The Celtic King's Daughter and the Roman Hostage

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Dun Limen Hill Fort, land of the Durotriges

Southern Albion

Alina, the eldest daughter of the chief of the Dun Limen settlement, stood before her loom within the fire-lit space of her father’s roundhouse.

The familiar steady rhythm of weaving the green and yellow plaid of her clan allowed Alina ample time to relive the last time she had lain in her lover’s arms. Her face heated as her mind replayed the delicious memory.

From beyond the walls of the large wattle and daub building rose a hubbub of excited voices.

What was happening—an attack? Or an interesting arrival?

Alina dropped the colorful wool-filled bobbins in her hands. They swung from the frame suspended above the floor. She shot a look at her sister, Rigana, who stood at a nearby loom, her forehead crinkled as she listened to the growing din outside.

Alina abandoned her loom and rushed through the doorway into the bright summer sunshine. Rigana followed.

Outside, the Dun Limen inhabitants surged toward the main entrance to their hill fort. Its immense oak gates still stood open in welcome.

Warriors standing on the fighting platform behind the timber palisade atop the highest of the three earthen embankments surrounding their settlement watched whoever approached. Their weapons remained at ease, so whatever held their attention couldn’t be a threat.

A horn sounded outside the ramparts. Alina and Rigana joined the throng hurrying forward to see the approaching spectacle.

Within moments, a vehicle clattered over the sapling roadway that led into the hill fort. The sound reverberated against the timber-lined the long entrance passage that dissected the earth ramparts encircling the settlement.

The chariot, pulled by two grey Celtic ponies adorned with gleaming brass harness decorations, flashed between the fort’s massive oak gateway posts. The intricately woven banners attached to the vehicle’s wicker sides proclaimed its owner’s exalted rank.

A giant of a man, his body encased in plaid and leather drove the chariot.

The muscles of his arms bulged as he brought his team to an abrupt halt, their hindquarters bunching under the strain.

Sunlight sparkled off the massive gold torc around his neck.

His face was set in the harsh planes of a warrior.

His hair gleamed like burnished bronze. His moustache flowed in two luxuriant plumes from his upper lip, in the style of their people.

Here was a man of great wealth and power.

Here was the king of her Durotriges tribe.

Here was the man she was to marry.

Alina’s stomach plummeted towards the ground.

Her father, Bendigeidfran, stepped forwarded to greet the visitor, who leaped to the ground. “King Arthmael, welcome.” The men clasped arms in friendship…or at least cordiality.

Alina’s stomach flip-flopped. Why had she not known her betrothed was coming?

She would have steeled herself for her fate.

It was too soon. Her father had only recently told her of the outcome of his negotiations and his decision to strengthen their clan’s alliance with Arthmael, who ruled their tribe from the mighty hill fort of Mai Dun, to their west.

Arthmael looked at her father with a steady gaze.

“I’m here at last.” He scanned the folk crowded around.

“Where is my future wife?” he asked, his eyes narrowed, focusing on the woman of the clan, assessing and dismissing them as he searched for her.

“I look forward to our meeting.” His voice carried to Alina where she stood at the rear of the throng—a voice used to command and projecting to the furthest person in a mass of onlookers.

Alina ducked behind the broad back of a wheelwright, who had stopped work and come to gawk like everyone else.

“Esteemed guest, pardon our unprepared greeting, but you have arrived sooner than we expected.” Her father swept his hand in an arc around the assemblage. “Alina will join us soon.”

Ice ran through Alina’s veins as horror, anguish, and fear jostled for dominance within her. The day she dreaded had arrived.

Those people standing around her turned their gazes on her, clearly expecting her to step forward to meet this demigod who had appeared before them.

She must get away. Delay her fate. Come to terms with her imminent loss.

Avoiding the curious eyes that tracked her, Alina slid through the gaps between their bodies, heading for the gateway through which other chariots and wagons now clattered, bringing the remainder of the king’s entourage.

A hand seized her wrist. “Where are you going?” her sister demanded.

Alina jerked her head northward. “The forest.”

“You can’t go now! Father will be furious if you disappear just as your betrothed has arrived.”

Alina jerked her wrist free of Rigana’s bruising grip. That was true. She couldn’t humiliate her family thus. “Don’t you see I can’t marry Arthmael now? I love Garamaros.”

