Even to the Romans Boudicca was an imposing sight. Queen of the Iceni, her royal bearing was obvious. She was taller than even most men. Long, red hair that fell to her hips flew and swirled like war banners in the fresh breeze. She wore a tunic of red, yellow, and blue, covered by a red woolen cloak that was fastened at her shoulder with a golden knotwork brooch. A heavy gold torc, sign of her authority, circled her neck.
She reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out a large gray hare, holding it high for her battle line to see, her left hand around the long ears, her right under the creature’s buttocks, so the hare was presented upright. Only Boudicca was close enough to see the fright in its eyes. Crossing the stream to the Roman side, to the nervous response of Roman armor, she set the hare down in the grass. Instantly the creature raced along the stream’s bank, stopped, paused a moment looking around and sniffing the air. Suddenly it turned, leaped across the stream on several rocks, and took off toward the rebel line as though it had wings, finding refuge in some tall grass and brambles on the right flank of the line.
Boudicca’s shout was harsh, sending shivers down the backs of all who heard. “Victory is ours!” cried the Queen whose name itself means “Victory.” And the rebel lines cheered. One of her chieftains drove to her side in her chariot. She climbed in and rode back and forth before her ranks, exhorting them to victory. By her side were her two daughters, whose brutal rape by Roman soldiers had helped to spark the revolt. She addressed the battle line not as an aristocrat seeking to recapture her lost wealth, but as one of them, seeking to regain lost freedom. Seeking revenge for the flogging she had been given, and the lost chastity of her young daughters.
“Men of the Iceni and the Trinovantes,” she shouted. “It is a just cause we serve this day, and you have seen by the divination that Andraste has promised us the victory! Though I am a woman I am prepared to fight. If men wish to be slaves, it is their own business!” She turned and charged the Roman line, and her army followed, slowly pressed into a narrow front by the steep sides of the valley.
The mistake was quickly obvious. The rebels had no skill in the tactics of open field combat with broad lines. They had no room to maneuver in any case, and could not bring overwhelming numbers to bear at any point along the line. In the opening charge, thousands fell to the Roman javelins. Gaining quick advantage, the Romans formed a battle wedge and advanced into the rebel ranks. When Boudicca’s forces tried to flee, they were boxed in by their own supply wagons, including the camps of their own families which they had formed in a circle at the rear. The slaughter was massive and quick. Nearly eighty thousand of the rebels fell that day, compared to less than four hundred Romans. Boudicca managed to flee the battlefield, but the tales say she died by poison at her own hands, to avoid capture. None in the battle, nor among those hearing of it in Cadael’s roundhouse at Llan y gelli, knew that in far-off Rome the Emperor Nero had nearly been convinced by the early successes of Boudicca’s uprising to withdraw all Roman forces from the Brythonic lands. As it was, her fall at Manduessedum marked the end of freedom for the tribes, and the beginning of Roman rule.
Rys and Cledwyn finished their report of the battle and were given leave to find food and drink. Cethin left the gloom of the roundhouse for the cold sunlight of the late winter day, seeking a high place along the wooden palisade atop the south embankment where he could breathe fresh air again and clear his mind. What little interest he may once have had in strategy and tactics had disappeared during the night he sat in the forest with his dying father. It was life and death he had come to care about. The healing of the injured in body or in spirit, or the granting of a gentle death. He found a quiet place on the palisade, away from the sentinels, and leaned upon the rough hewn logs. Rolling hills stretched away into the distance, the broad mouth of the Hafren flashed silver in the sun. It was not the success of the opening campaign that held his thoughts, nor the tragedy of the final blunder. It was the horror wrought in the lives of individual people, those who were insignificant in the eyes of generals or historians.
The final tale of Boudicca had begun with such horror, he knew. Had begun with the death of her husband, Prasutagus, only weeks ago. The first wave of Romans had hardly come ashore when Prasutagus capitulated, realizing the Iceni were no match for the Legions on the open plains in the east. This decision supposedly made the Iceni an independent ally of Rome. As was expected, Prasutagus revised his will to make the Emperor co-heir to his kingdom, along with his wife and daughters. But Rome did not recognize the inheritance rights of women, especially the daughters of a Brythonic tribal chieftain. The lands of the Iceni were summarily annexed by the Roman governor as if they were conquered territory. When Boudicca objected, she was brutally flogged, and her daughters raped before her eyes. All family property was confiscated. Prasutagus had lived well on money borrowed from Roman lenders, all of whom called in their loans upon his death in support of the Imperial claim. Boudicca and all the Iceni leading families were left destitute, little better than outlaws. Bristling with desire for revenge, Boudicca accepted the tribes’ request to lead them in revolt, but she and her daughters would bear the scars of injury and humiliation for a lifetime.
“There are herbs for treating lash wounds,” Cethin muttered into the air, “and for dealing with the unwanted offspring of Roman scum.”
