by Beth Webb
She needed joy now.
Kicking off her boots and stockings, she smiled as meadow peat squelched between her toes. The scars on her back hurt, but she didn’t care. Closing her eyes, she thought of Griff, her foster brother. The villagers had called him a ‘half-head,’ but he had been kinder, wiser and more honest than the druids. She thought of her father, dirty from the metal work he loved, and her mother who was always so frightened for her.
Most of all she remembered Tonn, her beloved, who had followed her to a foreign land – and his death. Her tears flowed. She longed to feel their spirits close. ‘Come to me, Griff and Tonn,’ she murmured. I need you both, my brother and my man.’
But there was no whispering answer in her mind, no ghostly touch of love. Only the images of how they had both died: in darkness, water and blood.
Tegen stopped dancing. Her heart pounded and pain wrenched at her skull. Crouching down, she curled into a tight ball.
I mustn’t let anger take a hold of my spirit, she told herself, or I won’t be of any use in the battles to come! I must celebrate what’s been good, or I’ll become as warped as Admidios and as vulnerable as Enid.
Taking a deep breath, she danced a blessing on the past and everyone she had ever loved. Swaying to the music of the reeds and the calling of the wading birds she leaped like a green frog and greeted the clouds like a silver birch in the wind.
And Tegen remembered joy.
‘Now,’ she said aloud, ‘I will dance a blessing on the future, then all shall be well.’
She imagined her baby in her arms and the land at peace once more. But in her mind there were only flames, terrible screams and a lumbering grey shape made of ash and embers.
The Mustering
Two days later, Tegen sat in the sunlit doorway to Boudica’s royal longhouse. It was built on a high hill in the south of the Iceni lands, overlooking a wide, shallow river that glistened as it curved its way between the fields.
Sabrina and the other tribal leaders were inside, making final plans for the onslaught. Tegen half-listened to their voices as they demanded, cajoled and argued.
In her own mind, she sorted through all she had ever heard her mentors say about the role of a battle druid. In theory, she should meet the opponent’s representative before conflict began – to try and find a solution that gave honour and satisfaction to both sides without bloodshed.
She sighed. She doubted whether Suetonius had trained his legions to respect such overtures. She had seen the Romans advancing as one relentless mass behind their shield walls, fire glinting on their eagle-headed standards, and demonic determination in their eyes.
The slaughter of her fellow white robes at Mona still haunted her at night, and flickered through her consciousness by day.
But she also remembered the extraordinary weave of magic that the druids hung in the air above the battle. It had almost worked. If only she’d been there to help create it, things might have been different.
Tegen shook her head. Maybe she could have stopped that false thread worming its way in, but she had not arrived in time. Was that her fault or a malign fate? Because of her lateness, she was still alive while hundreds of good men and women were dead. Why had the Goddess allowed it …?
No. Tegen rubbed her face. There was no use wondering. The past was sealed. She was a pawn on the gaming board of fate, no more. There was no Lady. All she had on her side were her wits and maybe a few spirits she had honoured in the past.
But there were lessons to be learned from that awful day. How had that weaving been made? Could she make and hang one in the air the same way? Were there any more druids left who could help? Even if they were old or infirm, she’d be grateful.
Then a voice calling her name made Tegen sit up.
Sabrina’s hair danced wildly over her leather jerkin as she strode out of the royal house. A new sword hung by her thigh. ‘Come on daydreamer!’ she teased. ‘Time to go.’
Tegen hugged her. ‘We’re not leaving until tomorrow, surely?’
‘Today’s the mustering!’ Sabrina’s blue eyes sparkled as she tossed her dagger in the air and caught its handle deftly. ‘And we have a surprise for you! Hurry!’
Bemused, Tegen followed her old friend down the hill towards the stables just inside the main gate of the palisade. Sabrina spoke to a scruffy boy who was currying a small pony. He went inside and brought out the most magnificent white mare Tegen had ever seen. She was freshly shod, her coat brushed to perfection and her mane and tail plaited with bright ribbons of yellow and green. On her back was a new tasselled saddle painted with swirling red and blue designs.
