In an age when women's options were limited, the will for the right to one's own life was a yearning rarely destined for fulfilment. Young lovers Megat and Gwynn, in a village in southern Gaul early in the 5th century BC, share a love which is by no means against the social codes of their day, but when an ambitious father plans to unite powerful families by giving Megat in marriage, she and Gwynn turn their faces to the road, seeking the freedom to be themselves. Against the warriors and hunters of their village, they brave the night and the dawn, and will be put to the ultimate test in the name of personal liberty.

Published by DreamCraft
Cover by Jade
Length: 6,500 words
Format: PDF to suit virtually any device
Kindle (due)
Price: $1.99


Read an excerpt:

The evening gathering was difficult for them. A boar turned on the spit and the fruit of the forest was served on the long tables with bread from the village bakehouse, honey from the woods, and the strong wine for which the peoples of Europe traded with the Greeks from the far off Inner sea. Megat and Gwynn sat with their respective family and clan groups at the low timber tables; the Chief alone had a great carved chair, and was plied with choice cuts and a drinking horn kept full by his serving boy. The chief’s bard strolled with a lyre, strumming his compositions as conversation ebbed and flowed, and telling tales of greatness when commanded by his master.

All through the meal Megat tried to keep her eyes from going to her lover, and equally away from Durotraegus, the broad, strong son of Dumnorix who ventured to impress her with his strength and warrior boasting. All laughed or made pithy comparisons between his deeds and those of, variously, the heroes of old or the antics of goats in the barnyard, as they were expected to, and the evening unfolded in a lengthy catalog of all the things Megat was dreading if she should wed him. Bluster and bombast, the violent edge of arrogance that would overwhelm civility is given the ghost of a chance... Only once did she glance at Gwynn, to find her eyes drawn with psychic immediacy, and their silent communication amid the noise and merriment was confirmation of their intent.

This was home and these were their people, but much as they loved their families and honoured their tribal loyalties, this was too much to bear. The society into which they were born recognised their right to love eachother and to be a pairing sanctified by law, but their match had not been brought before the law: they were as yet technically a dalliance, not a marriage, and it was too late to change that, for Megat’s father had drunk toasts with the mighty Dumnorix, cheered by all, to rich futures, and though alliances of marriage were not as yet mentioned, everyone knew what was meant, and what the feasting would celebrate when winter became spring in the year that would follow, and a girl barely seventeen years old would seal the union of two houses.

At the end of the evening, as the villagers drifted away from the chief’s longhouse, Megat brushed past Gwynn in the doorway and their hands met in a firm grasp for a moment. Their eyes met also, and, though no expression betrayed them, they knew their plans were set.

***

Cold stars wheeled in the night sky over the thatch of Dunfallon. A few torches burned in the dusty streets and the glow of braziers marked the guard posts where bored sentries longed for mulled ale and their beds.

Two figures moved in the dark, each from widely separated houses. Doors opened on oiled hinges and closed once more silently, and a mere nighttime trip to the pits aroused no suspicion. But under cloaks were doeskin breeches and warm tunics, boots of thonged leather, shirts of flax. They moved silently through the streets, easing by the houses where dogs slept, and met at the livery stable. The door of the thatched, log-built barn stood open to air the stalls as it did most summer nights and the equerry was at home abed. An oil lamp burned on a bench as a nightlight for the horses. Megat and Gwynn stepped in and drew from a pile of fresh straw their packed saddlebags, concealed earlier. Their saddles were on the benches along with many others and they shushed the snufflings of horses stirring in their stalls as they took them down. Saddling up was the work of a few minutes and their drowsy mounts grumbled as their mistresses fondled ears and chins. Saddlebags were stowed, bedrolls lashed into place, then the young women let their eyes meet in the gloom.

"This is the point of no return," Gwynn whispered.

"For you," Megat returned, her voice catching. "I must go."

"I know. So now is the time." Gwynn inclined her head to the square of bluish starlight where the door stood open. "I have the timing of the guards’ patrol memorised."