Running from forge to roundhouse, she snatched up the shard of shell from the stone shelf behind her bed and hurried back. Explaining her idea to Gern, she begged a rolled rod of metal from him and began to heat, beat and shape the end. With his help, it was sharpened down to a fine point, but with a barb on it like the shell, bent into shape, the eyelet made and the slender hook cut from the rod. Everyone in the forge was intrigued. To test it, the bellows boy ran to fetch one of Hanick's fish before Lethra cooked them. Carefully, the hook was pushed into the roof of its gaping mouth. Mentally crossing her fingers, Skaaha tried to ease it back out. It wouldn't come. Several others tried, and failed. The hook held firm.
‘Well done!’ Gern congratulated her.
She was beating out a second hook when Ard returned from council.
‘A fine idea,’ he praised when she demonstrated. ‘Clever, indeed. But’ – he sucked his cheeks in thoughtfully – ‘fishers can't lose a hook for every fish. They need to come out to be baited again.’
‘Could they cut it out?’ Skaaha was reluctant to abandon her invention. ‘That's what Ruan did with the shell.’
‘A gutting knife would do it,’ Gern said, trying. ‘No, wait’ – as the hook moved and he saw how it would go – ‘it would push through.’ He tried, easing the hook fully out. ‘The gut is easier to cut, easy to retie.’ He held up the freed hook triumphantly.
That afternoon, buoyed up by pride in her craftsmanship, Skaaha went looking for Hanick. She found him on the shore, tying his lines for the next morning.
‘Here,’ she said, opening her hand and carefully attaching each of the three hooks she held to the cloth of his tunic. ‘Try these tomorrow.’ Delight bubbled inside her. The tautness of his body told her she could make him do anything. He'd swim to Glenelg if she said so. ‘You might catch that big one.’
‘If I can get them out my tunic,’ he said, tugging.
‘Like this.’ She showed him, her forearms resting on his chest. Looking down, his flopping hair brushed the top of her head. ‘Be careful of your fingers too,’ she murmured, glancing up into his eyes. ‘The only way out is through.’ Instinct she'd never possessed before told her to go now. Patting his chest, she tossed her head, threw him a half smile and turned towards the village. Freya stood in Kenna's doorway, swollen with child, watching them.
‘You want Hanick, don't you?’ she asked when Skaaha reached her.
‘No, I was only teasing. You're handfasted.’ Women didn't share their men unless their interest was exhausted. ‘I don't want your man.’
‘He'd look good with you.’
‘And he looks better with you.’ Skaaha looped her arm in her friend's and they walked towards the copse at the edge of the village. Freya and Hanick handfasted last Beltane. This time, they'd jump between the fires again, wrists bound together to enter marriage, or untied to separate. ‘Don't you mean to marry?’
‘What difference does that make?’ Freya would not be cheered. ‘You can have any man, especially now they can't say no.’
‘What?’ Skaaha halted. Only the goddess couldn't be refused.
‘You'll become Danu. The priest, Yona, told the council.’ Freya frowned. ‘What else did you expect?’
‘Not that. There will be other girls.’ She was puzzled. Villages chose their own goddess for the autumn, winter and spring festivals, but in summer there was only one, chosen by the druid cell at Torrin. ‘Word can't have come already.’
Amazement spread over Freya's face. ‘You don't know, do you? Danu's blood runs in your veins. You chose yourself soon as you spoke. The priests have waited for this since you were born’ – significance larded her voice – ‘in the dark of a Ghost moon.’ The thirteenth moon came every third circle. Legend said the goddess was also born from the dark of it. ‘They say it will make powerful magic,’ Freya rambled on. ‘Folk will come from all the islands. It'll be the biggest Beltane ever.’
Skaaha sat down on a tussock of grass. That explained what Erith meant. She'd been here so long she'd forgotten. These people were not her people. She was a daughter of the tribe of Danu, born of the blood-line through a warrior queen. This was why a priest had been assigned her, why she was allowed her father's care instead of being fostered. The druids protected Danu's heir. Not her. Not Skaaha, but the spirit of the goddess in her – a spirit they expected to release at Beltane.
‘You're not an ordinary person,’ Freya whispered. ‘Didn't you know that?’
