“Hush, old man!” she whispered back fiercely. “Be at peace. Am I not of your flesh? Will I not rule the Council well?” Her head ached, and black spots flickered and burst before her eyes.
His hands went limp and she sat back with relief, but before he closed his eyes he said, “Venutius. Great honor-price. Much power, but loyal to House Brigantia. Give him…give him…” He sighed and slept, and after a moment she rose from the stool and staggered to the fire, sitting beside it, exhausted, and laying her head on her knees. Give him what? Her thoughts echoed in the battleground of her fevered mind. Give him myself?
She fell into a deep, troubled sleep and the woman found her there, moaning and ill, and sent for Venutius. He came and picked her up as though she were a wisp of straw and carried her to the guest hut, laying her gently on the bed and stoking the fire until it roared halfway to the ceiling. He put a hand on her burning brow and then looked down on her as she tossed and muttered, this pampered child, this royal woman. I could kill her now, he thought. I could pick up the pillow and smother her and the chiefs would never know that she did not die of the fever. But instead he smoothed the wet black hair from the tiny face and spoke sharply to the woman who stood waiting. “Undress her and dry her thoroughly. Pile the skins on her and keep the fire high, and send for me when she awakes.” He went out quickly, mud spattering from his boots, and the rain drummed on the thatch like a mad lullaby.
For four days she lay sick, and in that time the rain stopped and a strong summer sun shone out. Her father died on the third day, passing peacefully in his sleep, and his chiefs carried him to his resting place on a bier, arrayed in all his finery, his sword and his spear beside him. They were not sorry to see him go. If he had recovered they would have killed him, for Brigantia the High One was an ugly, incompetent hag, who wandered screaming and cackling over the bare hills, reproaching them for their timidity in not dispatching him a long time ago so that she could grow young again. One of the chiefs had seen her, standing high above the village, her black robe streaming out behind her and her gnarled hands clenched, and Aricia’s father had known that, naturally or unnaturally, his time had come. He wanted only to see his daughter, and having seen her he let go his hold on life and slipped away contented. The funeral would not take place until Aricia could attend, so his body lay deep in the barrow, in a dark, quiet place surrounded by his bronze and silver ornaments, his chariot, his drinking cups, his beer, and his meat. As soon as the stone house was empty, the servants unpacked her wains, exclaiming over the richness of her tunics with their thin, fine texture and their silver and gold embroidery, the softness and length of her gay cloaks. But they thought her brooches and anklets and thin metal headbands crudely decorated, and they handled them with contempt under Venutius’s watchful eye.
On the fifth day Aricia sat up and called for water and fresh fish. The servant went to her and saw the clear eyes of returning health, and Aricia ate and drank and slept again to the sound of the sheep calling on the long sloping hillside beyond the village and the dry smell of a sun that had come to stay. On the sixth day she got up and sat wrapped in blankets before her door. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, her sun-starved body basking in the gentle warmth, listening to the people coming and going. Sometimes the footsteps stopped and there were whispers, but she did not open her eyes, drowsing between reality and fantasy, and healing in the strong yellow light while the busy life of the village went on around her, bringing to her a certain pleasant stability. Her dreams had been dark and frightening, the dreams of fever, full of blood and darkness and the tortured faces of those she knew, but now she rested in the real world, and it made her inexpressibly glad.
On the seventh day she moved into the stone house, and that night she went, unsteadily but purposefully, to the great fire that had been lit outside the village just under the dimpled feet of the first long slope that stretched to a summit five miles away. It was twilight, warm and full of the scent of grass and wildflowers, and she sniffed the little breeze with pure delight as Venutius came to greet her, smiling, and her chiefs rose, crashing their swords on their shields and shouting her name. She sank cross-legged onto her cloak, and the sparks roared and leaped into the black, velvety sky now hung with winking stars. The whole village was there, along with chiefs and their wives and families from miles into Brigantia, and the laughter and chatter grew louder as the meat, smoking and dripping, was apportioned and the beer passed from hand to hand. Venutius squatted beside her and she talked to him quietly, stirred by the strength of him, glancing now and then at his rugged face, and he smiled slowly back at her, his eyes boldly meeting her own, feeling the urges within her yet warned by what he read in her eyes. It was the same way that Caradoc had been warned. There was calculation there, and cold reasoning, the flaws of insecurity and self-hate, but above all there was lust, for him or for power or just for a full life, he did not know. He was a warrior, a seasoned fighting man already scarred from many raids, and she was just a child. Or was she? He drank his beer reflectively, and she was silent. At last he stood and bellowed, and the company drew closer to him. The fire was dying, but still the night was soft and warm and no cloud hid the white crescent moon.
