The Torc Part Two Via Acerbum

By Gordon M Burns

Shaking off the disappointment of life’s dealing to her, Arianwyn sets out beyond her borders naively unaware of what lies lurking in a world she feels fit to conquest by force of personality.
In Via Acerbum, the second part of the Torc, accompanied by her friend Grainne, Arianwyn the emerging young woman, now devoid of the aid of the Spaewife who has died, is rudely awoken to nature of the world. Capricious choice has denied her Talorcan, her true love, and now realising that Galam, her handfast partner, is a disappointment she jumps at the chance to go draw up a roadmap to peace with King Artuir, her mother’s uncle. En route to Gododdin, she and Grainne are enslaved and Galam vanishes. Although rescued from this state on the instigation of King Artuir, he surreptitiously plans to sell her back into slavery on the counsel of Mermin, his religious advisor. As a non-Christian, Arianwyn is expendable and might be best used to finance his quest in appealing to Rome for a legion to command, bring back to Gododdin and return the Pact of Rome to the Isles of Britons.
Plunged into a war-torn Italian countryside during the reign of the Emperor Justinian, nothing goes to plan for anyone. Only Grainne appears to have the strength to bind them through the perplexing adventures that reflect a world in conflict. However, if she should fail, if the Torc constricts Grainne’s neck so that she should snap, who then will save them? Who will catch Arianwyn before she slips bodily-beaten and mind-mutilated into Roman gutters?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon M Burns
• Release date: Jul 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311412836

Gordon M Burns

Writer living in Abernethy Perth Scotland. see my website for more details.

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THE TORC

Gordon M Burns

July 2013 copyright©

Disclaimer : This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

©Cover design by G M Burns July 2014

Published by Gordon Moncrieff Burns at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Part Two

VIA ACERBUM

CHAPTERS

1. LEAVING

2. DRUMLOW

3. ARTUIR

4. ON CROSSING WATERS

5. R IS FOR OTHER THAN ROME

6. SUMMER

7. CHECK POINTS

8. URBSEMIA

9. ARIANWYN’S QUESTIONS

10. EXPECTATIONS

11. AUTUMN

12. WINTER

13. SPRING

14. RECOGNISING FRIENDSHIP

15. LAGO TRASIMENO

16. SUMMER TURMOIL

17. PETRUS MARCELLINUS FELIX LIBERIUS

18. VILLA CONFINMENT

19. A PARTY

20. DUST

21.GRAINNE TELLS A STORY

END OF PART TWO

POSTSCRIPT ... THE GLADWORD OF ARIAWYN (PORTION OF)

OTHER WORKS BY THE AUTHOR

A look at Part Three WORLD’S DESIRE

THE TORC

Glossary: yowe trummle: (Scots) a cold, wet fortnight around midsummer, after the sheep shearing.

wizzen: (Scots) v shrivelled, shrunken. n the breath of life.

Part Two

VIA ACERBUM

"Servanius asked her what she felt was this wisdom sent to be her guide and after she explained he felt she had indeed true spirit in her."

1

LEAVING

AD 542

In the time after the yowe trummle, the weather became cold-grey and unsettled. Arrangements for Arianwyn’s departure could not disguise the clouded sadness of Queen Nia. Arianwyn, for her part, held no concerns as nights spent in sleepless pitch of anticipation and always away from her new husband Galam, were followed by long and overfilled days for any thoughts of her mother and her father. So, she shared her bed with a delight of imagined ecstasies in the form of possible outcomes constantly reviewed, reformed and rediscovered ‘yes-yes-do-that’ until, on surprise of waking to the light of day, she wondered if her mind-manoeuvrings had been real or imagined. Galam, her husband of a month felt happy to steel himself with the whetting stone, sword, and sharpening on his own. Grainne and her son, Connad, made acquaintance with the two warriors of their travel guard, Brude and Wid. A wily pair whom, when out of earshot, exchanged open comments on the desirability of Grainne, the possibility of her approachability, the needs that she must scratch alone and jaloused if the journey would open up a promise of more than saddle sore.

