Last
Saturday was my last ‘Fair’ of the year and I’m now looking forward to having
free Saturdays over the winter months to do whatever seems natural- hopefully a lot more writing!
It makes me think about what the winter festival actually means
for me. Christmas and New Year are times to enjoy my family even more than normal. It’s a
time to make more fuss than would be typical. Our Christmas Day, Boxing Day and Ne'erday fare is more elaborate. Its a time set aside for us to
be together as an extended family - in-laws included - when we play board games and do other fun stuff. There will hopefully be some snow on the ground for my grandson and
granddaughter to build a snowman, yet we hope the weather isn't too hazardous for the family to drive
to the host’s house.
We enjoy our cosy celebration in heated surroundings, holly
and ivy decking the halls (easy since I have very large badly-needing-pruned
holly trees and wild ivy dotted around the garden) - the holly and ivy being traditional symbols which harken back to a time and religion of long ago.
Enya is also taking a breather but not because she’s about
to have a hectic festival season. She’s actually quite miffed about that because
her people are not in a position to celebrate anything!
In good times, Enya’s people feast well and enjoy a great
gathering - the bards singing the praises of their famous ancestors. Young, fledgling warriors like Enya are heralded to fully branded status during happy ceremonies but that’s not likely for her this coming winter festival time – though she’s proved her worth already by killing a Roman
soldier in the recent battle at Beinn na Ciche. Her people have no time to
celebrate or to mark the success of their young warriors. Elevation of her official status to full warrior must wait for
more settled times. Thousands of Roman soldiers are still encamped nearby and might pounce at any time.
Enya's feeling out of sorts with the gods and goddesses but it doesn’t mean she's given up on them completely. She regularly gives praise to her favourite deities, ones which are
common to many tribes around the European continent, but most of all she
currently pleas for the goddess, Scathach, to favour her. Scathach is a mentor
of women warriors and Enya desperately needs the goddess to help her thwart the
Roman scourge. Under the command of General Gnaeus Julius Agricola, the legions of Rome continue to harass her people The goddess Scathach is also known as goddess
of the dead, ensuring the passage of those killed into the otherworld, but the
way Enya is presently feeling she doesn’t care how many dead Romans Scathach helps along the
way - so long as it’s a lot.
Like her Garrigill clan, Enya’s just suffered a humiliating
defeat when the forces of Agricola faced the allied Caledonian tribes in battle
at Beinn na Ciche. (Book 3 Celtic Fervour Series) She now knows for sure that pitched battle isn’t the answer
to defeating the Romans but she vows to find other ways of defending her
people. She also prays to Scathach to aid her during her quest to find out the
fate of her brother and cousin.
“Cernunnos? I fear you are not a happy god.”
Enya’s whisper was for herself. The forest god favoured
neither her, nor her Brigante kin.
A deep chill, accompanied by intermittent sleet mixed rain,
had descended after dawn causing a last cascade of colourful leaf drop to glide
down from the birches. She might have found the red-gold butterfly flutters appealing
had the day been a fair one but Cernunnos
demonstrated his anger at the bloody deeds of men in his precious
territory. The mush of twinkling, soggy leaves was treacherous underfoot.
“Ouu…ouu…ouu…ouu”
Down the slope from where
she took cover, the deep thundering of capercaillie panic in the undergrowth of
the forest was followed by the strident tapping of a woodpecker.
“Tchik…tchik” The double woodpecker
call repeated itself, increasing in volume each time.
Two of them!
Enya’s insides knotted as
she pressed her back closer to the damp tree trunk, her teeth clenched tight
together to suppress the urge to rant. After pulling the edges of her bratt
tighter across her freezing cheeks for more protection, she sneaked her head
round to peer down the hill. They had not been the truest of capercaillie or
woodpecker calls. The warnings had been issued by Colm of Ceann Druimin and
Nith of Tarras, members of her scouting patrol. Their alert meant that two Roman
soldiers were in the vicinity but she had no sight of them, yet. She had not
encountered any of the Roman bastards since the disastrous battle fought at Beinn Na Ciche.
Slithering sideways to the shelter of the next bole, there
was a pause while she drew breath, her life force thumping in her chest, ears strained
for further cautioning. She snatched a gaze down the steep incline, though still
saw nothing human. A side to side check, and another to the hillside above her,
revealed no signs of the enemy there, either. Why would two of the Romans have separated from
their companions? It had been drummed into her that Roman army training was not
inclined to encourage a few soldiers to break from the smallest fighting unit. Except
if they were the ones Uncle Lorcan called exploratores,
the lone scouts who evaluated the territory in advance of the arrival of
the legions. She hitched in another
large gulp of air when a new thought occurred.
