The Age of Scorpio (4 page)

Cliodna looked up at her, her long black hair parting. The selkie’s eyes had never looked so alien to Britha. She could see herself reflected in those deep black pools.

‘I’m leaving. I have to go south. I have no choice.’

It was the pain – she actually felt it physically – that made Britha realise just how much she loved Cliodna. At first it had just been for the thrill of it. Then her visits had become more and more frequent. They had swum together. Cliodna had taken her far out into the cold sea on warm days. Guided her through the dangerous currents and fierce tides. The selkie was much more at home in the sea than on land.

Britha hated the tear that ran down her cheek. She could never show weakness. Tears were for the men in their cups listening to laments of ancestors long gone.

‘I don’t want you to go,’ was all she managed.

‘You will. I’m changing. Who you know will soon be gone.’

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand.’ Britha hated the desperation in her voice.

Cliodna cocked her head to one side. Her face crumpled with emotion but no tears came. Britha wanted to hate her for the lack of tears.

‘I have to go south, far south. The waters have been poisoned. There’s something . . .’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Britha said, knowing she couldn’t even as she said it. Cliodna shook her head, looking frightened. She grabbed Britha’s arm, her nails digging in.

‘Promise me you won’t!’ Cliodna all but hissed. Britha looked down at her arm, blood flowing from five wounds where Cliodna’s nails had broken the skin. She looked back up at Cliodna. ‘See?’ Cliodna asked desperately.

‘I’ll not go where I’m not wanted,’ Britha said evenly, trying to compose herself, trying to wrap her pride around herself like armour.

Cliodna took Britha’s head in her hands, leaned forward and kissed her. Britha wanted to resist, but she couldn’t. She wrapped her arms round her lover and reciprocated. Cliodna tasted the salt of her lover’s tears.

‘No matter what happens, please remember that I love you, that I loved you,’ Cliodna said when they finally broke apart. Britha just stared at her, her face stained with tears.

Cliodna stood up. She jumped from the rock. Powerful legs propelled her through the air and into the pool at the mouth of the cave. Sinuous movements carried her rapidly through the water, helped by the webs of skin between her long fingers and toes.

Britha watched her go.

‘Loved?’ she asked an empty cave.

Britha cursed herself and turned to look out at the sea. Hoping that the wind and salt spray would explain her red eyes. Normally grey and rough, the sea was bright blue under a cloudless sky today, an otherwise beautiful day. Talorcan was waiting for her. The finest tracker in the tribe, the short wiry man was considerably less full of himself than the rest of the
cateran
, or warband. Even so, Britha did not wish him to see her emotion. She looked out at the sea making sure she was fully composed.

‘
Ban draoi?
’

‘Do you know what happens to the curious who follow too closely dealings with the Otherworld?’ Britha asked.

‘The
mormaer
bid me fetch you – it’s starting,’ Talorcan said. His expression was difficult to read but he seemed to be looking at her as if searching for something. His beard was trimmed, his long dark hair let loose and blowing in the coastal wind. He wore no trews, just his
blaidth
, which came down to just above his knees. Tattoos spiralled up both legs and also ran down from his temple, across his cheeks to his chin. He had his bow with him, but no weapons of war, just his dirk at his waist.

Britha smiled.

‘More like Cruibne’s worried that I’ve run off with his horse.’

Talorcan nodded but kept his peace. Britha looked at him a while more; he held her look. There was little scar tissue on him: he fought quickly and cleverly when he had to.

Britha went to one of the powerful heavyset ponies that the Pecht favoured. She called it Dark Cloud because its near-black colouring reminded her of storm skies. Britha wrenched the spear that Dark Cloud had been tethered to out of the ground. She retrieved her iron-bladed sickle. Cliodna didn’t like the cold metal anywhere near her. Britha pushed the sickle though the belt that held the rough-spun brown wool robes of her calling closed and then swung up onto the pony, riding it bareback, her legs against the horse’s flanks. She pulled her fringed hood up to protect her eyes from the sun and headed south and west down the coast. Talorcan broke into an easy run to keep up with her.

