“I will.”
They had purified and blessed her already with fire and water, with
earth and with air. She felt herself suddenly grown heavy, as if she had
taken root in the soil.
“And will you swear to be as a mother to the Iceni, nourishing them
in time of peace, protecting them in war, upholding the rights of the
weak, and punishing the wrongdoing of the strong?”
Suddenly she was acutely aware of the people around her, the chief-
tains inside the Earth-ring and everyone else outside. The air throbbed
with their energy. Her own voice trembled as she replied—
“I so swear.”
“And by what will you swear all this, daughter of Dubrac?”
“I swear by the gods of our people.” She swallowed as the air
around her seemed to thicken. People swore by the gods all the time.
She had never before been so certain that They were listening. “I
swear by Epona Mistress of Horses, by Brigantia of the Fire, and by
Cathubodva Lady of Ravens. I swear by Lugos the Many- Skilled, by
Taranis of the Turning Wheel, and by Dagdevos the Good God.” She
felt the fine hairs prickle up her arms as invisible witnesses crowded
around her.
She took a deep breath and continued, “I swear by the spirits of my
ancestors, and if I fail in this oath may the sky fall and cover me, may the
earth give way beneath me, and may the waters swallow my bones.”
The Druid waited, as if to allow time for the oath to reach the Other-
world.
“And what shall bind you, Lady of the Iceni,” he said then.
“My heart’s blood I offer in pledge,” she answered, drawing her
dagger and making a quick slice across the fleshy mound at the base of
her thumb. She held out her hand so that the red blood dripped into a
slash that had been made in the green turf that covered the ring. She
blinked as the opening seemed to shimmer with energy.
“I offer it now to this holy earth, which stands for the whole land, as
I have off ered my service to you who bear witness, on behalf of the
people who here dwell. And if need should require it, I will offer my life
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as well.” As Corn Mother gives her grain to feed us all . . . she thought, re-
membering the harvest ritual.
The Druid turned to the others. “Thus your Lady takes oath to you;
will you pledge her your service in return? Your food for her table, your
warriors for her defense, your obedience to all lawful commands?”
The answer roared around her, “We will! We will! We will!”
F or our faith and our people we make this off ering. Look upon us
kindly. O ye holy gods.” Helve’s voice rang out clearly, though her form
was barely distinguishable in the misty darkness. It had rained off and
on through the night, and though somewhere the sun was rising, the
Druids’ fire seemed the only light in the world.
Lhiannon huddled into her wool cloak, listening to coughs and
sneezes from the people around her. Pray for the stormy weather to continue,
Helve, she thought with grim amusement. And perhaps the Romans will
not come . . .
At the ill-fated ritual when the kings made their off ering here the
dawning had been fair. Today no seagulls swam in the water. Perhaps
this grim sky was a good omen.
She wanted to weep, thinking of the treasures that had gone into
the pool—swords with gleaming blades and sharp spearheads and bronze
shields. There had been a wonderful bronze carynx horn from Eriu,
great cauldrons, and the sickles with which they cut the mistletoe. Neck
rings and chains of iron once used on prisoners followed the other
things into the water. Smaller ornaments had fl amed in the fi relight be-
fore sinking into the dark depths. But she could not feel any diff erence
in the atmosphere.
All those with the strength to make the journey had followed the
wagon full of offerings. The very el der ly had been sent away by sea, or
if they were too frail to travel, taken to crofts and farmsteads elsewhere
on the island where they could be passed off as grandmothers and old
uncles if the Romans came. The three dozen priests and priestesses who
remained stood now with unlit torches in their hands on the shores of
the Lake of Little Stones.
From her place on the western side Lhiannon looked across the dark
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waters at Ardanos. At the south stood Helve, and across from her, Cuni-
tor. Helve always was fire to my water, thought Lhiannon. It is no wonder we
have found it hard to get along.
Ardanos lit his torch and touched it to that of the next man, and he
to the priestess beyond him and so from one to another until the pool
was circled by flame. Points of fire danced in the water as if the spirits of
the pool were joining the ritual. Lhiannon felt a quiver along her spine
as the circuit was closed and the Druids set their torches into the ground.
Perhaps the gods would hear them after all.
“By earth and water, air and fire,
We cast the circle of desire.
Between the darkness and the day,
Between the worlds we find the way!”
As their voices joined in the chant, Lhiannon sensed the inner dip and
expansion of oncoming trance, and knew the magic was beginning.
“By sacrifice, the gods are fed,
In offering, our blood we shed—
Cathubodva here we hail,
Make the Roman warriors fail!”
