by H. Barnard
“We have heard from the accusers, Anwen and Morfydd, that this woman, Sorsha, is a spy from south of the Great Wall,” the king began, in a soft but commanding voice. He was not so tall that he had a natural advantage for leadership, but his tone was reassuring. “The decision to allow Sorsha to live is not mine, but the Gods’. If Sorsha is allowed to live, I will decide what happens next.” He nodded to Serenn.
The Bandruwydd women chanted in low voices. The blonde Bandruwydd had a noticeable limp as she shuffled towards Sorsha. When she reached her, she clasped Sorsha’s hands and applied a dark blue paste from a wooden bowl. The nerves in Sorsha’s hands tingled from the brush strokes. She looked into the painted face of the young woman. “Help me. I am a descendant of the Gallar from Tirscath.”
The whites of the young Bandruwydd’s eyes expanded against the white of the paint that encircled them, but she continued chanting. The Bandruwydd finished painting Sorsha’s hands and limped to Serenn’s side. They spoke in whispers not even the king was privy to. Serenn’s eyes glistened as she strode towards Sorsha. When Serenn stopped in front of her, a potent scent of cinnamon and smouldering wood clung to her robes. A long-nailed hand grasped Sorsha’s cheeks and raised her head up. “Look at me,” Serenn said.
Sorsha raised her chin, staring back into Serenn’s eyes. Her grasp tightened, her stare manic. The icy ground seemed to bend beneath Sorsha, and she tried to remain composed and focus on the massive antlers and deer skull affixed to Serenn’s head.
Finally, Serenn released Sorsha and raised her hands to the sky, chanting to Nodens, the Ancient People’s God of Healing. The wind howled through the creaking trees as Serenn lowered her arms and walked towards King Gartnait, who hovered a few paces behind her. They spoke in whispers for a moment and then, with glistening eyes, he followed Serenn back to Sorsha.
The king stood inches from her, and she could feel the vapour as his breath turned to condensation in the frigid air.
“How were you killed?” Serenn whispered.
Sorsha frowned. “I’m sorry, what?”
Serenn turned to the auburn-haired Bandruwydd standing next to her. “Check her heart.”
The two younger Bandruwydds removed Brei’s fur cape from around Sorsha’s shoulders and let it fall to the ground. The auburn-haired Bandruwydd grasped the front of Sorsha’s tunic and wrenched it down.
Sorsha struggled against them, her skin tingling in the frosty air. “What are you doing?”
The king motioned to a man in the crowd. “Restrain her.”
A tall, red-haired warrior stepped from the semicircle and held Sorsha’s arms behind her back. The Bandruwydd ripped Sorsha’s dress down to her chest and exposed the deeply knotted scar above her heart. Serenn ran her fingers over the mangled scar and smiled at King Gartnait. He reached a trembling hand out, but Sorsha threw herself back into the man restraining her so that the king’s fingertips fell just short of their target. The muscles around her mouth quivered and her eyes stung.
King Gartnait stared at Sorsha, his eyes drifting between the scars and her face. She looked at the ground and let her body go limp against her captor. There is no point fighting the inevitable.
Nodding to Serenn, the king walked back to the centre of the semicircle. The warrior released Sorsha, and the blonde Bandruwydd handed her Brei’s cape. Sorsha pulled it on before her captor restrained her again.
Once more Serenn and the king conferred. Sorsha could not see Serenn’s face, but the king was frowning. He stepped away from Serenn and addressed the crowd. “Where is Naoise?”
“He must still be at Caercaled. Shall we send for him?” Brei asked.
The king nodded, and Gruffydd stepped forwards to perform the task. He ran for the stables and disappeared inside. The wind picked up, and intermittent snowflakes fell across Sorsha’s face. What on earth is going on? Moments later Gruffydd emerged from the stables, already mounted, and urged his horse into a gallop.
Sorsha turned back to the semicircle. She recognised half the crowd as the farmers and their families. Her eyes moved to Anwen and Morfydd, talking with their heads close together. Her feet ached, and she shifted from foot to foot. Perhaps Naoise is the executioner?
“Keep still,” her captor whispered, tightening his grip on her.
