Ravens of Avalon (44 page)

The Druids who had conducted Prasutagos’s rite were long gone, frightened into exile or hiding when the Romans had begun to enforce the ban on their Order. Brangenos, with the surprising assistance of Ri-anor, who had turned up unexpectedly at their gates a few days after the council, was conducting the ceremony.

“Boudica, daughter of Dubrac, of the line of Brannos, son of the White Mare, will you stand as queen for the people and Lady of the Land?”

“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 chieftains 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 offered 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 as well.”
As Corn Mother gives her grain to feed us all …
she thought, remembering 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!”

or our faith and our people we make this offering. 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 offering 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 flamed in the firelight before sinking into the dark depths. But she could not feel any difference in the atmosphere.

All those with the strength to make the journey had followed the wagon full of offerings. The very elderly 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 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 above chill pools when the air began to warm with the approach of day, but these vapors pulsed with a fire-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 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.

TWENTY
-
THREE

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 calling 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 council 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 roundhouse 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?

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 something—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 sacrificed 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.

oudica 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.

“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 circular 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, growing 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 Prasutagos’s delight in the prospect of building made her smile.

t 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 suffer for their sins.

“Junius Pollio,
salve!”
she offered 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.