“Speculatores?”
She bit back on the whispered words, her head shivering when
she squeezed her eyelids tight to dispel the foolish notion. The Roman General Agricola
could not possibly be long enough in Taexali lands to be sending out those Uncle
Brennus, and his new hearth-wife Ineda, named speculatores. Ineda knew well about those special soldiers who pretended
to be visiting Celts, but were spies who infiltrated the local tribes to gain information
to send back to the Roman commanders.
Enya allowed a tiny nervous twitch of admiration to break
the freeze at her cheeks. Ineda was a woman that she would like to get to know much
better because Ineda had been a successful Brigante spy for many winters whilst
a slave of a Roman tribune. The woman was as fearless as any who was warrior
trained.
Feeling truly brave was not yet a customary emotion that
came to her but her warrior skills were sound. Her father, her uncles and aunt Nara of the Selgovae, had
seen to that. She worked hard every sunrise counter the alarm that still came
unbidden inside her, even if what she showed to others seemed coldly fearless. Since
the carnage on the foothills of Beinn Na Ciche she awoke each new day with
renewed resolve. Somehow she would find her missing brother and cousin, and she
would fight against the Roman usurpers with her last breath to achieve it.
“Tchik…tchik.” More repetitions to remind her to keep
vigilant.
Enya swallowed down the spit she wanted to blast onto the
leaves below her feet but such a gesture of contempt might be too noisy. Speculatores pretended to be to Celts. Many
of them originally were before they had joined the Roman auxiliary units, but
they were now in the thrall of the Romans who rewarded their tribe by absorbing
their land into the Roman Empire. Another bile
laden grimace was forced down her throat. Imposed conscription to the Roman
army during the bulk of their adult years, for a good number of their male
warriors, seemed a poor reward for those subsumed tribes.
If Uncle Lorcan and Uncle Brennus were correct, she would
never have to face that fate. A dry laugh was suppressed. Dull-witted Romans! She
knew many female warriors who fought just as courageously as the males of their
tribe but the detested Romans would never allow a woman to become one of their
soldiers. They enslaved captive women and that was a much worse fate. Local
women had already been taken as prisoners but she would never let that happen
to her!
She snatched a peep down the slope but nothing seemed
changed. A light sleet still fell in the pale grey gloom but the leaf drop had
ceased, the early morning wind having long died away. The sight below meant it
was difficult to focus on particular markers in the way her father, Gabrond, had
taught her one tree merging into another where the white flakes clung but
somewhere down there were two Roman soldiers, blending into that murkiness.
It was in the hands of the forest gods who would be seen
first.
According to Uncle Brennus, speculatores intermingled after their arrival at Celtic settlements
making friends of local tribesmen, after which they sneakily wormed out
information before disappearing into the morning mists, never to return. As a
result of their spying, Roman legions followed in their wake to wreak havoc and
devastation. She drew in a large breath, closed her eyes and rested the back of
her head against the tree trunk. Holding her body immobile she vowed that if she
met one of these speculatores, she
would throttle him with her bare hands.
Enya shuddered and not just from the cold. The territory
near Ceann Druimin was littered with displaced tribesmen from near and far—just
like her and her Brigante kinfolk—so how could Chief Lulach of Ceann Druimin be
expected to decide who was genuine and who might not be? There was a deep
scrutiny of new arrivals at Lulach’s hillfort, yet new bonds had been forged
quickly. So many strangers needed to become instantly reliant on each other. A
degree of trust had to be entered into since it took every available warrior to
keep the clanhold of Ceann Druimin safe from marauding Roman patrols. Like the ones
threatening her now.
“Tchik…tchik…tchik!”
When the new series of woodpecker taps echoed around,
followed by the deeply croaked repeated kraa of a crow, the pause between each
series of kraas unnaturally long, she checked that the fourth member of her
band, Feargus of Monymusk, was still close by.
Remain vigilant was Nith of Tarras’ command and his warning came
from somewhere far down in the dip of the pine forest. Reining in her anxiety,
she blew on her freezing fingers before she curved her hands around her partly
open mouth and sent her answering crossbill call.
“Choop…choop…choop.”
