Ravens of Avalon (19 page)

The king offered the bowl to Prasutagos, who spilled a little on the earth and flicked a drop into the fire. Like the grain, it was a blending from both their homes.

“As this water is poured, I pour out my spirit for you.”

“As I drink it, my spirit mingles with yours,” she replied.

Prasutagos held it to Boudica’s lips and she drank. Then the Druid handed the bowl to her. As she repeated the words, she found her eyes filling with tears and tried to quell the surge of emotion that came with them as she blinked them away.

When it was done, the Druid set the bowl aside and turned them to face each other. “The free air of heaven is the breath of the ancestors. Breathe deeply, let their spirit fill you, and give it back to each other again.”

It was true, she thought as she drew the charged air into her lungs. If the earth was made from the dust of all that had lived, this air held their breath, generation after generation, changing, exchanging, inspiring, and expiring with each birth and death.

Among women, Boudica was tall, but Prasutagos stood a span taller. With his free hand he tipped up her chin. She controlled her involuntary flinch, felt the tickle of his mustache as he set his lips to hers. They were dry and cool, firmly demanding.
Soon enough he will have the right to take more than a kiss,
she told herself, forcing herself to let her lips open beneath his.

“By earth and water and air you have been joined together. Let heart-fire and hearth-fire witness your vows.” The old Druid stepped back.

Still bound together, Prasutagos and Boudica circled the fire, once, twice, and a third time, to stand before the Druid once more. Had it grown hotter, or was it the heat of Prasutagos’s body that was kindling her own?

“Now it is done. Now you are bound in the sight of earth and heaven. King and Queen, Priest and Priestess, Lord and Lady you shall be to each other and to your land.” He turned them, and together they crossed the gap and left the earthen ring with the others falling in behind them. As they emerged, the boys and men began to sing—

“You are the breeze that cools the brow, You are the well of sweet water, You are the earth that cradles the seed, You are the oven that bakes the bread, You are the beloved.”

And once more the women replied—

“You are the wind that shakes the oak, You are the rain that fills the sea, You are the seed within the earth, You are the fire upon the hearth, You are the beloved.”

id you think all this was in
your
honor?” Cartimandua turned to Boudica, gesturing toward the bonfire around which a circle of young men were dancing, their coordination only a little impaired by the quantities of heather ale they had drunk this evening. As a ruling queen, she had been given the place of honor next to the bride.

Food in plenty was set out on the long cloth spread before the royal guests—roasted venison and wild boar, beef from their pastures and salmon and eels from the river, bread and beans and barley, fruit dried and fresh, and pungent cheeses. If the purpose of the wedding feast was to imprint the event on people’s minds, this marriage would be well remembered.

“The Romans have come,” the queen continued. “And despite all those fine words at Camulodunon, no one really knows what will happen to Britannia now.” For a moment her dark gaze rested on young Epilios, who had dragged Boudica’s little brother, Braci, into the dance.

So far everyone had conspired to keep the Romans ignorant that another son of Cunobelin still lived. But now that they were Roman clients, he might not be safe in the Iceni lands, and he would make far too valuable a hostage for Caratac’s good behavior. At the thought, Boudica remembered her other brother, now on his way to Rome. Her father was already beginning to groom little Braci as his heir. Dubno-coveros might never return, and if he did, he might be more Roman than Celt, like that priggish boy Cogidubnos whom Boudica had met in Camulodunon.

Cartimandua shrugged. “A wedding is a promise that life will go on, and getting drunk is a safe way to release the frustration of not being able to come to grips with your foe.”

Boudica put down the piece of roast boar she had been pretending to eat and took another sip from her silver cup. They had been served mead, fiery as the wedding torch and as sweet as love was supposed to be. A gabble of conversation rose around her in which from time to time she would catch a name—Morigenos … Tingetorix … Brocagnos—that she supposed she ought to know. These were the chief men of the Iceni kingdom, with whom she would have to deal as queen.

