A
warrior’s wardrobe
By
Juli D. Revezzo
If
you’ve read romance and historical romance for any length of time you’ll
undoubtedly run across a few clichés. Sometimes, they’re so expected you just
know what you’re going to get. The happy ending, the vampire falling in love
with the drip of a girl. There’s also the thing about Braveheart. Every other
historical novel set anywhere in or near Scotland seems to have a guy in a
kilt. So much so, fans of the genre have a joke about it (what does a Scot wear
under his kilt?)
Well,
I’m a stickler for accuracy, and so in researching my debut paranormal romance
novel, PASSION’S SACRED DANCE, which features Irish Celts, I went looking for
their mode of dress. I found to my
surprise that, according to the historical sources, the ancient Celts didn’t
wear kilts. Traditionally the men wore tunics—called a leine—and thews, which
are basically just trousers. Even the Scots didn’t adopt the Kilt until the 1590s
according to one source I read and the Celts adopted it even later than that. Yep,
sorry, ladies. Historically, the Kilt wasn’t part of a Celt’s wardrobe.
It
seems to make sense. I mean, who wants to run around a battlefield in a skirt?
Something that could easily get snagged in your chariot’s wheels?
On
the other hand, there was this separate group among the continental Celts (that
is, those that stayed on the Continent of Europe) called the Gaesatae. These
men had a distinct ritual dress for their war preparations. The Gaesatae would
shed all their clothes and march into battle stark naked. Yep. Not. A. Stitch
between them and the sky.
Can
you imagine seeing your enemy walk out on the battlefield with a little more
than just a flag flying? >;) Interesting image, huh? One must be quite bold
to do that.
Unfortunately,
the weather at the time PASSION’S SACRED DANCE takes place was a bit too cold
for such attire. However, my heroine Stacy does get an eyeful of the hero Aaron
from time to time. Would you like a peek?
Excerpt:
She
drummed her fingers on her desk. On the other hand, could she afford not to see
it? Sheer curiosity if nothing else would kill her. “Do you know why he brought
the diary to your attention, and not to mine directly?”
Aaron
shrugged. “I guess because I teach his son.”
He
waved a hand. “Stick fighting, you know. Martial arts.”
Made
sense. “Still…” she sat back in the chair and crossed her arms, “I don’t know.”
“As
you wish.” He tapped the letter. “He can give it to the university. I’m sure
they’ll be interested.”
She
picked up the note and hugged the stationery protectively. “No, no. I’ll go.”
Her
gaze went to his, and butterflies dashed around in her stomach. A vision
flashed before her of how his eyes might look glazed over in passion. “Maybe we
should go.” She cleared her throat, stood and moved to the filing cabinet,
changed her mind and went to the
desk
again.
The
fabled diary! She was beside herself with excitement. She’d have the diary.
What a month this was turning out to be. “When can we meet him?”
Aaron
came forward and ran a finger over the calendar’s slots. “How about tomorrow
morning?”
“Yes.”
She nodded emphatically. “Perfect. Nineish?”
“Tomorrow
it is.” He nodded and turned toward the door.
The
thrill of this discovery overwhelmed her. An urge to kiss him in thanks struck
her hard in the chest.
“Aaron?”
He
met her gaze, waiting.
Her
brain screamed, halt! She wanted to touch him at least. Her fingers twitched.
She stepped back.
She
just couldn’t. “I’ll see you at nine.”
He
turned away with a knowing glint in his eyes.
She
was such a fool.
****
Stacy
Macken would be the death of him, Aaron thought, as he tugged off his boots and
jeans. They’d parted a good hour ago, but he still couldn’t get rid of the
sensation of having her close or the sheer need to kiss her.
Didn’t
she realize how crazy she was driving him?
A
cold shower was definitely in order.
Aaron
closed the bathroom door behind him, twisted the white porcelain shower knob
marked “C”.
As
the water burst from the faucet, he heard it—the soft melody of his ringtone.
Sighing, he turned the water off and sprinted into his bedroom, snatching his
phone from the bedside table. The display shone bright with a name that
darkened his mood. Laurco Çubiry.
Aaron
frowned. What the blazes does he need?
What’s
going on here and what does an Irishman wear under his kilt? I really can’t
say. You’ll have to look into it yourself! I do know what some of them wear
into battle though—and in the shower. ;)
Blurb:
Battling
mounting debt, Stacy Macken is determined not to lose her historic art gallery.
When Aaron Fielding appears and offers to help, she fights to keep the
attraction sizzling between them from clouding her judgment. He may be her
savior in disguise--but can she trust him?
Aaron
intrigues her with tales of the Tuatha dé Danann, sworn warriors who protect
humanity from the monsters seeking their destruction. If Aaron can prove what
he claims, she would give up anything to help--even the gallery he claims is
sacred ground. But with her property set to stage the next epic battle, she
needs answers. An old family diary will confirm the ancient legend is true, if
only they can find it in time.
If
the battle is lost, the enemy will take control of Earth for the next five
hundred years. Stacy and Aaron's budding love might only complicate things.
About
Juli D. Revezzo:
Juli
D. Revezzo has long been in love with writing, a love built by devouring
everything from the Arthurian legends, to the works of Michael Moorcock, and
the classics and has a soft spot for classic the “Goths” of the 19th century.
Her short fiction has been published in Dark Things II: Cat Crimes, The
Scribing Ibis, Eternal Haunted Summer, Twisted Dreams Magazine and Luna Station
Quarterly. She also has an article and book review or two out there. But her
heart lies in the storytelling. She is a member of Independent Authors Network
and Magic Appreciation Tour. Passion’s Sacred Dance is her first paranormal
romance novel.
On
twitter: @julidrevezzo
*notes:
The women wore dresses, and long tunics, as well as the unisex cloak.
Works
cited: The Celts by Nora Chadwick
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