by Jayne Castel
The landscape of the island was different to the mainland. On The Winged Isle great mountains thrust out of the sea and strained to touch the sky. It looked untamed, as if folk had never dwelt here.
“What do you think?”
Tarl’s voice, close to her ear, made Lucrezia tear her gaze away from the view. They sat in a small boat—just big enough to carry their party of seven—and crossed the narrow stretch of water between the headland and the isle. Lucrezia sat squeezed in between Tarl and Donnel. She glanced right, her gaze meeting Tarl’s.
“It’s not what I imagined,” she admitted. “The mountains … they’re very big.”
“It’s home.” The excitement in Tarl’s voice was impossible to miss. He leaned forward, his keen gaze drinking in the view. “I never fully appreciated the isle’s beauty until I left its shores.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Donnel slurred from next to her. “He’s got a short memory. Prepare yourself for months of fog in the spring, frozen winters, and clouds of biting midges in summer—and rain, lots of it.”
“Miserable bastard,” Tarl replied, although there was concern in his voice. Next to Lucrezia, Donnel lolled against the side of the boat. His eyes were glazed, his skin pale and bathed with sweat. Lucrezia could feel the heat of a raging fever emanating off him in waves.
Donnel was deathly ill; despite that Lucrezia had attempted to clean his wound many times more over the past ten days, it had soured. He could now barely walk.
Lucrezia frowned as she observed Donnel’s sweat-slicked face. She was not an expert on such matters, but the fever looked close to taking him.
“How far is it to your fort?” she asked Tarl.
“Once we reach Kyleakin, it’s a day and a half … if we have horses and ride hard,” he replied, his voice grim.
Lucrezia did not answer, although she wondered whether Donnel could last that long. Her own concern for Donnel’s wellbeing surprised her. Why should she care that he was sick? The man had slaughtered many centurions at the wall. She should be wishing him dead.
But she did not.
The past days had altered her feelings toward her captors. She was still an outsider, still a slave, but as her fluency in their language improved, and she was able to pick up the nuances in the banter around her, the fear that had constantly gnawed at her belly since her capture started to subside. She noted the cleverness of many of the warriors around her, their wit as they sat around the fire at night and swapped stories, or sang.
Like many Romans stationed at Britannia’s most remote corner of the Empire, she had believed her people to be superior to those they sought to rule. That was how the mighty Empire had been built; on the belief that the world needed Roman rule.
That the barbarians needed to be civilized.
For the first time, she saw what it was like for those on the receiving end. To these people, the Empire was a devouring beast, seeking to destroy their way of life—to dominate them.
As she followed her captors west now, Lucrezia found herself dwelling upon this increasingly, realizing what a sheltered existence she had led.
Despite herself, she had started to trust Tarl and his brother, and had developed an unlikely friendship with Alpia. The female warrior sat in front of her now, one of the four oarsmen that steered the small boat toward the shore. Behind them, a handful of other boats crossed the loch—filled with Eagle and Wolf warriors.
Fortunately, they had not seen Wurgest and his men during the remainder of the journey. Alpia had explained that The Boar warriors would most likely cross the loch farther south, for their fort—An Teanga—lay on the southern edge of The Winged Isle.
The boat slid onto the shingle shore, its bow crunching on the fine gravel. The two men at the front of the craft leaped off and pulled the boat out of the water. Alpia and the other oarsman followed close behind.
Lucrezia helped Tarl maneuver Donnel off the boat—a difficult task for he had trouble standing. When they got him to his feet, Donnel staggered and swayed like a drunk.
Upon the shore the party trudged up to where a cluster of low stacked-stone houses rose above them. The village of Kyleakin was tiny. It was the only settlement they had seen in days, yet it looked little more than a scattering of dwellings compared to the sprawl of Vindolanda.
Dwarfed by the might of the towering mountain ranges behind it, the village crouched upon the brow of a hill looking back over the glittering loch. In the distance Lucrezia could see the figures of men emerge from the settlement. Some of them carried weapons—a wise precaution, for they did not yet know who approached.
