Stone Keeper

by Beth Webb

  Brilliant light gleamed on the Roman armour and sparkles danced on the stream that divided the armies. Across the meadows, endless crowds of British warriors waited, glorious in their rich coloured cloaks. Some were bravely painted blue and naked in the chilly wind. Other had spiked their hair with lime to terrify their enemies. But there was no sign of Boudica.

  On both sides, horses pawed the ground, anxious to charge.

  Suetonius’s standard-bearer watched intently for his captain’s signal. A drummer twirled his sticks, itching to strike the thudding call to war.

  The dawn promised a magnificent autumn morning when the whole world is painted gold: the sort of day when cruelty and anger seem inconceivable.

  Owein caught sight of the queen’s chariot at last. Her matched grey horses swept in a neat curve across the field. Boudica stood beside her charioteer, the sun glistening on her bracelets as she raised her hand. The chariot stopped and she jumped down.

  The Romans just watched.

  Owein smiled. He knew they’d be intrigued as to what the queen was up to – they were every bit as superstitious as the British. They probably had their own augur strangling chickens at that very moment.

  With a grand gesture, Boudica loosened her cloak and a hare leaped free, springing down to the grass.

  In a wild panic, the animal darted east, then west. Then it returned, trembling before the queen’s feet. It reached up as if trying to jump back into the safety of Boudica’s arms.

  The hare rose on her back legs and seemed to be growing tall – taller …

  ‘No, don’t change back, not now,’ Owein whispered, clenching his fists until his nails drew blood.

  After a long moment, the hare sprang away through the long grass, only ears and the strong, leaping curve of her back showing her path.

  ‘West!’ she’s gone west!’ gasped the crowd. They looked around, disconcerted, uncertain …

  They hadn’t expected the Goddess to say ‘flee.’

  Breathless, the hare dived straight towards the edge of the wood where Owein waited with her clothes.

  Boudica watched the last flick of the animal’s tail amongst the hazel and brambles. Her knuckles whitened and she ground her teeth. ‘You think you can play the goddess and control me, druid girl? Well, two can play at that game!

  She leaped back in her chariot and turned to face her warriors. ‘My brothers and sisters!’ she proclaimed, ‘The Goddess has spoken! She has shown me that we must destroy these filthy invaders and drive them into the western mountains where they will starve or freeze. Any that survive will be hunted down by our good neighbours of Cymru. It’s not just my kingdom and my daughters who will be avenged today – it is our sacred Land – and every child born here.’

  She paused, took a deep breath and proclaimed, ‘Today I shall win or die. You may follow my example – or become slaves. It is your choice.’

  ‘Win or die!’ the crowds roared thunderously. ‘Win or die!’

  Boudica brandished her sword. Her white teeth flashed in her blue-painted face. Golden sunlight set her hair on fire. She was magnificent. ‘Then we shall fight! Hail Andraste!’

  Boudica’s words were met with deafening shouts of ‘Hail Andraste!’ and clattering spears. Horns and carnyxes bellowed as war drums boomed across the valley.

  Just below the trees, Suetonius watched while his augurs explained the meaning of the hare.

  So, Boudica had been warned, but she was fighting anyway. A cruel smiled curved his lips. He liked a woman who didn’t know when she was defeated. He would enjoy crushing her under his boot. She had spirit. That made his blood race, but at the same time it disgusted him.

  He would subdue her. He mounted his horse, straightened his helmet and gripped his baton, ready for the signal.

  At that same moment Boudica turned towards him.

  Across the stream and the grassy slopes of a soft valley, they were drawn to each other with the inevitability of lodestones.

  Suetonius urged his stallion to the water’s edge.

  Boudica swung her wickerwork chariot around and drove to the opposite side of the stream. She faced him, chin raised and eyes narrowed, while her cloak flapped and cracked in the wind.

  The two deadly enemies stared, brown eyes into blue. Lips tight. Each measuring up the other.

  Boudica raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re the same as me,’ she laughed scornfully. ‘We’re both possessed by the same demon. We will destroy each other. I don’t need a druid-girl to tell me that!’

