A Painted Winter

by H. Barnard

  “Thank you for all your help, Nyfain.”

  The girl bit her lip.

  “You’ll be okay, won’t you?” Sorsha whispered in the Ancient Tongue.

  Nyfain looked at the ground.

  “Would you come with me?” Sorsha whispered.

  Nyfain’s head snapped up, and her eyes swam with hunger. “Where?”

  “Londinium, first.”

  “Will you go back to the north?”

  “Maybe. I think I have to.”

  Nyfain knelt down and took Sorsha’s hand. “We don’t belong here, Sorsha.”

  Sorsha pulled her hand back. “I’ll speak to Cecily and see if I can…er…”

  “Buy me?”

  Sorsha’s cheeks flushed. “Yes.” She closed her eyes and turned away from Nyfain. “I’ll see what I can do.” She left the room without looking at Nyfain again and walked into the reception parlour, where a green and gold mosaic of a hare was inlaid on the floor. Sorsha skirted around it, not wanting to walk across the hare’s face.

  “Lucia!” Cecily called to her from the dining room. “Lucia, it is so sad that you want to leave us today! Why can’t you stay?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Leave her be, Cecily. She is not your daughter.”

  Cecily pouted but smiled as Sorsha joined them at the table.

  Sorsha reached for a bunch of grapes from the opulent fruit platter in the centre of the table. “You have both been so generous to have me for so long. I do not know how I will ever repay you.”

  Cecily waved her hand. “Think nothing of it. In fact, I have a gift for you.” She pointed to a silk purse placed above Sorsha’s plate.

  Sorsha glanced at Marcus, and he smiled. “Open it.”

  She pulled open the strings. It was full of gold denarii, perhaps one hundred. Sorsha put the purse down. “This is too much, please.”

  “Think nothing of it. It has been so illuminating to have you here,” Marcus said, reaching out and tapping her hand. “Is there anything else we can do for you for your journey? We have prepared a week’s worth of food, although it should only take you three or four days by horse.”

  Will it seem ungrateful if I also ask for Nyfain? She shook her head and reached for a cup of water. But her stomach tensed as she sipped. Is awkwardness really a reason to subject someone to a lifetime of servitude? Sorsha cleared her throat. “Actually…”

  Marcus and Cecily looked up from their breakfasts of fruit, honey, and fresh bread.

  “I was wondering about the handmaiden who has been serving me, Nyfain. I’ve grown quite fond of her. Instead of this generous gift, could I, perhaps, have her instead?”

  Marcus raised his eyebrows at his wife, and Sorsha knew she had stepped too far.

  “But, of course, you must have the slave,” Cecily said, beaming. “And you must keep the gift. Have both.”

  Marcus smiled and returned to his honeyed bread.

  Sorsha swallowed. Nyfain is nothing more than a horse to them.

  Thirty

  Spring, 367 C.E., Vortriu

  Departing at dawn, Naoise and Drest sailed for Ulster from the harbour at Caertarwos. Meanwhile, Brei and Taran travelled to the southern kingdoms. Both parties had been entrusted by King Talorc to draw more allies to their cause, but Brei wondered how much Naoise and Drest could achieve beyond gambling and sinking tankards of ale. Much to his disgust, Dylan had been left to escort King Gartnait to Caercaled.

  Their journey led them through Ce, and King Alpin had invited Brei and Taran to stay at his fortress on Banntuce, “Mountain of the People of Ce”. The land rose as they rode south-east with the Ce contingent, climbing away from the coast’s rugged beauty. Outstretched before them was a patchwork of moorland and forest, and the rough road was indistinguishable from the muddy bogs that lingered even as the spring sun warmed the land.

  By late afternoon, they approached the mountain range. Whilst not as high as those in the west, the mountains were steeply peaked and, on one peak, the distinctive ramparts of a ringed citadel enclosed a circular stone tower. Like many of the north’s fortresses, it was well located, with a view far across the moorland, reaching to the lands of Vortriu and the ocean. When they arrived, Brei looked out to the west, where small peaks jutted up in the distance, and he knew that one would be Rīgbre, and below it the Druwyddic centre of Rīgonīn. He thought of the Torc they had been asked to escort back to Caercaled, and he wondered where Sorsha was now. Brei glanced at Taran, who had followed his gaze.

