Across the Sea (Islands in the Mist Series Book 2)

by J. M. Hofer

  “Oh, Lucia,” Aveta smiled, gripping her hand. “You’ve done it!”

  Aveta gave orders to the women in the room. Lucia lay back in exhaustion, scarcely aware of all the activity around her. Soon, all evidence of the birth had been washed away, and Aveta brought Lucia her daughter. She tenderly placed the tiny babe upon her chest, and returned a few moments later, holding her son. She sat down carefully on the edge of her bed, beaming at her. “Oh, Lucia, they’re both so beautiful! It’s been too long since I’ve held a wee babe in my arms. Far too long.”

  Lucia put her daughter in her lap and took her son from Aveta, settling him beside his sister. She gazed down into the faces of her children, transfixed. In that moment, any doubts about the life she had left behind on the Isle disappeared, like storm clouds fading to reveal a clear blue sky. Thank you, Great Mother.

  Her son was smaller than his sister, with a darker complexion and finer features. A bit like Rowan, she thought. Her daughter was white as the moon, with red hair like her own, and fatter cheeks and lips. Lucia smoothed her daughter’s copper hair and smiled. As a child, she had often wished for blonde hair. Her mother was ever-quick to scold her. “Hair of fire is a rare blessing!” she would say. “Don’t offend the Great Mother!”

  Lucia looked up at the servant girl who was hovering over her shoulder, mooning over the babes. “Go tell your chieftain that he has both a son and a daughter.”

  “Yes, of course. Right away, my queen. He’ll be so pleased!” She rushed out to deliver the good news. Lucia could not wait to see her husband’s face.

  “Shall I present him with his son when he arrives?” Aveta asked.

  Lucia nodded, and tenderly handed her son back to her. Within seconds, they heard the unmistakable sound of Bran’s long strides, and then his anxious yet eager face appeared in the doorway.

  Aveta held out the tiny bundle. “Meet your son, Pennaeth.”

  Bran approached with tentative steps, as if he might disturb something sacred.

  “Go on,” she smiled. “Hold him.”

  “Oh, Great Mother.” Bran reached for his son with apprehensive hands, fumbling a bit as he took him.

  Aveta smiled at his awkwardness. “I’ll leave you with your family, now. Send for me when you’ve finished with your visit.”

  “Thank you,” Lucia said for Bran, for he was already in another world, gazing with wide eyes into the face of his son.

  He walked over and sat down on the bed. He leaned over and kissed Lucia on the forehead, and then did the same to the baby in her lap. “And this must be our beautiful daughter,” he whispered. “Do you still wish to call her Arhianna?”

  “Yes. And what name shall you give our son?” she asked with a tender glance.

  “Gareth—after my cousin. May he live on in our son.”

  “It’s a good name. Gareth would be honored.” Lucia remembered the tragedy and cringed. How horrible it must have been to die in that dark and terrible place.

  “I want to hold my daughter, now,” Bran said. The two of them gently switched their bundles. In the exchange, the blanket shifted to reveal the top of Arhianna’s head. “She has red hair!” he exclaimed sweetly with wide eyes, grinning.

  “She does.” Lucia smiled with pride, caressing the top of her daughter’s head.

  Curious, Bran reached over to lift up his son’s blanket. “Too soon to tell,” he determined after a moment.

  The two of them sat together inspecting the toes, fingers and other tiny miraculous features of the babes in their laps. Eventually, Lucia felt her eyelids grow heavy and her head fell forward.

  “You need to rest,” Bran observed. “Aveta!”

  Aveta came at once, bringing two of the servant girls with her. “Don’t worry, Pennaeth—we’ll take good care of them.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Bran leaned over to kiss Lucia again, this time on the lips. “I love you, wife—so much. I’m so proud of you.” He squeezed her hand and then stood up and left the room.

  Aveta came and took the babes from her. “Rest now.”

  Lucia knew she did not need to answer. She closed her eyes and relaxed into a blissful sleep, knowing she and her children were in the best of hands.