Through all this, overcast and muddled, Nia, experiencing great worry-stabs and new fear-shivers of agitation through her frame, found that not even the distraction of running back and forth, nipping and tucking like a sheepdog among a stubborn flock of glaikit sheep, helped to relieve her worry. A wagging tongue of last instructions to her daughter given to salve herself from the grief of the impending parting caused her. Is everything ready? Now, Arianwyn, are you sure? What gift have you for King Artuir.

You were to see to that! Arianwyn snapped back.

The previous month, since the King Nechtan had been stricken into a seemingly lifeless form, flew by on a blur of messengers to and from Yastrad Clud to Nia’s uncle, King Artuir of Britons, and, bound in her own concerns, gifts for him were far from Arianwyn’s mind. Everyone seemed so demanding of her and her time. Not that he ever did anything wrong, but Galam could not do anything but Arianwyn took it all the wrong way. Shall I get your head shawl? He asked one day of heavy rain when he saw Arianwyn about to go out of doors and what young wife, still the flush of newly wed, would not appreciate such consideration from her new spouse? Not, it seemed, Arianwyn. The look she gave him would fright a slave to fear their death and those that saw quizzed the reason for this rebuke. And why do you think that? she demanded defensively.

Now, now, Arianwyn, do not take on so, Nia rose in Galam’s defence. When the menarche days came upon you, your father and I should have been firm and now that your are a wife, well, your head should be covered all the time.

From a child, Arianwyn disliked being told what to do or think and now she felt she was a young woman, she spat straight from the lip. I expected you would say that, mother! Listen up, I will choose when and what I cover. Next, you will wish me dressed from head-to-toe in black. A chill in summer is never welcome. It may suit you, but I and little reason for it. Her glance at Galam was pointed, he turned from her but like a stink to her, he remained within the room. It is all man-made custom, she shouted at him, colluded with by weak and frightened women, the rest was directed to her mother, to treat us like their gold, miserly put away to private places so they can finger as they choose to gloat and leer. She liked the mastery of her point and seeing her mother did not, pressed it further. As far as Galam is concerned, it seems I am not as useful as stone and metal, but neither am I any man’s bowl me over. They shall see me as I choose to be seen.

Nia felt that sicken tightening below again. Is there something the matter? She asked so only her daughter heard.

Matter? With what, mother? Said aloud with where to start pressed behind her lips.

Hold your voice down, daughter, she frowned. Is there something I should know about? She found it hard to speak of such things and, not sure where within the range of delicate matters the problem blushing at her throat was, asked the catch-all question. You know?

Something about you know? What is that then, mother?

Cooperation, not intractability was required and certainly not embarrassment in front of an audience, so Nia guided her daughter by the arm to where her father lay outside and there, not like a mother to a clipped-winged, pouting child but as women blood-bonded beyond mere casual friendship, she spoke hard truths and also words of comfort. She understood the worry of the past few days’ dramatic changes. There was the sudden stroke of her father on her handfast day and the grief that gave. Her daughter’s new title, Silver Princess, and the responsibility it implied was indeed a strain with one sent to make her sad, but as for the other, given by the thirlfowk to make of it what they will, her advise was to smile openly with them and it would please. All this was bound to cause a friction with her and Galam. As with all couples past their first love-blushes, it was hard to learn about each other needs and wishes; disappointments and misunderstandings were bound to happen with the going-ons; which was why, this coming journey to Nia’s uncle Artuir would be a time for them to become closer.

This told to Arianwyn, left that girl dry-staring at her father. Nothing of his could she touch - his hand, his plight, a readjustment of his blanket - and wondered if he heard and if he raged within his head at her spite against his will. A defiance made in a heather and fling, led to that next pelvic-grind of which her mother spoke - a child. She heard her mother tell her that she should not worry, her build was not as frail as hers and it was all too soon to say - though with the moods your are in, something is a miss with you, my young lady.

Sometimes it is not the face, with close-ones, that tell us of their change of mood. A shoulder, which in all appearance still sloping soft, can without visible notice, solidify to rock. Perhaps if she had looked there and not at her daughter’s eye-drooped face, she might have known to stop and returned her daughter to the others, displaying the glow of fair and freckled summer-fruit that was the Silver Princess. But she did not, and as she gently lifted Arianwyn’s shawl to cover up her head, she told her daughter what each girl-become-a-woman should know. Och, Arianwyn, have a mercy on me, there are men that would strip, lash and stone you in this world for what you voice and the way you refuse to dress.

