Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

  agreement they paused just outside.

  “Sciovana’s family took me in,” he continued. “I had lost a great

  deal of blood and taken a fever. She nursed me, and when I lay raving

  with grief and pain, she held me in her arms.”

  Not enough pain to keep you from taking advantage of her generosity,

  thought Lhiannon.

  “I didn’t know what I was doing, but when I came to myself and

  realized that I had got the girl with child, I was willing enough to

  marry her. What did it matter, if you were lost to me?”

  Could she blame him, she wondered, remembering how she had

  sought comfort with Boudica? If Boudica had loved her as Sciovana did

  Ardanos, she would not have been here at all. But here she was, and her

  own pain left her with little sympathy for his.

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  He stared at her, tears in his eyes. “My love is a girl with hair like

  the yellow flag,” he whispered. “Soft as the breast of the swan . . .” He

  swallowed and took her hand. “You are a priestess, Lhiannon, as Sci-

  ovana can never be. In the great rites we can still come together, priest

  and priestess, raising the power!”

  “You have everything figured, I see!” Lhiannon jerked her hand

  away. “One woman for the altar, and one for the hearth. How very con-

  venient! But I have not stayed virgin so long to become your magical

  mistress! Go back to your wife, Ardanos! She seems a good woman and

  deserves better, but it would appear that she loves you . . .”

  He tried to hold her, but with a quick twist, she was running back

  down the path. She did not stop until she reached the House of Priest-

  esses where she collapsed, weeping, in Coventa’s arms.

  S E V E N T E E N

  H elve asks if you will attend her this afternoon,” said Coventa.

  Spring had come at last to the island, and the soft wind stirred her fair

  hair.

  “My child, you lie.” Lhiannon looked up from the quern in which

  she was grinding grain and smiled. “Helve does not send requests to her

  inferiors. You were supposed to bring me her command . . .”

  “Well, yes—” Coventa blushed. “But she speaks that way because

  she thinks her dignity requires it. Truly, she can be very kind.”

  To you, perhaps, thought Lhiannon. If a belief in Helve’s goodness

  made the young woman feel better about her own position here, it

  would have been cruel to deprive her of it, especially now, when Helve

  had transferred her affection to a new girl called Nodona. Except for the

  fact that her hair was dark, she reminded Lhiannon strongly of what

  Coventa had been like when she was very young.

  “You may tell the High Priestess that I will come.”

  She scooped another handful of grain into the hole at the top of the

  upper quern stone, grasped the use-polished stick that served as handle,

  and began to push it around once more. It was hard work of a kind that

  she should have delegated to someone like Sciovana, but the repetitive

  motion had a mind-numbing effect that helped her get through the

  days.

  Before going to Helve, however, Lhiannon took the time to wash

  and change into a clean tunica. She was glad she had done so when she

  saw that the High Priestess was not alone. Lugovalos and Belina, Cuni-

  tor and Ardanos, and a selection of the more senior Druids who had

  taken refuge on Mona were also there.

  Coventa did not tell me that this was a council— perhaps because Helve

  feared I might refuse to attend, she thought wryly, though it wasn’t true

  that she avoided Ardanos’s company entirely: she only refused to see

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  him alone. She settled into place beside Belina with an armored

  smile.

  “Welcome, my

  sister—you complete our circle,” said Lugovalos

  kindly. If he was aware of the undercurrents he gave no sign as he went

  on. “I have called you all here because we have learned that the gover-

  nor is planning to attack the Deceangli.”

  “To attack us, you mean,” put in Divitiac, who had been chief

  Druid to the Durotriges before the Romans came. He had been spirited

  away as the legions were marching into Tancoric’s dun, and his limbs

  trembled, though his mind was still strong. “Whatever toleration the

  Romans had for us is ended. The new governor is killing those of our

  Order wherever he finds them. We are all that remain, and the Decean-

  gli guard the path around the north coast that any invader must take to

  come here.”

  “We must flee!” whispered a priestess who had been with the

  Belgae, and sometimes woke sobbing in the night from nightmares.

  “We must take ship for Eriu. The Irish Druids are strong and will

  welcome us.”

  “And where will we go after that—the Blessed Isles?” asked Cunitor

  with grim humor.

  “One way or another we will all come there in the end,” murmured

  Belina.

  “If we run now we will never stop,” objected Cunitor. “Caratac is

  still fighting, and there are still tribes that have not bent the knee to

  Rome. If we can stir them up to rebellion, the Romans will leave the

  Deceangli alone.”

  For now, thought Lhiannon, but she did not say so aloud.

  “My kin among the Brigante clans are not happy with Cartiman-

  dua’s friendship with the Romans,” Cunitor said. “Perhaps I can per-

  suade them that now is the time to make their feelings known . . .”

  “Caratac needs to know that we are behind him,” said Lugovalos.

