by N. M. Browne
‘He has to be with his own kind, cariad, and you must be with yours.’ I know she is being wise in her way, but the she-wolf is not Morcant’s own kind and Bethan and Ger, for all their loving kindness, are not mine. They are not touched by the gods, blighted by gifts they would be happier without. I have more in common with a wolfman than with them. They are good people and do not deserve the abrupt reply that is forming on my lips so I bite it back.
‘You do me honour,’ I say, though my voice sounds thick as if choked by the things I can’t say. ‘Thank you.’
I am greeted as an old friend by Ger’s people. I keep forgetting that they watched over me all the days of my sickness after I nearly consumed myself with fire. I struggle to remember that they know me perhaps too well when I don’t know them at all. They make space for me by their fire, comment on the length of my hair, my prowess in battle, the beauty of the scabbard that Caratacus gave me. They note every difference in me as if I were one of their children and could not be prouder of me if I were. I am warmed as much by their affection as by the fire and I lend the fire a little more heat of my own in gratitude.
It is both a celebration and a wake, for they lost men in the fray and were not able to collect their bodies. They drink to the dead and then to the living. They cry and laugh and sing and then drink again. I cry too, silent, salty tears, but I don’t drink much. I am afraid of what I’ll see if I close my eyes.
After a time I sidle away from the fire to a quiet spot on my own. I take a small bone beaker of wine with me. No one comments as I slink away, though I’m sure my retreat doesn’t go unnoticed. They are not my family. They treat me like a daughter but my family are all dead. If I half closed my eyes around Ger’s fire, I could almost believe I was at home, but I’m not. It is almost harder to sit round his fire than it was to lie in the cold of the Chief’s hall. I miss my own people more than ever before. I thought that wound had healed, but it hasn’t and my tears are for them and for Cerys rather than for the recent dead. I take a sip from my beaker and then pour the rest of the wine on the ground, a libation in their memory and in memory of the enemies whose lives I took today. I can still see their faces. I shut my eyes and try to banish their images to the storehouse of horrors in my head. The hairs rise on the back of my neck and on my forearm and I shiver. The gods are watching; I can feel it. I sense the intense gaze of a thousand unseen eyes.
Knowing that I’m watched without being able to see the watchers is making me jumpy. I take out Ger’s arm ring and immediately the untamed starlit land is alive with the Wild Weird. I have rarely seen so many. They float and flap through the air, crawl and slither at my feet. If they were observing me before, they look away now and go about their own incomprehensible business.
I watch them idly for a while. I know that something is going on, that someone is coming, by the scuttling of the many-legged Weird and the sudden excitement of the flying variety. I unsheathe my sword. I see a small party of cloaked figures a few moments later. One takes the lead and approaches me. There is little light so far from the fire but I can see that he wears a bloodstained cloak of Keltic make. I presume it is another survivor from the battle on the hill. Still I don’t sheathe my sword.
‘It’s a fine blade you have there, and a finer scabbard.’ I recognise the voice at once.
Caratacus.
‘Sir?’
He lets his cloak fall back and I see that it is indeed the King. His face is as pale as the moon and he is bleeding from a head wound. I leap to my feet to help him to the fire, and call out to Ger and Bethan, but he shrugs me away.
‘I’m glad you survived. I heard you acquitted yourself admirably and the earth ran red where you fought. The shapeshifter joined us too, I understand, and added more carcasses to your butcher’s tally.’ I’m amazed that the King should know so much about so small a part of the battle and wonder how he came by such information, but there are much bigger questions to answer.
‘Sir, why are you here?’
‘When the line broke – as I suspected it might – it broke so quickly that the high citadel was overrun and my wife and older children taken in an instant. My men urged me to escape and I have left most of them to free my family.’ He runs his hands through his hair, leaving a trail of blood. He looks defeated. ‘The Romans were looking for me so I swapped cloaks with a tribesman and made my escape. I don’t know if I did right.’
Kings of Caratacus’ status never let their doubt show; whatever they do is right, for who is to gainsay them? I can’t answer him. Perhaps all we can ever do is the least wrong at the time.
