‘My son will defeat them,’ said Meria. ‘It is his destiny.’
‘Yes, lady,’ said Furse. Then he remembered the letter he carried. He passed it to Meria. ‘I fear the contents will sadden you. I will allow you to read it in private.’ He rose, but Meria beckoned him to seat himself.
‘If my sons are alive and we have a victory I can think of nothing to sadden me,’ she said. Breaking the seal she held the letter at arm’s length, squinting to see the large script. She finished the letter, then leaned back in her chair, eyes closed.
‘What is it?’ asked Gwen. Meria merely shook her head, rose from the chair and walked from the room. Gwen turned back to Furse. ‘Do you know what was in the letter?’
‘I believe I do, lady. There were Pannone rebels among the Vars – perhaps three hundred or so. They were led by Guern, a noble from the far north. He and seven of his men escaped, but we will find him.’ Furse looked away. ‘But there was another with them. He was spotted fleeing the field. Our outriders could have taken him, but they were so surprised that they held back.’ Furse sighed. ‘It was the king’s brother, Braefar. He was with the enemy.’
Wik drained another cup of uisge. He had hoped to get drunk, but the alcohol seemed to have little effect on him. The sixty survivors of the hilltop battle had not returned to the forest, but were camped at Bane’s farm, sharing the roundhouse huts of Bane’s workers. Wik himself had been offered, and accepted, a room in the main building. The following day Bane and Gryffe had carried a chest from one of the barns, and paid each man the sum promised. Wik himself had been given more than one hundred pieces of gold, the extra five he had been promised plus two more for each man slain. It was more gold than Wik had seen in his thirty-one years. He gave it away, distributing it equally among the survivors. The act amazed him, and even now, a day later, he could not imagine why he had done it. The sense of sadness following the battle had not left him, and even the alcohol could not numb it.
Bane found him sitting in the hay loft of the first barn, staring out over the hills. The young warrior, carrying a fresh jug of uisge and a lighted lantern, climbed to the loft and sat beside the outlaw chief. The sun was dipping below the mountains and the land spread out before them was glowing in its fading light.
Bane hung the lantern on a peg then filled Wik’s cup and his own. ‘If we had stayed in Three Streams,’ he said, ‘they’d probably have thrown a feast for us.’
‘A pox on their feasts,’ said Wik.
Bane laughed. ‘I have never seen you this sour,’ he said. ‘Are you this way after every heroic act?’
‘How would I know?’ countered Wik. ‘This was my first.’
‘Then what ails you, Wik?’
‘I wish I knew.’ He glanced at the man beside him. ‘That chest was almost empty by the end, Bane. Are you a poor man now?’
‘I’ve as much left as you,’ he answered, with a smile.
‘Then what a pair of fools we are,’ said Wik. The far hills turned to gold for a moment with the last blazing light of the dying sun. ‘Ah, but that was pretty,’ he said, as darkness fell. ‘You know that most of the men who died were newcomers? They weren’t really outlaws, just poor folk who had no food in the winter. Some were Pannone, others Norvii. There was even a Cenii lad. Yet they put on the armour you gave them and they fought like . . . like . . .’
‘Heroes,’ said Bane.
‘Aye, heroes.’ Wik hawked and spat through the opening. ‘And for what? People who wouldn’t have given them a crust of stale bread if they were dying of starvation. I saw Boile go down. They damn near hacked off his arm, and he carried on fighting. He was a stupid man, was Boile. And he was frightened of the dark. Last summer his hut burnt down because he left the fire blazing.’ Wik laughed. ‘He came running out with his leggings ablaze.’ His smile faded. ‘What in the name of Taranis was he doing standing his ground like that?’