The road out of the Feywoods as they now knew them to be truly called, was a long one that stretched on for leagues without any seeming end, or so thought Indulf. Neglected as all roads in Caledonia had become, since the reign of Siomon, who had endeavoured to ensure that though the roads were not as impressive as Romalian ones, they were still functional. Or so Wulfnoth told them, as they walked along the road leaving the forest behind them, a touch of admiration in his voice as he spoke of the greatest of the MacCináed kings.

  “There was a time, before the great wars that splintered our nation for nigh on a century when all of Caledonia was rich, was green and when the whole of the realm was united.” He had recounted to them with considerable cheer.

  Cormac appeared fascinated, whereas Daegan took visible pride in this knowledge as though it were her own accomplishment rather than that of one of their ancestors’ kings. Trygve for his own part was sceptical.

  Indulf did not doubt the accomplishment, what he did doubt was how golden the age might well have been. Indulf was of the view that the deed ought to be credited to the people, to the Caleds rather than that of the High-King, if only because the effort had necessitated thousands of labourers.

  “Are you not a Brittian? Why take pride in the accomplishments of those who were your foes?” Indulf asked after a few minutes of gathering his courage.

  “For centuries Norlion was caught between the fangs of the lion and the leopard,” Informed the cleric with a small if sad smile, “Some are more Caled than Brittian, and others more Brittian than Caled. My mother came from Norlion, though my father was a Jorvik-man, a carpenter of some renowned if I may say so. I had four elder brothers, and so was given over to the monastery, it was there that the abbot who was a Caled by the name of Lachlan. It was he who taught me much, of the ways of the Caleds and of we Brittians, and who imparted to me a desire to see the lands of those born in the lands of Caledonia.”

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  “This Lachlan sounds like a lovely man,” Daegan said with unusual femininity, a white-toothed smile on her lips.

  Walking a short distance behind her and Cormac, who trailed to either side of the cleric, Indulf was not blind to the manner in which Cormac reddened at the sight of her smile.

  Bemused, if he had had half as much boldness as his brother, he might well have let slip a teasing comment at Cormac’s expense.

  “He indeed was, he has long since passed away,” Wulfnoth murmured sorrowfully, “He was as a father to me and passed to the same sweating plague that took away my two brothers and my parents. ‘Twas a sad year, though I take relief in the knowledge that they are with the Saviour in the realm of light of holy Orcus.”

  “Likely growing fat now, so that he is not so lovely now,” Trygve said irreverently.

  Cormac stifled a snort, and Daegan frowned with displeasure. She was never one to take matters of religion lightly. Indulf’s own feelings were somewhere between the blonder lad and the scarlet-haired lass, as he felt a small amount of disapproval tinged with wry amusement erupt within him.

  Inga might well have snickered and chortled at Trygve’s jest, for all her faith she could be every bit as irreverent as the fisherman was.

  The memory of the woman who ought to have been his wife, filled him with such grief that he had to repress the tears that came unbidden to his eyes. This had become such a regular occurrence that the son of Freygil had become accustomed to either wiping his eyes or forcing himself to snort and not think about his loss.

  What he was also accustomed to, was a deep well of anger that at times tinted his vision with red and black at the thought of the phantom-riders. Such was the force of this desire for justice for the murder of his beloved that he oft trembled and shook. He would give anything to punish those monsters, for taking away the only person he had ever loved, so passionately.

  Where once upon a time Indulf had prayed solely to Khnum and Turan, the former to aid with his needlework and to the latter for a happy marriage to Inga, and for her continued good-health, he now prayed to Ziu the war-god for courage and revenge.

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