The mare stood at fifteen hands, much taller than any British horse. Her step was spirited but she followed the boy gently.
And as soon as she saw Tegen, the horse nickered and stamped.
‘Epona!’ Tegen squealed as she ran, flinging her arms around the animal’s strong neck. ‘I don’t believe it! They’ve looked after you so well, I didn’t recognise you. Rhiannon of the old stories would have been proud to ride you!’
Then she turned to the stable boy. ‘Thank you for doing such a magnificent job, a blessing on you!’
He shrugged and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘T’weren’t me Miss! T’were ‘im!’ He jerked his thumb towards the smithy on the other side of the gate.
Tegen’s heart stopped. There, standing by the fire in the open-sided shed, was a tall man with a thick black beard and a leather apron. ‘Goban?’ She gasped. Could her old friend, the god of smiths be here? She leaped towards him, but the sound of wheels rattling on cobbles and the clattering roar of a carnyx made her turn.
Boudica was driving her own chariot drawn by two roan stallions. She was dressed in red with a heavy golden torc around her neck. A seven-coloured cloak flowed from her shoulders fastened with huge bronze pins. At her wrists, an assortment of thick golden bangles jangled.
With shouts and whistles, several more chariots drew up, all with chieftains at the reins. Sabrina laughed and leaped up beside her driver. ‘We’re off!’ she whooped and the parade moved through the open gates.
Tegen turned to wave to Goban, but so many people were milling around, she had lost sight of him. Silently she sent him a blessing. If he’s truly here, she thought, then maybe all shall be well. She smiled, grabbed a saddle-horn and swung herself onto Epona’s back.
Her horse’s withers were scarred. ‘We’ve both had too many cruel adventures,’ Tegen whispered, and stroked her mane.
Epona tossed her head, and then trotted behind the others.
The procession made its way north for about a hand span of the sun. Just before noon they rode towards a long, low hill crowned with a towering palisade, but strangely, no smoke drifted up from roundhouses inside. The road was thronged with men and women who raised their swords and cheered. As Boudica approached the gateway, a guard of warriors blew deafening horns and carnyxes.
Tegen was amazed to see that despite the vastness of the palisade, there was no village or oppidum inside, only endless regimented rows of wooden piles driven into the flinty soil – a daunting, branchless forest.
On all sides, the crowds roared and whistled. Some bowed, others threw small bundles of herbs in tribute and blessing.
Boudica’s chariot rattled ahead; followed by her uncle Venutius, Sabrina and then Tegen. Behind them came the other warlords, all dressed for battle and glittering from head to toe with pins and brooches, torcs and armbands.
At last the procession reached the rectangular heart of the enclosure – wide enough to hold a very large village and still be completely surrounded by the serried lines of stark posts.
Tegen urged Epona forward to ride beside the queen. ‘What is this place?’ she asked.
‘It was built by my husband’s druid,’ Boudica replied. ‘When Prasutagus decided it was prudent to accede to the Romans’ demands,’ she spat and made the sign against evil, ‘the druid Devin had this erected. These posts are spirit-walls that prev
ent the invaders from knowing what we’re saying. It’s always been a sacred space for our people to gather and take council.’
‘Then why did you spend so long in the marshes?’ Tegen asked. The midge bites she’d collected there still tormented her.
Boudica glanced scornfully at Tegen. ‘I had to ensure that the bodies of any dissenters were never found. These are dangerous times. Accidents happen.’
Tegen’s spine chilled at the queen’s ruthlessness, but now was not a time to argue. They drew up at the threshold of a small wooden building at the far side of the enclosure. Here, Boudica turned her chariot and signalled for Tegen to join her. The rest of the chieftains and warlords arrayed themselves on either side, facing the huge crowd.
The people were still coming, pressing more and more tightly together, men, women, and children. Some were ready for immediate war, their hair plastered white and spiked, their skin painted with blue spirals. Others huddled together, pale and frightened.
As the sun reached its zenith, Boudica raised her arms. The light glinted on her golden torc; the wind billowed her red and green cloak and tossed her auburn hair. She raised her spear and an immediate hush fell over the gathering.
