Celtic Fire(4)

“Aye,” Rhiannon said. She’d been weaned on tales of redeeming Cartimandua’s folly. Two generations past, the great queen of the Brigantes had spurned one king in favor of a less popular consort, plunging the clans into civil war. In the end, only the Romans had benefited. Another reason why Rhiannon could not spurn Edmyg, despite his perfidy. She would not repeat her grandmother’s selfish mistake.

Now a new war approached, one in which the clans would unite against the conquerors. Bloodshed was as certain as the sun’s rising. The thought of the Brigantes’ crossing swords with the formidable Roman army left Rhiannon sick with dread. How many of her kin would perish?

“Now then, have ye food and cervesia for an old man?”

Rhiannon nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She took the flask of barley beer from its hook and filled three mugs. She set them on the low table, then moved to the cauldron and ladled the remains of the past evening’s stew into wooden bowls. Taking up her own portion, she joined the men by the fire.

Edmyg used a barley bannock to retrieve a hunk of meat from his bowl. “We’ll take the Romans where the road crosses the fens,” he said, chewing around a large mouthful. He washed the stew down with a swig of cervesia, straining the liquid through his blond moustache. A portion dribbled onto the braids in his beard. “The forest is dark there even at midday.”

Rhiannon put her meal aside, her meager appetite now completely gone. The fens were a day’s journey to the south. If Edmyg meant to be in the marshes tomorrow, he would have to travel through the night. Owein’s breathing had eased, but his strength was still fragile. The journey, coupled with a battle, would surely bring on a relapse.

But Edmyg’s will was set, as was Owein’s, who was determined to prove himself more than a lad. And the Great Mother knew a woman had little hope of shoveling sense into a man’s head when it was filled with thoughts of war.

As the sun rose into a line of clouds, the clan gathered in the muddy yard to prepare for the raid. The honing wheel turned, scattering sparks from iron blades. Above, the pointed roofs of the roundhouses scratched the gray sky. A wall of logs ringed the huts, capping the crest of a steep hill. The palisade would protect the women while their men fought.

A raven sailed into view overhead, then disappeared just as quickly. Rhiannon shivered. The creature of Owein’s vision. Did it foretell victory or death?

She plunged her frayed willow twig into a wooden bowl and mixed the woad and water with savage strokes. Her hand painted blue swirls on Edmyg’s face and chest. When his protection was complete, she turned to Owein, murmuring a fervent prayer with each pass of her brush. She rubbed a mixture of lime and clay in his hair and drew the curls into spikes.

The warriors gathered outside the palisade, spears and shields ready. Edmyg slung his battle horn onto his saddle and mounted his war pony. Though the men numbered no more than twenty, they were fierce, and—with the exception of Owein and one or two other lads—well honed for battle.

Edmyg raised his sword. “Death to Rome!”

He kicked his pony into a gallop. Madog, Owein and a handful of others followed on their own mounts, but the greater number ran afoot. They vanished into the forest in a heartbeat, leaving only a spatter of mud and the stale reek of hatred. Rhiannon hugged her arms to her chest as she walked back to the village with the women. The men of Kynan’s dun would more than double the band. Would it be enough?

She bit back the taste of bile. Madog wanted the new Roman commander taken alive. If her kinsmen managed that feat, the Druid master would repeat the Rite of the Old Ones. A second Roman skull would overlook the ancient stone circle.

And Rhiannon’s nightmares would begin anew.



Lucius pulled back on his stallion’s reins and allowed his escort to advance on the road. The tattoo beat of the soldiers’ footfalls didn’t falter. The auxiliary unit marched in two columns, eight deep, with their centurion at the fore. An equal number brought up the rear. In the center, the remaining soldiers flanked a boy and an old man on horseback.

The road threaded a narrow valley crowded on either side by dense woods. An idyllic scene, but Lucius would have gladly traded it for the wind-scoured moorland he’d traversed the day before. Far better to freeze his ass in the open than to present an easy target in comfort.

He shot a glance to his left, where his younger brother rode in ghostly majesty, the hem of his toga trailing over the flank of an invisible mount. The specter had dogged Lucius’s every step for near half a year, driving his well-ordered life into chaos.

Aulus hadn’t been this annoying since childhood.