royal household, was an obvious choice to bear around the drinking
bowl. She was not sure whether or not to consider it a privilege, but at
least her duties were clear.
“If doom was certain do you think I would have called you here?”
34
D i ana L . Pax s on
the Arch-Druid replied. “What we foresee is what might be if matters
continue as they have begun. But fate is like a river, constantly chang-
ing. The addition of a new stream can turn it to a flood; a pebble—or
six—” he surveyed the men before him with a wry smile, “—can alter
the flow. We are not foredoomed, but forewarned.”
“The easiest way to avoid bloodshed would be to welcome the
Romans when they come,” observed Tancoric of the Durotriges. His
lands, Boudica recalled, included the Summer Country and the Isle of
Avalon.
“If we make treaties,” he went on, “they will not need to conquer
us. Let the emperor call us client- kings. He will be in Rome and we
will be here, enjoying the benefi ts of Roman trade.”
“And paying Roman taxes, and sending our warriors to the ends of
the earth to fi ght his wars,” snapped Caratac.
“Roman trade may be as great a danger as Roman armies,” King
Togodumnos said slowly. “My father kept his freedom, but by the time
he died he was more Roman than Catuvellauni. I, too, have grown ac-
customed to their luxuries, but I am beginning to fear them. If we con-
tinue to trade with them we will still change, but slowly. If they rule us,
the next generation of Britons will be speaking Latin and making their
off erings to the Roman gods.”
And the Druids and their wisdom will be gone from this land . . . thought
Boudica.
“If we do choose to fight, do you truly think that we can win?”
King Maglorios of the Belgae said then. He was an older man, going
bald now but still strong, whose lands lay between those of the Du-
rotriges and the Atrebates. He gestured and Boudica came forward to
offer him the drinking bowl with the elegance she had learned in Cu-
nobelin’s hall. He gave her an appreciative look, and she dodged a more-
than-appreciative pat as she took the bowl back to fill it again.
“If you join together,” answered the High Priestess, “I believe you
can make them retreat, just as Caesar, despite his boasts of conquest, did
a hundred years ago.” She looked tired. Boudica had heard that when
the Druids had performed a second, private ritual, Mearan had seen
even more bloodshed than Helve.
“I will gladly clasp hands with all those who are here,” said Tancoric,
M A RI O N Z I M M E R B RA D L E Y ’ S RAV E N S O F AVA L O N
35
“but what about those who are not? I notice that the Regni refused your
invitation.”
“There may be more than one reason for that,” said Mearan.
“Perhaps they heard that the sons of Cunobelin were going to be
here,” said Maglorios, and the others laughed. The Regni lands were
bordered on the north by the territory ruled by Togodumnos and on the
east by the Cantiaci country, where Caratac was now king.
“And perhaps the Atrebates heard that you would be here!” retorted
Togodumnos. “They are your neighbors, after all.”
The Arch-Druid shook his head. “I did not invite them. King Veric
has a treaty with the Romans. He sent his grandson Cogidumnus to be
fostered by the emperor, and would not dare to turn against them even
if he desired.”
“The Isle of Vectis has a tempting harbor. The Romans could march
straight up the middle of Britannia through the Atrebate lands. We will
have to do something about Veric . . .” Caratac said slowly. He looked at
his brother and Boudica shivered. Cunobelin’s sons had inherited his
ambition to unite Britannia. The threat of Roman conquest might be
what they needed in order to succeed.
“And will the men of art fight with us?” came a new voice. The
others turned as Prince Prasutagos leaned forward. He had not spoken
often in this council, but when he did, men listened to his words.
“Indeed,” said the Arch-Druid with a wintry smile. “The Ro-
mans will not give us the option of surrender. Our magic is perhaps
not all that legend makes it, but we have some power over wind and
weather, and the reading of omens. We shall send our most talented
priests and priestesses to march with you when the time for battle
comes.”
The prince nodded, and Boudica came forward to offer him the
drinking bowl. When he looked up to take it, there was sadness behind
his smile. The servants said that the prince had recently lost his wife in
childbirth. It was too bad. He had a good face, and she thought he
would have made a kindly father to little ones.
“Then I hope your seers can tell us when the invasion will come. It
will be hard to gather an army, and even harder to keep it together,” said
King Maglorios.
36 D i ana L . Pax s on
Boudica carried the drinking bowl around the circle, and the dis-
cussion of warriors and supplies and strategies went on.
Much as Lhiannon loved Lys Deru, at times its atmosphere of fo-
cused dedication could become constricting, especially now, when the
presence of the royal strangers reminded them so forcibly that there was
another world beyond the Druids’ Isle. She had been honored to accom-
pany the kings to make their offerings at the Lake of Little Stones, although
she was still not certain whether Mearan wanted her assistance as a priestess
or as a chaperone for Boudica, who was striding along ahead of her.
