by Amy Jarecki
Chapter Thirty-One
The carnex sounded when Taran led the party into the expansive meadow leading to Dunpelder. Excitement thrummed from behind the castle walls. Taran leaned into Valeria. “I will request an urgent council with the elders. I’ve asked Greum to assist, but when ye appear in the hall, ye must be a Pictish queen. There can be no question.”
“Yes. Pia will help us.”
His mind raced—he must share with her everything he could think of to help Valeria make it through the next few days. “Do not let Pia twist yer hair into a fancy Roman style. Wear it down like a Pict.”
“All right. I understand.”
The sentry cranked up the heavy gates as they crossed the bridge into the stronghold.
“King Taran has returned,” cried a sentry on the wall.
“We’ll have roast pig in the hall tonight,” called Tomas, reaching for Blackie’s reins.
The citizens of Dunpelder gathered with excitement, calling out welcomes and good wishes.
Manas came running down the lane. “Ye’re safe m’lady!”
Valeria nodded and reached her hand toward the boy. “Yes, Manas. We’ve returned from our great adventure.”
The welcome at the hall was not as exuberant as their procession up the cobblestone lane. Betha, Morag, Drust and Leda all stood with their arms folded.
Taran dismounted bellowing orders. “Assemble the elders.” He glared at his welcoming committee. “I will meet with each of you individually in my chamber. Betha, come.” He nodded to Valeria, who left for her chamber as they’d discussed. It pained him to know the next week or more would be difficult ones for his new wife.
Facing his duty, Taran decided it would be best to start with the matriarch, especially since she was one who was involved in the pledge of Taran’s hand when he was still a bairn. Stag followed at his side, the dog giving him moral support—at least he would fend off any rogue attack. Taran smiled inwardly at the thought.
He hadn’t made it to his table when the thunderous door slammed behind him.
Betha’s eyes blazed a fire. “You’ve returned with the Roman, I see.”
“Valeria is a Pict.”
She pursed her lips with a frown. “Valeria. Her very name exudes Romanism.”
“What’s in a name? She is committed to becoming a Pict.”
Betha threw up her hands. “You are going against me will and the wishes of Oisean.”
“Aye, but when ye made me match, ye had no way of knowing fate would bring Valeria to us.”
“But what of duty? What of honor?”
“I have honor. Leda is in love with Drust, and I love Valeria with every breath I take. If she cannot be mine, I will abdicate the throne.”
Betha’s jaw dropped. “Ye would do that? Taran, ye are the chosen one, the Pict king. Ye cannot walk away.”
“I do not want to walk away. Valeria will become a Pict, and life will go on. The only people frowning upon my return were standing at the hall. Can ye not look into me heart and see it is inflamed with love for her?”
Betha paced, arms folded. “Valeria shall be put to the test.” She pointed her finger under Taran’s nose. “But I promise nothing.”
She pushed through the door, and her womanly form was replaced by Drust.
“Taran, what are ye doing?”
Taran opened his arms. “Have ye no welcome for me?”
“Ye’re a foolish man and I’m sorry to be related to ye.”
Taran clenched his fists. He’d had enough of Drust’s disdain. “Foolish, am I? I have devised a plan where we will all be happy. Ye will go north to Fife with Leda at your side. I will remain here with Valeria at mine.” Taran grasped Drust’s shoulders. “Look into yer heart. Is this not what ye desire deep down in yer soul?”
Drust wrenched from Taran’s grasp. “It doesn’t sit well with our creed of honor and duty.”
“Nay? Is not a man’s honor first to his heart? Is not his duty to uphold the values and laws of the Picts? A pact was made between our parents when we were children. Things have changed. Does this mean we cover our eyes with blindfolds and ignore the present?”
Drust opened his mouth and shut it. His brown eyes bore into Taran with a ferocity that refused to blink.
Sitting, Taran was first to break the deadlock. “I will speak to Leda next.”
“She’s hell-bent on carrying out the wishes of her parents.”
“I ken.”
“May I remain while you speak to her?”
Taran nodded. “Aye.”