“It is time for Council,” he shouted. “All slaves depart. All freemen draw near.” No one stirred. The Brigantians kept few slaves, and even the servants were proud people, bereft of honor-price but not of freedom. Venutius took off his sword and laid it in the grass, and the chiefs swiftly followed suit. “Let the Druid speak first,” he declared and sat down. Aricia stiffened and peered into the crowd. A man had risen and was moving forward, his white robe slashed with red in the light of the fire. He carried his cloak over one arm and he came and bowed perfunctorily to her, but his eyes stayed on the dark bulk of the hill behind her. Then he turned and an expectant hush fell. For a moment he did not speak. He looked up at the stars, and among the eager faces turned to him, and then began to walk quietly up and down before them, his hands behind his back.
“Freemen and women,” he said, his voice friendly. “You gather tonight to elect a new ruler, someone to replace the one who has guided you for many years, and you gather also to welcome his daughter, returning after long years far from you, her people. To some of you, what I have to say will make you angry, to some it will come as words torn from your own doubting hearts, but I beg you all to consider them. You know me well, Brigantians. I come and go. I wander at will among the tribes, I bring to you the wisdom of my travels, and I also bring truths that it is good for you to hear. I am asking you not to elect Aricia, chieftain’s daughter.” Strangely, no whispering broke out, and Aricia felt the mood of the crowd concentrated utterly on the Druid in breathless anticipation. Beside her Venutius stirred but did not look at her. The Druid stopped his slow pacing and stood facing them all. He was so close to Aricia that his robe brushed her feet, and she drew them in under her. “My reasons are few, but damning. Day after day the refugees among our people from the stricken countryside of Gaul pour into Albion, fleeing from the slow march of Roman aggression, bringing with them tales of such horror and degradation that the tribes who give them shelter sometimes do not believe them. Where do these people go? They seek succor from you, from the men of the west, from the Cornovii. They make the long journey to the sanctuary of the holy island, but to the mighty Catuvellauni they do not go. Why?” He paused, and the crowd leaned toward him, their eyes shining in the flickering light. This man, Aricia knew, was no potboy when it came to the slow swaying of simple people. When he spoke again his voice was pitched lower, deeper. “Because the Catuvellauni have grown fat and arrogant on the wine of Rome. Because a freeman who does not love to eat from Roman dishes and barter in the Roman tongue is not safe, even among his own brothers! And this child of yours, this chieftain’s daughter, has lived among them since her earliest days, drinking in the milk of Roman thought, lying on Roman cushions, enjoying every foreign luxury, while her sisters saw their children impaled
on Roman spikes and their fathers chained to work in Roman mines. When you look at her, freemen, what do you see? I see a strange, unnatural being, half Catuvellauni and half Roman, but I do not see a free Brigantian!” He strode away abruptly, melting into the press of seated people, leaving dark hints to insinuate themselves into the minds of his audience.
They looked at her with the natural curiosity of her return overlaid with a dawning hostility. They looked at their chief tribesman, Venutius, with longing. They whispered and stirred, but no one rose to speak. At last they looked at her and waited and she knew she must get up and defend herself. She had never spoken in Council before and she was afraid, but she stood slowly, feeling the last vestiges of sickness weaken her knees and bring sweat to her neck. She looked far back, to where the ungainly huts blotted the field. What are they to me, these simple fools? she thought. Let them send me away and go back to their mutton and their filthy huts! But a mettle rose in her, and she spoke.
