Her gaze narrowed before she favored him with a curt nod. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” Tarl turned away, to hide his grin, and sauntered off. “See you both later.”
Lucrezia glared at Tarl’s retreating back. Her face still burned with embarrassment. She could not believe she had let him distract her like that. She should have known better.
Over the past three moons, her skill with a blade had improved quickly. Her first attempts with the sword had been embarrassing—and she was glad Tarl had not witnessed her fumbling—but she had quickly gotten the hang of it.
She and Alpia had practiced every day, no matter the weather. Initially Tea had trained with her, but after her pregnancy had started to show she let Alpia take over the training. Both women had been surprised at Lucrezia’s determination, her lack of complaints. Neither of them had realized how much it meant to her. Lucrezia was not just learning how to wield a sword and defend herself—she was building a new life here in Dun Ringill. She was shedding the past like a winter coat.
Life at the fort had fallen into a routine swiftly since her arrival here. She had remained living with Eithni and still helped the healer with patients, if she needed assistance. For the rest of the time, she helped prepare meals in the fort, worked in the gardens beyond the walls—and trained.
Her days were busy, but that did not mean she managed to avoid Tarl completely. Dun Ringill was a small place, and as such she saw far too much of him. After their exchange on the shore beneath the fort that day, she did her best to ignore him. However, it was difficult since wherever she turned, Tarl mac Muin seemed to appear. He had done as she asked, had not approached her again, but in such a close-knit settlement it was impossible not to bump into him.
“Why don’t you do everyone a favor and take the man to your furs.” Alpia’s voice jerked Lucrezia out of her brooding.
She whipped round, glaring at her friend. “What did you say?”
Alpia laughed, not remotely fazed by her fierceness. “You heard me. Neither of you are fooling anyone. We’re all wondering when he’s going to throw you over his shoulder and carry you off to his alcove.”
Lucrezia drew herself up, outraged. “Well, you will all be waiting a long time. I’d never lie with that man.”
Alpia smirked. “Why not? He’s brave, strong, and fiercely loyal … and he knows how to please a woman in the furs.”
Lucrezia went still. “What do you mean? Have you lain with him?”
Her friend shrugged. “Aye—years ago now. He gave me a pleasurable night.”
A blade of irrational jealousy lanced through Lucrezia. She could not believe that Alpia and Tarl had coupled. No doubt he had taken most of the unattached women in the fort to his furs at one time or another.
Lucrezia folded her arms over her breasts. “Why aren’t you together now then?”
Alpia gave her a wicked smile. “We weren’t suited. Both too pig-headed to stay together for more than one night. We’d end up knifing each other.”
Lucrezia huffed a laugh despite the green-eyed monster that still seethed in her breast. What do I care whom Tarl sleeps with? “You made the right decision. The man is impossible.”
Alpia grinned and twirled the wooden blade in her right hand. “He’s got a good heart … even if he hides it well.” She stepped back from Lucrezia then and adopted a fighting stance—legs apart, knees slightly bent. “Come on, let’s go another round. Let’s see if I can knock you onto your back again.”
Lucrezia brought her blade and shield up, baring her teeth at her opponent. “Or you can eat dirt, like you did yesterday.”
The wind whipped across the velvet-green hills. A mackerel sky yawned above, casting long shadows over the sculpted landscape. The group of riders raced down the wide valley, their ponies’ manes flying. A large falcon and two hawks wheeled overhead, hunting for rooks.
Lucrezia rode near the rear of the main party, just behind Donnel, while the others rode up ahead. Galan’s most trusted warriors had joined them, as well as Tea, Tarl, and Alpia.
It was a glorious day to be out riding; Tarl had been right about that. With the wind in her hair, breathing in the crisp air laced with the woody scent of heather, Lucrezia felt a sense of well-being steal over her.
Her pony was not an easy ride. The dun mare had tried to unseat her initially—with the odd buck, or by dropping a shoulder—but once it realized its rider was not to be easily dislodged, it gave up.
