by Alexa Aston
“Then came the barbarians from across the sea. At first, they bartered for peace but only beneath their rule. When our people refused to yield, they unleashed war, death and ruin, yet our ancestors long held their aggression at bay. But a time came when the wise proposed the people take what they could gather and wait in the foothills to the west until the barbarians were pitched back into the sea from whence they came. Not all, but a great many obeyed the direction.
“Winter came. After long months of no word, a messenger arrived. The barbarians had attacked the fortress and a mighty battle commenced. For days upon days, the warriors fought with all the courage of their hearts, the strength of their minds and the skill of their hands, but so great was the number of their enemy and so savage their ways, ’twas to no avail. The fortress was overrun and not a single man left alive. Those of the people who heeded not the guidance of the wise were taken captive or also perished, as did those among the wise who stayed behind. Their final counsel to those who waited was to retreat over the mountains where others of our ancestors ruled.
“With many tears, they fled. The weather turned unusually harsh and the way very hard. More died and the heartache deepened, but our ancestors had little choice. They could not go back and so must fight their way through the mountains to the softer lands in the west. Then one day they stumbled across a valley, a place of unusual beauty. They decided to pass the winter there, but in the end, they stayed for good.
“They named it Tamescombe, Dark Vale, in memory of the black days of pain and sorrow left behind.”
Yrsa gasped. Dark Valley. Her dream. That sense of being lost in darkness, of trouble and danger drawing close rushed upon her. The floor beneath her feet rocked and the walls closed in. She flung out a hand, but no one stood nigh. She sought Elrik and found his gaze upon her. He moved not, but through his look willed a sharing of strength. It steadied her. The hall returned to normal.
The moment shattered when the voice of Chief Keir intruded. “That vale, our valley, was at that time part of the great kingdom of Rheged. Since then, battle has come to Tamescombe less oft than the number of fingers on a man’s hand. Yet while we seek not war, ever do we remain vigilant and prepared to wage it. Rheged is no more, but we are descendants of the people of that kingdom and we have not forgotten. Here, in our home, we keep the ways of our ancestors.”
A soft exhalation like a contented sigh whispered through the hall.
Yrsa smiled. The folk of Tamescombe enjoyed the ceremonial recounting of the tale of their past.
“Thus are we gathered,” Keir continued, “to hear the tale of these two outsiders, Elrik and Dugald, regarding possession of the woman, Yrsa of Ottham, and to judge between them, which speaks the truth. The one found to speak lies will be banished forthwith, never to return. The woman will be given to the man who speaks truth.”
Yrsa started and would have spoken up. She had no intent of going with Dugald regardless of the outcome of this hearing, but Branwen caught her eye and gave a tiny shake of her head. At the same time, she reached out to lay gentle fingers on her husband’s forearm.
Keir looked blankly at her hand. He met her gaze, then a look of resignation dawned across his face. He sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh. Aye.” Turning back to the people, he said, “Uhhh. The fate of the woman, Yrsa, lies within her own hands. She will be given to the man of her choice, or, uh, go with neither, does she so choose. Are all in agreement with this counsel?”
The response was a unanimous “Aye!”
Yrsa lifted a hand to cover a grin when the women’s voices rose clearly above that of the men. She threw Branwen a look of gratitude.
Keir raised a hand, and the hall quieted. “Elrik of Breda, stand forth! We will hear from you why this woman, Yrsa of Ottham, should be given to you—uhm, if that is her choice, of course.”
He sat.
Yrsa expected Elrik to recount the duplicity of Dugald. He never mentioned the Scot. Instead, he began his tale with the moment they met, leaving out no detail of importance, not even that he came within a breath of killing her. He took his time as he recounted the tale of their journey.
Then he looked at her. “Your dream?”
She nodded.
His voice quiet, his tone assured, he spoke of her vision and his belief they were destined to become life mates. He told of his conviction that though they had yet to wed before God and man, he believed them betrothed, bonded in heart and soul. Only death could break such a tie.
