My lefe is faren in a lond
Alas! why is he so?
And I am so sore bound
I may nat com her to
He hath my hert in hold,
Where-ever he ride or go,
With trew love a thousandfold..
My love has left for a faraway land
Alas! - why would he do this?
and here I am so tied and bound
I cannot go where he is
so he holds my heart in his hands
where ever he comes or goes
and with my true love a thousandfold.
Away, Mediaeval English, 14th century
But I'm not tired yet, Da!"
"Neither am I!"
"I could eat a whole castle!"
"Do we really have to go to bed?"
"Please? Just tell us the story one more time. We don't have any lessons tomorrow, so we can stay up."
The young man sighed as he sat down in the chair next to the bed, rubbing his temples. It had been a long day. God only knew how long tomorrow would turn out to be for the Solstice celebrations. And the children would definitely have to be up early for the lighting of the fires. But then again…
"Please, Da? I swear I won't tell Mother."
"She won't. I'll pound 'er something fierce if she does…"
"Psh! You know can't beat me yet! And you're a boy."
"Awful pathetic if you ask me…"
"Nobody asked you!" the dark haired boy snapped, crossing his arms, a pout quickly coming to his face. This only caused the older girl to roll her eyes in disgust. Reaching around behind the younger girl in the middle of bed, she smacked the boy on the back of the head, causing him to pitch forward.
"Hey, leave him alone!" the younger girl between them cried, quickly reaching to her left viciously pinching her older sister's arm.
"OUCH! But you just said…"
"Only I can be mean to 'im."
"Trickster," the older girl muttered under her breath, blue eyes flashing with anger. Her younger sister tilted her head up in triumph, her own dark blue eyes flashing.
"I can still beat you," the younger boy muttered, shoving his sister in the shoulder.
"I doubt it," she replied. "You may be older than me, but I can still shove your face into the dirt!"
"Not for long, the boy replied with a huff, rolling his dark gray eyes in annoyance,
"Shut-up," she murmured, though a grin came to her face. Seeing she wasn't serious, the dark haired boy quickly grinned back, pulling her at her own dark locks.
"I hate you so much sometimes."
"You do not," she replied, smacking his arm as she leaned into him.
"You two are so odd," the older girl replied with a huff, though she pulled up the heavy blanket over all of them, making sure the other two were tucked in before she snuggled down. "If you both don't shut-up," she continued with a yawn, "Da won't tell the story,"
"What makes you think I'll tell you anything after that little display," he replied archly, though his dark gray eyes flashed with amusement as he arranged the last of blankets around the children. "Stories are for good children who go to sleep when their Da tells them, and who don't fight with each other at every turn."
"We don't fight…we…we…"
"You what?"
"We discuss,"
"You got that from your uncle, didn't you?"
The little boy nodded frantically.
"Damned Cadvan," their muttered under his breath. His wife's brother was pleasant enough, but he really had to stop filling his children's minds with these heroic concepts of fighting and attempting to kill each other in order to settle everything.
"So are you going to tell us a story or not?" the younger girl called out.
"Are you going to behave?"
"Maybe," she shrugged.
"Well, I guess it's settled then," the young man replied. Wearily running a hand through his inky black hair, he got up, moving towards the oil lamp sitting on the chest by the door. Lifting up the cross bar, he pushed open the door.
"W-wait, where are you going!" the older girl called out, suddenly sitting up in the bed.
"I can't tell stories to children who won't behave," her father countered, frown on his face, though his eyes were sparkling.
"We will act proper 'n everything, we swear!" she retorted. "Won't we?" she continued, the edge on her voice as she frowned at her sister.
"Yeah! We will, won't we?" she replied, kicking her brother's leg under the blankets.
"Nothing but the most honorable," the little boy replied, hand over his heart, kicking his sister right back.
Closing the rough wooden door, their father leaned back against it, arms crossed, squinting his eyes in concentration as he took each of them in. Finally he let out an exaggerated sigh.
"Fine, fine. I concede."
"You'll tell us the whole story, right?" the older girl demanded.
"The whole story! That's an awful lot to ask…"
"We'll be good!"