  ***

  Lucia heaved an exhausted sigh. “I feel as if I do nothing but nurse.” She had just finished nursing Gareth an hour ago. She sat down and Aveta handed Arhianna to her, who was wailing and red-faced. She opened her robe and put her daughter to her swollen breast. After envying Aveta’s bosom for so many years, she now had one that rivaled it—but wanted nothing more than for it to return to its normal size.

  “It feels like that, doesn’t it?” Aveta said with compassion. “Don’t worry. They’ll soon be able to manage some porridge. That’ll give you some relief.”

  Over the past few moons, Lucia had grown increasingly anxious to get out of the village. “I need a good swim and a long ride, Aveta—all by myself.”

  “Soon enough, soon enough. Be patient.”

  Lucia looked down at Arhianna, who was gazing up at her with big, round eyes. Her little fists stopped shaking as she gulped, letting out little sighs and shudders of contentment. She felt selfish. Poor little thing. She leaned down and kissed her.

  ***

  Aveta’s prediction soon came to pass, giving Lucia more time to herself. She took a healthy interest in as many aspects of her new role as Queen of the Oaks as she could fit into her day, knowing it would take time to understand her new people.

  The Oaks were diverse in their traditions and skills, yet like-minded enough in their values and beliefs that their differences strengthened them. Rather than being a large clan with a few skills, they were now a small clan with many—among them were horse breeders, blacksmiths, farmers, brewers, millers, carpenters, stone masons, weavers and artisans.

  As many of their best warriors had perished in the battle of the Crossroads, every Oak male over the age of ten trained daily with both sword and spear. Lucia felt strongly that the young girls should be taught to fight as well.

  One day, she and Bran were in the archery field, wagering lovers’ favors in a competition. She was beating him, as usual, and trying her best not to gloat.

  “What’s the wager, now?” he asked with a sigh. She could not tell if he was pleased or irritated with her.

  “Well,” Lucia thought a moment. “Not so much a wager, this time. How about a question, instead? I want your advice on something.”

  “Advice? That’s all? You’re letting me off easy.”

  “Yes, I am.” She winked and kissed him on the cheek.

  He kissed her back. “Go ahead, ask.”

  “Would you say I’m one of the best archers in the clan? Perhaps the best?”

  Bran raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the target. The center was full of her arrows.

  Lucia smiled. “What would you think of me taking on the role of training of the girls in archery? Like Idris is training the boys with sword and spear?”

  Bran nodded, looking toward the target. “Why not? As long as you feel you have the time.”

  “Well, the babes are weaned, now…”

  “They are,” Bran mused, “and soon to be in training themselves, no doubt. Maur warned me they grow up fast. I paid him no mind. Everyone says that. But it’s true.”

  “Well, then—how do I start?”

  Bran shrugged his shoulders. “All of them cluster around you every time you practice, anyway.” He pointed to a gaggle of young girls who had been watching them all afternoon, giggling whenever Lucia would best him. “Just invite them to bring their bows and shoot with you. They won’t say no.”

  “I’ll do it, then. I’ll speak with their parents as well.”

  “Good.” Bran winked as he raised his bow and took aim. “If you do your job well, there will be no husband in the clan who can best his wife at archery—and I’ll sleep much better.”

  Lucia felt herself beaming from Bran’s encouragement. After so ma
ny moons at the complete mercy of her babes, she looked forward to immersing herself in something new—something of benefit to the future women of the clan.

  She began the next day, walking through the village and inviting the young girls to grab their bows and practice with her. Bran was right—they flocked to her side. Though there were nearly twenty of them, Lucia gave each one of them her undivided attention in turn. They all came back the next afternoon.

  After a few weeks, Maur’s youngest girl came up to her and tugged on her robe. “Queen Lucia, may we call you Queen Arianrhod?”

  Arianrhod was the goddess of the moon to Maur’s clan. Legend said she reigned from a castle in the northern sky named Caer Sidi, and could shape-shift into an owl to visit the world of men. To be so addressed was a tribute to Lucia’s fertility, beauty, power, and incredibly keen eyesight.

  “Of course, you may!” She bent down to kiss the girl’s head, and put her hand over her heart. “I’d be honored.”

