A Painted Winter

by H. Barnard

  Sorsha glanced at Eluned, who had auburn hair and a strange, haughty way of holding her mouth. The fire plunged her painted face into shadow one moment and then flickered across the whites of her eyes.

  “They are my apprentices,” Serenn continued. “Have something to drink.”

  Arian pulled a wooden ladle from the cauldron, poured a steaming liquid into a goblet, and handed it to Sorsha.

  Taran cleared his throat. “Sorsha, I should show you your chamber now.”

  Sorsha raised the drink to her lips, inhaling the acrid herbs. The boiling liquid burnt her tongue and her throat. Her eyes watered, and the pungent, steamy room seemed to sway beneath her. Serenn’s lips curled upwards as Sorsha handed Arian the empty cup.

  “See me again soon,” Serenn said. Her voice rasped, as though she had dwelt for too long by the pungent fumes.

  Taran guided Sorsha back down the stairs, past Brei’s closed door once more, and on to the second landing, where he pushed open the wooden door. He ducked his head under the stone arch and beckoned Sorsha to follow him. The roof was much higher than it had been in Serenn’s chamber, and Sorsha could stand at full height. Unlike Serenn’s chamber, walls of wood divided Taran’s floor into four separate rooms.

  Taran pushed open one of the doors. “This is my chamber, but it will be yours now. Sorry if it’s a mess.” He ran his hand over his forehead and ruffled his blond ponytail. “This has all been a bit unexpected. My things are everywhere,” he said as he picked up a bow and quiver strewn on the cot bed. “I’ll send servants to fix the room for now, and later I’ll see if we can set you up in a roundhouse below the tower.”

  Sorsha peered inside. As well as the cot bed, the chamber contained two wood chairs, a low table, and a small hearth with a fire burning. Along the wooden wall was a long bench with a bronze mirror and basin, a dagger, and a carved wooden snake that looked as if it were a children’s toy. Taran piled all the items into his arms, including the mirror. Sorsha smiled as she watched him struggle to hold on to everything.

  “Where will you stay?” she asked.

  He pointed with his chin to the wooden wall. “With my cousin Naoise in the room next door. Can you hold the door open for me?”

  She followed him and opened the door to the next room along. Clothes and weapons littered the room, and a stale sweat stung her nostrils. Taran emptied his arms on the cot bed and shook his head as he avoided stepping on the legs of a pair of deerskin pants. “I’m almost regretting saving you now.”

  Sorsha tilted her head. “And why did you?”

  Taran leant against the doorframe and ran his hand across the stubble on his jaw. “A conversation for another time, perhaps. Servants will be up shortly to assist you, Eiry and Loyr are their names. They’ll fix my room for you and help you out of those rags. I will be in the hall if you need me… but you won’t… can I have my cloak back?”

  Sorsha blinked. “Um, yes.”

  “Thanks,” he said, holding his hand out.

  Sorsha unfastened the silver brooch, and Taran pulled the heavy cape off her shoulders, so she could hold up the front of her ripped tunic. As soon as the cool air washed over her, his leather boots clicked along the wooden floor, echoing across the landing and down the stone steps.

  As she closed the door to her new room, Sorsha realised how heavy her head had become, and wondered how her neck bore it. She shuffled to a chair by the fire and stared into the flames. Her mind wandered through the vineyards on her parents’ estate, her hands trailing across red autumnal leaves. She saw her mother’s face, her shoulders draped in a silk wrap that rustled when she moved her arms. A tear crept over the edge of Sorsha’s eyelid as she drifted to sleep.

  A subtle aroma of cooked meat and fresh bread floated through the warm air. Sorsha rolled over in the tiny cot bed and opened her eyes. Orange light shimmered across the grey stone wall.

  Taran sat by the fire, eating a rib of venison with his hands. He caught her eye and nodded towards a glossy red clay dish of meat, kale, turnips, and buttered bread. “Forgive the intrusion. I thought you’d be awake by the time the servants had laid this all out, and…” he shrugged. “I was hungry.”