Click-clack, a finger snap thrown in her mother’s face was, for good measure, given the reason. Go hand my washing on the line for me mother and be done! Let my rags flap about in the breeze for all to work out the colour of my stains. Have they come out, her gaze fell on her father, or are they engrained in the fibre? She took a pause they returned her attention to her mother with a look drifting between fear and risky contempt. And as for Galam, all men with their and bitty pebbles and their need to sharpen up their swords, just what is it that I do or say to rile them up to a need to stone me? With that, she tore the shawl back of her head.

It is what is wanted and how can we ever fight it? Nia took her husband’s hand and something akin to peace held them together, though the daughter still held off as if their unity were slime. Och, Arianwyn, if you but knew how I wish within my soul to be within his and that is all. No Fothuirtabaicht, no Forternn no Pictivia and no world, just him and I and .... She laughed. The sky? She paused. See there now, I made it rhyme and do not glower at me, daughter, thinking that I am stupid, you too will one day feel this and when you do, my love, I hope you find the answer that alludes me.

Arianwyn squirmed between revulsion and regret on this, her mother’s innermost confession. The rot and toss of that man her father, the tale of her creation had been, all knew, a drunken-lust forced into a frail and helpless young woman up to the point of death for both of them. In her mind, that self-will-imposer did not wish to hear of Galam, for that youth was not the name he had in mind and it was not the name she, in confusion, had rejected out of hand. Milk spills and then sours and stinks and all should know to feel her fury at the unfairness of her lot. Well, I expect you would know all about it, mother, but what utter rubbish. Do not think that I am a fool to all this? But do not fret, I shall play my role in life and like you, grin and bear it for what it is - a gruesome gruel.

Enough to tear the hair in anguish and with all the strands of lose hairs upon her comb already, Nia did not need a to have more grey brought on before its time. Just have a care how you go about. That is all I wish to say.

The queen did not win that disagreement but she let it rest, and they returned to the consideration of the gifts for Artuir. Once again, her stomach sickened as Arianwyn claimed, in front of all those present, that it was nothing to do with her. Nia despaired. Och, Arianwyn I asked you to arrange the gifts, it was part of your duties.

Duty be harped away I say! Where was I to find the time? Nechtanson could have seen to it. Not that Nechtanson was idle. He was wrapped up in his own worries making Forternn safe from the Scots in the west and also Athflodda, ruled by Talorcan and a constant dark cloud in the north. However, the news from there was fair for, nearing the fiery heat of Scots, Talorcan found he had to sup with a very long spoon. Another botched Athfloddan piece of work, just like his fated attempts to woo Arianwyn where, Nechtanson knew, his sister should have dropped purring into his lap if he had not wished to stoke every cat insight and war with the Scots. Then what was all that worse than a warring mother and her daughter?

Arianwyn! No gift and you leave in a few days, help us!

It is not my fault and nor was it my doing.

Young madam, get of your high horse this instant and do something about it.

We chose the roan one. Galam obscurely interrupted, he tickled a mischievous grin around his lips. Arianwyn’s shot hot eyebrows up but she did not deign to give the what? He could not resist, as, in the past, they loved to tease each other. You are too small for a high horse, so I chose the small roan mount to suit your hair colour and complexion, my love. If he thought to lighten the mood, he was very much mistaken. Joking is it? she bit. It is about all you are fit for husband. Typical man, a sword-sharpener and yet always blunt. That was too much for the queen to let by.

Och, Arianwyn, not true, for Galam is gentle-made and treats you with due respect A spurning sneer hit back towards her mother’s so-called knowledge.

Then tell me why did he not think to help me with this gift problem? This situation required calming before things said best unspoken.

Rings serve well. Grainne suggested her eyes glistening green.

