Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Mai Dun hillfort
Southern Albion
Sorcha, daughter of the king of the Durotriges tribe, strolled through the crowded marketplace full of traveling merchants, many come great distances to sell their varied wares.
She stopped to caress a fine exotic cotton, its soft texture sliding through her fingers.
The merchant held up another bolt of cloth for her inspection and she smoothed her hand over the rich fabric.
Choosing the material for her wedding dress from among those on offer was proving difficult.
She wanted to impress her betrothed, Oglach.
As the chieftain of Dun Creg and a powerful warrior, he controlled lands bordering those of their traditional enemies to the west, the Dumnone.
She had met him last spring, at a gathering of all the Durotriges chieftains, held here at Mai Dun, their tribe’s biggest settlement and her home.
Marriage to Oglach would strengthen the bonds between their clans, but would take her far from Mai Dun and everyone she loved.
Moving to the small outlying settlement of Dun Creg would be a huge change from life in the massive Mai Dun hillfort.
Located close to the lands of the Dumnone, Dun Creg always faced risk of attack.
The clatter of heavy hooves on timber roadway broke through the hum of the marketplace. Shouts rang out. Sorcha dropped the material she was inspecting, all thoughts of her handfasting erased.
Four sweating Celtic ponies pulling a chariot sped through the massive oak gateway set between the fort’s palisaded ramparts. She watched them barrel past.
Her body tensed. Dread formed a cold ball in the pit in her stomach.
The vehicle halted abruptly in front of the king’s large roundhouse in the center of the settlement.
Its team of ponies stamped in their traces, trembling and snorting, foam sliding from their heaving sides.
A blood-splattered warrior, his body still covered in woad, the blue pigment of battle, leapt from its platform.
Her younger brother, Caileanos.
Fighting back the fear that unfurled in her stomach, Sorcha sprinted towards the commotion. All thoughts of bride clothes evaporated. Something was very wrong.
Sorcha arrived at the roundhouse as Caileanos reached their mother Alina, who stood in its doorway.
Grey streaks in Alina’s golden hair showed she had reached her middle years.
Gaulish woven cloth fastened by gold brooches draped her statuesque body, while multiple strings of golden-yellow glass beads hung from a torc of twisted gold-wire, revealing her high status.
Caileanos fell to his knees before Alina and clutched her skirt in his grimy hands. His gaze met their mother’s. “The Romans defeated our forces. Father is dead!” His voice was a harsh rasp, ragged with despair and exhaustion.
Sorcha clutched her middle as the ache there gripped harder. Her father, King Arthmael, accompanied by Caileanos and four more of her brothers, had joined the alliance of Celtic tribes gathered to repulse the invading Romans. Now, after a year of fighting, her father was dead.
Her mother’s face lost all color. She staggered and reached out a trembling hand to Caileanos’s shoulder. “How?”
“Slain by the Roman dogs.”
Alina slumped against the timber doorway. “And your brothers?” she pleaded in a hoarse whisper.
Caileanos gripped her hand. “Alive, but bruised and battered. They follow with father’s body.”
Alina clutched her chest and slid to the ground. Sorcha leaped forward to help her brother raise their mother to her feet. Caileanos swept Alina into his arms and carried her into the roundhouse. In her quarters, he lowered her onto the furs of her sleeping pallet.
“Send for the druid healer and fetch wine,” Sorcha directed her mother’s handmaidens. Once they had hurried to do her bidding, Sorcha knelt beside Alina, picked up her cold hand and chafed it, trying to instill some warmth. Caileanos loomed behind her.
Alina’s eyes blinked open and she squeezed Sorcha’s fingers. “We must start preparations for Arthmael’s burial,” she whispered. Sadness filled her eyes.
“Mother, worry not. I’ll organize everything,” Sorcha said and patted her hand.
Alina nodded and her eyelids fluttered closed.
The druid, an elderly man who specialized in healing, arrived.
He examined Alina then directed a serving woman in the making of a tisane he prescribed their mother for before returning to Sorcha.
“She’s had a severe shock, but she’ll recover soon, as there is no serious condition.
Let her rest after giving her the tonic. ”
“Thank you. Will you wait here in case any of my brothers need medical assistance?” Sorcha asked him.
He nodded and left the roundhouse to join the crowd outside.