They had started that morning, passing through patches of wood-
land and shorn fields where crows seeking fallen grains amid the stubble
flew up in raucous alarm. It had been a bounteous harvest indeed, and in
coming seasons the grain that filled the storage pits might be needed to
feed people whose fi elds were trampled by war.
But Mona’s fields, though rich, did not cover the whole island. A
few miles inland, the fertile ground on the eastern side gave way to a
swath of marshland that ran from the southern shore halfway across the
island. As Lhiannon took a deep breath of air rich with the scent of veg-
etation and a hint of the sea, the swoop of a gull drew her gaze across
the marshes. Something was moving among the reedbeds. She recog-
nized the stately stalk of a heron, gray feathers sheened with blue in the
sun. A flotilla of ducks and terns moved into view on the open water
that gleamed beyond, feathered rumps pointing skyward as they dove.
Humans were not the only ones to find a good harvest here. The wind
tugged at her veil and she unpinned it, letting her fine hair fly free as
Boudica’s. Tonight both would have a mass of tangles, but they could
help each other with the snarls.
From ahead came the deep rumbling of male laughter where the
kings marched together. After them came the Arch-Druid, flanked by
Ardanos and Cunitor, with young Bendeigid leading the gentle mare
that carried Mearan.
The High Priestess was the only one of them who
was riding. These days the pain in her hip made walking diffi
cult. Lhi-
annon suspected other ills that the older woman hid, but none of them
dared to question her.
M A RI O N Z I M M E R B RA D L E Y ’ S RAV E N S O F AVA L O N
37
As Lhiannon watched, Ardanos dropped back to speak to Mearan.
She shook her head and he looked up with a worried frown that
wrenched Lhiannon’s heart. Oh my dear, of course she is in pain, but she will
never admit it to you . . . But she loved him for trying. Since the aborted
tryst at the Beltane fires there had been a constraint between them. He
said he understood why she had not come, but she saw the hurt in his
eyes and did not dare try to heal it until she was certain she understood
what the Goddess wanted of her.
From behind she could hear an irregular clop of hooves and a jin-
gling of harness from the ponies that carried the offerings. The island
had few roads fit for wagons, and there were places where even laden
horses could not go. It was a roundabout way that would take them to
the sacrificial pool, but on such a fine, sunny day, Lhiannon found it
hard to care.
Just past noon they crossed the stream that fed the marsh and turned
westward. Thick woodlands shrank to tangles of gorse that clung to
scattered outcrops of gray stone, and reed-edged rivulets drained the
land. As the day drew on, Lhiannon began to wish that she had spent
more time in physical activity and less in meditation. She glared at
Boudica, envying the girl’s limber, easy stride. Her back ached and her
feet were sore.
They halted at last in a hollow where a standing stone marked a nar-
row path turning off from the road. The sun was disappearing behind
the gray mass of the holy mountain ahead of them, but to their left the
ground fell away toward the sea. Nearer still a small lake refl ected a
translucent sky.
“Sit, child,” said Lhiannon, waving at Boudica, who had climbed
the outcrop to get a better view. “It makes me tired to watch you.” Lhi-
annon eased back against a boulder and stretched out her legs with a sigh
as the girl slid down again.
“Is that the sacred pool?” she asked, pointing down the hill.
“That is the pool we call the Mother,” answered Lhiannon. “The
Daughter lies farther along, protected from casual view. We will seek
her fasting, at dawn.”
“But we’ll eat tonight, won’t we?” asked Bendeigid, who had wan-
dered over to join them. Ardanos and Cunitor were helping Mearan off
38 D i ana L . Pax s on
the horse and leading her to a seat covered with folded cloaks. Though
she smiled in thanks, she looked pale.
“If it were up to Lugovalos, we would not,” Lhiannon answered,
“but even the Arch-Druid will not require such self-denial of kings.
Console yourself with the thought of the meat we’ll feast on tomorrow.
If we are to get any dinner at all this eve ning we had best get busy now.”
She levered herself to her feet and hobbled over to the fi repit.
Some of the men had already set up tall fi re-dogs of wrought iron to
suspend the riveted bronze cauldron and gotten a fire going beneath it.
Lhiannon stood over the cauldron, waiting for curls of steam to rise
from the water. When she saw them, she dropped in the bag of barley.
Boudica balanced a board across two stones and began to chop greens.
The long summer day was fading to twilight in ever more delicate
shades of rose and gold. The bubbling of the cauldron blended into an
eve ning hush that muted even the voices of the men. Three ravens came
flying from the direction of the holy island, their elegant shapes sharply
defined against the luminous sky.
“Sorry, brothers—we’ve nothing for you this time,” called King
Tancoric. “Come back tomorrow and we’ll feed you well.”
