Sixteen
IT WAS THE WARMTH that woke him. After almost an entire moon of sleeping outside through the deepening autumn, Demairo had forgotten what it was like to rest somewhere comfortable, dry, and above all warm.
That heat had worked on him the night before, making him clumsy and slow while Ceri instructed him – inexpertly – in the art of making Frost Bread. She’d been so excited when Briallen placed their four lumpy loaves in the little kiln beside their hearth fire, but Demairo had merely yawned. It wasn’t that he was bored by the thought of celebrating First Frost, he’d just been exhausted.
In the end he’d fallen asleep where he sat. He’d felt so content to be out of the rain, with a full belly from a meal that wasn’t pure meat, listening to Ceri chatter at his uncle and Briallen, that his eyes had grown heavy and he must have dropped off. He had a vague memory of sinking into something soft, of a whispered blessing in his ear, and later a low-voiced farewell from Elisud to Briallen, then nothing.
Until now. It was dark, but Demairo was used to the dark. He rolled over carefully in his bed, not wanting to make too much noise, and peered into the centre of the house. The fire glowed beneath its lump of turf, smouldering quietly to itself, but not giving out much light.
The heat was enough to make Demairo uncomfortable, though, so he got up. The patch of darkness where the door was showed no cracks of light, so he knew it wasn’t even dawn yet, but he couldn’t go back to sleep now.
Creeping over to the fire, he checked the cooled kiln and grinned at the four loaves sitting inside. Then through much fumbling and the occasional error, he sorted out his clothes from the pile Briallen had spread out last night to dry. Once dressed, Demairo eased over to the door, took down his cloak and padded along the passage, not bothering with his shoes. In the two and a bit seasons he’d been on the farm, he still wasn’t used to shoes, and only wore them when he had to. Besides, his were probably still drying out from all those days in the rain.
It wasn’t raining now – that was the first thing Demairo noticed when he reached the end of the passage. The second was the cold. His toes curled against the stone step as he scanned the gloom in the predawn light. It wasn’t quite as early as he’d first thought; the sky was paler away down the valley and over towards the far hills.
Dancing from foot to foot, Demairo wondered if a moon-cycle in shoes had made his feet soft, but he needed to visit the waste trench quite desperately. Bracing himself, he finally stepped out into the farmyard.
And leapt back with a yelp, clapping his cloak across his mouth. The ground was freezing!
He stood on the relative protection of the step, with one foot tucked atop another for a long, breathless moment. Finally when nothing stirred he relaxed, confident that he hadn’t woken anyone. Then he bent down to study the ground. It was hard to tell in the gloom, but he was sure the mud was shining. A faint, barely there sheen, not flat and dark like usual.
Curious, Demairo unwrapped a hand from his cloak and poked at the nearest puddle. It crackled, and though the cold bit at his fingertip, he didn’t get wet. His eyes widened.
Ice. Frost. Winter.
Grinning, he dashed across the yard, hopping from foot to aching foot, restraining his yelps to hisses and grunts as he made his way to the trench. Business done, he danced and jigged back home, then ran inside. It took a moment for his eyes to readjust to the gloom of the house, but his feet certainly welcomed the brief respite on the warm floor. Then, satisfied he could see well enough not to trip over anything, Demairo crept over to the fire and rummaged around for a moment before moving across to the big bed.
“Ceri,” he whispered, knowing his cousin was a much lighter sleeper than her father. She just hated getting up early. “Ceri, wake up.”
“G’way,” came the sleepily slurred reply. “Sl’pin.”
“Ceri,” he persisted, reaching out with a cold finger to dab at her nose.
She squeaked and he winced, waiting for Elisud to wake. When the big man merely snuffled and rolled over, turning his back to them, Demairo sighed with relief.
Ceri glared at him. “You’re cold,” she grumbled.
He grinned. “That’s because it’s cold outside.”
Muttering unhappily, she tugged the blanket up around her neck and wriggled back against her father, sharing his warmth. “Go ‘way.”
“Don’t you want to know why it’s cold?” he whispered.
“No.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to go share the frost with someone else.”
Ceri sat up, shoving the blanket briskly aside, eyes suddenly wide. “Frost?” she echoed in a breathless whisper. “Really?”
“Why don’t you come see?” Demairo invited, holding out his hand.
Giving a suppressed squeal of excitement, she scurried out of bed, grabbed his hand and dragged him down the passage. And yelped as her bare foot met the ground.
“It’s freezing!” she squeaked, jumping back against Demairo.
Chuckling, he wrapped her inside his cloak with him and lifted her so her bare feet stood atop his. Then he put his other hand in front of her and opened his fingers.