Rau… rau… rau… High above, two white-tailed sea eagles linked their claws and spun into their mating dance. Yip… yip… yip… Skaaha's heart battered inside her chest. It was all clear now – she and Eefay sent to separate places of safety, both with blood-tied warrior protection. It was no accident and not their choice, as it had seemed, but designed by Suli, the high priest. Bride made the world, but Danu was its protector – a fecund, fierce warrior who gave birth to the future. So the druids said.
‘Stories for children,’ she muttered. That's how Kerrigen had dismissed druid beliefs. But she'd kept Tosk with her at Doon Beck, just the same.
‘Not stories,’ Freya denied. ‘You're not like us. You never were.’ Behind them, voices called, whistled, as the shaggy black cattle were brought in off the hills.
‘I'm me.’ Skaaha thumped a clenched fist against her knee. ‘A blacksmith, like Bride.’ The world spun. Bride became Danu. Her voice rose. ‘Danu is fierce, and battle-scarred – a warrior!’
‘Give it time,’ Freya cautioned. ‘Bride, Danu, Carlin – even Telsha – they're all the sacred mother, just different ages.’
‘But she's not real,’ Skaaha persisted.
‘Believe what you like.’ Freya shrugged. ‘It won't change anything.’
‘I can change this.’ Anger burned in Skaaha's eyes. ‘I can refuse!’
Freya's chin dropped. Turning down the role of goddess was unthinkable. Beasts streamed past, heading for the stockades. Kaitlyn peeled off from driving them and flopped on the ground next Skaaha.
‘What's new?’ she asked. ‘Anything good?’ She was joking. Even the herdsmen who guarded flocks all day already knew. Announcements were unnecessary formalities. Among Kylerheans, the difference between a secret and news was that the former travelled faster. ‘Don't be daft!’ she exclaimed, when she heard Skaaha's intention. ‘You get to choose the consort.’
‘And that's so great?’ Skaaha asked. Both her friends wore small tattoos of womanhood on their necks. It seemed like a conspiracy.
‘Yes.’ Kaitlyn had no doubts. ‘I wanted Ard to come of age with, but Erith refused. If I'd been Danu, she couldn't have.’ The goddess should be partnered by an experienced lover. If that man was married, the honour was as much his wife's as his. Kaitlyn hunkered up on her knees, leaning her elbows on Skaaha's thigh. ‘Forget druids,’ she urged, ‘and all this goddess nonsense. You can have any man you want. That's better than good. Believe me, they're not all the same.’
‘If I'd been Danu, I would've picked Hanick anyway,’ Freya said. ‘We fucked all seven days and nights.’ The others stared at her. ‘Mostly,’ she added. ‘When we weren't eating or sleeping.’ Her friends still stared, speechless. ‘It's true. I could hardly walk afterwards.’ She giggled. ‘Nor could he.’
‘And on the seventh night,’ Kaitlyn intoned, ‘he lasted more than two thrusts.’ She and Skaaha dissolved into fits of giggles.
‘That's not fair,’ Freya protested. ‘He learned lots after that time in the cave.’
‘So’ – Kaitlyn feigned innocence – ‘do you suggest Skaaha choose Hanick?’
‘That's what started this,’ Skaaha yelped, pushing Kaitlyn's shoulder.
‘Yes.’ Confused, Freya quickly corrected herself. ‘No.’ She puffed her breath, glaring at them both. ‘Actually’ – she thrust her chest out, held her head high – ‘I will be proud to see my man honour the goddess. You can have Hanick,’ she told Skaaha. ‘But only once,’ she added, pointedly, ‘then you give him back.’
The teasing fell flat. Freya's jealousy was misplaced, her attempt to overcome it bungled, lacking respect. Danu forgotten, Skaaha leapt to her feet and spread the palm of her hand over her friend's bulging abdomen.
‘You have his child in you,’ she said coldly. ‘So he served you well, and I won't take him from you if you beg. But don't you, ever, tell me what to do again!’ She stalked off to the forge, leaving Kaitlyn shaking her head in disbelief at Freya.
‘Are you soft in the head?’ she asked. ‘Be glad you're pregnant. If she was still a warrior, she'd kill you for ordering her about like that.’
‘She is a warrior still.’ Freya, hands clasped over her belly, gazed awestruck at Skaaha's retreating back. ‘Anyone else would have thanked me.’