And one by one, each priest and priestess stepped forward, drew a
sharp knife across the soft pad at the base of the thumb, and let the blood
drip into the pool. This was the change in the ritual that Helve had
decreed—that they should offer neither horse nor bull nor even a hare,
but their own blood as a gift of energy.
“Their arms grow weak, their weapons break,
Their courage chill, their strength we take!
By the dawning of the day,
They falter, turn, they flee away!”
Again the chant was repeated, and again. To Lhiannon, it seemed as
if a mist were forming over the water. Such a thing might often be seen
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above chill pools when the air began to warm with the approach of day,
but these vapors pulsed with a fi re-shot darkness. She reached out to
right and left as the power they were raising began to push against the
boundaries of the circle, felt Helve’s passion and Cunitor’s faithful
strength, and across the pool, Ardanos’s keen intelligence balancing the
surge of her love.
The circle held, and the energy, contained, swirled upward. Around
the pool day was breaking, but above it darkness roiled like a cloud of
black wings.
“Let fear chill them and fire burn!” cried Helve.
“May they see all they have built destroyed!” echoed Lhiannon.
“Morrigan, Great Queen, send them swiftly away!” called Cunitor.
“Cathubodva, fare eastward, bring death to our foe!” Ardanos opened
&nb
sp; his arms and the feathered darkness flowed toward him. In the same
smooth movement he received it, turned, and released it to wing eastward
into the dawn.
As it passed, Lhiannon perceived, with a sense beyond hearing, a
sound that was at once a raven’s screech and a woman’s laugh.
T W E N T Y- T H RE E
H ow could she have thought she would miss Prasutagos less at
Teutodunon?
Boudica blinked back tears as she listened to the last posts being set
into position in their row. Two weeks had passed since her husband
burned on his pyre, and still she found herself noting things she must
tell him, and then she would remember, and the pain would come. It
was worse here, where she had only known him healthy and strong.
Surely at any moment the king would come striding through the gate,
glowing with pride at the completion of his great achievement and call-
ing to her to come and admire.
It was a worthy monument. The rectangular enclosure had been
extended to the size of four hurley fields laid side by side, its bank and
ditch enclosing two new roundhouses that flanked the two-tiered coun-
cil hall he had built before. It was the posts outside the ditch that made
the place unique. Nine rows of tree trunks and another bank and ditch
surrounded the enclosure, doubling its size. She wished they could have
been living trees, but the heathland soil would not support such a forest.
Roman builders had helped to lay out the site, but the design was her
husband’s dream.
Oh my beloved, it is everything you hoped for, she thought as she started
back through the fenced circle that served as forecourt for the round-
house in which she and the girls were living now. And for a moment she
felt him touch her cheek as he always used to do, or perhaps it was the
wind.
But someone was calling. She turned again. From between the tall
gateposts carved with the totems of the Iceni clans came a rider on a
sweated horse. Her heart sank. Men bearing good news did not ride so
desperately. But she had just seen her daughters safe inside the house—
for whom else did she have to fear, now that Prasutagos was gone?
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The rider pulled up as he saw her coming out to meet him and slid
off the horse with a hurried contortion that was not quite a bow. Now
others had heard the commotion and were coming out to see.
“My queen!” he forced himself to breathe. “You must do some-
thing—the Romans—” He sucked in air again. “The Roman pigs have
sent men to seize Brocagnos’s farm.”
“But his tax is paid,” she said in bewilderment. Her mother’s gold
armband had been sacrifi ced to pay that debt, she recalled.
“He’s not the only one, lady—” the man went on. He began to list
names, most of them farmers living near the southern border. “They’re
driving off stock and taking people as well.”
“For the army?” An angry pulse was beginning to throb behind her
eyes. Many families had given sons to the military levies. The boys were
usually sent to serve in places very far from Britannia. Occasionally a
gift from some distant land would arrive, but most of them were as lost
as her brother Dubocoveros who had died while a hostage in Rome.
“They are taking slaves, lady—women and men!”
“They can’t do that, can they?” asked Argantilla, who had come out
of the house. The yard was filling with people as word spread.
“Crispus, I need you,” Boudica yelled. “Get your tablets—we must
send a message to Colonia. Pollio will know how to sort this out.”
“Maybe some Roman official thinks he’ll make some quick money
while the governor is away,” said one of the men.
Boudica hoped it was that. But even as she marshaled words for the
message, she was trying not to wonder if Cloto had known what he was
talking about after all.
