by Mary Hoffman
“Camorra!” Tasca cried, seeing a Roman soldier grab her sister’s ankle.
The ponies had no speed left. She had only one chance of reaching Camorra in time.
Tasca ran along the shaft and kicked the Roman’s wrist as hard as she could. He yelled in pain as the bone broke, releasing Camorra. Tasca ducked back between the ponies for cover and left the confused man blinking at the queen’s chariot, where Camorra had regained her feet and was brandishing her sword triumphantly. By the time he realised the trick, Tasca had turned her chariot and was racing back down the hill.
She steered the ponies to the riverbank, where it was quieter. But she couldn’t block out the screams. She watched in horror as the Romans threw wave after wave of javelins to kill her mother’s warriors, and then came running down the hill to slaughter those who had retreated to protect the carts. She couldn’t see where her mother and sister had gone. But Suetonius Paullinus still sat on his horse at the top of the hill, head intact.
Tasca hardly cared that she had managed the famous Iceni chariot trick. She didn’t even want to know who was winning. She jumped out of the chariot and buried her face in her pony’s sweaty mane until it was over.
When the sun had turned the river to blood, Camorra returned and touched her on her shoulder.
“Tasca?” she said gently. “Come. Mother’s asking for you.”
Tasca raised her tear-streaked face. “She’s still alive?”
Camorra hesitated. “Yes. She took a wound but she’ll be fine. I killed the Roman who wounded her. I didn’t know you’d learned Father’s chariot trick. Thank you for helping me back there.”
“Did we win?”
Her sister’s expression told her otherwise. “The Trinovantes deserted, and Suetonius’s men went after them. Our army’s finished. But we captured the governor’s boy, so we’ve still got some bargaining power. They’re in the druid grove. This way.”
Tasca’s mouth dried with fear for her friend. Marcus, she thought.
The trees around the druid grove were hung with bones, which rattled as they passed. The ponies refused to enter. Tasca shuddered as she dismounted from the chariot, sure she could hear the spirits of the dead warriors wailing.
In the clearing the queen leaned on a spear staring at her captive. The boy knelt in a puddle of blood, his arms bound tightly behind him and his head bowed. A druid with a ceremonial scythe stood beside him. Tasca’s breath caught, but the blood did not seem to belong to her friend.
The queen looked round impatiently. “Ah, here she is! Daughter, I promised you could take your revenge. Blood your dagger and cut off this Roman whelp’s ears for me. We’ll send them back to his father with a message, like he sent me your beautiful hair.”
“But that was only my hair—” Tasca protested.
Marcus’ dark gaze silenced her. “Do it,” he whispered through chattering teeth. “Or your people will never follow you when you’re queen.”
Tasca shook her head. “Don’t be silly, I’m not going to be queen. I’ll help you escape.” She took a quick breath, and used the dagger to cut Marcus’s bonds. He just knelt there, shivering and staring at her. “Run!” she hissed. “Your father’s people are only over that hill. You won the battle, don’t you understand?”
The queen’s eyes flashed in anger. She took a step towards Tasca and grabbed her wrist to seize the dagger. Then she let out a moan and staggered.
“Mother!” Camorra ran to catch the queen as she collapsed. The druid lowered his scythe and blew a mournful note on his horn. “The goddess has spoken,” he said. “The boy shall not die today. She will take another to her realm.” People stared around in fear as the bones in the trees rattled again.
In the confusion, Marcus finally fled.
They carried the queen to what remained of the Iceni camp. Camorra tried to follow, but Tasca pushed her away and told her to help the druid with the other wounded.
“I’ll tend our mother,” she told her sister firmly. “I know herbs. Bring me that old pouch I was wearing when you found me.”
By the light of the moon, she collected water from the river and added the last of the leaves from the slave-pouch. She carried the bowl to her mother’s bedside and held her head while she drank.
“The Roman boy had better be worth it, daughter,” the queen whispered as the potion took effect. Then her eyes closed, and silent tears ran down Tasca’s cheeks.