Nia’s worry vanished for a moment only until the next thought sparked anxiety as to what the design of ring to fashion for a king. True, true rings would serve but ... she confirmed on a sigh to snuff a lamp. ... but come now, could you all be more helpfully, which design do we choose? It could be plain or interlocking snakes or ... well ... tell me ... which?

Best let the goldsmith make one of each, Grainne suggested.

Without Grainne, the weeks would have been a round of bail biting perplexities for Nia. Ill-fitted in her new robes as a ruler of Forternn, she was constantly uncertain that the thirlfowk would accept her rule. As freemen with their own land, they had the right to say who protected them. She needed eternal reassurance from Grainne that she was safe. You are the mother of their talisman, the Silver Princess. Grainne kept reminding her. You can hear them at it now. The strange term made the queen uneasy. ‘At it now’ she heard it as a legal term, a threat to her legitimacy to rule. Grainne tried to put her mind at ease. You know the whole thing like, woe betide us, the crops will fail, the cows run dry, the wind will blow sheep wool away and bairns will run about on swollen hunger-bellies if we go against the Silver princess’s mother. The queen was still unconvinced. And will it? She asked.

Therefore, Grainne gave the truthful answer. Stranger things happen. The queen wondered if that meant good or ill and searched the light in of statement in the young woman’s face. Sight youthfullness, a vitality she was losing, flowed from the out the frame of raven hair down to the a golden torc that caught Nia’s focus. The heavy torc, as she recalled, was now refined and delicate and that was curious. Strange things happen. Nia heard again. The words were not quite the same and the queen remained unsettled-weather with all her many worries. One of which was her daughter. Past her days of rush and passion blood herself, the queen thought nothing of Arianwyn’s coolness towards Galam, the lack of touch between them, their acceptance of being apart when chance of duty proffered; it had been thus with her, she thought. Yet, had to been like that? Before her son, Necthanson was born, had she and Nechtan lain still and quiet in the night afraid of smirking ears? What do you make of how Arianwyn and Galam behave together?

Go sit by the king. Grainne would tell her when there was no answer for her but to step away to what mattered most for uppermost in Nia’s mind was her stroke-stricken husband, Nechtan. The queen knew that just being with him would help her apprehension but almost broke and wept. My mind is a jig of reels and och, to calm this panic-beat within.

Such was the turmoil of Fothuirtabaicht Grainne sought to ease. Now another good gift would be a ballad. She suggested. They can be soothing. One about King Nechtan would serve very well as a gift. The fluster-red lifted from the queen’s face as she listened. Arianwyn could play her harp and sing for King Artuir, some gifts are richer than gold.

As a sword to an unarmed warrior hemmed in by foes, Nia gripped Grainne’s words tightly. Yes, Galam could conjure the tune and you, Grainne can spin words. It would be up to Arianwyn to work the piece.

As if I have not enough to do already. Arianwyn snorted a complaint down her nose but when her mother pointed out how he father liked to hear her harp and sing, she took the task not as an industry, but as an art of love. Then during sleep words came to the princess in her dreams. ‘Compose a song of your love for him,’ a voice told her. Who speaks? she muttered half awake. Is that you Grainne? Then Arianwyn fell back into the blank of sleep, a spoon for Grainne’s back.

Sun-blessed by a cloudless day of parting in the time beyond the yowe trummle, and a such a glorious day to stand by horses hooves churning contradictory excitement between the worry of, if-to-stay, and the anxiety of, if-to-go. Those mounts with grey-rimmed mussels searching for offered hands to salt-lick, paced impatiently with spot-held hooves, brown-eyes splayed before the boar-totem at the palace door and caught the human jitter-mood in their whinnies. Only Nechtan lay still as deep, dark water stricken on his open litter and for what she cared for that brute-boar of a father but let him lie scorned and forgotten, his grip on her the loose and the world now spread before her.

The folk of Fothuirtabaicht gathered to bless the Silver Princess and her quest for peace with grumpily, war-like, southern neighbours. Their horns ale-brimmed in hand, they cheered as the princess held her cup high, hardly reaching the head height of the men of her guard so that they many missed its rising and muttered - ‘where is the Silver Princess?’ This irked her.