  Suetonius leaned forward in his saddle and said, ‘You have a druid girl? Does she have black hair like a raven’s wing and stars here …’ He touched his right cheek under the eye.

  Boudica’s eyes widened. ‘What if she has?’

  ‘Bring her to me and I will let you live.’

  Boudica spat. ‘Come and get her. She’s a nasty little witch. You can have her.’ She nodded to her driver who swung the chariot around and whipped the horses into a gallop.

  The queen’s heart swelled with pride. The comforting arc of watching families on carts embraced the vast field of British warriors – a symbol of Andraste’s protective arm around her people. It would also prevent any cowards from fleeing before the day was done.

  Boudica took the reins from her charioteer and drove steadily along the lines of her warriors, sword raised. The cheering reached a deafening crescendo. A horn blew long and low. Boudica brought her blade down hard. The morning light flashing along its edge and, with a roar, the British pounded across the turf, each eager to draw the first blood.

  Chariots clattered and bounced towards the Roman lines, the warriors leaping to the ground. Some ran along the shaft between the two horses, acrobatically flinging spears as their horses thrashed the turf. Shouting, swearing and raging, the British thundered onwards.

  But not one piece of Roman armour moved. Even their feathered headdresses seemed cut from marble.

  Then one single word was barked.

  Scorpios twanged deadly bolts deep amongst the Iceni and Trinovantes who led the charge. The oncoming swarm of warriors stumbled over fallen comrades.

  Next a rain of light javelins poured into the front lines. Once caught, the warrior’s shields became unwieldy. They cast them aside and pushed on – undefended in the deadly hail.

  Addedomaros called retreat, but discarded shields and bleeding bodies caught the warriors in a trap of flesh and wood and iron.

  More barked commands. The Romans lifted their winged lightening shields, gladius points glinting.

  Then their steady march began.

  Sabrina’s charioteer urged her horses alongside Boudica’s, matching their pace. ‘The hare told you not to fight,’ she yelled. ‘Are you mad?’

  The Iceni queen glared back at Sabrina. ‘You heard what the Goddess said through me! Her word is all I care about, what’s a play-acting little girl in comparison to Andraste herself? All that showy stuff yesterday was rubbish and you know it. Now, it’s time for action and we are the warriors. It is us who are Andraste!’

  With that, her charioteer whipped her horses. Boudica held onto the rail as they ran pell-mell through the British lines. Her cloak spread like eagles’ wings as she swooped.

  ‘Fight! Fight!’ she urged.

  And they did. Screaming horses, yelling warriors and shouting soldiers ripped and tore at the morning air. Spearheads and swords glinted, javelins thudded.

  Blood pooled into red mud. The dying groaned and screamed. The dead stared blankly up at the chaos.

  Tegen shivered with cold and fear as she dressed. Her limbs shook, her head swum and the baby kicked like a young bull in her belly. Worst of all, images of the golem, Aodh, Admidios and Derowen kept flashing through her mind.

  They are just my fears, she told herself firmly. None of them exist, not really.

  But she couldn’t block out the sounds of the battle in the valley below.

  As she pinned her cloak, she called to Owein, ‘I’ve changed
my mind. I’m staying, I want to try something.‘

  ‘What in the Lady’s name can you possibly do apart from bring down fire and destroy everyone?’ Owein scowled at her. ‘This is no time for heroics. You have to leave. This is the end. You’ve done all you can. Now you must stay alive for the baby’s sake.’

  ‘There is one more thing I can try, and you must help me. We’ll weave a web of spells.’

  ‘A what? You know I’m hopeless at magic.’

  Tegen rolled her eyes. ‘I told you about it – the druids did it at Mona. It’s hanging spells in the air like a great woven blanket. It almost destroyed the Romans last time. I think I can make it work. Please …’

  ‘Very well,’ Owein sighed. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Tegen pointed to the sun, which was one handspan high. ‘Fix that point in your mind, and imagine a really strong rope stretched from here …’ She swung her arms towards where the sun would set, ‘to somewhere over there. I’m going to hang spells on it to confuse the battle so our people can win – or at least have time to escape.’

  ‘So …’ Owein began, ‘what do I do with this imaginary rope?’

