Dalla stares into the metal mirror with scrutinizing eyes. She is gowned in an exquisite silk dress that had been traded for with the Romans months in advance just for this moment. Dalla is clothed in Roman cloth to attend a ceremony that will help in our fight against the Romans. The irony of it all is laugh-inducing.
Across the neck of her gown, soft cream gemstones have been sewn in, getting rid of the need for a torque or necklace. Her sleeves are tight and are long enough to cover half her palm. The dress is made of soft billow cloth and the top layer of the dress is transparent and so light that it seems to float around her ankles as she moves. The soft lilac color of the cloth contrasts beautifully against her pale skin but her wild hair clashes against its feminine and delicate nature.
Ailis seems to be thinking the same thing as she gathers Dalla’s mane into her fists. “We have to do something about this,” she states with a worried glance.
“Do we have to?” Dalla protests. “I’ve always worn it loose.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be tied.” Ailis seems to relent. “But we need to do something to control it.”
Ailis snatches a pair of combs from the tray of tools that a servant had brought to us when we had first started the bride’s preparation.
Just as I predicted, Ailis attitude has completely changed once she got involved with the preparations. Even through the remaining inkling of her jealousy, she has made it her goal to make sure that the wedding occurs without the slightest mishap or setback.
Handing me one of the bone-tooth combs, Ailis starts running the other through her twin’s unruly hair. I follow suit and the gesture has my ring glistening in the streak of sunlight pouring into the room from the smoke hole in the roof.
I grin as the image of Garrick pops into my mind.
I turn my attention back to the bride and notice that I’ve been running the comb over the same clump of hair at least a dozen times. I quickly set the comb down, thankful that no one had noticed my day dreaming as suspicions would arise.
With her hair all combed, Dalla’s hair looks worse than before if possible. It puffs out everywhere, its frizziness overpowering her face.
“Is this what you were going for?” Dalla teases.
“I had a feeling this would happen. Don’t worry.” Ailis comforts holding out a bowl filled with a type of liquid. “We’ll just run this mixture through the hair.”
Not knowing what else to do, I grab the bowl with a shrug and dip the comb in it. Ailis does the same and soon Dalla’s tresses are soft and manageable, falling in smooth waves down the length of her back. The dark ashy brown reminds me of the mud along the river back home after a rain storm.
Now that her hair is docile, we move on to the veil and wreath. Ailis procures a long cream veil made of the thinnest material loosely knitted together. It resembles the tightest fishing net and the edges are laced with the smallest amethysts. She quickly lays it over Dalla’s face whose features are barely perceptible through the shroud.
I then find the thick wreath that I had so lovingly fashioned out of fresh bluebells and small white flowers that I had encountered upon my early morning promenade in the fields near the western forest.
I carefully place it over her head, tucking the veil into place.
All ready, Dalla turns to face the three of us, her eyes begging for our opinion.
Ailis seems to have finally dispelled all remaining embers of her jealousy as a bright smile takes over her face. “Brogan’s jaw will drop to the ground,” she states, “One look at you and all he won’t be able to pay attention to Callen or the druid at all.”
Dalla looks like the perfect bride. Her face is flushed with excitement and her exquisite beauty shines even through the veil. I can only wish to look half as ethereal as she does on my wedding day.
“Your beautiful,” I say, at a loss for more refined words. Ailis is quick to agree and it is soon decided that she will be the one to escort the bride to the uniting circle. If Da were here, he would be doing the honors. But since the journey would have been too hazardous for them, we are left to make do with what we have.
With a single glance at the sun and a mutter about the time, Ailis shoos me out of the room and into the afternoon sun. Without a single glance back, I rush for the field on the northern side of town which stands beside a large, lazy river, much like the one back at home.
The village is quiet as I walk through the deserted streets, everyone already waiting for the betrothed couple at the site. Giddy with excitement, I almost skip the entire way there.
It’s the perfect day for a joining. The sun is bright and there’s nary a cloud in sight, almost as if they were afraid at the wrath we’d display should it have rained. A soft breeze tickles my arms and I shiver at its touch.
Arriving at the brilliant green meadow where a circle of people has been made, I catch the eye of Garrick on the eastern side of the crowd. He grins knowingly and, with a nod, beckons me to him. I signal my agreement and begin to circumvent the crowd.
The group of people gathered form a circle around Callen leaving a space in the middle for the couple, the druid, and Callen who will be joining them and welcoming them into the clan as equals.
On the western side of the field, tables are lined with, covered in a feast of great grandeur. I’ve never seen so much food all in one place before. I eye a dish of smoked venison but continue around the crowd, before plunging into their midst.
The horde of people reminds me of a school of fish, so tightly packed together that it’s impossible to move without causing a ripple. I accidentally step on a man’s foot and two seconds later, a cry of pain sounds out on the other side of the circle from a woman. I snort back a chuckle and continue on my way.
Most everyone around me surpasses me in height and I soon find myself completely lost. I try jumping to see over their heads but after toppling over into a middle aged woman who huffs her displeasure, I decide that jumping might not be the healthiest for the people around me.
