Ravens of Avalon (23 page)

s Caratac led his party up the lane, a turmoil of dogs, spotted and brindle and gray, came tumbling through the gate of the farmstead barking in a cacophony of keys. Roused as her pony shied, Lhiannon, startled into awareness for the first time in days. Ardanos would have had a Word of Power to calm them, she thought sadly. King Caratac, however, had the voice of authority. The dogs swirled back and then, as someone else called them, fell silent, tails wagging and heads down. Lhiannon’s heart leaped as she glimpsed a white robe behind them. It was a Druid’s robe, but the tall figure beneath it bore a boy’s face above a young man’s soft black beard.

“Lady Lhiannon! What are you doing here?” he exclaimed, and hearing his voice, she recognized Rianor, who had been a student with Boudica. He looked down the line of weary men and his face changed.

They were a tattered crew, many of them bandaged, warriors who had escaped after the fall of the Dun of Stones and been collected by Caratac in those first frantic days as they dodged Roman patrols. The king was no longer the pleasant young man who had visited them at Mona, no longer even the exhausted warrior who had wept over his brother’s body at the Tamesa. Above the royal torque, Caratac’s face was worn to a framework for eyes that blazed with purpose. The berserk energy that had gotten her out of the Dun of Stones was leashed and focused now to the service of their cause.

“Holy gods, you were at the dun—we all heard how bravely it was defended,” said Rianor. “We were praying for you at the Isle. My mother was of the Belgae, so they sent me here …”

“As you see, we have wounded,” said Caratac. “Some of them will recover well enough to fight again, and some should not travel farther.”

“Are the Romans coming? Are you here to command the defense of Camadunon?” Rianor gestured toward the hill to the south of the farm.

In the long years since the hill was last needed as a place of refuge forest had grown up around it, but someone had already started cutting trees to rebuild the palisade. With a kind of numb despair Lhiannon found herself calculating where an enemy might try to scale the hill.

Caratac shook his head. “King Maglorios is sending men to hold it. I must fare to the country of the Silures. The tribes to the north and west will be our best defense if the south fails.” He turned to Lhiannon. “Lady, I will be traveling fast and hard, so I must leave you. This dun guards the approaches to the Summer Country, and from here you can find escort to Mona or to Avalon.”

“Thank you.” It was all she could say, though there had been too many nights when she had cursed him in her heart for not leaving her to die with Ardanos.

Rianor helped her to dismount, and together they watched the king ride away with the three of his own tribesmen who had survived. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

“Ardanos is not with you?” ventured Rianor as he showed her where she would sleep until more huts were built in the dun.

“We were separated when the enemy broke through. I last saw Ardanos with some of Antebrogios’s men. Caratac got me away, but we have had no word of the others. It is most likely,” with an effort she kept her voice calm, “that he is dead or captive.” She had sought him on the spirit roads without success. In her current state of weakness that might mean nothing. Surely if he had been killed she would have felt his passing. But if he lived, why had he not reached out to her?

“Oh my lady, I am so sorry!” exclaimed Rianor. “We all knew how much you loved him, and he you. Otherwise you would have been made High Priestess instead of Helve.”

Lhiannon closed her eyes in pain. Did they all assume that she and Ardanos had been lovers? It seemed hard to have the reputation without having had any of the joy. And yet that was not entirely true, she thought, remembering how they had lain together beneath the moon. Soul to soul, they had been united with a completeness that few who had experienced only the body’s sweaty couplings ever knew.

“My lady,” he said then, “have you had any word of Boudica? I—we hoped that she would come back after your visit to Avalon.”

“She chose to return to her tribe,” Lhiannon said steadily. “A marriage was arranged for her with King Prasutagos, to unite the two branches of the Iceni. I suppose she will be as happy as any can be in these times. He seemed to be a good man.”

“If he is good to her, that is enough for me!” Rianor said fiercely. “But it is strange to think of her married to one of those who bent the knee to Rome. At least she will be safe in the Iceni lands.” He got to his feet. “I wish that we could say the same—if the Roman advance continues, they will come this way.”

TWELVE

outed from the west country, the rain clouds that had soaked the Durotrige country moved north and east to deluge the Iceni lands, and the season that should have brought sunshine saw a succession of storms. As water pooled in the fields, drowning the growing grain, there were times when Boudica wondered if her words to the Roman had been prophetic, for this year there would be little to harvest. Nor could they hope for help from Dun Garo, where the land was even lower and the rivers bigger. All of the Iceni chieftains would be begging the Romans for the grain they needed to get their people through another year.

As the rains continued to fall the roundhouse smelled perpetually of woodsmoke and dung and the woolen garments that had been hung from the beams to dry. The most valuable of the breeding stock had been brought to the higher ground of the dun and penned inside, but every day, it seemed, someone would come splashing up from one of the other farms, asking help to rescue marooned sheep or strengthen the dike that protected a house from a rising stream. And soon the coughing sickness began to stalk the countryside, and Nessa and Boudica were both kept busy brewing herbal teas and broth.

n the days that followed her arrival at Camadunon, Lhiannon realized that torment in the mind, unlike pain of the body, was best treated by activity. Work that required all one’s attention was better than riding. She had no wish to spend more days as a passenger, staring at mental images of Ardanos in chains or dying, and in any case no man could be spared to escort her to Avalon. Here there were wounded men who needed her nursing, food to be cooked for the laborers, and when there was no other work, an extra pair of hands could always be used at the dun.

From time to time a shepherd or farm lad would trot into the steading with word of the Roman advance. Vespasian had left engineers to build Roman fortifications on the Dun of Stones and then continued his campaign. Rumor had them marching north or south or stopping entirely, but by the feast of Lugos it was known that they were on their way.