By the time Gruffydd returned, the snow fell thick and the wind wailed. He was followed by a dark-haired man, just into adulthood, whom Sorsha guessed was Naoise. Naoise leapt from his saddle and strolled over to the king. Sorsha could see no weapon. Perhaps they will drown me in the river? She swallowed and wondered how she would prefer to die. Burning to death would be the worst.
The king spoke to Naoise, who twisted to look at Sorsha and glared. The onlookers were silent as they watched a furious argument, in which Naoise was the only one to speak. The king shook his head and turned to Serenn. “Bind them.”
Serenn beamed as she looked at Sorsha. Her teeth flashing white against the dark blue paint. Sorsha dug her nails into her palms and prayed to the Goddess Sulis-Minerva.
“The Gods grant life!” Serenn yelled.
Sorsha opened her eyes. She felt as though all her body weight had left her, and she was nothing but air and water.
King Gartnait raised his hand to suppress the protests from Anwen and Morfydd.
“The Gods granted life, but our laws dictate that the accused must still be vouched for.” The king paused, and Sorsha saw Anwen and Morfydd smirk. “Is there anyone here who is willing to bind themselves in obligation to this woman and swear to me they will be responsible for her crimes?”
Sorsha’s cheeks flushed. She had hoped for banishment if they did not kill her.
Naoise scowled. “I am willing.”
Sorsha wondered whether she could still escape. Her mind raced as she tried to work out a plan, and she barely noticed a new voice speaking. The crowd gasped.
“No,” the king said, his voice shaking.
Taran was at her side. “Let her go, Owain.”
Her captor released her and stepped aside as the king hurried across. “Taran.” He stopped in front of them. “Naoise has agreed, there is no need for this.”
Taran lowered his voice. “Uncle, is it worth it to have me challenge you openly?”
The two men stared at each other, unblinking.
“If Taran is stepping in, then I don’t think you need me anymore,” Naoise called out. “If you do, I’ll be back at Elwyn’s tavern!”
The king shook his head. “Fine,” he muttered and walked back to the centre of the semicircle.
Serenn and the younger Bandruwydds approached, chanting, and bound Taran and Sorsha’s hands together with a thick rope made of dried grass. Serenn called for Cernunnos, the Horned God, and Belenus, the Lord of Light, to bind them in obligation, and asked that Sorsha’s crimes become Taran’s crimes, and his crimes become hers. When Serenn was finished, she shuffled aside.
“I give you my protection,” the king murmured and departed through the gathered crowd towards a horse held for him by Gruffydd. When it was clear there would be no further spectacle, those who did not live in the farmstead followed him.
Serenn approached Sorsha. “There are people who need healing. Visit me soon,” she said huskily, before she too disappeared with the crowd, trudging north against the gale.
Sorsha caught Taran’s eye and pulled against the itchy restraint that bound them.
Once most of the farmers had returned to their homes, Brei approached the pair. “We will wait till the full moon to return to Caercaled.”
“A blizzard is coming,” Taran said. “Are you sure you want to stay out here?”
Brei did not respond, and they stared at each other with such tension that Sorsha flushed. Realising she was still wearing his cape, she unclasped it from around her shoulders and tossed it to Brei, whilst trying to hold up the front of her ripped tunic. Brei accepted the cape in silence, nodding to Taran before he returned to Morfydd’s roundhouse.
The door
slammed, and Sorsha and Taran stood alone. The blue paint covering her hands was tight and itching in the wind, and she imagined how satisfying it would be to wash it off.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do that?” Sorsha asked as she flexed her hands against the paint, curling and uncurling her fists until it cracked.
Taran shrugged. “I didn’t know I was.”
He pulled a small blade from his belt and hacked off the rope that bound them. “This was all just a formality to keep you safe. We’re only bound in obligation, so don’t worry.” He threw the rope on the ground.
“What now?”
Taran glanced at the dense falling snow and removed his fur cape, handing it to Sorsha. “I guess I’ll have to take you home. To Caercaled.”
Ten
Winter, 366 C.E., Caledon
The cold wood had grazed Brei’s palm as he nudged open Morfydd’s roundhouse door. A lump rose in his throat as he thought of the pain Sorsha’s arrival had caused Anwen, and he wondered how he could begin to convince her that justice had been served.