  They walked through the stone ramparts and into the inner sanctum, where armed warriors stood guard. Next to the tower, the Kings of Ce had built a hall, which had a thatched roof, raised high in a pitched triangle, and Brei felt it was much airier and pleasant than in the dark stone hall at Caercaled. Large deer antler and bull horns were mounted on the hall beams, and two long tables were placed in the middle.

  “Papa!”

  A boy who had seen perhaps twelve summers ran towards King Alpin, a grin on his face.

  “I don’t think you have met my son, this is Cal. Son, these are Princes of the Blood of Caledon and Vortriu, Prince Brei and Prince Taran.”

  Brei looked at Alpin’s son. Cal was a handsome boy, with the same tanned complexion and brown hair as his mother, who came from Gaul.

  “The meal is almost ready, Father, would you like some mead?”

  “I think a cold mouthful of water first. Brei, Taran, would you like to see our mountain well?”

  Taran was gazing across the hall at a group of ladies with the same tanned skin as Cal, and Brei thought he recognised Alpin’s lady, Balinee, and his sister, Luan. “No, I think I will introduce myself to the ladies,” Taran said and drifted across the hall.

  Alpin watched him go. “He won’t have any luck there. Luan is already promised to Prince Drest of Vortriu.”

  “When will the binding ceremony take place?” Brei asked.

  Alpin gestured for Brei to follow him out of the hall. “Beltane is the season for it. It is an excellent match. The Kingdoms of Ce and Vortriu are neighbours, and now they will be allied with blood.”

  They walked across the inner fortress. The mountain air was cooling as the sun began its descent. Alpin led them to a semi-circle wall of stone, only a yard wide, surrounding a spiralling staircase that sloped into the shadow. Brei followed Alpin down the steps into humid darkness.

  “My boy is not too much older than your girls, I think?” Alpin said.

  Brei grunted. No doubt he will seek a match for Cal with Nia or Ceridwen.

  They descended until water covered the stairs, and they stopped. A wooden bucket floated across the grey water, attached to the side of the stone wall with rope.

  “Is it true that Taran has his own personal Healer?” Alpin whispered in the echoing well.

  “How did you know?”

  “Naoise told anyone who would listen. So, it is true?”

  Brei pressed his hand against the cold, damp stone. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ve heard Taran has the Eldar Druwydd in the palm of his hands.”

  Brei’s chest tightened. “Taran’s business is his own.”

  “Indeed,” Alpin said as he pulled up the wooden bucket of water and brought it to his lips. “Ah!” He swallowed and handed the bucket to Brei.

  When they had drunk and washed their faces of the grime from travel, they walked back up the spiral staircase.

  “What do you hope to achieve from all this, Brei?”

  “All of what?

  “The campaign beyond the Great Wall?”

  Brei paused on the final step. “Revenge.”

  Alpin smiled. “Naturally. But for you personally, is that all you want?”

  “I want what Caledon wants.”

  “Is it the same for your brother?”

  Brei sighed. “I know what you’re getting at, but I don’t see why it is your concern. If you must know, I have no quarrel with Taran and I won’t be drawn into any schemes. If you want to align
Ce with Caledon through my daughter and your son, I will not oppose that, but if you’re trying to find any rifts between my brother and I, you will be disappointed.”

  Alpin laughed. “No offence meant, my friend, but I am gladdened by your consent. I will bring Cal to Caercaled to meet your daughters at the summer meeting for this conspiracy of yours.”

  Brei shielded his eyes with his hand as the early summer sun pierced through the canopy of the Sacred Forest.

  “It’s Beltane tonight,” Anwen said. “Will you come to the farmstead early to see Mother? She complains that you never visit her.”

  “She’s not high on my list of priorities, Anwen. I’ve got to ensure everything is ready for when the kings arrive in Caercaled, and I have to make sure that quarrelsome blacksmith, Gwyddion, is producing enough swords and spearheads each day. It’s summer now and we are running out of moons until our attack. I still have to train boys and farmers how to use those swords, if they are to join the warriors in battle. And then there’s the harvest. You know the warriors are all expected to help on the farmsteads, so I’ll be going to Gruffydd’s lands soon. If I have any free time, Anwen, I will spend it with you and the girls, not Morfydd.”