The small round of bread looked golden in the dawn light, lumpy and ill-formed, but still warm from where it had been in the kiln all night. “Happy First Frost, Ceri,” he murmured, kissing her on the cheek. “And lots of luck to you.”
Grasping the bread with a chortle of delight, she spun on his feet, not noticing his grimace of pain, and hopped up to kiss his cheek in return. “Lots of luck to you too, Mairo! Stay here,” she ordered, slipping around him and back into the house. When she returned fully dressed, she held out her hand: a second round of bread sat on her palm. “Happy First Frost, Mairo!”
Demairo took it with a smile, rolling his eyes but not protesting when she stepped in front of him again, standing on his feet and wrapping his cloak around her too. He didn’t bother telling her to move, or ask why she hadn’t fetched her own cloak, he just tucked an arm around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Share mine and share my luck with me,” she asked, breaking open her bread. A puff of warmth curled in the cold air, before she offered half over her shoulder for him.
He took it with a smile, then broke open his own. “Share mine and share my luck with me.”
“Mm, warm bread,” Ceri murmured contently, snuggling against him.
Munching in happy silent, they stayed there in the doorway, watching the sun rise over the distant hills and sharing their loaves of good fortune for breakfast – well, it would be a shame to waste them.
FOR ALL THAT First Frost was a day of celebration across most of Dumnonia, Briallen didn’t get much time to enjoy it. There was too much to do. Because few people – aside from Sira Wynn – could accurately predict just when the first frost would arrive, there was only so much preparation that could be done in advance. Which left most of it to be done on the day.
While the men were sent to into the woods to gather fuel and tinder for the wake fires, Briallen and the rest of the women had a feast to prepare. Thankfully, since the men had returned just the day before, they had plenty of delicious things to cook. Aside from their regular farm stock of chicken, pigs, sheep and cows, they also had hare, grouse, woodcock, red and roe deer, squirrel and countless other birds that made lovely, delicate dishes when stuffed with fruits and herbs.
There was so much to do that even Rosen did her share without complaint. No one begrudged the work on First Frost, not when there was a full night of dancing, drinking, feasting and fun ahead.
Still, amidst all the work, Briallen never forgot the other side of First Frost, when the walls between this world and the next grew thin, doors of opportunity were known to open and the dark became full of secrets. There had been hard losses this last year, not just for her, but for others in the family. Mewan came first to mind, but there was her little lost child as well as Demairo’s parents. So Briallen made sure to prepare extra p
ortions for the feast with special care, and reminded herself to keep a rushlight burning in certain doorways.
Then the men returned to build the fires and the festival atmosphere swept through the farm again. Ale and cider flowed freely, there was singing and laughing, and as the evening began to dim the fires were finally kindled. Now came the feast and the dancing.
Briallen had been so busy all day that she’d barely had time to stop and think, except for what she wanted to do that night. It came as no surprise that the person she found closest to her when the family sat down to eat, was Pedar. But he didn’t sit beside her. No, he left a gap and a spare board between them, and he was the first of the family to lay a slice of grouse from his onto the empty one.
“Grouse was always his favourite,” Pedar told her in a soft undertone. “Which was lucky, since it was all he ever caught.”
A mix of sorrow and affection rose up inside Briallen’s chest as she lifted a slice of red deer from her own board and placed it beside the grouse. “He was always like a buck to me – proud, beautiful, strong.”
“Flighty,” Pedar added, and they smiled at each other.
“He always stole my blackberries.” An arm reached between them, startling them both as Sewena opened her hand and let a handful of the aforementioned treat fall. “Greedy thing that he was.”
Then, one by one, the rest of the family stopped to add an offering of their own to Mewan’s board. Even Rosen did, though her pinch of squirrel meat was left without comment. Pedar raised his eyebrows at Briallen and they smiled ruefully; both Rosen and Mewan had always hated squirrel above all things. Still, it was an offering and that was more than Briallen had expected.
Next people left things on a board for Lowena, and though Briallen looked for Demairo, she didn’t see him. Yet someone left a prized honey cake on the board, and Briallen never spotted whose hand had put it there.
There were other boards, other offerings, other conversations about lost loved ones and long-remembered family members. Since Briallen knew none of them she scarcely listened, her mind dwelling on her other recent loss. Finally, Sira Wynn stood in the space between the two fires, a wooden mug of ale in one hand and one of cider in the other.
“Honoured ancestors, revered gods, watchers of our lives, deciders of our fate, we give these offerings to you now unbound and unbegrudged. As we keep faith with you, may you keep faith with us. We ask only your blessing on this first night of winter. Drink deep and may the morning bring you new life. Kalan gawv lowen.” Then he carefully poured both mugs onto the warm ground, the cider and ale mixing together and frothing against the mud.
