“Her father was lying, dead or unconscious, on the ground. She’d seen the bear strike him and she’d seen him, unmoving, over there, as he still is even now.”
Bellicus narrowed his eyes, not understanding what Gavo was getting at. “So?”
“She was calling for you, druid.”
A chill ran down Bel’s back, but he held his expression immobile, knowing a wrong move could spell disaster.
Esico returned then, mercifully, with the wineskin, and the druid told Gavo to drink deeply from it, holding it up to the captain’s dry lips. Duro brought the arrows over and Bellicus told them all what was going to happen next, as they attempted to reset the broken arm.
The operation went smoothly enough and Bellicus thanked Sulis, goddess of healing, for such a calm patient. There was nothing worse than working on someone who was hysterical and unhelpful. Gavo was nothing like that, being calm and gritting his teeth against any pain he might have felt when Bel realigned the snapped arm and bound the splint into place. It helped that the ‘unwatered wine’ Esico had retrieved from his pack was actually a draught the druid had mixed for its anaesthetic properties.
Bellicus had learned from experience to be prepared for anything when men walked abroad with the intent of using deadly weaponry.
The guard captain was soon sleeping and placed on one of the stretchers which were brought from where they were always stored back in the hunting cabin. The spearman who fetched the stretchers also returned with a horse, and his dead companion was placed on its back for the journey to Dun Breatann, where he would receive a hero’s burial.
Bel wondered if Esico would demand the bodies of his fallen dogs were brought back in similar, honoured fashion, but thankfully the kennel-master held his peace and allowed the beasts to be carried away like any other animal that died on a hunt. They would be butchered for their meat and fed to their canine brethren over the winter. Meat was too precious to waste at this time of the year, even that of heroic dogs who had helped save a princess.
Coroticus couldn’t be roused but Bellicus was content the king wasn’t in any real danger. He was more worried how the man would take things when he finally came to and realised he’d taken no part in the battle, and, not for the first time in the past year, had to be rescued by those around him.
How long had the king been unconscious? Bellicus wondered. Had he, like Gavo, heard Catia shouting ‘father’ and suspected the girl was calling for the druid?
“You ready?” Duro demanded, disturbing his thoughts. “It looks like the weather’s about to take a turn for the worse. We better get these lads back to the cabin as soon as possible.”
Bel nodded and lifted his end of the king’s stretcher, the centurion taking the other, and they began to walk, Cai at their side, Esico and the spearman carrying Gavo while little Catia walked, leading the horse with its grim burden.
Her first hunting trip hadn’t turned out as they’d all hoped, Bel thought sadly. She would look back on this day for years to come, aye, but her memories wouldn’t be as happy as his own fondly remembered night of song under the stars on Iova.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As it turned out, Gavo’s injuries were less debilitating than those Coroticus suffered. The blow to the temple had made the king violently sick when he came to, but, with his return to consciousness came the realisation he had also suffered a broken leg. It wasn’t as severe as the guard captain’s snapped arm, but it meant the king was confined to his bed in Dun Breatann for days once Bel had fashioned a splint around it. Even when the druid allowed him to leave the bedchamber he could only move around on wooden crutches and spent most of his time in the great hall, in front of the fire.
Of course, with the king’s injury came fresh rumours of unrest among the folk of Alt Clota. Coroticus had suffered much misfortune in recent months, and it was said that the gods had abandoned him and, by extension, all the people and lands he ruled. There was little anyone could do to combat such talk however, especially once the weather turned.
And turn it did, as winter set in with a vengeance, bringing ice and snow which effectively cut off the roads for miles around, although the fortress was still able to get supplies when needed via the trading and fishing ships that plied the Clota all year round. Despite the cold and the wind that battered the buildings on the high rock of Dun Breatann it was a pleasant time for Bellicus.