Tegen held her breath. Whatever her personal feelings about this woman, she was magnificent. She was Britain. Her name, Boudica, meant ‘Victory’, surely the spirits would bless her? Fleetingly, Tegen wondered whether to offer Epona to the queen to ride in triumph – the living image of the Goddess amongst her people?
It didn’t matter that the Lady wasn’t real; the picture would put heart into the crowds.
But she had no time to think; Boudica was speaking.
‘My friends,’ she began in low, rich tones that rippled in the air. ‘Men and women of all our tribes, today we are united as brothers and sisters, all sheltering as one in this sacred space. The Iceni people open our arms and bid you welcome!’
The crowd roared and Tegen smiled as she covered her ears. Her old friend Owein would have approved; Boudica was achieving what he had always longed for – the unity of the tribes!
‘Today, we see the beginning of the end of tyranny!’ The throng erupted into deafening applause. Boudica held up her arms for silence. ‘Tomorrow, we march on Camulodunum and take it back. We will destroy its unholy filth and restore the land to our good friends, the Trinovantes, so a wholesome settlement may be built there once more!’
Struggling to be heard above the adulation, Boudica went on: ‘Then, the day after, we march on the place our oppressors have built at the White Hill by the Tamesis. They call it Londinium. The “governor” Suetonius Paulinus is twelve days away in the lands of the Ceangli. It will take more than a moon’s waxing and waning for a messenger to summon him and his armies. By then, every Roman settlement in the east and south will be nothing more than ashes in the wind!’
The cheers and applause were thunderous. Tegen felt her heart swell with pride. Maybe her doubts about Boudica were unfounded? This was a great woman who loved the people and the Land. Waving her arms, she yelled with the rest.
Boudica looked at Tegen and smiled. ‘And what is more, Andraste, the Goddess of Victory has sent us a new druid.’ She beckoned Tegen closer. ‘Do not look at her youth, for her body holds the spirits of generations of the wisest, most powerful druids, and her great grandfather was Bran the Blessed himself!’
This time the crowd gasped and raised their hands in awe.
Smiling, Tegen returned their warmth, trying not to wince at the outrageous claims.
Then Boudica made a signal. Two men dragged a boy from the wooden house behind them. He was Tegen’s own age and bound in chains. Whey-faced, he looked up at the queen and fell to his knees without being told.
Boudica turned to Tegen. ‘He’s all yours,’ she said.
Tegen was puzzled. ‘What for?’
The queen raised her eyebrows. ‘You are going to augur his guts, aren’t you? The people are waiting to hear your predictions of victory. Give us courage and certainty!’
When Tegen did not respond, Boudica drew her dagger and offered it handle first. ‘You have no knife? Borrow mine.’
‘W … what has he done to deserve such an end?’ Tegen stammered, as the boy’s shirt was stripped from his shoulders.
Boudica laughed. ‘You are such a child, Tegen of the Summer Seas. He’s Roman! Now, we’re all waiting.’
Tegen slipped down from Epona’s back, the handle of Boudica’s knife warm in her hand. She took one step, then two towards the boy. His head was bowed and he was trembling.
‘No!’ She turned back to face the queen. ‘This is all wrong, human sacrifice never …’
But before she could finish, there was a harsh sound, a cry and a gurgle. The boy slumped forward, blood pumping from his throat. Dark crimson sprayed up the guard’s arm and down his tunic.
The man kicked his victim over.
The youth’s eyes flickered, his arms twitched. Then he lay still. The man plunged his knife into the boy’s belly and ripped the blade upwards. Gleaming intestines spilled into the pool of blood.
Tegen gagged. This must stop, she told herself. As soon as we have victory I will speak with the queen.
Unwillingly she looked at the sacrifice. Instantly, her head filled with the noise and smoke of raging fires. Shielding her face with her arms, she stepped back. Out of the angry red and white heart of the inferno stepped a looming figure, its skin was blackened charcoal, and its blood was flames …
It opened its maw …
‘Well?’ Boudica’s voice rammed through the vision. ‘What do you read?’
Dragged back to reality, Tegen stared up at the queen, imperious on her chariot. Sabrina and all the other war-leaders crowded around, craning their necks to see and hear everything.
