queror.
“I did not see your husband, but I heard that he was there. He is
much respected. They call him ‘the prosperous King Prasutagos,’ did
you know?” Rianor stopped. They had almost reached the farmstead.
Above the hedge the roofs of the roundhouses rose in dark points
against the fading sky, but light streamed from the doorways, and there
was an enticing scent of cooking beef in the air.
“Before we go in, there is a thing I would say to you. When we
were younger,” he said with sudden diffidence, “I hoped that you would
stay on Mona, and maybe dance with me at the fi res.”
And then you fancied yourself in love with Lhiannon, thought Boudica.
“But when I was here with the High Priestess and Coventa I saw
how your husband looks at you. He is no firebrand, but he has clearly
been good for you. Some women only grow old, but you have grown
more beautiful.”
Was that a declaration or a renunciation? Boudica repressed a temp-
tation to laugh. Now that her daughters were approaching marriagable
age it was consoling to know that she herself was still pleasant in men’s
eyes. “We have been very happy,” she said at last. “But I am honored by
your regard.”
As they came through the gate the dogs came whirling back in a
tumult of lolling tongues and wagging tails, followed by her daughters.
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“Where were you, Mama? We’ve been back forever, and dinner is
done!”
Boudica swallowed a last spoonful of beef and beans and consid-
ered her husband, finishing his own bowl on the other side of the fi re.
For the first time since she had known him Prasutagos looked old. He
and his men had ridden in earlier that afternoon, and for a time they had
all been busy unloading the bags and bales of goods and gifts that they
had brought with them from Colonia. For Rigana there was a bridle of
red leather with fittings of bronze for her pony, and for Argantilla a se-
lection of embroidery yarn in every possible color. The younger girl was
already more clever with her needle than her sister, better, really than
Boudica herself would ever be.
She wished that Rianor could have stayed with them until the king
arrived. It would have been interesting to compare his information with
whatever it was Prasutagos had learned at the council . . . the bad news
that he was saving until they were alone. It had to be political, she
thought unhappily. They would already have heard anything public
from the men. The others might think that the king was so quiet be-
cause he was tired. Prasutagos did look more fatigued than he ought to,
even after such a long ride, but after sixteen years of marriage, his si-
lences said more to her than most people’s words.
Boudica had always loved the diffuse glow that lit their bed place
when the light from the coals on the hearth filtered through the cur-
tains. Neither light nor darkness, it made of their marriage bed a place
protected and separate from the world. Now she raised herself on one
elbow, looking down at her husband, carefully brushed back a strand of
thinning hair, and kissed him on the brow.
“I have missed you,” she said softly, and kissed his lips. He pulled
her down and the kiss became deeper.
When they came up for air, she snuggled into her accustomed place
with her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest, listening to
him breathe.
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“And I you,” he murmured. “I missed holding you in my arms, and
I missed talking to you when the meetings were done.”
“Did you? So what is it that you have been so carefully not saying
since you got home?” She moved her hand across the muscle of his
shoulder, relearning its contours.
“Is it that obvious?”
“It is to me.” She tweaked his chest hair and he winced and laughed.
“Money.”
Her caressing hand stilled. “What do you mean? The harvest was
good this year—”
“To raise the wealth we will need, every grain in every ear would
have to be made of gold . . .” He sighed. “All the imperial loans are be-
ing called in. You remember, those convenient funds that were off ered
by Claudius and his patrician friends the year of the fl oods, and the
money we borrowed to build the hall at Teutodunon. The men who
rule for young Nero want their money back. They say that Seneca has
loaned forty million sesterces to British chieftains. Keeping so large an
army here is expensive, and the mines have not proved as rich as they
expected. The new procurator, Decianus Catus, seems to have been
chosen because he will take a hard line.”
“But can’t the governor rein him in?” She stared unseeingly at the
canopy.
“Varanius is dead. A man called Paulinus is on the way, but we don’t
know what his policy will be. For the time being, Catus is in charge.”
“Catus and Clotho . . .” She shivered, remembering the meaning of
the procurator’s name. “One to figure out how to cheat us and the other
to measure the price. They should deal very well.” Mentally she was tal-
lying stock and stores, wondering what could be sold and what they
could spare. The curtains around their little world no longer seemed so
secure a barrier.
“I suppose Rianor knew better than to talk rebellion here, but else-
where he has found willing ears,” Prasutagos said. “So far everyone still
hopes the blow will not fall on them, but once the seizure of property
begins, any spark will be enough to set the land aflame. The mood in
the council was ugly, there at the end.”
