Alan smiled slowly, folding his red arms, and Sholto chewed his lip and thought furiously. Togodumnus was young but he had many freemen in his train. Too many, and they squabbled all the time. But Caradoc could keep order among his men with a word or a joke. He had a way with people and, moreover, he was honest in his dealings. Such a lord could not be manipulated or rapidly impoverished. Sholto spoke sullenly.
“I will take the breeding heifer, Lord.”
“A sound decision. Well, Alan, you can get on with it. Cinnamus, why are you foaming at the mouth?”
“That brother of yours has gone too far this time!” Cinnamus came close to him and spoke in a low, forceful undertone. “Twelve of my fattest slaughter stock are among his cattle. I know them. My head freeman knows them. I am going to present a case to your father tonight, Caradoc, and I am going to be recompensed for Togodumnus’s light fingers.”
“How can you prove your loss?”
“All my people will take the oath for me!”
“So will Tog’s. There has to be more.”
“There is.” Cinnamus smiled grimly. “All my cattle were marked this spring, nicked in the ear. We shall see how Togodumnus can worm his way out of that!”
The crowd was drifting away now, disappointed because there had been no fight, and already the tanners and butchers with their knives and hooks were moving among the piles of dead beasts. Caradoc looked to the forest bank, but Aricia, Tog, and Adminius had gone. So had Boudicca with his horse.
“Cin, why don’t you go to Tog and tell him what you’ve told me. Then demand from him twelve of his cattle as well as your own back. That will hurt him far more than my father’s justice, and I would hate to see you and him shed each other’s blood over a few cows.”
“A few cows!” Cinnamus swore and spat on the ground. “Fine for you, Lord, with your vast herd, but I must count every beast twice. A drop of Togodumnus’s blood would go a long way to assuage my heart, and a lot of others, too. Even his own chiefs are wary of his thieving ways.”
Caradoc knew it was true. Tog was sixteen and he had great charm, a gift that rescued him from scrape after scrape and caused his chieftain freemen to cluster around him like fawning dogs, but he was dangerously close to losing his father’s patience and the admiration of his kin. Cinnamus could easily kill him, Caradoc knew. The young man who stood before him, frowning angrily, had been trained from birth as a warrior, a cold fighter whose reflexes were lightning swift and who could destroy without mercy. That was why Caradoc had chosen him as shield-bearer and charioteer. But he had also been chosen because he was generous and quick to laugh, and he and Caradoc loved one another.
“Do what you think best, Cin,” he said at length. “It is your feud. But think of the consequences to your family if Tog decides to make it a blood feud.”
“He never would. Not him. If you speak to him, Lord, I may be content. Tell him I want my cattle, and the others too, and tell him also…” He paused, his green eyes smiling into Caradoc’s own with an edge of pure ice to the humor. “Tell him also that if he enters my compound again I will order my freemen to kill him.” He nodded and walked away, striding loose-limbed and tall by the river, the sun glinting on his golden hair, and Caradoc turned, making his way slowly back along the path to the gate.
Halfway there he met Togodumnus, one hand on his horse’s flank and the other around the little figure perched atop like a tiny sparrow in a big tree. Boudicca waved to him and then clambered down, her eyes sparkling with success.
“I rode him all by myself! I did! I even made him trot!” She stroked the smooth neck of the animal, sniffing at his warm smell, and her red hair, loosed from its braids, floated in a great aureole about her face. Caradoc watched the square, blunt little fingers moving over the brown coat while the horse stood patiently, his soft muzzle quivering.
“Good,” Caradoc said absently, and they moved slowly on. “Listen Tog, I’ve just been talking with Cinnamus. He’s very angry with you over those cattle.”
Togodumnus sighed with exaggeration. “What cattle? I stole no cattle. They must have strayed.”
Caradoc stopped in the path and took his brother by the shoulders. “You are a fool, Tog. Cinnamus is deep and dangerous. He thinks. And he knows your habits.” Togodumnus shrugged.
“Do you know what he has done?” Caradoc asked. Boudicca was watching and listening with interest, and Tog shook his head, smiling. “He marked his cattle last spring. All of them.”
Togodumnus whistled. “Then I am in trouble. I suppose he wants them back.”
“He wants your blood, but he will take the cattle back, along with twelve of your own and a promise to leave his goods be. Otherwise, he will kill you.”
