Fifteen
IT WAS A COLD, wet and miserable walk home for the men through the woods. Mist swirled between the stark trunks, while fallen leaves made the ground treacherous underfoot. They were a tired and weary bunch as they tramped down into one valley, then up, out and over into the next. It was tempting to find somewhere to stop and rest their aching bones, perhaps light a fire and try to wait out the latest cloud of rain, but there was a familiar bite in the air. Winter wasn’t far off. If the men delayed even one more night on this journey, there was a high chance they might miss the oncoming cold snap and the First Frost celebrations that would follow.
“What is First Frost?” Demairo asked Elisud, as the pair of them trailed at the back of the group, a laden pony shuffling behind them.
Elisud looked at his nephew in surprise, then realised they’d never celebrated this particular festival on the island. In fact they’d barely celebrated anything there. Midsummer and midwinter had been hard to ignore, and the lambs of Imbolc had been a necessary thing to honour and seek blessings for. Everything else, though, had been passed over, ignored, forgotten. Besides, with the island out in the middle of the sea, winter had been marked more by hard gales than delicate frosts.
“It’s the first day of winter,” he explained, and got an unimpressed look in return.
“I know that, but what is it?”
Elisud couldn’t help smiling at the irritated question, but he hid it when Demairo shot him a suspicious glance. Wiping the humour from his face, Elisud thought of all the things he’d ever heard of this festival, contrasting it to the similar ones he’d grown up with further north.
“First Frost is the feast thrown when a cold snap brings on the first morning frost, marking the beginning of winter. It’s a time when the gods and ancestors are close to the world, and some say they can even pass over into ours.”
Demairo’s eyes widened, no doubt thinking of his own recent dead.
Elisud winced at his carelessness. “They don’t do anything,” he rushed to reassure the boy. “Most people leave a door open, or set out food at the feast, or leave a rushlight burning to welcome them home. Ghosts only return to their own homes.”
“Mammik was born here. This was her home once,” Demairo murmured, but it was impossible to tell whether he wanted to see his mother again or not, so Elisud left it alone.
“People also bake bread for each other.”
“Bread?” The pensive look vanished from his nephew’s face; the sceptical glance returned. “What’s so special about bread? We eat it every day.”
“Not this type of bread,” Elisud argued. “How often do you bake bread? How often do I?”
Demairo wrinkled his nose, but didn’t argue. Bread baking was a womanly art. Even on the island his nephew had left such things to his mother; Lowena wouldn’t let him help. “Why?”
“For luck and friendship,” Elisud said, shrugging, since he didn’t fully understand it himself. “And young girls sleep with them beside their heads in the hope they’ll dream of their future husband.” Or wake and walk outside, where the first man they see will be their future spouse, but since Demairo was already grimacing in disgust Elisud didn’t bother to add the last bit.
“Marriage,” the boy scoffed. “Is that all girls think about?”
“Considering marriage is the only way for them to leave their family home, to have a life of their own, then yes, Mairo, it is all they think about. Would you want to live with me and Ceri forever, never able to leave?”
It was obvious the idea didn’t appeal to the boy, but also clear that he didn’t want to hurt his uncle’s feelings by saying so. He scowled instead, making Elisud laugh.
“Don’t fret, Mairo, boys have more choices than girls. You can take to wandering, become a hunter, even move away altogether in search of a new life. Few girls are ever given that chance.”
“That’s hardly fair,” he protested.
Elisud shrugged, having rarely thought about it before Ceri came into his life, and even now he barely considered it since she was far from marriageable age. “Women are our future. They bear our children, they take care of us, they are precious. Birth is a terrible burden, Mairo – we owe it to our women to look after them.”
Demairo turned his head aside. “Sounds more like a trap to me.”
Elisud had to admit when he stated it so clearly that it certainly didn’t appeal to him either, but then he’d always known he had a measure of freedom. Not as much as he’d once had, before he married and had Ceri perhaps, but still more choice than a woman like Briallen.
“Just be glad you were born a boy,” he finally said, squeezing Demairo’s shoulder. “Besides, some women want nothing more than a home and children of their own. Some want that life, some men too.” In fact to Elisud it sounded wonderful. He might have preferred to have lived nearer the sea, or at least a bigger river where he could go out and fish, but few lives were perfect. He would take what he could get.