  “I’m sorry, Brei, I didn’t mean to upset you. I know how hard you are working.”

  Golden strobes of light floated across Anwen’s freckled face as the oak tree they stood under swayed in the gentle summer breeze. Her copper hair hung loose about her shoulders and a strand blew across her face. Brei brushed it away and sighed. “I’m tired.”

  “You’re hardly sleeping, maybe you should have a rest. We could bathe in the Shining Lakes?”

  Brei shook his head. “It’s not the work. It’s what King Alpin said to me at Banntuce.”

  “That you should think about your future?”

  He nodded. “I’ll not deny that I think about what will happen when Gartnait dies. I think about the king’s death more than one should be allowed to. But I keep coming back to what Gruffydd said to me. That I made my decision already.”

  “But so many moons have passed since then. So many nights and winters. You can make a new decision if you want to, my love.”

  Brei gazed up at the green leaves of the oak tree and inhaled the sweet summer scent of warm air. He squeezed Anwen’s hand. “What Gruffydd said is just an expression of what the rest of the warriors think of me. That I am the man who could have been king but chose not to be. That I chose not to because…”

  “Because you wanted to bind yourself to a peasant farmer’s daughter?”

  “There’s never been any point denying it, darling. You know I love you, but what I did…is not easily forgotten. And then what about Taran? Ever since that night, he has worked tirelessly to position himself with the warriors, with the Druwydds and Bandruwydds, to take the crown when it is next available. He is loved.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to support him, though. If you don’t want to. Do you want to be king, and, if you do, why do you want it? Taran has always given me this… I’m not sure how to explain it… but a sense of darkness, of desperation in how much he wants to succeed.”

  “I know. He tries to hide it, but I see it too. But he’s only like that because of me.”

  “Because you didn’t support his claim?” Anwen frowned. “Why would you when he beat you almost to death in trying to ensure he was the only possible claimant?”

  “It is because of that, yes, but there are things you don’t know… That’s not why he beat me. I have told no one what happened the night of the attack, except for Taran. There’s a part of me that knows I owe him. And then there’s a part of me that questions if he is the best one to lead us. I wonder if he only wants the crown for his own ambition, or if he would be like me and be a father to Caledon. But then, surpassing all of that is you, Ceridwen, and Nia, and I remember how selfish I am. Because I would betray my kinsmen in a heartbeat if any of you were at risk.”

  Anwen embraced him, her face pressing into the linen tunic that covered his chest. “I don’t believe you would betray your kinsmen, Brei. You are not capable of that. I know you would find a way to protect us all.” She raised her blue eyes to his. “I believe in you.”

  Brei tightened his arms around her small body. I don’t deserve her. If she knew what I did to Taran, she would despise me. I would be a terrible king. He sighed and kissed the top of her head. Then why do you still dream of the Eldar Druwydd raising the crown onto your head?

  A horn wailed from the tower above them. Brei turned and scanned the forest. They were still alone, but voices drifted towards them. Chanting.

  “The Druwydds are going down for Beltane,” Anwen whispered.

  “The procession will take hours. They don’t light the fires until sunset. Maybe we could sneak off to the lakes?”

  “Brei, that’s not like you.” Anwen grinned.

  Brei kissed her. “Let’s go.”

  Two giant bonfires blazed on either side of the stables at the farmstead. The Eldar Druwydd had led a procession of white-robed Druwydds and black-cloaked Bandruwydds from the tower through Caercaled, and along the bank of the River Tae to the cleared pastures adjoining the farmstead.

  The Eldar Druwydd stood at the stable, wearing a leather cap over which the skull and antlers of a stag were affixed. Serenn stood next to him, glaring out at the farmers and villagers from Caercaled who had gathered for Beltane. Her usual charcoaled eyes had been enlarged with white paint circles, while the rest of her face was painted dark blue with woad. She also wore her deer antler headdress, and blue braids fanned across the black robes covering her bony shoulders. Brei did not enjoy Serenn’s company at the best of times, but he found her presence unbearable when she was decorated for a festival.