Lucrezia was at peace. She had never felt like this, not while she had lived with her parents, nor during her marriage to Marcus. A veil of sadness had hung over her at Vindolanda, as the years melded one into another and she grew to accept that her husband would never desire her. She always had felt frustrated, as if she wore invisible bonds that held her tethered to the earth.
Who would have thought that coming here would set me free?
She no longer awoke wishing for sleep to pull her under again. She now rose from the furs looking forward to the day. She was no longer Lucrezia the daughter, or Lucrezia the wife. Here, she was just Lucrezia.
Tears stung her eyes as she rode. What an irony. She should really thank Tarl, if she was not afraid of being mocked by him again.
Galan, who was leading the party, drew up his black stallion to a halt. There, he waited as a great white and grey falcon dropped toward them, a dead rook in its talons.
Lucrezia drew up at the back of the party, watching as Tarl’s grey hawk swooped in. It landed on his outstretched wrist, its claws digging into the leather glove he wore. Observing him, Lucrezia found herself thinking about her conversation with Alpia earlier that day. She was still reeling at the news that the pair of them had been lovers; it bothered her more than she cared to admit.
Since meeting Tarl, she had not seen him show any interest in women … except her.
Foolish girl, she chided herself, even as she admired his proud profile, the way his light brown hair fluttered in the breeze. You can’t stand the man.
Tarl’s gaze swiveled to her then—as he felt her watching him. Their eyes locked for a moment. To her chagrin, he grinned at her and winked.
Lucrezia tore her gaze away, furious with herself for being caught watching him. What’s wrong with me these days? It was true, the more comfortable she became with life here, the harder it was to harbor resentment against Tarl. She was constantly aware of him and knew when he entered the fort, even without looking up from her chores.
She often caught herself watching him when she thought no one noticed.
Stop it, she warned herself. Such thoughts will get you into trouble.
She needed to remember that he had wanted to keep her as a slave, that he had not seen her as a person—just a spoil of war to brag about when he returned home.
It was a leisurely ride back to the fort, as the shadows lengthened and the wind died to a whisper. Galan and Tea rode up ahead, chatting and laughing together. The rest of the party followed in a long column, with Lucrezia near the back.
After riding beside Donnel for a spell, Tarl eventually let him draw ahead. Donnel was in a surly mood this afternoon and did not even seem to notice when his brother lagged behind.
Tarl drew his stallion to a halt and waited for Lucrezia to catch up. She rode a dun mare, a cantankerous beast that had once been Tea’s pony. The mare snatched at the bit now, its furry ears plastered back.
Tarl smiled at Lucrezia as she reached him. “Ill-tempered beast.”
“Aye.” She dug her heels into the pony’s flanks and switched it across the shoulders with the end of the reins. The mare abruptly stopped playing up, although its ears still lay flat against its skull. “But we’ve come to a truce.”
Tarl urged his stallion forward, and the pair of them rode side by side, bringing up the rear of the column. He held the reins with his right hand, bearing his hawk aloft with his left. The bird hunched, its beady eyes sweeping the valley on the look-out for prey. Not that it would be able to fly away, as
he had leashed it to his wrist.
They traveled in silence for a while—and it soon became clear that Lucrezia was not going to begin a conversation.
Tarl glanced across at her, taking in her elegant profile, and the confidence and ease with which she rode. He had missed her company over the past three months. On the journey north, he had gotten used to having her near, and yet these days Lucrezia seemed a stranger to him. He had done as she had asked—kept his distance from her—but with the warming of the weather, and the lengthening of the days, he found himself seeking out her company.
It was time to thaw the ice between them.
“I was impressed watching you this morning,” he said eventually. “You fight well.”
She swung her gaze round to meet his, her expression guarded. “Do you mock me?”
He shook his head. The woman had not lost her prickliness toward him it seemed. “I speak the truth. You’re light on your feet … and quick too. You fight with precision.”