  Two silver goblets sat on the table with a clay wine jug. Sorsha recognised the red clay serving ware, she had eaten from similar dishes in her home in Britannia. She wondered if a merchant such as her father had sold it to the barbarians, or if it was the reward of plunder.

  The door to the chamber creaked open and the serving girl, Loyr, mousy-haired and timid, shuffled into the room. Loyr glanced at Taran and her eyes widened. “I’m so sorry, my lady, I only stepped out for a moment. I was hoping to dress you properly before…” she glanced at Taran. “Before you had any visitors.” He rolled his eyes.

  Sorsha’s parents had kept slaves in Britannia, and it was almost a relief to be dressed by someone else again. Loyr pulled a blue tunic over her head, trimmed with yellow, and tied a matching yellow belt around her waist. Sorsha admired the concentric knots weaved into the belt.

  Loyr bowed herself out of the room, as Sorsha lowered herself into a chair by the fire. Taran turned around and plucked another rib from the plate and smiled. “Sleep well?”

  She rocked her cup in her hand and nodded. What time is it? Perhaps I can talk to Serenn and find a way out of here.

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  “Oh…um, yes, thank you,” Sorsha glanced around the room. There was no natural light. “What time is it?”

  Taran shrugged. “The blizzard is still raging, but I’d say afternoon.”

  “I was asleep this whole time?”

  “Well, you drank Serenn’s wine, didn’t you? I did try to make you come with me before you had any.”

  Sorsha frowned.

  “Don’t fret.” He smiled. “She makes it for Brei, Anwen, and I.”

  Sorsha studied the weave of the woollen tunic stretched across her knees. “Do you have trouble sleeping?”

  “Yes. You have trouble sleeping also?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You said you talk in your sleep, remember? A fact most upsetting for Anwen.” His lips curled into a smirk.

  Sorsha’s cheeks flushed.

  “What do you dream about?”

  Sorsha shifted her legs away from the fire. Sweat beaded on her top lip. “I don’t know.”

  Taran leant forwards, his features plunged into the glowing light. “Tell me something.”

  “Something?” Sorsha sat upright in her chair.

  “Tell me something…” He paused, a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. “About where you grew up. Did you grow up in a city or in the country?”

  “The country,” she murmured.

  Taran raised his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re a farmer’s daughter?”

  “No,” she grimaced. “My father was a merchant.”

  “Strange for a merchant to live in the country, isn’t it?”

  She raised her goblet to her lips, careful not to drink anything from it. “He wasn’t home often.”

  “He may not know you are gone, then?”

  Sorsha leaned in towards the fire. A hot sickness rose in her abdomen.

  “Not that he wouldn’t miss you,” Taran continued.

  “He died two years ago, so no, he won’t be missing me.”

  His face, darkened by shadow, was incomprehensible. “I’m sorry…and your mother?”

  “She’s alive.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I feel an ache, a sickness, whenever I think of her.”

  He reached to recover the glossy red jug and splashed more wine into his goblet. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “I…” She traced the intricate bumps and notches of leaves etched into the silver cup. “We’d had a fight…and I was very far away from home when the soldiers attacked me.” Sorsha tilted her head. “And where are your parent
s?”

  Taran stared into his goblet and swirled the contents around. “Dead.” The chair creaked as he leant back. “I think.”

  Twelve

  Winter, 367 C.E., Caledon

  “Why can’t we stay here?” Anwen looked up at Brei pleadingly as he brushed a strand of coppery hair from her face.

  The blizzard had broken, and white sunlight glared through the clouds. Brei and Anwen stood beside the half-frozen river on the edge of the farmstead.

  “Darling, I am bound to you, but I am also a Prince of the Blood and my place…our place is in Caercaled.”

  “But I want to stay at the farmstead to look after Mother.”

  “Anwen.” Brei drew her in and held her. “I know you’re afraid, my darling, but Sorsha will not hurt you.”

  Anwen’s eyes widened. “But she will tell the soldiers where I am!”

  “If she wanted to kill you, she would have done so when she stayed at the farmstead. And if she wanted the soldiers to kill you, it would be a lot easier for them to do it here.”

  “They took your mother from the tower,” Anwen whispered.

