of time.”
Lhiannon moved a little away, instinctively raising mental shields
against the younger woman’s despair. “I have to believe there is hope,”
she said in a low voice. “Even if I am wrong. I cannot betray the men I
saw die at the Tamesa by giving up now.”
“Ah, I am sorry! I did not mean to hurt you!” Boudica reached out
to hug her. “When I first got here I despised my father for surrendering
so easily. But now I think that he is right. To cooperate is the only way
we can retain any inde pendence at all!”
“And so you will stay, and marry Prasutagos, as you tell me your
father desires?”
“With Dubi a hostage, our family needs a firm alliance with the
other Iceni royal line. At Mona, I would never be more than a minor
priestess. I may be able to help our people as a queen.”
They walked on in silence, and found that their steps had brought
them onto the droveway that led to Camulodunon. The friendly dark-
ness hid the worst of the destruction, but even at night the dun had
never been so utterly still.
“And will he love you?” Lhiannon asked softly after a time.
“Does that matter?” Boudica snapped back. “Ardanos loves you, but
it has not made either of you happier, that I can see!”
Lhiannon stopped, desolation tightening her throat as she admitted
that what Boudica had said was true. She stumbled forward and sat
down on a broken wagon.
“Ah, now I have hurt you again!” There were tears in Boudica’s voice
as well. “But you have to understand—the last time I stood here, this was
a great king’s home. I don’t want this to happen to my father’s dun!”
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When Lhiannon said nothing, she eased down beside her. “I trust
Prasutagos to work for our people. I am making an alliance. But it will
be easier if I know that you still love me . . .”
“I will pray to the Goddess that you find joy in your duty,” whis-
pered Lhiannon. Even though She has given me little enough in mine . . .
She could feel Boudica nodding as they wept in each other’s arms.
N I N E
L iving in the closed community of Lys Deru, Boudica had forgot-
ten what it was like to gallop across the open heath beneath an endless
sky. Just now she needed the escape as never before. Even Helve at her
worst had not been as annoying as Anaveistl’s endless nattering about
the astonishing array of goods and gear Boudica was expected to take
with her to her new home. Tomorrow they would journey to Dun Garo
on the River of Eels. King Antedios had claimed the honor of hosting
the marriage between his most important subking and the daughter of
his heir.
Will Prasutagos let his wife gallop over the hills? His clan- hold was in the
north near the sea. Going there would be like being a newcomer at the
Druids’ Isle all over again, but this move would be lifelong.
Boudica’s lips twisted wryly as she realized what was really bothering
her. Her people bred horses, and she knew, more or less, what human
breeding involved. A few exploratory fumblings with Rianor had even
shown her why one might enjoy it. She realized then that it was not so
much the act that she feared as the idea of submitting to a stranger.
Her old dun pony tossed its head and juttered to a stop as a gray
hare, startled from its form in the heather, dashed across the moor.
Boudica caught her breath and made a sign of reverence as it disap-
peared.
For generations the Clan of the Hare had grazed sheep and horses on
this undulating land where the sandy soil retained only enough water for
grasses to fill in the spaces between the clumps of gorse and heather,
though more recently her father had taken advantage of their position
where the ancient trackway forded two rivers to set up a weavers’ center
where the thread the women spun could be made into cloth.
As the season of harvest drew to a close the heathlands glowed with
the purple of heather and the gorse’s rich gold. The trees that fl ourished
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along the rivers that drained westward into the fen country shaded from
green to all the autumn colors. There lay the sacred grove that sheltered
the shrine of Andraste, who had been honored here since before the
Belgic princes came from across the sea.
Boudica kneed her mount into motion again and they trotted down
the path that wandered amid the old barrows. She slid down and tied
the rein to a blackthorn bush where the horse could nose at the dry
grass.
The Turning of Autumn was just past. On one of the mounds a des-
sicated bouquet of heather and asters lay. That would be old Nessa’s
doing—she was the one who knew all the old tales. Boudica began
to walk the pattern around the barrows as the old woman had taught
her, finishing at the mound in the middle—the only one it was per-
missable to climb.
Four miles to the northwest she could see the roundhouses of Teu-
todunon, overlooking the ford where the river was crossed by the an-
cient track. Her mother’s garden lay behind the chieftain’s house, the
pens for sheep and horses and the weaving shed beyond. It looked de-
ceptively peaceful from here.
Tomorrow they would set out for Antedios’s dun and her wedding,
and when would she see her home again? She had agreed to the mar-
riage, but just now she felt like the sacrificial hare that had struggled
in Helve’s hands.
