Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

  “Coventa!” she paused as she recognized Belina and Helve, of all

  people, behind her, and slowed her progress to something more befi t-

  ting a queen.

  “My lady!” Her nod was carefully calculated to imply equality. “You

  honor us!” As she gave orders for food and drink she eyed them covertly,

  seeing Coventa grown tall, and Helve a little more matronly. The High

  Priestess was still beautiful, but she had some lines in her face that had

  not been there before. And that’s no wonder, Boudica thought silently, the

  past few years have not been easy on anyone. She smiled again as their escort

  proved to be Rianor. Like the others he wore ordinary clothes.

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  “You’ll be wondering what we’re doing here,” said Belina as they sat

  down to a plate of bannocks and a flagon of Roman wine. “With the

  Romans busy building new forts near the Sabrina, the roads seemed safe

  enough for Coventa’s womanhood ceremony at Avalon.”

  Boudica nodded, remembering her initiation at Lhiannon’s hands.

  She wondered if Helve could bring through the same magic, but then

  Coventa had enough magic herself for two.

  “And now we are going to visit her kinfolk in the Brigante lands

  before she takes her vows,” said Helve. “It has been an interesting

  journey.”

  And you have been picking up information everywhere you passed, Boudica

  observed. It would appear that the kind of thinking required to be a

  high priestess was not so diff erent from that of a queen.

  “I told them it didn’t matter,” said Coventa. “No one has proposed

  a great marriage for me, and I would refuse it if they tried—though

  your little girls are sweet enough to make me think again about mother-

  hood!”

  Boudica smiled. “Sweet” was not a term she would have used for

  Rigana, but the two children had been on their best behavior to meet

  the priestesses, and she could see how they might be deceived.

  “We plan to save some travel time by taking a ship from the north

  coast of your lands,” Helve put in. “We will be staying with Queen

  Cartimandua in Briga for a while before heading home. I thought that

  if your husband permits it, you might wish to go with us.”

  “Oh please do, Boudica!” begged Coventa. “We can only stay here

  one night, and that is not nearly time enough for all I have to tell you!”

  “I don’t know,” Boudica said uncertainly. The baby was weaned,

  and the girls surely did not lack for protectors, but she had not slept apart

  from Prasutagos for more than a night since he became High King, ex-

  cept when she gave birth to Argantilla, and for a week when he had a

  fever. Without him in the bed beside her she did not sleep well.

  In the end it was Prasutagos who counseled her to go, although

  she could see that he liked the prospect of separation no more than she.

  But they had not spoken with Cartimandua for some time, and since

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  the western Brigantes had rebelled the year before it had become

  important to know where she and her husband stood with regard to

  Rome.

  “Cartimandua seemed to have a kindness for you at the wedding,”

  the king observed dryly. Boudica realized for the first time that he was

  aware that the Brigante queen had encouraged her to ride away. “She is

  a wily one, but perhaps if you are together for a time she will speak

  freely.”

  It was only after they had been on the road for some days that it oc-

  curred to Boudica that the reason Helve had invited her was the same.

  Three days’ journey brought them to the small port on the Wash,

  on the north coast of the Iceni lands. There they found two wide-

  bottomed boats that could take the women and their escort four days’

  sail up the coast and into a great estuary. At the landing they bought

  rough-coated ponies to carry them upriver until they came to Lys Udra,

  where Queen Cartimandua made her home.

  One sympathizes with Caratac, of course,” said the queen.

  She was still the sleek, wry-tongued creature Boudica remembered,

  with her black hair shining in the morning sun. Coventa was spending

  the week with her brother’s family, leaving the Brigante queen to enter-

  tain her unexpected guests at her hall by the river. The land here was

  good for farming, but to the west rose moors and mountains where only

  shepherds could make a living.

  “He and his brother were in a fair way to unite most of the south,

  had the Romans not come.” She poured wine into cups of ruddy Samian

  ware and passed them to her guests. “He is a fi ne-looking man, too,

  though depressingly faithful to that Ordovice woman he wed.” She

  smiled.

  Boudica raised an eyebrow. Did you try him, then, and get turned

  down? Cartimandua was known to have an eye for a handsome male.

  Her husband did not object, but then Briga was a wild land, where folk

  held to older ways than those of the Celts of Gallia who had conquered

  them. King Venutios was spending the summer at Rigodunon, near the

  Salmaes firth on the northwestern coast. Clearly his relationship with

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  Cartimandua was very different from the union she and Prasutagos had

  finally found. Boudica wondered if he had played any role in the rising

  there.

  “They say that Caratac has taken his war band back to the Ordovice

  lands,” said Helve.

  “He may take them anywhere he likes, so long as they stay out of

  Briga,” Cartimandua said with sudden venom. “I’ll not have him per-

  suading any more of our clans into a rising that could only be put down

  by bringing the Legions in.”