“Lost much?” Garrick’s relieving voice finds my ear and I spin around to face him.
“This is one of those times that I curse my height,” I reply. Grinning, he grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd, back towards the exact location I came from. I roll my eyes at my absurd lack of direction and try to ignore the unhappy glares as we shove our way through the throng of guests.
Garrick pulls me back to where I had seen him earlier, at the front of the crowd with a clear view of Callen and the druid.
From Garrick’s side, I look at the people who have shown up. There is Earnan with a couple of his older friends, most likely fellow past warriors, probably looking back on their own marriages and how it affected their life as the guardians of the Brigantes. Bearach stands with Tyrone, both silent with their arms crossed but obviously happy for their friend and ready to tease him about loosing his “freedom”. Callen stands in the middle of the large circle, his hands clasped together and his eyes gazing out over the crowd.
He raises his hands to silence the crowds and their voices fade into a calm. He nods his head and on opposite sides of the circle, people step apart, creating two aisles. Dalla appears at the end of the passageway on the opposite side of the circle and I assume that Brogan does the same on our side. Slowly, they walk down the aisles and as they pass people, soft blessings are whispered. But they don’t seem to be paying any attention; their eyes are fixed upon each other.
Someone grabs my arm opposite to Garrick and Ailis’ face appears over my shoulder, sending me a small smile, she turns her focus to the couple who have met in the middle and have clasped each other’s hands.
Standing there, Brogan’s attire is visible to the crowds and I can’t help but be impressed. He wears a short black leine, threaded with golden string and his trousers are of the same color as the thread but don’t overdone due to the tall black boots he wears. Even from where I stand, I can see that the material his clothing is made from is strong, sturdy, and comfortable. It seems that no expense was spared in the dressing of the uniting couple.
Callen’s voice resounds over the people as he calls upon Brigid, the goddess of uniting, the bride of the earth, and keeper of the hearth to bless the wedding. Everyone holds their breath and stares at the druid at Callen’s side. He closes his eyes and his mouth moves in whispers. After a few moments, he opens his eyes and nods his head. Everyone releases their breath.
Brogan then takes out a ring from his pocket, and Dalla does the same. I have seen the ring that Dalla will give to her groom. Earnan himself crafted it with such skill and pride. It is a thick, strong, silver ring that builds up like a mountain to the dark blue gemstone inlay. A braid is etched along the ring, signifying the circle of the world and how everything is connected. Simple yet exquisite, I must say that is one of Earnan’s best work.
In whispers, they exchange simple vows, too quiet for anyone to hear. But no one seems to mind. The love that emanates from their eyes is oath enough.
With a smile, Callen holds up a dark purple scarf embroidered with thread the color of the sun. He ties it around Brogan’s left hand and Dalla’s right, symbolizing their joining, their eternal union.
Finally, Brogan lifts Dalla’s veil, indicating the end of her old life and the beginning of their life together. Tears shimmer in both their eyes. Brogan wipes his away but Dalla lets her’s fall down her cheek onto the grass below their feet.
The crowd erupts in cheers and music starts playing from the minstrels as the couple share their first kiss. I turn my eyes away, not wanting to be a part of this special moment between the two even though the rest of the village watches and applauds with glee.
The circle breaks out and the people head for the food-covered tables. Brogan leads his wife to the head table where only the family of the couple may feast; the rest stand or find their own sitting arrangements as they mingle with each other and dance.
Garrick escorts AIlis and I to the head table where he seats us side by side next to Dalla. Brogan’s side of the table is occupied by his father and another man who is introduced to me as his uncle and a blacksmith.
Food is brought and we all indulge in the delicacies placed before us.
Several types of meats are served including deer, rabbit, bird, and bear. Vegetables are displayed in abundance and variety, my eyes distinguishing at least a dozen and a half different kinds. A number of breads grace the table at intervals, some light colored and soft and disintegrate in your mouth almost as soon as it reaches your mouth, others richer and darker whose herby taste leaks onto your tongue as it is chewed and swallowed. It is a good thing there is so much. It would be much too difficult to pick only one. Intricately fashioned wooden goblets are consistently kept full of spirits and any of our wants or needs are promptly met by the half dozen servants that answer to our beck and call. The elaborate feasts back home can’t hold a candle to this banquet. As a servant refills my glass, I can’t help but feel a little giddy. I am being treated as a goddess. My word is law: if I want more barley beer, I get more barley beer.
The crowds before us break out into dancing, at least two dozen couples joining hands as the musicians start a lively jig. Brogan pulls Dalla onto the grass and soon the other dancers form a circle around them, just as it had been during the ceremony. The dancers, including the new couple, promenade around the small field flanked on three sides by tables. All movements are finely tuned to that of the partner and all together, it is art, everyone moving in accordance with each other as if a part of nature itself. Dalla’s melodic laughter can be heard over the crowds and Brogan’s chuckle accompanies it as he twirls her around.
The day wears on and at sunset, the newlyweds depart to their new home, one that was built months before especially for Brogan and his wife. The small hut’s interior is just as grand as anything you would find in Callen own home. Having two inner chambers, it consists of a living space where the cooking, eating, and entertaining will take place, and a sleeping room with enough space to add beds once they begin having children.