“We’ll find the money somehow. We have to—rebellion can only
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bring disaster now . . .” Boudica sat up and set her hands on his shoul-
ders, trying to make out his features. His eyes gleamed in the gloom.
“And next year I will go to the council with you. I’ll not have you com-
ing home again looking like something Bogle dragged in from the
moor.” She stroked the strong muscles of his chest and belly as if her
touch could make him whole.
“I am reviving already,” He tried to laugh but his breathing had
grown uneven. She smiled and reached lower, cupping the warm weight
of his manhood. As he rose to meet her she straddled him and welcomed
him home.
T W E N T Y- O N E
E ver since the Feast of Brigantia it had been raining, a soft, persis-
tent precipitation that left a pervasive damp behind it, as if earth and sky
were both dissolving into primal ooze. If this kept up, thought Boudica,
Dun Garo would slide into the river. The sharp cold of winter would
have been more welcome.
When she went to the doorway of the weaving shed she could look
down the muddy road. But the trees faded into mist beyond it. In such
weather she would not be able to see Prasutagos approaching until he
was at the gates. Dr
at the man—he should have been back by now! Dro-
stac from Ash Hill had been waiting for two days for judgment in a
boundary dispute, and though he accepted her authority as queen, she
wanted her husband’s counsel.
This morning a little party had come in from the Trinovante lands,
dispossessed from their farmstead by a Roman official who was giving it
to one of his underlings. It was a hard thing to be forced from the land
where you knew the spirits who lived in each stone and stream by name—
harder still to flee to the territory of a different tribe. But they no longer
had a king of their own to ward that sacred relationship. Would Prasuta-
gos take them under his cloak? Could he, wondered Boudica, when the
strain on their own resources was already so great? Between the king’s
building projects and Roman taxes there was not much left in the
coff ers.
The greed of the Romans seemed unending. She had already sold a
great deal of her jewelry to help her people. Of the major pieces, only
the torque of Caratac still lay hidden like a secret defiance at the bottom
of the oak chest. The Romans did have a legal right to repayment,
though among her own people it would be a poor ruler who would not
forgive his people their tribute when times were hard. Even the Romans
provided their citizens with bread. That was the diff erence, she thought
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bitterly. The Romans fed their own people, but despite all their fi ne
words about the benefits of belonging to the Empire, the Britons were
still the enemy.
Boudica let the door flap drop and strode back to her loom. Temella
looked up inquiringly but knew better than to ask questions when the
queen was in this mood. For a moment she stood staring at the pattern
of greens and blues, then turned restlessly away. Weaving required pa-
tience and calm, neither of which she currently could claim. She wanted
to be out and doing something, and until Prasutagos returned, there was
nothing she could do.
It was with a sense of profound relief that she heard the sound of
horses coming into the yard. As the dogs began to bark she sped to the
roundhouse. Crispus had already poured the welcome cup. She took it
and stood waiting.
The door was pushed open with a blast of damp wind. Prasutagos
was coming in, half supported by Eoc, with Bituitos right behind. Her
words of greeting, and the reproof that she had meant to follow them,
were forgotten.
“What is it?” she exclaimed as the king shrugged off his helper.
“Was there an accident?”
“I am fine! Fussing old women.” Prasutagos stood swaying, not
seeming to notice that Bituitos had slid a supporting hand under his el-
bow. Frowning, she handed him the cup. Was that grimace supposed to
be an answering smile? He started to drink and went off into a fi t of
coughing. She handed the cup back to Crispus, then took her husband’s
head between her hands.
“He’s burning with fever!” She looked at his men accusingly. “What
were you about to let him travel in this weather. He’s ill!”
“Lady, I know it, but he would come!” said Eoc desperately. “And he
is the king—”
“He said your touch would make him well,” added Bituitos.
“My touch will put him in bed where he belongs,” she muttered,
easing an arm around her husband. “Help me get him there!”
Once she had Prasutagos out of his wet clothes he did seem easier.
She sat by the bed, spooning hot soup into him until he would take no
more.
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“All right then, if you will not eat, report!”
“Yes, my lady,” he said with his old smile, though he was still
breathing carefully. “Well . . . I got Morigenos to agree to loan Brocag-
nos grain for the spring planting . . . They’ll share the labor and the
harvest.”
Boudica nodded. That was one more clan that would survive. “And
was there any news from Colonia?”