Queen Boudica died peacefully in her sleep that night.
In the morning, Tasca and Camorra hung charms from the bridles of their ponies and led the queen’s chariot bearing her body through the camp. The Iceni wept, of course, but a sense of relief hung over the survivors. The fighting was over at last. The Romans would restore order to their towns, and the farmers could once more grow crops without fear of losing them to Boudica’s army.
Marcus and his father were waiting for them at the bridge.
“You realise your lands belong to the emperor now, don’t you?” said the governor, helping his son into their chariot. “If you resist again, I won’t be able to help you a second time.”
Camorra scowled, but Tasca put a hand on her sister’s arm. “We know.”
“Suetonius Paullinus will be back before nightfall,” the governor continued. “You should have half a day’s start if you head for the forest. I’ll tell him we couldn’t find your bodies. The emperor needn’t know the truth of what happened here today.”
His gaze rested on Tasca as he said this, and she wondered if he had guessed how some of the wounded men in his camp had died while she had been his slave.
When, a few years later, she and Marcus had daughters of their own, Tasca showed them how to run along a chariot shaft to trick their enemies, and how to blow a druid’s horn to summon help if they needed it. But she did not teach them which leaf from the forest will steal a person’s spirit quietly in the night.
Some secrets are best left untold.
Why I Chose Queen Boudica
I chose this story because I enjoy writing battle scenes, especially when the warriors are girls! And it’s the right period of history for me to include a few horses, which always seem to find their way into my books. With the druids involved, I even managed to include a tiny bit of magic (but don’t tell my editor).
KATHERINE ROBERTS
Queen Boudica Facts
Queen Boudica (sometimes called Boudicca or Boadicea) was a Celtic queen of the Iceni tribe, also known as ‘the people of the horse’. Her name means ‘victory’.
Around 60 AD she led a revolt against the Romans, who had tried to seize the Iceni lands and wealth after her husband, King Prasutagus, died.
Boudica had two daughters, whose names are not known. I’ve called them Tasca and Camorra in this story because these names are currently in popular use, although they are almost certainly fictional.
After burning the cities of Camulodunum (Colchester), Londinium (London) and Verulamium (St Albans), Queen Boudica’s rebels were finally defeated by a much smaller Roman army at the Battle of Watling Street.
Boudica died after the battle, but nobody knows how. She might have taken poison rather than be captured by the Romans, or she might have been badly wounded in the fighting and died later.
Her body was never found.
Nobody knows what happened to her two daughters.
The Lady of
the Mercians
A story about Aethelflaed
(c.870–918)
BY SUE PURKISS
EDWARD SHOVED HIS SWORD into its scabbard and glared at his sister. Did she have to win every single time?
“It’s not fair,” he complained. “You’re a girl. You shouldn’t be so good with a sword.”
“Oh?” said Flaeda, inspecting her blade and polishing off a speck of dirt with her sleeve. “So what should I be good at?”
Edward thought about it. What did other boys’ sisters do? “Weaving,” he suggested. “Or needlework. You could make a tapestry
.” His eyes lit up as he warmed to the idea. “You could do one of me fighting!”
Flaeda laughed. “But you haven’t done any fighting yet – not proper fighting, anyway.”
“I’ll do some soon!” he said. He was thirteen, and growing fast. “You’re only two years older than me. Soon I’ll be riding out with Father while you’re at home with Mother.”
Light flashed from Flaeda’s blade as it arced through the air, ending up with the point pressed just under his chin.
“Ow!” he complained. “That hurts!”
Flaeda kept the tip of her sword exactly where it was. “Then don’t say such ridiculous things. My place is beside Father. Just as it was at Athelney, and just as it always will be.”
Edward pushed the sword aside, scowling. It still rankled that at the time of the kingdom’s greatest danger, he’d been packed off into safety with his mother and his little sisters. It was Flaeda who’d been by their father’s side when King Alfred had emerged from his hiding place in the marshes round Athelney to win a glorious victory against Guthrum and his army of Vikings at the Battle of Edington: Flaeda who’d had all the fun.