But, and this he said in the silence of his heart, there is no medicine for a ruined honour or a broken heart. Had he given Cadael more credit, he might have understood how deeply the Silure chief felt the same way about his own people and the settlement of Llan y gelli. He watched a circle of buzzards wheeling slowly overhead. How long before the rape of Llan y gelli, now? he wondered. Perhaps Fianna would have wisdom to help him understand the sorrow in his heart. He looked once more to the glint of the Hafren in the distance and the misty shadows of the nearer Mendydds beyond. In his heart he felt the marshes of Affalon that lay beyond the hills, out of his sight. He left the palisade, and headed for the healer’s hut.
~
Fianna was stronger every day. The sword wound was healing well after the first setbacks. In midwinter, not long after the wound had closed over, the skin around it began to redden, and became hot to the touch. In spite of all the care Cethin had taken, there was a danger it would putrefy. He had to reopen it, cleanse it, and let the slow healing begin all over again. Now at the approach of the equinox all seemed to be well. With the healing of her flesh, Fianna had begun to feel a lifting of her spirit and sometimes even a lightening of her heart. She was well enough to walk a bit in the forest, and there to visit the graves of the friends whom she had not seen die. Once grief was able to take its course, true healing began to follow.
So it was that Cethin was surprised, upon entering the hut, to find Fianna sitting in the shadows, her face gray as ashes, tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. Having seen the massacre on Ynys Mon with her eyes, she had now seen the slaughter at Meduessedum with the sight of a priestess. Fianna was the only person in Llan y gelli that morning who understood the full tragedy of Boudicca’s defeat. Rome would not now be leaving the Brythonic shores. The Imperial Eagle had come to stay.
“While you were at the council,” she told Cethin, “Sianed came to me in my mind, and Boudicca with her, bruised and bleeding, and feeling the first effects of poison.” With Cethin’s help she struggled from the floor to sit on the edge of her cot. Then, thinking better of it, she lay down, still favoring her side where she had been pierced with the Roman sword. “I am weaker again, Healer,” she said.
“Rest, Mother, I will make some tea of chamomile and valerian.” As he set the water to boil over the small hearth fire, Fianna reached out, and shared the meeting of the three women, in his mind.
Priestess , Sianed had said, it is all the more important now that you return to Affalon before the frosts. The Lady turned to look behind her, and it was then Fianna saw Boudicca as she had died. The Queen had not escaped the battlefield unharmed, to die in peace. The
re were deep gladius wounds across her left thigh and the side of her face. Blood no longer flowed, but caked on her opened skin like black mud. It was then Fianna had slumped against the wall of the hut and fallen slowly to the floor. Boudicca did not speak in words, but in her eyes was deep grief. Just visible behind her were shades of the XIV Gemina; So powerful had been the energy of their attack that they had found their way into this vision with her. She seemed not to notice, or was beyond caring.
Boudicca was nearly successful in saving us, said Sianed. Her march from Camelodunum to Londinium very nearly convinced Nero to withdraw his legions and leave the Brythonic tribes to themselves. Now they will stay, with their arrogance and their violent gods. Already they plan to return to the west country, Fianna. By winter we must draw Affalon deep into the mists. You must return to us by then.
Fianna’s heart grew heavy. My Lady, she answered, if what you see is true, the Silures will stand alone. I will be well enough to travel by midsummer, but I need time to teach the Marsh Tales to Cethin. She paused, hesitated, looking to the shade of Boudicca standing beside Sianed. My Lady, it is worse than you know in the countryside. Our own people become as savage as the Romans. She let her mind wander through the tales from Camelodunum and Londinium, sharing with Sianed images of burning homes, of Brythons crucified by Brythons or burned at the stake. The agony that filled her shook even Sianed in far-off Affalon. She is not completely a hero, My Lady. She has slain more among the tribes than among the soldiers of Rome. Again Fianna turned her gaze upon the Iceni Queen. Her agony turned to anger, the anger of a young priestess who for many years cared for and taught the young children on Ynys y Niwl. And in that anger judgment wrestled with compassion. You are courageous Boudicca Queen, she said evenly. But you have brought the end upon us. As if in response, the once powerful Iceni leader faded from the vision, as she would for many generations fade from Brythonic memory.
Fianna turned again to Sianed. My Lady, give me more time with Cethin. I need more time if I am to leave the wisdom of the Tales in the world.
Sianed’s voice was soft, bearing concern rather than command. Only do not tarry overlong Fi, she said, if you wish to find Ynys y Niwl once more.
~
“Mother, here is your tea,”
Cethin’s voice roused Fianna from her reverie, and she
rose to sit again on the edge of her cot. The vision had taken much from her. She was tired, and cold. The tea warmed her hands as well as her belly. For some time she sat, sipping quietly, Cethin sitting on the low stool beside her where he had so often sat to tend her wounds. Would the wounds within ever heal, she wondered? And what wounds awaited Cethin, the young Dubh-bunadh healer in service to the proud Silure tribe?