"Well…Fine, I shall," he replied making his way back to the chair at the foot of the bed. "But first," he continued, voice dropping to a whisper. "You must say the oath."
All three children quickly sat up straight, placing their hands over their hearts.
"I swear," they all solemnly intoned together, "To never do outrage nor murder," the older girl began.
"Always to flee treason," the younger girl continued.
"To by no means be cruel but…to give mercy unto him who asks for mercy," the yonger boy carried on.
"To always do ladies, gentlewomen and widows succor."
"To never force ladies, gentlewomen or widows."
"And not to take up battles in wrongful quarrels for…love or worldly goods," the boy finished.
"Good," their father replied, tucking them in again.
"It's just like the knights said," the boy said quietly.
"Yes," the older girl breathed. "They must have been so handsome," she continued with a sigh, snuggling into the pillows.
"Brave, too," the younger girl continued.
"Didn't they live here, at Caerleon?" the boy asked.
His father nodded. "Some say they did. But that was over three centuries years ago. No one really knows much anymore, especially after the three tyrants destroyed so much in the war."
"I hate tyrants," the older girl said, scrutching up her face in disgust.
"As you should," her father replied with a laugh, reaching out and tousling her hair.
"But you know the whole story right? No one knows except for you, right?" the little girl implored.
"Except for me," her father grinned, nodding his head. "Now, settle down, so we can start. And I had better not hear about how tired you in the morning. It is a long story."
The children nodded, each twisting and turning to make themselves comfortable.
"Now," their father breathed as he leaned back in the chair. "There once was a woman. She was an old one, some say as old as time itself. Others thought it impossible, calling her 'heathen,' 'barbarian,' 'witch,' and 'heretic.' But do not worry; those who spoke of that proved not the most learned. They were scared and afraid, terrified of someone from so many leagues away, where they say the world ended, time stopped, the earth and sea and sky meeting to blend into one…
Fall, 440 A.D.
"They are coming, father says. By nightfall or so."
"I see them, child."
"How? I cannot see a thing."
"My sight is far superior yours."
"Oh…"
"And the first thing you may see are those dust trails over there."
"Which means people are coming…"
"Why else would the dust be disturbed?"
"I see…"
"How could you not?"
"Because I am not wise like you?"
"No, because you are inexperienced. Wisdom, like experience, may be taught. You will learn in time."
The grey skies, streaked with orange and red colors of the swiftly setting sun, rumble above them as flares of lightning briefly illuminate the various figures of the caravan approaching below. As the chilling wind rends at the their clothes, causing them to billow and snake around them as they stand on the outermost wall of the stone ramparts, a few droplets of the coming rain fall almost on cue with the second roll of thunder. Within a few seconds, fingers of lightning illuminate the scene below again, showing the caravan making good time to its destination.
"Her Ladyship Cailleach Bheur will have her servants howling by tonight at the latest," the older woman murmurs, a half-smile on her lips, dark green eyes glittering with anticipation. Wrapping her red cloak tighter about her shoulders and pushing back her black hair streaked with the grey of age, she quickly places the child standing by her side in front of her, pulling her into the warmth of the velvet cloak. "Lady Bheur has taught her handmaidens Rain and Wind well," she continues, languidly stroking the child's head, fingers moving deftly through the inky black curls. "We've been needing the rain for a while. The season's been unusually dry."
"Aye," the child replies. "Da says there could be a drought if we're not careful."
"Nay," the woman sniffs. Closing her eyes, she lifted her head to sky, drinking in the sounds of thunder approaching yet again. Catching the scent of the moisture-ladden air, she nods, as though accepting to the situation at hand. After a few moments, she opens her eyes again, looking down, her lean face reflected in the watery blue eyes of the child.
"Your father has a right to be worried," she murmurs. "But be not afraid. The Goddess was simply late in bringing her gifts this season…"
"Late?"
"Late. There are other places that need her attentions as well. Contrary to the Roman belief, the empire is not the center of the universe."
"No, it is not," the child retorts.
"Just never tell them that," the woman replies with a laugh.
Silence falls between them as another finger of lightening rips across the sky. The Roman soldiers standing at attention on either side of them groan in discomfort, quickly pulling their scarlet cloaks tighter against the churning wind. Grabbing their pikes again, they resume their positions, with the one on the left slightly leaning over the parapet to see if the caravan has finally approached the heavy iron doors of the citadel.