“You were only nine,” he said. “You didn’t fight.”
“No,” said Flaeda, sheathing her sword. “I didn’t fight. But I was there.”
She could remember the battle so well: the flash of spears, the clash of swords, the battle cries, the screams, the black crows circling greedily overhead. The thought of the screams and the crows made her shiver still. But she also remembered the great roar that rose from the throats of the men of Wessex when Guthrum and his Vikings turned tail and ran away. Victory was sweet. She hadn’t lost the taste for it.
“Flaeda!” Her mother was walking towards them through the orchard which separated the great hall from the practice ground. Queen Eahlswith broke off a spray of blossom and held it to her face, breathing in its scent. “The first flowers of spring are such a delight,” she said, smiling. “Edward, I believe Rathgar is looking for you. Something about your hawk… Something you neglected to do?” Edward groaned, and ran off to find the old falconer.
Then Eahlswith turned to Flaeda. “Come,” she said, her dark eyes suddenly serious. “Let us sit on this bench. It is pleasant here in the sunshine, is it not?” Flaeda felt a twinge of alarm. She was often in trouble: for spending too much time in the stables or the smithy, for being untidy and unladylike, for neglecting her weaving. But she sensed that this was about something different.
“What is it, Mother?” she asked anxiously. “Tell me, please.”
And Eahlswith told her.
Flaeda leapt to her feet. Her eyes were filled with horror and an angry flush stained her cheeks. “MARRIED? To Aethelred? But he’s old! And he lives in Mercia!”
“Of course he lives in Mercia,” said Eahlswith. “He’s the lord of the Mercians – where else would he live? It’s a very nice place – it was my home before I married your father. You know that. Really, Flaeda…”
“I’m going to see Father. He won’t let this happen. He needs me. I—”
She whirled round and raced towards the hall. How could they think of such a thing? She had to find her father. She’d talk to him, and he’d understand, and then everything would be all right again…
King Alfred was at his table, writing. As Flaeda burst in, he sighed, and laid down his quill.
“So. Your mother has spoken to you.”
She stopped, suddenly uncertain. So he knew… but of course he knew. How could he not? Marriage to the lord of the Mercians was not a scheme her mother would have cooked up all by herself. Still, she could make him understand – she must!
But in the end, as she met his steady gaze, she could only stammer: “Why, Father – why?”
“Oh, Flaeda, think. Surely I’ve taught you to do that? By this marriage, Mercia will be bound even more closely to Wessex. Then how shall the Northmen stand against the two kingdoms together?” His eyes blazed. “You know my dream, Flaeda. One day, all the Saxon kingdoms will be united – under the rule of the House of Wessex! Think of that, Flaeda – think of that! This is a necessary step.”
She pressed her hands to her temples. Dreams – always dreams! What about her life? What about her dreams? “He’s an old man!” she burst out.
He raised his eyebrows. “Am I an old man?”
“No, no, of course not, but…”
“Well then. Aethelred is younger than me. Besides, you’ve met him. He came here just after he became the lord of the Mercians, a couple of years after Edington. You talked to him, you liked him. And he said you had the cleverest head he’d ever come across on such young shoulders.”
She had a vague memory of someone tall, someone who’d listened as she explained her father’s plans to build a series of burhs – fortified towns with strong walls, where the people could take shelter in times of danger. She’d enjoyed the attention, she remembered; he had made her feel important.
“I don’t want to go away,” she whispered. “I don’t want to leave here. I don’t want to leave you. You – you need me.”
He rose from his chair, walked over to her, held out his arms.
“I do need you,” he said. “But, my dearest girl, not here. I need you to be my eyes and ears in Mercia. You will always be part of this family, Flaeda, always part of Wessex. But half of you is Mercian already – don’t forget that. You can weave our two countries together in a way that no one else can. Come now – will you help me, as you have always done?”
