Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The next day
Garamaros, and the whole population of Dun Limen settlement, turned out to witness the handfast ceremony between Alina and Arthmael, king of the Durotriges.
His eyes seared from tiredness. Last night, he had sat in his hut for an age, reliving his snatched last moments with Alina, while he waited for warriors to pound on his door and demand entrance.
Eventually, as the first birds greeted the dawn, he had sought his bed. Even this morning he had expected to be summoned into the chieftain’s presence for questioning. But that had not happened yet. Alina must have returned to her sleeping pallet unchallenged.
Garamaros thanked the gods she had not been caught and her future ruined.
The ceremony took place in the open space before the chieftain’s roundhouse, which was used for assemblies of the settlement’s population.
Several hundred people watched in awe, including a host of Arthmael’s kin and warriors, who had arrived with him.
The late summer sun shone down from a clear blue sky, as though it could make this darkest day the happiest of occasions.
Standing at the back of the crowd, Garamaros watched Alina walk into the center of the gathered witnesses.
Her shoulders were slumped and there were dark circles under her eyes, but she still looked beautiful, with her thick golden hair twisted around her head and her lush curves arrayed in the finest Indian cotton that could be purchased from the Roman Empire.
Needlework motifs on all corners of the golden material draped over her shoulders represented the motif of the Dun Limen clan—an oak leaf stitched in dyed-green thread.
And she wore the golden torc he had bestowed on her last night. Its silent proclamation of Alina’s love for him soothed his tortured heart for a few beats.
Arthmael wore the blue and yellow plaid synonymous with his clan. The warrior chieftain stood tall and resolute like a god personified, facing Alina. His muscled frame dwarfed her, even though she was not a small woman.
They stood before the druid priest within a circle of fresh heather gathered while the dew still clung to the petals of its flowers.
With their right hands clasped, Arthmael made his vows first. “Alina, daughter of Bendigeidfran, I pledge myself to you—to protect and honor you forever more.” His words projected clear and confident, showing he valued the importance of this binding of their clans through this marriage and wanted everyone in the settlement to know it too.
Garamaros watched and listened. With every promise made, his chest tightened, crushing his heart into smaller and smaller pieces. Why was he torturing himself? He should be anywhere but here. Except he needed witness the end of his love affair with Alina before he could accept it was over forever.
Then it was Alina’s turn to say her vows. “Arthmael, high chieftain of the Durotriges, I…I pledge myself to you…” Her soft voice faltered and she looked to the druid for guidance.
Arthmael frowned. Around Garamaros, the Dun Limen people shuffled their feet.
The druid gave Alina the words again.
Her pale cheeks flushed. “To…to honor and serve you…forever more.”
People turned to each other, their faces full of questions and unease. Did they sense that she was not happy with the match?
Beside Alina stood her sister, clad in less ornate apparel, with a scowl on her face that would knock a songbird from a tree.
When she wasn’t looking at her sister with jealousy writ plain in her eyes, she was looking as Arthmael with raw longing.
Her plan to discredit Alina had failed, and she wasn’t taking defeat well.
Now it was too late to halt the marriage, would she try to sour it instead by revealing Alina’s secret to her husband? Garamaros silently beseeched the gods to thwart any plan Rigana might be considering.
The sooner Alina and Arthmael departed this place, the better. That would allow less time for her sister to cause trouble. And more opportunity for Garamaros to start on the road to his recovery from the loss of Alina and used to living his life without her.
With the vows concluded, the druid invoked the gods to bestow upon them long lives and many sons. Alina flushed at these words, while Arthmael’s eyes glowed with eagerness to fulfil the entreaty.
Garamaros clenched his fists by his sides. Fire burned in the pit of his stomach. In that moment, he hated Arthmael with all of his being. But he was powerless.
Although a master goldsmith celebrated through Albion and beyond, he was not of their rank. He was but a working man. So he prayed to the god of calm waters to soothe his soul and dull his heartache—that he may find a way to live with this burden.
After the brief ceremony, Garamaros wandered through the crowd gathering near the roundhouse.