His skill as a storyteller was called on often, to entertain the king, his family, and the few guests who travelled through the snow and rain for reasons of their own. And, when Bel wasn’t telling tales, he sat at the high table listening to Gavo regaling them all with his version of various adventures he’d been part of. The recent battle against Loarn Mac Eirc might have been lost, but the eventful journey to Arachar, and miraculous rescue from the rampant Dalriadans was a favourite story. Naturally, the guard captain barely mentioned Coroticus’s monomania in the ill-fated battle and exaggerated the king’s attempted rescue of the young warrior who fell into the loch.
Bellicus very much enjoyed the tale, although he’d had the full truth of it from Gavo and, like the captain, worried about the morale of the Damnonii warriors come the spring.
Duro also made the most of the days spent in the fortress, honing his skills with the spatha, sparring against the young soldiers of the garrison. Despite his forty-two-years, the centurion was still a match for even the best of the Damnonii warriors, now that he’d regained his muscular, lean physique, the flour-stained apron and beer-belly but a fading memory.
It wasn’t just his martial talents that Duro wanted to refine though, as Bellicus found, quite to his surprise one afternoon when he went for a walk around Dun Breatann’s southern wall with Cai. He had some old bread soaked in cooking fat and he left it on the grass next to him as he looked out across the shining waters of the Clota. The dog peered at the food but knew better than to take it. This tasty morsel was for someone else.
Within moments, the raven, Uchaf, appeared, enormous wings spread majestically as it swept down to land gracefully on the wall. It eyed the druid, and the dog, and the bread, but remained where it was.
“Hello,” Bellicus said, smiling. Sometimes the bird would reply with the same word, a feat Bel had taught it, and something that had astonished Duro the first time he heard it. But today Uchaf merely looked at him.
Bellicus turned away to gaze over the river again and, eventually, the raven hopped down onto the grass and wandered across to the food, before swallowing it and returning to its perch on the wooden wall again. Bird and druid looked at one another for a time before the sound of approaching footsteps scared Uchaf away, great wings opening wide as it dived towards the water far below only to swoop upwards at the last moment, cawing its thanks for the bread.
Bellicus grinned and turned to see Duro coming towards him.
“Well met, Bel,” said the former baker with a slightly sheepish look on his face before he got straight to the point. “You, ah, you make up your own stories, don’t you? You know how to make them, well, rhyme and flow with…”
He trailed off, lost for the words to properly describe what he meant, and the druid came to his rescue, nodding encouragingly, as if he was talking to Catia, rather than the middle-aged, battle-hardened centurion.
“Aye, I craft stories and even, sometimes, songs. What about it?”
“Well, eh, I’d…” Duro’s face flushed red and he turned away, gazing out across the dark waters of the river, biting his lip.
“Come, my friend!” Bellicus laughed, truly surprised by Duro’s behaviour. “What’s the matter? I’ve never seen you like this before – spit it out. What do you need from me? You know I’ll help in any way I can.”
Duro stared at the calm waters below for a moment longer then grimaced, as if making up his mind to do something deeply unpleasant and turned back to the druid towering over him.
“I’d like you to help me write a song for Alatucca.”
Now it was Bel’s turn
to be silent, the request so completely unexpected that he wasn’t sure what to say although, of course, there was only one way he could respond.
He nodded seriously, all trace of amusement gone from his demeanour.
“I’d be honoured, Duro,” he said. “I think it’s a great idea. We’re always needing more songs, especially in the depths of such a grim winter as this. I must admit, though,” he pursed his lips and frowned at the centurion, “I never thought you had this side to you.”
Again, Duro flushed and turned away towards the Clota, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I never thought I had either, until I met you and realised just how powerful words could be. I never had a chance to say goodbye to her, Bel. This seems as good a way as any to honour what we had.”
So, as the snow and drizzle swirled about the high rock each afternoon, the druid and the centurion locked themselves away in Bel’s roundhouse, fire blazing, and started working on a song for Alatucca.
