A Painted Winter

by H. Barnard

  “Hold the blade out with just one hand and keep it there.”

  It was not heavy, less than a bucket of water. But within a minute, the muscles in her arm and shoulder tensed, until her arm shook. Taran smiled and told her to lower her arm. “Now the other side, you need to get used to the weight before I can teach you to wield it.”

  Taran watched her again until her arm shook and asked her to lower it.

  “Shall we go again?” she asked and held out the sword once more.

  Taran raised his eyebrows. “You’re strong for a woman.”

  “But women are not trained, are they? Just boys?”

  Taran nodded. “I’ve been training since the time I had seen three winters.”

  “How old were you when you fought your first battle?”

  “Ah…” He glanced at the straw strewn over the stable’s floor. “It’s been maybe five or six summers since the Romans attacked so I must have seen fourteen or fifteen seasons.”

  “I’m sorry to remind you of it.”

  His eyes darted to her face. “You didn’t remind me of it. It’s always in my mind.”

  She twirled the sword in her hand, and Taran folded his arms across his chest as he watched her. “What now?” she asked.

  Taran picked up a stick that was leaning against the wooden pen. “Are you left-handed?”

  Sorsha nodded.

  “Push your left hand up to the guard… the metal bit that juts out before the blade. And put your right hand on the very end of the hilt. Yes, like that.”

  Taran mimicked the position on the stick he held.

  He positioned his body side-on to her, and he stepped his left leg out and bent it as he swung the stick from his right shoulder. “The power all comes from your legs. Always swing from the opposite shoulder to where your leg is pointing, and your toes should point at your target.”

  Sorsha twisted her hips, stood side on, stepped out on her right leg and swung the sword from her left shoulder.

  Taran nodded. “Pretty good, actually. Try that a few times, swinging from each side.”

  By the time Sorsha’s stomach growled for lunch, she felt she understood the basics of stance. “Can I try hitting your stick?”

  “We’re not really there yet, but sure, one hit and then lunch. I’m starving.”

  Sorsha positioned herself into the attacking stance. Taran mirrored her and, stepping forwards, swung his stick. Sorsha swung the sword from behind her left ear and jumped forwards onto her right foot, slicing Taran’s stick in two.

  Taran dropped the broken pieces on the ground and grinned. “Lunch.”

  Sorsha handed Taran his sword, and he pushed it into his leather scabbard.

  “You’ll be too sore to do this tomorrow. Your arms and shoulders will ache when you wake up.”

  “But if I am not, will you teach me more tomorrow?”

  “Sure, but I promise you’ll be terrible sore tomorrow.”

  As she followed him back to the tower, she rubbed her hands over her wrists, arms, and shoulders, feeling heat flow from her heart and into her muscles.

  After her rounds with the Bandruwydds, where she had healed the broken arm of the baker’s daughter, Sorsha searched the tower for Taran. She found him walking to the stables. “Are you going for a ride?”

  “Yes,” he grunted, without looking at her.

  “Can I join you?”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “If you want.”

  They descended through the Sacred Forest and spiralled down the tiered city until they cantered out through the Western Gate. Sorsha rode on Ri, while Taran had borrowed Dylan’s fiery chestnut horse, Laxsaro, “Flames”. The wind roared in her ears and her black braid streamed behind her. She wanted to spread her arms and fly. Ri seemed to sense her elation and sprang into a gallop.

  Sorsha sped past Taran, and she soon forgot him. The icy lake shimmered as tiny rays of low-lying winter sun peaked through the clouds, revealing distant, snow-covered mountains. Ri slowed as they approached the lake’s edge, and Laxsaro’s hooves crunched through the snow behind her.

  “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” Sorsha whispered and turned to smile at Taran.

  He leaned forwards in the saddle and followed her gaze. “They don’t have mountains where you’re from?”

  “Not like this. We have grassy hills and forests, but nothing like this. I miss home so much, but when the mist clears from the lake…it sort of takes my breath away. I could look at this all day.”

  “It will be summer eventually, and the clouds will haunt us less. Then you’ll see the mountains almost every day.”

  She dropped her gaze to the brown leather saddle and fumbled with the reins.