“People of Brigantia,” she said, her voice low but carrying clearly. “I have heard myself described as half Catuvellauni and half Roman, and I stand amazed. Have the Druithin lost their famous powers of memory? Do they not remember that royal children leave their homes and go to other tribes, so that when they return to their own they may serve them better? And the sons of the chiefs often go to Mona, to the home of the Druithin, to learn all the wisdom of the ancients. Is this a new thing? Not to my father, who sent me to Cunobelin to learn.” She did not mention that she had also gone under great pressure from Cunobelin, as a hostage, but Venutius knew and he raised his head and shot her a keen, cool glance. She went on, a strange thrill taking her, a slow rising excitement within her. “But sons and daughters return. My father went to the Coritani in his youth. Are the Coritani your friends, then? Do you not hate each other still, even as you hate the Catuvellauni? Then why do you suspect me? I have merely done as my father did, and his father before him. Look at me, freemen!” She pulled angrily at her hair, showed them her arms and her face. “Am I not raven-haired, and am I not fair-skinned as you are? I am Brigantian and you know it. And you also know the Druid’s unspoken fears. I am a woman. Will I long for the little fields and gentle woods of the Catuvellauni? Will I miss my friends and seek to bind them to me, and in the end betray you, my true kinsmen, in my weakness?” Well, will you? Her own thought mocked her, and she lowered her arms and breathed deeply. “You have been ruled by a woman before, and she was a great warrior. I am the last of my line, a line that stretches back beyond the confines of Albion to the northern reaches of the places where the sun is always hot and strong. I am my father’s daughter and thus your daughter, too, and I have an undisputed right to your loyalty. The Druid has played shamelessly on your fears, but I have no fine words with which to win your love. Perhaps you wish to consider the claim of Venutius, for he is well known to you.” She had struck a chord. Some of the faces went blank and there was a general scuffling. “Then consider it. But remember that only I can prove royal blood, and if you cast me out you dishonor yourselves.” She sat down abruptly, not knowing what she had said, her heart pounding, and Venutius immediately rose and began to speak.
His words were few for he had already come to a decision and he knew the people would do as he wished. Before his ride to Camulodunon he had been consumed with bitterness at the thought that he, with his vast honor-price and the adoration of all the tuath, should have to bow to a girl who spoke with the accent of the southlands and whose eyes would be full of disdain at the sight of the rough land he loved, and traveling with her had flung him further into turmoil. Her speech was heavily accented, yes. Her clothes were soft and rich, her eyes held mute rebellion and a cold repudiation of him and his kind, yet there were mysteries within her, layers to be peeled back, and a stubborn disregard for the hard discomforts of the journey that spoke of hidden strengths. He had been told by Cunobelin that she could fight and hunt, and hold her own among free people. He had not believed, yet now, remembering her silent doggedness as they rode hour by hour through mud and rain, he was not so sure. He wanted time to get to know her better and besides, he had vowed an oath to her father to serve her faithfully at the risk of his dishonor, and he valued his honor above all things. That, and his freedom. He had considered the loss of his honor when he had almost succumbed to the urge to murder her, but he had not considered the loss of his freedom.
“I do not care what you do, all of you,” he said to the Council, “but I vowed my lord my sword and my life, and here is the daughter of my lord. Her claim is unanswerable and you know it. I do not care where she spent her childhood. I care only that she is home again, among the people of her tuath, and the goddess can once more run across the hills with the fleet lightness of her earliest days.” He bent and swept up his sword, and flung it down before her. Then he went to regain his place at her side and she turned and smiled at him faintly. There was a pause in which she could sense indecision, then one by one the other chiefs, muttering and grumbling, did the same. She watched the pile grow, but her thoughts were on Venutius. What do you want of me, hillman? she thought. Why didn’t you take your sword and knock off my head? She knew why, thought she knew, and the hollow places within her began to fill with another warmth.
At last she rose. “I accept your oaths,” she said. “Take back your swords. Tomorrow we will sing for my father, and then we will begin our life together.”