An old Roman three-stringed lute was found in a store-room, and Bel used it to interpret Duro’s hummed musical ideas, which weren’t at all what the druid expected when they’d started this. Instead of a sad lament, or a sweet melody, the centurion’s song was dark and ominous, with only short sections where pleasant arpeggiated chords contrasted jarringly with the grim feelings the rest of the music inspired. It was quite unlike anything Bellicus would ever have written by himself but, as Duro explained, the dark sections were for his feelings about the Saxons who had murdered his wife, while the happier parts were for the good times they’d spent together.
The song really did open the druid’s eyes to a hitherto unseen, more sensitive side of the centurion and reminded Bellicus never to take anyone at face value or make hasty judgements about, well, people in general. They would always surprise you.
By the time they’d managed to put the music into a structure that the centurion was happy with, Duro had even taught himself how to play a simple wooden flute that one of the guards gifted to him when he heard the singing drifting down from the high tower. The centurion wasn’t proficient by any means, but he was able to follow Bel’s direction and, after practising over many days, learned how to play the whole song without making any mistakes. That allowed them to double many parts, playing the same notes together, giving the song an intensity and expansiveness that it lacked when only one instrument was playing.
“What about lyrics?” Bellicus asked when they’d been sitting together one morning, playing the same parts over and over until Duro’s hand cramped up. “It’s always good to have words people can sing along with. And this is supposed to be about your wife after all.”
Duro set down the flute and reached for the tall pot of ale that rested on a table by the wall, filling their cups for the third time already that day. He sipped the brew and reached into his tunic, bringing out a small wax tablet which he handed to the druid with an apologetic shrug.
“That’s the best I’ve been able to come up with so far. You could take a look and change it around a bit?”
Bel took the proffered tablet in one hand, and the refilled ale mug in the other and read Duro’s words thoughtfully, imagining how they would fit into the music they’d come up with. When he finished, he looked up at the centurion, who stared back at him like a puppy seeking its master’s reassurance and nodded.
“These lyrics are very good,” the druid said. “We will work on them and get ready to perform this piece for the king. I think all the folk of Dun Breatann will like it!”
* * *
When he wasn’t spending time playing music with Duro, Bellicus found himself in the king’s chamber. Coroticus was bored, even more so than everyone else stuck indoors during the harsh winter months, being unable to walk and having to rest his broken leg for most of the day so it would set properly. As a result, the king regularly sent for his druid to tell him stories – the old ones everyone knew about heroes like Peredur and Fionn, or the gods, Maponos, Lug, and Dis Pater – but Coroticus would often command Bellicus to tell him about his time hunting for the abducted Princess Catia.
The king would stare at him disconcertingly when he talked about those times, nodding his head grimly whenever it came to the parts where the druid and Duro fought the Saxons, a strange gleam in his eyes
Bellicus grew ever more convinced Coroticus was a different man from the friend he’d known before Catia’s abduction, and he was always very careful not to speak too fondly of the girl when she came up in his recounting of their adventures.
Queen Narina kept her distance from Bellicus throughout those cold months, which shouldn’t have bothered the druid but, for some reason, he found his eyes drawn toward her slim, pleasant figure any time their paths did cross. His eyes lingered on her attractive but hardly beautiful features, and he often found himself recalling that pale complexion when he closed his eyes in bed at night.
He may have been a druid with a lifetime of learning and training in a multitude of disciplines, but he was still a young man, and the hazy memory of that Beltaine he’d spent with Narina – when they’d conceived the princess – made his loins stir uncomfortably every time he thought of it.
Princess Catia was a problem too. Not the girl herself, who had, as far as Bellicus could see, become her old self once again, no, it was the rumours about her that worried the druid.
Gavo had told him about them a few weeks after their run-in with the bear.