  ‘Just keep it taut, whatever happens. And sing something magical, something about the victory of the smallest over the greatest.’

  Owein screwed up his eyes and imagined his mother’s weaving frame hung in the sky. Then he began to sing.

  ‘The birds they sought a king

  to rule the air and sky

  but who should be their lord?

  He that would highest fly.’

  As Owein sang, Tegen danced, fixing her thoughts on the Romans’ accursed eagle standards hovering over the cruel battle below. In her mind’s eye she turned the British warriors into wrens, thousands of them mobbing the great bronze birds.

  ‘The eagle circled above

  the lark and the raven black

  but the little brown wren

  he hid on the eagle’s back.’

  Each thought she turned into a coloured thread and began to weave. Fly! Fly! she shouted in her head. Wrens, soar higher, win this battle. You can, by wile or wit. You are the true lords and ladies of this Land.

  ‘So high the great bird flew

  the birds proclaimed him lord

  but as the eagle fell …

  King Wren still higher soared.’

  As Owein finished the last notes, he added quietly, ‘Who’s this?’

  Tegen stopped dancing. Her concentration lost, the coloured spells unravelled and faded. She looked where Owein was pointing.

  A thick set, bearded man was climbing the wooded slope. Dressed in a heavy leather apron and his face smeared with soot, there was only one person it could be.

  ‘Goban?’ she gasped.

  ‘Some would say the wren cheated,’ he called out. ‘In the stories I know, the owl decided the eagle should be king because the wren hadn’t flown so high all by himself.’

  Tegen ran down the slope and flung her arms around the smith. ‘Goban, can you help, please? Everything is falling apart – I’ve seen this end in slaughter and fire, I can’t let it happen – I can’t …’

  He held her shoulders and shook his head. ‘Like Sinodun, this is not to be, Star Dancer. You know you cannot save Britain from the Romans. What little is left to be done here, the Goddess has put into Owein’s hands. You must go quickly; look down there, you’ve been seen and soldiers are on their way. The Lady will protect you.’

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, Tegen saw a glimmer of armour moving through the trees below.

  ‘But …’

  Goban shook his head. ‘Let go. This is not your fight. Your final battle will take place where you were born. Now flee.’ And he pushed her firmly away.

  Owein reached out and hugged her. ‘Goodbye.’ His voice was choked. ‘Remember I love you.’

  Tegen kissed his cheek. ‘You were right about so much. Thank you for your love – and for everything. I’ll never forget you.’

  Owein wrapped Tegen in her cloak. ‘Go my little blackbird. Find Ula and Claudia at Sul’s Land.’ He hugged her one last time. ‘Farewell.’

  He coughed and rubbed his eyes, then helped her into Epona’s saddle. ‘Keep the baby safe. She has a destiny too, remember? Go!’

  He slapped Epona on the rump and she cantered away.

  The Golden Goblet

  In the valley below, the fighting was in a lull, but under the pall of smoke, skirmishes still flared.

  As soon as Tegen was out of sight, Owein pulled on a leather cuirass and covered it with his Roman tunic and toga. He cut a branch from a bush that still had a few green leaves, then holding it high in token of parley, he rode Heather into Suetonius’s camp. He dismounted and made his way between the stacks of weapons and cooking pots to a large tent where he guessed Suetonius would be directing operations.

  In Latin, he greeted the guards and asked politely, but firmly to see the Governor as he had vital intelligence.

  The men kept their spears crossed. ‘What sort of intelligence? We don’t need lies from slimy Brits pretending to be Roman. We’re winning anyway.’

  Owein took a deep breath and bellowed, ‘I am here to betray Boudica. Your commander will not be pleased if he hears you turned me away.’

  From inside the tent, Suetonius’s harsh voice yelled, ‘Who’s making such a bloody racket?’

  ‘A Brit in a toga sir. He claims to have intelligence.’

  ‘What’s he doing here? How did a traitorous runt like him get so close? Has anyone searched him for his dagger?’ Suetonius demanded.

  ‘I am unarmed,’ Owein replied, then repeated his offer.

  ‘How do you speak Latin so well?’