‘What?’ Kaitlyn jumped up, gasping with exaggerated astonishment. ‘She really is becoming Danu?’ She shook her head, gazing in despair at her friend. ‘You're such a druid, Freya. Beltane, big party, ho, that's it.’
‘Boat! Boat!’ Calum screeched, rattling the metal rod around the circle that topped the pole beside him. ‘Boat!’
Below him, on the hillside, Lethra dumped the basket she'd been filling with herbs and charged up the slope towards the boy. Yesterday it had been the shadow of a cloud, the day before a pod of dolphins. Clang-clang-clang! The racket drove her, and everybody else in the village, crazy.
‘Do you want a thick ear?’ the crone yelled with all the breath she had left as soon as she was near enough to make herself heard over the din. The clatter stopped.
‘No,’ the boy said.
‘Well, you're going the wrong way about it!’ Age ached in her limbs but hadn't yet reached her tongue. The chief thrust her hand out. ‘Give me that rod!’
Calum's lip trembled. ‘Skaaha made it for me.’
‘To stop you lighting the stacks every second breath’ – she grabbed the bar from his reluctant hands – ‘not to drive us daft!’ Making a V of her first two fingers, she poked them perilously close to the terrified lad's eyes. ‘What are these for?’
‘To see with,’ Calum quavered.
‘Then use them,’ she snarled, ‘or I'll poke them out!’ She straightened up, easing stiffness out of her back. Youngsters these days – they knew nothing. ‘Do you even know what a boat looks like?’
Trembling, the boy pointed. ‘It looks like that,’ he said tearfully.
Lethra spun round. In the middle of the bay was a sizeable boat, square sail billowing, its prow ploughing towards them. She swung the metal bar into the hoop, clattering it from side to side. ‘Boat! Boat!’ she shrieked.
Down in the village, people swarmed from buildings, running to the shore.
‘Not that way!’ Lethra roared. Fools! The boat struck sail. ‘Get that going!’ she yelled at the hapless Calum, on his knees next the fire stack, all fingers and thumbs with the flint. Oars dipped in the waves. Lethra counted – six, eight of them. Not an alarming number. No war helmets in sight, the only glitter came from… ‘What are you doing?’ she yelled at the boy, snatching the smouldering tinder from his hands and stamping on it.
‘Making smoke,’ Calum protested. ‘So the warriors come.’
‘Warriors don't want metal bars,’ she blustered. ‘Can't you tell a trading ship when you see one?’
16
Needing deeper water for its hull, the boat passed the beaching point near the village which was used by fishers and warriors, to tie up at the landing pier where coracles for the crossing to Alba were kept. The trader, a rotund little man who wore a long, brightly patterned coat, had called cheerful halloos since they'd come into earshot. Now he leapt nimbly ashore, waving a short cane with a bone handle carved into a perching eagle.
As furnace and forge-keepers, Kenna and Erith waited to greet him, greedy for the tin he brought from the south but wise enough not to appear over-eager and push the price up. Food and drink were consumed, news and stories told, and a great deal of disinterest in trading displayed, before haggling began.
‘It's been a long time, Beric,’ Erith said, ‘and we're pleased to see you, but we make little bronze now.’
‘What we need, we re-smelt from old goods,’ Kenna added casually, cracking a bone with bejewelled fists to suck out the marrow. ‘Saves on copper as well as tin.’
The trader downed his mead. ‘No matter. A visit to the Island of Wings is never wasted. There's a fine wind out on the water will carry us west with our cargo. And we might pick up a southerly to take us beyond the Islands of Bride.’ He paused while his drinking horn was refilled.
Fascinated by the strangeness of the man and the glamour of his travels, Skaaha brimmed with questions, but she knew better than to interrupt negotiations.
‘Besides, I have a few trinkets that might take your fancy,’ Beric continued, ‘a Greek pot, Roman swords, jewellery from Egypt, a bottle or two of wine.’
‘Roman swords?’ Skaaha queried, forgetting restraint. ‘What are they like?’
‘Short,’ Beric said. ‘With an edge to split a hair.’ A troubled look passed over his face. ‘I fancy these split a few hairs in Germanica of late.’ He didn't trust the Romans, though they'd traded for his tin over many suns. They warred on every land they marched into. ‘One day, when it suits them, they'll ship their legions to Alba and take what they want, as casually as they do elsewhere.’
