by Beth Webb
A tall woman stood and came forward. Long flames of hair spread over her embroidered dress and enamelled brooches. She was no longer young, maybe thirty or even more, but her proud face was strong.
‘What is your name?’ she demanded.
‘Tegen, druid of the Winter Seas,’ she answered. ‘Moryn, chief druid of the Ordovices sent me to stand at the side of Boudica, Queen of the Iceni. I am her battle druid.’
The company started to talk excitedly, but the woman raised her hand for silence. Frowning, she stepped forward and grabbed Tegen’s chin. ‘I am Boudica. How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘How can you be a trained druid in so short a time?’
Tegen shook her head free and met the woman’s gaze. Her fingers curled around Tonn’s stone egg. ‘I may not have years, but I have a title and the blessing of the spirits. That will be enough.’
The woman raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Oh will it? And what is this title that puts you above those with years of experience and wisdom?’
Tegen swallowed hard. ‘I am the Star Dancer,’ she replied.
Boudica stared blankly and shrugged. ‘Never heard of you!’ She turned to the others. ‘Anyone here heard of a Star Dancer?’ They all shook their heads. One elderly man seemed thoughtful but kept quiet.
‘It’d be nice to have a bit of dancing,’ a young chieftain leered. ‘Be a change from watching bloody frogs all day.’
They all laughed.
Tegen shuddered as pale threads of mist crept across the islet. She raised her hand to turn them back, but Boudica grabbed her wrist.
‘You’re not a druid! You’re a spy! My scouts saw you several nights ago with the Romans at Lindum, in Corieltauvi territory! Take her away and beat her. Find out who she really is and why she’s here!’
‘But …’ Tegen began. She’d guessed the queen wouldn’t be easy to work with, but she hadn’t envisaged things would be this bad. ‘Let me prove it,’ Tegen began, ‘I shall summon fire.’
Two warriors grabbed her outstretched wrists, dragged her to the side of a hut and tied her hands to the supporting posts. With handfuls of withies, they began their work.
Stripes of fire raged across Tegen’s back as they lashed her again and again.
Her soul curled inwards, wrapping around her unborn baby.
The ropes cut her wrists and she screamed.
Just then, someone yelled. ‘Stop that you stupid morons! Tegen! Are you alright?’ Heavy boots stamped closer.
The voice swam in and out of pulsing pain. Tegen turned her head and winced. ‘Sabrina! … Ouch!’
The Dobunni queen drew her sword and held it to the throat of the nearest man. ‘Cut her down before I slice your head from your imbecilic neck!’
He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘My lady, Boudica?’ he called out.
Sabrina pressed her sword into his neck. ‘Now!’ Blood trickled thickly down the edge of her blade.
Boudica lifted her skirt and ran. ‘What’s going on?’ she roared. ‘Sabrina, you can’t interfere. We caught this lying bitch skulking around. We’ve got to know who she’s working for.’
Sabrina, as tall as Boudica and with a will to match, did not take her weapon from the man’s throat. She smiled, showing her missing teeth. ‘I will vouch for this young woman with my life!’
Reluctantly, Boudica nodded at her men, who drew their daggers and cut Tegen’s bindings. Sabrina sheathed her sword. Scooping Tegen up as if she were a child, she carried her into her own hut and placed her on her bed.
Boudica followed. ‘Are you sure? She travelled with a Roman woman and slept in one of their inns.’
‘I’m sure,’ Sabrina roared. Then pointing at Tegen’s torn dress and bleeding back she added, ‘And if this young woman is not in the mood for forgiveness, you are dead, as is our cause. What were you thinking? A girl like this isn’t built to take a beating! You of all people should know!’
Boudica crossed her arms and scowled. ‘My scouts say she’s a spy!’ Then she yanked one of Sabrina’s plaits. ‘And what about you? Maybe all the Dobunni are in the pay of the enemy?’
Sabrina grabbed Boudica’s ears and pulled. The two queens stood nose to nose, breathing heavily.
‘You, sister, are a fool!’ Sabrina sneered. ‘This is Tegen of the Winter Seas, the Star Dancer, the most important and powerful druid in these islands. Without her, Britain will fall and so lady, will you!’
