A Painted Winter

by H. Barnard

  “How’s it all going?” Aífe asked as she brushed a stray red curl from her porcelain face. “They sound either really pleased or furious.”

  “We have an agreement.”

  “Will Prince Ælfric be in peril?”

  “And why are you worried about him, particularly?”

  “No reason.” Aífe smiled and looked into the flames. “He is awfully good-looking, though, isn’t he?”

  Brei grimaced and cracked his neck to either side.

  “Is your neck sore?” Anwen asked softly.

  “Killing me. I will be so glad when this is all over.”

  Anwen pulled him closer to her, and he shifted so that she could massage his shoulders.

  “But then you’ll be risking your life. You can’t be glad for that?” Aífe said.

  “But I can. Standing around, being still, that is the killer.”

  “Will Dylan go raiding with you, Papa?” Ceridwen asked, her blue eyes wide.

  “Yes, Dylan is old enough to go to war, so he will join us.”

  Nia gazed up at Brei. “Will he die?”

  “Maybe. I might die too.” He pulled at one of Nia’s auburn braids.

  “I don’t want you to die, Papa,” Nia whispered, and she crawled to sit in his lap.

  “I don’t want to, either, but sometimes we have to take risks for the things we want. I want revenge against the Romans.”

  Ceridwen tilted her head to one side. “But not all Romans are bad, are they, Papa?”

  “Yes, they are,” Anwen snapped.

  Nia looked up at Anwen from Brei’s lap. “But, Mama, how do you know? Have you met every Roman?”

  Anwen bit her lip and looked away.

  “Brei! There you are. Need to speak to you.” Talorc stood in the doorway. Standing next to him was Taran, and his face was set as if stone.

  Brei brought Anwen’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I’ll be back soon,” he whispered.

  He stood up and walked into the passageway to join Talorc and Taran. King Gartnait and the Saxons, Princes Ælfric, Edmund, and Wulfraed, waited for them on the landing.

  Brei closed the door to his floor. “What is it?”

  “Prince Ælfric has made a proposal to Aífe,” Taran said.

  Brei frowned. “Should we get Naoise?”

  “Both Naoise and Eithne have gone missing.” Talorc grimaced.

  Edmund whispered into Ælfric’s ear, and a wry smile played on the prince’s lips.

  “Taran, Brei, what do you think?” Gartnait asked.

  Taran answered first. “Is it even something you would consider, Uncle?” He turned to Ælfric. “Would you take her to Saxony?”

  Edmund translated, and Ælfric raised his chin and considered Taran before he murmured something back to Edmund. “Of course Prince Ælfric will take her to Saxony,” Edmund replied.

  “Out of the question,” Taran said. “A Princess of the Blood must always remain in her kingdom.” Taran looked at Talorc. “You cannot possibly be entertaining this, cousin?”

  Talorc shrugged. “It’s an alliance that I am drawn to, I will admit. And we need Saxon ships, just like we need Ulster’s.”

  Taran glared at Ælfric. “As if you need the alliance to raid the Roman coasts.”

  Prince Ælfric ran his hand over his cropped black beard as Edmund translated for him. He smirked as he responded, and Edmund translated. “We don’t, but perhaps Prince Ælfric needs an excuse not to raid your cities.”

  “Haven’t you seen how many kings have gathered here?” Taran laughed.

  Ælfric smiled as Edmund translated for him. “Yes, Prince Ælfric has seen how divided you are.”

  “And you would like to continue that divide, wouldn’t you?” Brei said. “Rob us of the chance to shore up another alliance?”

  Edmund and Wulfraed conferred with Prince Ælfric. “Aífe said yes to Prince Ælfric. That is all that matters.”

  Taran lowered his voice to a whisper. “Aífe is vain and would say yes to any man of consequence, no matter how little that consequence is.”

  “I think…I think Caledon say no, Talorc,” Gartnait wheezed, and he turned his head away as he coughed.

  Talorc shook his head. “I should never have let Eithne carry on with Naoise.” He slapped Ælfric on the back. “Not to worry, my Queen Maeve is pregnant again. If it’s a girl, you can have her, for yourself or your sons. That will give you an alliance with Vortriu, Caledon, and Attacot.”