Demairo, however, shuddered. “I will never want that life.”
Though the conviction in the boy’s voice made Elisud sad, he didn’t push him or tell him he’d change his mind when he was older. Somehow, Elisud doubted Demairo would. He’d learned too many harsh lessons at too early an age. He’d grown up inside a marriage that truly had been a trap, emotionally and physically, stuck out on that island in the middle of the sea.
“Shall I tell you about the wake fires?” Elisud asked after they’d walked in silence for a while. “They’re another important part of First Frost.”
Demairo looked at him and dragged up a smile, though his thoughts were clearly still dark with memories. “They don’t have anything to do with marriage, do they?”
“No.” Well, not most. Some people used them for such divinations, and many used them in an attempt to see deaths, but Elisud decided that was not something Demairo needed to hear right now. “They’re for protection and cleansing, and a symbol of unity through the winter.”
Tilting his head, Demairo began to look interested. “How?”
“Well, for the cleansing two fires are built side by side, and you have to walk through the smoke. As for the unity, you’ll have to wait for the deep dark for that.”
Demairo shot him another unimpressed look. “You used to be good at telling stories.”
Elisud smiled. “Aren’t you too old for tales?”
His nephew smiled back. “Never for one of yours, Uncle Elis.”
The words and smile squeezed at Elisud’s heart, but he didn’t let it show. Instead he glanced thoughtfully up at the damp, misty branches above his head. “Then how about I tell you the tale of the drunken ghost and the year without ale?”
Grinning, Demairo gave a quick nod and the rest of their walk passed in pleasant silliness, regardless of the grim weather.
“THERE’S A FAIR bite in the air,” Sira Wynn said, as the women began clearing away the breakfast things. An expectant hush fell across the big roundhouse, all eyes turning from the old man to his wife.
Dama Wynn gave a sniff. “Is that so?”
“Certain sure,” her husband replied. “There’ll be a frost come morning.”
The youngest children squealed with excitement, and even Briallen felt a dart of excitement in her chest. First Frost. Winter was here.
“Let’s hope those fool men get themselves back before it then,” Dama said with a sniff. “I won’t be heading into the woods to dig them out, that’s for certain sure.”
But no one was listening to her grumbles; the girls had gone into a huddle – even a slightly confused-looking Ceri – while the older women exchanged knowing looks. If First Frost was coming, then it was time to measure out grain enough for everyone. Most of the younger girls just wanted the luck baking and sharing their bread would bring.
Talwynn, however, being almost old enough for marriage, clearly had her thoughts on other things. There was one head that would be resting beside a small round the next night,
that was for certain sure. Briallen was tempted to sleep with one herself. The thought brought a smile to her face, which widened as Ceri dashed over to her.
“Will you help me bake my bread tonight, Bria? Will you?”
“Of course, puffin,” she assured the excited child, stroking a hand over her dark curls, trying to calm her. “But we need to get all our other chores done first.”
Ceri pulled a face, but didn’t argue. Instead she ran back to the other girls and grabbed Gwennik and Elowen’s hands. “Come on, come on. The sooner we finish our chores, the sooner we can bake.” Giggling, the three girls darted out of the house, Talwynn following close behind.
Seeing them so eager to get to work made Briallen laugh. She wasn’t the only one.
“You’ve trained her well,” Sewena chuckled, coming to help Briallen gather up the breakfast bowls. “I think she’d do almost anything for you.”
“I can’t take the credit. Someone else raised her well before me.”
Sewena’s smile turned sad as she tucked a strand of pale blonde hair behind her ear. “Poor Lowena, it’s clear she loved those children. It’s a shame she’ll never see them grow.”
Thoughts of Lowena confused Briallen. On one hand Lowena was a woman she’d always been compared unfavourably with, and she sometimes wondered just how close she and Elisud had been. Yet at the same time, the woman had done such a good job with both Demairo and Ceri that Briallen couldn’t help feeling guilty that she was the one left to love those children, when it was clear they had meant so much to Lowena. Briallen didn’t want to take the dead woman’s place, but she couldn’t help feeling sometimes that she was doing exactly that.