  ***

  Lucia could scarcely keep her eyes open as she crawled in bed next to Bran. Caring for her children and training the girls made for long days.

  “Are they asleep?” He pulled her tightly against his naked body and kissed her, wrapping her up in his warmth.

  “Yes, finally.” She let out a grateful sigh. “Let’s hope they give us until morning.”

  “Let’s hope so—or at least a few hours.” He kissed her suggestively, and she yielded to him with a sigh of contentment. It had been a few nights since they had made love. In spite of her exhaustion, she longed for it as much as he did.

  The babes were merciful with them, sleeping through the storm that was brewing beneath the furs of their parents’ bed. She had to bite into Bran’s shoulder to keep from crying out and waking them. When the time came for him, Bran did his best to curb his usual battle cry as well. They were rewarded with peaceful silence after their lovemaking. Bran rolled over on his back, and Lucia wrapped herself around him, tucking her head into his shoulder.

  He let out a long, contented moan. A few moments later he announced, “I have good news.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Tegid Voel’s ship is finished.”

  Lucia propped herself up on her elbow. “Already? Wonderful! Now Creirwy can come home!” She was eager to see her old friend. She thought of her often, praying she was happy and safe. Bran had told her all about the realm of Tegid Voel, and Creirwy’s shocking decision to stay there with her father. It had been nearly a year, now.

  “If my plan works, yes—and Ula can stop worrying about Taliesin. I’ll leave the day after tomorrow for Gwythno.”

  Taliesin? The name struck Lucia like a bolt of lightning, and her stomach leapt. “Taliesin?” she managed to say.

  “Ula’s son! Remember? You won’t believe this, but Einon says the child is speaking as well as you or I, and sings with the skill of a bard. It scares many. Thankfully, most people see him as a blessing on Gwythno. Some believe he’s the son of a god—or of the fae. Only a few of us know he’s the son of a selkie.”

  Bran had indeed mentioned Ula’s child to her, but never before by the name Taliesin. He had only ever referred to him as, “Ula’s babe, “Ula’s boy,” or “Seachild,” as Ula did.

  “You never said his name was Taliesin,” Lucia said weakly. “And you said the father of the Ula’s child was unknown!”

  Slowly, she realized that, yet again, the terrible fate she had been shown would come to pass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Voyage of the Ceffyl Dŵr

  The morning was fresh. Bran set out eagerly for Maes Gwythno, accompanied by Maur and Islwyn. He had recruited a few young Oaks to drive the wagons that he had ordered loaded with goods and gifts. He refused to show up with anything less than what would be considered over-generous.

  Being astride Gethen provided invigorating relief from the monotony he had begun to dread. He loved Lucia and the babes more than anything, but love was not enough to sate the appetite of his restless spirit; it demanded a diet of all things rough and challenging, and grew more ravenous as moons passed without news or crisis.

  Elffin’s message had come just in time.

  “I can’t wait to see this ship!” Bran confessed to Maur, exuberant. “Einon says she’s a massive, well-built beauty—and that she’s already caused quite a bit of drama in Gwythno.”

  “How so?” Maur inquired.

  “Garanhir is filled with envy—thinks it’s folly to give her away—but Elffin would have none of it, of course.”

  “Well, he’s goin’ to have to do somethin’ to appease his father.”

  “Garanhir insisted that Irwyn make his ship more beautiful, but Irwyn promised him nothing of the sort, and I think I know why.”

  He remembered well Irwyn’s response after he had offered to double his pay to finish Tegid’s ship in a year: And then I shall call no man master. “I’m betting Irwyn leaves the moment he gets his gold from me.”

  Maur clucked his tongue. “Ol’ Garanhir is gonna blame you for that calamity as well, my friend.”

  “I know.” Bran glanced his way. “Luckily, we’re the only solution to his dilemma.”

  “How so?”

  “The young Oaks have done nothing but study shipbuilding over the past year. If Irwyn leaves, Garanhir will need them all if he wants his ship finished.”

  Einon had seen to it that the young men studied hard, soaking up their Saxon master’s knowledge. “I make the lads repeat everything they learn to me every night until it’s committed to memory,” he had written to Bran. “Make them practice whatever techniques he shows them, too. They’ll make us all proud.”

