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  BARBARIAN SLAVE

  A Scottish Dark Ages Romance

  The Warrior Brothers of Skye

  Book Two

  JAYNE CASTEL

  Your free starter library is waiting! Join me in 7th Century Anglo-Saxon England and receive a 30,000-word historical romance novella and two full-length novels. Immerse yourself in the Dark Ages!

  Historical Romances by Jayne Castel

  DARK AGES BRITAIN

  The Kingdom of the East Angles series

  Night Shadows (prequel novella)

  Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)

  Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)

  The Deepening Night (Book Three)

  The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series

  The Kingdom of Mercia series

  The Breaking Dawn (Book One)

  Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)

  Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)

  The Kingdom of Northumbria series

  The Whispering Wind (Book One)

  Wind Song (Book Two)

  DARK AGES SCOTLAND

  The Warrior Brothers of Skye series

  Blood Feud (Book One)

  Barbarian Slave (Book Two)

  He takes her as his war prize—but she enslaves his soul. Pict and Roman culture collide in this epic Historical Romance set in Dark Ages Scotland.

  Lucrezia is the wife of a Roman soldier posted on the northernmost reach of the Empire. Locked in an unhappy marriage upon a desolate outpost, she feels her youth slipping away. However, her life changes forever in the winter of 367 AD. Barbarians from the north band together and attack Hadrian's Wall.

  Tarl mac Muin is a Pict warrior with a thirst for battle and glory. He's part of the Barbarian Conspiracy that will change history. But when he takes Lucrezia as his slave, he sets off a chain of events that neither of them could have foreseen.

  In an epic adventure that starts at the Roman fort of Vindolanda at Hadrian's Wall and takes Lucrezia north to the wild shores of the Isle of Skye—she discovers love and happiness when she least expects it. Only, a shadow from the past risks ruining everything.

  All characters and situations in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  Barbarian Slave by Jayne Castel

  Copyright © 2018 by Jayne Castel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.

  Published by Winter Mist Press.

  Edited by Tim Burton

  Cover photography courtesy of www.shutterstock.com

  Eagle image courtesy of www.pixabay.com

  Maps of Scotland and Hadrian’s Wall courtesy of Wikipedia

  Map of ‘The Winged Isle’ by Jayne Castel

  ‘We are the weavers’ pagan chant by Shekhinah Mountainwater

  Visit Jayne’s website and blog: www.jaynecastel.com

  Follow Jayne on Twitter: @JayneCastel

  ***

  For Tim—my true romantic.

  ***

  Contents

  Maps of Scotland, The Winged Isle, and Hadrian’s Wall

  Background notes for BARBARIAN SLAVE

  Prologue

  Death and Destiny

  Chapter One

  The Soldier’s Wife

  Chapter Two

  A Red Dawn

  Chapter Three

  Savior, Captor

  Chapter Four

  The Spoils of War

  Chapter Five

  The Day’s Close

  Chapter Six

  A Matter of Honor

  Chapter Seven

  Barbarian Slave

  Chapter Eight

  I am No Healer

  Chapter Nine

  After Dark

  Chapter Ten

  All Hope is Gone

  Chapter Eleven

  The Threat

  Chapter Twelve

  The Winged Isle

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tarl’s War Prize

  Chapter Fourteen

  Your Property

  Chapter Fifteen

  In His Brother’s Shadow

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clearing the Air

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Right Moment

  Chapter Eighteen

  Are We to Be Enemies?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hunting with Hawks

  Chapter Twenty

  Bealtunn

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Wurgest’s Challenge

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Divination

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Meeting in the Armory

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Come Back Safe

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Mo Chridhe

  Chapter Twenty-six

  With the Dawn

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The Valley of the Tors

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The Reaper Comes

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Spoiling for a Fight

  Chapter Thirty

  Awoken

  Epilogue

  Across the Threshold

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  More works by Jayne Castel

  About the Author

  Maps of Scotland, The Winged Isle, and Hadrian’s Wall

  Background notes for BARBARIAN SLAVE

  Glossary

  Aos Sí or Fair Folk: fairies

  bandruí: a female druid or seer

  Broch: a tall, round, stone-built, hollow-walled Iron Age tower-house

  Caesars: the Ancient Romans

  Cruthini: the name the mainland Picts gave to themselves

  The Land of the Cruthini: Pictland

  Place names

  An t-Eilean Sgitheanach: Gaelic name for the Isle of Skye

  Beinn na Caillich: the Red Hill of Skye

  Dun Ardtreck: a broch located on the Minginish Peninsula of Skye

  Dun Ringill: an Iron Age hill fort on the Strathaird Peninsula of Skye

  Kyleakin: a village on the south-east edge of Skye

  Vindolanda: fort on Hadrian’s Wall

  The four tribes of The Winged Isle*

  The People of The Eagle (south-west)

  The People of The Wolf (north-west)

  The People of The Boar (south-east)

  The People of The Stag (north-east)