‘And how will they do that?’ Skaaha scoffed. ‘They must be poor warriors to trade their weapons.’
‘They didn't,’ Beric corrected. ‘One of the ships taking them home from that campaign was blown off course, landed in the south-east, with their Emperor's son on board. The swords belonged to their deceased, gambled away by the crew.’
Ard, as curious as his daughter, took Skaaha to see the foreign weapons. There were two swords. While he tested the metal, she swung and thrust.
‘A good size,’ she said, ‘for in close.’
‘Good steel,’ he said, ‘strong.’ He rung the blade with the hilt of his knife, sniffed along the flat then licked it, mindful of his tongue, tasting the carbon.
‘Sharp, too,’ Skaaha said, trying the edge on a rope. By the time they'd fully assessed the quality of alloy, the layered welds, workmanship and design, Beric was back on board to oversee the exchange of goods, including much of his tin.
‘She strikes a hard bargain, that wife of yours,’ he complained to Ard. ‘Blood from a stone, she would get. Will you take the swords?’
‘And bring bad luck on us?’ Ard answered. ‘Trade them to someone who needs to make a sacrifice. The weapons of the dead have no other use.’
Beric threw a few friendly curses at them as they left his boat. Happy enough with the morning's trade, he'd cut his own throat rather than admit it. With the tin offloaded, the additional cargo stowed, he could still be heard, cheerfully calling them down this time, when the oars berthed and the sail ran up, from far out in the bay.
Erith was also in a jovial mood, issuing orders, making plans. They had been out of tin for some time, and even the most mundane iron objects increased in value and desirability when made beautiful by the addition of bronze designs. Her third husband, who spent most of his time up at the woodland charcoal clamps, was sent extra woodcutters and word to step up supply.
‘If we work the forge flat out,’ she told Ard and Gern, ‘we can fill our larder from trade at Torrin.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You know what you must do tonight.’
Ard nodded. ‘Which also, very neatly, keeps us out of the way.’
‘But short-handed,’ Gern added.
‘Neither of you would like being cock in a henhouse,’ Erith assured them. ‘You'll be fed at Kenna's.’ She spread her hands in thankfulness. ‘I could've kissed Beric when he showed up.’
‘Then we'd have paid double,’ Gern pointed out.
‘The most beautiful things, Ard,’ she reminded him. ‘We can't stint on this.’
He tapped his temple. ‘I have it all planned. Fit for a goddess.’
On the playing
ground in the centre of the village, Skaaha worked through the warrior steps. It contained her rising apprehension, the strong firm strides, deep rhythmic breathing. A party of women should not have this effect, but the last time such a group met to focus on her future, the change had been momentous. This change, too, would hurtle her from one state to another, shifting her status from novice to adult woman, able to take lovers, handfast, marry, have children – set up her own forge, if she chose. She felt ready for none of those now, unable to envisage beyond the first hurdle – an evening of ribald, chattering wives.
‘I am Skaaha, the shadow,’ she breathed, squaring off into a strike, ‘of the tribe of Danu, daughter of Kerrigen, queen of warriors.’ The sun was setting behind her, the sky over the sea a misty purple. Squawking birds headed home to roost.
‘Skaaha, Skaaha!’ Calum's voice shrilled.
‘And I will not be interrupted,’ she growled, quartering smoothly to face him.
‘Look, look!’ Calum jumped up and down at the far side of the field, his arm stretched, pointing to the hill path. A cart, with a spare horse tied behind, jolted down the slope. Even at this distance, with the setting sun in her face, she could see it was Ruan who drove it. Her gut clenched. Automatically, she took several steps in his direction, and stopped. A second person rode the cart with him – a dark head next his fair one, the tilt and shape familiar and strangely out of place in druid robes.
‘Jiya,’ she gasped, and then she ran, feet pounding across the grass, slapping over the cobbled path, dodging past the forge. ‘Jiya!’ she called, as she emerged from behind it. Ruan stopped the cart at the foot of the slope to let his passenger dismount. The woman threw her arms wide, beaming a wider smile. Skaaha thumped into her, hugging and being held, feasting her eyes on her aunt's appearance.
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