I’m about to say something of that sort when I hear the unmistakable cry of a baby.
‘What?’
‘My son’s wet nurse took him and ran when the Romans broke through our defences. She found me and I’ve been looking for someone I could entrust with his care until such a time as I’ve rescued his mother and . . .’
He may be a King but he is also a man and I reach out to touch his shoulder. I hear the rasp of metal as a sword is lifted from its scabbard. I do not shift my hand. Even a King deserves some human comfort.
‘I didn’t know what happened to the child, not till now, but I have seen him in the arms of a loving foster mother. I foresaw it months ago. I didn’t know the child was yours!’
‘He has to be brought up in the ways of our people, kept safe from the canker of Rome.’ Caratacus is babbling, exhausted, overwrought. He puts his hand over mine and I squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. I withdraw my hand and the guard who stands behind the King lets his sword slide back into its sheath.
‘That will be so,’ I say, ‘but now you must come to the fire and eat.’
It is not my place to offer hospitality, but Ger would be horrified if the King was left unwelcomed. He and Bethan are hurrying over to me now. The King looks at me with a kind of wild-eyed hope. ‘You know who will care for my son?’
It is only when Bethan takes the child from his nurse that I am certain. Then there can be no doubt. She holds the baby tenderly in her arms and it is just as I saw her in my vision. She and Ger will raise the child to manhood, I’m sure of it, and he will wield the sword that was briefly mine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Trista’s Story
After the King’s mounts and men are fed and watered and the King has held court at the fireside for a time, he brings a jug of wine and joins me in my quiet spot away from the others.
I think he is a little drunk, or perhaps he is merely exhausted. ‘I would ask something of you, Trista,’ he begins and my heart sinks.
‘Of course, sir . . .’ I cannot argue with a King.
‘I am going to Cartimandua to ask her in person to send your compatriots. Without her forces I cannot trap the legions west of the Sabrina where the land favours us and where the gods are on our side . . .’ His words make my stomach churn with apprehension. I don’t think he should go anywhere near the Brigante Queen. Every instinct cautions against it. I am about to interrupt, but he stops me with a raised hand.
‘Hear me out. I know there are risks and for that reason I charge you with the safekeeping of my son, and of my story. Watch over him for me and make sure that whatever else happens, when the time comes, he knows his heritage.’
Of all the things I thought he would ask me, I didn’t expect this, and of all the responsibilities I was prepared to accept, this is the one that suits me the least. I am a warrior and a seeress, not a nursemaid.
‘Sir, if that is what you command me, then that is what I’ll do, but please do not go to Cartimandua. In all my dreams I have seen you bound, in chains, and handed over to our enemies. Why would I have such dreams if not to warn you, to save you from such a fate?’ My mouth is dry. If he and the Queen are kin, which they may be for all I know, he might cut my tongue out for disloyalty: royalty sticks together when they are not at one another’s throat. I take a deep breath. ‘Sir, I believe the Queen will choose Rome over you. She will betray you.�
�
I see anger in his eyes and note that his hand strays to his sword. The Wild Weird are suddenly still and watching.
‘You cannot know this for sure? Without Cartimandua’s forces we cannot win. If the soldiers of Rome are allowed to advance further west to take Mona, the Sacred Isle, then we’ll be broken.’ He sounds furious, desperate. ‘We have to trap them here while they are still among the Ordovices. The freedom of our people depends on it!’ His hand stays on his sword, but he does not draw it and I do not reach for mine; he is a King after all. ‘You are telling me I must fail. You are not a druid – why should I trust your words?’
I am a little angry myself. I do not endure what I endure to be called a fraud or a liar. ‘My father was chosen for a druid’s path and rejected it. He would not have me follow a way he rejected. But trained or not, I am a seeress. I’ve often wished that I’m not!’