  “Maybe. We don’t know where she was. Perhaps she had left the tower and was caught later.” He shook his head. “But it doesn’t matter, I won’t let anything happen to you. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course I trust you.” She kissed his cheek. “But how can you trust her?”

  “I’ve never said I trust her, ever. I’m just saying I don’t think you have anything to fear.”

  “I’d feel better if I knew I didn’t have to see her again. Can you find out if she’s staying in the tower? And ask that she be moved out if she is?”

  “That would be so awkward for me, Anwen. Taran is bound to her in obligation and is responsible for her crimes, isn’t that enough?”

  “I don’t trust Taran. I don’t trust anyone but you. There’s something not right about her and I…” Her breathing became erratic. “I’m sorry, Brei. Whenever I see her, it reminds me of…” She screwed up her face and shuddered against his chest.

  “Shh. Breathe, darling, I’m here.” He stroked her hair. “And I will ask her to avoid you, if you promise to move back to the tower with me today. But if the king or Serenn want her with them, there’s nothing I can do. She won’t harm you. No one will.”

  She nodded against his chest but did not move out of his arms. He glanced at the frozen edges of the river and in his mind followed the forested bank to the stone walls of Caercaled. His stomach tightened as he imagined how the conversation with Sorsha would play out. Taran will not be pleased about this.

  Caercaled bustled with activity as Brei rode to the tower alone. Anwen had insisted he go on ahead and ask Sorsha to stay away from them. He had promised her. But as he gazed at the grey tower, he wondered whether he should honour it. The last thing he wanted was more conflict with Taran.

  Cináed guarded the gate in the final rampart before the tower, and he took the reins from Brei. “I’ll have one of the boys take Rhuad to the stables.”

  “Thanks, Cin.” Brei pulled a bundle of furs off the saddle and trudged between the row of roundhouses towards the tower. Beli whined and reared onto his hind legs as Brei approached. “Good boy,” Brei murmured, ducking his head under the entrance arch of the tower. On the third landing, he pushed open the wooden door to his floor and threw the pack of furs on the ground with a thud. A wooden table and chairs stood in a large living area next to the fire. In the back, a wooden wall divided the floor in half, and two doors led into bedrooms, one for the twins and one for Brei and Anwen.

  Brei shrugged his cape off, letting it fall to the ground. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots as he crossed to the table. What is Sorsha going to say? Will Taran be furious? He traced a circular pattern in the tabletop with his finger. This is so awkward. The pad of his index finger numbed as he traced around it over and over. Finally, he clenched his fists, strode across the floor to the door and grasped the handle. The iron was cold beneath his palm. Anwen’s wellbeing is more important than offending Taran. Wrenching the door open, he stepped into the glow of the landing and down the staircase. As he pushed open the door to the second floor, his palms were covered in a film of sweat.

  Muffled voices escaped from Taran’s room.

  “What was it like growing up here?”

  Brei hesitated. Sorsha’s voice was soft, but with a crisp, pragmatic edge, as though she wanted the answer for her own sake, rather than for the meandering pleasure of conversation.

  “I don’t know, different to now, I suppose. Uncle Uradech was king then, he was different to Gartnait, and he was…”

  Brei thought Taran was whispering and could not hear the response.

  “What were your parents like? Is Brei your only sibling?”

  Brei listened intently, and he wrestled with his promise to Anwen and an acute desire to leave.

  “Just Brei… Ah, I guess I was very close to my father. He was a younger son of the King of the Damnnones. He taught me everything. How to fight, how to shoot a stag. In summer he’d show me the safe paths through the bogs and marshes, and we’d ride to the coast, to Caertarwos, to see my cousins of the Blood.”

  “Tell me again how it works. To be a Prince of the Blood.”

  “The claim to kingship passes through the female line. My mother was a Princess of the Blood in the Kingdoms of Caledon and Vortriu. Her brothers, Uradech and Gartnait, both became Kings of Caledon, and her nephew, Talorc, is King of Vortriu. It means Brei and I both have a claim to the thrones of Caledon and Vortriu, but our children will not, because the right to make a claim does not pass from father to son. Although, if I had a son with a Princess of the Blood, he would have a claim. If I were to bind myself in protection and provision to one of our cousins like Aífe, for example.”