  Gods and Goddesses of The Winged Isle*

  The Mother: Goddess of enlightenment and feminine energy—the bringer of change

  The Warrior: God of battle, life and growth, of summer

  The Maiden: Young goddess of nature and fertility

  The Hag: Goddess of the dark—sleep, dreams, death, winter, and the earth

  The Reaper: God of death

  Festivities on the Isle of Skye*

  Earth Fire: Salute to new life and the first signs of spring (February 1)

  Bealtunn: Spring Equinox

  Mid-Summer Fire: Summer Equinox

  Harvest Fire: Festival to salute the harvest (Aug 1)

  Gateway: Passage from summer to winter (October 31/November 1)

  Mid-Winter Fire: Winter Equinox

  * Author’s note: I have taken ‘artistic license’ when it comes to the names of the tribes, festivities and gods and goddesses upon the Isle of Skye. The historical evidence is very scant, making it a challenge for me to get an accurate picture of what the names of the tribes living upon Skye during the 4th century would have been. Likewise, I could not find any references to their gods and festivities. The Picts were an en
igmatic people, and we only have their ruins and symbols to cast light on how they lived and whom they worshipped. To make my setting as authentic as possible, I have studied the rituals and religions of the Celtic peoples of Scotland, Ireland and Wales of a similar period and have created a culture I feel could have existed.

  Cast of characters (in alphabetical order)

  Ailene: daughter of Mael and Maphon

  Alpia: female Eagle warrior

  Cal, Namet, Lutrin and Ru: Galan’s four most trusted warriors

  Cassius Severus: general at Vindolanda

  Deri: young woman married to Cal, one of Galan’s warriors

  Donnel mac Muin: youngest brother of The Eagle chieftain

  Eithni: Tea’s younger sister

  Galan mac Muin: Eagle chieftain

  Loxa: Wurgest’s younger brother

  Luana: Donnel’s wife (deceased)

  Lucrezia: Roman woman

  Macum: Eagle warrior

  Mael: Luana’s sister (married to Maphan)

  Marcus Donatus: Lucrezia’s husband

  Ruith: the seer at Dun Ringill

  Talor: Luana and Donnel’s infant son

  Tarl mac Muin: younger brother of The Eagle chieftain

  Tea: Galan’s wife

  Urcal: Wurgest’s elder brother, the Boar chieftain

  Wurgest mac Wrad: Boar warrior

  The future is not written in stone. It shifts like sand on the shore, like reeds in the wind. Every act in the present has the power to change it.

  —Ruith, bandruí of Dun Ringill

  Prologue

  Death and Destiny

  Winter, 367 AD—Pictland

  Fifty furlongs north of Hadrian’s Wall

  The wind had claws this evening. It whistled in from the north and gusted against the encampment of hide tents erected in the shallow vale. It raked down exposed flesh and dug its talons through the gaps in the makeshift shelters. The sun had slid behind the hills to the west, taking its watery warmth with it.

  On the perimeters of the camp, Tarl mac Muin was part of the first watch. He stamped his feet in an effort to restore circulation and pulled his fur cloak tightly about him. His breath steamed before him in the gloaming, and his nose was numb.

  The Hag take us all, it’s as cold as a cairn out here.

  He was of hardy stock. All warriors of An t-Eilean Sgitheanach—The Winged Isle to the north-west of this territory—were. Yet this damp cold got into the marrow of a man’s bones.

  “Are your balls frozen yet?” His brother, Donnel, appeared next to him.

  Tarl was too cold to even smile at Donnel’s attempt at humor. He glanced over at his face, illuminated by the flickering light of the brazier before them. Peat threw out a lot of heat and burned long, but it seemed to barely reach them this evening. Donnel’s face, surrounded by fur, was white and pinched, although his eyes glittered darkly. Even the cold could not dim his eagerness for the coming battle.

  Tarl shrugged. “Hard to tell. I’ve lost all feeling below the waist.” He glanced up at the sky, which had gone a deep shade of indigo.

  This time tomorrow he would either be dead or victorious. It felt odd to think of it. Put into perspective like that the cold did not matter as much as it had a moment earlier.

  “Ready for dawn?” Donnel asked. Tarl felt his brother’s gaze on his face, and knew he was studying him, looking for any sign of worry or misgiving.

  He would find none.

  “Aye.” Tarl glanced down from the sky, his gaze meeting Donnel’s. “I’ve waited too long for this day.”

  Donnel’s mouth curved. “Impatient to die, brother?”

  Tarl snorted. “No … eager to prove myself and return home in glory.”

  Donnel gave him a long assessing look. “Galan’s not going to care either way, you know that? If you’re doing this to impress him, you’re wasting your time.”

  Tarl frowned. Donnel’s comment cut a little too close to the bone. Galan, the eldest brother—now the leader of The Eagle tribe—was everything he was not. Galan had taken after their mother the most. She had been a serene woman of quiet strength. Tarl was like their father, Muin: fiery, restless, and impulsive. It was Galan’s right to rule, nonetheless Tarl chafed at being his younger brother. Their fort, Dun Ringill, felt too small, too restrictive.