Ardestie was on a flat plain that looked down on the silver water of the mouth of the River Tatha where it emptied into the cold harsh northern sea. It was a large settlement of about twenty or so roundhouses, wattle and daub structures with conical thatched roofs, surrounded by fields of spelt, bere barley, flax and fat hen. The fields had been hacked out of the soil generations before. Fields not used for crops were grazing for horned Soay sheep and the hairy cattle, not all of which they had stolen on raids. Beyond the cultivated fields were the thick woods that covered all but the most mountainous or boggy parts of the land. In the woods the wolf, lynx, bear and spirits from the Otherworld ruled.

The roundhouses lived in the shadow of the broch, a circular tower of stone blocks at the summit of the Hill of Deer. The broch was a watchtower and place of refuge if they were attacked. From it they watched for raiders from the Fib, the rival Pecht tribe across the river, and the blonde sea devils from the sea and ice far to the north. It also provided them with sight up the river over the thick woods to the hill fort some five or six miles to the west. From the broch they could see when the traders came down from the crannogs on Loch Tatha in their log canoes to trade with the foreign merchant ships that came from hot lands far to the south.

The broch was also where the Cirig stored the parts of their war chariots. The small cart-like vehicles could be assembled rapidly for battle. Each chariot was pulled by two of the small, rugged ponies that belonged to the horse-rich Cirig. The chariots’ lightweight construction meant that they were capable of considerable speed and were very useful against the northern tribes, who did not use chariots as the mountainous terrain of their home made them useless. They were also useful on the long coastal beaches when the blonde sea demons from the ice raided.

The largest of the houses was the meeting place as well as home to Cruibne MaqqCirig, the
mormaer
, or sub-king, of the Cirig. Ardestie was the capital of the Cirig, one of the seven tribes of the Pecht, descended from the seven sons of Cruithne.

Britha passed the forge set apart from the village, ignoring the fire watcher who gazed longingly towards the village. Britha, like all women, was banned from the forge. It was where the men did their ritual sex magic. As a child in training she had sneaked into the forge, eager to learn the secrets of their magic as well. She had watched them stoke the belly of the furnace, watched the molten metal pour hot from the men’s metal vagina. She had not been impressed. They could keep their magic. Later, when she had learned her own sex magic, she had thought it more fun. Yet, like her, the metalworkers wielded magic and like her had to live outside the tribe to serve it.

As Britha rode towards Ardestie, the sun had not yet turned the sky to blood on the western horizon but the feast was already under way. As she rode by the grain pits, already sealed after the harvest, she saw the body. The powerfully built and scarred man had been opened across his chest. Britha did not recognise him but thought him one of the Fib from across the river. She did recognise the cut. Nechtan, Cruibne’s champion, had done this. Presumably the man had challenged him for the hero’s portion. Britha’s smile was without humour. She understood the need for this but always found it wasteful. Still, the ravens and crows deserved a feast too, and he would have died well with a sword in his hand.

She could hear the sound of voices raised in jest and laughter, accompanied by the
crwth
lute,
bodhran
drum, the
feadan
flute and the triple pipes, though they were playing softly. People would be relaxed now. Cruibne would have displayed his largesse but there would still be business to discuss.

Britha rode to where the rest of the horses had been tethered. She did not like that there were not nearly as many guests as she had expected. She dismounted Dark Cloud and slipped the rope off her neck. Talorcan watched impassively as Britha whispered into Dark Cloud’s ear. Then she slapped the large pony on her flanks. Dark Cloud was free to roam. She knew to come back close to Ardestie once night finally fell. Even a pony trained for war by the Cirig was no match for a pack of wolves or a bear, both of which lived in the forest to the north and east of them.

Britha turned towards the feast.

‘Why haven’t the others come?’ Britha asked Talorcan, seeking as much information as she could find before she had to join the feast and play her part. Talorcan just shrugged. ‘Do you receive many compliments for the way you use your tongue?’ she asked. Talorcan finally smiled but didn’t answer. Britha sighed and turned, heading towards the feast.