She and Venutius left the bright circle of the fire and walked slowly to her house. The moon was full risen now, caught in a wisp of bluish cloud, but the rest of the sky was clear, and she was tired, needing another healing sleep and another day of inactivity. They reached her door, and suddenly he reached inside his tunic, bringing out a small purse. He extracted a coin and held it up before her face. They both stood in the deep shadow of the gray stone wall and all she could see of him was the glint of moonlight on his fierce eyes and the pale movement of his fingers.
“Lady, do you see this?” he said softly. “This is a Brigantian coin, not well made, maybe, not silver, but clean, Lady. No Roman hand has ever touched it, nor Roman craftsman put his crude design upon it.” He bit it automatically and stowed it away again. “Tell me, is it true that Cunobelin employs Roman artists and silversmiths in his shops and forges?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
He exclaimed in disgust, muttering something to himself in an undertone. “Do not take your people lightly, Lady,” he said aloud. “The Catuvellaunian river hums day and night with the sounds of barter, but we also trade from the bays of our coast, for things we value above the fripperies Caesar sends Cunobelin. We trade for bright swords and helms of bronze, for pots and dishes made by those who follow the ways of our fathers. In return we give them sheep hides— and this.” He delved into his tunic again and pressed something hard and cold into her hand. She stepped into the moonlight and looked. It was a thick bronze thumb ring, set with a pear-shaped stone of unusual weight, and its facets glittered balefully at her as she moved it to and fro. It was black. It had no instant appeal, it did not bring forth cries of admiration and envy, but as she looked at it, it drew her gaze ever deeper into itself, exerting an unwilling fascination and a desire to own, to stare forever. She handed it back.
“What is it?”
“It is jet, Lady, jet, as black as night. Not beautiful as the amethyst, or the bright corals the Catuvellauni love, but it is the stone of your country and reflects it with truth. It is a country of loneliness and secrets, hard and rough, yet it can compel if you will let it.” He took a step and she raised her head, her breath stilling in her throat. A whiff of desire came to her from him and he put his large hands on her head, stroking her hair, and they came to rest on her slim shoulders. “It can also destroy,” he whispered, “if you are weak, and bring to it fear and loathing.”
On an impulse she stood on tiptoe and brushed the bearded cheek with her lips, but even as she felt a rush of gratitude toward him she also felt contempt, a recoiling from h
im and his wild people and this dirty place. Fumble all you will, you fool, she thought with an inward smile. Before long I will be able to do what I like with you, all of you, and your bays will be full of traders bringing me wine, and this place will rise high upon the earthwalls I will construct, and I will bring cattle to mingle with these stupid sheep. She moved gently from his grasp but not from his eyes. She had seen eyes like that before, watching her intently from the thick underbrush as she rode along the forest paths with Caradoc and Togodumnus, the eyes of an animal that did not reason its danger but sensed it.
Venutius smiled through thoughts gone suddenly dim and confused, and she smiled back, reaching for her doorskins. “You do not need to harangue me, my friend. I do not deny that I came here as a stranger, but I am young, and I prefer to face change and adventure rather than turn and run.” With another thought she let the skins fall and turned to him again. “Tell me, Venutius, are the Druithin seen often in this land?”
“Of course. There are always one or two of them staying in the guest hut.”
“I see. Well, a good night to you.”
“Sleep in safety, Lady.”
She went in, letting the skins fall into place with a soft sound behind her. Her servant had gone to her own bed but the fire danced on, and the shadows on the walls danced with it. She walked to her bed and sat down slowly, the night silence lapping her in peace for a moment. Then she lay back, picking up the talisman Gladys had given her and fingering it gently. The Druithin will have to go, she thought. Somehow I must see that the people turn against them, but it will not be easy and I will have to take much time and planning to accomplish it. The fire suddenly spat and a log rolled slightly. A deep grief seized her, a wave of homesickness. For two weeks she had not laughed, nor seen a single person with whom she could share the last fifteen years of her life. She was among strangers, and they would all, always be strangers. She was alone. She turned on her side and wept at last as the thing she had sensed while she hesitated at the border to her land, the dark, unknown thing, came closer.
The Eagle and the Raven Page 10