They resumed the walk in silence, but as the gate neared, Togodumnus stopped. “I will do that,” he said. “I like Cinnamus.”
“Then why do you steal from him, and from everyone else?”
“I do not steal from you!”
“A chieftain does not steal from any member of his tuath,” Caradoc said pointedly. “Even if he is starving.”
Togodumnus laughed. “Then he is a fool.”
Chapter Two
THAT night the great hall was crowded, and the huge logs on the fire spat and crackled as the fat from the roasting pigs dripped onto them. Samain was over. The cattle were slaughtered and would soon be salted, and men knew that the winter would be without want. The breeding stock was safely in the byres, the grain filled the big urns and storehouses, and the weather could do its worst. Mead, beer, and red Roman wine flowed freely, conversation rose loud and excited, and Caradoc, Cinnamus, and Caelte battled through the throng to their appointed places. Cunobelin sat on the floor on skins, wrapped in his yellow cloak, his thick gold torc flashing in the firelight and his gray hair lank upon his breast. Beside him were the guests, Subidasto and little Boudicca, who was chattering to her father. To Cunobelin’s left knelt Adminius, his eyes on the pigs, his mouth watering, and Caradoc and his followers went to squat beside him. Togodumnus had the next place but he had not yet arrived, and Aricia sat beside Subidasto, for, though she had been at Cunobelin’s court for many years, she was still regarded as a guest and had a special and permanent place at all feasts. Caradoc looked for Eurgain and spotted her at last, far down the Hall with her father. Gladys, his sister, was with her too. Eurgain felt his gaze and turned to smile at him. She had on a new tunic this night, tightly patterned in green and red, and she wore silver anklets and a thin gold band on her brow. Her father was rich, almost as rich as Cunobelin, his master, and Eurgain possessed trinkets from all over the world.
Gladys saw him but gave no sign. She was wearing a black coat, and her dark brown hair, braided in one long plait, hung down her back and coiled on the floor. She was a strange one, Caradoc thought. Nineteen years old and not married from choice, she wandered in the woods, with no fear of the gods who watched her jealously, collecting plants and small animals, and gathering queerly shaped driftwood from the beach she often went to with the traders. Yet for all her abrupt, unwelcoming air she was Cunobelin’s chosen confidante and often his advisor since the death of their mother. Perhaps Father took comfort in her calm wisdom. She had ceased to be part of the Royal War Band after that time Tog and the others raided from the Coritani and three people had been killed, one of them a child. Gladys had been incensed with Tog and from then on had refused to meet any of them outside Camulodunon, and Caradoc was sorry. There was something intriguing and commanding about his sister, but he could not penetrate her cold exterior.
The slave turning the spit signaled to Cunobelin and there was a hush as all eyes turned to the meat. Cunobelin rose with effort, his knife in hand, and after carving off a haunch with flourish, laid it on a silver plate and presented it to Subidasto.
“The choice cut, for our guests,” he rumbled, and Subidasto took it with thanks. A low table was brought to him, and then Cunobelin carved the rest of the pigs and each man or woman received a piece commensurate wi
th his or her station in the tuath. Far in the back by the open doors a fight had already broken out over who had been cheated of his correct joint this night, but no one but the protagonist took any notice of the brawl. Fearachar brought Caradoc his meat and bread, and Cinnamus and Caelte waited for their servants to do the same, and the Hall quieted as bellies were swiftly filled.
Suddenly Caradoc stopped eating. He had caught a flash of white close to Subidasto. He craned forward as Togodumnus slipped down beside him and whispered, “Do you see him? Is he not awesome?” Caradoc felt cold and his appetite left him. He pushed the dish away and took a mouthful of wine, his eyes never leaving the spare, whiteclad man with the gray beard and sharp eyes who was sitting motionless, neither eating nor drinking, though his gaze wandered over the company.
