by H. Barnard
King Gartnait stopped at the top of a slope and gazed at the warriors gathered in the trees below. Dylan and Naoise were leaning against the trunk of a yew. Naoise yawned, his black hair sprawling across his shoulders. Brei scanned the crowd and saw Owain and Gruffydd. When Gruffydd nodded, warmth spread across Brei’s chest. I’m ready.
King Gartnait raised his hand to silence the murmurs that rippled through the crowd. He turned to Brei and Taran. “You have a proposal for consideration?”
Brei cleared his throat. The faces of the warriors stared at him in anticipation. This is it. He fixed his eyes on Gruffydd and opened his mouth to deliver his speech.
Taran stepped forwards and, in a loud voice, addressed the crowd of warriors. “Many of you have heard that, on a recent scout, we spoke with the Damnnones about the Roman movements beyond the Great Wall.”
Brei’s stomach dropped. The blood rushed to his cheeks, and he looked at the ground, hoping that Gruffydd was not looking at him.
“Before the Romans came, with their hearts full of greed, this island was united by the Gods of the Ancient Peoples. Before the Great Wall cut this island in two, we all spoke the Ancient Tongue. There are Ancient Peoples still living in the south. The Romans use these southern Ancient Peoples as soldiers and turn them into the oppressors of their own people. But we have discovered that the loyalty of these native soldiers is now being tested. The Damnnones have told us that these native soldiers are easily paid off and that they are letting the Damnnones pass through the Great Wall.” Taran paused. Feverish muttering had broken out, and he grinned.
“Brei and I have also spoken to merchants who told us that many Roman soldiers have been withdrawn from the southern lands beyond the Wall. The merchants complain that trade across the empire is disrupted and that they are attacked by Saxon pirates because the remaining Roman soldiers can no longer protect them.”
Taran nodded as muttering broke out once more. He walked down the slope, along the rows of men, looking into their faces as he spoke. “And while the merchants complain, I say we rejoice! I say we thank the Gods for this opportunity! This opportunity for vengeance!”
Taran put his hand on the shoulder of a young, red-headed warrior, Deryn. “Revenge for what they have done to us! Revenge for the towns they have destroyed! Revenge for the lives they have taken! Our fathers, who were cut down! Our mothers and sisters, who we will never see again! And if we die, the Gods will welcome us in Tirscath! Join me, brothers! Revenge or Tirscath!”
The warriors roared and thrust their fists in the air. “Revenge or Tirscath! Revenge or Tirscath!”
“Do we have the backing of the warriors of Caledon?” he yelled over the chanting. The warriors roared for Taran.
Taran rejoined Brei and King Gartnait at the top of the slope. “I ask our king, will you send us to Caertarwos, to seek the unity of the Northern Alliance?”
Brei studied Gartnait, thin in the dim light but stronger than he had seemed for months. The warriors were shouting with such vigour that Brei knew it would be impossible to deny them blood.
The king lifted his hand. “I agree to your request. You may speak with King Talorc and see if he will summon the rest of the Northern Alliance.” He paused and waited for the cheering to subside. “If vengeance can be ours, for my brother, King Uradech, for the life of my sister, Princess Derelei, then I say we must embrace it!”
Taran grinned and grasped the king’s arm. The warriors cheered and banged their swords on their wooden shields. Brei gazed at the crowd. Many of the villagers of Caercaled had joined, creeping up the hill into the Sacred Forest and flowing into the streets below. It seemed as if the whole of Caledon was celebrating. Brei closed his eyes and willed himself to join in. Revenge or Tirscath.
Before dawn, Brei walked to the stables, listening to his feet crunch in the snow. His fingers were raw in the frigid air, and he pushed them under the lip of Rhuad’s saddle as they rode out. The shadows of naked branches passed over him as he rode through the Sacred Forest and into the city. Beneath frost, the sloping roofs of roundhouses and workshops still slept, and cats skulked out of the way of Rhuad’s hooves. Puffs of mist escaped his mouth as he hailed the guards at the ramparts to each tier of the city. “Morning,” they called back, tugging at their fur capes, and following up with variations on the theme of “it’s cold out.” He rode through the Western Gate and lifted his face to the dawn. Thin clouds betrayed no sign of rain or snow. Brei urged Rhuad into a gallop to the east, towards the Shining Lakes, hoping Taran would not chastise him for sleeping in.