“We’ll have to leave out food and a rushlight for her tomorrow,” she said, smiling faintly at Sewena. “After all, this was her home once. Perhaps she’ll come by and see how her boy is doing.”
“Aye, perhaps,” Sewena agreed, squeezing Briallen’s arm in silent thanks, before moving away to rescue Sira Wynn from the playful attentions of her three-year-old son.
Briallen watched her sister-by-marriage with little Gerens and noticed the unmistakable bump growing beneath the other woman’s dress. A sharp jab of envy lanced through her gut. She wanted that; the chance to laugh with others over the antics of her mischievous child, while another grew in her belly. She wanted a family of her own, and even more she wanted what they represented – love, connection, belonging. She wanted it with Elisud so much that it hurt; a tight ache in her chest that made it hard to breathe.
“Briallen? Are you well?”
Looking up into Ia’s kindly blue eyes, Briallen realised she was clutching at her chest. It took a moment for her fingers to relax, then she took a deep breath, letting it out in a shaky sigh. “It’s nothing,” she assured the older woman. “I’m fine.”
Ia didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press either. She rarely did. It was one of the things Briallen liked about her. For all her bossy ways and her constant need to be in charge, Ia was not one to force confidences. Nor did she hand out false sympathy. She and Briallen might never be close, but the woman was a steady presence in the background, watching and making a silent note of everything, ensuring everyone on the farm was well. Should Briallen ever need her or want to talk to her, then she would be there. It was unlikely she ever would, but in that moment she found the knowledge comforting.
“Thank you, Ia,” she said, something she’d never said before and realised she probably should have. Especially if the startled expression on Ia’s face was anything to go by.
“For what?” the older woman blurted, surprise making her blunt.
“Nothing in particular.” Briallen smiled and went back to gathering the bowls. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so alone or isolated, so separate or different from the rest of the family. In fact, right at that moment, she felt like one of them. Perhaps, despite everything, she really did have a place here. Perhaps she was family after all.
For a woman who had been so certain she had neither, and often wondered if she even wanted them here, it was a comforting thought. She did want to belong here, she did want to stay. And she wanted Elisud beside her.
For that, however, she needed her morning wish to come true and the man to return before dark. Some First Frost bread wouldn’t hurt either, which meant she had some chores to finish up before she went to make it.
“HO, THE FARM!” It was long past midday when weary, footsore and sodden to the bone, the men followed Kensa in through the main gate at long last. “Anyone home?”
For a moment there was disappointing silence, broken only by the grunt of one of their weary hounds slumping down onto the mud. A robin sang from the top of a roundhouse, while the chickens cackled in their pen.
“Da!” A familiar shriek split the misty air. “Da! You’re back! You’re home!”
Dark plaits flying, dress flapping around her ankles, Ceri came sprinting out their house, throwing herself into Elisud’s arms. Wrapping her in tight, Elisud lifted her off the ground and breathed in the familiar scents of smoke, dried rosemary and honey – Ceri, his Ceri, his precious daughter.
“I missed you!” she wailed, winding her arms around his neck and holding tight enough to choke him. Not that he cared; he was holding her just as hard in return and likely squeezing her ribs to splinters.
“I missed you too, puffin,” he murmured gruffly.
Finally she let him breathe, leaning back in his arms to thump his arm. “Don’t ever go away for so long again,” she scolded, then grabbed him back around the neck. “Don’t you leave me again.”
“Never,” he promised recklessly. “I’ll never leave you for so long again, I promise.” He didn’t think he could bear to. She looked so grown up with her shining braids far neater than he’d ever managed, her dark blue dress decorated with bright hints of clumsy embroidery, and her face, that dear little face, round with health and smiles. Her dark eyes danced with tears and he squeezed her close, wondering what she’d been doing without him, if he’d missed anything important. “It’s so good to be home, puffin.”
“Certain sure, of course it is,” she chortled, then wriggled to get down so she could throw herself with equal enthusiasm on Demairo. Though he grumbled at the fuss, the boy didn’t try too hard to get away either.
