Ravens of Avalon (52 page)

Are we no better than they?
her spirit cried.

“This is not about lust, but about power—”

Help her!
Vision blurred as the conflict drove awareness inward. Boudica felt the horse move beneath her as she grabbed a spear from one of her men, but the unerring aim was Cathubodva’s, like the power that drove the spear past the rapist’s shoulder and into his victim’s heart.

This is your work, Lady,
she thought despairingly.
If it must be done, I don’t want to see.
This time she willingly abandoned consciousness, and the mercy of the Morrigan folded dark wings between her and the pain.

Even the queen’s escort left a distance between them and the One they followed through the streets where blood flowed in the gutters, for the calm, clear voice that directed them where to search for valuables held a resonance that was more than human, and the mind that directed it had a deadly patience that they did not understand.

But Boudica found herself walking through an oak wood drifted with autumn leaves and scattered with what she took to be acorns. As she drew closer she could see that they were human heads. Their faces were contorted, but she could not tell if it was in exaltation or rage.

“This is My harvest … their blood will feed the land,” came a harsh voice from above.

She looked up. Balancing on one of the branches was a Raven with red eyes.

“Men are no different from any other creature,” said the Raven. “When one group is stronger they conquer, and when they weaken, another comes and feeds on them in turn. Conflict and competition are necessary. The fury passes through like a great fire, burning weakness away, and in its light the essence is revealed. The strongest in both groups survive. Blood and spirit are blended and what grows from them is stronger still.”

“Is this the only way?” Boudica cried.

“This is the way you must follow now,” came the reply. “Britannia is a mingling of many bloods already, from peoples that strove against each other as they came to these shores. In time more will come and today’s victor will fail, leaving his own strength in the land.”

“That is a hard teaching,” Boudica said.

“It is my truth—the Raven’s Way. One way or another the cycle must continue. The balance must be maintained. And there is more than one kind of victory …”

hen Boudica came to herself once more she was back in their camp, dismounting from the mare. Brangenos caught her as her knees buckled and Eos took the rein to lead Branwen away. Red smeared and splattered the mare’s white hide. The stink of blood was all around her. Boudica looked down and saw her legs splashed with clotting red to the knee. Bogle whined and sat down. He was blood-smeared as well.

“It is a red woman on a white horse that leads us …” ran the whispers, “and with her the hunters of the Otherworld, the white, red-eared hounds …”

“Is my horse all right?” Her voice seemed to come from a distance.

“She needs to be cleansed, like you, but she is Branwen, the white raven. What better mount for the Lady of Ravens to ride?”

But
I
was the horse,
thought Boudica dizzily. She wondered what had happened after the goddess severed her from her own identity.

The faces around her were warmed by a sunset glow, but the horizon was dark. Slowly she realized that the light was reflecting off the clouds over the burning city. It was over, then—for now—and the dead had their pyre.

“Come,” said Brangenos. As she steadied, he set his hand beneath her elbow. “You need water. You need rest.”

“Yes, but not to drink. First I must get clean.”

They had made their camp by one of the streams that ran into the Tamesa. Ignoring the startled exclamations of her household, Boudica plunged through the reeds and into the water, Bogle bounding after her. The cold shocked her fully into her body as it washed the blood away. When she struggled back ashore she was shivering with reaction. The dog pushed through the reeds and shook himself, sending out arcs of spray.

Temella hurried toward her with a blanket. When she was dry and had a bowl of hot soup in her hands Brangenos settled beside her. Beyond the tent poles men bowed as they passed.

“I saw that man in the city,” she said as a burly figure with an ax stuck through his belt went by. “He was killing a Roman who was defending his home. But he looked different—” She gestured toward the crowd. “They all did. Now they look like themselves again. Was it my imagination? What did I see?”

The Druid sighed. “Another spirit can possess men who are joined by great emotion. I do not know if it is a curse or a mercy.”

“The mercy of the Morrigan,” she said bitterly. “Is it like the thing that happens to me?”

“Somewhat, except that this is a shared ecstasy, created when many souls under pressure become one.”

“Will they remember what they did?”

“In such a state men are capable of great feats of valor—or of cruelty.” His lean face was somber. “To be unable to remember the former relieves them of the yearning to reach a level they will never again be able to attain. To forget the latter … do you think they could face their own wives and children if they had full memory of what they had done?”

“But if they do not remember, they will do it again,” she said, knowing she had no right to judge, having given up her own will to a force equally implacable. “And if the Battle Raven rides me again, so will I …” She swallowed. “Is there no way to make war with honor?”

“With perfect warriors—with perfect discipline,” he replied. “In the old days the champions would go out to fight between the armies, and the will of each side rode with its defender, and all were ennobled by their strife. The Romans will not allow us that kind of war. What we have here is not an army, my queen. It is a mob, a creature composed of outrage and pain that burns its way across the land.”

“She
said something like that,” murmured Boudica, and saw his gaze sharpen. “While She was doing battle She was also talking to me in an oak wood where men’s heads lay on the ground.” Haltingly she recounted Cathubodva’s words.

“It is a harsh teaching indeed,” the Druid agreed when she was done. “But it is all we have. If this fire you have started can kindle the valor of all the tribes we may yet drive the Romans from this land. If not, our own blood will feed the ground. You cannot stop it now, my queen, you can only fan the flames and hope they burn quick and clean.”

Boudica gulped soup, but its heat could not warm her. Now, more than ever, she understood why Prasutagos had sought peace so earnestly. Suddenly she ached with the need to feel his arms around her, to make life in this wasteland. Would he turn from her in horror if he saw what she was doing now? But the peace the Romans would have given them was a living death, destruction with no hope of renewal.

