Ravens of Avalon (8 page)

The Iceni were great lovers of horses. Boudica had missed not being around them. This was a fine animal, whose shining coat and bright eye proclaimed its good condition. But as she looked at the horse she sensed something more. She had seen beasts in plenty slain for the table or as offerings, but at this moment everything—the animal, the humans, the dark waters beneath the cliff, seemed suddenly more
real. No,
she thought then,
the sacrifice makes everything more
holy …

The beast skittered nervously as one of the ravens gave a hoarse cry. This time no one made a joke about it. They could all feel that not only the birds but the gods themselves were eager for the offering.

As the two younger Druids held the horse, Mearan paced slowly around him, shaping the air around his body with the branch of silver bells. The stallion’s ears flicked nervously, following the sound.

“The head of this horse is the dawn! His eye is the sun and his breath is the wind,” Lugovalos sang. “His back is as broad as the bowl of the sky. The sun rises in his forehead and sets in the crease between his quarters.”

The deep rumble of the Arch-Druid’s voice seemed to vibrate in the very earth. Was it his words or the blessing of the bells that made the air around him glow? It was a song of transformation, the part becoming the whole, the world of the flesh offered to the world of the spirit.

The stallion jerked as a breath of wind made the torch flare. “This horse is the earth and the stars of heaven. This horse is the steed that journeys between the worlds. This horse is the offering.”

Bendigeid offered Ardanos the sacrifical blade. Steel caught the light as he reached to draw it across the animal’s throat and the stallion neighed and surged upward, striking at the air. A flailing forefoot caught Ardanos in the ribs and the knife flew glittering from his hand and splashed into the pool. Lhiannon cried out and ran to Ardanos as he fell.

The kings leaped aside as the horse dragged Cunitor across the ground, but Prasutagos dodged the hooves and leaped forward, grabbing the halter and using his greater weight to hold the animal still.

“He’s had the wind knocked out of him,” said Lhiannon as Ardanos gasped. She began to probe his torso with gentle fingers, but when she felt down his ribs he screamed. “And broken some ribs,” she added. “Be still, my dear. We must bind you up before you try to move.”

The stallion ceased to struggle as Prasutagos spoke to him, his voice a gentle unceasing murmur like the wind. Only then, looking at the others, did Boudica realize what a disastrous omen this must be.

She drew her knife and ripped at the bottom of her tunica, gritting her teeth until the strong linen gave way and she could tear a strip from the hem. “Use this,” she said, offering it to Lhiannon.

“Cunitor, bring the horse back,” said Lugovalos. “We must complete the ritual.”

“I will bring him,” said Prasutagos. “He senses your Druid’s fear.”

Well, that was no wonder, thought Boudica, seeing what had happened to Ardanos. But she could not help feeling a spurt of pride. The Iceni were known for the training as well as the breeding of horses, and Prasutagos was clearly a master.

The prince led the animal back to the edge. He stroked the satiny neck, whispering into the pricked ear until the noble head drooped and the horse grew still. Still whispering, he leaned on the strong neck and touched the animal’s knees until the horse knelt and rocked and lay down.

Lugovalos took off the feathered headdress and rustling hide cloak and laid them aside.

“Take my dagger.” Caratac held out a shining blade. “It is newly sharpened.”

“This horse is the offering …” the Arch-Druid said in a low voice. Moving slowly, he came up on the animal’s other side and crouched, holding the knife at his side until the last moment, and then, in a swift, smooth motion, drawing it across the throat.

Blood gushed out in a shining stream. For a moment the horse did not seem to realize what had happened. Then he jerked, but Prasutagos had his weight on the animal’s neck, still murmuring, and presently the great head drooped and the prince lowered it gently to the ground.

In the sudden light of the risen sun the world seemed turned to scarlet as blood pooled beneath the white body and flowed in a red river toward the edge of the cliff. Boudica blinked, seeing the shimmer of energy that had surrounded the stallion move with it into the pool. But it seemed to take a long time until the life force left entirely and there was only a carcass lying there.