Looking around the farmyard, Elisud was surprised to see almost the entire family had come out while he was greeting Ceri. There was Ia hugging her older boys, one under each arm, while exchanging a surprisingly affectionate kiss with Kensa. Ruan had Sewena wrapped in his arms, the pair of them almost sickening in their obvious adoration for each other.
Of all the returning men, only Pedar stood alone, having only just rejoined the other men before they reached the farm. Rosen stood stiffly by his side, while his daughters each offered a hand for him to clasp. It was so formal, so lacking in affection; they could have been meeting a stranger. It made Elisud’s heart hurt. Not just for Pedar who clearly loved his daughters, but for the girls themselves, and even their mother, whose bitterness had driven a wedge between them all.
Shaking his head, Elisud turned away from the sad sight and found one much more pleasing to his eye: Briallen. Ceri had dragged the woman over and she was now greeting Demairo. They didn’t hug or kiss, but the way Briallen passed a hand over Demairo’s dark curls spoke of affection, not to mention understanding. Demairo had never been a cuddly kind of child, but whether he didn’t accept hugs from Briallen now because he felt guilty over his mother, or because he wasn’t comfortable with them, Elisud wasn’t sure. However, the fact that Briallen somehow understood without being told was just another reason why he loved this woman.
Love? The word, even in his thoughts, made his heart skip. But of course it was love he felt for her. How could it be anything else? Briallen was special. He only wished he was worthy enough for her, only wished he had something to offer. She was bright and beautiful, and he wanted to share his life with her, but she needed more than he had to give.
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Sighing, he turned towards the poor pony that had carried part of their hunting haul home and fiddled with the nearest rope. He should probably lead it somewhere and rid it of its burdens, but he didn’t know where it was supposed to go, or how he should go about it.
“Here, I’ll take her.” Ors appeared out of the rain, the lead rope of another pony already in his hand. “Welcome home, Elisud,” the older man murmured as he walked away.
Welcome home. The words felt right in a way Elisud hadn’t felt for a long, long time. This farm wasn’t anything like he’d imagined his future to be, this life wasn’t one he would have chosen to live, and yet… Yes, and yet, it did feel like home. This babbling rabble of people did feel like family.
He turned and saw Ceri hugging Demairo again, chattering away like a flock of sparrows as she tried to tell him everything she’d done while he’d been gone. Briallen laughed at them both, speaking up only when Ceri appealed to her for something. Home. Family. The sight was everything he wanted, especially when Briallen looked up, caught his eye and smiled just for him. He could almost touch it, could almost feel everything he wanted within reach – if only he dared to take it.
Briallen’s smile turned quizzical, as if wondering why he was standing all the way over there in the drizzling rain, when everyone else was already starting to go inside. Elisud had no answer for her, not even a pony to take care of, so he followed his heart and crossed the sodden yard. Reaching out, he wrapped an arm around Ceri’s shoulders and rested his other hand on Demairo’s back, but his smile was all for Briallen.
“Why don’t we go inside where it’s dry?”
She hesitated, as if wondering whether she was invited as well. Elisud held her beautiful blue eyes in his steady gaze, leaving her no room for doubt. Finally, she smiled. “Good idea. Come on, Ceri, let’s go see what treats we’ve got left. These mighty hunters deserve a feast.”
Giggling, Ceri darted into the house, dragging Demairo along with her. “We’re making Frost Bread. You came back just in time to make your own.” The children vanished into the shadows, leaving Elisud and Briallen staring at each other in the rain.
Since he was already as wet as he could possibly get, Elisud wasn’t bothered by the downpour. Not so with Briallen. He should probably have been worried about her getting cold, but he couldn’t move. They stood with barely a pace between them. A tiny space that could be so easily closed by either one of them. A small step and he’d be there, right in front of her, able to tip her chin up for a kiss.
As if she could read his thoughts, her lips parted and she licked them, leaving a sheen of moisture Elisud couldn’t help but stare at.
“Come inside, Elis,” she murmured, her hand reaching for his. “Come on.”
Her fingers were warm as they wove through his, and he closed his eyes with a sigh. They’d rarely touched before, and never like this, not consciously and with such meaning. She gave a tug and he followed; he would follow her anywhere. One step, then two, and the rain ceased beating at his shoulders.
