Two
lives. Two stories. One future.
AD 71
Northern Britannia
At
the Islet of the Priestesses, acolyte Nara greets each new day eager to heal
the people at Tarras Hillfort. Weapon training is a guilty pleasure, but she is
devastated when she is unexpectedly denied the final rites of an initiated
priestess. A shocking new future beckons for Princess Nara of the Selgovae…
In
the aftermath of civil war across Brigantia, Lorcan of Garrigill’s promotion
of King Venutius is fraught with danger. Potential invasion by Roman legions
from the south makes an unstable situation even worse. When Lorcan meets the
Druid Maran, the future foretold for him is as enthralling as it is horrifying…
Meet Nara and Lorcan before their tumultuous meeting
of each other in The Beltane Choice, Book 1 of the acclaimed Celtic
Fervour Series.
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EXCERPT
AD 71 Brigante and Carvetii Territorial
Border
Lorcan of Garrigill mulled over the events
of the previous evening as his horse plodded on towards the river-crossing. The
path they travelled was frost-laden. It was brittle and sparkling in places
where puddles in the dips had iced over, though a nippy spell around the time
of the Festival of Imbolc was fairly predictable.
The visit he had just made to Chief Creik
had not been as successful as he had hoped for. The chief had been reasonably
hospitable and open-minded, but some of the village tribesmen had shown
continued resistance to the latest circumstances that people, the length and
breadth of Brigantia, had found themselves in.
“Lorcan of Garrigill! Is this not the
finest of mornings?”
Startled by the call, Lorcan whipped up his
chin and looked around him, acknowledging that his surveying of the area had
been dire. The hailing had come from the line of alders and gnarled willows
that lay ahead, close to the ford. Deep suspicion knotted in his gut when he
recognised the speaker who stepped free of the trunk and other winter-spindly
growth that had conveniently concealed him.
It was one of the more outspoken men around
chief Creik’s hearth.
The warrior pointed his spear aloft and
shouted again.
“Look above! Ambisagrus smiles upon
us. Our weather god is in a playful mood this morning. May the deities grant
you a favourable visit at the next roundhouse you journey to.”
In contrast to the scowls and barbs of the
night before, the man’s greeting seemed affable, the wide smile appreciative of
the pleasant scene around them. Perhaps the tribesman had wakened thinking
differently?
Giving the warrior the benefit of the
doubt, Lorcan likewise addressed him.
“Aye, indeed, I am looking forward to
that.” He indicated the empty sack strapped around the man’s back. “The day is
good and clear for spying your prey.”
When Lorcan’s horse drew closer, the
warrior’s initial toothy-smile faded and was replaced by a single raised brow.
“You mean that my quarry will be easily
seen?” The warrior’s jaw tightened. Pure malice flashed, and the next words
spat free of clenched teeth. “You are right about that!”
Lorcan only just glimpsed the man’s
handgrip flipping, before the spear hurtled towards him, like a thunderbolt
from the god Taranis.
Pure instinct made him force his upper body
sidewards, his arm flying up to protect his face. Almost sliding off the horse,
it was impossible to avoid the spear completely. The sharpened point sliced
along the edge of his palm before the spear careened on to thump the ground
behind him. Urging Dubh Srànnal to leap ahead using knee pressure alone, Lorcan
grabbed the mane and righted himself.
His attacker had turned tail and was
sprinting away. Lorcan yanked his sword free of the metal scabbard that hung
from his belt, but in a blink tossed the weapon across to his left hand, the
sheer agony of his wound belatedly making its presence felt. His palm felt as
slick as a tallow torch brand, blood now flowing freely from it.
In a few horse-strides, he was upon the
fleeing figure and with one wide sweep of his blade, he whacked the warrior to
the ground. Though not intended to behead, the slice at the shoulder was
forceful enough to make the man’s flesh ooze free, and a deep-red stain spread
onto the ground.
Leaping off Dubh Srànnal, Lorcan used the
flat of his foot to roll his assailant over.
The warrior’s furious glare berated him.
“My spear should have sung more sweetly
than that, Lorcan of Garrigill.” Huge gasps came Lorcan’s way as the downed man
persisted, attempting to scuttle himself backwards and out of reach using his
heels. “The gods must favour you…because my aim is usually known to be
infallible.”
The warrior tried to raise himself on his
uninjured side, his rant not nearly over. Lorcan kicked hard at the thighs
below him, to keep his assailant prone.
More agonised grunts spat Lorcan’s way.
“All supporters of that useless supplanter
– Venutius – must be wiped from Brigantia,” the warrior gasped. “Queen
Cartimandua is still our ruler.”
“Venutius is useless? You still think this
even after all of the explanations that you heard last night about
Cartimandua’s duplicity with the usurping Roman Empire?” Lorcan willed his
temper to recede. The man below would not have the pleasure of riling him.
The warrior used his elbow to gain height,
though managed to lift his body only a tiny bit before an eruption of frustration
forced another collapse. The breath almost knocked out of the warrior, Lorcan
was surprised when the man’s harangue continued, the facial expressions still
venomous under the agony. “Your…persuasive visits to the hamlets around here…
must be stopped!”
Thumping his left foot onto the man’s
stomach completely stifled a renewed attempt to rise. The resulting noises and
pathetic squirms beneath pleased Lorcan greatly, though the continuing conflict
of opinions over who now ruled Brigantia created a deep disappointment in him,
too.
The flash of the warrior’s small knife,
fumbled free from its belt sheath and thrust upwards, was a last frantic
attempt from the downed man.
The spear attack was bad enough, but for
the warrior to attempt a second wounding? That was beyond reason for Lorcan.
The raising of his sword hilt-high above
the man’s neck was deliberate, and his words were equally unhurried.
“My death will surely come, warrior of
Creik. Nonetheless, it will not be by your hand,” he declared. “Of that, you
can be certain.”
Nancy
Jardine
Nancy
Jardine lives in the spectacular ‘Castle Country’ of
Aberdeenshire, Scotland. Her main writing focus has, to date, been historical
and time travel fiction set in Roman Britain, though she’s also
published contemporary mystery novels with genealogy plots. If not writing,
researching (an unending obsession), reading or gardening, her young
grandchildren will probably be entertaining her, or she’ll be
binge-watching historical films and series made for TV.
She
loves signing/ selling her novels at local events and gives author
presentations locally across Aberdeenshire. These are generally about her
novels or with a focus on Ancient Roman Scotland, presented to groups large and
small. Zoom sessions have been an entertaining alternative to presenting
face-to-face events during, and since, the Covid 19 pandemic restrictions.
Current
memberships are with the Historical Novel Society; Scottish Association of
Writers; Federation of Writers Scotland, Romantic Novelists Association and the
Alliance of Independent Authors. She’s
self-published with the author co-operative Ocelot Press.
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