In silence Cunitor and the other men butchered the animal, taking the heart and liver and carving off great chunks of flesh from the hindquarters. Boudica helped to work pieces of meat onto iron skewers and suspend them above the fire. The head and legs were left attached to the hide, which was dragged down to the waterside and suspended from a post that had clearly been used for that purpose before. When they were done, the guts were heaped beside the thorn tree and the rest of the carcass tipped into the pool.

The morning stillness was shattered by the triumphant cawing of the ravens as they descended on their share of the feast. The hem of the Arch-Druid’s gown was bloody and the front of Prasutagos’s tunic crimson where he had cradled the head of the horse as it died. Nausea warred with hunger as the scent of roasting horsemeat filled the air.

Everything is food for something …
thought Boudica.
May my death be as worthy when the time comes for me.
But she was acutely aware that all those who shared the feast not only offered, but were part of the sacrifice.

FOUR

elve did not want me to sit with you,” said Coventa. The folds of Boudica’s fur-lined cloak were still sufficient to wrap both of them as they waited for the midwinter feast to arrive. “But I don’t mind if she blisters my ears tomorrow if this evening you will keep me warm!”

When the kings left Mona they had taken the summer with them, and the winter that followed was turning out to be colder and wetter than any since Boudica had come here, or perhaps it only seemed that way because for every tribe that had agreed to join the alliance there was one that refused the Arch-Druid’s call.

A ripple of music brought Boudica’s head around. At the end of the fire pit, screens of laced hides kept drafts from the dining couches and side tables where the senior Druids reigned. That new man, Brangenos, had come in and was adjusting the strings on his crescent-shaped harp. A bard of the Druid Order from Gallia, he had only recently reached the haven of the isle. He was tall, and thin almost to the point of emaciation, with a streak of white through his black hair. He was also a much better harper than Ardanos, who had been the chief of their bards until now. But even when he smiled one could see sorrow in his eyes.

As he finished tuning, there was a stir at the door. The Arch-Druid was entering. In honor of the festival, over his white robe he wore a thick fringed mantle woven of seven colors. After him came the senior Druids, followed by Ardanos and Cunitor and the other younger priests. Where, she wondered as they took their places at the head of the fire pit, were the priestesses?

At a nod from Lugovalos, Brangenos rose, the harp cradled in the crook of his arm, and began to sing:

“The people cheered for the leader of war-bands The king of the marching men called the tribes to war

Now all the shouting is silent and the wind plays a harp of bone.”

The harp gave forth a shimmer of sound as the Druid drew his fingers across the strings.
He comes from the land of Vercingetorix,
remembered Boudica.
At least the only Gaul who bested Caesar in battle is remembered there.

Everywhere in the Celtic lands they knew the story of how Vercingetorix had united the Gaulish tribes, using the hillforts and the hills themselves as bases from which to attack Caesar’s legions. But in the end the Roman imperator penned him up in Alesia and starved him out.

“The high king came to the lord of the eagles Laid down his arms to save his warriors Nameless is his grave, and the wind plays a harp of bone.”

Once more sound sighed from the strings. Then the harp was still. The Gaulish king had been dragged through the streets of Rome in Caesar’s triumph and imprisoned for years in a hole in the ground before the Romans killed him. This was certainly no very cheerful music for the solstice. Why was it always the defeated who got the best songs?

While the bard was playing, Mearan had appeared. For a moment Boudica was disappointed to have missed her entrance, for the High Priestess usually took her meals in her own house, and her appearance at the high festivals was attended by some ceremony. But even the ruddy firelight could not disguise the fact that she was pale. Perhaps she had taken advantage of the distraction to keep them from noticing that she had to be assisted into her chair.

