Tea peered down into the glittering water. Holding her breath, she saw a winged shape glide through the shoals toward her.
Slamming down her spear, she pinned the flounder to the pebbles with the sharp tip. Checking she had speared the flatfish properly, Tea lifted it out of the water and waded to the pebbly bank where a basket of mussels, dab and flounder sat. It had been a good morning’s fishing.
Tea deposited her flounder—the biggest she had seen in a while—into the basket and stretched her aching back, letting her gaze travel over her surroundings.
Even though it galled her to admit it, the fort’s location was a breathtaking one. Loch Slapin was impossibly blue this morning, framed by softly rounded mountains. Beneath the fort there was a stony beach. It was a wide swathe where she had gone out to collect shellfish and try her luck at spearfishing.
Women’s work inside the fort bored her. Although she liked Luana, she had no wish to spend her mornings preparing the noon meal and her afternoons weaving, sewing and spinning. Like the other warrior women, she preferred to be outdoors, where she felt free, with the wind in her face.
Her basket was now full and her feet numb from wading through the ice-cold water of the loch, or she would have remained out here longer. The women working indoors would want this fish for a stew.
Reluctantly, Tea picked up her basket. Carrying it in one hand, and her ash spear in another, she made her way along the pebbly shore, to where a row of steps had been cut into the hillside.
Beyond the walls, she spied mounds of twigs and branches. Folk were readying themselves for the night’s celebration of Gateway. Many days had passed since Tarl had ridden south with the warriors, and now the night that marked the passage from summer to winter was upon them.
Reaching the village above, she took the path through the scattering of roundhouses. She deliberately slowed her step as she approached the wall leading into the fort itself. The sun felt good on her face and she had no wish to re-enter the dark, smoky interior on such a beautiful morning.
She had nearly reached the stone arch that led into the yard when she passed a group of lads. They were young, of no more than ten years, but they watched her with hard, knowing eyes.
“There she is,” one of the boys cried out. “The Wolf-bitch!”
“Her people killed my da,” one of his friends added, fisting his grimy hands and advancing toward her. “Let’s get her!”
Tea stopped in her tracks and spun toward them. Then she raised her spear in fighting stance. “Alright then,” she growled, taking a menacing step toward the lads. “Which one of you wants a spear in the guts first?”
Her aggression made them halt. Tea did not want to frighten children but she knew a mob could be dangerous. There were five of them, and they looked wiry. She could not let them think they could intimidate her.
The lads glowered at her. The one whose father had fallen stood a few feet in front of his friends, his blue eyes hard beyond his years. Although she understood his hate, the lad’s venom reminded Tea of her status at Dun Ringill. She struggled to think of this fort as her home, and despite Galan’s assurances some folk here did not welcome her.
Tea thrust her spear at them. “Get back to your chores,” she snarled.
Muttering insults, they backed off. However, before he joined his friends the fatherless lad spat on the ground, making his feelings clear. Tea watched him slope off and told herself she would need to be warier in future.
She needed to remember the enemy surrounded her.
Turning, she entered the fort and carried her basket of fish into the feasting hall. Luana was there, kneading dough for the bread they would serve with the noon meal. She spied Tea and raised a floury hand in greeting. Next to her, Deri, a young woman who had recently wed Cal—one of Galan’s trusted warriors—peeled onions for the fish stew.
Deri, short and plump with a mane of beautiful dark-brown hair, looked up from chopping onions. Her green eyes were watering. “Did you catch anything?”
“Aye.” Tea placed the basket in front of her. “Take a look at the size of that flounder.”
Deri did as bid, her eyes widening. “What a monster!”
Despite her bleak mood Tea found herself smiling. She was becoming fond of both Luana and Deri. It was hard to dislike either of them. Deri’s sparkling smile and joyous laughter brought a little sunlight to her days, and Luana bore herself with noble serenity. Sometimes, Tea would find herself observing Luana and questioning her own character. Few women railed against the world like Tea did—and sometimes her fire threatened to consume her. Tea envied Luana her peace.
“Will you help us with the baking this afternoon?” Luana asked. “We’ve got a mountain of apple cakes and walnut tarts to prepare for the Gateway offerings.”
The thought of being stuck inside on such a beautiful day needled Tea, but she found herself nodding. Gateway was an important celebration to all who lived upon The Winged Isle. She would need to play her part in the preparations.
Today in Dun Ardtreck, there would be excitement in the air. Women would be sewing costumes for the night’s guising for the children. Many folk would dress as brownies, selkies and wulvers—men with wolves’ heads—in the evening, before going out to prowl the gloaming.
Thinking of Dun Ardtreck brought back many memories, and Tea found herself wondering about Loc and Eithni. Did they miss her? The passing of time had caused her fury to ebb slightly. It no longer raged like a wildfire but instead smoldered in the pit of her belly. Nonetheless, she had not forgiven either of them.
She was not sure she ever would.
“Does something ail you this morning?”
Tea glanced up to find Luana watching her. Tea frowned, irritated that the young woman could read her so well. “Nothing.”
Luana gave her a sly look. “You haven’t given in to Galan yet then?”
Tea scowled. “I don’t know what you mean. He leaves me be.”
Luana’s eyebrows lifted. “After the heat I saw between the two of you at your handfasting that surprises me. You two virtually set fire to the table.”
Tea looked away, and started removing the fish from the basket. “I wasn’t myself that night,” she muttered. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Luana gave a soft laugh. “I do.”
Tea glanced her way, still scowling. “What’s that then?”
“It’s called lust.”
Tea snorted before reaching for the knife at her waist. She then began to descale the large flounder. “Lust can be overcome,” she growled.