Inside, Anwen was rebuilding the fire, her back towards him, while Nia and Ceridwen played with straw dolls beside the growing flames. Brei closed the door and knelt down beside Anwen. Tears cascaded from her blue eyes down her freckled cheeks.
“I know you’re scared, darling, but remember I will not let anything happen to you.” Brei hugged her against his chest. “I hate what they did to you. Every day my blood boils thinking of it. But it will never happen again, do you understand?”
Anwen sobbed, and he felt her nodding. “I just wish I could forget,” she choked.
“Nothing is more unfair.” He clenched his fists. “Those evil men walk in the light of ignorance while you are shadowed by the memories of their violence.” He kissed her on the top of her head.
“I can’t believe Taran betrayed you like that,” Morfydd said, slinking from behind the wicker screen dividing the roundhouse.
“He didn’t betray me,” Brei snapped.
Morfydd raised her eyebrows and Anwen pushed away, staring at him through swollen eyes.
“What I mean is,” Brei sighed. “It was Serenn who convinced Gartnait to have Sorsha stay. Like it or not, this is the justice the Gods willed.” Brei glanced at the fire. He thought he understood Taran’s motivations. But why did Serenn persuade Gartnait that Sorsha was so important they should tie her in obligation to Naoise, a Prince of the Blood? Why Naoise? When any of the warrior class or higher could have vouched for her? “In any event, it is done now.” Brei turned to Anwen. “It is all done with, and there is nothing to fear. You don’t even have to speak to her.”
“But where is she going to live? The tower? If Serenn and the king think she is important, they will surely keep her in the tower with them. You can’t expect Anwen to return there now,” Morfydd said.
Brei frowned. “Why? Is there still a problem with Sorsha?”
Anwen exchanged a look with her mother, but neither spoke.
“I’m going hunting,” Brei said, picking up his bow and quiver of arrows. He turned to Anwen and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Which is something I wouldn’t have to do if we returned to the tower, Anwen.”
Anwen busied herself with the fire, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Nia, Ceridwen, let’s go for a walk in the woods and see if we can’t get a nice hare for dinner.” He opened the door, and his daughters followed him into the frosty air.
Relief swept along his shoulders, even as the icy gale burned his cheeks. As he watched Ceridwen and Nia race into the frosted wood, his mind wandered back to Sorsha’s trial. Serenn ordered Sorsha’s dress be pulled down so they could inspect something. What did they see? Perhaps she is not a spy, but something more terrible.
Eleven
Winter, 366 C.E., Caledon
Ice tore through the air at Sorsha and Taran as they followed a track along the river. The farmstead disappeared, and the forest swelled until the river veered sharp to the north. A dense fog descended over the hills on the northern bank, and if not for the stench of smoke and human lives lived close together, Sorsha would not have believed there was a city. Plump snowdrifts perched atop a bleak wall that snaked around the base of a hill and melted into the misty sleet. They entered the stone walls of Caercaled through the Western Gate, guarded by warriors draped in fur capes. After a short lane of roundhouses they came to a large round space cleared of snow.
“What is this?” Sorsha yelled over the gale.
“The centre circle,” Taran said, without stopping.
“The what?”
“It’s where markets are held, and festivities,” he called over his shoulder.
They kept to a straight path running between rows of roundhouses and followed it through two further stone walls. The trail steepened, and the roundhouses disappeared, replaced by a forest of ghostly trees wrapped in winter’s cloak. They continued up the hill, pushing against the gale through the barren forest. At the top, they reached a final thick wall, guarded once more by faceless grey hoods. Taran approached, never altering his pace, and the warriors parted for him, bowing their heads. Inside the last wall, the trees were cleared and Sorsha could just make out a short path lined with snow-covered roundhouses. As they trudged along it, she could see flames flickering beneath a soaring shadow and, gazing up, she realised it was an enormous stone tower fading into the grey clouds.