  “Why don’t you do that, then?”

  Taran laughed. “She is my second cousin, so I would be allowed to bind myself in protection to her. But she grew up here with me, like a sister. I kissed her once, but it felt wrong.”

  Sorsha laughed.

  “I have a cousin in Caertarwos,” Taran continued. “Princess Eithne, and she is exquisite. Her hair is like a veil of gold. Sadly, she is my first cousin, and the Druwydds would never consider it. But I don’t want to be bound in protection and provision. Not right now, anyway. It’s bad enough being bound to you in obligation and having to worry about all the crimes you’re committing when my back is turned.”

  Brei heard muffled laughter from the pair.

  “And what about you? Aren’t I bound to your crimes as well? How do I know you’re not up to mischief?” Sorsha asked, and Brei could hear the smile in her voice.

  “Caledon is my mother and my father. It is my child. I would never do anything to betray my country.”

  “You want to be king, don’t you?” Sorsha asked.

  Brei took a step closer.

  “More than anything. But not for me. Not for the sake of power. But because I know…I truly believe I’d lead Caledon to glory. I’d restore her to her rightful place in the Northern Alliance. King Uradech was Over-King of the Northern Alliance, and I will be too.”

  Brei rubbed his hand over his face, his palm grazing the bristles of his beard. “Taran, are you there?” he shouted.

  There was a pause, before Taran called, “Come in.”

  Brei walked into Taran’s room. It was devoid of all his possessions, even his mirror had been removed. Taran faced the door, sitting by the fire, while Sorsha sat opposite, a goblet resting on the wooden arm of the chair. She twisted in her seat to look at him, and Brei met her green eyes.

  Taran smiled. “You’ve returned?” He stood up and walked to Brei. They embraced, and Brei’s cheeks reddened.

  “Anwen and the girls will be back soon, I arrived early.” Brei cleared his throat, wishing the blush would dissipate. “Are you living in the tower, Sorsha?”

  “She’s staying here, in my old room.” Taran smiled. “I’
m bunking with Naoise.”

  Brei grimaced. “Ugh.”

  “I had Loyr and Eyrie clean it up. Poor girls.” Taran laughed.

  Brei looked at the ground, and the crackle of the fire seemed to roar as the room fell silent.

  “So, were you after something?” Taran asked.

  “I just, um…I just wanted to speak to Sorsha, actually.”

  Taran eyed him questioningly, and Brei wondered how Taran had grown so much taller and broader than him.

  Sorsha had remained impassive throughout their discussion, studying Brei as she took a long sip of wine. As she lowered her arm, her movements seemed deliberately slow. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, you see, Anwen is awfully cut up about… I’d just like to ask if it’s possible for you to give Anwen and the girls space. That is to say, ah, could you please stay away from them?”

  Sorsha’s stony face barely moved. “Of course.” She shrugged.

  Taran considered her, and his face relaxed. “Is that all?”

  “Ah, yes… Thank you for understanding,” and he frowned as he realised she did not care.

  Brei backed out of the room and stepped into the flickering glow of the landing. Footsteps echoed below, and he turned to see King Gartnait emerging from the darkness of the stairwell.

  “Hello, lad!” Gartnait smiled, wrinkles creasing around his eyes. “Is Taran in? I thought I would catch you both now that you are back, so we could continue that conversation, Brei.”

  A chair scraped in Sorsha’s room and, just as Taran stepped onto the landing, Brei touched his arm and whispered, “I’m sorry about that Anwen–”

  “You did what you had to.” Taran shrugged Brei off and stepped towards Gartnait, grasping his hand. “Uncle, are you well?”

  Brei frowned. Garnait does seem thin. The skin was stretched so tight over his cheekbones that Brei thought he could tell what his skull would look like when he died.

  Gartnait noticed his nephew’s concerned expression. “Don’t trouble yourself with me, dear boy. I’ll be visiting Serenn after we chat. She has a fresh batch of potion for my aches. Anyway.” Gartnait paused and smiled. “I wanted to continue that conversation we were having Brei, before all that nasty business with the trial.”