“And when the Romans come, we’ll make you a truly worthy of-
fering,” added Caratac. A burst of laughter echoed his words.
The ravens circled the campsite as if they were listening. Lhiannon
shivered as with a last harsh cry they sped away.
“Are you cold? I could fetch a cloak,” said Boudica.
The priestess shook her head and gave another stir to the cauldron.
“It was the birds,” she explained. “We call the gods for blessings, but
they can be terrible, especially Cathubodva the Battle Raven, whose
birds those are . . .”
“What did he mean by a worthy off ering?” asked Bendi.
“He means corpses,” said Ardanos, joining them. “After a battle, the
wolves and the ravens feast on the dead. You know what the oakwood
looks like in the fall when acorns cover the ground? The acorns are the
mast that the pigs eat, but they say that on a battlefield the severed heads
of the fallen lie like acorns, and they call them the ‘mast of the Morri-
gan,’ the Great Queen whom we also call Cathubodva . . .”
M A RI O N Z I M M E R B RA D L E Y ’ S RAV E N S O F AVA L O N
39
He turned to Lhiannon. “The High Priestess is chilled. Is there
anything I can give her?”
“Hand me that cup—the barley is not yet tender, but enough of its
essence has gone into the water to do her some good.” Lhiannon ladled
broth into the cup and dropped in a pinch of salt. “Here, Bendi.” She
turned to the boy. “You are learning to be a healer. Sometimes food is
medicine, too. Take that to the Lady, and when she has finished it, ask if
she wants more.”
“Does the Morrigan enjoy the bloodshed?” asked Boudica when he
had gone.
“She weeps . . .” Lhiannon said softly. “The night before a battle she
walks the field and shrieks in despair. She waits at the ford and washes
the bloody clothing of the doomed. She begs them to turn back, but
they never do.”
“And then, when battle is joined,” Ardanos added grimly, “she
grants the madness that gives the warriors the strength of heroes, and
allows them to do deeds that no man could face in cold blood. And so
kings sacrifi ce to her for victory.”
“Is she good or evil?” asked Boudica.
“Both,” Lhiannon said with an attempt at a smile. “When she makes
love with the Good God at the river she brings life to the land. He bal-
ances her destruction and makes her smile once more.”
“Look at it this way,” said Ardanos. “Is a storm good or ill?”
“I suppose it is good when it brings the rain we need and bad when
a flood washes away our homes.”
“We do not always know why the rain falls,” added Ardanos, “or why
the gods do what they do. Folk call the Druids wise, but you must realize
by now that we should be called the people who seek wisdom. We study
the visible world around us and we reach out to the invisible world within.
When we truly understand them we become like the gods, able to com-
mand their powers because we move within their harmony.”
This is what I love in him, thought Lhiannon, not only the touch of his
hand but the touch of his soul.
And as if he had felt her thought, Ardanos looked back at her, and
the breach between them was healed.
40 D i ana L . Pax s on
It was the gray hour just before the dawning. They rose in silence,
the white robes of the Druids ghostly in the gloom. Even the kings
moved quietly as they loaded the offerings onto the horses. Boudica
rubbed sleep from her eyes and wrapped her cloak more tightly around
her shoulders, wincing as the movement jarred muscles she had not
known were sore. Then, with the others, she followed the Arch-Druid
down the path. In the dim light, the shape of his goosefeather headdress
and the stiff folds of his horsehide cape loomed as contorted as the stone
outcrops that crouched like monstrous guardians against the brighten-
ing sky. A torch flamed in his hand.
Behind him came the High Priestess, supported by Ardanos and
Lhiannon, her frail form swathed in dark draperies from which an oc-
casional glint of silver gleamed. With each movement came a faint
shimmer of sound from the silver bells tied to the branch in her
hand.
As they left the campsite, a harsh call split the silence. The ravens
were back again, wheeling above like shards of night.
They remember the feast the kings promised them, thought Boudica. Sud-
denly the shapes of rock and tree seemed insubstantial, as if they were
only a veil that at any moment might be drawn aside to reveal some
more luminous reality, and she understood why the sacrifice had to take
place at this liminal hour between night and day.
Halfway down the slope the ground leveled. She could not see what
lay beyond it. The kings unloaded the horses, then took them back up
the hill, except for the last one, a white stallion that had borne no burden
but its own gleaming hide. Him, they tethered to the thorn tree that
grew at the edge of the overhang. In the gloom she could just make out
three dark shapes among the branches. The ravens. Waiting . . .
The High Priestess and Lhiannon stepped forward to face the Arch-
Druid at the edge of the cliff. Below it, the waters gleamed black and so
still that the surface was etched with smooth spirals by the passage of the
gulls that fl oated there.
“By heaven that gives us life and breath,” sang Mearan. “By the wa-
ters in whose movement all things grow and change; by the solid earth