Drust opened the door and led Leda in by the hand. She smiled sweetly, but frowned when Drust kept her hand in his.
Taran stood and kissed her other palm. “Leda, Valeria has requested to become a Pict.”
She looked from cousin to king. “No.”
“Hear me out, lass—I command ye to marry Drust. He is a good man and will be Chieftain of Fife. He loves you and I believe ye have feelings for him as well.”
Leda hung her head. “Aye, but what of our duty?”
Taran explained his reasoning again while a tear slipped from Leda’s eye. When he finished she hugged him. “I do love Drust, but I’ve always been prepared to carry out me duty. Ye are a good man, Taran, and a fine king. Do not make this decision in haste.”
“I have not.” Taran stepped back and ushered her beside Drust. “I’ve chosen. Now I must meet with the elders.”
It took little time to convene the meeting. The elders had also gathered outside Taran’s chamber. The five men who ranged in age from seven and forty to eighty filed in and sat. They leered at Taran from across the table. They peppered him with questions, seemingly to accuse Valeria of being an enemy spy who had infiltrated the stronghold with the intention to destroy the Picts.
Taran pointed out the fact she fought the Attacotti beside them and gave an account of how she had killed Quintus after he spirited her away.
They were not inclined to believe her story because no Pict had witnessed it, and they could not trust a holy man who openly sided with the enemy. Taran expounded upon how Valeria worked with Manas and got him to talk, and then they accused her of witchery.
After endless deliberation, Engus rose. “It is the inarguable concern of this council that we do not condone a marriage between our king and a woman who was bred by our sworn enemy. However, to our dismay, ye have declared your love and ye have already announced your intentions to Leda. We will put the woman to the test, but hear me now. Valeria will need to accomplish severe rite of passage indeed. She will be tried like no other.” He pointed his gnarled finger at Taran. “Ye will not speak to her until her rite is complete. She will come before us at dawn on the morrow and she will be banished until she has proven worthy.”
Engus scanned his gaze across all the faces. “If she should survive.”
Though Taran wanted to draw his sword and bellow his demands, this was not a time for a display of rage. Gut roiling, he nodded his assent. “Let it be done.”
The first to rise, he pushed through his chamber doors only to be met with Morag’s smug grin. Obviously, she’d been listening in. “Ye do not have to look so happy about it.”
“I’m simply thrilled ye have returned, sire.”
“I ken why ye’re smiling, and ye’re wrong.” He brushed past her and found Greum in the stables. Relaying the news, Taran dispatched him to Valeria’s chamber.
****
When they arrived at the hall, Valeria had never been so happy to see Pia. The wonderful woman took her away from the damning stares of the royal entourage and whisked her above stairs for a soothing bath in the copper kettle Morag had placed in her chamber so long ago. Of course, Pia saw to it the water was hot and laced with inviting herbs and salts.
Weeks of dust, blood and God knew what else were washed out of her hair by Pia’s magic fingers. “I married Seumas.”
Valeria’s eyes popped open. “You did? Oh, Pia, I’m so happy.”
“I am too, ver
y much.” Pia’s careworn smile spoke a million words, her eyes far away.
“But what of the ritual to become a Pict? Were you put to a test?”
“The elders decided I needed no initiation since I was a slave to the Romans and have no sworn allegiances.”
Valeria slipped deeper into the bath. “Humph. I wish I had been born into slavery, then this whole rite would for naught.”
Pia ran her hand over Valeria’s hair. “If you had not been born a noble woman, you would not be here, my lady.”
Valeria wrung her hands. “I must look like a Pict in every way.”
“I took the liberty of helping myself to Pict woolen fabric.” Pia opened the cupboard and pulled out a royal blue dress, similar to many Valeria had seen the women wear. “This was dyed with woad, the same men use to prepare for war and the pigment used in the men’s tattoos.”
“ʼTis beautiful, and yet plain.”
“ʼTis an exact replica of one of Betha’s dresses. I borrowed that too.”
“Really? You are positively the most industrious woman I’ve ever met.” Valeria stood and reached for a woolen drying cloth. “I must try it on straight away.”