Helve, on the other hand, was blooming. The priestess had always been pleasant to Boudica, but that was more because she knew that Boudica was highborn than from any personal feeling. The girl had seen that look on sons of kings who were eager to inherit their fathers’ honors. And she had seen them afterward, sometimes, when the choice of the chieftains fell upon another man of the royal kin. She did not think that Helve would deal well with disappointment, but she wondered how the rest of them were going to deal with Helve if her expectations were fulfilled.

The hides that covered the doorway were drawn aside once more and the marvelous scent of roast boar filled the hall. Crowned with ivy in honor of the season, old Elin led the procession. There were bowls of porridge with dried fruit, platters of root vegetables, and baskets of sausages and cheese. Two of the older boys bore between them a plank from which chunks of pork sent white curls of steam into the air. Mouths watered as the Arch-Druid lifted his hands and began to intone a blessing over the food.

oudica drained her wooden ale cup and sat back with a sigh. “That was good. This is the first time in days I have felt warm inside and out.”

“Your cheeks are flushed from the ale,” observed Coventa. “Or is it because Rianor is staring at you?”

“He is not—” Boudica looked up and saw that the boy had taken her glance as an invitation and was coming toward them with two of his friends.

“I think he likes you …” Coventa grinned, and squealed as Boudica pinched her.

Rianor was no longer a boy, she realized suddenly. He had shot up during the past months, and his chin bore a trace of dark beard. It was just that compared to warriors such as those who had visited them last summer he still seemed a child.

“Move over, maidens,” he grinned. “Or did you eat so much there’s no room on the bench? It’s not fair that you should block all the heat of that fire.”

“Are you saying I’ve grown fat?” protested Boudica, but she was already sliding over so that Rianor could squeeze in. She flushed a little as he put his arm around her shoulders. His friend Albi tried to do the same and missed, landing in the straw at their feet, where he was joined by the other boys, playfully cuffing each other as her father’s hunting dogs used to scuffle before they stretched out before the fire.

In the pack there was an order—in the boy pack, too. Rianor was a leader. So was Cloto, but since the visit of the kings many of his former followers were avoiding him.

“What did you think of our new bard?” Rianor asked.

“He has such sad eyes,” observed Coventa with a sigh.

“Well, his song was sad enough,” Albi agreed.

“Then we should learn from it,” Cloto said harshly. “You can’t fight Rome. Vercingetorix tried, and died, and all those proud kings who came here will die, too.”

“Caesar conquered Vercingetorix and Caesar is dead,” objected Rianor. “This emperor they have now is not a warrior.”

“He does not have to be,” Cloto said grimly. “He has generals who will do the work for him.”

“And so you think we should just lie down and let them?” exclaimed Albi. As they grew louder, others began to turn. Boudica made a hushing motion and for a moment everyone was still. When Cloto spoke again his voice was intense, but low.

“We should welcome them, make treaties. They will have to treat us fairly if we are protected by their law.”

“Like Veric,” said Boudica. Cloto shrugged. Everyone knew he was a cousin of the Atrebate king. Of course he would agree with him.

“And when we are all as tame as the tribes of Gallia, what then?” whispered Rianor. “Our children will grow up speaking Latin and forget our gods.”

“I don’t think that is quite fair,” Albi said slowly. “I’ve heard that all the peoples of the Empire are free to worship their own gods so long as they also honor the gods of Rome.”

“All except the Druids …” Coventa said suddenly. Her eyes had gone unfocused and she was trembling. “The Druids of Gallia who did not flee were killed.”

Boudica gripped her arms and gave her a little shake, willing her to focus on the here and now. If she went into one of her fits they would have the priests down on them for sure. For a moment the younger girl sat rigid beneath her hands, then she relaxed with a sigh.

“It’s true,” Rianor said then. “We Druids don’t have a choice. If the Romans rule Britannia, the people may survive, but they will no longer be Atrebates or Brigantes or Regni.” His voice rose. “By the gods, we of the tribes love our freedom so much we will not even join together as Britons beneath one king! How can you think it would be better to be swallowed up by Rome?” He glared at Cloto and the other boy leaped to his feet, fists balled and ready.