Lucrezia walked up the slope to the stone perimeter, following the group. Tarl no longer tied her to him these days; of late he had taken to trusting her. And she had done nothing to betray that trust.
Her one disastrous attempt at escape had been enough to warn her against trying it again. Where would she go anyway? The farther they traveled north, away from the edge of the Empire, the more detached she felt from her old life.
Tarl urged the shaggy grey pony forward and rode west. The stallion belonged to Donnel—a gift from their father years earlier—and Donnel had left it at Kyleakin before crossing to the mainland nearly three moons ago. The pony was a strong beast. Even so, it would tire quickly with having to carry two full-grown men.
Tarl sat on the pony’s bare back with Donnel perched in front of him. His brother was barely conscious, and Tarl had wrapped one arm around his chest to keep him upright, while he held onto the reins with the other.
He’s burning up.
Even with a chill north wind whistling over the hills, his brother glowed like an ember against him.
Anxiety curled up within Tarl. He had to get Donnel back to Dun Ringill—he had to find a healer who could save him.
The thunder of hoof-beats behind him reassured Tarl that the others were following. He had put Lucrezia on a horse with Alpia, and entrusted the warrior to look after his slave during the ride west. Lucrezia had been less troublesome of late at least. He was not sure if she had accepted her fate; only that she did not fight him constantly as she had on those first days of the journey.
They rode inland, over swiftly rising hills. A velvet-green moorland covered many parts of this lonely isle. Tarl breathed in the familiar scent of rich damp earth.
He leaned forward so that Donnel could hear him. “Smell that, brother? You’re home.”
Donnel merely uttered a soft groan, his head lolling against his chest as he struggled to remain upright. Tarl’s left arm burned from keeping him steady, and his back was starting to ache from the strain, but he did not dare stop to rest. The pony cantered up and down hills, and splashed over clear burns, its heavy feathered feet spitting up turf behind it.
Tarl tightened his grip on his brother, as he remembered the bleak look on Donnel’s face when he had joined them on their campaign to the south. Even if he was well enough to take in his surroundings, Tarl knew he would find little joy at being upon The Winged Isle once more.
There were too many memories here for him.
That evening they camped at the top of a tall hill as the sky turned mauve and the blustery wind died to a whisper.
The Eagle and Wolf warriors set about erecting a ring of tents and lighting a fire in the center. Tarl and Macum carried Donnel into one of the tents—for he could no longer walk at all—and did their best to make him comfortable.
Looking down at his brother’s pale sweat-streaked face, Tarl glanced over at Macum to see the warrior’s heavy brow furrow.
“He’s going to die,” Tarl murmured. “Isn’t he?”
Macum’s gaze flicked to him, before his mouth thinned. “He’s got to last just one more morning’s ride, and then he’s home.” The warrior glanced back down at Donnel. “Just hold on, lad.”
Tarl left Macum with Donnel, to see if his brother would take any water, and exited the tent into the gloaming. He found Lucrezia plucking a fowl by the fire, her face illuminated
by the last rays of the setting sun.
He watched her, his chest constricting. His worry over Donnel had put him on edge, and he wished to speak to her of it. Yet he did not know where to begin.
Feeling his gaze upon her, Lucrezia glanced up, and frowned. The scar upon her brow was still there: a livid purple streak. However, it would fade to silver with time.
“How is he?” she asked.
Tarl walked over to the fire. “Worse.”
He saw the concern in those walnut eyes, and his chest constricted once more. After everything that had happened since the wall, he had not expected her to care what became of him or his brother.
Yet when she spoke again her voice was cool, and he thought he had imagined her reaction. “How much longer till we reach your fort?”
Tarl stretched. His body ached after a long day keeping Donnel from toppling off the back of his horse. “A morning’s ride, and then we’ll be there,” he replied. “Look to the west—see that hill?”