How could she refuse? She hugged him. But then she stepped back, her hands at her sides, her shoulders straight. “I had better not be called Flaeda any more,” she said clearly. “That’s a little girl’s name. My proper name is Aethelflaed. That’s what everyone must call me from now on.”
And gathering all her dignity about her, she left the room.
Two weeks later, it was time for Aethelflaed and her company to leave for Gloucester, where Aethelred, her future husband, was to meet her. All being well, the journey would take four or five days. They would spend the nights under the stars.
As the road climbed up out of Winchester, Aethelflaed reined in her horse and turned to look down at the city for one last time. Her family was seldom in one place for long, but Winchester was the capital of Wessex; if anywhere was home, this was. She gazed at the hall, and the fine stone minster which was being built close by it. Houses and workshops lined the streets, newly laid out according to Alfred’s design. She sighed. If only some of her family could have travelled with her! But she understood – in these dangerous times it was foolish to travel unless there was no help for it.
Still, she knew all the men who were riding with her. A few of them, like Osric, who was leading the party, had been at Athelney with her – brothers in arms. Her maidservant, Estrid, also rode by her side. The girl looked terrified, and they had only just left home. “What’s the matter, Estrid?” Aethelflaed teased. “Do you think there are raiders waiting to pounce on us?”
“There might be,” retorted Estrid, “and then what should we do?”
“Why,” said Aethelflaed, “we’d fight them. What else? But don’t worry – we shan’t see any so close to Winchester. They’re not that stupid.”
Suddenly, she realised that Osric was awaiting her orders. The whole procession had stopped when she had, and without her say-so, they would not move on. She was in charge. She pulled on the reins, turned resolutely away from home, and leaned forward to pat her horse’s neck. It felt warm, a little rough. The horse snickered in appreciation. “We have a long way to go,” she said. “We had best press on.”
Osric nodded in approval. “North-west then. To Mercia!”
Travelling over the downs, across Wiltshire, they made good time. Aethelflaed loved this country. It reminded her of the ride to Athelney all those years ago. It had been winter when Guthrum and his Viking army had attacked Chippenham. Alfred had been there for Christmas. They had been taken by surprise – no one, aft
er all, fought in the depths of winter. Knowing that he was the one Guthrum was after, Alfred had sent his family south to safety in Winchester, while he himself rode west with just a small band of men to hide in the marshes. He had hunted there as a boy; he knew the secret ways. He knew he would be safe there.
Aethelflaed smiled as she remembered how she had tricked her way into Alfred’s company by dressing as a boy. How angry her father had been when he discovered her! Now she was wearing boy’s clothes again. To her mother’s disgust, she had insisted on it, pointing out how much more practical a tunic and leggings would be for the journey.
Snow had covered the low, curving hills then. Now, in May, the springy turf was starred with violets and cowslips. Kestrels kept their balance with swiftly beating wings, and buzzards soared high up in the blue sky. Aethelflaed shook her dark gold hair free and laughed in delight as she set her horse to a gallop – there was nowhere to hide in this open country, so the danger from raiders was slight.
Four days later, as they drew closer to Gloucester, the lie of the land was very different. The smooth sweep of the downs had given way to secretive wooded valleys and twisting paths. The company fell silent, and Osric sent scouts out ahead. Estrid’s eyes darted from side to side; even the wind rustling in the leaves made her jump nervously.
“Ride behind me,” said Aethelflaed. “You’re making me twitchy!”
“I don’t like these woods,” muttered Estrid. “There could be anything hiding in them – goblins! Or wolves. Or outlaws!”
“If those were all we had to worry about,” said Osric, “I should be well pleased.”
Just as Aethelflaed opened her mouth to answer, she was startled by the sound of a horse crashing through the trees. Osric immediately moved his horse in front of her, drawing his scramasax from his belt as he did so. But it was only one of the scouts.