Tossing the wooden mugs into each of the fires, Sira Wynn clapped his hands and smiled at the family. “Now eat!”
They fell upon the feast like a starving horde.
WHEN ELISUD CONSIDERED how hard the whole family had worked to bring in the harvest – how the men had slogged while out hunting and the woman had toiled away at the feast all day – it came as no surprise that they celebrated so wildly. They’d earned it.
Never one to pass up a chance to dance, Elisud laughed as he swung Ceri around and between the fires. He danced with Sewena too when she grabbed his hand, and spun with one new niece after another. Then there were the men and boys to compete against in the spear and sword dances, and always another mug of ale or cider to drink whenever he got thirsty.
Throughout it all, though he was heartily enjoying himself, there was one thing missing: Briallen. All day his mind had run over and over the kiss they’d shared before, the shock and the heat and the pleasure of it, and the knowledge that had the children not been there, or had already been sleeping, things might not have stopped where they did. His longing had only been made worse when he checked the kiln that morning and found two remaining loaves of bread – his and hers.
Hot and flushed from the dancing, with the pounding of Sira Wynn’s drum beating through his head and the whistle of Pedar’s flute singing through his veins, Elisud looked at the world through a slightly tipsy haze. Still, he searched for the gold amongst the pale blond heads.
There, standing off to one side, drink in hand, clapping and cheering as Ceri, Gwennik, Elowen and Talwynn raced their boy cousins through a pattern dance over crossed spears, proving that girls were just as good as boys. When Ceri tripped over her own feet, somehow managing to tumble into Demairo and drag two others boys down with them, Briallen wasn’t the only one to double over with laughter.
Elisud didn’t laugh, he didn’t even smile. With his eyes set on his goal, he walked swiftly around the blazing fires.
“I was not cheating! It was an accident!” Ceri wailed at the grumpy boys, but the surrounding adults were too busy laughing to intervene. In fact everyone was quite distracted as Ceri squared up to young Mihal and dared him to dance against her, fastest feet win.
Seizing his moment, Elisud slipped his hand into Briallen’s and tugged.
She turned, surprised, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. Seeing it was him, she smiled so beautifully that Elisud knew he didn’t even need to speak. When she opened her mouth to ask a question, Elisud put a finger against his and tugged again.
Her smile widened and, entwining her fingers with his, she followed him willingly as he led her away from fires and family, deep into the shadows of the night.
BRIALLEN FELT LIKE her blood was fizzing, worse than the cider she’d been sipping all evening. While everyone else had been drinking deep, revelling in this last night of light before the dark winter set in, Briallen had tried to keep a clear head.
All day she’d been busy, all day she’d been thinking about honouring the dead, making the food, lighting the fires, celebrating the day, but now all that was done. Now, finally, her mind was clear and she could think about Elisud and the kiss they’d shared. Think about Elisud and the peaceful dark surrounding the lively feast. Elisud and perhaps another kiss. Perhaps more.
Now he was here, his hand in hers, leading her out into the dark, and she might as well have been drunk, she was so dizzy with excitement. She didn’t need to think anymore.
When they were far enough into the trees that the fires were a distant glow, the voices of the others wordless cheers and mumbles, Elisud finally stopped. “Bria,” he whispered, cupping a hand against the back of her head, his fingers spearing through her hair – a new touch, but one as familiar and right as the beat of her heart. “Anwylyd, I’ve missed you.”
When he opened his mouth to say something more, she took her chance. Standing on her toes, she pressed her lips to his. Kissing Elisud was a revelation as he instantly let her in, their tongues tangling as though they were talking.
Mewan had never kissed her like this. She’d thought they’d been as intimate as it was possible for two people to be, but Elisud had shown her with one kiss what had been missing in her marriage. He’d shown her that passion was a powerful force that made her want to crawl out of herself, to merge with him, to never let him go. And he’d shown her tenderness with light kisses, mere breaths of air that went straight to her heart.
Briallen didn’t want those precious kisses now. She wanted the wildfire, and she wanted it to blaze across her whole body, his too, not just where their mouths met. So while Elisud focused all of his considerable attention on kissing her, whispering such sweet things in a language she didn’t understand, Briallen went for his clothes.
First she unpinned his cloak, then she unwound his belt. With his long tunic flapping free, she grabbed great handfuls of wool and pushed them up. Lifting his undershirt at the same time, she slipped her hands beneath, palms caressing warm flesh. The shock of her cold touch against his bare skin made Elisud gasp, and he froze, no doubt wondering what she’d do next.
Briallen purred as her finger greedily spread and her hands slid upwards, encountering hard muscle and a soft pelt across his chest. Up, up, she reached, pushing his tunic higher until his broad chest was bared before her. Leaning in, she pressed a kiss against h
is pounding heart.