He opened his eyes to the gloom of the narrow entry passage, leading from the outside world to the warmth of home.
“Shoes,” she said, smiling when he looked confused. “You’re covered in mud.”
His face warm with embarrassment, he bent down to unlace his shoes from around his legs and toe off the wet leather. He tried to let go of her hand as he did so, but her fingers seemed more tightly knotted with his than the wet laces wrapped around his legs. It was awkward and took longer than necessary, but if Briallen didn’t want to release him, he wouldn’t force her to let go.
Finally, feet bare, he stood up again. The cramped space of the passage left no room for anything between them but a tiny breath of air. It was too dark to see her face as she tilted it up towards him, but he caught a glint of light in her eyes before she rose on tiptoe and brushed her mouth against his. The tiniest touch, but it shot through him like wildfire.
“Welcome home, Elis,” she whispered, her free hand resting against the side of his neck and the pulse that pounded there.
Heat rushed through his body and straight to his head. All his noble thoughts and reasons why he couldn’t touch her, why he had nothing to offer her burned to ash. Only desire remained.
With one step he had her backed against the stone wall, every part of his front pressed against each beautiful curve of hers. His hands cupped her jaw to tilt her head back further. Then his mouth crashed down on hers, drinking in her gasp of surprise and turning it into a moan of pleasure.
Mouth to mouth he tasted, gorged and ravished, unable to get enough of her sweetness, her heat, her welcome as she kissed him back. Her arms wrapped around his back, fingers clawing into his heavy cloak trying to pull him in closer, closer. He stroked her throat with one thumb, while the other hand slipped down, tracing the wondrous shape of her, and settled on her hip to pull her up and in to him.
They both gasped, breathless and wanting more.
“Where are they?” Ceri’s indignantly high voice piped up from inside the house. “What are they doing? I thought they were right behind us.”
“They’ll be along soon,” Demairo replied, sounding much closer. “No doubt your Da’s laces are as waterlogged as mine. Help me get my shoes off, Ceri, before I get in trouble.”
As the boy’s voice faded, Elisud finally found the strength to ease his mouth from Briallen’s. Yet he couldn’t simply leave, so he stole another kiss, then another. Just a brush, a brief taste, a hint of what he’d had before, what he wanted to have again.
Then, breathless and panting, he rested his forehead against hers and cradled her face once more. “Bria,” he whispered, slipping into the language of his childhood. “Cariad. Fy tegen.”
“Shush,” she said, pressing her fingers over his lips with a giddy laugh. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but they’ll hear you. They’ll see.”
Elisud had a feeling Demairo had already seen, and was now proving himself to be the best of nephews by distracting his cousin from getting an eyeful. But he didn’t say that; he was too busy kissing Briallen’s fingers. “Fy nghariad.”
“Stop,” she laughed again, this time the sound sending pleasant vibrations through him where she was still pressed against him. “Stop it.” She pushed against his shoulders, and much though it pained him, he stepped back.
He’d been uncouth and rough with her, shoving her against the wall like that, but if she asked him he would always stop. If she pushed, he would always step back. She was too precious to risk hurting her or scaring her away. He never wanted her to cringe away from him, as Lowena had from his brother.
His reward came when the hands that had pressed against his shoulders slid lingeringly down his chest. She sighed, a sound of want tinged with reluctance to part. It so perfectly mimicked what he was feeling that he captured one of her hands against his heart and lifted the other for a kiss.
“Bria,” he began, but she pressed that same hand over his mouth again, stopping him.
“Not yet,” she whispered. “Just… please. Not now. Not yet. The children are waiting. They shouldn’t find us like this.” Sliding her hands free from his, she brushed her fingers against his cheek, then slipped away into the warmth. Leaving him alone in the dark passage, reminded of his damp, cold clothes where they clung in awkward places.
“There you are!” Ceri huffed from beyond. “What happened, Bria? Why are you all wet? Did you fall down?”
Grinning at the thought of just how Briallen’s dress had got into such a state, Elisud unpinned his cloak from his shoulder, hung it in the passageway and entered the warmth. It was so good to be home.