We move south and west, keeping off the main paths and avoiding settlements as far as possible, keeping in the woodlands and hunting for our food, swimming rivers too deep to wade rather than risking fords and ferries. A couple of times we sense the pursuit- a horseman seen in a village questioning the inhabitants as we skirt round the edge of the fields before heading into the woods again, riders on the skyline as we make our way along a marshy river bank. They don’t see us but it makes for a nervous journey and a slower one than we’d like- always taking the indirect route may be safer but makes for a longer ride .

Despite this we are nearing the edge of Brigantia. One river crossing and we’ll be in Ordovician territory; while I don’t suppose this will stop our pursuers they won’t find it quite so easy to operate there. It’s a strange irony. Ordovices and Brigantes have never been great friends but we’ll be safer on their territory than on ours (somehow I still think of Brigantia as in some way my home, even though I’ve never lived there and it’s become increasingly hostile territory).

We are heading through the woods on a minor but current path. It’s afternoon. We’ve already discussed how we cross the Dee though without reaching a conclusion. Brann is leading for the moment, Flidhais behind him and me bringing up the rear. Suddenly Brann stops.

“Someone coming this way.” He says.

We draw off the path, but remain mounted. There’s a rustle ahead, and the whinny of a horse. Hands go to swords.

A cart lumbers into sight, pulled by a pony. It’s laden with people. More people walk beside it. Women, a couple carrying babies, and children. An ancient man lies in the cart unconscious. Something’s not right here; this isn’t a group of henwives coming back from market chattering about their sales and purchases.

Brann motions us forward. The woman driving the cart screams, the others cower back from us.

“What’s the matter, sisters?” Flidhais asks. Her voice has a calming effect.

The cart driver says “Sorry sister, we thought you was more of them.”

“Who?”

“Them. The Hooded One’s riders- or their Roman friends. Or the slavers.”

My hair prickles on my neck again.

“What’s been happening, sister?” I ask. “We’re no friends of the Romans, or the Hooded One.”

The woman explains. She comes from the village by the main ford. For days and days there have been riders posted at the ford asking all who try to cross what their business might be. Any who could not give a satisfactory explanation were seized and fettered and bundled into a couple of empty huts- young men, mostly, heading off to fight the Romans. The riders were controlled by a hooded figure who came and went with a group of further horsemen. From time to time additional fettered figures were herded into the village to join the others.

The villagers were scared. Their headman kept saying that the riders were acting on the authority of the Queen and her Council but his eyes showed that even he didn’t really believe it. They needed more and more provisions for themselves and their captives (though the latter fared poorly), more and more space for the prisoners. They pushed the villagers around, ate their food and stole their property. Several village lads ended up in chains themselves for challenging them.

Then, two nights ago, the Romans came. A detachment of Roman cavalry rode up to the village, accompanied by the Hooded One and the other Brigantian horsemen- and by a group of slavers. The Roman commander posted men by the ferry and prepared to camp outside the village. The Hooded One had other ideas. The Brigantian horsemen and the slavers began turning people out of their homes- adult males were seized and chained up. Women and children told they had to leave or they’d be enslaved too. The oldest man in the village, who cursed the lot of them and refused to move, was beaten to unconsciousness. The Romans moved into the vacant huts and began to strengthen the village fortifications, though some of the soldiers had looked uneasy at what they were doing. And the women finally, slowly, moved away after a slaver had shot arrows at them when they tried to make camp in their fields.

Brann looks at me, his fury barely contained. “Betrayal, black betrayal.” There are tears in his eyes.

“We have to do something” Flidhais adds.

“How many?” I ask the women. There’s some debate but they finally agree that there are about a score of Romans, as many renegade Brigantes and perhaps ten slavers. “How many captives?” There’s more debate before they arrive at a consensus guess of between four and five score.

I look at the huddled women and children. Flidhais is right- we have to act.

“We’ll get them out.” I say with a confidence I don’t entirely feel. “Yes we will.” Brann echoes. “Or die trying.” Flidhais casts a concerned look at him. “Please don’t talk of death, my love” she says.

We obtain some more information about the layout of the village and ride on. The village women call all the blessings they can muster on our heads.