He watched her expression soften. “Thank you,” she said after a few moments.
“Did you enjoy your afternoon?” he asked then, changing the subject.
She nodded. “Very much—this is beautiful land.”
He smiled, pleased by her comment. “You like The Winged Isle then?”
She inclined her head. “I didn’t think I would … but yes, there is a stark beauty to this place that does something to you.”
Tarl’s smile widened. Her words made him foolishly happy—an emotion he had not felt of late. Ever since his argument with Galan after arriving home, things had been tense between the two brothers. Donnel was also poor company, having become uncommunicative and taciturn upon healing from his fever.
Over the last few moons, Galan and Tarl had ridden out together with the other warriors to patrol the southern borders of their land—borders they shared with the People of The Boar. The brothers had also worked together on repairing the defenses of some of the outlying villages. But there seemed to be a coolness between them these days, a distance that had not existed before.
Tarl could almost taste Galan’s disappointment in him.
Most days Tarl awoke to the nagging sense that something was wrong. Life had gone back to how it had been before he departed for war. And yet he could not settle.
If anything he felt more restless than he had before he went off to fight the Caesars. He did not resent Galan—for his brother was a hard man to dislike. Yet every day he spent with the chief reminded him of his own failings.
Their father, Muin—whom Tarl was so like in many ways—had once told him that it was well Galan was the eldest son, for Tarl would make a poor leader.
You have my pride, he had rumbled, but you’re too full of yourself. You’d start a war just to prove yourself right.
The insult had bitten deep, and its sting had never left him.
“I love this isle,” Tarl said after a long moment of silence, “although I sometimes feel trapped here.” He glanced right to see Lucrezia was now watching him, her expression shuttered.
“Why?” she asked. “Dun Ringill seems a fine place to live, and Galan is no tyrant. I’ve never met a better leader.”
Tarl’s mouth twisted. He should not feel jealous that she held such a high opinion of his brother, and yet he did. “Aye, I know,” he replied.
Chapter Twenty
Bealtunn
“Do you really believe in fairies?”
The young woman laughed. Her name was Mael. Small, with long dark hair and bright blue eyes, Mael walked alongside Lucrezia as they skirted the southern edge of Loch Slapin.
In spite of her small stature, the young woman carried two babies with her: a girl of around six moons in a sling across her front, and an infant boy on her back. The girl, Ailene, was Mael’s own, whereas the lad, Talor, was Donnel’s. After the death of Donnel’s wife, Luana, Mael and her husband now brought the babe up as their own.
“They are the Aos Sí, but we call them the Fair Folk,” Mael replied, brushing a lock of raven hair out of her eyes. “Don’t they exist where you’re from?”
Lucrezia shook her head. Her gaze dropped to the heavy basket she carried—full of honey oatcakes she had helped Deri bake that morning. “It seems a pity to give all these cakes to them … just to keep the fairies happy.”
Mael sighed. “The Fair Folk are fickle fey creatures. They can cause a lot of trouble if not appeased. We always bake cakes for them at Bealtunn.”
Lucrezia looked around her. Wild flowers carpeted the lush green hillsides and the wind was warm on their faces this morning. They were well into spring now. In her own tongue this month was known as Maius. Tonight the folk of Dun Ringill would celebrate Bealtunn—the spring equinox.
The small group of women had set out this morning, led by the seer, Ruith, and Tea, to leave cakes in a special place a short walk south of the fort. Tea and the bandruí chatted together as they walked. Behind them Eithni, Deri, and three of the warriors’ wives were giggling about something, the sound carrying over the still waters of the lake.
The female camaraderie here was another thing Lucrezia enjoyed about living at Dun Ringill. She enjoyed training with Alpia in the mornings, yet she also loved sharing banter with Ruith as they gardened together, chatting with Eithni in the mornings, or laughing over some silly joke with Deri as they prepared supper. Back in Vindolanda, the two Briton servant girls had been her solace in a life that would otherwise have been very lonely.