  Brei’s lip curled, and he looked at Taran, who was watching Ælfric and his cousins descend with Talorc into the shadows of the staircase.

  “Nothing is as distasteful as a man who breathes only for his own ambition,” Gartnait whispered.

  “Yes, ambition will be the death of you.” Taran smiled and put his hand on Gartnait’s shoulder. “Are you well, Uncle?”

  “Truth be told, my lad, I’ve not felt well for some time, and now that she’s gone…” Gartnait looked at the stone floor. “I might retire early. Yes, I’ll go to bed. Can you tell Elfinn? Otherwise, he’ll worry.”

  “‘She’? Who did he mean?” Brei whispered as they watched Gartnait hobble down the stairs.

  Taran had a strange expression on his face that Brei did not recognise. He looked tired, as though the last three days had drained all the energy from him, and what was left was a half-man, robbed of his best years.

  “Taran?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Taran murmured and put his hand on Brei’s shoulder. “I’m going to speak with King Coel. See if we can’t get an alliance out of Aífe, after all.”

  Brei watched Taran walk down the stairs. The torchlight threw shadows across his eyes as he glanced back at Brei and grinned, his face once more transformed.

  Thirty-Five

  Summer, 367 C.E., Britannia

  The dawn was red beneath grey clouds as Sorsha, Nyfain, and Dioras crossed a stone bridge over a wide river and passed through the fortified wall surrounding the civilian town of Coria. It lay at the junction of the road leading north through the Great Wall and the road that ran east–west between the forts along the wall. The small town was part fort and part commercial settlement. The main lane was lined with red-roofed warehouses filled with military supplies. On the western side of town were two large, elevated granaries and, on the northern end, aqueducts flowed to a large public fountain.

  They led their horses through the town, searching in stables and inside the granaries, but a slave matching the description of Derelei could not be found. In an expansive square courtyard next to the public fountain, Sorsha eyed two Roman soldiers and approached them.

  “Hello, can you assist me?” Sorsha said.

  One soldier glanced at her sword before responding with a grunt.

  “I’m looking for a slave. She’s tall, blonde, middle-aged and goes by the name of Derelei. Have you seen her? She would have come from the north about six years ago.”

  The soldier seemed puzzled by the question. “Why on earth do you think I’d know where she is?”

  “Oh.” Sorsha stepped backwards.

  “But I can ask the commanding officer’s wife, she keeps several handmaidens here.”

  Sorsha smiled. “Thank you.”

  He disappeared into the building and returned with a young woman, draped in red silk and fine white linen.

  “You are looking for a slave?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “What does she look like?”

  The woman appeared disinterested as she listened to the description of Derelei, and Sorsha wondered if she even knew what her own handmaiden looked like.

  “No, I don’t think any of my slaves match that description, but you could check with the Tribunus up at Vercovicium. Or in the town Vindolanda. I’d try there as well.”

  “Is it nearby?”

  “An hour’s ride west to Vindolanda. And Vercovicium is a big fort at the wall itself, not far north from Vindolanda.”

  Sorsha than
ked her and rejoined Nyfain and Dioras. It was raining as they rode west from Coria to Vindolanda. They spent the remainder of a miserable morning searching through the town in intermittent deluges. By midday, Sorsha sensed Nyfain and Dioras had had enough, and she left them to seek shelter in a wood outside Vindolanda.

  Sorsha continued north to Vercovicium. The rain pelted her face, and she could not see more than a yard ahead. Hills rose as if from nowhere, green shadows beneath the swirling grey clouds. Pulling back on the reins, she stopped the horse, shielded her eyes, and gazed towards the hills. Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating a stone wall that clung to the ridge like a spine. In the middle of the wall was a fortified settlement, and Sorsha cantered towards it, before dismounting to lead her horse up the hill to the huge wooden gates.

  “I am here to see the Tribunus,” she said, smiling at the Roman soldiers on guard. Wrapped in sodden red cloaks, they waved her in, and she walked to the pillared house of the Tribunus in the centre of the fort, leaving her horse at the stables. There was no one around, no soldier guarding the entrance. On the steps that led to an ornate door, she hesitated. What is the penalty for trespass? She climbed the steps and waited in the entrance hall. Footsteps echoed behind her, and she turned to see a tall woman in a tattered tunic with her blonde head bowed.