She did, her gaze shifting to where the silhouette of a mountain rose against the darkening sky.
“That’s Bienn na Caillich—the Red Hill. My people live on the other side.”
She nodded, her face unreadable. Then after a few moments, she went back to plucking the fowl. “What will become of me there?” she asked.
Tarl heard the tension in her voice, even if she was trying to appear aloof. Massaging a stiff muscle in his right shoulder, he moved around the edge of the crackling fire toward her. “No harm will come to you, if that’s what you’re afraid of?”
She glanced up. “How do your people treat slaves?”
He cocked his head, their gazes meeting. “Like yours do, I imagine.”
Her full mouth twisted. “My people are notoriously cruel to them, especially those who farm the land. Most masters revile their slaves. We have a saying: Every slave is an enemy.”
Tarl watched her, surprised. “Slaves are considered property among my people,” he replied. “Like furs, jewels, gold—and other spoils of war. A man with many slaves is rich indeed, but we don’t mistreat them.”
“And can a slave win their freedom?” she asked, holding his gaze.
Tarl’s mouth quirked. He could see what she was up to now. “Not usually.”
She straightened, her posture queenly as she continued to watch him. “Even among my people a slave can prove their worth and eventually earn their freedom. Why not here too?”
Tarl laughed. They were standing so close now he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. “And what would you do with your freedom?” he asked. “How would you survive without my protection?”
He saw anger quicken in her eyes, and the air between them grew frosty. Lucrezia stepped back from him, frowning. “I’d manage.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tarl’s War Prize
they rode into Dun Ringill at noon, as storm clouds gathered overhead. The Eagle warriors had left their Wolf companions behind a few furlongs back, to continue their journey north to Dun Ardtreck.
Thunder boomed in the distance; forks of lightning illuminating the craggy edge of the mountains to the north. The first splashes of rain caught Lucrezia in the face. She blinked droplets out of her eyes before returning her attention to their destination.
Dun Ringill was more impressive than she had imagined. After the shabby settlement of Kyleakin and the scattering of tiny villages they had passed on their journey west, she was not expecting much. But Dun Ringill made her catch her breath.
A large squat stone tower perched on the edge of a dark loch. It was an exposed spot, with little vegetation besides wind-seared grass to protect the fort from the prevailing winds.
Seated behind Alpia, holding onto the woman’s waist, Lucrezia took in the high outer wall they passed through on their way up to the fort. The men here hailed them, joy on their faces. Then, as they passed through into the village itself, folk flooded from low-slung dwellings made of wood and stone, with turf and sod roofs. Lucrezia watched them approach and heard the chatter of excited voices as thunder rumbled once more. It was closer now; the storm was not far off.
Up ahead, she saw Tarl leading the procession toward the fort. Donnel sat in front of him, slumped against his brother. He had been delirious that morning, as they had set out west once more. The wound upon his right thigh now bore purple streaks around it; a worrying sign indeed. Donnel needed the help of a skilled healer or he would die.
“Macum mac Colinn!” A tall woman with wild dark hair rushed forward, eyes gleaming. The warrior, Macum, swung down from his pony and strode to the woman, sweeping her up in his arms. Her cheeks were wet as he swung her round. Then he kissed her, and the gathering crowd around them roared its approval.
Watching them, Lucrezia’s throat constricted. To see a couple so pleased to see each other should have warmed her heart—but instead it just reminded her how alone she was. How lonely she had always been. She had dreamed of Marcus kissing her like that, but he had never looked at her with longing in his eyes.
The company of Eagle warriors did not tarry long at the outer wall, although the returning men and women did hand over iron boxes of loot, furs, and weapons to their kin as soon as they were inside Dun Ringill’s perimeter.
A tide of excited people swarmed around the new arrivals now, carrying them up the wide dirt track toward the high wall surrounding the stacked-stone tower that presided over it all.