  “But that’s not what you want?” His voice was gentle, but his eyes narrowed.

  “No… I want to find my mother.”

  Taran shifted in the saddle. “And where is your mother?”

  “In the Kingdom of Gwoddodin, at a village close to the Great Wall,” Sorsha said, reciting a line she often practised in her mind as she fell asleep.

  “And you want me to take you there?”

  “You don’t have to, but if I had a horse, could you tell me the way?”

  He shook his head. “You know I will have to go with you. If you can wait until after Imbolc, for the thaw, then we can go. It will be too treacherous to travel until then.”

  “How long will that be?”

  Taran turned Laxsaro’s head and clicked. “Perhaps a moon… Yes, at least a moon.”

  “How long does it take to get to the Great Wall?” Sorsha squeezed Ri’s sides with her ankles and steered the reins to follow.

  “Not long, a day or so if the wind is right.” Laxsaro quickened his pace into a canter.

  “The wind?”

  Taran glanced back at her. “We’ll travel by boat.”

  Twenty

  Winter, 367 C.E., Caledon

  The frosted needles of a fir tree grazed Brei’s cheek as he stalked through the forest to the north of Caercaled. At his side, Dylan panted clouds of mist into the dawn air. Clutching a bow and arrow, they walked under the dense forest, keeping the sound of the river close on their left side. Brei noticed a line of tracks in the icy ground and stopped. Wolves. He pushed his grey hood off his face and scanned the forest for movement. A twig snapped behind him and he spun around, raising his nocked arrow.

  “Sorry, Brei!” Dylan squealed, dropping the stick he had broken in two. “It’s just so boring.”

  Brei lowered the arrow and rolled his eyes. “You’re as bad as your brother. And I thought you wanted to beat him?”

  “I do!” Dylan’s cheeks reddened. “Naoise has been such an arsehole to me lately.”

  “Shh!” Brei grabbed Dylan’s shoulder. “If you want to win, you need to shut up.”

  They continued in silence, until they came to the clearing Brei had been looking for. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to a pine fallen in a storm long ago. He crouched behind the weathered log and peered into the clearing. Mist hovered above the river and drifted up the riverbank, sloping into the clearing. They could see up into the forest for a few yards before the grey trees disappeared into the fog.

  “What do we do now?” Dylan whispered, brushing his tumbling black hair off his sweaty brow.

  Brei settled into a cross-legged position and leant his bow on the log in front of him. “We wait.”

  Clouds of red peeled across the sky and soon vanished into the pale light of morning.

  “Brei?”

  “Mmm?”

  “How come you took Neesh to Caertarwos but not me?”

  Brei kept his eyes on the clearing. “I didn’t take Naoise. He just came. You know how he is.”

  “Do you think the kings will agree to Taran’s plan?”

  Brei tore his eyes away from the clearing. “Taran’s plan?”

  “Yeah, you know, to raid below the Great Wall.”

  Brei brushed the white swan feath
ers of his arrow back and forth. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think I’d be able to fight if they say yes? I keep dreaming about it, what it will be like. I’m so excited. What’s it like, Brei?”

  Brei turned back to the clearing and watched a squirrel leap between the branches of two oak trees and disappear into a hollow. “What’s what like?”

  “You know…killing.”

  Brei glanced at Dylan. He knew Dylan was the age Taran had been when the Romans had attacked Caercaled, and yet it seemed impossible. Taran had already been a warrior, training every day in combat and sitting at the hearth of the king’s floor each night listening to Gartnait and King Uradech discussing politics and trade.

  “I don’t know, lad. You sort of…you become all eyes and arms.” Brei turned back to the clearing. “It’s why you need to be blooded. I can’t explain what it feels like.”

  “Well, what does it feel like to stab someone?”

  “Like butchering a kill.”

  “I haven’t–”

  “Shh!”

  A shadow moved through the mist along the edge of the clearing, heading for the river.

  “Nock your arrow slowly,” Brei whispered, without taking his eyes from the shadow.

  The pale glow of morning fell across the velvet point of an antler. As the stag moved further into the light, Brei counted six points on each side. The red stag arched its muscled neck and sniffed the air before it dipped its head down to the river.