  “Apparently, Elffin’s proven himself something of a shipbuilding prodigy, as well—so there’s hope for us,” Bran added.

  He considered their friendship his greatest advantage, for he knew Garanhir’s time was near. Bearing the mark of Arawn gave him the ominous and unsettling ability to see when the Dark God’s shadow loomed at the edge of a man’s life. He had seen it upon Garanhir’s face during his last visit. It had made refusing to marry Mererid an even harder message for him to deliver. The poor man will never meet his grandchildren, after all.

  Midsummer was nearly upon them, and the meadows were in full bloom. Hundreds of bright poppies demanded their attention from both sides of the road, like young maidens who had just discovered their own beauty. The sight of them, combined with the fresh air and excitement of the journey, inspired Bran to sing.

  Maur laughed and joined in, his baritone voice adding depth and power to the song. He was soon followed by Idris and the music-loving Islwyn, who led them along when they forgot the words. He knew all the verses to the old songs. Many considered him a better bard than Teirtu, including Bran.

  So the journey went—with songs to pass the time upon the road, and nights spent pleasantly around the fire, telling stories, singing songs, and sharing old memories.

  ***

  In the late afternoon of the third day, Maur took a deep breath and let out a long “Ahhhhhhhhhhh.” He grinned. “You smell that, brother? Nearly there.”

  Perhaps it was his love of food that gave Maur such a keen nose, or perhaps it was the other way around—but either way, the man could extract just about anything from the air around him.

  Bran took a deep breath as well. To his delight, he, too, could smell the sea upon the breeze.

  They reached Caer Gwythno near sundown. Elffin and Einon were there to greet them at the gates.

  “Welcome!” Elffin smiled widely. He beckoned to the waiting stable boys, who came to take their horses, and then noticed the wagons. “What have you brought?”

  “Gifts, my friend.” Bran grinned and dismounted.

  Elffin smiled. “Very generous of you. My father will be pleased. Come to the hall. Let’s get some ale and food in front of you. Irwyn and Einon will join us there.”

  “And your father, I hope?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s been
unwell lately, but he wouldn’t miss it.”

  Bran furrowed his brow. “How is he disposed toward me? My last visit was decidedly unpleasant, for both of us.”

  “All’s well.” Elffin gave him a reassuring glance. “It’s in the past. My father sent Mererid to our mother’s relatives in Gaul, where they’ve found her a very suitable husband.”

  Bran’s neck grew hot and his stomach knotted up. It always did when he thought of poor, sweet Mererid. Shaming her would always be a source of torment for him. He swallowed hard. “I’m relieved to hear it. Most of the goods I’ve brought are for her dowry. Be certain you assign men you can trust to unload them.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  They entered the hall to find food already being brought out.

  “Pennaeth!” Einon stood up and grinned.

  “Good to see you, Uncle.” Bran smiled and strode over to embrace him. He then turned toward Garanhir. “Greetings, Lord Garanhir,” he said. “Irwyn,” he added with a pleased nod in the Saxon’s direction.

  Irwyn stood and gripped him by the forearm, but Garanhir remained seated. “Lord Bran.”

  It was evident from his formal tone that he still harbored resentment over their last encounter. Bran did not fault him for it. After a few rounds of drink, he said, “Lord Garanhir, breaking my promise to Mererid will grieve me to the end of my days. I’ve brought goods for her dowry.”

  “Timely,” Garanhir remarked, “for I’ve found her an immensely wealthy Gaul for a husband. In truth, I’m glad you refused her. I’ve made a far better match for her now.”

  In spite of the insult, Bran felt relieved of a heavy burden. “That pleases me beyond words.” He smiled and raised his ale. “To Mererid, may she prosper in Gaul!”

  Everyone in the hall drank to Bran’s toast. When the tankards were set once more upon the table, the tension in the hall had lifted somewhat.

  “Tell me of the ship,” Bran asked Irwyn, who had said nothing yet.

  “She is a beauty.” Irwyn grinned, glancing at Elffin for validation.

  Elffin nodded. “She is, indeed.”