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“Little ones,” Cormag called. “Come, your queen has gifts for you.”

The children stared at him briefly—that glint of suspicion of the Votadini prince in their eyes—but it disappeared quickly, and they raced to us.

“A blessed Yule from the king consort and me,” I told the children, passing out the little parcels Cormag had seen prepared.

“A ribbon!” one little girl cried in delight. “It’s red!”

“And a buckle! I must show my mother,” another small child added before they raced off. “Thank you, Queen Cartimandua, King Consort Cormag,” they called over their shoulders.

A chorus of other thanks greeted us as we made our way through the crowd, dispensing gifts. Cormag enlisted Brodi and Damhan’s help passing out the gifts while Fabius juggled balls, making the children laugh.

Corva and I carried on, stopping to eat roasted hazelnuts—still no walnuts—sample crocks of honey and jams, admire cattle and horses, and more.

When the men rejoined us, the sun had sunk low on the horizon. My feet and lower back began to ache.

“Where is Fabius?” I asked, eyeing the others.

“By the bonfire,” Brodi told me. “He is swallowing balls of fire.”

“He’s what?” I asked.

Laughing, Brodi gestured for me to follow.

We made our way to the bonfire. There, Fabius stood telling an outlandish tale about a god named Vulcan, the lord of fire and smithcraft. He wowed the crowd, spinning a flaming baton before him, sticking lighted ends into his mouth.

“And now, let me show you the true power of Vulcan. But, first, I must have a fish. Anyone, a fish? A fish?”

The crowd laughed, but no one offered a fish.

Finally, a scowling Conall, duped into participating, handed the Roman a fish.

“To be cooked in the great Brigantes fire this night. Vulcan! An offering in exchange for fire breath!” Fabius said, setting the fish by the bonfire. Taking a swig of a liquid, Fabius then began swirling his batons once more. Finally, he put one toward his lips and blew a plume of fire above the crowd.

The children shrieked merrily.

At that, he took a bow, the people clapping for him.

We joined them.

“Conall has seen to a small canopy and chairs for us there,” Cormag told me. “Won’t you take your rest, Cartimandua?”

While my heart told me to tour the festivities more, the children within me were rolling with all the excitement. I felt tired. We went to the canopy, taking a seat on the elevated platform above which a canopy had been erected. From my seat, I could easily see the people dancing and hear music playing. I loved seeing the red-cheeked maidens and young men dancing together. In them, I saw a shadow of myself. Children threw snow at one another and played, racing through the crowd.

I smiled contentedly, setting my hand on my stomach.

“You have brought them happiness,” Cormag told me, taking my hand.

“It was hard-earned.”

“But look at them now.”

I smiled softly. “Weprotected the Brigantes.Wehave made a better world for our children,” I told my husband, but even as I spoke the words, the whispers of the little people of the hollow hills came to me once more. Despite whispers in the darkness, I was determined to do everything I could to secure the Brigantes. To make us safe, I had to make us strong. War had done that. But so would giving the people an heir—two, in fact. There would be no question now of who would take the throne after my death. I carried the future rulers of the Brigantesandthe Votadini. Our future looked stronger than ever.

“Well, it seems there is some mirth in your people after all,” Fabius said, rejoining us, a flagon of wine in his hands.

“Where did you get that?” Corva asked.

“It was a gift.”