With every word from his mouth, she fell more in love with him, and oh, how much she had yet to learn of him. ’Twould be a lifetime of joyous discovery, searching out the man within.
He closed with a vow, the words ancient as life. “The woman Yrsa of Ottham shall become flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. I will protect her with my life, and care and provide for her with all my skill. She shall be the only woman I take to my bed, and I will give her sons and daughters, be it within my body to grant them. Until death takes me, she will be the fate of my soul, the abode of my heart. I, Elrik of Breda, do swear this vow before this council, under pain of death should I ever foreswear it.”
He fell silent and stepped to take his place beside Betek, whose grin nigh lit up the place. So still was the hall the rush of water in the river could be heard.
Would her heart melt on the spot? It certainly felt like it might. She wanted desperately to run to Elrik, throw her arms around his neck and never let go.
Branwen’s gaze sought her out. The smile in the healer’s eyes bespoke the deep joy shared between women.
Chief Keir fidgeted in his chair and then cleared his throat. The sound shattered the spell woven by Elrik’s vow. The hall shook with thunderous handclaps, foot stomps and roars of approval. Through it, Elrik stood unmoving, his expression closed.
Keir got to his feet and the hall quieted. “Now let Dugald the Scot stand forth. We will hear from you why this woman, Yrsa of Ottham, should be—”
His voice trailed off.
Startled, Yrsa glanced to where, last she looked, Dugald waited his turn to speak. No one stood there now.
Keir’s brows drew down. “Where is Dugald the Scot?”
One of the guards from nigh the entrance stepped forward. “Lord Keir, Dugald left the hall nigh the end of the vow given by Elrik of Breda. He gave no cause, but because he has stayed among us oft before and you placed no restraint on his movements, I saw no reason to hold him.”
Keir’s eyes narrowed. “He knew the stakes of this council, yet a man’s silence oft speaks louder than words. If Dugald refuses to offer honorable grounds for his claim to the woman ’tis because he has none. Thus his words to us were less than honest. Does this council find Elrik of Breda the truthspeaker?”
“Aye!”
“Henceforth then, Dugald the Scot is not to cross our borders.” He nodded at Yrsa. “Yrsa of Ottham, you are now free to choose your path.”
She laughed. “I choose to belong to Elrik of Breda for the rest of my days.”
Keir nodded. Thrice, he struck the butt of his lance hard against the floor. The solid thumps echoed through the hall.
He grinned. “So be it! Go to him, woman.”
She made haste to obey his command.
Elrik opened his arms to receive her, catching her up and swinging her around. “If it pleases you, my heart,” he said, “we will be wed as soon as may be.”
“Oh, aye, my love, it pleases me.” There, before the people of Tamescombe, she stroked his scruffy, golden jaw and then she kissed him. The hall erupted in shouts of approval, but she heard it as a far away roar. Elrik held her as if he wished to absorb her into his body and kissed her as if only her breath kept him alive.
Betek came, grinning like a lackwit and pounding Elrik on the back. He said something in their language. Elrik shouted with laughter and then amazingly, blushed like a girl.
Then it was her turn. “You will be my sister, Yrsa of Ottham,” Betek said, “as Elri
k has long been my brother.” He wrapped his big hands about her waist, lifted her off her feet, and ignoring Elrik’s frown smacked a hearty kiss full on her mouth. But his eyes snapped with mirth, and the moment he finished, he swung her straight into Elrik’s arms. He turned to Chief Keir who had but moments before nigh squashed Elrik in a manly, welcoming hug. “This calls for celebration, my lord. We smelled very fine mead on the way here. Is there any to be had in this hall?”
“Aye, and ale as well.” Chief Keir bellowed for both.
Branwen appeared at Yrsa’s side. She flashed a merry smile at Elrik and pulled Yrsa to safety behind a support column as a mad scramble began to set up tables.