  “Now,” Brei whispered.

  The bowstring creaked as Dylan stood up from behind the log. Dylan let loose the arrow, and it spun over the stag’s back. “Fuck!” he hissed as the stag leapt into the air and fled across the clearing.

  Brei swung around and pulled back on his bowstring and released his arrow just in front of the stag’s path. The deer ran into the line Brei had imagined it would take and the arrow buried into its neck. Groaning, the stag thudded into the ground head-first. Ravens cawed and took to the air.

  “Brei!” Dylan screamed as he jumped over the log and ran for the carcass. “Brei! That was amazing!”

  Brei stepped over the log and followed Dylan, who grasped the antlers and beamed up at him. “I can’t believe you did that. Cernunnos has blessed you.”

  Brei crouched by the stag’s head, and the deer drew a haggard breath. He pulled his antler handle dagger from his waist and handed it to Dylan. “Put it out of its misery.”

  Dylan’s eyes widened. “How?”

  “Its heart is just under its front leg.”

  Dylan looked at the stag but did not move.

  “You don’t have to,” Brei murmured.

  Shaking, Dylan handed back the dagger. Brei plunged it up under the stag’s front leg, and it coughed, drawing its last breath with its tongue hanging out. The colour in Dylan’s plump cheeks vanished, and he looked up at Brei with a sheen across his eyes.

  Brei put his hand on Dylan’s shoulder and smiled. “Go get the horses, lad. And then we can be home in time for lunch.”

  As he watched Dylan sprint into the forest, Brei ran his hand through the stag’s red coat, and imagined a new pair of pants Anwen might make for him. While he waited for Dylan to return, he rolled the stag onto its back. He cut from the pelvic bone to breastbone and removed the entrails, being careful not to damage the hide. On each leg he sliced open the skin from hoof to knee and twisted and hacked off the leg. He bundled the legs together, ready to tie onto one of the horses. Finally, he rolled the carcass over and splayed the abdominal cavity open to drain the blood.

  Dylan soon led Rhuad and Laxsaro into the clearing as Brei wiped his bloodied dagger through a handful of icy leaves. Dylan glanced at the entrails, swimming in a pool of red.

  “Thought I’d spare you that part,” Brei smiled. “But next hunt you must at least watch. When I was your age, I could field-dress a deer with my eyes closed.”

  Dylan nodded, his cheeks blanching once more. “But you had your father and King Uradech to teach you… My father lives in Ulster, and King Gartnait has no interest in me.”

  Brei considered the boy and grunted. “This is going to be a big job,” Brei gestured to the carcass. “I’ve tried my best to lighten it up, but he’s a big boy. Remember to bend with your knees and don’t twist and lift, or you’ll hurt yourself.”

  Heaving and lifting, Brei and Dylan managed to get the carcass strapped onto Rhuad. The stag’s antlered head fell limp against Rhuad’s stomach, and lines of blood streamed down his back. Brei tied the bundle of legs to Laxsaro’s saddle, and they led their horses from the clearing.

  “Do you think Taran will be jealous you won?” Dylan asked as they headed south along the forested river towards the Northern Gate.

  Brei shrugged. “I don’t think Taran bothers much with jealousy. If there’s something he wants, he devotes himself to achieving it. Jealousy is for men who can’t commit to what they want.”

  “Are you never jealous of Taran?”

  Brei glanced up at the bony fingers of oak branches beneath the pale sky. “If I am, it’s my own fault.”

  As they approached the garrison at the Northern Gate, the warriors on guard cheered.

  “Brei’s got a six-pointer!” Owain yelled, slapping Brei on the back.

  Brei smiled. “He’s a big buck, isn’t he?”

  Cináed joined them and lifted the hind leg of the stag. “Champion’s portion, Brei!”

  Brei’s cheeks burned, and he glanced back at Dylan. The boy was silent, and he stood away from the men, stroking Laxsaro. “We’ve got to get this up for butchering before it spoils,” Brei said. He clicked to Rhuad and led him through the Northern Gate, suffering further slaps on the back until they were clear of the garrison. Dylan trailed behind as they took the steep winding path to the tower.