Boudica paled, hesitated, then looked down at Tegen. ‘I’m sorry, forgive me,’ she muttered through clenched teeth.
‘It is forgotten,’ Tegen gasped. ‘But I beg you, get someone to wash my back and give me willow bark to chew. I’m in agony.’
Boudica nodded tersely and snapped her fingers at a servant. ‘Do it!’ she said, then strode outside to stand amongst the reeds.
The afternoon was growing chilly and the fog was thickening; mist droplets veiled Boudica’s hair. She swung her seven-coloured cloak around her shoulders. Not far away, the warriors she had called to council were eating and discussing the events.
The queen’s mind was a turmoil of embarrassment, anger and pain. She liked Sabrina and trusted her: they’d make things up later over a flagon or two of mead, but this child with piercing green eyes, how could she be a druid? Boudica snorted derisively.
And she didn’t need a soothsayer to tell her what to think – she knew already that she hated the girl.
Council of War
Washed and dressed in a fresh gown and shawl, Tegen walked towards the cushioned chair on Boudica’s right, wincing as she sat.
The queen turned and bowed. ‘Welcome my lady,’ she said coldly, then raising her drinking horn, she stood. ‘A toast, to Tegen of the Summer Seas, the Star Dancer and druid amongst druids who has been sent to bless us!’
The war council rose to their feet. ‘Tegen of the Summer Seas,’ they roared.
‘Winter Seas,’ Tegen muttered under her breath. She guessed the mistake was deliberate to unsettle her. But she would ignore it. Sabrina sat on the far side of the table, smiling warmly as she raised her cup and cheered more loudly than the rest. Tegen was relieved to have one true friend, but she didn’t have time to worry, for the first cut of meat was being presented to her as the guest of honour.
As she ate, she considered the woman she had come all this way to stand beside: tall, strong, trained for war and used to leadership. She could feel bitterness and anger raging in Boudica’s spirit. It was hardly surprising, after what she and her children had been through.
But it was how that anger was expressed that worried Tegen: some who suffered became more sensitive and kind; others took their spite out on everyone else.
Boudica was one of the latter.
Worst of all, she could sense something she had hoped not to meet in a British war leader. The demon was here. Not in great strength, for it didn’t inhabit the Iceni queen, but Tegen suspected it was close, maybe feeding from her fears and hatred as it had done with Enid on Cadair Idris?
Tegen’s thoughts were interrupted as Boudica stood and everyone fell silent. The flickering lanterns painted the queen’s chin and cheeks yellow, dark shadows hollowed out her eyes.
Boudica pushed back her stool and paced to and fro. ‘We have one chance to strike at the heart of the Romans,’ she began. ‘Our target is Camulodunum, in the Trinovantes’ territory. This city has been built by the sweated slave labour of our brothers and sisters – and at their expense. It is the Roman’s pride and joy – it is where they reward their old soldiers with land and wealth.’
Here she stopped pacing, then added in a low voice, ‘And it is virtually undefended.’
At this the listeners cheered and hammered their knife handles on the table.
The queen held up her hand for silence. ‘It’s late in the year, but the timing is perfect. The so-called ‘Governor of all Britain’, Suetonius Paulinus, is still on the island of Mona, beyond the northern mountains of the Cymry. The main legi
ons are concentrated in the northwest in Cornovii lands, at Deva, and in the southwest on the great river that divides the Dumnonii from the Durotriges. The garrison at Lindum is six days away, but we have warriors watching them and ambushes set up all along the road between here and there. Otherwise, there are no significant forces less than twelve days’ march away, and that is only if the men are not allowed to rest. If they travel at that speed they’ll be exhausted and unfit for battle by the time they arrive, so we can bring down our revenge before the Romans know what’s hit them!’
Boudica thumped her fist on the table making the plates and knives jump. Everyone cheered.
The queen waited, then smiled and spoke again. ‘And that is only the beginning. The Romans are too spread out – if we move swiftly, we’ve almost a whole moon to crush these foul cockroaches once and for all. Let us fall on the major towns and destroy this cancer! Britain will be ours again!’