“You spoke truth in the cavern,” she said. “I am glad to learn it, though Dugald the Scot has never before given us reason to doubt his word.” She sobered. “I have also passed your warning to my husband. He will deal with your message as he deems best. Now then, have you spoken with this man you love regarding the time and place you wish to marry?”
“He said but moments ago he wishes to wed as soon as may be. I am in agreement.”
“Then by our laws, Yrsa, the words of Elrik’s vow and your choice in accepting him betrothed you. Mayhap you will consider wedding here, as well. ’Twould bring much joy to our people. Do you choose that option, you have but to make your wishes known.” Branwen’s look was sly. “And Yrsa, know you it can be done as soon as this very eve.”
Yrsa’s eyes widened. She touched her fingertips to her throat. “So soon?”
“Aye, so soon.” Elrik’s growl reached her ears as his arms swept round her waist. His hot breath against her nape made her shiver. “Are you in agreement, Yrsa?”
She laid her arms atop his where they encircled her waist. “I am.”
“Then so it shall be,” Branwen said.
She clapped her hands and raised her voice. “Silence!” The roar of sound quieted to a subdued rumble. “My people! ’Tis the wish of Elrik and Yrsa to wed here in Tamescombe this very night.” Another round of cheers rocked the walls of the old hall. Drinking horns banged together as everyone lifted them in toast. “Let the women come forward. There is a wedding to prepare.”
Chapter Eleven
Dugald left the hall, teeth grinding. It required much effort to hide his rage, but he managed. The guards at the door seemed to notice naught, but then, for all their vigilance regarding outsiders, in his short visits to Tamescombe over the past one and twenty months the fools seemed to care little about what he did.
Elrik spoke the truth before the council, but he had believed ’twould be the Brabáncon’s version of events between the two of them. That truth, he could twist to his own advantage. He certainly had not expected the besotted baothaire to offer naught but lyrical romantic poetry worthy of the best Scottish myth weavers. From his first words, the warrior gained the support of the women. Unlike elsewhere, in this valley, females held a great deal of power.
A cunning attack, that. It left him with neither defensive nor offensive options, only withdrawal. But the skirmish had yet to reach a conclusion. He would still end it with the woman in his bed and that which he came here to gain in his hands.
“We are watched,” William whispered from his vantage point behind the wide bole of an oak.
Estienne lurked behind the adjacent trunk. “I know.”
He became aware of the watchers in the trees—and their weapons—almost from the moment he and William entered the woods behind the oxen pasture. The lack of expected confrontation bothered him, but he knew not what to do about it.
“Why do they not apprehend us?”
“Think you I can read their thoughts?” Estienne risked a brief glance around the trunk. “Mayhap the best course of action is direct challenge. At least we will then learn what they mean to do.”
He was about to step out from behind the dubious cover of his tree when movement at the door to the ancient hall caught his eye. “Dugald.”
“I see him.”
Though the Scot left the hall openly and without haste or challenge from the guards at the door, something about his bearing reeked of stealth. He stayed not on the path to the bridge, but almost immediately turned to his left, into the trees.
William uttered a terse expletive. “He will elude us again. What do we do?”
Estienne hesitated. He understood not the reticence of the watchers. They knew he knew they were there, yet they made no move to interfere. “Mayhap Elrik and Betek explained about us and that is why we are not seized.” He made a swift judgment and hoped ’twas not wrong. “We will give chase and trust the watchers not to meddle.”
He stepped boldly from behind the tree, made eye contact with one of the watchers—who offered a purely mischievous grin over his bow, the bricon—and started off in open pursuit of his quarry. When the watchers made no move to intercept, he motioned to William to follow.
“Two men skulk among our woods,” Keir said to Elrik, who watched as youths carted benches, trestles and plank tabletops out of the hall. “Normans, they are, knights, my guards think. My warriors brought me news of their arrival before the council began. They were seen with you before you came into the valley, so I gave command to watch them but not to interfere unless they committed some action of which I would not approve.” He gestured toward the soldier at his side. “This one tells me they spied on the entrance to the hall until Dugald left. They now trail him. Are they friends of yours?”
