Page 1 of Ensnaring the Dove

I. GHOSTS

Moedin Fort,

The River Wear, Brigantia

Northern Britannia

Late summer, 122 AD

GOING HOME WAS a mistake.

Even as Aedan approached the fort, his gut clenched in foreboding.

Many years had passed since he’d last seen Moedin—although, at first glance, it appeared unchanged. Birds chattered in the oakwood that surrounded the wide river valley, and his father’s fort still perched high and proud, crowning a spur of land above the lazy curve of the Wear. High walls of turf and wood encircled a cluster of sod roof dwellings, and wisps of pale smoke drifted lazily into the robin’s-egg-blue sky.

Leaving the track that hugged the southern bank of the river, Aedan took the path leading up to the fort. It was a steep climb, and he was sweating by the time he reached the top.

A deep ditch, spanned by a narrow wooden bridge, encircled the landward approach. Aedan’s forebears had chosen this site well, for the Wear enclosed the fort on three sides. His grandfather had strengthened Moedin’s defenses to protect it from neighboring tribes. However, in the last years, the fort hadbeen forced to defend itself against a far worse foe: the Caesars who’d marched over this isle, claiming it as their own.

Inside the walls, Aedan inhaled the aromas of stewing mutton and baking bread. The late afternoon sun gilded the fawn-colored stone of the squat huts, outlining the bulk of the largest of them—his father’s roundhouse.

Aedan’s pulse quickened.

He’d thought of his father often over the years. Colmus, son of Bel, was a stern man who’d been hard on all his children. He’d demanded much from them. Had he spared his eldest son a care over the past years?

Was Aedan dead to him now?

The knot in Aedan’s belly tightened further, although he attempted to push aside the worry. Aye, he’d been nervous about returning to his people—but, like a beacon burning bright upon a faraway hill, Moedin had drawn him back.

This was his home, after all. He belonged here; once his father died, he would rule this fort. His mouth tightened then, his step quickening. The Romans had stripped much away from him, yet he wouldn’t let them take his birthright as well.

He walked the narrow street between tightly packed clusters of dwellings, his gaze taking in achingly familiar sights. Children ran barefoot across the hard-packed earth, fowl pecked in the dust, and women with red or brown hair gathered washing hanging on lines outside their cottages. Many of them had bright blue eyes, like his own, and they watched him curiously, their gazes taking in the blue swirls etched into the skin of his upper arms—markings of their people.

Aedan’s pulse quickened. The sight of the women reminded him of the red-haired lass he’d left behind. A lass he’d never forgotten.

There were few men about at this hour—although Aedan knew where to find them.

It was the end of a long working day. The warriors would have downed tools and retired to the chieftain’s roundhouse. They’d be seated around the fire, hands clasped around cups of ale.

Aedan’s step quickened as he approached his father’s home, his gaze taking in the conical, newly-thatched roof. The wide wattle door was open, and the rumble of male voices, punctuated by barks of laughter, drifted out into the still air.

A smile curved Aedan’s lips. Despite his uneasiness at his return, he longed to be part of this again—to sit with his father, brother, and their warriors and converse in his own tongue.

To belong somewhere again.

He could have hesitated before entering the roundhouse, could have waited outside for a few moments until someone inside noticed they had a visitor.

But this was Aedan’s birthplace. He wasn’t a guest here.

And so, he ducked through the doorway, careful not to catch the crown of his head on the low stone lintel, and stepped inside.

Conversation died at his entrance.

Gazes swiveled in his direction, faces hardening at the sight of a stranger in their midst.

Aedan straightened up to his full height, waiting for someone to recognize him. The interior of the house was as dark and smoky as he recalled. Two hearths dominated the space, and shadowy alcoves, screened by sheepskins, lined the walls. A group of men sat on the floor around the largest of the hearths, served by a red-haired woman, while two slaves, their iron collars gleaming in the dull glow of the fire, cooked rounds of bread upon a griddle at the second hearth at the back of the space.

Everyone stared blatantly for a moment or two before the woman who’d been refilling the warriors’ cups from a ewer gasped. “Aedan? Is that you?”