  “I will go to him,” said Ardanos. “I have worked with him before.”

  “You are still recovering from your wounds, and you have a fam-

  ily,” Helve said firmly. “You are needed here.”

  I can see where this is going, thought Lhiannon. No doubt she and Lugovalos

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  209

  decided on this course before the rest of us arrived. But she had no desire to resist

  their manipulation. She had endured the constriction of winter, but she did

  not think she could bear to be in the same place as Ardanos when all the

  world rejoiced at the coming of spring.

  “Send me—” She smiled blandly at Helve. “Caratac saved me from

  death or worse. I owe him what help I can give.”

  “I will go with her,” came another voice. She looked up in surprise

  as she recognized Brangenos, a shade more gray and thin, but otherwise

  unchanged. “A wandering bard passes everywhere, and I have training

  as a healer as well.”

  Lhiannon frowned. She remembered how he had sung for King

  Togodumnos before the battle on the Tamesa. And she had heard of

  him among the Durotriges when Vespasian was laying waste to their

  lands. A bird of ill omen was this raven son. What disasters do you expect

  to celebrate when we are with Caratac, bard?

  “That is settled, then. And we will ask among the younger priests to

  carry word elsewhere . . .” rumbled Lugovalos.

  As the others rose to take their leave, Helve beckoned to Lhiannon.

  “
We have never been friends,” said the High Priestess when they

  were alone. “But believe me when I say that I am not sending you on

  this mission to get rid of you.”

  No? wondered Lhiannon. I thought it might be because I threaten your

  influence on Coventa. She continued to smile.

  “Whatever rivalry divided us in the past, we must work together

  now,” Helve went on. “You have great abilities, and the Goddess knows

  how badly we need every man and woman of power! I have no choice

  but to employ whatever tools I have, regardless of the cost. Neither you

  nor I matter, nor Ardanos, nor Coventa, nor Lugovalos, if by sacrifi ce

  we can save our tradition.”

  Lhiannon opened her awareness a little and was surprised to sense

  only sincerity. Helve believed what she was saying, and it might even be

  true. Perhaps she was growing into her job.

  “I understand.” For the first time she accorded the High Priestess a

  respectful nod.

  “Stay safe, Lhiannon, and come back to us when your task is done.”

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  Boudica dreamed that she was walking on a narrow path through

  thickly forested hills, surrounded by men who carried swords. Their

  clothing was grimed with mud and blood, a fanatical glint lit their eyes.

  Before her marched Lhiannon, as dirty as any of the others, but looking

  fi t and hard.

  In the valley below lay a farmstead. Silently the warriors surrounded

  it. She glimpsed Caratac among them. As someone lit a torch his golden

  torque gleamed. They leaped to the attack, shrilling Silure war cries.

  Men ran out of the houses. Women screamed as the thatch caught fi re.

  Soon there was more blood, and bodies lying on the ground. And then

  the attackers were retreating, some carrying livestock or sacks of grain.

  As they went by, Lhiannon turned and seemed to see Boudica at last.

  “So shall we serve all who bend the knee to Rome . . .”

  Boudica realized she had been weeping when she opened her eyes

  and saw her husband’s worried frown. It must be morning. The door of

  their house at Teutodunon was open, and sunlight was fi ltering through

  the red-and-yellow striped curtains that surrounded the bed place.

  “You cried out—are you in pain?”

  “A nightmare,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes. “It’s already going,”

  she lied, for she knew that she would remember this dream. Her youn-

  gest brother Braci and Caratac’s brother Epilios had joined the rebellion

  the year before. But in the dream the Britons seemed to be winning. If

  Lhiannon had been here she would have asked her for an interpreta-

  tion. Had the priestess sent the dream, and if so was it a reproof or a

  warning?

  “Come here and kiss the nightmare away,” She pulled him back

  down, fitting her body against his in the way that had become accus-

  tomed in the two years since she had truly been his queen. He chuckled

  and nuzzled her neck, one hand sliding across her breast. She could feel

  his content, and his desire. Why had it taken her so long to realize that

  Prasutagos was most eloquent when he was silent?

  “Mama, Papa! Bogle’s got a hare!”

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  Prasutagos rolled away as the curtains were jerked back and a red-

  headed blur bounced onto the bed between them. Boudica blinked and

  reached out in an attempt to hold her daughter still.

  “He caught it out on the heath an’ brought it home. The puppies are

  fi ghting over it now!”

  Boudica exchanged an exasperated look with her husband, who

  laughed and eased out of the bed, feeling around for the tunic he had

  stripped off so unceremoniously the night before. What did it mean, she

  wondered, when your clan totem was hunted down by your dog? It was

  bound to happen, she supposed, if they allowed Bogle and his numerous

  off spring to range the heathlands while they were in residence at her fa-

  ther’s old dun.