No sooner had Valeria smoothed out the folds of her blue gown when she jumped at the sound of a rap on the door.
Out of habit, Pia answered it.
“If ye plan on becoming a Pict, I wouldn’t be having Mistress Pia open the door for ye.” Greum walked in, holding a small stoneware bowl. His eyes raked over Valeria from head to toe. “ʼTis a bonny Pict dress ye’re wearing.”
Valeria pirouetted in a circle. “Why thank you, Master Greum. Mistress Pia made it.”
He reached out and grasped the hem of the long pointed sleeve and rubbed it between his fingers. “Mistress Pia did a fine job indeed.” But when he looked up, his brows were knit and mouth drawn. “Taran sent me. He’s been forbidden to see or speak to ye until after yer rite. Ye will appear before the elders at dawn.”
Valeria’s hands flew to her churning midsection. “It will happen so soon?”
“Aye, and we fear they will not be easy on ye, m’lady. They believe ye have the heart of a Roman and must break ye like no other.”
“Oh Lord in heaven. Have you any idea what I am to expect?”
“The worst they would do would be to banish ye for a week, mayhap two. I’ve seen them force a woman to mend or cook or tend the garden for the others. That could be possible.”
“I can do those things.”
“Make sure ye wear the dirk bound to yer leg.”
“I need a weapon here in the castle?”
“ʼTis only a formality, but all Picts, male and female are proficient with at least one weapon. Ye’ve had a wee bit of training with the dirk. If they call for a test of arms, ye can use it.”
“Very well. I wish I were defter with it though.”
“Ye killed Quintus with it, didn’t ye?”
“Yes.” Valeria glanced at Pia’s horrified face. “What else should I prepare?”
“Remember the four corners of the Pict creed—honor, loyalty, duty and freedom.” He held up the bowl. “I have a mixture of woad for yer face.”
Valeria’s hands flew to her cheeks. “You aim to paint me? Will it not stain?”
“Aye, but it will fade in time.” He stepped closer dipping three fingers into the bowl. “Sleep on yer back and do not let this smudge.”
He drew three straight lines on her right cheek. “Now turn yer face for the next.”
When he had finished, Valeria reached for her mother’s hand mirror, inspecting Greum’s handiwork. The dark blue lines on her face made her look like a true heathen, though she’d never admit to it. No wonder the Romans thought them barbarians. She reached up her hand and patted the still wet marks, rubbing the residue between her fingers. “Thank you, Greum.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ye shall win, m’lady. Come in this dress. Wear yer hair down like a Pict lass with Pict slippers on yer feet. Wear nothing Roman—no rings or brooches. Most of all, stand proud. Do not show weakness. Do not let them make ye cry. If ye feel a tear well in yer eye, clench yer fist till blood comes if necessary, but do not let them see it.”
“What will they possibly do to make me weep?”
Greum took her hands in his and looked her straight in the eye. “There are a few who’d like to see ye fail. Don’t allow them to weaken yer resolve. Remember who ye are and why you’re here.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Valeria couldn’t sleep—the elders had forbidden her from seeing her husband until she became a Pict? What if she failed? She paced around her room.
Her mind battled between dread of what may come and elation to finally be facing her challenge. By nature of her breeding, she was regal to her core, but there was a rugged strength in Pict women that was completely foreign to her. When the Attacotti attacked the stronghold, the women answered the call to arms while she hid in her room with Manas and Pia. Yes, she’d faced their attacker, Runan himself, but she’d not been on the wall-walk firing arrows or loading the catapult.
She picked up the dirk and turned it over in her hands. Lunging, she practiced Taran’s lessons until her muscles burned. Lying on her back, she stabbed her hand in the air as if she were wielding the weapon.
Finally, she prayed, asking for guidance and strength to face her fears. Before dawn, a cock crowed. Valeria sprang to her feet and gazed through the narrow window. As stars faded in the blue-violet sky, her stomach tied in knots. She slipped the Pict dress over her head and ran a comb through her hair.