  “Derelei?” Sorsha whispered.

  The woman stopped and looked at her. Around her neck was a thick metal collar.

  “Derelei, is that you? I come from Brei and Taran,” she whispered in the Ancient Tongue.

  The woman appeared to tremble. Her eyes were bright blue. Like Taran’s. Hanging from the metal collar was a bronze tag the size of a man’s fist. Inscribed on it, Sorsha read:

  I have run away.

  Hold me.

  Return me to my master

  Lucius Antonius

  for a gold coin.

  “Is your name Derelei?” Sorsha whispered again.

  “Yes,” she croaked. “Who are you?”

  “I am Sorsha. I have come to take you home, Princess.”

  “How?”

  “I will have to buy you.”

  “But…I don’t understand.”

  Sorsha stepped closer and gently touched Derelei’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll explain everything later. But can you find your mistress and ask if I may speak with her? Don’t say who I am.”

  Derelei nodded, but her brow was furrowed. She hurried across the entrance hall and disappeared into a corridor.

  Sorsha gazed around the whitewashed hall, noticing a turquoise and gold fresco of deer nibbling grapes above two beautiful birds. I wonder if this is the last Roman painting I will ever see?

  Footsteps echoed along the corridor, and a woman appeared with black hair streaked with white. “Hello, you wish to speak with me?” Her Roman accent was thick.

  “Yes. I wish to make a commercial proposition to you. May I?”

  The woman nodded.

  “I wish to buy your slave here.” Sorsha gestured to Derelei, who lurked in the corridor at the entrance to the hall.

  The woman laughed. “Oh, she is not for sale. And anyway, she is so old.”

  Sorsha jingled her silk purse of denarii. “I will pay in silver.”

  “Why would you pay such a price for a worthless slave?”

  “She is the mother of my handmaiden, Nyfain, a loyal and trusted servant, and I wish for them to work in my household together, as a reward for loyal service.” Sorsha slipped open the purse and held out a coin. The woman grasped for it, but Sorsha kept it out of her reach. “You may have all the denarii in this purse for the slave. Do we have a bargain?”

  “Yes.” The woman stepped forwards and tried to snatch the purse from Sorsha’s hands. “Take her.”

  “Unlock her collar first, and you can have the silver.”

  The woman pulled a key from her pocket and exchanged it for the purse. Sorsha stepped behind Derelei, inserted the key into the keyhole at the back of the collar and turned it. The lock clicked and unclasped. The collar fell off, revealing Derelei’s red and scabbed neck.

  Sorsha guided Derelei down the steps to the horse in the stables. Derelei trembled, barely able to put one foot in front of the other.

  “Put your foot in the stirrup,” Sorsha murmured.

  With vacant eyes, Derelei starred at Sorsha and did not move.

  Sorsha reached for Derelei’s hand and squeezed it. “You’re okay. I promise. I’m going to look after you and take you home, okay?”

  Derelei was so frail it was easy to lift her up into the saddle.

  Sorsha led the horse down the muddy hill to where the land flattened. The rain was lighter and, as she grasped the pommel of the saddle to mount, she glanced at Derelei. The woman’s shoulders were shuddering violently.

  “Derelei?”

  She crumpled forwards and wailed as she heaved over the side of the horse and vomited.

  Sorsha walked in front of the horse and examined Derelei. Tears shone on her cheeks.

  “Is it real?” Derelei gasped.

  Sorsha nodded as she gently wiped Derelei’s mouth and forehead with her hands.

  “I dreamt every day that someone would come for me,” Derelei whispered. “But the days became years, and I stopped dreaming. Each day dragged, and I wished for death. I even tried to hasten it, but every time they caught me.” Her hands trembled against the horse’s neck. “I gave up so long ago of ever being free. So, this can’t be real. Is it that I am dead? Is this Tirscath?”

  Sorsha clasped Derelei’s trembling hand in hers. “It is real. You are free and alive in the land of the living. And I am going to take you back to Caercaled, to your sons Brei and Taran.”