‘Look at the size of this head!’ Cruibne said. The hulking grizzled old man held up a massive misshapen skull that had been embalmed in cedar oil. Rents and cracks in the skull had been filled with pewter. ‘This one gave me no end of trouble, I tell you!’ The
mormaer
was wearing his best plaid trews – well, his only pair but it looked like he had dunked them in the river – and a new
blaidth
. He had iron rings in his beard made from the blades and spearheads of dead enemies and a thick white-gold torc around his neck as befitted his position in the tribe. Similar torcs, also of white gold, were wrapped around either arm. Because of his advanced age – he was in his late thirties – most of his skin was covered in the tattoos that told his story, armoured and protected him. What skin that wasn’t tattooed tended to be scar tissue. He was missing three fingers from his left hand and two from his right. Part of his skull was misshapen and no hair grew there due to a blow from an axe swung by a sea raider not three years past. ‘A sea demon! Allied with the Goddodin!’ The Goddodin were a tribe of Britons to the south, constantly warring with the Fib and the Fortrenn.

‘Or another small man with a huge swollen head!’ Britha smiled. It had been Ethne who had shouted. She was Cruibne’s oldest and fiercest wife, a heavyset woman of an age with Cruibne and just as scarred and tattooed as he was. In battle she could be looked for standing next to the
mormaer
or driving his chariot. Like the rest of the
cateran
she wore a thick silver torc around her neck. Ethne had killed more than one of Cruibne’s other wives whom she had felt was getting above herself. There was laughter at Ethne’s comment.

Good. They were already in their cups
. Britha had brewed the heather ale herself, an old and secret recipe. Cruibne had made sure that there would be more than enough of the
uisge beatha
, and he was not drinking as much as he appeared to be.

‘Och woman, you spoil all my stories. Well I tell you, it was worth taking his head. Look how much drink it holds!’ Cruibne tipped the massive skull and drank deep from it, much of it running down his neatly trimmed beard to the sound of more laughter. Cruibne had a hundred skulls and a hundred stories.

Some of the guests at the feast were starting to notice Britha’s quiet approach. Her hood was up. Much of what she did was about performance, a lesson she had learned early in her training. Hush spread across the feast. She had timed it well: the sun was bleeding into the sky and the light was changing. The time between times, a good time to evoke the Otherwold.

The quiet was broken only by the sound of one of the landsmen, who had not noticed the
ban draoi
’s approach, dropping a red-hot stone from the fire into the cauldron. There was a
crack
as the stone split. People would be having stone with their stew, Britha thought. The landsman Britha recognised as Ferchair, a crofter from land to the north of the woods. Britha had delivered his first child, a daughter, in the cold winter. The child had survived, she knew. Spring was the best time for birthing, but at least Ferchair knew his daughter would grow up strong now.

Ferchair turned to see why it had gone quiet. He saw Britha, averted his eyes and made to sit down again far behind the inner circle of the
cateran
and their noble guests.

Looking round the inner circle, Britha saw missing eyes, ears, fingers and a lot of scar tissue. All were ugly enough to be warriors; there were few who looked blade-shy around the fire.

Cruibne looked up and smiled. His two massive deerhounds, lying close by and sporting nearly as many scars as their master, got up as Britha entered the circle and wandered over to stand by her. Absently she scratched behind their ears.

Britha took her time looking around the circle. She nodded to Nechtan and Feroth, the war leader of the
cateran
. She did not like Nechtan – he was as sly as he was violent, a careful bully – but she had to admit he was a more than capable champion. Feroth was even older than Cruibne and many whispered that his place at the ravens’ feast was long overdue. Britha, however, liked the canny old warrior. The tribe would miss his clever stratagems when he was gone and she suspected more would die on raids and in battle. Most of them were too caught up in thoughts of their own personal glory to appreciate what Feroth did for them, but Britha understood.

The meat on the spits was mostly gone but the cauldron still looked full. Still not speaking, Britha made her way to the cauldron, removing her meathook from her belt. She leaned in and hooked a choice piece of mutton from the thick stew. She left it to cool it for a few seconds, then took a bite, chewed slowly and then swallowed.

‘Cruibne, I think the belly of your cauldron is pregnant with more meat than you would see on lesser
mormaers
’ spits.’ There was laughter from the Cirig and most of the guests. Some, however, had heard a slight in Britha’s words and were less pleased. ‘I also hear that your heather ale’s particularly fine.’