She found a piece of oatcake in her bag and placed it in a crevice
between two stones on top of the mound.
“Old one, your earth and water built my blood and bones. Accept
this offering. Guard this place as you have done for so many years, and
though I must leave you, remember me . . .”
Gradually, her panic eased. Coventa, she thought wistfully, would
have heard an answer. For Boudica there was only a sense of peace, until
the light began to fade and she knew it was time to go home.
The mare shook her head, a shrill neigh expressing her disdain for
the lad who clung to her leadrope. Her coat shone richly chestnut as the
sun broke through the clouds, a shade deeper than Boudica’s hair. The
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boy set his heels to hold her, but it had rained that morning, and he was
pulled through the mud instead.
“I don’t think that filly wants to be saddled,” said one of King An-
tedios’s warriors.
“Take a good man to ride her,” answered his companion.
“Prasutagos has good hands for a horse, they say . . .”
Boudica flushed as the men glanced at her and laughed. But it was
indeed a beautiful horse, and it was hers, a wedding gift from her pro-
spective husband.
Her mother tugged at her elbow, and she allowed herself to be led
toward the roundhouse. Draped and jeweled in the red gown and plaid
cloak she had worn at Camulodunon, she moved carefully, afraid of dis-
tur
bing the elaborate braids in which her mother’s maids had done her
hair. A wreath of golden gorse and wheat heads crowned the arrange-
ment over a gauzy crimson veil.
Since waking she had been in a strange, suspended state, allowing
the women to dress and adorn her as if she were the image of a god. And
that, she thought distantly, was almost true. Today she was the Bride,
not Boudica. This ceremony would celebrate the union of two royal
kindreds that strengthened the tribe, the union of male and female that
renewed the world. The symbolism was there in any wedding, but kings
and queens carried the luck of the tribe. She had been caught up in the
surge of emotion that flowed from people to the king when her father
performed the rites at planting and harvest. The Druids had given her
the background to understand what was happening. But now it was she
who must carry that power. It felt diff erent from inside.
A twitter of women’s voices from ahead told her that the women’s
procession was forming. Boudica was surprised to see the Brigante
queen Cartimandua among them. She wished that Lhiannon and Cov-
enta could have been there.
Her mother chivvied the others into some kind of order as a harper
began to strike rhythmic chords. Anaveistl set a sheaf of grain in Boudi-
ca’s arms and pushed her into place behind the chattering girls with
their baskets of herbs and late flowers. The rest fell into place behind
them as they started along the path through the fi elds.
Somewhere a drum was beating, a deep vibration that she felt as
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much as heard. Or perhaps it was her own heartbeat. Harp and drum
fell silent as the men’s pro cession approached from the woods to the
northeast, led by boys carrying green branches and a youth with a burn-
ing torch. They circled an ancient earthen ring about the height of a
man and defi ned by shallow ditches to meet the bride’s party at the en-
trance.
As her mother led Boudica forward, the boys began to sing—
“You are the moon among the stars,
You are the foam upon the wave,
You are the lily among the flowers,
You are the spark that starts the flame,
You are the beloved.”
Prasutagos, dressed in a splendid fringed cloak checkered in seven
colors over a blue tunic and braes striped in blue and red, emerged from
the crowd of men to stand beside her as the maidens who had escorted
Boudica replied—
“You are the sun above the clouds,
You are the wave that strikes the shore,
You are the oak within the wood,
You are the torch that lights the hall,
You are the beloved.”
Inside the ring King Antedios and his queen, his Druid, and Boudica’s
father were waiting. As she passed through the gap Boudica had the odd
sense that the earth had shifted. Prasutagos steadied her as she stumbled
and she took a deep breath, staring around her. Here were no ancient
stones to bear witness to the past, but earth was older still. For how many
lives of men had this earthen embankment defined sacred ground?
Among the Druids she had thought herself head-blind, but moving
around the fire that burned in the circle’s center, she knew that her
time on the isle had changed her. She had sensed nothing diff erent
about this place when she had visited as a child, but now, when she
looked through the gap that framed the pointed roofs of the dun and a
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low hill across the river beyond, she could feel the current of power
that linked them. Everything outside the embankment seemed blurred,
as if seen through the heated air above a fi re. She wondered if this was
how Lhiannon had felt when she was in the Faerie world. For a mo-
ment she had a sense that all times were simultaneous, as if by simply
shifting her focus she could see.