That thought strikes me hard. Dalla is married. She is a wife. She has a husband. And when a husband and wife come together... they multiply.
Like rabbits.
Even my minds small attempt and lightening the dark mood that has set itself over me doesn’t help. I’m going to be an aunt!
But when hoots and whistles start up, I quickly cast my trepidation aside and watch as Brogan and Dalla retreat back into the village for... I bite my lip, trying to hold back the embarrassed grin that demands to be displayed on my face.
Unable to restrain myself, I shamefully take part in the auditory spectacle. Hollers and whoops follow the couple as Brogan swings Dalla into his arms as they disappear back into the village.
Ah, I think as I take a bite of meat. Young love.
Thoughts of marriage fill my mind and my eyes involuntarily seek out a certain someone in the crowds. I catch Garrick’s eye and with a cheeky grin, he points to me and mouths, You’re next.
I start choking the piece of meat. Flames flares up my ears and I can feel the heat emanating from them. Without even looking at myself in one of the metal trays placed before me, I know that my face hast turned the color of the blood red sauce poured out over the silver fish that was presented to the head table near the beginning of the meal.
Garrick laughs at my reaction and some of his friends stare at him as if he’s gone mad. I can’t help but chuckle as he tries, unsuccessfully to come up with a feasible excuse. But with his eyes always drifting back to me, his friends don’t take long to figure out what has happened. After a few teases and taunts they leave him standing there, shaking their heads in playful disbelief. Rolling his eyes at their desertion, Garrick turns away and disappears into the crowds. The dancing begins again and this time, it will go on non-stop into the wee hours of the night.
A large number of villagers return back into the village, including Callen and Earnan. Most of them elderly, they leave the field of music and food to the youngsters who take this time to let everything loose.
With all the barley beer that has been drunk, it is no surprised that some of the younger adults lose their perception of propriety and common sense. A few of the younger men begin to gallivant around the tables, pretending that they are riding some sort of animal. I would guess a horse, but from the sounds coming from their mouths, it sounds more like a cross between a toad and an eagle. Even the girls have thrown much of their caution to the wind. They hike up their leine to knees, and some even higher, as they dance and twirl with their male counter parts.
Garrick comes and sits beside me, in Ailis’ empty chair. She is off in the fields dancing with the others. Thankfully, her leine stays below her knees.
Garrick shakes his head. “What a bunch of eejits and siùrsach,” he mutters. I chuckle at his annoyance dancers but his referring to them as idiots and flirts might be a little harsh. I doubt all of them are so. I glance out over the crowd and wrinkle my nose at the sigh of bare thighs. Okay, maybe most of them are.
The dark comes swiftly and instead of the dancing dying down, everyone grows more raucous. Everyone joins in the dancing now expect for few. Blankets and furs are brought as the spring evening wind turns cool. Bonfires are built and the flames shoot for the sky in roaring blazes.
The fiddles and flutes dance along with the building breeze and their high and quick, titillating sound has the audience capering lively and my nerves on edge.
With the agitating sound of the fiddles and the slow and mournful music of the bagpipes in the background, my mind is brought back to the Rogue Camp and the discovery of the Roman betrayal.
The messenger delivering the news of Dalla’s and Brogan’s wedding, Garrick’s and my betrothal, the completion of the treaty, and, in light of the Roman’s recent actions, the request of shelter for some of the villagers as soon as possible, has already departed. Accompanied by a contingent of half a dozen warriors, riding swiftly on some of the villages fastest horses, he is well protected. With the Rogues’ camp and supplies destroyed by Callen’s rescue, there’s no chance that the company will be attacked or hindered by the Rogues.
But the Rogues are the least of our problems. With the Roman garrison built so close by, we are in constant danger. The foreigners aren’t even attempting to hide their actions. They are either not planning anything or they are confident enough to risk the Brigantes planning and attempting to hold back a Roman offensive. Unfortunately, the former is completely and utterly unlikely.
It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that soon, the Roman’s will act. We aren’t sure when or how, but there is no “if”.
Only the warriors and guards of the village have been debriefed thus far. They have strengthened the small wooden wall that surrounds the village and have set up barricades along the perimeter. Sharpened poles have been dug into the ground. Oil has been poured over the poles and Earnan, along with the other blacksmith in the village, has been working day and night, pounding iron into swords and aiding a carpenter in the creation of shields. If asked, they are all supposed to state the possibility of a Rogue attack as the reason behind all the unusual preparations.
Callen is planning to let the entire village know by the end of the week.
Suddenly, my thoughts are broken apart by a high pitched sound. I glance around the field, looking for the source and every one has gone silent. We all look at the minstrels who stare at each other with equal curiosity, their instruments hanging useless at their sides and I know that everyone shares my thoughts: It’s probably only a highly strung fiddle string breaking. Or perhaps a fiddler simply played a very strange note.
But when the sound comes again, it could only be one thing. Something that instills fear into my heart and dread into my soul. A sound laced with terror and fright, as if announcing the end of the world. A sound that reminds me of my darkest nightmares.
A scream.