"I should be down there," he grumbles, deep brown eyes flashing with irritation as he nodds back to the open area of the inner citadel behind them.
"Getting drunk in some tavern?" the older woman quickly replies.
"Sounds about damn right, my Lady," he counters with a mirthless laugh. "No offense," he quickly adds, nodding.
"It takes much more than a mention of a good cup of mead to offend me, Gaius," she retorts, without malice. "I am not one of your shrinking Roman women."
"Much to Cossus' dismay," the man counters, though there's laughter creeping into his eyes. "He'd rather have the mistress of the Citadel be one of us. Hell, he rather have her be from the city of Rome herself," he spits, voice summarily becoming dour again.
It was a well known fact that Gaius Antonius could care less about who was more Roman than another. Though he was a Roman through and through, the tell-tale refined olive complexion and dark hair illustrating a bloodline hailing from Italia herself some generations ago, rumor had it that his distant grandsire, a Praetorian, had a direct hand in the murder of Emperor Valentinian. In retribution, his progeny was banned from Italia forever, purposely sent to Britannia to wither and extinguish itself. However, the Antonii line appeared quite vigorous; here they were still, almost a hundred years later, thriving on this grim, grey, rainy island province in the middle of the tempestuous sea. True, Gaius was not a particularly kind or agreeable sort of man, containing the same sense of entitlement and power the conquerors seemed only too proud to display in spades. But he was fair man, quickly learning through trial and error in the twelve years he'd been officially posted to Hadrian's Wall that it always proved best to trust a man (or woman frankly) based on his skills and loyalty, not what town or province he came from, especially true in this seemingly forsaken place.
"Well, I cannot choose who your commander convinces to marry," the older woman continues.
"I would not have it any other way, my Lady Ceridwen," he counters, grim smile making its way to his face again.
The other man on Ceridwen's right side chortles, his own similarly dark eyes lighting up as his usual cheeky grin falls into place
"Better not catch Cossus hear you say that. He'd rather have The Witch exiled and Constinian recalled back to Rome to be properly punished."
"Trajan, I am surprised you have the balls to call me such," she smirks. "I may well have your head, you know."
"Psh! That's far too simple your cunning, my Lady."
"You are right. A lingering plague would be too good for you, especially if you keep calling me a supposed witch as that son of a whore does," she nods, eyes moving to the preenishly proud-looking portly soldier riding at the head of the approaching caravan. "Not that I worry myself over his trivial empty words," she continues, looking away from the scene below her. "Pagan. Barbarian. Witch. They are all the same to one so afraid of what he doesn't understand. Call me witch as you may."
"Everyone knows all women of the Orcades are such," Trajan shrugs. "How else do they have such knowledge of the healing ways, pagan devils," continues, letting out a deep rumble of a laugh, causing the child to smirk as well. "See how she smiles!" he continues. "Even this little one will be a witch, healer of the damned, seer of the world, worshipper of the sun and sea and wind and whatever in the hell you Caledonii of the North pray to," he continues, giving the little girl a quick wink as he deftly side steps the fierce swing of the her arm.
"If her path lies in it," Ceridwen shrugs. "She is of the Caledonii, via my daughter, yes, but she also has your inferior Roman blood in her veins by her father."
"'Inferior!' Why, I should report you to Cossus myself!" he chides, grin widening.
"Do that, you little dung heap, and I will kill you myself," Gaius counters sourly.
"And now this one jumps in?" Trajan replies, smile growing even wider. "Whatever will your husband say, my Lady? Gaius here seems a little too intent on defending your honor. Anything you would like to tell me about you two?" Trajan waggles his eyebrows.
"Tell Constinian whatever you wish," she shrugs. "He'll just wondering why you're wasting your Captain's time, and then he'll kill you, saving Gaius the trouble," she smirks.
"God knows killing my own brother wouldn't be too much trouble. Frankly, I'm surprised I haven't done it sooner," Gaius grumbles.
"Oh, but who would be here to cheer up your grumpy self, little one?"
"Shut-up."