“Not in my experience it can’t,” Luana replied, amusement in her voice. “Lust unattended just tends to grow in strength until you are forced to give in to it or go mad from wanting.”
“For the love of the gods.” Tea slapped the fish down on the table. “I’ve never heard such rot.”
Luana and Deri’s laughter, musical and light, lifted high above them.
“What’s all this merriment?”
Tea turned to find Donnel striding toward them. Dressed in plaid breeches and a leather tunic, his short dark hair mussed from being outdoors in the wind, Tea had to admit he was an incredible looking man. His attractiveness was different to Galan’s though—for her husband had a brooding sensuality, an aura of contained power that both his brothers lacked.
Annoyed at herself for thinking of Galan so, Tea gave Donnel a sour look and turned back to descaling her fish
“We were just talking of men,” Luana told him with an impish smile.
Donnel grinned before sauntering over to his wife. He enfolded her in his arms. “And what of them?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Tea replied, casting Luana a warning look.
Her sister-by-marriage winked at her and reached up to stroke her husband’s face. “Some conversations are best left between women, my love.”
Dusk fell over Dun Ringill and men lit great fires outside the walls. Wrapped in a thick fur mantle, Tea joined the crowd and watched the flames leap high into the sky. Tonight, the veil between this world and the next was at its thinnest. The souls of the dead walked among them, and the fires helped purify the night of any that might wish them harm.
Tea watched the men, women and children, all wearing their guises, dance around the fire—grotesque silhouettes against the golden firelight. There was a darker aspect to this night, for it was sacred to The Hag and The Reaper. It heralded the coming of darkness.
She was so intent on watching the celebrations, her thoughts turned inward, that she did not notice the tall, muscular figure that stopped next to her. It was only when Galan spoke that she realized he stood barely more than a hand span from her.
“Are you enjoying the festivities?”
She glanced up, and found him staring at her. Like Tea, Galan wore a thick fur mantle to ward off the chill; it made his shoulders seem even broader than usual.
“It is pleasant enough,” she replied quietly. She was in an introspective mood this eve, and did not wish to fight him. They went to their furs together each night, naked, although in cold silence, and awoke the same way. There were no words, no eye contact, and no ease. The tension between them was beginning to exhaust Tea. Her new life was draining her. She wondered how she would be a year from now—little more than a bitter, empty husk?
“Does it remind you of your kin?” he asked, drawing Tea from her brooding.
Tea nodded. “We light our fire on the hill beneath the broch.”
“I’ve always enjoyed this night,” Galan admitted. “I used to guise myself as a wulver when I was a lad.” His mouth curved into a smile at the memory. “Frightened my poor mother half to death.”
Tea resisted the urge to smile at the thought of this big, stern man running wild around the fort, pretending to be a wolf. Still, this was the first time Galan had mentioned his mother, and Tea wondered about her.
“When did she die?”
“Five winters ago.” Galan looked away from her, his gaze shifting to the dancing flames of the Gateway fire. “It was sudden. She went to bed with a terrible pain in her head and was dead by morning.”
Tea watched him for a moment. Despite that she hated being here, that she had never wanted this marriage, she found herself studying her husband. In many ways, he was a mystery. Tarl and Donnel were both much easier to read—Galan wore a shield around him that made it difficult to gauge his thoughts.
“Were you close to her?”
Galan glanced back at her, and she saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes. His mouth quirked. “Not really—I was too interested in pleasing my father, in being the warrior he was. Folk tell me we were alike in character though, my mother and I. My brothers take after father—whereas I have her quietness.”
Tea held his gaze for a moment, aware suddenly of the heat of the fire caressing her face. He was looking at her in that hungry way he had on the eve of their handfasting; a look that made breathing difficult, one that robbed her of appetite and made her acutely aware of him too.
She should not have let her guard down with him, for Galan mac Muin had the ability to strip her naked with one heated look. She should have remembered that but she had spent her time here trying to block him out. She had almost forgotten the attraction that burned between them. She now felt the force of his will; his desire that she submit to him. He wanted her to accept her new life, to accept him.
I will not.
Heart hammering, Tea tore her gaze from his and turned back to watch the revelers.
Leaving the fires to burn bright, the folk of Dun Ringill wandered indoors. They had left offerings outside the entrance to the great stone fort: cakes, breads and jugs of mead for the dead. It was the last part of the Gateway ritual, before they sat down to a feast.
Three hoggets had spent the afternoon spit-roasting over open fires outdoors, and lads now carried them in for the feasters. Roast turnip, mashed carrots and braised onions sat on large platters on the tables, and the aroma of roast hogget hung heavily on the air, making Tea’s belly rumble. She had been so busy today, she had barely had time to eat.
Indoors, there was plenty to keep her busy. She helped pour warmed sloe wine and made sure food had been set out on all the tables. The women had spent days getting ready for this feast.
Eventually, Tea took her place on Galan’s left at the chieftain’s table. Taking a sip of wine, she gave a sigh of pleasure as the warm, spicy liquid ran down her throat and warmed her belly. The wine was delicious.
Next to her, Galan sliced a choice piece of the hogget shank and placed it upon the wooden platter they shared. It had been strange, getting used to dining off the same plate as one another, but it was what a husband and wife did. She noted that Galan placed the best bits of meat and roast vegetables on her side of the plate, as he had since she had arrived at Dun Ringill, and she felt a stab of annoyance.
Why does he have to be so good to me?
She did not deserve his kindness, or his consideration. She was merely a wife he had wedded to secure peace. It would have made it easier to hate him if he was cruel or thoughtless. However, his wordless gestures made her feel confused, upset and angry. His kindness made her want to lash out at him.
Instead, she took a large gulp of sloe wine and welcomed the numbness it brought.