Stone Keeper

by Beth Webb

  Tegen’s hair had grown long enough to sweep her shoulders in a soft, black wave. Ula oiled and plaited it, adding gold thread and green ribbons as she worked.

  Claudia painted Tegen’s eyes, colouring the lids with powdered malachite and blackening the rims and brows with heavy lines of kohl. She painted Tegen’s lips with carmine and smudged more of the same on her fingernails.

  Then came the jewellery. Every bit of gold and silver that the three girls had was draped on Tegen somewhere. Lastly, she pulled on her white druid’s robes and tucked Bran’s raven feather under her cloak pin. Ready at last, she climbed down from the back of the waggon and mounted Epona.

  Sabrina’s servants had curried the mare and plaited her mane and tail with yellow ribbons that fluttered against her pure white coat.

  As Tegen rode through the crowds, everyone gasped and stepped back in awe.

  Slowly and carefully, Tegen made her way to where Boudica’s personal waggons were drawn in a circle around the great and hideous golem.

  This really is my moment, Tegen told herself. Bran commanded me to prevent hatred and vengeance from becoming the song and the life-blood of the future. After this I will have a home and a child. Bran has promised peace. I must make that come about. I can imagine good things; I must make those happen. Magic is about restoration and healing, not control and power.

  As Tegen approached Boudica’s tent, she thought of Goban the smith-god. His rich voice thundered inside her head, ‘What you put into fire, and how long you leave it there determines what comes out … be it gold, bone – or ash.’

  The golem is just ash, and Boudica is only a woman made of bones, she reminded herself. I have nothing to fear.

  Tegen straightened her back. Pale fire crackled around her head. Her green eyes shone and the sun stroked her gold and silver jewellery with jealous rays. The crowds drew back and bowed.

  Tegen’s heart thudded with ecstatic joy. She was as beautiful as the wronged Rhiannon facing her accusers. She had the wisdom of Bran the Blessed on her tongue. Now was the culmination of all the old tales. They had come together in her. Each of the old ones was about to speak.

  At that moment, Tegen was the Goddess, riding her white mare amongst mortals.

  Boudica was still reclining on her Roman litter, her head lolling on a blue silk pillow. A goblet hung loosely in her hand, red wine spilled like blood over her dress. On either side, her finest warriors sat at council, helmets polished and cloaks lifting in the breeze.

  Behind her stood the golem.

  Sabrina and Owein were waiting for her. Sabrina wore the seven-coloured tartan of the Dobunni queen. Owein was dressed in his druid’s robes and adding pungent incense to a bowl of charcoal. By his side, a youth and a girl carried beeswax candles in bronze holders.

  ‘Excellent,’ Tegen smiled. ‘Sabrina, please lead my horse, and Owein stand by my side while I speak. I want to approach Boudica with the sun at my back so its rays blind her. When we are close, give her so much incense she can’t breathe.

  Owein bowed silently and with a wave of a finger, commanded the children to walk with him. Only his eyes betrayed a glimmer of delight. As he took his place before the queen, he opened the censer to billow dark clouds in Boudica’s direction. The children raised their candles then stepped aside, allowing Tegen and Epona to approach.

  ‘You requested my presence?’ Tegen roared imperiously without dismounting.

  Boudica blinked and coughed. She was very drunk, ‘Who’re you? What in the name of Skatha do you think you’re up to? What’s all this smelly smoke? Eh?’ She swigged from the dregs of her wine, burped and lay back on her pillows.

  Tegen raised one hand. ‘Silence woman!’

  Boudica sat up, sobering rapidly. She slid off her couch, took two wavering steps then glared at Tegen, first out of one eye, then from the other. ‘I know you …’ she slurred. ‘You’re that druid nuisance.’ She hiccoughed. ‘Changed my mind. Don’t need you any more, I’ve got this beautiful thing instead.’ She jerked her thumb in the direction of the golem. ‘My new champion. He’ll scare the Roman scum back into the sea with no boats under them.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Tegen replied quietly. ‘It is nothing. It can do nothing. Come and watch if you don’t believe me!’

  Boudica drew herself up, her auburn hair swirling over her shoulders. ‘Do your worst. It won’t listen to you. It’s mine and it’s magic!’