“I don’t know how,” the guard captain told him as they ate a cold breakfast of meat and cheese in the great hall one morning, “but the rumours of what the princess called to you on our ill-fated hunting trip have spread all throughout the fortress. The servants and guards are all gossiping about it, despite my best efforts to stamp it out.” He shrugged and shook his head in puzzled disgust. “I would swear to Taranis that I was the only one who heard her call you ‘Father’, but, somehow, word of it has got out. How can that be? I can’t explain it.”
Bellicus put down his spoon, porridge forgotten at this news. It wasn’t just the rumours that had driven away his appetite, it was the fact he – Druid of Dun Breatann – hadn’t heard about them before now. And the thought that maybe the king had.
“Why did she call you that, do you think?”
Bellicus shrugged and forced himself to begin eating again, shaking his head slightly as he chewed. “She was terrified out of her wits and it’s no surprise is it? Just back here after weeks as a captive of the Saxon animals, and attacked by another in a place where she’s supposed to feel safe. I wouldn’t read anything into it Gavo.”
The captain nodded as if accepting the druid’s explanation, but his eyes lingered just a moment too long on Bellicus’s face and it was obvious his suspicions hadn’t been fully allayed. Again, the druid thought about growing a beard for, as Catia grew older, it seemed likely her face would change to match his even more.
Then the gossip would be impossible to silence, and the king would…well, who knew what Coroticus would do?
As if on cue, the king hobbled into the room, leaning heavily on his wooden crutch which he still needed to get about although every day saw more of his old strength and mobility returning. He saw Gavo and Bellicus at the table together and came over to join them, waving them back onto their stools as they made to rise respectfully.
“Sit down, lads, sit down. Finish your meal.” He sniffed and pursed his lips appreciatively. “Smells good. Woman! Bring me some of this porridge and a mug of ale.”
The servant Coroticus had addressed, a plain, middle-aged lady with a thick waist and chest to match, bowed her head and set about gathering the food and drink.
Bellicus was pleased to see the king clapping his hands in eager anticipation as the woman set his steaming bowl on the table in front of him, a full mug by his right hand. It seemed Coroticus was in a good mood this day.
“Sleep well, my lord?”
“Aye,” Coroticus agreed, spooning some of the porridge into his mouth. A little dribbled down h
is bearded chin but he ignored it, continuing to eat with gusto. “Like a babe. The pain from my injuries has almost gone away now, thanks in no small measure to you and your strange-smelling potions. I’ll soon be back to my usual self. At last!” Setting down his spoon he took a long drink of ale and stretched back on the stool, raising his head up to the ceiling and rolling it from side to side. Bellicus could hear the muscles popping and, as Coroticus began eating again the druid thought his friend had aged a great deal in the past few months.
At thirty-three the king was seven years older than Bellicus, but the lines on his face had deepened recently and it seemed to Bel that his king appeared closer to forty now. Truly the stress of ruling Alt Clota, along with Catia’s abduction, was taking a great deal from Coroticus.
As if reading his thoughts, the king, breakfast now finished, grinned. “It’s been a long, hard year,” he said, “and the winter solstice has passed. Yet I feel like celebrating something—my return to rude health perhaps, eh? Aye, it’s tempting fate to celebrate before I’m fully healed, I know that druid, but…” He looked out through one of the small open windows and gestured. “It’s so dark and miserable all the time. A good feast always chases away the gloom for a time, doesn’t it Gavo?”
The guard captain grunted non-committally but didn’t voice the fears Bellicus read in his eyes – fears that the people of Alt Clota, already irritated by their king’s carousing when times were so hard, would become even angrier at his rule.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Coroticus grumbled, also sensing the unspoken reproach in Gavo’s stiff posture and downcast eyes. “I don’t mean anything too lavish. Just a bit of meat and ale, a well-banked fire in the hearth, with music and storytelling. I’m not suggesting we empty the larder while I drink myself insensible.”
A small smile creased the corners of Gavo’s mouth and he nodded. “Aye, my lord, that sounds good. A song or two always lightens the mood around the fortress.”
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