EREA HACKED OFF the pine branches and let them fall onto the ground. Standing under the sheltering boughs of a large fur, she inhaled the resinous scent of the spurs she would use to decorate her hovel for Mid-Winter Fire.
She slid the small hand-axe into her belt and stepped away from the tree, gathering up the fallen boughs. The tree was a short walk from her home, yet she was reluctant to return to her hovel. It was easier to immerse herself in preparations for the ‘Long Night’. Home brought back too many raw images and memories. However, the day was drawing to a close and the first flutters of snow were starting to fall. Erea needed to get back and stoke the embers in her hearth; she did not want the fire to go out.
A sense of hopelessness assailed her as she walked. What was the point? Why was she even bothering? She had no one to spend Mid-Winter Fire with. Her mother, who had made the festival so special, was gone. What joy could be found staring into the dancing flames, stuffing herself with honeyed oatcakes and rich meat stew, if she could not share it with someone she loved?
Stop it. Erea shook her head, in an attempt to keep her despondency at bay; it risked dragging her down like a deadly undertow in a deep, cold loch.
This is my life, I have no choice.
She could let life beat her, go to her furs and stay there, not hunt for food, not garden nor forage. She could just give up on it all. Indeed she had felt like doing exactly that after she had sent Tad away. She had lain upon her furs and wept until she felt ill; yet something deep inside her had eventually rallied. Like her mother she was a survivor. She would not let life beat her.
Yet her chest still ached from grief. Loneliness dogged her with every step.
Hold onto anger. Yes, that was easier. Erea summoned her memory of Tad’s face as he had blithely informed her that he was betrothed, his arrogance when she grew angry with him. Of course, he had gotten what he wanted; he had casually mentioned his impending handfasting as if commenting on the weather.
Conceited turd. If she had been a man, she would have broken his jaw for that.
It still stung that she had wasted her affections on a man who was not worthy.
Erea’s hovel loomed up ahead. Holding onto her anger, she stomped up to it, flung open the door, and strode inside. The trick was to keep herself busy. Mid-Winter Fire was just a day away now, and she had plenty to do to prepare for it. She would pretend her mother was still alive and make the day a special one.
She had precious ingredients that she had been setting aside for many moons in preparation for the Long Night. She would make a batch of honeyed oatcakes and a sweet cake containing dried plums. Erea’s mouth watered at the thought. Winter was such a lean time of year, except for this one special day when she could allow herself some treats.
Setting to work, Erea placed pine boughs around the interior of her hovel, alongside sprigs of holly and drualus—mistletoe. She and her mother had always loved this part of Mid-Winter Fire: making the interior of the hovel scented and beautiful like a forest glade.
Next to the hearth, she had rolled in a large log for the Long Night. It was the biggest she could manage, although not large enough to burn for the entire twelve nights expected.
Once she had finished decorating, she stood in the midst of her hovel and surveyed her work. Despite her resolve to stay strong, Erea’s eyes filled with tears.
“I wish you were here, Ma,” she whispered. “I need your help, more than ever.”
Yet only silence answered her. Her mother had once said that the souls of the dead often remained behind to watch over loved ones, but Erea felt her mother’s had not. Olwen’s soul had moved on, shortly after her death, leaving her daughter to face the world alone.
Across the room her tawny owl watched her sleepily, its golden eyes half-open. Erea managed a tearful, tremulous smile, dredging deep to find her strength.
“Looks like it’ll be just you and me this year, Screech.”
When Fortrenn Mac Nyle, chieftain of The Stag, returned home from his hunting trip—his men riding in a single column up the causeway behind him—his son was waiting for him.
Tad stood under the shadow of the great broch, arms folded across his chest, his gaze not shifting from the massive, broad-shouldered figure astride a sturdy dun pony. Fortrenn carried a quiver of arrows and a bow across one shoulder, and led another pony alongside his stallion. This pony did not carry a rider, but the corpse of a mighty stag. The snow had started to fall in earnest, delicate flakes fluttering down from the pale sky. Tad paid it no mind.
The sight of victory on his father's face made him tense. Fortrenn was the best hunter this tribe had ever known. This Mid-Winter Fire, the broch would ring with his boasts for days, after bringing down such a magnificent stag. Tad had rarely seen a bigger beast; it had a thick russet-colored coat and spreading antlers.
This close to the Long Night, Fortrenn would insist the stag was roasted for the festival.
Tad let out a long breath. Usually he loved this time of year, yet today he could dredge up little enthusiasm for it. He had deliberately left the broch, which was a hive of activity. His mother was overseeing the baking while the other women and children hung garlands and wreaths all over the interior. Earlier, he had helped a group of other strong men heave the great oaken log inside. The log now lay next to the main hearth, waiting for tomorrow eve.