Galam, amused at seeing her swallowed by the majesty of men, interrupted. Would you like me to wrap my arms around your waist and hoist you up? The dart of dark distain she drove at Galam was so fierce that many shrunk back or faltered in the raising of their horns and she felt the shudder through the thirlfowk. A smirky-smile acted on her face as she remembering the occasion and relented to her husband’s flippant mood before the people. Stepping up an a bench and wrinkling up her nose to snigger a light amusement at Galam the thirlfowk felt at ease, for they read this as acceptance of the husband’s light-hearted quip. Once on the bench and in a blink, her face grew grim but she disguised her true emotion in the lifted sadness of the parting cup. They waited for the queen to speak.

Nia smiled on all around, for she was queen and she could choose not to notice the mouldering, green whiff of tetchiness emanating from her daughter. She held from old a liking for Galam, admired the sureness of his youthful posture and the boar tattoo upon his neck. Then, effrontery beyond a blush of setting sun, she placing her hand upon Arianwyn’s hem, exposing her right leg up to the curve of her bottom.

Mother! She implored. Folk will see. And she tried to fight her dress back down with no success save that she left the bench and returned to the ground.

Och, what is the fuss, my little lamb uttered sadly and nowhere angry, and who has not seen the eye-full of it? They shall all see more when you mount your horse. The wetness of past regrets within her mother eye’s dowsed Arianwyn’s fury as she let her mother talk. Such bone-fine skin, pure as new driven snow on winter ground and yet unmarked. How is that? As if a silly fly of thought had entered in, she shook her head and smiled. That was remiss, or perhaps not, but we never had what is was it, eagle, boar, rutting stag tattooed upon you, child?

I will soar on my own wings, mother.

Humph, possibly you might. She sighed and then recanted. Och, no doubt for certain. Her eye was where her husband lay upon his open litter transfixed within his stroke. Do not forget how your father still loves you and keep this uppermost in your mind. After all, it was by his wit and guile that you could chose to have or not the mark of tribe and cuts.

Arianwyn shivered in her thighs, her mother’s words received on a stomach retch. Saved her indeed, he would have let it done if she had not refused. Cuts? Disfigurations more like, and for why? If it is girl born form why the need to cut at all? The thirlfowk shuffled uneasy with her words, as it was tradition, expected and the manner of a future queen’s initiation and token of her fidelity to king and land. The tension needed pricking.

Such a man as that deserves a daughter’s parting kiss. observed Grainne.

Well, yes! Arianwyn snapped before she saw who spoke. Yes, Grainne, sorry. Her tone softened. For such a man I have more. Arianwyn went to her father. Only he knew his mind to be alert, for there was no sign of life within to offer to his daughter, other than the slow wander of his eyes, so she knew he waited for her every word.

That stricken man her father, provider of the bouncing knee and paddler of shifting May Waters who encouraged her to test its depths but in permitted limits a pull away. The father who, as at she grew older, she grew to loath, though now she saw his reason for the priming; the man she rejected and now could never have; Talorcan, the spate-creator for her waters. And what reward had she given her father for all his efforts? Obstinacy and snipe of hurtful words. A spiteful defiance to a father who, for her, had paid a price that sealed him in himself. She kissed him tenderly, with poetic words, set finger on the pluck of harp, and began to sing sweet lotions for his ear. For all to hear and watch as, on each plaintive note, the waters welled her eyes.

What think you of your daughter now.

Ready to leave and not remember

Your hopes and wishes,

Clashed with her selfish temper?

You sacrifice free-given as

Undemanding, uncondtioned and everlasting love.

Rejected by a bruckit child!

What think you of your lost dove?

Think I forgot the day

Set shoulder high,

Your hopes for me,

Your hair around my thighs?

Great your encompassing love,

My sin has placed you there.

Now I walk gladly on,

As if nothing holds me here.

The princess faltered on the first note of the next verse. What the words or sentiment were to be, no one ever learnt, for she collapsed across he father’s enfeebled chest, pulled her cloak across herself, covered all her head and cried. Get someone else to go, anyone will do - send Galam - just not me. What you ask is beyond my powers, how can I go when he is like this?

