as Brann and Flid pack up and prepare to leave with Vaugn. I have a lot to think about. Flid’s final comments are a bit of a worry- are my feelings about Val really that visible?

As I approach the village I instinctively slow down and consider how best to enter it, just in case there are spying eyes about. It’s not going to be easy to get in unobserved, especially on a day of brilliant sunshine and perfect visibility. I look down from the slight rise which shelters the village from easterly winds. I’m almost tempted just to ride on down the main path- after all this is supposed to be friendly territory. Something holds me back and encourages me to head back towards the sea and approach the huddle of huts via the beach, Lugh splashing through the receding tide to ensure that we leave no tracks. We enter the village by way of the shallow stream which runs through it. Many of the population have already left to follow the tide out and collect shellfish; others are working in the fields.

I dismount outside the village head’s hut- and the hair on my neck rises when I see the hoof marks and droppings of many horses in the soft ground. The chief welcomes me but the anxiety is obvious in his face.

“We had visitors.” he says. “Asking lots of questions, they were. Can’t say as how I liked the look of them.”

“Who were they?”

“Dunno. Looked like Brigs- right hair, right marks. The one who seemed to be in charge was a Brig, I think, though from over Ebraic way by his speech.” He spat on the ground. There’s little love between the folk on this side of the mountains and those on the other, where Ebraic is, even if they all call themselves Brigantians. “He was a chief of some kind, judging by his arm and neck rings. The others were mostly just lads; could’ve been from anywhere. And there was one queer one- wrapped in a long cloak, they were and you couldn’t see a face. Can’t say if it was a man or a woman, even- but I reckon that was the real boss.”

“When was this?”

“Just after dawn.”

“What were they asking?”

“All sorts. Had we seen anyone who wasn’t local in the area recently? Was anyone in the village keeping guests? Specifically, had we seen a man and a woman about- implied they was some kind of outlaws. Had we seen a wolf? Damn fool question that- everyone know there aren’t any wolves in these parts and any that showed its snout would get it bashed smartish.”

“What did you say about me?”

“Funny, that. They seemed to know someone was here from outside the village. Reckon someone here must have told’em.” He scowls; I suspect if he can identify who’s been blabbing they’ll have a hard time. “I told ‘em you was my sister’s husband’s brother from up north, down here to get hold of some shellfish for your wife’s cousin’s wedding. They asked a few questions about that but they seemed to believe me- and they lost interest after a bit. Reckon they weren’t so interested in you but I didn’t want to take any chances. Told’em you’d gone out to the cockle beds and I reckoned you’d had to take cover from the storms”

“Good. Thank you.”

I then explain that I have to leave but will have to send a message to my superiors. I get a tablet out of my saddlebags and draw the symbols on the wax with a stylus. His son, who has joined us, watched with undisguised awe; I don’t suppose he’s ever seen someone writing ogams before. He already views me as something half way to a druid; this will just reinforce his reverence. I explain to him what he needs to do- the tablet must be safely wrapped and buried in a barrel of shellfish (that had been an optional extra before but now I insist), the barrel then to be taken to the market in Caer Lann where he would retrieve it from its resting place and deliver it to my contact who would be waiting at the bar of the Blue Boar. I take him through the code signs and phrases- and warn him only to exchange them with the right man. If the contact isn’t there then he should erase the message and come home. It’s a risk and I feel worried about what I might be asking the lad to get into. I realise with a shudder that he must look a bit like I did when I was his age and ready for my very first job for the Sickle. It also strikes me that, had my child been born and been a boy, he’d have been much the same age as this lad. I suddenly feel old and tired.

He soaks up the instructions and asks a few very sensible questions. He also says “You’d better know, sir, that one of them incomers sneaked into our hut to search your belongings while their boss was talking to Dad. He found nowt. You must’ve taken all your special-like stuff with you. I checked your belongings when the riders came.”

I smile. I had indeed taken all the material which revealed my status in the Sickle with me when I rode out- I needed it to prove who I was to the druids when they came ashore. Also I had had half a feeling something like this might just happen. Brigantia is supposed to be safe country but it doesn’t feel like it any more. In some ways it’s worse than operating in Roman occupied territory- there you know you’re among enemies. Here you can’t be sure who’s a friend and who isn’t.

I thank the lad, pack my belongings and thank him and his father again. I slip them a few coins in payment despite their objections.

And then I ride away. I take a very indirect route, just in case there are watchers posted; I ride out of the village northwards. Five minutes ride there’s a patch of woodland which goes down to the beach; I divert from the path there on to the beach, walking Lugh out to the tide line and move along the water’s edge on foot, trying to look like a cockeler with his horse. It’s a thin disguise; I have to hope that nobody is looking at the shoreline with real attention. I work past the village on the seaward side, finally mounting up as it fades in the distance and riding furiously for the cave.

Flid and Brann and Vaugn have moved on. I pick up the cart trails easily enough and follow them southwards. It feels like a long day but the sun is only just past its highest point.