Boudica walked with Prasutagos in a hazel wood. From the creamy
primroses that starred the ground beneath the trees she judged it must
be near Beltane. She rejoiced to see him so strong and healthy—bigger
and more solid than he had ever been. Those memories in which she
had seen him waste away must be some evil dream. He had a great club
balanced on his shoulder, and he was wearing a sleeveless tunic so short
she glimpsed his buttocks beneath it. She walked faster, wondering if
what she could see from the front would be even more interesting.
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“Here is the clearing where I will build the new dun,” he said as
they came out into the sunlight. He swung the club in a powerful cir-
cular stroke that plowed a great ditch in the soil, throwing the earth up
beside it in a tumescent pile. He turned to her, his smile radiant, grow-
ing bigger as he came to her, the great club in his hand . . .
The scene dissolved around her as the ground heaved, but it was the
bed that was shaking as Bogle jumped up, barking. She woke with a
gasp, loins throbbing, and began to weep as she realized that Prasutagos
had been the dream, and she was alone.
But this was at least a better delusion than the nightmares in which
she endlessly pursued his fading form through a barren land. She put her
arms around the dog, seeking comfort from his warmth as she rubbed
behind his ears. Even in the midst of her tears, the memory of Prasuta-
gos’s delight in the prospect of building made her smile.
It was just past noon when the Romans came. Shortly after dawn,
clouds had begun to gather, blotting out the sunlight of Boudica’s dream.
In that gray light the cloaks of the soldiers were the color of old blood;
even their armor had a dull sheen. Pollio was leading them. Bogle, who
did not like Romans, barked furiously. Boudica told Crispus to tie the
dog at the back and bore the beaker of welcome-ale with a grim smile.
If Pollio thought her weak because her husband was no longer beside
her he was about to learn better. Now they would have an accounting,
and the underlings who were responsible for these outrages would suff er
for their sins.
“Junius Pollio, salve!” she off ered him the ale.
The twitch of the lips with which he returned her salutation could
hardly be called a smile, but then his long face always seemed shadowed.
His dark eyes searched her face as they always did when he encountered
her, as if he hoped her feelings for him might have changed. As Pollio
reached out for the cup his horse moved suddenly and it slipped through
his fingers to smash upon the ground. For a moment Boudica watched
the dark liquid soak into the earth. Then she gave herself a mental shake
and managed a smile.
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“It’s no matter—come into the Council Hall and I shall send for
more.”
“Where are all your warriors?” he asked as he followed her into the
central roundhouse.
“Riding the countryside, to gather
evidence of Roman crimes . . .”
She took her seat upon the great chair before the fire whose warm light
cooled as it met the illumination coming in from openings in the upper
tier. Pollio glanced about uneasily as he took the lower chair at her side.
From firepit to the apex of the roof the interior was the height of four
tall men. Here were no marble columns or statues of bronze, but the
images embroidered on the hangings that covered the walls seemed to
move in the shifting light of the fire. Roman buildings boasted their
owners’ might; Prasutagos’s hall hid his in mystery.
“Call them back, Boudica,” he said in a low voice. “There is noth-
ing you can do.”
“What do you mean?” she snapped. “It is my duty to protect my
people. I am queen of the Iceni and a client of the emperor.”
“No. You are not. Rome makes no treaties with queens.”
For a long moment she simply stared at him. “But Cartimandua—”
“—is legitimized by her husband’s oath, even though he is in rebel-
lion. Your husband is dead.”
The words were like a sword to her heart. Boudica had been learn-
ing to live again. For hours at a time, now, she might lose awareness of
her grief in dealing with other things until some incautious word, like a
dead branch thrust among the coals, would kindle the flame anew.
“Prasutagos was an ally of Rome,” she said finally. “Some of that
property your men are seizing was left to his daughters by his will. It
must be returned.”
“The will means nothing. Prasutagos was not a citizen.”
Boudica shook her head, unbelieving. “Has Governor Paulinus said
this?”
“The procurator says it. Decianus Catus says it.” Pollio replied in
the same fl at voice. “The alliance, and the kingdom, died with Prasuta-
gos. It’s over, Boudica.”
How odd, she thought numbly. He sounds as if he is pleading . . .
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“This hall—everything—belongs to Rome . . .”
Without quite knowing how she got there, Boudica found herself
on her feet. Pollio rose as well, reaching out to her.
“Boudica!” his voice shook. “I have loved you since I fi rst saw you!
Once I off ered you my protection and you refused me. I make the same
off er now. I know you are not indiff erent, Boudica—”
He meant that aborted kiss in the snow, she thought, before she had