The memory of the hatred on Ciara and Gwyna’s face on the day of the attack made Lucrezia tense. Their friendship had never existed.
The group of women reached their destination, a large mound that rose up just beyond the shingle shore. Ruith and Tea halted, and waited for the others to catch up.
Reaching them, Lucrezia stopped, gazing up at the hill. “So the Fair Folk live here?”
“Aos Sí means ‘People of the Mounds’,” Mael replied. “They guard their homes fiercely, and on special nights of the year they come out to dance.”
“You have to be careful here,” Ruith spoke up, having overheard their exchange. “The Fair Folk are quick to bless, but quick to anger. Many have ventured too close to one of these mounds near dusk, only to be taken … and never seen again.”
“There’s a tale from Dun Ardtreck, about two lovers who lingered too near a sacred place,” Eithni added. “So lost in passion were they that they did not notice the hill that rose up behind them.”
“Aye—and as night fell the Aos Sí came for them.” Tea concluded the story, one hand upon her belly, which had now started to swell noticeably.
Had their voices not been so serious, Lucrezia might have teased them. She had not grown up in this world and could not bring herself to believe such tales, and yet she had to admit that this place had an odd atmosphere. She almost felt as if they were being watched.
“Set your baskets down at the foot of the hill,” Ruith instructed, “and I will bless them.”
Lucrezia did as bid, following the other women up and setting down the basket of fragrant cakes. Then she returned to the waiting group while the bandruí stepped forward. Although she was an older woman, Ruith held herself straight and strong. Her greying dark hair hung in tiny braids down her back, and her high cheekbones had become more evident with age.
The bandruí squatted at the foot of the hill, her hands moving over the baskets. Then she began to speak. At first her voice was low, and Lucrezia did not catch her words—until she reached the last part of her chant.
We are the weavers, we are the woven ones
We are the dreamers, we are the dream
Spiraling into the center
The center of our soul
Listening to these words, Lucrezia felt a strange sensation filter through her: an excitement mixed with trepidation. These people’s beliefs were new to her, and yet they made sense. To them birth, death, and life were all interconnected. They lived in harmony with their environment. They
believed themselves part of the earth and sky, even the afterlife.
Perhaps her thoughts showed on her face, for she felt Mael’s gaze upon her. Their eyes met and the woman smiled, her blue eyes kind. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Lucrezia smiled. “Aye—it is.”
The Bealtunn bonfire lit up the night.
Folk emerged from their homes and descended upon it. Lucrezia followed them, her gaze upon the hungry golden flames that roared skyward. It was a still night, and yet she had thrown a plaid shawl around her shoulders to ward off the nip in the air.
Laughter and excited voices rang across the village. After the long cold of the bitter months, the people of Dun Ringill embraced this evening with abandon. The hawthorn bushes around the perimeter were white with blossom, and now decorated with streamers of cloth.
Lucrezia had never thought of hawthorn as more than a hedgerow plant, but Eithni had explained to her earlier that for her people it represented love, fertility, and protection.
Children danced around one of the bushes, their squeals adding to the cacophony of sound.
Lucrezia reached the edge of the crowd milling around the bonfire; she was content to remain on the fringes and watch this eve. These people had welcomed her, but she was still a stranger here in many ways. She still had much to learn about their traditions.
Her gaze swept across the crowd of revelers, watching as some of the men held iron brands into the flame—before they ran around the fire whirling the glowing brands above their heads. Lucrezia saw that many of the women wore crowns of spring flowers upon their head: bluebells and primroses, wreathed with honey-suckle.
Eithni, dressed in a long pale tunic, honeysuckle in her hair, was moving through the crowd filling the revelers’ cups with wine. Nearby Tea looked particularly radiant. She wore a crown of ivy and a long blue tunic made of plaid, her hair piled up on her head. Tea gripped Galan’s hand as she nimbly stepped over the edge of the flames.
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