“My lady, if you wish I can mix you something to make you sleep,” said Brangenos.

She looked up, seeing him suddenly as a man, still strong, despite the white in his hair. If she asked, would he lie with her? Their eyes met, and she knew his answer.

“No—” She shook her head, denying him, denying herself the respite that she craved. “If those who died today could bear their pain, the least I can do is endure my dreams …”

he journey by sea had gone by like a dream, but the Summer Country seemed scarcely closer to the world of death and battle Lhian-non had left behind. As the boatman poled the long, flat craft through the marshes, reed and willow closed around them, and their only enemies were the midges that rose in humming clouds as they passed.

Each morning the mist rose from the water to veil the marshes in mystery. Lhiannon found herself half hoping that when it cleared she would find herself in the Otherworld, but the long shafts of afternoon sunlight showed the same landscape as before. But with each day the pointed tip of the Tor appeared more clearly above the tangled trees, until they came with the last light of sunset to the shores of Avalon.

The little house in which Lhiannon had lived had lost some of its thatching—the Druids had not had much time for initiations in recent years, and only one old priestess, a woman called Nan, remained—but everything else seemed unchanged. The slender, dark-haired folk of the

marshes provided them with food and brought their sick for healing. As the Summer Country drowsed through the long days, Lhiannon found her heart easing. If Avalon held no answers, at least here she could sometimes forget the questions.

Her only anxiety was Coventa, who continued to be sick during the day, and troubled at night by evil dreams. A week after they had arrived on the isle Coventa awoke one morning weeping. With a sigh, Lhian-non rose and held her until the sobs began to ease.

“Nan, will you make up the fire and fill the hanging pot with water so we can have some chamomile tea?”

“Thank you,” said Coventa when the old woman brought her the cup. “I am sorry to be such a bother to you all.”

“Was it another bad dream?” Lhiannon asked the girl.

Coventa sighed. “I dreamed that I gave birth to a son, who grew up tall and strong with golden hair. But when he was grown he turned into a raven and flew away.”

“Is that why you were crying?”

Coventa shook her head. “He was a beautiful boy. It made me happy to see him. I wept because when he is grown he will become a warrior.”

“In your dream,” said Lhiannon, frowning.

“In this world.” Coventa looked up at her with an odd smile. “I never expected to have to know such things, but living among women one cannot help learning something. My breasts are tender and I have missed my courses and I am sick in the mornings. I think I am with child.”

“By the Romans …” breathed Lhiannon.

“By one of them,” Coventa corrected, “even among the Romans I believe there is only one father for each child.”

“I know of herbs you can take to cast the abomination from you,” said Lhiannon. “I will ask the marsh folk to show me where they grow.”

“No. What I carry is not yet a child, but I cannot deny him life. I believe that in the future he will have some part to play.”

Lhiannon stared at her, uncomprehending.
I would tear out my womb rather than bear a Roman’s child! Coventa will not be the only one burdened this way,
she thought then.
Perhaps the other women will be more sensible, and if

they cannot kill the babes before they are born, they will destroy them after.
But she did not say so aloud.

Coventa looked better than she had for many days, and Lhiannon was unwilling to jeopardize any belief that led to happiness.

learly our next objective should be Verlamion,” said Vordilic. “Or rather, Verulamium,” he said, adding the Latin ending with a vicious snarl. Grizzled as a badger, he was a man of the Catuvellauni, some kind of relation to Caratac. “The royal enclosure on the banks of the Ver was the sacred center for my tribe. The town that squats there now is a Roman blasphemy.”

From the circle of chieftains and kings who had gathered around Boudica’s fire came a mutter of agreement. The stretched cloths that kept off the evening dew were costly fabrics that had once curtained Roman doorways. The discussion had been lubricated by an amphora of Roman wine.

“But they are Britons,” someone objected.

“They are traitors,” Vordilic spat. “They were once Catuvellauni, but they have abandoned their name and race to wear the toga and boast of being Roman citizens.”

“That makes them worse than honest enemies,” another man replied. “They show us what will become of us if we do not win. We must make them an example for all Britannia.”

“That great road the Romans carved across our holy earth at least makes it easy to travel. If we set off tomorrow, we could be in Verlamion in two days!” Vordilic had joined them when they reached Londinium. His skin hung loose on his bones and the good cloth of his tunic was worn threadbare. Everything about him spoke of a vanished prosperity.

Boudica drew back. Vordilic’s tattered clothing was only a visible representation of the hatred that was eating away at his soul. Being near him was like standing by some noxious bog. The problem with calling on all the tribes was that the people most motivated to fight the Romans were the most damaged, in body or in mind, and the least willing to conduct an intelligent campaign.

“We could be,” she said mildly, “but should we take the time to attack? Unlike an army, a town cannot run away. The legions are on the move, and we should be getting ready to meet them.”

“We obliterated the Ninth with half the men we have now,” boasted Drostac. “Why should the men of the Twentieth and the Fourth give us more trouble?”

“The Second Legion will not reinforce them,” said someone else to general laughter. “The word we hear from the Durotriges is that their camp prefect thinks the situation ‘too uncertain for secure operations.’ They’re staying in Isca.”

“Whereas we gain more warriors every day!” said King Corio. “We don’t need a fancy strategy—we can crush them by sheer numbers!”

Numbers they certainly had. Campfires dotted the rolling country north of what had been Londinium like poppies in a wheatfield. They had captured enough wine and meat for everyone to make merry. The night wind was musical with laughter and song.