On the night of Mid-Winter Fire the feasting would begin—platters of roasted meats and rich stews, and sweets and cakes dripping with honey and butter. Yet Tad had no appetite for any of it. His belly had closed, his mouth felt sour.
A dark mood had descended upon him, and he could not shake it off. This was new to him, as he was usually an even-tempered man not prone to brooding and terse silences. Now, he barely recognized himself.
His conversation with his mother the day before had not helped.
He had been unnerved by the fact that she had known what was truly bothering him. In the end he had told her of Erea. Yet he had immediately regretted his candor, for she had maddeningly shown very little response. Her gaze had widened slightly when he revealed Erea was the daughter of the sorceress of the Black Boar Woods, yet Colene made no comment on it. When Tad had finished his brief tale, she had said nothing. Her gaze then softened, and she had given him a pained looked that had made Tad’s ire rise. He did not want his mother’s sympathy. He did not need it.
In the end, she had offered him just one brief sentence of advice. “You need to speak to your father of this when he returns.”
And so here Tad was, awaiting the return of the mighty Fortrenn mac Nyle—a man few questioned, and even fewer opposed.
Tad was not looking forward to this conversation.
He watched his father pull up his stallion and dismount from its back. The chief was smiling as he met Tad’s eye. “Have you seen that beauty I brought down?”
Tad forced an answering smile. “I would expect nothing less.”
“Taking credit for the whole hunt … as usual,” Bevan grumbled as he halted his pony alongside Fortrenn.
“Aye, you’d think he’d taken the stag down on his own,” Ailig called out from behind them.
“Don’t listen to those old women,” Fortrenn replied, still grinning. “While they were fumbling for their arrows, I’d already loosed mine.”
Tad listened to their banter, his tension rising. He did not want to speak to his father about this with Bevan and Ailig listening in. However, asking to speak to the chief alone would only draw more attention to him.
He needed to speak now or the moment would be lost. Better here, outdoors, rather than at the chieftain’s table with the whole hall looking on.
“I need to speak to you, father.”
Fortrenn who had been loosening his pony’s girth, glanced over his shoulder. “What of, lad?”
Lad. His father seemed to forget that Tad was a man, and had been for years now.
“It’s about that betrothal to Isla.”
Fortrenn’s good humored expression faded. “Aye?”
“I’ll not wed her.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the falling snow settled over the yard. Bevan and Ailig stopped unsaddling their ponies and turned to stare at Fortrenn and Tad.
“That isn’t for you to decide,” Fortrenn replied. His voice was low, dangerous.
Tad held his gaze. “I can’t wed Isla, father … I’m in love with another woman.”
The words were unexpected, unrehearsed. They shocked Tad. He had not realized till this moment that he felt this way. Suddenly, the smothering darkness lifted, and he saw the truth of it.
He loved Erea—and he had been a great fool not to tell her so.
However, Fortrenn appeared unimpressed by his son’s admission. “Aye … and why does that change things? Do you think your mother and I loved each other? I don’t care if you’ve gone all soft-eyed over some maid.”
“Who is she?” Bevan asked from behind Fortrenn. “I haven’t seen you with anyone here.”
Tad inclined his head. “That’s because she doesn’t live at Dun Grianan. When I was out hunting in that snowstorm, it wasn’t an abandoned hut I found refuge in, but the home of a young woman who lives alone in the Black Boar Woods.” Silence followed this admission and so Tad continued, emboldened. “Her mother was the woman you cast out. She died a few months ago … Erea now lives alone.”
The look on their faces was almost comical. Fortrenn, Bevan, and Ailig all looked as if he had just proclaimed that he was The Warrior himself in human form. They gaped at him, stunned.
Fortrenn was the first to recover. “You’ll not wed such a woman.”
Tad shook his head. “If I don’t wed Erea, then I’ll wed no one.”
His father’s mouth twisted. “You’ll not bring that witch’s spawn into my broch.”
“Fortrenn …” Bevan’s voice held a warning note, yet his brother ignored him.
“Erea’s not responsible for her mother,” Tad countered. His own vehemence surprised him. Why had it taken him this long to go head to head with his father? Recklessness caught fire in his veins. Now that he had made a stand, he would not back down.
“Maybe we should let the past go, chief?” Ailig spoke up. “If this lass is living out in the woods alone, it’s not safe for her.”
“Quiet!” Fortrenn roared, his face turning red. He advanced on Tad, two long strides bringing them nose to nose. “Whelp,” he snarled. “You have responsibilities to this tribe, to me. How easily you forget them.”
Tad did not flinch. “I’m still your son—surely it doesn’t matter which woman I choose?”
“You have no choice. Isla will be your wife.”
“No.”
“Defy me again, and I’ll knock you out.”
Tad sucked in a deep breath. “I’m going to marry Erea—and not you, nor anyone else will stop me.”
A heartbeat later Fortrenn’s huge fist shot out, slugging him in the face.