The cheers were deafening. Despite her pain, Tegen got to her feet and joined in. This woman was a stirring orator. No one could hear her without being inspired.
The queen signalled for silence. ‘Tomorrow, we leave this camp. Gather your warriors and meet at my royal house at the bend in the southern river at nightfall the day after tomorrow.’
The cheering resounded once more, then Boudica leaned forward, resting her knuckles on the table. The firelight glinted in her eyes and on her golden earrings. No one stirred or spoke.
She gestured towards Tegen. ‘A soothsayer visited me recently and prophesied my new battle druid would have untold power and sway each battle for us. Now she is here. Together we will wrest Britain back from the invaders. We will be strong and free again!’
The council clapped and raised their drinking horns to Tegen.
Boudica smiled and drank.
Tegen returned the toast, but a chill passed down her aching back. A soothsayer? Could it have been the demon in some guise or another? What was it playing at by flattering her powers?
There will be neither peace nor love between Boudica and I, she thought. The demon has already touched her somehow. This battle will be harder than I ever imagined. I will be an enemy to the one who should be my greatest friend.
Boudica was speaking again. ‘Although our plans are sound, we have a major problem with supplies,’ she explained. ‘Last year’s harvests were a disaster. This year’s weren’t much better because of torrential rain at harvest time. Furthermore, many families sacrificed sowing their crops to spend the summer making weapons to replace the ones the invaders confiscated.’
There were murmurs of agreement. A man with heavy moustaches and a plaited beard raised his dagger in salute to Boudica.
She nodded to him. ‘Chieftain Daig, how are things with the Trinovantes?’
He shook his head as he looked around. ‘Our people have not sowed this year either. We want our fields left bare so there’ll be no pickings left for them!’ he spat. ‘We’re moving away – going north to the mountains. It’s said the land there is impenetrable for the Romans.’
Venutius stood. ‘Aye, indeed, the soldiers have tried in those parts but are beaten back every time. The Picts and the Old Ones work together and they’re deadly. Though what sort of welcome you’ll get, I can’t say.’
Daig sat down again. ‘We’ll risk it. We’ll help the tribes fight, then we go, there’s nothing for us here. You can share what food we have, but there’s no more. A curse on this land, I say!’ He paused and glared straight at Tegen. ‘There is no Goddess, or she would have defended herself – and us!’
Some people gasped, casting worried glances in Tegen’s direction, but her thoughts were elsewhere.
Harvest was when Tonn had died.
It was me who called down the terrible rains and ruined the crops, she thought. My anger and thoughtlessness has done untold harm and endangered our cause. I owe it to these people to fight with them, even though I cannot trust Boudica.
Suddenly she realised that silence had fallen and everyone was looking at her. What had been said? For a moment she wrapped her fingers around Tonn’s stone egg and caressed it, then, with the drying scabs pulling mercilessly across her back, she hobbled towards the great hearth beyond the feasting tables.
Every fire-lit face turned to her expectantly, waiting for her words. Would she call down the Goddess’ vengeance on Daig’s blasphemy?
Instead, she beckoned to the nearest slave. ‘Bring me ale and bread.’
The man obeyed, handing Tegen a brimming tankard.
Gripping the handles, she walked in a wide circle, enclosing the men and women of the council, pouring the drink in a tiny trickle onto the ground.
Next, Tegen took a large bannock and broke it into pieces that she shared around. ‘By the pouring of the ale, I have made a protective wall,’ she explained. ‘Now eat. By the sharing of salt and grain, we will become one. I make my blessing on you all, and especially on queen Boudica of the Iceni, our chieftain of chieftains. I promise you my prayers, night and morning, and my spells on all your shields and spears.’
At that, cheering broke out, but Tegen held up her hand and examined each face that stared at her from the darkness. Her gaze fell on Boudica who was staring at her chunk of bread on the table as if it were poisoned.
Tegen went on, ‘But in return, you must trust me and do as I say. If you don’t, your spirits will go to Tir na nÓg without me to guide you. You will be on your own.’
Sabrina cheered loudest of all, then she grabbed her bread and chewed it. Raising her horn, she called out, ‘To Tegen of the Winter Seas, battle druid of Britain! Long may she stretch her hands over us!’