  ‘Not as magic as I am.’ Tegen raised her hands and called out, ‘For I am Andraste! I made this creature and I will unmake it.’

  She dismounted, strode over to the golem.

  ‘Ash you were, ash you are,

  and ash you shall be again,’ she intoned.

  The golem leaned forward and reached for Tegen.

  Searing heat and choking smoke made her eyes water, but without flinching, she took a deep breath.

  And she blew.

  Ash and cinders flew and span as the great charred knees crumbled.

  ‘Move back!’ ‘Run!’ People screamed. ‘It’s falling!’

  And Tegen still blew.

  Hot embers spat and hissed past her ears, smoke stung her eyes as the colossus staggered … and fell.

  A sour wind rose, swirling ashes into the sky. With a thundering roar, the golem sank, and crumbled.

  People fled, screaming in terror. As embers fell, fires started in luggage, clothes were set alight, and the air choked with smoke, soot and heat.

  Tegen pulled Tonn’s egg from her pouch and held it high, then she pronounced,

  ‘With fire you have killed and destroyed.

  But fire is nothing in the face of stone!’

  Boudica stared in horror as the creature’s magnificence drifted away on the wind, leaving only its face staring blankly up at her.

  Tegen blew once more and the head cracked. The golem’s eye-coals cooled from scarlet to vermilion, then to dark blood … and black.

  Howling with rage, the queen drew her dagger and flung herself at Tegen.

  Sabrina leaped on Boudica, grabbed her hair and hauled her backwards. The queen staggered after her captor screaming, kicking and biting.

  Sabrina twisted the dagger from the queen’s hand and stood her upright. She waved her hand at the burned sticks on the ground. ‘Look at what you’ve been adoring, sister,’ she snarled. ‘You sold the people’s trust for a few handfuls of dust!’

  Eyes bulging, Boudica swung around and slapped Sabrina’s face.

  Snatching the queen’s wrist, Sabrina glared back. ‘Grow up. Everyone is watching you!’

  Boudica swung around. Crowds of astonished spectators from every tribe were shoving and pushing to watch.

  Tegen raised her arms and looked up at the sky. ‘Taranis, bring rain!’ she commanded.

  And rain came. Large splashes pocked the hot cinders. Tegen stood like a standing stone amongst the wind, fire, smoke and water. Only her white robes fluttered against the chaos that raged about her.

  Sabrina grabbed Boudica’s shoulders and forced her to face Tegen. Glowering, Owein joined them, arms folded across his chest.

  Boudica tried to wriggle free, but Sabrina twisted the cloth at the back of her dress so she couldn’t breathe. At last the queen sagged and knelt in the mud, rain streaming down her magnificent hair, plastering it to her face, breasts and back.

  Owein stepped closer and leaned down to Boudica’s ear. ‘Listen to your battle druid,’ he advised quietly. ‘If anything is to be saved out of the mess you have caused, she is the only one who can help you. It is that or death. You choose.’

  With one gesture, Tegen commanded the rain to stop. With another she parted the clouds and the sun shone brilliantly on her white robes and jewels. When she spoke, her voice was deep and wild, with colours drawn from thunder and night.

  ‘I am Andraste! You have defiled my name,’ she roared. ‘You have murdered and slaughtered without mercy. You have killed your own people as well as enemies who surrendered. Y
ou have defiled the holy name of war. Your war is not my war. You are not fighting for justice and freedom. Your heart-song is your own puny hatred and vengeance. You are without honour. I despise you.’

  And she spat in Boudica’s face.

  Boudica struggled to get up, but Sabrina held her down.

  The sun warmed the rain into a pale mist. The light made Tegen shimmer. No one dared stop her. She spoke again. ‘Once you were my right hand and my daughter – now you are nothing but a rage-blinded puppet of chaos.’

  Boudica stared up at Tegen, her eyes wide and red, her mouth hung open in horror. Then glancing past Tegen, she smiled slowly. ‘I don’t believe you!’ she bellowed, jerking herself free from Sabrina’s grip.

  Tegen sensed a prickle at the back of her neck. She spun around to see a group of seven or eight Iceni warriors with spears and knives aimed at her heart.

  With a sweep of her hand, Tegen flung fire at their faces. They fell back, howling in pain.