Now that the immediate scare of her mother’s collapse had passed, the realization that her father was dead hit Sorcha like a kick to her stomach. She would never see him again. Never speak with him. Never ride their lands with him. Her insides froze at the thought.
Her beloved father, who had always cherished and encouraged her, was dead.
An iron band squeezed her rib cage. She clutched her brother’s arm and tried to drag air into her lungs past the painful tightness that impeded her breathing.
Caileanos slid an arm around her shoulders and gave her a one-armed hug. She hardly registered his kindness.
Her father was not just dead…but killed by the Roman invaders.
A sob burst from her aching lungs. Those vile, evil, heartless plunderers who believed it their right to seize more and more land for their empire and to trample anyone who stood in their way. They had stolen her beloved father and mentor, who had guided her with love her whole life.
An anger, such as she had never known, ripped through her body, leaving her chest heaving, her heart pounding, and her blood seething in her veins.
May the gods smite them.
If not the gods, then her. Sorcha’s hand fisted around the handle of the dagger strapped at her waist.
She would avenge him.
On the first Roman that she encountered… and on every Roman afterwards.
Bending over her solicitously, Caileanos looked into her eyes. He gasped. What he saw there had shocked him. He tightened his grip on her arm and led her away from their mother.
Halting near the roundhouse door, Caileanos turned Sorcha towards him and grasped both her shoulders, his face grim. “I know father’s death is devastating, but you must be strong for our mother and brothers. They need your support. Can you do that?”
Sorcha straightened her spine, braced her quivering legs, and lifted her chin until she met her brother’s questioning gaze. “I am my father’s daughter. I can and I will,” she answered through clenched teeth.
Caileanos sent her a tight smile. “I knew you could be depended upon.” He eased his hold on her and she stepped out of his embrace.
“After father’s burial, we will increase our defenses.
I fear the Romans will turn their attention to us next, if we don’t send emissaries to submit to them.
” Caileanos’s voice revealed a tinge of panic, but also stern determination.
“The Durotriges should not agree to be one of their client tribes. I don’t trust them not to take our land anyway. ”
“Never submit. Roman rule will destroy our way of life, our tribe, our clan, everything.” Sorcha shuddered at the thought of the outcome if the Romans defeated the Durotriges.
Her people could be abused, tortured, killed or enslaved.
She had heard many stories of the Romans’ behavior towards the Celts in Gaul when they were campaigning to conquer them.
Submit or suffer was their modus operandi, to use their own words. Hatred burned in her.
A sturdy timber wagon carrying Sorcha’s other warrior brothers, Brianan, Cathal, Seithiac, and Eoghan, rumbled to a halt in front of the roundhouse.
Sorcha and Ceileanos strode outside to greet them.
A leaden weight sat on Sorcha’s shoulders, as she paced forward to meet the reality of her father’s death.
Arthmael’s body lay in the bed of the wagon, his favorite sword at his side, his jewel-imbedded dagger clasped in his lifeless hand. Sorcha slumped against the vehicle’s woven wattle sides.
Her heart clenched at the sight, remembering him standing tall and proud, wearing his weapons, and rallying his warriors before they left to defend their homeland.
He seemed indestructible to her then—a strong, proud, warrior king.
She swallowed the lump in her throat as she gazed down at his lifeless form. Now he appeared smaller, vulnerable.
Her four young warrior brothers jumped to the ground and she pulled each of them into a tight embrace, thanking Camulos, the god of war, for their safe return and whispering words of comfort.
The people of Mai Dun settlement crowded into the meeting space in front of the king’s roundhouse to witness the return of Arthmael.
As was their custom, they greeted his earth-bound body with a song of praise.
Sorcha’s six youngest brothers, aged from eight to fifteen, stood amongst the throng, wide-eyed.
Varying degrees of shock and comprehension of the enormity of their loss were written on their faces.
Their principal druid law-keeper announced Arthmael’s death and proclaimed Caileanos’s succession to his role as chieftain of their clan.
A shout of acclaim rang out. Caileanos raised his arms in acceptance of the honor that transferred to him as the eldest son of Arthmael.
He found her eyes in the crowd and she offered him an encouraging smile, conscious of the burden that now fell on her younger brother’s shoulders.
His first action as chieftain was to order that Arthmael’s body be transferred to his roundhouse. Once that happened, the crowd shuffled and muttered amongst each other. The sluggishness of their dispersal to their usual tasks was testament to their shock at the sudden events the day had brought.