A thunderous rap pounded at the door. She didn’t have time to answer when Morag and Engus pushed into her chamber. “We are to escort ye to the hall,” Morag said, arms folded.
Valeria nodded, swallowing.
Her heart hammered like a drum beating a death knoll against her chest. Their feet echoed through the stone stairwell. The council of elders had assembled, sitting at a table that faced the dais. Greum stood against the wall with Manas by his side. Her eyes panned the room. Taran wasn’t there, but she could feel his presence. Thank heavens Greum warned that Taran had been banned from seeing her—though he’d be hidden within earshot. She would have been devastated if she’d not known.
While Valeria proceeded to the dais, more citizens filed into the hall. Anxious whispers hissed through the air. Are they curious to see me fail, or do they support me?
Morag remained on the stage and stood a few paces behind. The five elders watched. Valeria scanned their faces. Not one smiled. With grim consternation, a lump formed in Valeria’s throat. Wringing her sweaty palms, she steeled her nerves.
She jumped when Engus slammed the table with the hilt of his dirk. “Valeria Fullofaudes of Rome, the council has grave concerns about your petition to become a Pict. Further concerning is your unprecedented attachment to King Taran. It is with great resistance we hold this inquisition.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will not speak until directed to do so.”
Valeria returned a thin-lipped nod.
“There must be no question ye will uphold the four corners of the Pict creed. Recite it.”
She held her shoulders back. “Honor, loyalty, duty, freedom.”
“Where does yer loyalty lie?”
“I am loyal to the Pict nation, and to all of this earth, purity, piety, and my fellow men.”
“How do ye see yer duty to the Pict nation?”
“I shall love and support all Picts and work to uphold Pict values.”
“What if ye’re compromised? What if faced with a Roman raid?”
Valeria glanced back to Morag who folded her arms. “I—I have already proven I will fight to uphold Pict values. I killed the tyrant Quintus with my own hands.”
“Aye, but that was to save yer hide,” another groused.
Valeria stammered. “I fought the Attacotti. I-I will forever stand as a Pict.” Heaven help her. Was she not being convincing enough? Her palms
perspired.
Engus sliced his hand through the air. “How will ye support Dunpelder? What are yer talents?”
“I can educate the children in languages. We thought Manas was deaf and mute. Look at him now. He no longer sulks in a corner of the hall.”
“Aye, but what practical skills have ye?”
Valeria knew it was a bit of a stretch, but she’d have Pia’s assistance if put to the test. “I know healing herbs, both collecting and planting. Together Pia and I helped heal the injured after the Attacotti attack—and we ministered to your very own Oisean.”
Valeria thought the questioning would never end. Engus conducted the majority of the interrogations, but the others hissed their objections on nearly every topic. When they finally got to weapons, she detailed her training with the dirk. She didn’t want to remember murdering Quintus, but they drew it out of her, starting with her abduction and waking. She relayed how she’d used her dirk to cut her bindings and how she made no noise, didn’t hesitate, and took his life with one thrust of her blade. She inhaled deeply. Murdering Quintus was not something she wanted to remember. It had been an act of survival.
Engus returned to the table. The elders pressed their heads together. Her nerves jumped across her sweaty skin. What were they mumbling? She tried to project an air of calm—she stood straight, arms at her side, chin level, staring at the back of the hall. Any other stance might be seen as disrespectful or haughty.
Her insides froze when Engus again faced her. His eyes steeled, he gave a curt nod to Morag. A cry of shock escaped from Valeria’s throat as a cold knife slit the fabric of her new dress from the nape of her neck clear down to the floor. Morag crossed in front of her, sweeping the knife under her nose. With a wicked cackle, she grabbed the front of Valeria’s dress and tore it off.
Clad only in the mamillare around her breasts and her subligar, Valeria wrapped her arms around her torso to hide her humiliation. She wanted to cry out for Taran. Her lips quivered and her gaze shot to Greum. He slightly shook his head, encouraging her not to move. His hand grasped the hilt of his sword. Clearly, the elders had taken an unexpected step.