  King Gartnait and the Princes of the Blood, Brei, Taran, Naoise, and Dylan, stood between the two fires, facing the stables. A hush, feverish with anticipation, fell across the farmstead. Both sides of the lane that divided the farmstead’s roundhouses were lined with people craning their necks to get a better view. The Eldar Druwydd chanted a rumbling incantation to Belenus, the God of Light, calling upon him to protect the cattle and sheep as they prepared to release them from their winter captivity for summer grazing.

  Brei glanced at Taran. In the glow of the flames, the tattoo of victory, the crescent overlaid with a broken arrow, glistened across his broad chest. In contrast, King Gartnait’s collarbones jutted out of his tunic, as though he were already a corpse waiting for its skeleton to be de-fleshed by ravens.

  The Eldar Druwydd lifted his arms to the sky and Brei’s eyes followed to the cloudless indigo blanket pierced with shimmering stars and a waning moon. The drums started, slow at first but then with a menacing, increasing beat. Taran and Naoise brushed his arms on either side as they walked forwards to the stables. Brei walked in line with them, with King Gartnait and Dylan on the outer edges. They reached the double wooden doors and waited for the Eldar Druwydd.

  Inside the stables, cattle and sheep brayed and stamped. The Eldar Druwydd removed a dried sprig of mistletoe that had been lain across the doorknobs. As one, the Princes of the Blood and the king opened the stable doors. The doors were thrust wide, and Brei leapt out of the way as a black bull charged through. Behind the bull, farmers drove out the rest of the herd of cattle and sheep with horns and clapping.

  The Druwydds and princes watched from the sidelines as the terrified animals were driven between the two fires. Horns blew into the night, and the Druwydds’ chanting echoed around the farmstead. But the hooves of hundreds of animals stampeding thundered on the soft ground, louder even than the drums that now beat at a ferocious pace.

  When the animals were through the fires, they galloped along the lane crowded with people on either side until they escaped into the freedom of the pastures. Revelling in their newfound liberty, the cows called to each other, and their low cries rang across the hills throughout the night.

  When the last sheep had been enticed out, the drums s
topped and the Eldar Druwydd stepped between the fires and raised his hands to the sky. “Belenus has blessed us and will protect our herds for the summer grazing! Light your hearths from the Beltane fires, have no other light but Belenus tonight!”

  A wooden flute whistled, and the drums returned to a lively beat as villagers approached with bundles of broom and lit them. Blazing torches bobbed in a glowing line from the farmstead, along the River Tae to Caercaled, and all the way to the tower, until Caercaled sparkled with fires blessed by Belenus, the God of Light.

  Thirty-One

  Summer, 367 C.E., Britannia

  The paved road from Corinium Dobunnorum led Sorsha and Nyfain east through forest, over bridges, through villages and between hills. At times it was busy with travellers and often plagued by carts flicking dust and rocks into their faces. At the crossroads town of Verulamium, they stayed overnight in an inn and washed off the dirt before continuing their journey south. After a week-long trek, the stone wall surrounding Londinium rose before them, shimmering on the horizon in the afternoon sun.

  They had taken it in turns to ride the horse, to spare their feet eight hours a day of walking on hard paved roads. As they approached the city gate, Sorsha led the horse while Nyfain sat astride. A sea of stone tombs and monuments lay just outside the walls. Roman soldiers stood outside the gate and on the ramparts, but Sorsha and Nyfain passed through the cool shadows of the stone gate unopposed. On the city side of the gate, Sorsha stopped the horse next to a foot soldier. “Excuse me, we are looking for the slavers’ market. Which road do I take?”

  He approached her horse and stroked its neck, smiling at her with dark eyes, and brown hair poking out under his gold-gilted helmet. “Follow this road east. Once you hit the city walls again, follow the wall to the south around the big fort and head to the river, and there are the slavers and cattle pens.”

  “Thank you,” she said and clicked to the horse to walk on.

  The road they followed through the city was straight and wide and lined on either side with buildings stretching to the east for what felt like a mile. Public buildings were in various stages of repair or ruin, and the forum had long since burnt down. Londinium bristled like a geriatric lion, once adored but now reduced to mere existence.