“Bria,” he groaned, fisting a hand in her hair to tug her head back. She opened her mouth willingly for his kiss, but his lips touched her neck instead. The first touch was a surprise, the nip of his teeth a shock. The hands spread across his chest turned to claws as he bit again, slowly this time, right where her neck met her shoulder and started to suckle.
She moaned, her fingers digging into his chest, then sliding weakly down across his belly.
Chuckling, Elisud pulled away and blew softly across his bite. “Do you want more, Bria?”
“Yes,” she whispered, hands landing on his braccae and searching for the cord that would untie them. “More.”
“As my Bria commands.” He kissed her neck again while his hands unpinned her cloak, letting it drop to the leaves at their feet, then started pulling up her dress. When the chilled night air bit at her bare legs, Briallen hissed.
Elisud stopped. “Is it too cold?” he asked, pulling back.
Briallen didn’t care about the cold, and definitely didn’t want to stop. Almost growling at the interruption, her busy hands finally opened his braccae and went on a search of their own.
“Bria!” it was half groan, half protest as her hands found their target. He was so much firmer than she was used to.
She stared at him, eyes wide. “You’re so big.”
And he laughed. The blasted man put his head on her shoulder and laughed, his whole body shaking with mirth. Then moaned as her hands tightened in annoyance. “Bria, my Bria, the things we will do to each other.”
“I can think of one thing I’ll do if you don’t stop laughing at me,” she growled, tightening her hands again and making him wince.
“Gods and ancestors, woman!” he yelped, pulling her hands off him and winding his fingers through hers, holding their arms out to the sides so she couldn’t damage anything else. “I thought you wanted children.”
“I don’t recall asking for yours,” she snarled, feeling itchy and frustrated, as though her skin didn’t fit anymore. She didn’t like it, wasn’t used to it, didn’t know what to do about it. Moments ago she’d felt wonderful, full of fire wanting more and more, then he stopped to ask a foolish question and now they weren’t touching anywhere except for their palms.
He stood in front of her, so tantalisingly close, holding her off with their hands spread out to either side, arms locked as if in some strange dance. His hair was rumpled, his tunic dishevelled and his braccae sagging around his hips. Briallen licked her lips at the sight, wanting to get closer again, to see what else she could muss up, or push down – or take off altogether.
“Your eyes…” Groaning, Elisud leant down and brushed a kiss across her mouth, a cruel tease of a taste. She tried to push forward against him, but he held her off. “Wait, Bria, just hold on. Look at me.”
“I am looking at you,” she replied, eyes fixed on where his tunic was bunched at his waist, willing his braccae to sag a little more. She wanted to see – as much as she could in this world of shadows.
She’d never seen a naked man before. Mewan had been brusque, hurried, almost shy as he fumbled beneath the blankets. Feeling shy herself she’d not cared, but Elisud was different. So deliciously different. She wanted to see, wanted to explore, confident he’d let her. He’d let her do anything.
“My face, Bria,” he said, voice dry. “Look at my face.”
Her sigh was full of reluctance, and he smiled when her eyes finally met his. “Is this what you want?” he asked.
She strained against his hold again and raised her eyebrows. “Did you hit your head while out hunting?”
He snorted. “Most like, since I’m certain sure I’m dreaming this.”
The words, though little more than a muttered grumble, made her feel weak with their sweetness. Her desperate need to get close, to rub against him softened into a subtle warmth that felt like honey. Her arms sagged and their hands dropped down to hang by their sides.
“You say the loveliest things to me,” she murmured, seizing her opportunity to edge closer.
His lips twitched at her move, but he didn’t protest when she freed her hands and slid them up to his shoulders. His palms settled around her waist, supporting her as she stretched up for another kiss. Gentle and tender this time, but perfect, as all their kisses were.
“I want you, Bria,” he whispered, when the heat stirred between them again, their mouths turning demanding. “Any way I can have you, anything you will give me, but it’s cold. I don’t want –”
“I do,” she said firmly, tugging him down and down, until they knelt on their discarded cloaks. “I do want. Do my needs matter?”
“Always,” he whispered as she pushed him back, willingly lying down for her as she pushed his up tunic again, spreading her hands over his chest. “Fy nghariad, they’re the only ones that matter.”
Grinning, she whipped the wool over his head, removing his linen undershirt at the same time. “You really do say the sweetest things.”
He smiled up at her and slid his hands beneath her dress again. “If it’s sweet you’re wanting, cariad, I can do that.”
“And if it’s not?” she murmured, straddling his hips and leaning down to meet his kiss. “If I want something… more?”
“Then how about wicked? Or even wickedly sweet?”
“Show me,” she whispered, and forgot how to speak as he taught her all about sweet wickedness in the shadows of the night.