A Bitter Chill
Authors: Jane Finnis
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Women Sleuths, #Historical, #FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General
A Bitter Chill
A Bitter Chill
Jane Finnis
POISONED PEN PRESS
Copyright © 2005 by Jane Finnis
First Edition 2005
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2005903228
ISBN: 1-59058-193-8 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781590581933 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781615950676 epub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Poisoned Pen Press
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For Leebags, Pennyo, Philpott, and all my other good friends from Westfield days, of whom it has often been said…
but never mind.
C
ONTENTS
It might all have been different if I hadn’t burnt the mistletoe. Our troubles started on that freezing December day, and I’ve often wondered about it since. Did I bring down the vengeance of the old gods of Britannia, because I, a Roman, dared to destroy one of their sacred plants?
Who knows? I don’t. But I’d do the same again, if I had to.
We were collecting greenery to decorate the mansio for Saturnalia. Well, I was supervising, rather than actually collecting. It’s something we do every December, and as usual I’d given the slaves a half-day off to help. They were all joining in, house servants and farm hands, scouring the woods around for the best branches of holly and laurel, and the longest strands of ivy. Despite the winter cold, they were in holiday mood, skipping about and singing as they brought their trophies back to the paved forecourt where my sister Albia and I were waiting outside the bar-room door.
“It’s like a forest of dancing trees!” Albia laughed as a couple of the young maids jigged along, almost hidden by laurel branches as big as themselves, while one of the horse-boys wound ivy round his head to make a comic green helmet. “And look at Taurus. He’s got a whole holly-tree there.”
“I told him we wanted a big tree to stand in the middle of the bar-room. He’s taken me literally!” I smiled as our giant handyman strode across the forecourt holding a huge holly-bush at arm’s length to avoid the prickles.
He proudly put it down in front of us. It was even taller than he was, which meant it towered half a foot over Albia and me.
“The biggest I could find, Mistress Aurelia,” he declared. “Like you wanted for the bar-room. It’ll look good, won’t it?”
“Wonderful.” It was about three times bigger than we needed, but I hadn’t the heart to spoil his pleasure. “Yes, Taurus, it’s a beauty. And what lovely berries!”
“All the bushes and trees have brilliant berries this year,” he said. “Plenty for us, and the birds as well. Sign of a hard winter, the natives say.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s cold enough to freeze the horns off a bronze bull.” I shivered in spite of my warm bearskin cloak, and looked up at the sky, where yellow-grey clouds were being driven towards us by a sharp north wind. “We’ll have snow by tonight. You’ve made sure we have plenty of logs close to the house?”
“Course I have. Logs for the fire and the furnace, and charcoal for the braziers. We’ll be warm inside, however hard it snows.”
“The first real snow of the winter.” Albia pulled up the hood of her cloak. “Lovely! It makes even ordinary things look pretty. Yes, that’s right, Carina,” she added, as the senior barmaid brought yet another armful of green boughs. “Smaller sprigs here, larger branches over there. Pick out the very best bits for the bar-room and the dining-room, and make sure there are some good small pieces for our private rooms—mine and Relia’s, and don’t forget Master Lucius’ bedroom. He’ll be here any day now.”
“Taurus,” I said, “you may as well start nailing up some of the smaller bits of holly round the outside of the door and windows. Use thin nails, so as not to damage the wood….”
I caught him and Albia exchanging a smile, and stopped. He’d been nailing up decorations at the mansio every Saturnalia for sixteen years, and if he didn’t know how by now, he never would.
“I’ll choose the pieces for our bedrooms.” I bent to pick out the choicest scarlet-studded sprigs of holly. “Ouch! I wish I’d brought some mittens. Will we have enough for the guest wing as well, Albia?”
“Oh yes. The three main bedrooms definitely, and probably the smaller rooms too.” She giggled. “Not that we want the place full of overnight guests just now, so close to the holiday.”