Druithin! What was the old bird of doom doing here? Caradoc wondered, alarmed. The Druithin hated the Romans with steadfast fanaticism, and it had been a long time since one had been seen anywhere within the sphere of Cunobelin’s influence. This one must have come with Subidasto. How awkward. No Druid could be killed anywhere, and a traveler needed only to be in the company of such a one to be safe. Caradoc sensed his father’s unease as well. Cunobelin was speaking in quick, dying spurts, his eyes, too, on the old man, and the smattering of Roman traders who always managed to insinuate themselves into every feast were whispering excitedly. But the regal figure was calmly ignoring them all, his hands folded loosely in his lap, a little smile on his lips. He should have been served first, of course, before Subidasto, Caradoc thought. How ill-bred he will think us! Caradoc drew his plate to him again and began to pick at his food, feeling the presence of Druithin magic like a secret smoke. The person of the Druithin was sacred, even to the Catuvellauni.
Presently Cunobelin wiped his greasy mouth on his cloak and clapped his hands. Silence fell. The fire could be heard crackling cheerily, and outside, where it was full dark, a swift squall of rain pattered on the roof and gusted on the rising wind. Servants ran to close the doors and the people settled themselves more comfortably on the floor while Cathbad, Cunobelin’s bard, rose with harp in hand.
“What will you hear tonight, Lord?” he asked, and Cunobelin, with one squinting eye on Subidasto’s shadowed face, called for the song of the defeat of Dubnovellaunus and his own triumphant entry into Camulodunon.
Cathbad smiled. The song had been sung many times, but Cunobelin never tired of hearing of his own prowess, or that of his ancestor, Cassivellaunus, either, who had fought the great Julius Caesar and driven him back to sea not once, but twice. It was so well-known that many people joined in, and soon the Hall was full of the deep-throated music, and the people linked arms and swayed to and fro, caught in the thrall of heroic deeds and brave deaths.
But the Druid sat still, his head lowered, looking down at his white-clad knees. Caradoc wondered if the sacrifices had escaped his notice, but then thought that probably they had not. The Romans did not encourage human sacrifice, and this afternoon’s rites to the Dagda and to Camulos had included only the slaying of three white bulls. Not for ten years had a human victim been fed to the sacred arrows, and it seemed the Dagda had not minded.
The song ended and the wine jugs passed quickly from hand to hand. What more does a man need? Caradoc thought contentedly. A song to hear, a jug of wine to drink, an honorable enemy to fight, and, of course, a woman to love. He glanced at Aricia but she too was watching the Druid, her mouth parted and her eyes half-closed.
Togodumnus leaped to his feet and shouted, “Now let us hear of our first cattle raid, Caradoc’s and mine! Twenty beasts we took. What a day that was!” But Caradoc pulled him down.
“No!” he called. “I want to hear ‘The Ship.’”
“No, no,” several voices objected. “Sing us a happy song!” But Cathbad had already begun the doleful tune. Aricia’s head shot round and he deliberately met her eye, allowing the plaintive, sweet lay to slow his heartbeat. For a moment she looked at him, but in the gloom he could not read her expression, and when he looked away he felt Eurgain’s eyes upon him, questing and puzzled. Cathbad reached the last high note and left it to flutter in the darkness of the vaulted ceiling but Caradoc was the only applauder, and Cathbad bowed in his direction. Aricia got up abruptly and went quickly out the door.
“Now,” said the bard, his fingers idly plucking the strings. “Shall I sing a new song? One that I have just composed?” Cunobelin nodded. “It is called the ‘Lay of Togodumnus the Many-Handed, and the Twelve Lost Cattle.’”
Togodumnus rose with a roar of anger while laughter exploded around him. “Cathbad, I forbid you to sing such a song! You have been talking to Cinnamus!” Cunobelin waved him down and then summoned Cathbad. They whispered together and then Cathbad straightened.
“I cannot sing the song,” he said sorrowfully. “My royal master always breaks out in a rash of apprehension when I eulogize Togodumnus together with cattle.” He launched into a raucous drinking song to drown Togodumnus’s spluttered expletives, and they all screamed it with him while the rain pelted down. When it was over Cunobelin rose and Cathbad retired to his spot by the wall.
“The time for Council is here,” he said. “Chieftains and all freemen take heed. All others leave.” No one moved but the few slaves and traders, who slipped out into the night. It was only the chiefs who ever had anything to say, but all freemen were allowed to hear how the affairs of the tuath were being settled, and they drew closer to the fire. Caradoc saw the Druid rise. He came closer, sat down by Subidasto and whispered to him, and Subidasto nodded. Boudicca was asleep, curled up in her father’s cloak.
