A Winter's Tale

[The Stranger]

I second the ban most definitly...:P im writing a book 2...but im suffering from lack of inspirition. i can write only 10 pages and after that i nead a break on the story for a while. im now writing 3 stories so that when my inspiritation for one story is gone inspirition for the other is refeuled...though it isnt as good as i thought after i read this...

[AntiochusIII]

Such amazing narration; you seem to have done your research well with the Celtic traditions, eh?

And such regularity in installments, too!

[matteus the inbred]

And such regularity in installments, too!

apparently that's down to the coffee...

[Shadow]

So when is the next update?

[Banquo's Ghost]

So when is the next update?

Soon, I promise. I have had my hands full writing the competition story and earning a living.

[Banquo's Ghost]

So, finally, I have the chance to pick up the story once again.
*dodges the rotten fruit*

A Winter's Tale
Chapter Three, Part one

The sentry squinted into the gloom, searching the undergrowth that tangled at the meadow's edge. It was nearly dawn and the mist that wafted like dusted cobwebs around the dark bushes could hide a multitude of enemies. The sudden cry of a falcon was out of place at this early hour, and he was about to call the alarm. Yet he waited for firmer evidence, since Dubhgall was not a man to be woken on the strength of an insomniac bird.

The strange call came again, this time from further away. His shoulders relaxed a little but he still stared out into the ghostly landscape. Finally he satisfied himself that nothing fearsome lurked in the fog. He grunted quietly to himself, glad that he had not needed to disturb the MacDubhgall.

A knife-blade appeared at his throat, intimate as a kiss. His jaw dropped with shock and a powerful hand snapped over his mouth. The razor under his Adam's apple demanded immobility and silence. He froze.

"Fiachra MacConn, you have an old woman's ears," a fierce voice hissed.

The sentry snatched the hand away from his mouth and turned on his assailant. "Tristan, you motherless bastard! You aged me twenty years!"

The young prince grinned and dropped his dagger back into its sheath. He shook his hair, silver-gilt in the fading moonlight, loosening bits of foliage. "At least you're alive, my friend," he laughed. "And if older, a little wiser, eh?"

"Och, there’s more mischief in you than all the gods." Fiachra rubbed his clammy hands. "Anyhow, we got the last of the Silurians a couple of nights ago. Down by the coast, just as you said. Though why you want to do these bastard Irish any favours fools me."

Tristan tapped his temple. "That, Fiachra, is why God made me a prince, and you a bog-hopper. Thus is divine wisdom."

"Aye, but whose God: Coinneach's, yours or our fathers'?"

Tristan grimaced. "Mark. Remember, we've got to call him Mark."

"Well, King Mark then," said Fiachra impatiently. "Morrigan's Paps, he'll have us nailed to trees before the year has done." Seeing Tristan's amused smile, he waved him away. "Get on, now. Dubhgall will want to see you're back."

Tristan nodded and made to leave. "Tristan," called Fiachra suddenly. "Did you see her? Is she as beautiful as they say?"

The smile faded from the prince's face. "She is the rainbow reflected in the seas of home. She is the wheatfield at harvest. Yes, Fiachra, she is as beautiful as they say."

Fiachra nodded in satisfaction. Tristan left him to his duty and went in search of Dubhgall MacDubhgall.

The big man was snoring loudly in his tent, his dreams drifting smiles across his rough face. His hand twitched near the haft of his lightest battle axe, lying by his side like a faithful dog. Tristan drew his sword with as little noise as he could and standing to the left side of the warrior's bed, poked the sharp point gently into an exposed toe.

Dubhgall roared and swung the axe up, ready to carve a swathe of death. Instantly awake, he glared into the tent opening, searching for the enemy. Laughter betrayed his tormentor.

"I might have known," growled Dubhgall. "And it's about time. You're two days overdue. I was about to go home. What have you been doing?"

Tristan sheathed the sword and unbuckled his belt. "In here?", he asked, pointing at a large chest at the back of the tent. Dubhgall nodded. Tristan pulled his rough leather jerkin over his head.

Dubhgall frowned. "Someone has done a good job on those cuts. You weren’t as pretty last time I saw you."

"I thought Aedun was behind me," shrugged the prince, drawing a handsomely embroidered tunic from the open chest. "Otherwise I would have left the axe-men to you. Anyway, a bit of blood provided a good excuse to get into Tara."

"I swear your mother dropped you on the head when she was nursing. So tell me, little prince, what did you discover in your time amongst the enemy?"

Tristan smoothed the tunic down over his lean body and stretched his shoulders. Sweeping a cloak of Roman purple around his shoulders, he fastened it with a filigree brooch sparkling with gemstones. "Och, it feels good to be back in decent clothes." He winked at the long-suffering Dubhgall.

"That they are not our enemy, for one," he continued thoughtfully, slipping his thick silver torc of office around his neck and frowning. "Dubhgall, where's my ring?"

"Don't fret, you woman," grinned the warrior, pulling a neck-chain from under his linen jerkin. "I kept it safe. I know how much it means to you."

Tristan took the delicately carved silver and held it reverently. His mother had given him the ring the day he had left for the Orcades, engraved with a crescent moon and the cross of Christ. A blessing of his spirit and his God. He had heard of her death a month after he landed in the north.

Slipping the heavy ring on his sword hand, he felt complete again. He sat lightly in a small chair and scowled at Dubhgall. "What was I saying?"

"Apparently the Irish have become sheep," said Dubhgall in return.