‘Victory,’ Tegen whispered, despite herself. ‘There will be victory at Camulodunum.’
The Curse
Flies were already spreading neat ranks of white eggs across the boy’s gaping wounds. The salt-sweet stench of blood and the senseless death were too much for Tegen. She swayed and stumbled.
Sabrina leapt down and heaved Tegen onto the back of her own chariot. ‘She needs to rest; the spirits have worn her out!’ Then she yelled at a servant, ‘Take her horse, make sure you lead – don’t ride her or you’re dead!’
‘Just hang on tight,’ Sabrina said, taking the reins. With a crack of her whip, she drove her two piebald ponies through the grove of wooden piles, forcing men and women to stagger back, trampling each other as she passed.
Tegen stretched across the chariot platform, wedging herself between the basketwork sides. She gritted her teeth and dug her fingers around the poles that made the frame. Slowly they jolted through the crowds. Some people threw curses for being crushed; others sent blessings to the poor druid girl whose divinations had taken such a toll.
At last, with a whoop and a yell, Sabrina burst through the great gateway and onto the open heath beyond. She gave her horses their heads. Behind her, sparks flew as iron-shod wheels and hooves cracked against the flinty ground.
Tegen’s teeth jarred and her bones shook. The journey wasn’t long, but she was sick and exhausted by the time they came to the gates of Boudica’s stronghold.
Sabrina threw the reins to a boy, then eased Tegen onto the ground. ‘Come on, let’s sit in the shade by the river. You’re as white as wool!’ Together they walked to a shady bank and dangled their feet in the river. ‘Have a wash,’ she said, ‘you’ll feel better.’
Tegen obeyed, then lay staring up through the canopy of late summer leaves, viridian against the woad blue of the sky. There, she allowed the stream’s song to soothe her.
‘Now, talk to me,’ Sabrina ordered, settling herself beside her friend. ‘What happened to Tonn and why did you disintegrate when you were given the boy to sacrifice? What sort of a druid are you? You must’ve done that before!’
Tegen sighed. Her throat was too tight to speak, but at last she managed to whispe
r, ‘Tonn was chosen by the druids to be a sacrifice to appease the gods and free Britain from the Romans. He died – horribly.’ Then she fell silent, remembering how she’d lain like this on her wedding day and seen the raven in the branches above her head. It had warned her …
Sabrina shrugged. ‘Surely it gave you pleasure to get your own back today?’
Tegen glared up at her. ‘Don’t be stupid! I didn’t get anything of my own back! Is Tonn walking here? Can you see him?’ She ripped up handfuls of grass. ‘Vengeance breeds more vengeance. Hatred breeds more hatred. I know you’re a warrior, not a druid, but I thought you’d have understood that at least. Didn’t Owein’s beliefs mean anything to you?’
Sabrina pushed her curly mane back and laughed. ‘He had some strange ideas. I sometimes wondered whether he really was British. I secretly suspect he was part Roman!’ She tossed a stone into the river.
Tegen thought for a long moment and closed her eyes. ‘My instincts say that Owein had a genuine vision of the future. His Roman education gave him some rather strange ideas – but maybe a single nation is what we need?’
‘Boudica wants that.’
Tegen stretched her sore back as she considered what she’d seen and heard in the last few days. The hypnotic effects of Boudica’s speech had worn off and left a chilly void in her soul.
‘Boudica doesn’t care about what’s wise,’ she said at last. ‘She’ll do anything to win, and she’ll cause more hatred and division before it’s done. Owein stands for a different sort of unity – one based on respect. I wish I knew where he was.’
Sabrina nodded and stood. ‘I miss him too – but we’ve no time for wishing, we have to deal with what’s in front of us. I must go; I have to meet with the queen before the sun’s mid-haven. Tomorrow we ride.’
She grasped Tegen’s hand firmly and met her eyes. ‘Will your whole spirit be with us Tegen? Without your magic, all is lost before we begin.’
Tegen returned her gaze. ‘You will have my all. This is what I was born to do. The stars danced at my birth, and I will make the Land whole again. You have my word.’