The rapid series of choops acknowledged she understood there
were now three enemy auxiliaries skulking below. Hunkering down behind the
trunk, she shook off the icy layer from her bratt then slapped the ends of the sodden
wool back over her shoulders, her fingers numb and clumsy as she tucked in
wayward strands that had escaped her plaited hair. The measure was poor
protection for her chittering body, the relentless pelt of hail stinging her
cheeks like she imagined a branding tine would do, though she had yet to
experience that. Such happy celebrations to acknowledge her recently gained
warrior status had been delayed and were likely to be deferred for a long while. Becoming a fully branded warrior might never happen!
She was not normally inclined to be morose but nothing was fair. The invading Roman bastards ruined everything in their wake!
The slightest slip of slushy leaves sparked her attention,
her gaze tracking the movements made alongside.
The soft nudge at her shoulder had her rising again to
create room for Feargus of Monymusk: his sidling in next to her not unexpected
for each was set to guard the other. Restrained exasperation clouded the light-grey
glance he darted her way before he again searched the vicinity. It was an age
till he whispered, during which her shaky breathing seemed loud in the absence
of natural forest noises, the woodland inhabitants warm and tight under cover,
unlike she was. Only humans were foolish enough to be out in such unpleasant
weather.
“Vengeance must be harnessed, yet again, Enya. If Nith can
only spy three of them then we must hold back an attack. More of their contubernium group of eight will be
close by, though they are as yet unseen by us.”
Feargus’ deep voice was the merest flight of wind tickling
her ear lobe, his fledgling red chin whiskers an itch she had learned to bear.
She was becoming used to the young warrior, barely older than her fourteen
winters, who had been her constant lookout companion during her last two days
on surveillance duty.
Enya avidly scanned
the surroundings on her side and down the slope, her response mouthed rather
than actually heard. “I cannot see Nith, nor any of these Romans, yet his call
came up clearly enough.”
“Have you spied Colm down there?”
Feargus sounded casual yet she knew he most likely was as
anxious as she was about the fourth and youngest member of their patrol. Of the
four of them, Colm of Ceann Druimin was the only one who was bred in the area
but he had the least experience of Roman conquest, having been at the rear of
the battlegrounds at Beinn Na Ciche. He had not even been confronted by any of
the Tungrian or Batavian forces of Agricola. “Nay. I have heard no further capercaillie
distress signals, so those Roman auxiliaries must still be at some distance.
Nith must surely be making use of Colm’s local knowledge of the dips and
pitfalls of these woods. ”
Enya felt the censure when Feargus turned to grunt at her.
“Cease your fretting. Nith of Tarras needs the advice of no man about forest
surveying.”
She could not prevent the compressing of her lips, nor the
shivers. “Aye. It is true enough but Nith should not be out scouting yet. His battle
wounds remain raw and this relentless chill will have his breathing rattling
like the drumming of warrior fingers at the feast of Beltane.”
Feargus’ disapproval continued though his tone held a hint
of admiration. “You know well enough by now that Nith will not be constrained
to take rest. His blood vengeance still lingers too high for that.”
Enya was vexed that the foolish warrior from the Selgovae
hillfort of Tarras would undo the careful tending he had received at sunrise,
the worst of his battle-gained injuries having been cleaned and wrapped anew by
Aunt Nara. Nith was a hardy young man, his unshakable persistence in seeking
Roman retribution an enviable trait but he was not nearly back to full
strength. Eight nights was not sufficient for full healing of the deep chest lacerations he had
received. Each first light since her arrival at their encampment at Ceann
Druimin, Nith’s pallor had grown greyer as had his disposition.
Her teeth clattered together when she answered. “N…Nith has
not trekked this far from Tarras to succumb to the infernal early winter that
you have here in Taexali lands.”
Feargus’ wide grin broke some of the tension, his headshake a
denial which resulted in droplets of sleet to spatter from his bristly chin
hair. “Caledon.
Remember this is Caledon
territory and these hills are different from my Taexali flatlands. Yet even
here in the Caledon forests, early snow like this does not usually fall till closer
to our shortest day of the winter solstice. Our gods send a message to those who battle around them.”
Enya huffed, a small quiet agreement. “It would be good to
know who of us that the gods punish the most. Is the disfavour mainly for my
fellow fleeing Celts from Brigante territories to reflect on, or is it directed
at our invading Roman destroyers? Perhaps if you pray harder to your local gods
our plight will be alleviated?”