Gauis tries to suppress the half smile creeping onto his face but seems to be failing so far.
"They…they will be sleepy," the child says to no one in particular after a few moments of silence, she herself doing her best to stifle a yawn. It was her own fault really. But she can not help it. It rare that they ever see the spectacle of a new group of knights coming to be trained, and she had insisted on staying out to see them despite her early rising that morning. She can barely remember the last group that came two seasons ago. It did not matter anyway considering they had trained here only to promptly be shipped out further South only a few weeks ago.
Her Da had told her of the rumors that the empire was falling, which is why that group of knights moved South rather than staying at this distant outpost, which had been free of the Pict attacks so far this season. Whether or not they would be back before their "fifteen years of slavery" as her Da put it was yet to be seen. It was not that he hated the empire per say; rather the bureaucracy and blatant general disregard for their lives so far away served no purpose for him. But who was to blame him? His stepfather, one of the great Sarmatian knights of the old generation, had raised him from almost birth despite his dead Roman birth father hailing from Gallia. Remaining with his Roman mother (also of Gallia) despite the laws against such a marriage, he'd finally made her an honest woman almost immediately after his service was up. In turn, he loved her Da like his own son, despite the fact that he had no known children of his own.
"To say the least," her grandmother continues.
"How far is Sir…Sir…Sirmetuh?"
"Sarmatia, Maeve. It lies many leagues away, to the furthest east on the continent, most likely further than you have ever traveled in your six summers upon this earth," the older woman replies in quiet, clipped tones. To any one else, she would sound rather irritated, if not outright exasperated. But for the child, her usual tone of apathetic efficiency proves a relief. It's one of the few constants she'd come to appreciate. The gods only know life never remains constant at the Wall. Despite this, nana has always proven ready and capable to solve whatever misfortune Fortune seemed content to toss out to her unsuspecting pawns. Whether it's the wounds of the weary, the sickness of the unfortunate, or the disputes of the fiery ones, her word is final, her actions without doubt, her mind keen with the insights of the Goddess. Such is her gift, the result of her upbringing on the far Northern islands of Orcades. Located in the Great Cold Sea far beyond the plains of Caledonia north of the wall, some said it is the very edge land life itself, caught in the veil between the worlds of the living and dead.
"Some have come as far away as a three month's ride, assuming they were making good time. But these Romans," Ceridwen snorts "They are no horseman like their charges, so who is to say how long they could have taken…child, are you cold?" the woman continues without break, noticing how the black-haired girl shivers into her cloak. Looking down, the woman's quick eyes sparkle in the waning light of afternoon, hastily taking inventory of the child leaning into her.
"No," the girl lies.
"Run down and get my cloak from my quarters. The ermine-lined one."
"But…"
"No questions. You've already been ill earlier this season and I will not have it returning, Maeve. Now go," she continues, swiftly pushing the girl from her cloak.
Gauis sniffs, eyes watering as another buffet of the cold wind whips about them.
"Gaius will accompany you," Ceridwen instructs seeing that the soldier also needs another cloak and that this would give him a chance to stop by his quarters. "Do not worry, it will be a while before they arrive. They say Uther's son is among them, so be sure to return," Ceridwen instructs.
Giving a nod of affirmation, Gaius gives a small sigh of relief as he quickly makes his way down the worn gray stones of the turret to the grounds four levels below them.
"Don't doddle, girl!" he gruffly tosses out behind him though he reaches out a hand. Running up beside him, Maeve takes it and he sweeps her into his arms.
"Oof! You're getting to be a fat 'un, eh?" he brusquely says, readjusting his position and tossing her onto his back so her arms wrap around his neck and her legs grab 'round his middle. "Better let my Glendoae take care of that, huh? She can't cook to save 'er life!" he snorts, causing the girl to smile.
"Aye, you could always take a joke, couldn't ya?" he grunts, looking back at her, though his mouth twists into a slight grin.
"Alrighty then, off we go. This god-damned weather is colder than a whore's tit in winter!...but don't go repeating that to your grandmum, aye?" She giggles in his ear, nodding her head.
"That's a good 'un," he murmurs, stifling a chuckle. Making their way to the stone barracks, they split up to their respective quarters, taking their time to return to the wall.