Elrik grinned over his horn of ale, which followed a cup of mead that had tasted very fine, indeed. For all that Estienne and William were expert trackers, the two young knights had no more luck avoiding Keir’s watchmen than had he and Betek. Yet when his friend returned from recovering the horses and their supplies, he hid not his mirth when he reported the pair still attempted to remain hidden.
“They are allies,” he said, “and trusted as such, though we know them not well enough to call them friends. They seek Dugald the Scot. They are commanded to capture him and bring him back to Duresme.” His gaze tracked a strapping young man loaded down with stools as the fellow took leave of the hall. “Where do they take the furniture?”
“To the great cavern. Were Dugald still in our favor, we would take exception to those orders. ’Twould be necessary to put an end to their hunt. Howbeit, I shall order them left to their own plans.” He turned to the waiting warrior and spoke quietly. The man bobbed his head and left. “So long as they do naught,” Keir said, “to bring harm to anyone in the valley, they may skulk, unmolested, from this day until the end of days.”
“Where is this cavern, and why would the tables be needed there?”
“It lies beneath the mountain at the east end of the valley. ’Tis where we hold the most important of our gatherings.”
“Such as weddings? Hmm. In a room beneath the ground. That is a strange thought to me, as is much I have encountered since first I came to this land.”
Keir upended his horn and in one long draught, finished the ale within. “Aye, such as weddings,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Also feasts, festivals and holy rituals, especially during winter. More ale,” he bellowed. He waited until a youth obeyed his order. “Now then, Elrik of Breda. The women have already gone to bathe for the festivities this eve, but we men have little need of so much time to prepare. We shall refill our horns, and you will tell me more of this Brabant where you were born, before we—”
The rest of his comment was interrupted by another swig.
“Before we what?”
Keir grinned. “Before we dump you in the lake for your nuptial bath.”
Yrsa squealed as she stepped into the river. Faith, but the water was cold! At the amused urging of the other two women who already splashed in the shallow pool, she steeled her will and inched deeper into the swirling flow. Breathless from the first shock, she kept moving until she reached the falls. Of no great height, and formed by jumbled boulders draped in moss, lichen and vines, the cascade split the river’s
course in four places and then dropped between them in filmy white plumes into the pool at the base.
The women called it the Lower Falls and explained the Upper Falls at the head of the valley were much higher and plunged over the cliff with a thunderous roar.
At first, she balked when Mabina and Grania, Branwen’s young handmaidens and students of her instruction in the healing arts, told her where they would wash. “The river? But ’tis in the open. Methinks I would not like that.”
Mabina laughed. “For the cold months, there is a bathhouse between the river and the path to the lake. ’Tis warmed by heated rocks. In summer, the men clean up in the lake, but the Lower Falls are where the women of Tamescombe have always bathed. ’Tis not so revealing a place as you might think.”
As Mabina boasted, ’twas very private. A nigh impenetrable growth of trees stretched their branches over the water, blocking the view from the bridge, far downstream. Along the banks vines, bracken and shrubbery of various hues of green flourished in riotous abundance. In the splatters of sunshine that penetrated from above, even the lucid depths of the water were tinged with the color. ’Twould be a glorious haven were she not in the water.
“Dip beneath the falls to wet your hair and then sit here,” Grania said, pointing to one of three, flat surfaced stones scattered in the pool. She rummaged in a basket set upon another of the flat rocks and withdrew an earthenware crock.
Yrsa did as bid, but had to crouch at the base of the falls to let the waters rush over her. She came out spluttering and rubbing her arms with her hands, trying to massage some warmth back into flesh that felt half frozen. “Ah! ’Tis like being immersed in liquid ice. Methinks I will b-b-bathe inside from this day henceforth, beside a r-r-roaring fire. How do you stand it? You do not sh-shiver.”