  “I wish I’d shot the stag,” Dylan said, barely audible over the sound of the horses’ hooves clopping on the rocky path.

  Brei looked at him. “Plenty more hunts to beat Neesh at, lad.”

  “I’d never forget the look on Naoise’s face if I ever got the champion’s portion at the feast… It was such a good shot, Brei.”

  Brei nodded and turned back to face the road as it wound up the Hill of Caledon. They led their horses to the stables. Just as servants were helping them to pull the stag off Rhuad’s back, Naoise and Taran returned with a young, three-pointed buck slung over the back of Naoise’s horse.

  “Is that the six-pointer?” Naoise yelled.

  Taran lifted the small buck off his horse and draped it over his broad shoulders. “Nice work, Brei!” Taran grinned, reaching both arms back and supporting the deer’s head and hind legs with his hands.

  Brei cleared his throat and slapped Dylan on the back. “No, Dylan shot it.”

  Naoise raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  Brei looked down at Dylan and smiled at the boy.

  “I won!” Dylan said, smiling from ear to ear.

  The stag roasted over an enormous fire in the great hall of the tower. Night had fallen, and the hunters gathered to celebrate the hero of the kill and to feast. A servant girl sliced off a venison leg, wrapped the bone in a length of cloth, and handed it to King Gartnait. He smiled as he carried the massive piece to the table. “The champion’s portion!” Naoise, Taran, Brei, and Elfinn cheered as Gartnait placed the leg in front of Dylan.

  Naoise and Dylan’s sister, Aífe, leant across the table and said “Well done, Dyl!” Aífe had fiery red hair that fell about her heart-shaped face in ringlets. Brei sat opposite her, with Anwen and his daughters. Owain, Cináed, and Gruffydd, senior warriors with distant noble blood joined them in celebrating Dylan’s triumph. Taran sat between Naoise and Elfinn, who were already well into their cups.

  The servants placed glossy red plates before them, piled high with venison. Wine and mead flowed in all their goblets. As they ate and drank, Owain, Gruffydd, and Cináed made Dylan recount the kill once more. Dylan told the story with vigour, as though he and Brei
had switched places, and his hunting prowess grew more impressive with each rendition.

  “I still can’t believe you missed the shot, Brei. I’ve never seen you miss a target before,” Taran yelled across the table.

  Brei shrugged and winked as he caught Dylan’s eye. Naoise shovelled a handful of meat into his mouth with his hands and stood up. “Dyl! Dyl, I am proud of you. Come, let me congratulate you.”

  Dylan jumped off the bench and strode around the table to embrace his brother. With their black-haired heads pressed together, it was impossible not to see the influence of their father, the youngest son of the King of Ulster. Naoise pushed Dylan back and stared at him. Holding the boy by both shoulders, he belched into his face. Dylan squirmed and tried to get away, but Naoise held him still for the duration of what Brei thought might have been the longest belch he had ever heard. The hall erupted into laughter, and tears streamed down Taran’s cheeks. Even Gartnait laughed, in a way Brei had not seen him do since the last summer before he fell ill. Dylan traipsed, red-cheeked, past Brei and seemed to head for the door.

  “Just ignore him, Dylan,” Brei said, reaching out for Dylan’s hand. The boy snatched his arm away and marched outside as Naoise and Taran howled. Beli jumped onto him, and Dylan dropped onto his knees and patted the dog. Brei turned back as Aífe and Elfinn collapsed on the table, laughing.

  Ceridwen tugged at Brei’s sleeve. “Can I play with Beli too, Papa?” With her blonde hair and blue eyes, she looked just like his mother, Derelei. Brei bent and kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Don’t go further than the entrance.” Ceridwen smiled and skipped out into the moonlight. She stopped in front of Dylan. Brei watched her speaking. He could not hear what she said, but eventually Dylan smiled. She sat next to Dylan, and Beli rolled onto his back, and together they scratched his belly and laughed.

  Brei turned back to the feast. Naoise and Taran were now rolling up their sleeves, and Naoise slammed his elbow onto the table and waited for Taran to grasp his hand. Taran finished rolling up his tunic over his swollen bicep, and he flexed as he reached out for Naoise’s hand.