  “I, on the other hand, can only be thankful they did. That rebellion

  saved Mona,” observed Helve.

  “Do you expect me to say that you’re welcome?” Cartimandua an-

  swered her unspoken question. “I have no quarrel with your Order, but I

  like the Romans much better when their tax collectors, annoying as they

  may be, are the only representatives they need to send into my land.”

  Helve’s lips tightened, but even she could hardly object to the

  queen’s words while she was drinking her wine. It was good for the

  High Priestess to have to be polite to a fellow sovereign, thought Boudica.

  She wished that Lhiannon had been here to see.

  “They say that Caratac has a priestess of your Order with him, a

  White Lady with magic powers,” added Cartimandua, as if Boudica had

  spoken her thought aloud. Coventa had told her that Lhiannon had gone

  to help the rebels. She was glad to have confirmation for her dream.

  “Indeed?” Helve said stiffl

  y.

  “No doubt the Romans have heard this also. It will not make them

  more tolerant of your power.” Cartimandua sat back and signaled to one

  of her women to bring more wine.

  “If we do not stand up to them we will have no power,” said Helve

  with more honesty than Boudica had expected.

  “Ah well, we eac
h play the game in a different way,” said Cartiman-

  dua, smiling. “It will be interesting to see who wins . . .”

  The eve ning before they were to leave Lys Udra, the Brigante queen

  held Boudica back as the others were seeking their beds after dinner in

  the great roundhouse that was the royal hall.

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  “What did she want?” Coventa asked when Boudica returned.

  “To warn me against you!” Boudica tried to laugh. “She believes

  that the Romans will seek to destroy the Druids as soon as they have

  pacifi ed the tribes.”

  “I know that you cannot do much to help us, placed as you are,”

  Coventa said seriously, “but it will be a comfort to know that you still

  hold me in your heart . . .”

  “Oh my dear one, how could I not?” exclaimed Boudica. “But will

  you not rethink your own decision? I believe you will be safer with me

  than with Helve.”

  Coventa shook her head with her usual sweet smile. “I know you do

  not like her, but indeed she does desire to serve the people and the gods.

  And she has been kind to me.”

  She has used you, thought Boudica, but it would do no good to say so

  aloud.

  “This journey has shown me how unhappy I would be if I had to

  live among people who see and hear only with their ears and eyes. Safe

  or not, being a priestess on Mona is the only thing I am fi t for,” said

  Coventa.

  “Then do it, and be happy—” Boudica hugged the thin shoulders— for

  as long as you can. But in truth could she, could anyone, hope for more?

  Harvest was the most hopeful time of the year. In the old days,

  warfare ended when it was time to get the crops in. But now, except

  when it was necessary to pursue an occasional cow that somehow ended

  up on the other side of a tribal border, they no longer had to worry

  about fighting—perhaps the only one of Rome’s promised benefi ts that

  had actually been welcome. When the grain turned golden, everyone,

  high or low, turned out to help in the fi elds.

  Boudica bent, scooped up the piled stalks before her, and added

  them to the bunch in the crook of her arm. Ahead, the line of reapers

  moved in rhythm to the beat of the harvest drum, grasping, cutting, and

  casting aside the stalks of grain. She squatted down to gather more into

  her armful, bound what she held with a twist of straw, and started the

  process all over again.

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  So much of the Iceni country was pasture or fenland. The places

  where grain would grow well were doubly precious, and the best were

  to be found in the high rolling land around Danatobrigos. Boudica had

  come here after her visit to Cartimandua, and the king had brought the

  girls up to join her while he traveled around his kingdom. They would

  all go back to Teutodunon when the harvest was done.

  She always looked forward to the season and its festivities, but just at

  this moment she wished they were over. The sun burned bright, and

  sweat was running down her back, sticking the linen of the old tunic to

  her skin and itching where the omnipresent chaff had gotten in. Long

  sleeves protected her arms from the sun, but by tonight her face would

  be red and tender despite the oil she had slathered on it before she began

  and the broad straw hat she wore.

  But they could not stop now. Clouds were building over the waters of

  the Wash, and they would lose most of the wheat if it rained. The families

  whose farms were near the Horse Shrine harvested together, moving from

  one steading to another as the fields ripened. Today they were at Palos and

  Shanda’s place. Earlier in the summer Palos had been ill, but he looked

  healthy now, his skin darkened and his brown hair bleached by the sun.

  Next to him, Prasutagos cut and cast another handful aside. The

  king had stripped off his tunic. For a moment Boudica paused, appreci-

  ating the ripple of muscle across his back as he reached again, then took

  up the stalks he had cut and tied off another sheaf of grain.