  ‘Believe it or die, Boudica.’ Tegen replied levelly. ‘I chose you to be my weapon to free Britain of tyranny, but you betrayed me, and your people. You’ve become the worst tyrant of all. Choose now to serve me. Do what must be done, but without wine, cleanly and as a matter of honour. Leave your hatred behind. Worship me, and fight as a true warrior.’

  Boudica pulled back her lips in a snarl. ‘I refuse.’

  The crowd gasped.

  Boudica tossed her head and sneered. ‘I say you’re an impostor – a little girl in make up and sparkly things, trying to look like a woman!’

  Sabrina wrenched Boudica’s head back and pressed a knife to her throat.

  Tegen shrugged. ‘Very well – you’ve decided you wish to die. Then I decree that in your next life you will forget you were ever a queen. You shall be a slave – to a poor farmer.’

  The crowd gasped. Boudica’s eyes swept from left to right. The people were packed closely on all sides. She had no choice.

  ‘I agree,’ she muttered.

  Tegen nodded to Sabrina, who let the queen stand. ‘Then summon all the kings, queens and high chieftains here. We’ll tell them what you’ve vowed, and you’ll swear on the head of Bran to obey Andraste.’

  The Oath of Bran

  A few nights later, Boudica’s army camped on the southern slopes of a hill. Just as the spies warned, the Romans had taken command of the mouth of a narrow wooded valley, a short ride to the north.

  Around their fires, the British warriors talked only of despair. Without the golem, what chance did they have of winning? The creature had been invincible, caring nothing about arrows and spears. Iron melted as soon as it touched that burning hide.

  Whispers accused Tegen of witchcraft and treachery. But apart from making the sign against the evil eye, and keeping a wide berth, no one raised a finger against the girl who had destroyed the golem with her breath.

  The chieftains of each tribe all came to meet with the queen that night. Boudica sat tense and terrified between her two daughters. She neither ate nor drank, but fiddled endlessly with a fragment of burned wood in her lap until her hands and skirt were black.

  Still dressed as Andraste, Tegen stood behind Boudica with a tall ash staff in her hand. Her face was drawn, but her eyes burned. She had used every kind of divination – and she knew there was no hope for the following day. Suetonius would win.

  He couldn’t fail against such a disorganised rabble.

  Tegen longed to avoid battle altogether – or at worst, to make the Roman victory swift. That way, Suetonius’s lust for vengeance might fade, most of the people could return to their homes unharmed and life could begin again – somehow.

  She cast her eyes around the chieftains gathered for their last meal. By Tegen’s command, the only drink was water. The food was finished in resentful silence.

  At the end, Owein stood, leaning on his crutch. ‘For those who do not know me, I am the ovate Owein ap Caractacus – King of the Catuvellauni.’

  He gestured towards Tegen. ‘Some have criticised our druid for destroying the golem. Half a moon ago on the White Hill in Lundein, I witnessed the head of Bran the Blessed tell her to do this. She acted in obedience to the god, for without his blessing, we have no hope.’

  Owein’s steady gaze compelled every man and woman to look at him. ‘I may not take my rightful role of king because of my damaged leg,’ he explained, ‘but I speak with the heart of Caractacus. Apart from Boudica, my father was the only one who has put the invaders to flight – so listen.’ Pausing, Owein held the moment. ‘Unless we obey our druid tomorrow, there will be no more tribes, no more clans, no more kings – or even chieftains. Our way of life will be over. We must put aside our quarrels and desire for personal glory.’

  ‘And roll on our backs and whimper?’ sneered Boudica, bearing her teeth.

  Scowling at her, Owein continued, ‘Our actions have not yet been determined.’

  Mutinous murmuring broke out. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ roared a Parisii chieftain from the back. A tall Cantici warrior thumped the table. ‘Caractacus had no sons. You’re a liar!’

  Drawing himself straight, Owein took a deep breath. ‘There will be no shame if you go home without a battle. The fight for Britain will continue in other ways.’

  Then he sat, glaring at the gathered leaders, daring them to argue.

  Leaping to her feet, Sabrina drew her knife. ‘You all know me, Sabrina, heir to King Eiser of the Dobunni,’ she began, chin raised and eyes aflame. ‘I don’t do pretty speeches. I fight. And I will defend you all, whatever your tribe or rank.’