Tristan snorted. "If only, then we could get Gospadruig an Irish wife." Dubhgall guffawed in delight. "The alliance will hold. If Coinn… - Mark marries Conchobhair's daughter, the alliance will hold." Seeing his friend's face open, Tristan grimaced. "Yes, I saw her too. She's the one whose handiwork you so admired."

Dubhgall looked impressed. "Princess Iseult tended you? That's a good sign. A warrior's wife should know how to heal wounds. So what's she really like? Is her manner as enchanting as her looks?"

Tristan laughed. "Why, Dubhgall, I believe you're in love with her!"

Dubhgall bridled. "Aye and who wouldn't be who was a man? If you weren't so bloody holy and honourable you'd love her yourself. Bloody Christians!"

"You're right, my friend." His face was placid and empty. "But she is to be Mark's wife. We must love her from afar." His eyes twinkled. "But she has a pretty maid, young but full of fire."

"Does she now? Well, I think Maire would object on my part, and I'll counsel you to stay clear of spirited women, at least while Siobhan NiGruoch is still after your neck."

"True enough." Tristan paused as if collecting a thought. "Dubhgall, I've been meaning to ask. What do you think of Mark naming a Christian tanaiste?"

"Don't be a fool. I don't think. And if I did, I'd think that it was none of my business. Anyhow, you have too much of the old ways in you. Father MaolColm wouldn't describe you as a Christian. He would prefer the word heretic."

"I upset him a lot, didn't I?"

Dubhgall smiled at the recollection. "Any man who can upset both the monks and Princess Siobhan and still be alive will make a fine king for me. And most others." He scratched his beard roughly. "But if we don't get Iseult back to Mark in one piece, both of us will have to reckon with our present king."

"Don't forget Conchobhair. He wouldn't be overwhelmed either."

"Och, how could I forget the Irish?" Dubhgall stood up and looked at the grey light that had flooded the dew-sprinkled grass outside. "Do you want to see the heads?"

Tristan jumped up. "Yes, of course. Conchobhair should appreciate the gesture. The Irish might pride themselves on their Christianity, but there's an awful lot of the pagan in them still."

"I won't be surprised if he asks for your head to be added to the pile. Have you thought about how he'll take it when he sees you turn up again?"

Tristan slapped his friend on the back. "Och, man, he's got a sense of humour. Now, how many did you keep?"

Dubhgall led the way from the tent into the silvery cold of the morning light. "Thirty. Bloody ugly too. They should be nicely smelly by the time we get back to Tara. Christ's Nails, you'll be popular."




"Is it possible?" Gormlaith's voice whispered in the darkness of the cave. The object of her question sat immobile for a moment and then cocked her head to one side, like a crow that is unsure of an nearby footfall.

"All things are possible, Queen of the Sons of Mil. The question is rather whether it is desirable." The old woman did not break the pinion of her gimlet eyes.

"It is necessary," Gormlaith said flatly. "And necessity makes schemers of us all."

The crone licked her lips. Her eyes hooded. "Why don't you trust your daughter? I am intrigued."

Gormlaith could not afford to tell this disgusting creature to mind her own business. By coming here, she had made it her business. She sighed, half with regret.

"I trust her as far as that goes. But though she has honour, the heart is the most unpredictable thing. She is a dreamer and fancies herself a lover. I want to turn the odds in our favour."

The old woman scratched her nose thoughtfully. "And this Tristan, you fear his intent?"

The queen snorted in anger. "He has played games with us. He is a handsome rogue, and they say a man of great honour, but still he came to us in disguise and nearly stole my daughter's heart. We cannot afford chances."

"We?" The woman looked mildly surprised. "Conchobhair MacFindlaech is in agreement with this?"

"Not exactly." Gormlaith raised an eyebrow. "You know that he doesn't accept the old ways any more. He believes in the Christ. He has faith."

"And you do not?"

A smile passed over Gormlaith's tired face. "God helps those who help themselves. The first thing my confessor taught me. I don't want a miracle, just a helping hand. Can you do it?"

The crone coughed and began scratching with a sharp piece of wood on an ancient wax tablet. "Love cannot be imbibed as an infusion. It is a gift from the gods. But resistance can be softened for a little while and the heart can be fooled by the mind. Your daughter will feel happy, fulfilled and calm, as if wrapped in a dream. If the mixture is drunk at the correct time, she will believe that she is in love. Of course, if she actually likes her husband, it will make for a startling wedding night."

Gormlaith nodded, her expression demanding more information.

"You should ask your agent to administer the drug when the princess first sees her husband. A cup of welcome would be a good idea. Then the effects will convince her that she is suffering from love at first sight. It will last a few days, enough for the wedding and a little more." The old woman sniggered to herself. "The herbs will prevent a child, at least for a time." The queen's face remained dispassionate so she narrowed her eyes and held up a finger in warning. "Mind you, it needs to be done well and fearlessly."

The queen smiled. "I have in mind the perfect person. When will it be ready?"

The woman shrugged. "I have herbs to collect, stones to touch, trees to speak with. Come to me at sundown tomorrow."

Gormlaith rose from the unstable log that the witch had given her for a stool. Awkwardly, she lifted her leg a little, trying to encourage the blood back into her foot. "No later than that, my aged one," she said firmly. "They are to leave for Orcade the morning after."

The old woman slanted her head again and frowned. A gnarled hand waved the queen away as if her protest was an irritation. Gormlaith turned quickly and left the dank cave to its distantly humming resident.

[Ludens]

Nice chapter, BG. I am agog to read more.