And what about
my
frustration?
she wondered.

Prasutagos was talking to the king about breeding cattle. Indeed, since their vows in the earthen ring he and she had exchanged scarcely a word. And yet, though the braid no longer tied them together, she was acutely aware of the mass and heat of his body next to hers.

I am bound,
she thought resentfully.
But is
he? She held out her cup to be refilled and drank again. Halfway up the sky a full moon was riding, sending shafts of silver light to challenge the glow of the fire.

“And how do they celebrate weddings in your land?” she asked the queen.

Cartimandua’s glance flicked down the line of feasters to her husband and she laughed. “Not so tamely as you do here! There are vows and blessings, to be sure, but first the man must carry off his bride from among her kindred. They come to her home and she pretends to hide, or they attack the bridal procession, and she sets heels to her horse and he must run her down.”

“Even at the wedding of a king and a queen?”

“Especially then.” Cartimandua smiled reminiscently. “In my country we are very proud of our horses. The stallion is not allowed to breed unless he can catch the mare.”

“The Iceni breed fine horses, too!” Boudica exclaimed.

“Indeed they do.” Cartimandua gave her a speculative look. “I would wager that red filly your husband gifted you has a fine turn of speed …”

The servants had at last ceased to bring out new dishes, but they were still replenishing the mead. The musicians fell silent, and the murmur of conversation stilled as King Antedios rose to his feet.

“Let us drink to this happy occasion—a toast to the bridal pair!” He raised his goblet. “The two branches of the Iceni are once more united!

To seal the bargain, Dubrac gives his new son forty white ewes and six breeding mares.”

“And the finest of them is that filly who sits at Prasutagos’s side!” The comment was just loud enough to carry. There was a general rumble of masculine laughter, and Boudica felt her face heating. She had resented being ignored, but this was not the kind of attention she craved. She held out her cup to be refilled.

Where now were the noble vows they had exchanged in the circle? No matter how you dressed it up with ritual, the truth was that she had been married off to a man almost twice her age to cement an alliance, last if not least in the tally of livestock with which Prasutagos was being paid to take her on. In exchange, Dubrac would receive cattle, and several farmsteads up on the northern coast would be Boudica’s own.

She blinked hazily as retainers carried in the gifts from the other wedding guests to be admired—rolls of wool and linen and a beautifully carved loom so that she could stay busy making more, a set of ruddy Samian ware dishes made in Gallia, several amphorae of Roman wine.

Very pretty,
thought Boudica,
but were they worth our freedom?
At least the red mare, adorned with her rich harness and sidling nervously as she was led among the feasters, was home-grown. Boudica drank down the last of her mead.

The queen’s women were forming up in front of the house that had been prepared for the bedding of the bride. “It is not day nor yet day,” they sang. “It is not day, nor yet morning: It is not day, nor yet day, for the moon is shining brightly …”

It was, too, thought Boudica, squinting as she tried to bring it into focus. There seemed to be two moons dancing up there, or maybe it was three. Plenty of light for the drunken fools who would bang on pots outside the door and shout ribald suggestions as to how Prasutagos should serve his new mare.

“Time to get you ready for your wedding night, my child,” said Cartimandua, putting out a steadying hand as Boudica tried to rise. “And a pity it is to waste such a night beneath a roof. With the moon so full, ‘tis nigh as bright as day.”

Boudica gained her feet and swayed as the world spun around her.

“Oh dear,” said the queen. “Well, it’s only the husband who dare not risk being made incapable. If you’re a virgin you might even prefer to be drunk your first time …” Boudica’s mother started toward them and Cartimandua waved her away.

“I need … the privy,” Boudica said with as much dignity as she could muster.

“I’m sure you do, my child,” Cartimandua set a hand beneath her elbow and steered her away from the fire.