“Our guest may now state his business,” Cunobelin said, and went to sit beside Caradoc. “There will be trouble here,” he said in a low voice, “and harsh things said. This Subidasto does not like us.”
“Does the Druid not speak first?” Togodumnus leaned over and whispered.
Cunobelin shook his head. “He will not speak.”
Subidasto was on his feet now, his legs astride and one hand resting on his sword hilt. He slowly surveyed the company, cleared his throat carefully, and began. “Does any man here deny me my immunity?” No one spoke. “Does any man here deny the Druid his immunity?” Again there was silence. “Good.” Subidasto nodded. “I see that you have a semblance of tribal dignity left.” He hurried on, ignoring the muttering. “I am here to protest against the repeated and unnecessary raiding carried out by the Catuvellauni into Icenian territory. My people have lost their flocks and herds, their servants, and even their lives.” He thrust out an arm as thick as a young tree trunk. “Why? Because, as usual, your ricon chooses to ignore the bounds of his tuath. He rides roughshod over the territorial rights of others as well as those of myself. Where is Dubnovellaunus? Where is Verica? Cunobelin’s sons are rapacious and cruel, and his own greed is uncontained even by his age. He looks ever beyond his own people, seeking new conquests, and I know,” he shook a fist at Cunobelin, “I know, that it is only his true master in Rome who prevents him from making full war upon me and mine.” Cunobelin stiffened but did not respond. His turn would come. “I demand to be left alone,” Subidasto shouted. “I demand an agreement, I demand hostages to back that agreement, and I want a full and proper restitution of all that my people have lost to you, you wolves of Gaul!” He stood for a moment longer, thinking, then with a twisted smile gestured to Cunobelin and sat down.
Cunobelin paced to the fire, turned, and folded his arms. He appeared to ponder, head down. Now speak, you silver-tongued old fox, Caradoc thought. Put the Icenian firmly in his place. Cunobelin lifted his head and surveyed the Council with a question in his eyes, then raised his arms appealingly.
“Who am I?” he asked, and his chiefs answered, “Cunobelin, Ricon!”
“Am I a Roman?”
“No!”
“Am I a wolf of Gaul?”
“No!”
“Yes!” Togodumnus whispered in Caradoc’s ear, and the Druid glanced sharply in
their direction as if he had heard. Cunobelin spoke to them all, but his words were for Subidasto.
“You come from far, Icenian chieftain, with wild rumors in your ears and lies to tell. Of course we raid. Who does not? Do your chieftains spend their time raising children? We raid the Coritani, and the Coritani raid us. We raid the Dobunni, and the Dobunni raid us. We all lose animals and men, but that is the luck of the game. We are warriors. We do not work on the land. We fight. Will you stand and swear to us that you and your chieftains have not taken Catuvellaunian lives and cattle? I did not hear you protest when I rode into Camulodunon with my chariots and my men, crushing the Trinovantes and sending Dubnovellaunus running for the coast. And I have heard rumors of my own, Subidasto. Are the Iceni not pushing west and discomfiting the Coritani themselves? No?” Subidasto muttered something. “We will have an agreement, if you like.” Subidasto’s head jerked up in shock but Caradoc smiled to himself. He knew what his father would say and he knew Subidasto’s outraged answer. “I will cease to raid you and you will cease to raid me, and to seal the bargain we will exchange hostages. I will give you one of my sons. Who will you offer?” A slow, anticipatory smile spread over his face. Subidasto swallowed noisily and his hand went out to rest on Boudicca’s fiery hair.
“I have only my daughter,” he said quietly, “and well you know it, Cunobelin!”
Cunobelin clucked sympathetically. “But my friend, something that hurts must be sacrificed to seal such a solemn bargain. Little Boudicca would be quite safe here. She would learn every gentle art of living. She would imbibe the culture of a rich and various tribe.”
The inference was obvious, and Subidasto flushed hotly. “I am as rich as you, wolf of Gaul, and as for culture, I prefer the Icenian way of life to this…this cheap Roman muddle!” Cunobelin did not reply. He merely stood there smiling, his eyes almost hidden by the seamed flesh of his face. He could have pointed out that fully six generations had gone by since his ancestors brought the fire and the sword from Gaul to Albion. He could have raved that he was no man’s servant, let alone Tiberius’s in Rome, but he did not.
The Eagle and the Raven Page 4
