulled his fur cape tighter around her shoulders. He must have been freezing without this.
“Hello,” Brei said, almost inaudibly. A shadow hovered beneath his blue eyes, and thin lines she had not noticed before were etched across his high forehead.
“Hello. I didn’t get to say it before, but thank you for rescuing me.”
He nodded and picked up Ceridwen, who showed her father the pouch of hazelnuts. “She didn’t find very many, Papa.”
Brei glanced at the other man. “Goodnight, Gruffydd.” He nodded at Taran and bent to enter the roundhouse.
Gruffydd patted Taran on the shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Sorsha and Taran watched in silence as Gruffydd mounted a grey stallion and cantered through the snow to the north.
“Do you live here too?” Sorsha asked.
“No.” Taran gestured in the direction Gruffydd had ridden. “I live in the fortress at Caercaled. We all do, except for Morfydd. Surely, Morfydd and Anwen told you that by now?”
“They have barely spoken a word to me.”
Taran’s eyes narrowed. “And why do you think that is?”
She shrugged. “The first day, they accused me of being a Roman spy.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I talk in my sleep. I always have. So, I probably said some things in Latin… In the language the Romans speak. But how do Anwen and Morfydd know what the Romans sound like?”
“That’s not your concern. We should go inside, dinner will be ready.”
Sorsha frowned, not moving.
Taran exhaled. “Go inside, please.”
Sorsha looked him in the eye. “Why is everyone here so hostile?”
Taran stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Why are you so strange?”
“I’m not the one who is strange, it’s all of you who are…” Barbarians.
Taran smirked. “Forgive
me, of course, it’s all of us, it’s the entire Kingdom of Caledon who are strange, not you, the woman who spontaneously appeared naked in our forest.”
She opened her mouth, but Taran’s smile vanished. “Go inside.”
The blood rose to her face, but she forced a smile. “After you.”
He shook his head and opened the door of the roundhouse.
Sorsha dragged her wooden spoon through yet another meal of porridge as she listened, unfocused, to Brei as he told Anwen and Morfydd of how a king, named Nechtan, had known that another king, called Gartnait, was sick. She was dazed to be inside after the stark freshness of the outdoors, and the room seemed even more claustrophobic with the addition of two grown men.
Brei’s eyes narrowed. “Sorsha?”
She tried to frown the fog away. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“I asked how you got so far north.”
The fire was scorching against her legs, the relentless glare of Anwen and Morfydd suffocating. “I…” She closed her eyes. She could not imagine an adequate explanation. “Um…” She leaned forwards and opened her eyes as the light of the fire fell across her face. Anwen gasped and clutched Brei’s hand. Sorsha frowned and wondered if a stray spark from the fire had burnt Anwen. Taran tilted his head, a frown creasing his brow.
“Did the soldiers bring you here?” Brei asked, unblinking, as tiny pinpricks of fire glistened in his pupils.
“I don’t remember.”
Eight
Winter, 366 C.E., Caledon
“I asked how you got so far north,” Brei said.
“I…” Sorsha closed her eyes. “Um…”
What’s wrong with her? Brei glanced at Taran, whose face seemed to mirror Brei’s own thoughts. She’s hiding something. Maybe she is a spy.
Sorsha opened her eyes and leant forwards. The light from the fire flashed across her face and her green eyes glowed yellow. Like a wolf. Anwen inhaled and grasped Brei’s hand.