The softest of chuckles escaped Feargus’ lips. “Praying to
my Taexali gods would not be the answer. The Caledons of these woods and rolling
hills have their own deities. It may be the Cailleach
Bheur we need to pray to but I do not have words strong enough to pacify
the blue hag. You will need to consult with Colm’s father, Lulach of Ceann
Druimin. Though these parts do not lie so far from my Monymusk Taexali
territory, the folk hereabouts have their own ways and Lulach knows all across
his land.”
A tight smile broke free before Enya again peeped around the
tree for a quick survey. Her gaze whipping back to Feargus, she answered,
“Lulach may have given my displaced Brigante kin the shelter of his valley but I
greatly dread the man and his barbed tongue.”
Feargus’ nod was slight. “Aye. Your Brigante tribespeople
have suffered dearly at the hands of the Roman bane for much longer than my
fellow Taexali have. But that can also be said for all of the tribes north of
Brigantia who have been routed by the troops of the Roman
Empire as they storm their way over our tribal lands. I doubt
there are many surviving of the Selgovae that you lived amongst for half of
your life.”
Enya stared at him. “How can you know that?”
Feargus grinned. “I have been listening well to the tales
around the night fires. Travellers from far afield are always interesting to
learn about—their stories so unlike our own. I am one of many who are eager to
know more of the Garrigill Brigantes and the Tarras Selgovae who have trekked
so far north.”
Enya poked her head around the tree and snatched another
quick look. When satisfied all was safe her answer came tiredly. “Aye. We have
had no home to call our own for such a long time but I did not realise we were
gossiped about at the firesides.”
Doubt raised Feargus’ eyebrows, his grin gone. “The reason
for your kin being in Taexali and Caledon
lands is worth listening to. You have come from a great distance and have knowledge
of many Celtic tribes, most of whom were nameless to me before your arrival.
Most people hereabouts have rarely left the sight of Beinn Na Ciche.”
Enya was aware that the peak named The Mither Tap, part of
the range of hills of Beinn Na Ciche, was a prominent sight on the landscape. During
her own trail northwards Uncle Lorcan had been told to head for the peak
because somewhere within sight of it was the gathering place for the tribes of
the Taexali lowlands and for the Caledon
warriors of the mountains. The assembly for battle on the foothills had,
indeed, recently happened but the result had been drastic for the Celts. She
supposed that many of the Caledon and Vacomagi warriors
who had been slain by the Tungrian and Batavian auxiliary forces of Rome had probably only
left the safety of their tribal homeland for the first time ever to fight the
Roman armies of General Agricola.
After another quick survey she nudged Feargus. “Have you
never ventured far? I mean before Agricola’s Roman invasion?”
“Nay, I have not, at least no more than the trek of a day,
or two, to the waters of the coast. My mother’s kin are from Baille Mheadhain.”
Enya’s gasp was louder than she intended. “Nay! That is
where Agricola’s fleet are based.”
Feargus’ eyes glistened. “Aye. I greatly fear for my mother’s
kin. Your uncle, Brennus, told me that prisoners from the area have already
been shipped off to the south, to be sold as slaves of the Roman
Empire.”
Enya purposely ignored the hitch in his voice. He was a
proud young warrior. She still had some of her kin around her but Feargus
sounded like he had none left. His gaze was towards the trees alongside them
though she imagined his focus was inward.
“My father’s people were farmers at Monymusk. Now, it seems
I have no kin left and no fields to tend. Or my family is like your brother and
cousin: lost to me for now, until I find them again.”
Enya’s feelings erupted at the mention. Where could her
cousin Beathan, and her brother Ruoridh, be? The searches after the battle had
found no trace of them, dead or alive. “I hate the Roman bastards. I hate what
they have done to people who just want to be left alone to live their lives in
their own way. ”
The
Celts set branches and leaves of holly around their dwellings during winter to
provide shelter to the fairy folk and to give harbour to other small creatures,
an extension of the welcome they gave to human strangers who stepped into their
homes. 
Or...
This mid-December downtime isn’t real though, since it coincides with a
busy family time fitting in visits to Pantomime, Santa’s Grotto and meeting
friends for ‘Christmas Nights Out’. Not to mention the traditional family get
together when we buy our real Christmas tree, have lunch with my daughters (if
there’s time during a work lunch hour), and afterwards when I have the pleasure
of decorating both tree and house! As of yesterday, my tree is bought and decked out in its finery, some of which dates back to the 1950s, the glass decorations belonging to my aunt and my mother. 
