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“Sleep now, my queen. Soon, we will come to the longest night of the year, but afterward, the sun will begin its journey home. As Brigantia’s womb grows, so does yours, my love. Children. That was the whisper of the hollow hills. You must rest. Sleep. Winter is here, but with the passing of the solstice, the sun regains her time in the heavens and ushers our little ones to life.”

“May the goddess hear your words and keep you, our little ones, and all we love safe.”

“All is as the goddesses will, Carti. Blessed may we be.”

CHAPTER 8

The scene in Rigodonum was a festive one. A thin blanket of pristine white snow settled over the village on the morning of Yule eve. White snow trimmed the roofs and surrounding fields. It was cold, but beautiful.

Leaving the fort, we made our way into the new section of the city on foot. Along with us, servants carried baskets in which the small gifts Cormag had arranged were bundled. I felt festive dressed in a ruby-red gown and matching fur-trimmed cloak embroidered with white mistletoe berries and sprigs of green ivy—all Hilda’s creation. My arm linked with my husband’s, I carried a greenery-trimmed basket as we made our way.

To our delight and surprise, Fabius had dressed in a festive red-and-green outfit, the costume of the theater’s rustic fool, or so he told us. With a hat trimmed with feathers and bells, his face painted white—one eye decorated with a heart, the other with a diamond—he bounced around behind us rattling off jokes and puns, playing a flute, and juggling balls to entertain the children.

“It is also the feast of Saturn,” he told us. “We would have great fun in the streets of Capri, drinking, making merry, givingaway candies and small wax figures. Today, I bring Saturnalia to you!”

The serious Brigantes people eyed him skeptically at first, but after watching a few of his antics, he had them laughing.

Corva merely shook her head as she watched.

The people called to us as we made our way to the center marketplace. There, bonfires burned. A single, massive fire sat at the center of the square. Beside it, the two Yule logs, one carved in the visage of the Cailleach, the other in the face of Brigantia, waited. Tonight, when the sky grew dark, the fire would be lit, and our twin goddesses would burn. So doing, we would welcome the return of the sun. Later, the people would take home the embers so the sacred fire might bring warmth to the homes of all Brigantes.

Music, mead, and merriment were seen everywhere. We had arranged two full days of feasting, frivolity, and winter games with prizes. As we went, I saw men engaging in the games. Archers shot their bows at targets, men threw axes, and a merry game of hand pie eating was getting underway. I paused to watch two very round men and one lanky youth compete to see who could devour the greatest number of pies.

“Queen Cartimandua,” the largest of the men called to me. “My belly is rounder than yours, and I don’t carry the weight of the Brigantes! Stay a moment and watch me win!”

I laughed and waved him on.

“Ready, gentlemen?” the gamemaster called.

The large man roared loudly, causing the crowd to laugh, and then the three competitors settled in before heaping platters of pies.

“Will they try to eat all of that?” Fabius asked.

“Try, yes. Let’s see who succeeds.”

“Now!” the gamemaster called.

I watched in fascination as the men worked. Despite his boasting, the very round man slowed, his pallor turning ashen after the twelfth pie.

“Your man will vomit,” Fabius told me with a laugh.

“He is not my man. My bet is on the thin lad,” I said, gesturing.

At the end of the table, as the countdown neared, the lanky young man began eating faster than ever, devouring pie after pie, food flying everywhere.

“How vulgar,” Fabius said, making a disgusted face.

I chuckled.

“Three…two…one! And we have our winner!” the gamemaster called, lifting the hand of the boy.

Corva laughed. “His stomach will ache until Beltane.”

The gamemaster rewarded the winner with a carved wooden platter, and the two runners-up were given baskets of hand pies. The very round man groaned when he saw them, much to everyone’s amusement.

We left the games then and passed through the tents where artisans displayed their best handiwork—be it weaving, woodworking, or otherwise—for a chance to win a new cloak or other prizes.

A group of children passed by as we made our way through the crowd.