As Brei approached the lake, he pushed deep into his seat, slowing Rhuad to a canter, then a trot, and reined up close to the lake’s edge. Taran waited on Ri’s muscled white back, watching as three white swans, with vivid red beaks, waddled across the frozen edge of the lake.
Brei cleared his throat. “Shall we get on, then?”
Taran shifted in the saddle to face Brei. “Just waiting for Naoise,” and he nodded in the forest’s direction. The swans flapped their wings, and the rising sun outlined the feathers as they took off into the air.
“I thought it was just us?” Brei murmured as he watched the swans circle once and then fly to the east.
Taran shrugged. “He asked to come.”
They waited and, before long, Naoise came trotting out of the forest towards them. “Sorry about that,” he yelled. “Drank too much at Elwyn’s last night.”
The three of them urged their horses into a gallop, and they arched around the first Shining Lake and rode along the valley, between its smaller sister lakes. A corridor of broken water, bounded on either side by forest. In the middle of the lakes, large roundhouses called crannogs sat on stilts above the icy water, connected to the shore by a jetty. The farmsteads soon vanished, and the pasture merged into the forest. They kept to a narrow track alongside a frozen creek and continued through the valley until they reached a river that ran north to south and blocked their eastwards journey.
“We’ve come a bit too far north,” Taran called out, twisting to look at Brei.
Brei surveyed the river. The edges were frosted, but the water still surged through. It was about fifty yards wide and looked too high to cross. They followed south along the bank until they found the sandbar they were searching for. The water was high, but it was not as turbulent as the waters that raged past Caercaled.
“Time for a swim, boys,” Taran called as he jumped off Ri and led the white stallion down the riverbank into the water. The sandbar, which acted as a stepping-stone across the river in summer, was submerged. Brei suspected the water would be waist-deep, at most.
Naoise cursed as he stepped into the river. “I can take it anywhere but my balls!”
Brei snorted and jumped into the icy water, leading Rhuad in after him, being careful to hold his cape above his head. The water came to his waist, but after a few steps, he could walk at knee-height across the sandbar, before plunging again to cross to the other side.
As Brei splashed up the snowy bank, Taran and Naoise were already re-mounted and keen to continue. They followed the river southeast, sitting sodden and freezing in the saddle, and passed through ancient lands of a long-forgotten kingdom. Brei knew there was a minor fortress atop a hill in the lands to his left. He looked up at the hills for the ruins, but the snow-dusted trees obscured them. Brei closed his eyes and listened to the rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves on the dirt road, imagining past battles between the kings of his ancestors.
They continued until they reached a snake bend, where they had to cross two rivers. There was an island where the rivers met, and they used the shelter this provided to cross behind it. The water was much deeper there, and they could only just touch the bottom. Their horses managed better than they did, arching their heads up out of the water and pushing forwards off the bottom with their long legs. It took them a good ten minutes to cross. On the other side, Brei flopped on the snowy bank next to Taran and Naoise, shivering as he gasped for a
ir. Rhuad shook himself and droplets of water sprayed on Brei’s face.
“Need to keep moving, or the horses will freeze,” Brei said, standing up to stretch. The pants and bottom of his tunic clung damp and heavy to his limbs. They re-mounted in silence and rode northeast along the river to join a wide dirt road, where they were able to travel at a faster pace. It had once been a road the Romans used. Brei clenched his jaw. The Romans made footholds into our ancestors’ land by using our own network of tracks and settlements.
The further east they rode, the lighter the snow covering on the road, and by afternoon the road was mud. Forest thinned into pasture and, in the distance, Brei saw a small farmstead near the ruins of an abandoned Roman fort.