He nodded. “Paulinus has finished subjugating the Deceangli. Ru-
mor has it—” he paused for breath, “—he means to march on Mona and
end interference by the Druids once and for all.”
“He’ll have little luck,” she answered, hoping it was true. “Half the
Druids in Britannia are there. Mona will be defended by powerful magic.
I’ve heard news as well. Cartimandua has not only broken with Venu-
tios, she’s taken his armor bearer Velocatos as her lover.”
Prasutagos raised an eyebrow. “Is that intended as a warning? I shall
have to keep an eye on Bituitos.” His laughter turned into another spate
of coughing, and this time when he finished, there were spots of blood
on the cloth.
“You will do your watching from this bed, then,” she said tartly.
“You’ve been coughing your throat raw.” She laid her hand on his fore-
head and found his fever a little less than it had been.
“Your fingers are cool,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “I can rest
now. I don’t sleep well . . . when you are not by my side . . .”
Nor do I, my love, she bent to kiss his brow. It seemed strange to see
him lying there so quietly when it was still day. She’d had to nurse her
daughters through various childhood ailments, but Prasutagos had al-
ways been aggressively healthy. Strong men were always the most diffi-
cult patients. She hoped this illness would not last long.
She wished that Lhiannon were here.
“Sleep, my dear one . . . and heal,” she said aloud. “I must see to the
feeding of your men.” He would rest, and the fever would break, and he
would get well. No other outcome was possible.
W hy doesn’t Father get better?” Rigana kicked at her pony’s sides
and brought her up alongside the white mare that had replaced Roud as
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Boudica’s regular mount. The men whom Prasutagos had insisted she
bring along trotted behind.
The mare was called Branwen, and she considered herself queen of
the road. Boudica saw the white ears flick back and slapped her neck
before she could nip the pony. It was a fi ne day just before the Turning
of Spring, and both horses were frisky.
Could she mouth some reassuring platitude when the same question
battered at her brain? It had been over a moon since Prasutagos had
taken to his bed. He was still coughing, and each time he tried to get up
the fever returned. Boudica glanced sidelong at her daughter. Rigana
was almost fifteen—more than old enough for her woman-making rite.
Boudica had delayed it, dreaming she might take the girl to Avalon to
be initiated as she had been. But they could not make so long a journey
when Prasutagos was ill. There were other closer shrines that might
serve. At this rate, Argantilla would be ready for her own ritual by the
time Rigana had hers.
“You are worried about him,” Rigana said accusingly. “You don’t
sleep. There are circles beneath your e
yes. If you have to do the king’s
job—” she indicated the farmstead, “—you should let me and Tilla help
with yours.”
“That is very thoughtful of you darling, but—”
“Mother! Don’t insult me. I don’t need to be protected.”
Except, perhaps, from yourself . . . thought Boudica, uncomfortably
reminded of herself at the same age. She had brought Rigana with her
from some vague sense that the girl ought to be learning a chieftain’s
responsibilities, since she would probably marry a ruler someday. The
queen did not allow herself to reflect that Rigana was also Prasutagos’s
heir.
“Perhaps you don’t,” she said mildly. “But when you have children
you will understand why parents feel they have to try . . .”
“It’s Father who needs help,” Rigana said repressively. “If you can-
not heal him, you should find someone who can.”
Boudica sighed. “Lhiannon is in Eriu, and the Druids of Mona are
hiding behind their wardings, waiting for the Romans to come.”
“You can still ask—maybe there’s someone who would rather be
safe here instead!”
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“Very well,” answered Boudica. She could tell herself that she was
calling for help to please her daughter, not because of the terror that
kept her waking in the dark hours when she lay beside her husband,
listening to each labored breath. Calgac was a dependable man. She
would speak to him about it when they returned to the dun.
Drostac’s farmstead lay on a little rise. Cattle and horses grazed in
the surrounding fields. As they approached the farm a tide of dogs surged
out of the yard, barking furiously. She saw a soldier on guard by some of
the horses—apparently the Romans had already arrived.
“There, my lady.” Calgac pointed toward a group of men who were
arguing in the next field. One of them, she saw with distaste, was
Cloto.
Boudica considered jumping Branwen over the wicker fence and ar-
riving on horseback among them, but that would not only have upset
Cloto, but spooked the cattle they seemed to be discussing, and besides,
it lacked dignity.
“I owe ye three cows,” Drostac was exclaiming. “I do not deny it.
I’ve penned them yonder. This beast is a bull, and ye’ll not be taking