Lucrezia realized then that some of the locals were staring at her. It was not just that she was a newcomer here, but that she was foreign. “That woman has golden skin, ma,” a little boy’s shrill voice carried across the crowd. “Why isn’t she pale like us?”
The company moved on, passing clusters of those low dwellings—built into the ground to protect the inhabitants from the bitter winters this far north. Smoke drifted up from slits in the sod roofs, and Lucrezia inhaled the aroma of baking bread and roasting meat. Her belly rumbled, reminding her that she had broken her fast with little more than a cup of watery broth that morning.
They rode through an archway into a wide yard, and the rain began in earnest, sweeping across the party in sheets. Icy needles peppered Lucrezia’s skin. She pulled up her hood in an effort to protect herself from it.
Thunder boomed directly overhead, and Alpia’s sturdy pony leaped forward, nearly unseating both its riders.
“Steady, boy.” Alpia leaned forward and stroked her mount’s furry neck. They were odd-looking ponies these: far smaller and heavier-set than the horses of Lucrezia’s homeland, with large feathery feet and thick manes and tails. They appeared tough beasts though, ideally suited to this harsh climate.
The company reached the stables. Lucrezia dismounted and took shelter from the driving rain. Lightning lit up the sky in bright flashes, causing the ponies to squeal and stamp their hooves.
They did not linger in the stables. Macum helped Tarl get Donnel down from the pony’s back and carry him out into the rain, toward the looming silhouette of the tower. Lucrezia and Alpia followed, ducking their heads against the heavy squall that plastered their cloaks to their bodies.
Stone steps, slippery with rain, led up to the entrance to the tower. Lucrezia peered up at it. This close, the structure blocked out the sky.
The travelers entered the fortress. Lucrezia pushed back her hood and, blinking water out of her eyes, glanced around her. She had expected an austere interior, with little adornment, but was surprised to find the tower a warm and welcoming space. It consisted of a circular hall with a raised platform running around the edge.
A great square stone hearth, in which chunks of peat glowed, dominated the center of the space. Alcoves, where the chief and his kin presumably slept, lined the walls. Heavy furs and tapestries covered the alcoves’ entrances. Large oaken beams, blackened by smoke and age hung high overhead, and there were two slits in the roof to let out the smoke.
A man and a woman approached them. The man was broad-shouldered and muscular
, dressed head to toe in leather. He had long black hair and handsome, if slightly hawkish features. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, gave him away.
This must be Galan, Tarl’s elder brother.
Next to Galan was a tall regal beauty, her dark hair braided down her back. Dressed in a flowing plaid skirt and a tight fitting leather vest, the chieftain’s wife stood proudly, her shoulders thrown back.
Captivated, Lucrezia stared at the chieftain’s wife. Tea, wife of Galan, appeared to be as fierce as Alpia.
“Greetings, brother.” Tarl called out. “Thought you’d seen the back of us, didn’t you? Yet here we are, returned from the south.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be that easy to get rid of.” Galan was smiling widely as he stepped forward and pulled Tarl into a bear-hug.
The other returning warriors crowded around them then, and Lucrezia witnessed much back-slapping. There was joy upon their faces, their excited voices echoing high into the rafters.
“What happened at the wall?” Galan asked.
Tarl grinned back. “We took it.”
Next to the chief, his wife’s gaze widened. “It fell?”
Tarl nodded. “Our numbers were great, but we had some help from within. We stormed the wall at dawn and it was ours by noon. All but two of our warriors have returned home.” He paused then, his gaze shifting to the limp body that hung between him and Macum. “Donnel fought like a man possessed. He earned a reputation for himself that day—the warriors now call him ‘Battle Eagle’.”
Pride lit in Galan’s eyes, but the joy on his face faded when he stepped closer to study Donnel. “He needs a healer.”
Tarl met his brother’s eye. “I know our last one died last winter … I hope you’ve replaced her?”
“We have,” Tea spoke up. “Eithni will see to him.”