  “Here’s water, Mother,” said Rigana. Boudica stretched to relieve

  the ache in her back, then took the full skin. It tasted better than Ro-

  man wine. At least this was the last field. From the farm came the scent

  of cooking food—they would be feasting soon.

  Very soon, she realized, for the reapers were approaching the end of

  the field. A ripple of anticipation swept through the onlookers. Sickles

  flashed as the men raced to finish, then halted, drawing away from Pra-

  sutagos, who was reaching for the only clump still standing in the fi eld.

  Hearing the silence, he stopped, realized he was the last, and looked

  around him with a rueful laugh.

  “The Old Woman!” “The Corn Mother!” “Watch out, she’ll get

  you!” came the cries.

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  “Palos, this is your field—I’ll let you do the honors,” the king said

  hopefully, holding out the sickle to the other man.

  “No, my lord.” Palos grinned. “It’s you she’s been waiting for. I’ll

  not stand in your way!” His golden-haired wife took his arm as if to

  make sure of it.

  Prasutagos gave a dramatic sigh. “Well, you’ve been sick, so I’ll take

  her on—” Drawing himself up, he took a stride forward, grasped the

  stalks in his left hand, and with a swift slash cut them free. As he stepped

  back something brown and swift burst from the stubble and went

  bounding across the fi eld.

  “A hare!” whispered someone, making the sign of warding. Boudica

  felt her arms prickle. Suddenly the king’s laughing offer to protect the

  farmer from the Corn Mother’s resentment at being cut down had a

  deeper meaning. Hares were uncanny beasts, sacred to the Goddess and

  not to be harmed. His gaze met that of the farmer, who had gone a little

  pale.

  “ ’Tis the duty of the king to stand between his folk and danger,”

  Prasutagos said gently, and smiled.

  “A neck! A neck! He has the Old Woman!” the others were shout-

  ing now.

  Prasutagos handed the sheaf to Shanda, who set swiftly to work to

  tie off sections into limbs and braid the figure a girdle and crown. As

  soon as she had the grain the other women seized the king, sticking

  straws through his clothing and into his hair. Then they hustled him

  down to the river and pushed him in.

  When times were truly evil, thought Boudica a little grimly, the

  ruler, or his substitute, would die for his land in truth and not in play.

  Would that be required of Caratac? But despite his ambitions, he had

  never been king for all Britannia. The ac cep tance must come before the

  sacrifi ce.

  Now they were pulling Prasutagos out again. Across the tops of

  their heads his laughing gaze met hers. They will take him back to the farm

  for the feasting, she thought as she managed an answering smile, and make

  him dance with the Corn Mother, and eat as much food as Devodaglos, and
r />   promise everyone more beer. That’s not so great a sacrifice . . .

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  “Way-yen, way-yen . . .” As the Corn Mother was borne back to

  the farm the call echoed triumphantly across the land.

  As Boudica followed the crowd it occurred to her that the rough

  treatment given to the reaper was only a symbol, but each spring, the

  Corn Goddess, in the grain that made up last harvest’s image, was dis-

  membered and scattered to bless the fi elds.

  E I G H T E E N

  It had been a long war. From the doorway of the command tent,

  Lhiannon watched the campfires flickering in the meadows that edged

  the river, where the men of the great co alition Caratac had forged had

  sunk their own past rivalries in hatred of a greater foe. Silures who were

  veterans of the southern fi ghting of two years ago and Durotrige survi-

  vors from Vespasian’s campaign lay by Ordovices and Deceangli who

  had borne the brunt of the more recent battles, along with a scattering

  of men from other tribes. The last time so great a British host had been

  assembled had been on the banks of the Tamesa.

  Behind her, Caratac sat with the war leaders, drawing maps in the

  dirt. Brangenos had settled in the shadows beyond, playing something

  sweet and meandering that eased the soul without requiring attention.

  “They say that the governor was a sick man when he got here, and

  I don’t think his health has been improved by hunting me all around the

  hills. By all the gods, I am as tired of running as he is of chasing me!”

  “So you mean to face him?” asked Tingetorix, an Iceni champion

  Lhiannon had known when she lived with Boudica.

  “I mean to off er battle—at a place of my own choosing.” Caratac

  bared his teeth in a grin. “I doubt he will be able to resist the invita-

  tion.” Eight years of warfare had transformed the fox of the Cantiaci to

  an old wolf, the red hair gone brindled roan, his weatherbeaten skin

  seamed with scars. But the fire in his eyes burned as hot as ever.

  Did Lhiannon’s? She, too, had left her first youth in these moun-

  tains. To the men of Caratac’s army, whom she had nursed and com-

  forted through illness and wounds, she was the White Lady. These days

  she wore undyed homespun. Her robe of priestess-blue had worn out

  long ago. But her true appearance no longer mattered—although she