“Shall we carry on?” Naoise asked.
“I think we should spend the night here. It is safer than being on the road come nightfall,” Taran replied.
Brei nodded. “We should visit the farmstead, save us having to hunt for dinner.”
They rode up to the little settlement of roundhouses. “Hello!” someone called from inside the rubble, and Brei reached for the sword hanging from his waist.
A white-haired man emerged from the ruins. “We’ve been wondering when we would see the young princes again.” He grinned. “Not so young, all of you, of course.” He nodded to Brei and Taran.
Taran smiled. “How are you, Sam?”
Brei glanced at his brother. How on earth did he remember his name?
Sam flushed. “Well, my lord, I thank you for remembering. Are you visiting King Talorc?”
Taran nodded. “Are you using the ruins now?”
“Only to keep the sheep. We still live in the roundhouses, of course, but we’ve started taking back some stone to build more houses. We are growing,” he said, pulling his shoulders back.
“And will you be coming to market in Caercaled soon?”
“Yes, after Imbolc I will.”
“I’ll look out for your stall.”
Sam bowed. “You are generous, my lord.” He paused and gestured to the roundhouses behind him. “We have a loom here now, we’re going to sell cloth and raw wool.”
“Do you have any cloth ready now? I will buy some on our way back in a week or so if you do.”
“Yes, yes, of course we do. It would be my pleasure. Will you be staying for the night? It would be an honour to host you for dinner, my lords.”
“Thank you, yes, we would welcome dinner.”
“Excellent, come to me at dusk. My family’s roundhouse is the first there by the river.”
Taran bowed his head. “We’ll see you then, Sam.”
They watched as Sam hurried towards the closest roundhouse, where a woman stood waiting for him by the wooden door.
“I need to get out of these clothes.” Naoise thrust his hand into his leather pants. “I’m chafing so bad.” He winced.
Brei chuckled. “Let’s go further along the river where it’s more private.”
After they unsaddled their horses, they let them roam along the bank to eat the lush grass, while they removed their clothes and lay them out on the grass to dry. They were closer to the coast, and even though a chill clung to the crisp air, there was no snow.
Brei lay on the ground. Cold grass pressed against his back, and he closed his eyes.
“I’m going for a swim,” Naoise announced.
Brei opened his eyes and squinted at Naoise. He stood naked with his hands on his hips.
Taran plucked a tuft of grass with a lump of soil attached and flung it at Naoise. The dirt hit him in the stomach. “Go on then.”
Brei snorted. Naoise turned his back on them and bent over, displaying his pale cheeks.
“Did you get any dirt up there?” Naoise called, peeking at them with his head between his legs.
Brei threw a lump of dirt at Naoise, striking him on his back. Naoise squealed and, tripping over himself, ran into the river and dived under the water.
Brei caught Taran’s eye and smirked while they watched Naoise float on his back like an otter. Taran stood up, sauntered to the riverbank and plunged under the water as well. Brei watched the white ripples spread across the surface, and when Taran re-emerged, he was far from the point of impact.
Fifteen
Winter, 367 C.E., Caledon
Arian pointed to a tall, thorny weed. “Thistles grow by the roadsides, and on pastoral land.”
Sorsha groaned inwardly as the lesson continued. They stood on the edge of the farmstead by the River Tae. The smell of manure and the earthy hides of animals in the stables wafted towards them in the biting wind.
“We extract the oils from the roots and use them to heal those who cannot breathe,” Arian continued. Her voice was gentle, and the corners of her delicate lips curved upwards as she spoke. “The thistle flowers in summer, a big purple floret, and we use it to brew a tea as a curative for the weak heart.”
Sorsha squinted across the river to the impenetrable forest on the southern side. Mist rose from the bank and clung to the snow-cloaked pines and gaunt oaks. What is the point of these lessons, when I can cure anyone with just my hands?
“Sorsha?”
She turned back to Arian. “Mm?”
“Look at that hawthorn tree, do you see the messy balls up there?”