  ‘My uncle taught me. He lived in Rome for a while. Now, do you want Boudica at your mercy, or shall I go away?’ Owein didn’t feel comfortable trying to parley with a tent flap, but he had no choice.

  Ignoring him, Suetonius yelled, ‘Armourer! My breastplate won’t buckle.’ Then he called out, ‘Boudica is good, but I also want a girl, got long black hair and dances, do you know her? Claims to be a druid or some such, but she’s probably just a scabby little witch.’

  ‘I know her. She’s with the queen,’ Owein lied.

  ‘I want them both then. What are your terms?’

  ‘If I deliver them, you must let the ordinary people go home. Disarm them if you must, but there’s been enough bloodshed. Most of them don’t want to be here, it’s not the season for fighting. They were sworn to follow their chieftains and had no choice. Pull back your men and take Boudica, then they’ll go quietly to their farms, I swear.’

  ‘Bring me the dead body of the queen and the girl alive, then I will pull back the troops.’

  Owein swallowed. How was he going to get around the fact that Tegen was already gone? He’d think of something. ‘By noon. Ave!’ he raised his arm in a smart salute, then leaning heavily on his crutch, he left.

  It was only then that Suetonius strode out of his tent and watched his visitor mount a cream coloured pony, ‘I’m sure I’ve seen that young man before,’ he mused.

  But just then a dispatch came from a cavalry officer under severe attack on the western flank and he turned his mind to the battle.

  Owein found the cramped waggon he had called home for a quarter moon. There he emptied a small pouch of black grains into a mortar. Taking a pestle, he pounded them into a rough powder. He wished Tegen was there, her skills with herbs were better than his own. This potion was not difficult: a small handful of hemlock seeds crushed and simmered in red wine with nutmeg and honey to disguise the taste.

  Would the queen fall for it? What if he were caught? He laughed bitterly. Obviously he could never trust Suetonius, but if Boudica was dead, he might – just might pull back.

  And if Boudica lived? Then this crazy war would go on and on, with vengeance killings and pointless skirmishes, slowly destroying his beloved land and its brave people. Boudica had been their best chance; but her p
aranoia and greed had ruined everything.

  Now all that was left was hatred on every side. The demon was winning.

  There had to be peace to rebuild and find hope, or the spirit of Britain would crumble forever. Suetonius was evil and cruel, but if there was no rebellion for him to quash, there was a chance that he might be content to simply rule.

  It was worth the risk. Without a strong figurehead, the tribes’ alliances would melt like ice by a fire. The people would go home. This was Samhain, a most inauspicious day for death and fighting as the doors between the worlds were wide open.

  Owein was ready. He sniffed the brew. The steam was mouth-watering, but he knew better than to taste it. He poured the concoction into a golden goblet and commanded a boy to carry it while he hobbled alongside. Boudica’s tent was empty. All able-bodied men were fighting. ‘Set it there, on that camp table, then go back to your people,’ he told the boy.

  Once he was alone, Owein settled himself into the queen’s favourite carved cedar chair and waited.

  Soon he heard Boudica’s angry voice bellowing, ‘Change the horses. Those are tired. Bandage my hand, someone, I’m bleeding to death here!’

  Entering the tent she reached for the goblet, drained it and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

  Then she stopped and stared at Owein. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Bringing magic to aid our cause, majesty,’ he said, modestly inclining his head.

  ‘About bloody time!’ she snapped. A servant bandaged her hand and offered her bread and cheese, which she brushed away. Ignoring Owein, she strode outside and was about to spring back on her chariot.

  For a moment she hesitated and looked anxious.

  Owein held his breath – the draught shouldn’t have worked that fast. Boudica had to fall on the battlefield so no one would suspect foul play.

  But the queen shook her head and took her usual place beside her charioteer. Taking a fresh spear from a rack, she yelled ‘Death to the Romans, victory to Andraste!’ And the horses pounded away.

  Owein watched as the charioteer skilfully wound his way between the dead and the skirmishes. Then Boudica swayed and fell against her driver, knocking him off the platform. The chariot yawed from side to side. The horses tossed their heads and tried to rear as they realised there was no steady hand on their reins. The queen stumbled backwards onto the bloody field.