Did Prasutagos feel it, she wondered as they halted before the fi re.
His usually pleasant features looked stern, his gaze a little inward. Or
perhaps he was remembering his first wife and mourning the necessity
that required him to marry Boudica.
The Druid, robed in more colors than even Prasutagos wore, turned
to the others. His white beard flowed down his chest like carded wool,
stirring a little in the wind.
“Of what blood do this man and this woman come?”
“I stand for Prasutagos, since his father is no longer living,” said An-
tedios. “Of the People of the Ram he is chieftain. Let him be married to
this woman with the blessing of his kin.”
“I stand for Boudica of the People of the Hare,” her father spoke
then. “I release my daughter from clan-bond and clan- right that she
may become part of her husband’s family. Let her be married to this
man with the blessing of her kin.”
The Druid moved around the fire, a length of braid in his hand.
He was a small man, a little bent with age, but there was a light in his
eye that reminded her of Lugovalos. “Prasutagos and Boudica, you
have come here with the blessing of your families to be joined before
the people, the ancestors, and the gods. In flesh and in spirit you shall
be mated. Do you both consent to this binding?”
What would happen if I said no? she thought wildly. She heard the
man’s murmured assent joining her own as the priest draped the cord
around their wrists. But she had committed herself already when she
told Lhiannon she would not return to the Druids’ Isle.
“By what vows will you be bound?”
Prasutagos looked at her fully for the first time since they had en-
tered the circle. His eyes were gray, but around the iris she saw fl ecks of
gold. In time, she thought, I will know everything about this man, and then,
with a tremor, and he will know everything about me . . .
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“I, Prasutagos, do pledge you, Boudica, to live as your husband.”
She took a deep breath and replied, “I, Boudica, do pledge you, Pra-
sutagos, to live as your wife.”
Together they continued the vows.
“Your hearth shall be my hearth, your bed shall be my bed. For
your loyalty I shall return love, and for your love grant you my loyalty.
Upon the circle of life I swear it, by earth and fire, by wind and water,
and before the holy gods.”
“I am your staff and your sword,” said Prasutagos.
And Boudica replied, “I am your shield and your cauldron.”
The queen held out a loaf made from grain that had been grown at
the House of the Hare mixed with some from Prasutagos’s lands.
“From the earth that bore you this bread was made,” the Druid pro-
claimed, “many seeds ground together to become one loaf. May your
union be fruitful; and may that bounty extend to field and forest, to
plowland and pasture, and all the land you rule.” Despite his age, his
voice was full and strong.
Boudica broke off a corner, dropped a few crumbs on the ground
and into
the fire, and fed the rest to Prasutagos.
“As I break this bread, so I off er my life to nourish you,” she said.
“As I take it, my body shall become one with yours,” he replied.
The bread was given to Prasutagos, who did the same. As Boudica
swallowed the coarse grains she found herself suddenly aware of his
physical presence.
The Druid took the rest of the cake and crumbled it over their
heads. It seemed to her that she could feel each grain.
The king came forward with a bowl of carved jet filled with water.
“This water is the blood of the earth, drawn from two sacred
springs,” the Druid said then. “As these waters have become one, may
your spirits blend, and may the springs that water your land run ever
pure and clear.”
The king offered the bowl to Prasutagos, who spilled a little on the
earth and flicked a drop into the fire. Like the grain, it was a blending
from both their homes.
“As this water is poured, I pour out my spirit for you.”
“As I drink it, my spirit mingles with yours,” she replied.
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Prasutagos held it to Boudica’s lips and she drank. Then the Druid
handed the bowl to her. As she repeated the words, she found her eyes
filling with tears and tried to quell the surge of emotion that came with
them as she blinked them away.
When it was done, the Druid set the bowl aside and turned them to
face each other. “The free air of heaven is the breath of the ancestors.
Breathe deeply, let their spirit fill you, and give it back to each other
again.”
It was true, she thought as she drew the charged air into her lungs.
If the earth was made from the dust of all that had lived, this air held
their breath, generation after generation, changing, exchanging, inspir-
ing, and expiring with each birth and death.
Among women, Boudica was tall, but Prasutagos stood a span taller.
With his free hand he tipped up her chin. She controlled her involun-
tary fl inch, felt the tickle of his mustache as he set his lips to hers. They
were dry and cool, fi rmly demanding. Soon enough he will have the right to
take more than a kiss, she told herself, forcing herself to let her lips open
beneath his.
“By earth and water and air you have been joined together. Let