Sorsha gazed at a cluster of tall trees on the edge of the icy field. They were bereft of leaves and covered in clumps of scraggly green balls. “It’s mistletoe,” Sorsha said.
Arian smiled. In the presence of Serenn, she was aloof, suppressing a raw charm that she did not fear revealing when alone with Sorsha. “Yes, and it is easiest to find in winter when the hosts have lost their leaves. The Druwydds harvest it for us.”
“What do you use it for?”
“Mostly it is used with other plants, valerian, for example. We use it to help those at the tower who have trouble sleeping, but on its own it is useful for those with a nervous disposition, for anxiety. It is rare, used by the nobles only, and it is punishable by death for anyone other than a Druwydd to harvest it.”
“Has anyone actually been killed for taking mistletoe?”
“Oh yes.” Arian paused and shook her head. “Every year someone is caught.”
Sorsha looked up at the messy balls. Such a strange thing to die for.
Arian screwed her eyebrows together and seemed to lose her balance.
“What’s wrong?” Sorsha asked, reaching out to take hold of Arian’s arm.
Arian shook her head and closed her eyes. The clouds cracked apart, and Arian’s golden hair glowed in the sun as she stooped and sat on the snow.
Sorsha crouched on the ice next to her. “Are you sick? I can help.”
Arian straightened her right leg out and inhaled with a hiss. She pulled her skirt up and revealed a wooden stump in place of a foot.
Sorsha’s eyes widened. “What happened?”
Arian leaned forwards and untied the woollen wrapping that secured the stump to her leg. “Frostbite, a year ago. They cut the foot off and burnt the flesh, but it still hurts.” She pulled the wood and a cushion of crumpled beige linen away. The foot had been cut at the ankle, and although the flesh had healed, it was red.
“Let me see what I can do,” Sorsha said as she sat by Arian’s leg.
Arian nodded, and Sorsha placed her hand onto the flesh. As the heat ran from her heart, she wondered what would happen. Does it work on old wounds? She removed her hand and examined Arian’s leg. The flesh was no longer red, it had become scar white. Sorsha pressed into the skin near the bone and studied Arian’s face. “Does it hurt?”
Arian shook her head.
“Interesting. I wondered if I could grow you a new foot, but I suppose it doesn’t work like that, does it? It just heals the injury. But hopefully, this makes it easier for you, anyway. Why didn’t you ask for my help before?”
“I didn’t want to in front of Serenn,” Arian said as she fitted the cushion and wooden stump back onto her leg.
“Why not?�
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Arian fumbled with the woollen wrappings and did not look up.
“Are you afraid of her?”
Arian glanced at Sorsha without lifting her head, her forehead wrinkling from the effort. “Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Why would I be afraid of her?” Sorsha studied Arian’s face. Her eyelashes were thick and dark against her pale skin. “How did you get frostbite, anyway?”
Arian sighed. “I was watching the stars for Serenn. Calculating the time until Imbolc. Do you know what that is? It marks the midway point between winter and spring.”
“Yes, my mother taught me about the Ancient People’s festivals, Imbolc, Beltane, Samhain, and all that.” She frowned. “But why didn’t you go back inside when you got too cold?”
Arian plucked a twig from the snow and twirled it between her fingers. “I must do what Serenn says.”
“To the point where you lose your foot?”
“I’m an orphan. I have nowhere to turn but the tavern or begging. So, yes, I do whatever Serenn wants.”
Sorsha swallowed. “I’m so sorry. How did your parents die?”
“They were burnt to death in their house when the Romans attacked. I managed to get out.”
“The Romans…they attacked Caercaled?”
“Six summers ago, in the middle of the night. They torched all the houses outside the city walls.” She pointed to the farmstead. “All of this was burnt to the ground in the attack. Prince Rhys, Brei and Taran’s father, that is, he was killed, as was the great King Uradech.”
“But surely you mean a retaliation? The barbarians must have provoked them somehow, the Roman soldiers wouldn’t just attack for no reason.”