  Derelei looked around at the fields of grass and forest. “I…” Derelei paused and shook her head. “I haven’t spoken the Ancient Tongue for so long, for six years.” She pressed her fingers into her cheek. “It’s almost as though the muscles in my mouth have forgotten how to form the words.”

  “Derelei, Princess, I need to get you away from here. Please sit up, and I’ll take you to meet my companions. They were also slaves, but they are free now.” Sorsha squeezed Derelei’s hands. “I can’t promise that you will ever feel how you did before they took you. I’m not going to tell you that, because it’s not true. But what I can promise is that you will feel so much better than you did yesterday. And you never have to go back.”

  Thirty-Six

  Autumn, 367 C.E., Caledon

  Beli began barking outside the tower as Brei and Taran sat in the hall, sharpening their blades. They both snapped their heads up, hearing the urgency of the dog’s whining, and they strode outside into the bright afternoon light. Brei’s knees went weak when he saw her. Mother.

  The sun shone on her golden hair as Derelei smiled at her sons, tears streaming from her wrinkled eyes. Taran lifted her down from the horse. His shoulders shook as he held Derelei in his arms and glanced at Brei over his shoulder. His face was wet. “Brei, come here,” Taran said with a shaky voice.

  Brei stepped towards Taran and his mother. She smiled through glistening tears. His eyes prickled, and he felt the first tear slide hot down his cheek. “Mother,” he croaked. Taran pulled him into their embrace, and Derelei kissed his cheek. They pressed their heads together, their shoulders heaving as they cried.

  Over Derelei’s shoulder, Brei glimpsed Sorsha sitting astride a powerful stallion as black as her hair, which hung in a long braid over her shoulder. With her was a girl with long copper hair and a man with skin like bronze.

  Footsteps echoed in the stairwell, and Brei stepped out of the embrace to see Anwen, her mouth open. Sorsha clicked to her horse and trotted towards the stables. Her horse had an unusually high step when it trotted, and Brei wondered absently where she had acquired such a beast.

  Derelei straightened and wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her blue tunic. “It’s Anwen, isn’t it?” She glanced at Brei as she stepped towards Anwen.


  Anwen nodded, her cheeks reddening.

  Brei looked from Anwen to his mother. I never imagined I’d have to explain this to her. He cleared his throat. “Come in and have dinner. And, ah, meet your grandchildren.”

  Derelei smiled, and his shoulders relaxed. “This is Nyfain and Dioras, my travelling companions,” she said, gesturing towards the pair. “Did Sorsha leave?”

  “She shouldn’t have come back,” Anwen hissed.

  Derelei looked Anwen up and down. Brei thought he could see an argument going on inside her head. Disgust that her son had tied himself to a peasant, and sadness for what had befallen both women at the hands of the Romans.

  “Anwen, why don’t you go back in and ask the servants to prepare a feast?” Brei whispered, gently squeezing her hand. “Tell King Gartnait that Derelei is back.”

  “How are you even here?” Brei asked when Anwen had gone inside.

  “I don’t know. It all seems impossible. And Caledon has changed so much since I left, hasn’t it?” She looked at him directly in the eye “Peasants marry princes now.”

  “Let’s not quarrel, Mother. It is what it is, and we have more important things to discuss.”

  Derelei glanced behind her and waved to Dioras and Nyfain to follow her into the hall. They walked into the hall as servants brought wine, ale, and food. Anwen, Naoise, Dylan, and Aífe joined them.

  “What happened? How did the Romans get you that night?” Taran asked as he helped himself to a leg of venison.

  “We were all asleep when the horn of Caledon blew. Gruffydd… Is he still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Derelei smiled. “Gruffydd had been on guard with the garrison at the Western Gate when he saw fires at the farmstead. Roman soldiers had slaughtered most of the garrison at the gate.” She paused to swallow a piece of cheese. “Everyone in the tower was in a panic. King Uradech and Gartnait and his boy… Where are Gartnait and Elfinn, by the way?”

  “King Gartnait is not well, Mother. Elfinn is at his side,” Brei said.

  “King Gartnait? I see. Well, as I said, you and Taran and your father…you all left in such a panic. Uradech had told me to watch the women and children. And I meant to. But I was worried about my boys, I was so worried about you. So, I slipped out.”