The subsequent boil of babble from the crowd bothered Nia as a swirl of bewilderment that broke out as sweat on the queen, and brought a tightening feeling inside, accompanied by sharp pricks of sick-invoking jabs. Suddenly she felt an age creep on her as she became hot, confused and flushed in panic. Everything is prepared, you must go and today! And right now! However, the princess lay beneath her woman’s veil, masked from everyone’s commotion, an ornament across her father’s chest for only him to see.

Get a grip and tell me, what’ye two about? The words, possibly known but strangely put, made the people jump. What followed was more peculiar. So you found the man within and want him out, well there’s jolly for you, is it not? Now, let us be all self-pity and full of doubts. Mercy me, Arianwyn, how like a man-toy you choose to become. Grainne grabbed the princess’s cloak and ripped from her body. It fell near where Arianwyn had once laid a rowanberry, the symbol of her that had been the Spaewife, her childhood guide who now passed on, had left her on her own. Your own? Who tells you that? Grainne snapped again. Girth yourself around only in woman-strength, only such will serve the need that we have set before us.

Grainne knew her manner was confusing everyone but it was all that she could do. Recalling the dark Beltane night when Arianwyn slipped from her to tryst with Galam, she feared a repeat again and it had been by some freak distraction on her part that had lead to this present situation. She was about to let it happen all again for this time she was in the light of day and knew just what to do.

I have a tale and I will tell it straight. There was once an eaglet in a twiggy eyrie, set high upon a rocky ledge. The time had come for her to fly. For days she had flapped her wings in preparation, flapped them in her parent’s eyes each time they brought a mouse or mole for her to eat.

How did a eagle catch a mole? Arianwyn enquired childlike.

Grainne smiled and sat down by her friend. "One day the eaglet flew high, her parents there beside her, when down below two hunters drew their bows and killed the mother and the father. Now what think you of that?’

That is sad. The princess said and all around agreed.

What should she do now? Go down, grieve around her parents, and wait for the hunters to notch another arrow? Then looking to the queen, she asked. Nia what should the young bird do?

Nia felt her woman’s vitality return and flow within her body, her mother’s guiding hand was sure. Why, the eaglet must fly.

Exact! Grainne gripped that true answer firmly. Fly and never be discouraged to keep on soaring higher and higher. For on those wings, she carries all bestowed on her and takes her parents on her wings. The higher up she flies up, the more below witness the glory of the wings blessed upon her. Then she must find a wind to follow and find the other on wing seeking her and in time return to her eyrie with her mate and lay her eggs within the love that there remains. Everyone was silent. In the nest, so to speak as for the present serves. They still were puzzling silent. There, told straight.

Having heard the story, at least Arianwyn felt calm and unconfused. Her father still lay wintered on the litter as smoke held under a clear and frosted sky unable for to rise. She kissed her father, picked up her cloak and placing it over her shoulders, approached her mother and accepted her lip-kiss. Each held each other in each other’s wet eye wondering if there was still doubt. This time mother, am I choosing right?

What else but right could you chose, Arianwyn? The Spaewife knew so, when your name was gifted. On those words, Arianwyn looked to where the Spaewife lay buried, then to her father in the light and with heavy heart of parting, prepared to leave but then remember that warning that he mother gave her earlier. She scowled at all the crowd and bade them turn around so she could mount her horse and those so low in their control and felt to ask the why-for, felt the scuff of women’s fists and denied to hear the need-for.

Once seated she felt all the taller for it, not that her brother bolstered her pride. Mind, sister dear, you are wizened and a perrie bit thing. He said and caught her without retort for him other than an order to care for the Spaewife’s grave and to plant a rowan on it. A rowan tree for a wizzen from a peerie bittie thing, he answered back.

From both of us, brother. Then after scolding left its sting in his ear, she left but she as neared the final bend he heard her laugh resounding like a life breath into his ears long after she had disappeared - Nechtan-sonnie-son-son. It made him smile.

The mounted party headed south across open lands and through forested places with little in the way of paths to follow bar what animal tracks could show them, and then into a low damp place of bog and mire. The way now took them over a wide strath of stunted trees with roots held by dank, stagnant waters and where they passed few farms or homesteads and those they did were poor. Here thirlfowk, baring the