  Although Galan ruled, it was Tarl who had led the band of Eagle warriors south—Tarl who had agreed to join the campaign against the Caesars when Galan had hesitated.

  “I know,” he replied, finding it hard to keep bitterness from his voice. “Galan is above such things. Yet I still need to show him I’m a warrior in my own right, not just his hotheaded younger brother he needs to keep on a leash.”

  Donnel barked out a laugh. “It doesn’t matter how much Roman blood you spill tomorrow, you’re never going to change his view of you.”

  Tarl huffed. “At least I plan to live through the coming battle.” He saw his brother’s face turn grim at this, but continued nonetheless. “These days, you don’t seem to care if you live or die.”

  Donnel stared into the flames. “You’re right … I seek oblivion,” he replied, his voice dull and flat. “Luana was my life. Without her, I see only darkness.”

  Tarl watched him. Donnel had lost his wife earlier that winter in childbirth. He had been a changed man ever since. “So you don’t want to go home?”

  Donnel shook his head. “There’s nothing for me there.”

  Tarl frowned. That was not true. Donnel still had him and Galan. Not only that, but Luana had given birth to a son, who as far as they were aware still lived.

  “The people of The Eagle need you, brother,” he said after a lengthy pause. “We live in dangerous times—Dun Ringill must be protected.”

  A deep voice sounded behind the brothers then, interrupting their conversation. “Ready to bring down the Caesars, lads? I’m looking forward to hearing the first one squeal as I rip my axe through his gut.”

  Tarl and Donnel turned to spy a huge warrior with a thick mane of black hair and an unruly beard striding toward them. Despite the biting cold, Wurgest was scantily clad in a plaid loin cloth and leather vest. Upon his right bicep he bore the mark of The Boar.

  Not for the first time Tarl was pleased that he and Wurgest were on the same side—he would not like to meet The Boar warrior in battle.

  There were four tribes upon The Winged Isle—The Stag, The Wolf, The Eagle, and The Boar—and many of their warriors had joined the group amassing for the campaign to the south. Men and women from every corner of the north had come—Cruthini, Attacotti, and Scotti. Even Saxones from the south had joined them. All had united for a common purpose: to bring down the oppressors who guarded the great wall to the south. To defend The Land of the Cruthini.

  Wurgest stepped in between Donnel and Tarl, warming his huge hands over the burning peat. His dark-blue eyes gleamed in the orange glow of the brazier. “We’ve delayed here long enough—it’s time to strike.”

  Next to him Donnel snorted. “Aye, I’m sick of waiting.”

  Tarl stamped his feet once more. The fur foot wrappings he wore provided little protection from the biting cold. He still had a while to go on his watch before he would be able to retire for the evening.

  Like his companions he was weary of the long wait. It was almost two moons now since he had left The Winged Isle, and this campaign was starting to feel endless. The might of the united tribes surrounded him, spreading down the vale, their peat fires twinkling in the darkness. Together they were strong—much stronger than the sleeping garrison to the south.

  His destiny awaited there. He felt as if his whole life had been building toward this day. He would soon be part of the battle that would stop the Caesars from spreading their influence any farther north—the attack that his people would sing songs around the fireside about for years to come.

  “Aye,” Tarl replied. “Dawn can’t come soon enough.”

  Chapter One

  The Soldie
r’s Wife

  Vindolanda fort, Hadrian’s Wall

  Stifling a yawn, Lucrezia took a sip of sloe wine and fixed her attention on the dancing flames in the hearth.

  She hated it when her husband insisted she accompany him to social events. She preferred to remain at their villa just south of the walls of Vindolanda. Never one to enjoy idle-chatter or political debate, she barely suffered these evenings and counted the moments till they ended. The long suppers with her husband’s superiors tended to be boring at best, painful at worst.

  Yet she could not refuse Marcus—she had never been able to.

  This evening they sat in the triclinium, the sumptuous dining room of Cassius Severus. He was the general commanding this garrison—the largest along the wall. His villa was built mostly of local grey-brown stone, although he had brought in costly marble to line the floor. Huge urns dotted the room, and a bronze bust of a stern-faced man, Cassius’s late father, loomed in one corner.

  “Is the wine pleasing, Lucrezia?” Cassius asked from across the table, his voice low and intimate. She glanced up from watching the fire to find the general observing her under hooded lids.

  He wanted her. She had known that from their first meeting, and he stared at her now as if they were alone. As if her husband, Marcus, was not sitting a few feet away.

  But Marcus was not looking in her direction. He was deep in conversation with Antonius, another high-ranking soldier, and had not looked her way for a while; so engrossed was he in his discussion with his friend.

  His friend … or his lover?

  Lucrezia wondered if Cassius’s knowledge of her husband’s sexual preferences had made him bolder with her. Marcus Donatus was a private man, and did not flaunt his lovers, yet the general’s attentions had become overbearing of late.