He runs his hands through his hair and rubs his face as if he were a weary, frustrated farmer facing a field of spoiled crops. ‘Trista, it’s not that I don’t believe you are speaking the truth as you’ve seen it, but I have to go to the Queen. She is our only chance of success. I have to hope that you are a worse seeress than you are a warrior.’ My eyes stray towards Bethan and his child. I foresaw that. Caratacus follows my gaze and sighs. ‘If you are right, I have not much time. Listen and remember what I tell you so that you can tell my son.’
He wraps himself in his cloak and settles down to tell me his story. He has a druid’s skill and I can see his life unfold in vivid pictures in my mind’s eye: the wealthy heir, the brilliant war leader and the inspirational fighter for freedom. It is good to have other images in my mind besides the one that has haunted me all my life: Caratacus the prisoner. Why have I been so haunted by his image? Was there something else I was supposed to do to save him?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Trista’s Story
We talk until dawn and then I persuade him to let me ride as escort with him for a time. Caratacus has more to tell me I think, and is easily persuaded that his child is safe with Bethan, Ger and the slave who saved him in the first place. We ride a little ahead of his other men. We ride cross-country, through rough land, over bare hillsides by ancient forest. The place is thick with the Wild Weird and with the old gods too. Have they retreated here as we have done?
‘Don’t ask me to settle with Ger’s men,’ I beg him, for our relationship has changed in our long night of talking. ‘I will visit your son and make sure he’s safe but I don’t think I can live that clan life again. I would be more use fighting with the Ordovices.’
‘I charge you with his care. Fulfil that charge as you see fit. I trust to your honour, Trista. Whatever happens, do not let the tribes forget that we fought the invaders, that we have it in us to be free.’
At noon we find a place to camp. We share a meal and then he gets to his feet and embraces me as a father might a daughter. He hands me his seal ring – a ruby, large as a quail’s egg. ‘Keep this for my son. May the gods bless you, Trista, and remember me.’
My eyes fill with tears at his farewell and to my surprise the Wild Weird who have followed us as if by accident turn as one and bow to him. I know he is riding into my nightmares, into betrayal and humiliation, but I have done all I can to warn him. I cannot do more.
I ride back towards Ger and Bethan and my new responsibility with a heavy heart. I’d hoped to be free.
I don’t have Morcant’s extraordinary senses, but I have good instincts and I have not been riding for long when I grow certain that I am being followed. I rearrange my cloak so that I can reach my sword more easily. There is nothing more that I can do to protect myself against attack, but slip my armband off my arm and offer my earnest prayers to the gods. I am suddenly on battle alert, riding more cautiously, getting ready to defend myself. The Romans will be looking for survivors of the battle.
It grows darker. Clouds the colour of sable cover the sun and the chill seeps through my thick cloak and into my bones. There is no doubt now that in the silence that precedes the storm I can hear the thundering of other hoofs. This borrowed mare is a fine, hardy little beast but not built for speed; if I am chased I am likely to be caught. My best hope seems to lie within the looming forest. I slip from my mount, soothing her with soft words, and lead her into the trees.
It is so eerily still that I am afraid. The darkness threatens to swallow us up, but my mare is placid as well as hardy and keeps moving where I would hesitate. We are entering another realm; my skin prickles and I shiver. I rest my hand on the pommel of my sword for my defence. There is no wind and even the birds are silent. I bring the mare to a halt and she bends her neck to crop the sparse grass. She seems unworried by the odd atmosphere, but I cannot bring myself to step further into the hidden depths of this forest. I am not yet brave enough to see what lies there so I keep the arm ring in my belt pouch. I want the birds to sing. It is as if everything, even the gods themselves, are waiting.
I listen, straining. Sounds carries well in this uncanny, grey world. Even my feeble senses can detect the thunder of several ponies, ridden hard; the sound of their hoofs is crisp and sharp as a drumbeat. I take out my sword. It feels leaden in my hand. Distantly I hear the first rumbling of real thunder, like the deep throaty growling of a wolf. I am cold but my palms are sweaty and I have to wipe them on my cloak. I can hear voices now, speaking my own language, urgent and ill-tempered.
‘Are you sure it is her? I am not riding all this way on a whim.’
‘Lord. Hers is a face I will never forget and both my eyes are sharp.’