“I think we’re safe enough. Nobody travels the roads of northern Britannia in December. I’m looking forward to a nice peaceful time, with no guests staying and only a few locals to serve drinks to in the daytime.”
All right, I know that’s not quite the proper attitude for an innkeeper, but we’re only human, although our customers often seem to forget the fact. Most of the year I’m delighted to welcome guests to our mansio—soldiers, messengers, government officials, and private travellers when we can get them. They come to stay, to eat or drink, to change horses, and people say we run the best guest-house and posting-station between the River Humber and Eburacum. I say it quite regularly myself. But from mid-December to New Year, I always hope that we’ll have a few days of doing nothing, or as near to nothing as we can manage.
“Can we take some berries to decorate the slave quarters, Miss Albia?” Taurus carefully secured the first sprig of holly to the door-frame.
“Of course, Taurus. Just let us choose what we need here, and then have as much as you want.”
He grinned. “I like Saturnalia. The presents, and lots of good food and wine, and the games. It makes everyone equal, just for a while.”
“It reminds me of when we were children,” I said. Perhaps that’s why it’s my favourite of all the festivals, with its cheerful, anarchic celebrations, the silly jokes, the over-eating and drinking, and even the banquet where masters and mistresses wait on their slaves. And then once the shortest day of the year is past, I can tell myself that it won’t be so very long until spring. A slow, late spring on this northern edge of the Empire, but when the days begin to lengthen and the first flowers appear, at least it’s on its way.
Next spring would bring Albia’s wedding to Candidus, and she’d be leaving home. She was counting the days, glowing with excitement every time the subject was mentioned, which was very often. I was counting days too, my pleasure tinged with foreboding. She was my housekeeper at the mansio, my indispensable right hand. Of course I wished her all the happiness in the world in her new life, but how I was going to run the Oak Tree without her, the gods alone knew. Or perhaps not even they had worked it out yet.
But I didn’t want to think about it now. “This will be the best Saturnalia ever,” I said, “with Lucius coming home.”
“And Candidus here too,” Albia added. “The whole family together.” She began sorting through the largest heap of mixed greenery. “Oh look, pine branches, and even some cones! Do you think we can use these, or will they make people think of funerals?”
I walked over to join her. “Let’s use them. They look good, and I always love that resiny smell.” I stooped down and rummaged through the pile. “How much is there?…
Merda
, what’s this doing here?” There was a large bunch of mistletoe among the other branches. I jumped back as if I’d seen a snake, then bent forward again, grabbed the foul stuff in both hands and flung it away from me as hard as I could.
I’d sooner have found a snake than those evil glossy leaves and creamy-yellow berries, the Druids’ revered holy plant. And don’t try telling me that Druids are outlawed in this Empire of ours. Outlawed or not, they still exist and practice their abominable ceremonies in secret. We had reason to know that, because only four years before they’d incited the native Brigantians to try to kill us. For a few heartbeats my mind went back to a moonlit woodland clearing, where white-robed priests cut mistletoe from an oak tree, as a prelude to sacrificing a boy on their altar. I pushed the memory out of my head.
“We must get rid of it,” I said. “I won’t have it anywhere near our good Roman celebrations. Who collected it, I wonder? They all know how much we hate the Druids. If I catch whoever brought it in….”
“Calm down, Relia,” my sister said reasonably. “It must have been one of the newer slaves, or a child. Someone who wasn’t here then, and couldn’t know what happened.”
“I hope so, because if I find we’ve any Druid sympathisers among our people, they’ll go straight to the next slave auction.”
“I’m certain we haven’t. Don’t let it bother you. We’ll just burn the stuff, and that’ll be the end of it.”
“Yes, you’re right. Taurus, take the mistletoe and throw it into the furnace, please.”
The big man took a pace backwards. “Me? I mean, well, are you sure?”
With any other slave, I’d have said, “Don’t argue, just do it.” But Taurus is almost part of the family, one of the few servants we brought with us when we came to Britannia years ago. He’s not the brightest slave in the world, but he’s the most completely loyal.