The responding roar was deafening. Shouts, whistles, cheers mingled with the sparks and pale smoke that drifted from the hearth fire into the starlit canopy above.
Tegen looked up at the constellation of the Watching Woman. For the rebellion to succeed, she would have to talk as if she believed the wise mother Goddess was real – and with them.
Boudica worshipped Andraste, the bloodthirsty war-goddess. Were Andraste and the Lady two faces of the same being? If not, the two deities were probably at loggerheads – if they existed. That would explain Boudica’s instant mistrust.
From the corner of her eye, Tegen saw the queen stand and leave the table.
By her empty place was an untouched piece of bread.
Late into the night, each of the chieftains and kings explained their situations to Tegen. By the last of the candlelight, maps of Roman roads and garrisons were drawn in ale on the wooden table-top. Distances between tribal strongholds were calculated and travel times added up. Strategies, tactics, troop movements and land formations were meaningless to Tegen, but she listened intently to how people spoke and tried to learn what spirits ruled them until her head ached.
When everyone was asleep, she took a torch and sat alone on the edge of the marshy night listening to the noisy chatter of crickets and frogs. ‘Come all good spirits,’ she called out softly, ‘whatever you are called, I need wisdom.’
The wind stirred the rattling rushes and Tegen shivered. She wished she could dance, but her back hurt too much. Instead she pushed her torch into the soft, muddy ground and crouched down to watch the flames.
‘All my spells must be made with the web of magic, just as Gronw taught me,’ she whispered. ‘I mustn’t act in anger again. The rains I summoned after Tonn died caused too much suffering – as did the fire I started at Dorcic. I’ll have to listen and be patient.’
In her mind she pictured each of the faces of the men and women she had met that night. Some she instinctively knew she could trust as friends, others she wasn’t so sure about, especially Addedomaros, the Trinovantian chieftain and his brother Aodh the spell caster.
And Boudica – she worried Tegen more than any of them.
‘I must find a way to get her to trust me,’ Tegen told a large brown toad that hopped out of the mud. ‘She doesn’t have to like me – just work with me. If we are divided,
the revolt will fail before it begins.’
Tegen sighed. Being a battle druid was going to be hard work. As Owein had said, the tribes were too busy fighting each other to co-ordinate their tactics. At least Boudica understood that.
Lost in her thoughts, Tegen did not hear footsteps approach. Someone touched her shoulder; she jumped, and found herself looking into the weary face of the queen.
‘Thank you for your blessing this evening,’ Boudica said. ‘In the morning we’ll go to my royal home where the warriors are mustering.’ Her words were flat and without emotion.
Equally impassively, Tegen responded, ‘I’ll be ready.’
‘Good.’ Then the queen walked away between the darkened huts.
The old raven bite on Tegen’s finger ached. She wished she still had Goban’s ring to warn her of unseen danger. ‘I need sleep,’ she told herself. She threw the remains of the torch into the campfire, and went to Sabrina’s hut.
As they readied for bed, Sabrina wrapped Tegen in a warm hug.
‘Ouch!’ Tegen squealed.
‘Sorry, I forgot your sore back.’ Letting go, she took Tegen’s hand. ‘It’s wonderful you’re here – how are you? Where is Tonn? Did he stay with the other druids? I thought you two were handfasted!’
‘He died,’ Tegen said simply.
Sabrina’s jaw dropped. ‘My poor dear! That’s terrible, what happened?’
Tegen held her breath. Sabrina didn’t deserve her venom. None of it was her fault. She kissed her friend’s cheek. ‘I – I’ll tell you another time. Right now, I’ll fall asleep on my feet if I don’t lie down.’ Then she curled up on her straw-filled sack. She longed to tell everything – especially that she was pregnant, but it was too dangerous. No one must know. Not even Sabrina.
At dawn, Tegen walked beyond the camp. There was a narrow strip of land with a hurdle walkway that led between the reed beds and alongside a stretch of open water. Following it, she came to harvested fields and a settlement. It reminded her of her childhood home. She had danced for pleasure in those days. It had given her joy.