The chill in my bones threatens to freeze my blood. I know who pursues me: the pedlar I tried to kill and the Chief I partially blinded. So I did see the pedlar in the throng before the battle. I ought to have guessed that neither of them would let me go. We are bound together. My heart starts to pound faster than the horses’ hoofs, losing all rhythm as if it is about to fail.
I fear that the Chief has brought an entourage, his surviving war band, as well as the pedlar. None of them has any motive for killing me swiftly or cleanly. I did not make things easy for them when last we met. I know the Chief’s nature and he will enjoy making me suffer. Should I run or should I stand? That old, familiar quandary. The decision is taken from me when Lugh himself decides. The thunder booms like the god’s own voice and a moment later forked lightning cracks open a fissure in the cloud. Such a quantity of rain falls from its broken body that I could believe the grey cloud a dam for some heavenly lake. Heavy raindrops patter then pelt the ground. My pursuers bring their mounts to a halt. It is hard to see an arm’s length in front of me in the downpour. I hear them follow me into the wood for shelter.
Icy rain soaks my shawl and so I remove it. It will get in my way and it restricts my vision. I take off my cloak too – it is better for riding than for fighting and I need my hands to be free. My hair is plastered to my head and when I shake it out of my eyes raindrops fly in all directions. I would not be any wetter if I had swum my way to this forest.
The earth of the forest floor is softening to mud and, in hollows, puddles form. This is not good for me. I rely on nimbleness and speed in battle. The clay mud weights my feet as if the earth wants me buried here, and when I finally manage to move the ground is as slippery and unreliable as ice. Perhaps it is the will of the gods that I should die here at the hands of my old enemy? That Caratacus’ tale shall never be told and his son live his life without the protection of my sword.
A wild wind whips up from nowhere, bending the trees like bows and setting their branches thrashing. The whole forest is alive with movement and for a moment I fear that the spirits of the wood will turn on me for trespassing on their holy ground. I feel that I am not alone and when I turn to see what horror I must face, I see the bright yellow eyes of the wolf watching me steadily through the driving rain and storm-grey gloom. It is Morcant. Behind him, cowering a little from the driving rain, is the she-wolf.
Some strange b
lockage forms in my throat that feels like it might become the beginnings of a sob, but I don’t let it go. We look at each other without words for a long moment. His yellow eyes are hard to read and then he comes to stand beside me, just as my enemies crash through the wood on a tide of bad-tempered oaths. It takes them a moment to see me lurking in the shadows, shrouded by the sheets of rain. Then Morcant growls and my enemies’ eyes are on us. I hesitate. How should I engage them? There are only four warriors plus the pedlar – it had sounded like more. The Chief, his missing eye covered by a leather patch, roars and slides from his mount. He has the weight of numbers on his side and doesn’t need to waste time thinking of a strategy. He runs towards us, pulling out his sword, but the ground is treacherous and he falls. I hesitate but Morcant does not. He is there in two sure-footed, four-legged paces and I know that the Chief is finally doomed. His sword has fallen from his hand and lies out of reach, half buried in the soft grey mud. As Morcant’s teeth find his flesh, the Chief screams a cry, equal parts anguish and rage, then Morcant has torn out his throat before he has a chance to raise his sword. The Chief’s men are seconds behind, but they pause at the sight of the massive wolf feasting on their leader. Morcant’s muzzle and fur is bloodstained and when he bares his teeth they too are red. Careful to avoid the Chief’s fate, I don’t run but stride cautiously to Morcant’s side.
‘This is not your fight,’ I shout against the roar of the rain and the grumble of thunder. ‘Can you not see that our gods are against this? What greater sign do you need?’ I think that the Chief’s two men would withdraw. I recognise them. These are the men that we have fought before. They have not forgotten that exchange. They believe that if they try to fight me they will die: I see it in their eyes. I can see them weighing up this chance to leave with their honour still intact. Their hands hover over their sword belts. They do not relish this fight. This is a place for the gods, not for men, and all sensible tribesmen know it.