  “Rigana! Rigana—is the child there with you?”

  Prasutagos hastily pulled his tunic the rest of the way down as

  Boudica’s mother hurried in.

  “I’m so sorry, dears, did she wake you?” her mother said. “She runs

  so fast, you know.”

  “Yes. It’s all right, Mama,” said Boudica. “I was getting up anyway.”

  “I thought you might be,” said the older woman. “The smith is here

  already with the new coins for the king to approve.” Since Boudica’s

  father died, Anaveistl had coped fairly well, but sometimes she forgot

  that she was no longer the queen.

  Boudica hugged Rigana, delighting in the firm limbs and the fl ower

  scent of her hair. “Is your little sister awake, sprout?” The two girls slept

  with their grandmother and their nurses in the next roundhouse, close

  enough so that Boudica could hear if someone cried.

  As if the question had been a signal, Nessa came through the door

  leading Argantilla, who had just begun to toddle, by the hand. Smil-

  ing like a sunrise, the smaller girl, as golden and gentle as her sister

  was fiery and active, clambered into the bed to join Rigana for a

  morning snuggle before their parents were distracted by the demands

  of the day.

  Breakfast beneath the spreading branches of the oak tree was a time to

  receive reports and plan the day. This morning they had silver coins with

  their porridge—the first of the new issue bearing a Roman-style image of

  the ruler on one side, and the legend “Subri Esvprasto Esico Fecit,” with the

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  horse totem of the Iceni, on the other. Esico might have minted them for

  Prasutagos, but far too many of those coins would have to go to the Ro-

  mans in taxes. Others might be paid to chieftains who had collected pro-

  duce from their clans to feed the Romans’

  never-ending need for

  supplies.

  Esico the coiner, a little dark man with missing teeth and an air of

  confidence that came from knowing his skills would be needed who-

  ever was in power, also traded in information. His fi rst off ering was the

  news that the governor, finding his resources overstretched, was moving

  the Twentieth Legion from Camulodunum to a place near the head of

  the Sabrina estuary where they could keep an eye on the Silures.

  “They are withdrawing all their forces from the Trinovante lands?”

  asked Prasutagos.

  “Not exacthly,” lisped Esico. “They mean to turn the fort into a

  Roman-type town and fill it with old tholdierth. ‘Victory colony,’ they

  call it.” He spat out the words. “Already they levy men to help with the

  building—an’ with harvetht coming on—” He shook his head. “The

  Trinovante ain’t happy, but what can they do?”

  What can any of us do, thought Boudica, but carry on?

  “Romans set great store on impressive buildings . . .” Prasutagos

  said slowly as Esico departed. “They consider them a mark of civiliza-

  tion.” Boudica eyed him suspiciously, recognizing the enthusiastic gleam

  in his eye.

 
“The Romans will never allow us to build fortifications. Just what,”

  she added carefully, “did you have in mind?”

  “Nothing in stone . . .” he said quickly. “Nothing they’d consider a

  threat. But I was remembering the way the Romans put a second story

  on their houses, and I think we could build a roundhouse that way, with

  two tiers.” Boudica blinked. She could not imagine what he was talking

  about, but it was obvious that Prasutagos could see it clearly. “We’ll

  clear out some of the buildings in the enclosure—move the weaving

  sheds into an adjacent yard and give the mint its own wall. Make a nice

  neat bank and ditch around the house here.”

  “Do you mean to challenge King Cogidubnos?” She laughed. “At

  Noviomagus he’s building a Roman palace.”

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  He shook his head. “This will be purely Celtic, just . . . bigger.” He

  grinned.

  Boudica sighed. The rise on which Teutodunon lay was high

  enough to give her a good view of the river, with the heathland golden

  in the morning sun beyond. The peace of the scene made the violence

  of her night visions seem even more unreal—or was this the dream? As

  she sighed, Bogle lifted his great head from one of her feet to lay it

  upon the other. She wiggled her toes to restore circulation. The dog,

  having made his contribution to the community’s food supply, clearly

  felt entitled to a rest.

  In another moment, however, Bogle raised his head again, ears prick-

  ing, then heaved himself out from under the table and took a few steps

  toward the gate.

  “Are we expecting guests?” inquired Prasutagos. The dog had shown

  an uncanny ability to distinguish between approaching strangers and the

  folk who belonged here.

  “They are friends, apparently,” observed Boudica as the plumed tail

  began to gently wave.

  In a few minutes one of the warriors on guard came trotting through

  the gate to report three women and a man riding up the road.

  “They don’t sound too dangerous,” said Prasutagos, stroking his

  mustache to hide a smile. “Why don’t you go welcome them in?”

  Curiosity gave way to wonder as the three women appeared in the

  gateway. Boudica had hoped to see Lhiannon, but the curly yellow head

  of the fi rst fi gure was nearly as welcome.