  She drew the knife-point across her arm. ‘Look, I shed my blood for you all. I am no longer a Dobunni: I am of the tribe of Britain. We share one sacred Land. Let us defend it together. However,’ she plunged her blade into the table, making Boudica jump, ‘tomorrow may not be the glorious battle you’ve been dreaming of. The gods may decree not to fight. Obedience will bring honour. Disobedience will mean disaster.’

  ‘Run away?’ sneered a grey-haired lord from the Trinovantes. ‘I’d rather rot.’

  The assembly clapped and cheered.

  A chieftainess from the Parisii stood up. ‘And what about that so-called druid? We’ve only got the cripple’s word that Bran spoke to her. Without our golem, we’re nothing!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ There was more applause.

  Tegen stepped forward. ‘That golem was made for one purpose only, to contain the hatred we are all feeling – yes, even me. But the golem’s magic was wrenched from me by the worst form of witchcraft. Remember how it destroyed your dignity and split your loyalty. Think of the women of Londinium …’

  The room fell silent.

  Tegen scowled. ‘What had they done to deserve such an inhuman fate? Been born into slavery? Been forced to marry a Roman? Chosen to try and start a new life rather than see their children starve? Did that deserve crucifixion?’

  Tegen rapped her staff on the table, making everyone jump. ‘That is not the way of Andraste. The Goddess fights without emotion, defending her people cleanly and honestly. If someone has to die, you send them to Tir na nÓg quickly. Fight to get rid of the Romans, fight for your families, your beliefs – but do it with honour and courage. Never pick on anyone weaker, never raid a farmhouse again, never rape, torture or hate.’

  Heat and exhaustion began to overwhelm Tegen. She staggered, she had to finish … ‘Hatred always breeds more hatred,’ she urged, ‘Then what happens? Vengeance! And who will avenge the revenged?’

  Drawing the stone egg from her pouch, Tegen placed it in front of Boudica.

  The queen stared at it in horror.

  ‘Behold,’ Tegen continued. ‘The head of Bran. He will protect Britain as long as we act with integrity.’

  She passed her hands over the white marble with its blood red streaks. As she moved away, the image shimmered and swelled into the head and face of Bran.

  His blue eyes gazed steadily at Boudica.

  Some screamed,
some bowed or knelt, most stood stupefied with shock and amazement.

  Tegen turned to Boudica. ‘Now,’ she said quietly, ‘as you promised, you will place your hand on Bran’s head and swear you will conduct tomorrow as the Goddess demands. If you fight, you will make it swift and fair. If the Goddess says retreat, you will obey.’

  Boudica reached out and touched the stone with shaking fingers. ‘I swear,’ she whispered.

  ‘Now, who will join our leader and share her vow?’ Tegen demanded.

  Sabrina wrenched her dagger from the table. ‘I shall be first,’ she exclaimed, ‘and my warriors will follow me on pain of death.’

  Then Owein stumped forward. ‘And I shall swear on behalf of the Catuvellauni.’

  One by one, a queue formed and men and women took their oaths. But many stormed away with thundercloud faces and tempers of forked lightening.

  When all was done, Tegen returned the stone to her pouch. She beckoned Boudica aside. ‘At dawn tomorrow, a female hare will be brought to your tent. Wrap it in your cloak, take it onto the field of battle and then release it. If it runs to the east then there will be victory, if it runs to the west, the British must retire without a fight. This is what the gods have decreed. You must accept what the hare shows you.’

  ‘Very well. Now leave me in peace!’ Boudica snapped. Then she turned aside to pull a cloak over her daughters where they’d fallen asleep by the fire.

  ‘And make sure the girls are well away from here before dawn,’ Tegen added.

  Boudica straightened and frowned. ‘I may be forced to listen to your self-righteous twaddle when it comes to battles and gods, but I decide what’s best for my daughters.’ She took a deep breath and jabbed a finger at Tegen. ‘Megan and Oriana will be seated on my baggage waggon, watching me fight. They will tell their children and their grandchildren the story of how I saved Britain, long after you are dead!’ And she spat.

  Tegen shrugged. There would be no grandchildren. Megan and Oriana would be dead before the sun’s midhaven. ‘May you die quickly,’ she murmured under her breath.