Music and feasting followed, which pleased the people of the settlement.
Meanwhile, the happy couple ate with the chieftain, warriors, druids, and their families inside the chieftain’s house.
Lyre music spilled out into the sunlit afternoon from the open doorway.
The rich aroma of hunks of meat roasted over open fires failed to tease Garamaros’s appetite.
He grabbed a mug of beer in one hand and a lamb shank in the other and leaned against the wall of a roundhouse.
He barely tasted either as he watched the doorway of the chieftain’s house, hoping for a last glimpse of Alina; desperate for reassurance that she was alright.
He remembered their first meeting when he and his father, a skilled Belgae craftsman, had travelled to this village to sell the glass beads and gold and silver jewelry they had crafted while living in the Belgae territory that lay to the northeast of the Durotriges.
After the death of Garamaros’ mother, a druid healer, his father had become restless and anxious to leave the place that reminded him so much of his wife.
Hoping to relocate their workshop closer to the coast so they could more easily trade with the Roman Empire on the continent, his father had sought permission from Bendigeidfran, the settlement’s chieftain, for them to move to the fort of Dun Limen, with its nearby River Limen that gave access across the sea to Gaul.
His father had requested an audience with Bendigeidfran and they entered his roundhouse from the bright sunlit day outside.
Garamaros blinked to adjust his eyes to the smoke-filled darkness within.
Seated on an ornate chair at the other end of the meeting room, was the chieftain, hearing the complaints and supplications of two members of his clan.
He and his father were directed to a bench to wait their turn. Garamaros bounced one leg and drew deep breaths to calm his nerves as he waited. This was the pivotal moment in their plan to trade with Gaul.
While Garamaros waited and listened to the other supplicants, he gazed around the room.
Woven wall hangings in the sage green and yellow colors of this clan hung over the building’s walls.
One woman worked on a loom, weaving the same pattern of plaid.
As Bendigeidfran delivered his decision on the altercation between the supplicants, she stepped from behind its frame.
Golden hair flowed down her back, snagging kisses of light coming from the ever-present fire in the central fireplace.
She wore a tunic dress made of material only available from the continent, but it was an unnecessary enhancement of the attractions of her figure.
Tall and statuesque, she turned with grace towards him as he and his father were beckoned forward.
But it was her perfect face—a clear-skinned pale oval from which shone eyes the color of bluebell flowers—that heated his body.
Her lips lifted into a smile as their gazes met and held.
His heartbeat quickened. Her cheeks colored pink.
Garamaros’s father nudged him. It was time to face the chieftain who would determine their fate.
Garamaros wrestled his focus from the vision of beauty and stumbled forward.
It took another dig in the ribs from his father before he re-focused his befuddled mind on their petition to persuade this powerful man to grant their request.
Throughout his father’s rehearsed speech, Garamaros’ eyes had sought the woman. He had managed to answer the questions put to him by the chieftain, but he didn’t remember what he had said, only his fervent desire they succeeded so he could meet this woman again…and again.
Alina’s father had granted their wish, because they would add to the growing number of craftsmen in his settlement, bringing prestige and trade to his clan. And ultimately, coin to him.
Today, a fortified wharf enclosure stood on the nearby riverbank, where sea-worthy craft loaded and unloaded their cargo and traded with the lands over the water to the southeast. Commerce was growing, just as the chieftain had planned.
That trade, plus Alina’s renowned beauty, had led to today’s alliance.
Despair congealed into a leaden weight in Garamaros’s belly. He tossed his half-eaten lamb shank to his salivating wolfhound. He needed to get away from here, but his yearning to see Alina one last time was too great.
After what seemed like hours, Alina and her new husband appeared in the entrance of the chieftain’s roundhouse.
Garamaros jerked upright from his slumped position against the wall.
The sight of Alina—his love, with her lush body, her golden hair, her intelligence, and her happy nature—struck his heart with a force that almost drove him to his knees. His lover was no longer his.
The Dun Limen folk sent up a cheer and converged again on the meeting place before their chieftain’s roundhouse, where they began to clap out a wild rhythm and shout encouragement.