Her sister snorted and stepped closer, lowering her voice to keep her words for Alina only.

“Garamaros! Are you mad? He’s a craftsman.

Not of your rank. A nobody. When you marry Arthmael you will be the wife of the king of our people, wear robes of the finest materials, eat the best foods, buy any adornment you desire made by Garamaros.

What more could any woman want?” Her words were a hoarse whisper in Alina’s ear.

Alina’s shoulders slumped as her body curled around the leaden dread lodged in her stomach. “The man I love beside me, sharing my life,” she whispered. The tears that threatened to fill Alina’s eyes choked her voice.

“Don’t be a fool,” Rigana hissed. “This marriage is more important than your personal happiness. It is an alliance to protect all of us from the Belgae interlopers who swarmed here after the Romans conquered the lands across the water.”

“I know what you say is true, but I cannot change what my heart desires.”

“Then you must learn to live with Arthmael despite loving the craftsman.”

Alina’s body deflated further. Her sister, with all her brutal honesty, was right. There was no hope of a future together for her and Garamaros. They were of different ranks…different tribes…different futures.

She had no choice.

Her father would never approve of her wedding Garamaros, even though he might release her from the contract to marry Arthmael, if she requested it.

“Come.” Her sister tugged on her wrist with a punishing grip. “Father will not remain patient if you’re absent much longer from this meeting.” Disdain soured her tone.

Alina allowed herself to be steered back to the chieftain’s roundhouse. She halted before the open doorway and drew a ragged breath. “I will marry Arthmael, but I must see Garamaros once more before the wedding. Will you take a message to him for me?”

Her sister’s head snapped up and her angry gaze met Alina’s. “No!”

She must convince Rigana to help. “If you will not do this for me, I won’t marry Arthmael,” Alina whispered. “And then your own marriage cannot be organized. You will become an old maid, not the mother of chieftains. Your fondest dreams for your future will be destroyed if you do not do as I ask.”

Rigana pursed her lips, turning her plain face disapproving. “Fine. What is your message?”

“He is to meet me at our special place before the fort gates close.”

“A night-time tryst? Are you without a grain of sense?” Rigana’s scowl could have curdled milk.

“It must be tonight.” Or she would never see him again. That would break her heart.

“What if you’re discovered? The marriage contract will be abandoned.”

“And then perhaps you could take my place?” From the flash of interest in Rigana’s eyes, Alina knew that would be a more than satisfactory outcome to her sister, who as yet had had no marriage offers, whereas Alina had received a number.

Although Alina constantly reassured Rigana she was loved and valued, her sister could not forgive her for the disparity in their looks. Rigana’s jealousy threatened to stain her spirit core.

“All right. I’ll give your message to Garamaros.”

And possibly inform on us as well, as it would be to your own advantage. “Go now and do it. I will join our parents.”

Rigana nodded and turned in the direction of Garamaros’ workshop at the northwest corner of the enclosure.

Alina drew a steadying breath and stepped through the doorway of her father’s stone roundhouse. The familiar acrid woodsmoke, which curled up to the rafters supporting the thatch roof, assaulted her nostrils. The dimness within temporarily blinded her after the strong light outside.

Alina blinked rapidly to adjust her eyes.

Arrayed before her in the rush-lit interior were her parents, the leading warriors and learned druids of their clan, and the exalted visitors from the mighty fortress of Mai Dun.

Those seated nearest the doorway noticed her, their eyes full of speculation and expectation.

A tense excitement thrummed through the room, sending a tremor through her.

Seated at the center of the high table at the rear, beside her father, was Arthmael, looking powerful and handsome.

She knew he was a warrior to whom she should be proud to be married, but that didn’t stop her heart aching. The sight of him denoted her impending separation from Garamaros. Alina rubbed her sternum hoping to ease the dull ache there.

Arthmael was talking with her father. When she stepped forward from the doorway to pace towards the high table, he glanced her way…and whatever words he was about to utter never left his mouth. His focus locked onto her, his blue-eyed gaze riveted to hers, his mouth half open, his body frozen.

“Ah, my daughter, Alina.” Her father spread his arms out wide, presenting her. Pride and relief intertwined in his tone.

Her mother sent her an encouraging smile.

Alina halted in front of the high table and inclined her head towards Arthmael. “My king.”