Brigit sat between her husband and their guest. She gushed and flirted with Wulf Ironfist in what she believed was a successful effort to win him over to Berikos’s plans for the region. The young Saxon was polite, and more than slightly amazed by his host’s wife. He had heard the Celts were a hospitable people, but a man’s wife was a man’s wife. Every now and then his gaze would stray to Cailin, silent on the other side of Berikos. Her only words were directed to the servants, and she managed them well, he saw. She would make some man a good wife one day, if she was not already wed, and he somehow did not think she was. There was an innocence about her that indicated she was yet a maid.
Brigit noticed that the handsome Saxon’s attention was drawn to her husband’s granddaughter. A wicked plan began to form in her mind. She had so patiently bided her time these last weeks, waiting for the right moment to have the perfect revenge upon Cailin Drusus. Now she believed she had found that moment. Cailin had embarrassed her publicly before the whole village, and what was worse, Berikos had refused to discipline the wench. How those two old crows, Ceara and Maeve, had gloated over it, protecting Cailin from her wrath, but now they were out of the way. Unobtrusively Brigit filled and refilled her husband’s goblet, first with a rich red wine, and then with honeyed mead. Berikos had a strong head for liquor, but in recent years his tolerance had been lower than in his youth.
The steaming hot pottage was put upon the table along with the beef, ham, and fish. Platters of vegetables, cheese, and bread followed. In a burst of generosity, Berikos nodded his approval to his grandchild. The assembled ate and drank, the Saxon matching the old man goblet for goblet until finally the food was cleared away and the discussion of business began in earnest.
“If I train your young men and lead them, Berikos, what will you give me in return for my services?” Wulf Ironfist asked. “After ten years with the legions, I can teach your Celts to fight like Romans. The Romans have the best army in the world. My knowledge is valuable. I must have equal value in return.”
“What do you want?” growled the old man.
“Land,” was the simple reply. “I have had my fill of war, but I will do this for you if you give me land for my own.”
“No,” said Berikos. “No land! I would drive all Romans and other foreigners from Britain, and have it belong to our people again as it once did. Why else would I begin such an endeavor in my old age?”
“The only foreigners here in Britain now are we Saxons,” came Wulf Ironfist’s amused reply. “The true Romans departed years ago, and those you call Romans are in reality Britons, Berikos. Their blood has been intermingled with that of you Celts for so many generations that they are no longer alien. If you would make yourself king of this region, I will help you in exchange for land, and I will pledge you my fealty; but the idea that you can drive everyone from Britain but those of pure Celtic blood is a foolish and impossible task.”
“But if I am successful,” Berikos insisted, “more tribes—the Catuvellauni, the Iceni, the Silures, and others—will join me.” In his enthusiasm he knocked his goblet over, but Brigit quickly righted it and refilled it. Berikos drank it down.
“No, they will not. They, too, are used to peace now,” the Saxon said. “They want nothing more than to pursue their daily lives. You are living in another century, Berikos. Times have changed; are changing even as we sit talking this night. Now we Saxons are coming into Britain. In another fifty years our descendants will be native-born as well. One day there will come another people after us, and they will also overwhelm and intermingle with Britain’s inhabitants until they, too, become native-born. This is the way of the world: one tribe overcoming another, mingling with its blood, to become a different people. You must accept it, for you cannot change it, Berikos, any more than you can change the phases of the moon, or the seasons. I will train your Celts in the military arts so that you may become the strongest warlord in this area, if you will, in exchange, give me my own lands to farm. Perhaps I will even find a wife or two among your women. It is a fair offer, Berikos.”
Berikos said nothing at first in reply to the young Saxon. He sat silently pondering, not really willing to give up his dream. Until now no one but Ceara had dared to tell him that his proposed plans for the region were impossible. Once he would not have needed to send for a Saxon warrior to teach his men to fight, for the Celts had been famed for their battle prowess. But in his time he had seen the men of his tribe grown soft with good living. They were content to farm the land and keep their cattle and sheep. This was what Rome had done to them. It had taken the heart from them.
In Eire, he heard, the Celts were still real men. They lived to do battle with an enemy. Perhaps he should have sent to the Irish for a battle-hardened warrior to reeducate the Dobunni in the ways of war. He reached for his goblet again and swallowed down the honeyed mead Brigit had poured for him. It was potent, burning as it reached his belly. He was feeling tired, and confused by the younger man’s words. His Catuvellauni in-laws were nearer to the Saxon shore of southeast Britain. He had arranged for them to find him a respected military man from among the Saxons, and Wulf Ironfist had come highly recommended. Still, Berikos could not be content with what the Saxon had told him.
Brigit leaned over and whispered softly in her husband’s ear, “We can win the Saxon over to our side if we are patient, my lord,” she murmured. “Let us offer him Celtic hospitality as of old. We will send a beautiful woman to his sleeping space to warm his bed, to give him a night’s sport. Not a real Dobunni woman, but your granddaughter, Cailin Drusus. We must not allow one of our women to mingle her juices with the Saxon’s. Cailin is not really one of us, is she, Berikos?”
He shook his head, and murmured low to her, “But what sport can the little mongrel bitch give him, Brigit? She is an untutored virgin.”
“All the better reason to give her to the Saxon. First-night rights are considered a special privilege among all tribes. You honor the Saxon by giving him those rights with one he will consider to be of your own blood.”
Berikos looked craftily at the young girl next to him. She certainly was beautiful, he thought grudgingly. Her coloring was unique and had a certain provocativeness to it. It was past time she lost her virginity. They would have to find her a husband soon, and she would need to know how to please a man. No man wanted a bride who was frightened, or clumsy in bed. He turned back to Wulf Ironfist. “We have spoken enough on this matter tonight, my young friend. I do not know if I agree with you, but you have given me pause for thought. I am not so old that I cannot change if I must. Let us speak on this again on the morrow. It is our custom to honor a guest by giving him one of our women to warm his bed. I will give you my granddaughter, Cailin. She will share her sleeping space with you this night, will you not, girl?”
If he had struck her, Cailin could not have been more surprised. Then she saw Brigit smiling broadly at her, and Cailin knew instantly who had put the old man up to this mischief. Her instinct was to refuse and flee the hall. What Berikos was asking of her was unthinkable. But then as reason quickly overcame her overwrought emotions, Cailin realized that to refuse would not only enrage Berikos, but embarrass him, and the Dobunni as well. She had never felt more alone in her entire life. The smirking Brigit had certainly enacted a fine revenge. She knew that the Romano-Britons kept their daughters virgins until marriage, unlike the Celts. Yet whatever husband they found for her would be a Celt. He would not consider her lost virginity a deficit. She had no other choice.