They had done all they could at Camadunon. The ditches between the four stone and timber ramparts that surrounded the hillfort had been dug deeper and the topmost bank was crowned with a new palisade. Stone faced the slots that led to the gates on the northeast and southwest sides. An ox had been offered to the gods at the new shrine and supplies had been laid in, and from the surrounding countryside came men.

Camadunon stood on the border between the farmlands and the Summer Country. If it fell, Avalon would have no defense but its fens. At night Lhiannon would lie sleepless, remembering the Dun of Stones. She began to realize that she could not endure the mounting despair of a siege and the terror of an assault again, but how could she desert the people who had come to depend on her?

oudica came out of the herdsman’s hut and wrapped the heavy wool of her cloak around her. Rosic was the chief of their shepherds, but he was better with sheep than with children, and had come begging her help when his wife fell ill. His daughter Temella had tried to nurse her siblings, but she had been close to panic when Boudica arrived.

At this season there should have been some hours of light left, but clouds from the afternoon’s rainstorm still covered the sky, leaching color from the sodden fields. She rubbed the small of her back as the baby kicked sharply. When she was inside with the children she had not noticed the ache. At least her own child was warm and safe in the cradle of her womb, and Rosic’s younger ones had kept down the soup she fed them. Temella could take care of them now.

Boudica squinted at the sky, too accustomed to the bastions of gray cloud covering the heavens to notice their beauty. A little yellow edged them in the west. The light should last long enough for her to get home.

If not, she had been over this ground so often in the past few days she could hardly miss the way. She tucked the wooden bowl in which she had brought the soup under her arm and began to pick her way down the path.

It was slow work, for the puddles had grown deeper. A change in the wind sent a fine mist into her eyes and she swore, but in the past weeks she had grown accustomed to the damp. A little more would do her no harm. This would have been easier, she thought as she slipped in the mud, if she had brought a staff. But on the way over she had needed both hands for the bowl. The ache in her back was increasing, which surprised her, since usually it was eased by exercise.

Boudica blinked and pulled the cloak over her head as the rain got harder. Its oil-rich wool would repel most moisture, and even damp it was warm. Water sloshed around her ankles and she stumbled. The path here bordered what in normal times was a small stream. The water was edging across the pathway now. Perhaps she should have stayed in the cottage, but the ways back and forward were equally dangerous now.

A new gust rocked her, she took another step, felt the ground give way, and sat down hard. When she levered herself up her skirts were sopping, and it was only gradually that she realized that the warm water soaking her shift was not from the rain. She stopped, wincing as her belly contracted with a sudden sharp pang. She was only seven months along—this was too soon!

Boudica took a few steps further and stopped again. The rising water had obscured all trace of the path. Without light, she could easily be swept away by the stream. But higher ground loomed dimly ahead. She splashed toward it, halting when the pangs came, and clambered to the top on her hands and knees. As her heartbeat slowed she looked around her and realized where she was.

Long ago the people who built the dun had buried one of their chieftains here. Although his name was forgotten, the folk of Eponadunon brought him offerings on Samhain Eve. Surely the ancient spirit would not grudge her this refuge until Prasutagos came to rescue her. First babies always took a while—every old wife who had tried to frighten her with tales of bad birthings during her pregnancy had agreed. She still had time …

But as the birth pangs came more quickly Boudica remembered that the king had ridden out to one of the outlying farms that morning. In such weather he would no doubt stay the night where he was, and it was only too likely that Nessa and the rest would assume that she had done so as well. A moan burst through clenched teeth as she realized that nobody was going to come.

And the old wives were wrong about how long it would take, at least when a baby came too soon. And she had been wrong to think she could walk in all weathers with no escort. It was all going wrong! She crouched on hands and knees as the contractions racked her body, screaming out her outrage and pain.

I want Lhiannon,
her spirit wailed, but each pain yanked her back into her body again.
If I had stayed on Mona this would not be happening … If the Romans had not come …
She fought for focus. “If” would not help her. She would have to get through this alone.

When the pains gave her a moment of respite Boudica cut two strips from her shift with her dagger and laid them ready. When she felt the contractions begin to change she got the bulk of the cloak underneath her and squatted, weeping as her belly contorted again and again. She caught the red, wriggling thing that was expelled at last and managed to cut and tie the birth cord. It was a son, with hair as red as her own. At the touch of the cold air he let out a thin wail. Gasping, Boudica got the neck of her shift open enough to settle the babe between her breasts and tied her belt below to hold him there. Small as he was, he fit easily.

“Lie over my heart, little one, as you lay beneath it,” she stuttered, tensing as her womb clenched once more and the bloody mess of the afterbirth slid free. Shivering, she curled her body around the burden at her breast, curving her palm over the fragile arch of the skull, and the infant stilled. He was so tiny a mite to be the beginnings of a man, tender as a sprout that might one day become a mighty oak tree that would shelter them all.

“When you are grown you will be a king and a warrior,” she murmured, “storm-born and fiery as Lugos himself, eh?” She smiled as the babe mewed and nuzzled her breast. But now that the birthing was over she realized that she was cold.

n the night of the full moon, Lhiannon stood on the rampart, gazing across the tangle of marsh and mere. For the first time in weeks, there was nothing left to be done. Tomorrow, said the scouts, the Romans would be here. The night was cool and clear, but to the west rain clouds were rolling in from the sea. How long, she wondered, before this moon also was stained red, this peace destroyed by the cries of dying men? She started at a touch on her shoulder and turned to find Rianor beside her.

“Look—” He pointed to the northwest, where a pointed hilltop stood clear against the sunset clouds. “You can see the Tor, and on a very clear day in the morning, the pyramid knoll on the coast. The earth power flows from them through this hill and onward. Can you feel it here?”