In an alcove recessed into the curved stone entrance of the tower were flaming torches, and beneath sat a thick-set mastiff. As Taran approached, the black dog sat straight and whined. The mastiff’s head came to Taran’s waist, and he scratched the dog’s ears as he ducked below the stone arch. The dog’s eyes flicked from Taran to Sorsha and growled.
“Beli,” Taran said in a low voice.
Beli licked his lips and dropped his stomach to the ground.
“Did you name your dog after the Shining God?” Sorsha asked.
“Yes. He was born on the festival of Beltane. We found him in the stables after we’d released all the cattle for the fire run. He was the only pup from the litter who wasn’t trampled to death.”
The massive dog looked up at Sorsha and she imagined him a blind, terrified newborn. She crouched in front of Beli and stroked his sleek black head. His tail whacked repeatedly against the stone wall of the tower.
Taran snorted. “He must be getting soft in his old age, he never usually likes strangers.”
Sorsha smiled at Beli and stood up.
“Let’s go inside,” Taran said, rubbing his arms. Without his fur cape, he wore only a blue linen tunic, caked in ice.
The tower was made of two thick dry walls of interlocking stones, and in-between a stone staircase curved upwards. Taran’s foot hovered on the first step. “This is the King’s Hall,” he said, gesturing to the doorway in the inner wall.
“Beli, go inside,” Taran said, and the dog trotted inside the hall. “Loyr!” Taran yelled. “Loyr, close the door now. Brei’s not coming, we’re the last ones.”
A young girl sprinted across the gloomy hall, as if from nowhere, bowed to Taran and closed the heavy wooden door.
“This way,” Taran said, stepping into the shadowy staircase between the walls. The gale whistled and echoed against the stone as they climbed the stairs in darkness. After ten steps they reached a landing with a flaming torch hanging on the wall next to a wooden door. The flames illuminated stone etchings of snakes and strange beasts, and as Sorsha moved along the walls into the light, she saw bulls and wolves dancing in the flickering glow. Taran pointed to the closed wooden door. “This is the king’s floor, and it has the warmest rooms in the tower. Gartnait occupies them with his son, Elfinn, but when King Talorc, the Over-King of the North, or the Eldar Druwydd visit, they also stay here.”
“Where does the Bandruwydd, Serenn, live?”
“You were serious about wanting to speak to her? I’ll take you there now. They live on the highest floor of the tower.” They cl
imbed more stairs and soon reached a second landing. “This is my floor, along with my cousins,” Taran said. “I’ll show you when we come back down.” They continued up the dark staircase, the howling wind growing louder with each step until they reached a third landing. “Brei and his family live here,” Taran said, without stopping.
On the fourth and final landing, Taran knocked on a wooden door. The sound of a steady clunk and scrape drew closer until the door was opened by the young blonde Bandruwydd. The girl nodded as she admitted them into the room, her face still painted blue and white from the ceremony.
An intense concoction of herbs, smoke, and cinnamon filled Sorsha’s nostrils. The room was much smaller than the great hall below, and she wondered how that was possible. A fire glowed, flickering with violence as wind gusted down the chimney. Over the fire, on a long metal rod that seemed to float in the middle of the hearth, a giant bubbling cauldron emitted a greyish cloud of steam. Ornate, inter-lacing pictures and symbols decorated the cauldron, and Sorsha recognised Cernunnos, the Horned God, Lord of Nature, sitting on the forest floor surrounded by woodland creatures while he held in one hand a snake, and in the other a Torc necklace.
Serenn sat on a chair nearest the fire and motioned for them to join her. She had removed her deer skull and antler headdress, and her blue hair slithered across her shoulders in tentacle braids. Save for the black charcoal outlining her eyes, her face was cleansed of paint.
Sorsha dipped her head and stepped into the room through the curved opening. The roof was low, and she had to bend her knees to prevent her head from banging against the rafters. She glanced at Taran, but he did not follow her. The glow from the fire caught on a golden object lying on the bench. Its metal had been twisted countless times and formed a U-shape.
“Are you admiring my Torc?” Serenn asked as she sipped from a silver goblet. She smiled and gestured for Sorsha to approach. “I was not expecting you to visit so soon. This is Arian,” Serenn nodded to the blonde girl with the limp. “And this is Eluned.”