I've had a productive day writing, which tends to mean I lose track of the time so...since I'm out at Ballater on Royal Deeside (Scotland) with FOCUS Craft Fairs selling and signing books tomorrow, and I'll probably be out of WiFI range for posting anything, here's part of a scene for you.
The action isn't at Ballater but it's not so far away from there except it takes place in AD 84, almost 2000 years ago.
A rush of pure hatred mixed with an unbidden fear almost had her snapping the soggy debris beneath her leather-clad feet as she sidled to the nearby mature beech. In the forest gloom, her thoughts were as murky as the wood around her. Alban elued was upon them, though she doubted there would be much to the ceremony around the fireside of her family when she returned to them. It was her habit to welcome this happy time, when the daylight shared an equal time with the dark and the last of the crops were gathered in but presently the forest god, Cernunnos, favoured neither her, nor her family.
The summer warmth of Lugh was only a memory. An early chill had rapidly descended since dawn causing a cascade of colourful leaf drop to glide down. The red gold of the leaves might have been appealing had the day been a fair one but Cernunnos was demonstrating his ire at the deeds of men in his precious territory. The mush of the soggy leaves was treacherous underfoot.
Reining in her anxiety, she snatched a breath before the cries of her answering crossbill call acknowledged she understood how many of the enemy needed to be dealt with. Hunkering down behind the trunk, she drew her bratt tighter around her head, her fingers numb and clumsy as she tucked in her wayward side plaits. The measure was poor protection for her shivering body, the relentless pelt of hail stinging her cheeks like she imagined a branding tine would do, though she had yet to experience that. Knowing observation was all that was required of her for the moment, she knelt down on one knee finding a better balance point, her woollen braccae sodden. The softest of plops hit the wet tree roots beneath her as she scanned the vicinity, melted hail trickling down from her chin. No part of her was dry but she could do nothing about that state. Not until much later and after her turn at surveillance was over.
After a long interval, her breathing shallow to suppress the complaints her aching muscles wanted to scream out, the faint bird-chat of Colm and Feargus was just discernible on her left before the signal came to move on. She couldn’t see Colm, only his spear, the tip of which nudged a gentle indication towards the edge of the forest. Progressively, and with great caution, she edged from tree to tree, winding her way through the wood which clad the foothills of Drumgoodrum. She knew by the responses from Colm and Feargus that the fourth warrior of their scouting party, Nith, was the only one of them who had the Roman soldiers in view.