To accommodate the numbers of guests they had dug new privies down by the horse lines. The red mare, still wearing her embroidered blanket, was tied to a fence post by her halter. She threw up her head and snorted as Boudica and her escort passed by.

The walk through the crisp air had cleared Boudica’s head enough so that she could go behind the wicker screen alone, and by the time she had relieved herself of as much of the mead as possible, there was only one moon in the sky. A pity, she thought glumly. Cartimandua was right. She was about to be deflowered, practically in public, by a man for whom she was just another broodmare. It would all have been much easier through a haze of mead.

At last she stood, adjusting her skirts and pinning her wool cloak more securely. Now that the alcohol was leaving her system, the air felt cold. Cartimandua was waiting. In silence they started up the path.

“Wait a moment,” she said as they came to the place where the mare was tethered. “The horse is mine, and I’ve not yet given her a name.” She moved quietly forward.

The mare bobbed her head and snuffled as Boudica reached up to rub the place behind her ear where the headstall pinched. She brought her hands down to cradle the horse’s head and blew into her nostrils.

“Hey there, my lovely lass. Shall I call you Roud then, my red one? And have they left you bound?” She slid her hand along the shining neck, and the mare rubbed her head up and down her shoulder. “It seems a pity on such a night, when you should be running free over the hills …”

From somewhere near the fire men were shouting, “Bring out the bride!” “Bring out the mare—the stallion is ready!” “Where is she, lads? Let’s go find her! Show us the bride!”

“Do you know …” Boudica said over her shoulder to Cartiman-dua. “I do not care to be everyone’s entertainment this evening. Your people are not the only ones who believe a queen ought to be respected.” She sighed, remembering Lhiannon’s counsels at Avalon. She ran her hand along the saddlecloth and found that the cinch was still tight.

“But I find what you’ve told me about Brigante customs quite appealing. King Prasutagos ought to earn his bride, don’t you agree?” She reached under the mare’s neck and gave a tug to the knot. As she had hoped, it was the sort that released quickly. The horse took a step forward as the rope loosened, moving between Boudica and the queen.

“Oh indeed,” breathed Cartimandua, her voice shaken with consternation, or possibly laughter.

“Prasutagos did not court me,” Boudica continued in the same even tone, easing the horse around, “nor did he buy me.” She set her hands on the mare’s withers and back. “Catching me is the least he can do.” With a heave she got her belly across the smooth back, scrambling to get her leg up and over, the halter rope still in her hand.

And then she was seated, her long legs gripping the mare’s sides, and in the same moment the horse leaped forward. Boudica bent over the shining neck, not much caring where they went, so long as it was away from here. As they sped down the road, she heard the shouting begin behind her, and above it, the ringing peal of Cartimandua’s laugh.

TEN

he mare’s first wild dash carried them out of the dun and splashing across the ford of the Tas. As she came up the bank Boudica turned and saw the dun alight with moving torches. Prasutagos would have to follow or be forever shamed, but all the other horses were loose in the pasture, and by now most of the men would be too drunk to catch them. Several roads rayed out from the ford, white in the moonlight. Laughing, she gave the mare her head, wondering which way the horse would choose.

It was north. As the miles fell away behind them, it was clear that the mare was heading for the fields she knew. By the time Prasutagos found them they would be halfway home. From time to time she pulled the horse back to a walk, listening. But except for the occasional bark of a dog as they passed a farmstead, the land lay quiet beneath the moon.

The Druids had spells to confuse a pursuer or blind a trail, but Boudica had not learned them. And in any case, she did want Prasutagos to find her … just not … yet.

There were two more rivers to be crossed, the last one deep enough that the mare had to swim. By the time they reached shore, Boudica was shivering in the predawn cold. Still, she was warmer on the horse’s back than she would have been on the ground, and her Druid training had taught her to ignore the body’s discomfort. By now the mare was willing to go at a walking pace, and they continued until the autumn sun had steamed Boudica’s clothing dry.