move. They would not press Berikos to keep his bargain. When the time came, they would retake the property belonging to the Drusus Corinium family.
The word was passed among the Dobunni villages that any wishing to relearn the ancient arts of war were to come to Berikos’s village, where they would be housed, fed, and taught in exchange for their service. Several wooden barracks were built within the walls of the hill fort for the prospective warriors. One hundred fifty young men, ranging in age from thirteen to eighteen, came. Berikos was disappointed with the small number. He had honestly believed there would be more.
“What did you expect?” Ceara said to him. “There are only a thousand of us. Many of the young men are already married, and do not choose to leave their families. Why should they?”
“What of honor?” Berikos said, outraged by her words.
Maeve chuckled. “Honor has little hope of keeping a man warm on a cold winter’s night. And what woman wants to spend her winter alone, or with only her children, or great with child, and no man to comfort her?”
“This is what the Romans have done to us!” Berikos said grimly.
“The Romans did nothing to us we did not allow to be done,” Ceara told him matter-of-factly. “Besides, what sensible people do not prefer peace to war?”
“Our people,” Berikos said. “Our people who came out of the darkness, and across the plains and the oceans to Britain, Eire, Cymry, Gaul, and Armorica. Our Celtic race!”
“When will you accept the fact that that time is past, Berikos?” Ceara said quietly to her husband. She put a comforting hand upon his arm, but he shook it off.
“No! It cannot be. It will come again!” he insisted.
“Then train your warriors, you stubborn old man,” she said irritably. “When the spring comes, we will see what happens.”
The winter came with its cold winds, icy rains, and snow. Wulf Ironfist worked with his recruits, taking them on daylong marches in all kinds of weather with fifty-pound packs of equipment upon their backs. When they complained at first, he said coldly, “Rome’s legions carry more. Perhaps that is why you are no longer masters of your own land. You prefer drinking and telling outrageous tales to military training.” The young Dobunni gritted their teeth and complained no more. The clang of swords rang in the clear air of the hill fort, along with the thunk of the javelin meeting its target as the warriors-to-be honed their battle and survival skills.
Yet as harsh a taskmaster as Wulf Ironfist was in training his men, he was a completely different man with his wife. Ceara and Maeve both agreed that the Saxon, though he would be a fierce opponent upon the battlefield, was a gentle soul with Cailin and with the children of the hill fort who followed him admiringly, begging for his favor. More often than not he would take two of the littlest ones up in his arms and walk through the village carrying them as he went about his business. There was not a child who did not adore him, nor a young girl who did not try to attract his attention. After all, there was nothing limiting Wulf Ironfist to only one wife. The maidens, however, were doomed to disappointment, for the Saxon had no time for anyone or anything but Cailin and his duty.
Cailin was content with her life. She had an attractive husband who was kind and regularly made passionate love to her. It seemed to be enough, particularly as she quickly found herself with child. She realized that her parents had had a different sort of relationship than she had with Wulf Ironfist, but she did not understand what that relationship had been.
Cailin’s swelling belly pleased her husband. Here was proof of his virility for the Dobunni. Berikos was not pleased. Now he would never get rid of the Saxon. If Ceara and Maeve were determined that he and Cailin stay before this, they would be implacable now. Berikos sighed to himself. What difference would one damned Saxon make anyway? And there was always the chance Wulf would be killed in battle.
Cailin enjoyed the long, dark winter nights spent in Wulf’s arms. Once she divulged her condition to him, he was more careful of her, but no less vigorous a lover. He liked cuddling her spoon-fashion, his big roughened hands cupping her round, little breasts, which were swelling now with her condition. Her nipples, always sensitive, became