“You owe me a kiss, Nuala of the blue, blue eyes,” he said softly. And a slow smile lit his handsome features.
“Why would I kiss a man who’s bested my favorite brother?” she asked him a trifle breathlessly, feeling just a little bit weak in the region of her knees. He was so … so gorgeous!
Bodvoc did not argue with her. Instead he reached out, and pulling Nuala against his body, he bent to kiss her. Nuala sighed deeply and sagged against him for a long moment as her lips softened beneath his. She almost fell when he gently released her from his embrace and set her back. Her pale skin flushed a deeper hue as about her the racers, including her own brother, chuckled with amusement.
“Nuala?” Cailin spoke low.
The sound of her cousin’s voice galvanized Nuala into action. Rearing back, she hit Bodvoc with all her might. “I did not say you might kiss me, you sweaty oaf!” she shouted, and ran from him, her dark hair flying.
“She loves me!” Bodvoc exulted, and turned to Corio. “Tell your father that I want Nuala for my wife,” he said, then ran off after the fleeing girl.
The crowd was dispersing. Cailin looked at Corio. “Will she have him?”
“Nuala has liked Bodvoc for several years, and she’s fourteen now. More than old enough to be a wife. It’s a good match. He’s eighteen, and strong. They’ll make beautiful babies, Cailin. Now we must find a husband for you, too, cousin. I don’t suppose you would consider me for a mate, would you?” For a small moment an almost hopeful look entered his eyes, and Cailin realized to her surprise that her cousin Corio harbored feelings for her that, if encouraged, could grow into love.
“Oh, Corio,” she said, and touched his arm. “I love you, but my love is like that of a sister for a brother. I do not think it will ever be anything more.” She hugged him. “I think at this time in my life I need a friend more than a husband. Be my friend.”
“The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and she wants to be my friend,” said Corio mournfully. “I have surely displeased the gods that they would visit such a burden upon me.”
“You are a rogue, dearest cousin,” Cailin laughed, “and I do not feel one bit sorry for you. Your path is strewn with broken hearts.”
That evening Cailin got a little more insight into her Dobunni heritage when her grandfather stood before a huge audience in his hall and recited the history of their Celtic tribe. Next to him a young harper stood playing, his music alternately sweet and wild, depending upon the portion of the tale being recited at the time. Ceara and Maeve bustled about the hall, seeing to the comfort of their guests; but at the high board, Berikos’s youngest wife, Brigit, sat proudly on display.
In the three months she had lived among the Dobunni, Cailin had seen Brigit rarely, and she had never spoken with her. Brigit was beautiful, in a cold way, with her skin as flawless as marble, her icy silver eyes, her black, black hair. She held herself aloof, believing that her aged husband’s protection was all she needed.
“And when he dies, does she wonder what will become of her?” Ceara demanded bitterly one day.
“She will find another foolish old man,” Maeve said matter-of-factly. “No young man would have her, as she obviously lacks a heart. But an old man can be gulled into thinking he will be the envy of all for possessing a fair young wife.”
In the days that followed the celebration of Lugh, the final harvest was completed. The apples and pears were gathered from the orchards. The fields were plowed once again, and the winter wheat planted. Cailin dug carrots, turnips, and onions for cold storage.
“Leave the cabbage,” Ceara said, “until there is danger of a hard frost. It’s better in the garden. But pick all the lentils that are left, child. I want to dry them out and store them myself.”
“Look after Cailin when I am gone,” Brenna said to Ceara one afternoon. “Everything she has ever known is gone from her. She is brave, but I have heard her weeping at night in our sleeping space when she thinks I am asleep and cannot hear. Her pain is very great.”
“Why not Maeve?” Ceara asked. “She is your sister.”
“Maeve is ever a fool over Berikos,” Brenna said, “and besides, Cailin has taken to you, Ceara. She will give Maeve honor, but it is you she trusts and is learning to love. Promise me you will look after her, dear old friend. My time is growing shorter with every passing hour, but I cannot go easily unless I know Cailin has a friend and a protector in you.”
“When you have passed through the door,” Ceara promised her, “I will watch over Cailin as I would one of my own granddaughters. I swear by Lugh, Danu, and Macha. You may rest easy in my word.”
“I know I can,” Brenna said, her relief obvious.
Brenna died on the eve of Samain, six months after incurring her injuries. She went quickly to sleep, but did not awaken the following morning. Cailin, in the company of Ceara and Maeve, washed the body and dressed it for burial. As refugees, Cailin and her grandmother had possessed little, but decorated pots, bronze vessels for food and drink, small bits of jewelry, furs, cloth, and other things considered necessary to a woman began to appear by the body in order that she be buried properly, as befitted a Dobunni chieftain’s wife.
Brenna was interred several hours before sunset, when the Samain feasting would begin. The harper played a liltingly sad tune as the mourners followed the body. Berikos accompanied his estranged wife to her final resting place along with the rest of the family. Even Brigit was among the official mourners. As always, she sought to divert the focus of Berikos’s attention to herself.
“Could she not have waited until the new year was begun before dying?” she whined at her husband.
“It seems appropriate to me that Brenna chose this last day of the year to end her existence here and walk through the door,” Berikos answered his wife sharply.
“There will be a pall over the feasting tonight,” Brigit said.
Ceara saw it coming, but she was powerless to stop it.
Cailin turned and placed herself directly in front of Brigit, making it impossible for her to move forward. “How dare you speak with such disrespect at my grandmother’s funeral?” she demanded. “Is this how the Catuvellauni raise their daughters to behave? My grandmother was a woman of virtue and kindness. She was held in esteem by all who knew her. All you care about is yourself and your selfish needs!”
“Who is this … this girl?” Brigit said angrily to her husband.
“My granddaughter, Cailin,” he said. “Brenna’s grandchild.”
“Ohh, the mongrel bitch,” Brigit sneered, and there were gasps.
“I am no mongrel,” Cailin said proudly. “I am a Briton. Do not think your blood so pure, Brigit of the Catuvellauni. The legions, I am told, plowed many a furrow amongst the women of your tribe. Your Roman nose gives you away. I am surprised my grandfather did not notice it, but he is so overcome with his lust for you that he sees nothing except a pair of full breasts and firm buttocks.”
“Are you going to let her speak to me that way, Berikos?” Brigit demanded, her cheeks red with her outrage.
“She is right, Brigit. You are disrespectful of the dead, and I am overcome with my lust for you,” Berikos replied with some humor.