In the silence of the hut Fianna said, “Cadael wants to avenge the Iceni defeat.” At first Cethin thought it was a question, then remembered he often could not explain how she knew things. “It is a foolish hope,” she said.
“Cadael has stood alone in the west since the defeat of Caradoc,” Cethin offered. It has been along struggle. He knows he is not strong enough to take the fight to the Romans. He fears he is not strong enough to defend his own lands. The hills and forests are his best allies, and he uses them well against the small Roman units able to enter. But for a man who would lead armies in battle, forest skirmishes are an unsatisfactory substitute.”
Fianna sighed quietly. “Cadael is motivated by pride. Or at best by patriotism, which is another form of pride. You, Healer, are motivated by compassion. That is perhaps nobler, but equally as unhelpful. Cadael looks at Boudicca and sees the next battle to be fought. You look at her and see individuals, on both sides, whose lives have been destroyed. In Boudicca My Lady sees the land, which was from the beginning and will be always, seeking to be at peace, to remain unstained by the violent blood and tears of hatred, to be left in peace to bring forth life, and to shelter the dead.”
“But, Mother, surely that is all connected?”
“Surely it is,” said Fianna, “but those with responsibilities seldom see it. Nor do they wish to have it shown to them”
“My responsibility is herbs,” Cethin answered. They work well with individual patients,” his gaze went to Fianna’s side, “but are of no avail in the struggle of tribes and empires.”
“Cethin,” she said, using his name rather than his title, “You are a greater healer than you know, but you will soon need more than herbs for the healing of your people.” She handed him her cup. “More tea is needed, young Healer, if you are to learn the Marsh Tales of Affalon.”
Chapter Six
Marsh Mallows and Marsh Tales
“We will not find marsh mallows in these hills, I suppose,” said Fianna. They grow everywhere along the shores of Ynys y Niwl.”
“Later in the year, when they come into bloom, I collect some in the salt marshes along the Hafren channel,” Cethin answered. “Sometimes we find a few in the bogs nearby, when their seeds have wandered north. Not enough to gather for healing purposes, but the children love to spy out their pink blossoms at midsummer.”
The days had begun to warm, and Cethin allowed Fianna to roam farther afield from the gates of Llan y gelli. They shared healing knowledge, gathering herbs together in the woods and clearings of the old forest. Fianna enjoyed their talks. Some of her earliest charges on Ynys y Niwl would have been as old as Cethin now, so it was like seeing them actually grown up. She thought of little Marni helping to collect sunwort on Bryn Fyrtwyddon. He would now be . . . No, she realized, he would still be ten summers younger than the young healer at her side. Had it been only fifteen summers since she had last been with the community on Ynys y Niwl? It seemed to her as lifetimes ago. And Cethin, she knew, seemed young to her only in comparison to the age settling into her own heart. Yet he was to her very much like a son of her own that she never had.
In a sheltered clearing warmed by the noon sun they sat down to eat and sort their early harvest.
“Mallows are usually not much help to me,” said Cethin, continuing the thought. “They are good for shallower cuts, not the sort Silure fighters usually come home with.” He was separating new, green sunwort leaves - perhaps that is why she had thought of Marni - from their stems, and placing them in a small bag. “When the Romans return we will need all the sunwort we can find.”
“Or comfrey,” Fianna suggested, “if only it could heal the spirit from within, as it does the flesh.”
When they had done with their sorting they lay back against the bole of a giant old oak, listening to the wind in the branches, watching gathering clouds in the west that promised a storm soon.
“Tell me about the Marsh Tales,” Cethin said. “Are they all like Morla’s?”
“Yes and no,” answered Fianna. “For they come from different times and many places. Some are happy, many are sad, but they are remembered because they bear the ancient wisdom of Affalon.
Cethin leaned forward, resting his arms upon raised knees, his head in his hands. “Wisdom about Affalon, or wisdom from Affalon for others? We need much wisdom of our own these days.”
“Both,” she said. “The wisdom of Affalon is timeless and knows no earthly boundaries. But the tales are truly tales of the old marshes, and have their origins there.
“I am now the last person in the wide world outside of Affalon who knows these tales, Cethin. They must not be lost forever. You must learn them, and pass them on to others, if you will. No one from outside the marshes has ever heard them before. You are the first.”
It had been growing darker as they spoke and, finally, the first drops of rain began to fall through the bare tree branches. Cethin looked down at the ground, watching the drops splashing upon the dry leaves.
“Why me? Why a Dubh-bunadh herbalist living among the Silures this far from the marshes?”
“One might say it is because you are available,” Fianna smiled. “Or that you are in the right place at the right time. But in the marshes we understand the meaning of cur
rents, Cethin. You were brought to Llan y gelli on one such current, I on another.”
Cethin rose and offered her his hand. “That is good enough explanation for me, I suppose. But first we must keep you warmer, and much drier.” She stood, with his help, and they headed for the gate.
As they came out of the forest they passed a small bog.
“Look, Cethin, there!” Fianna pointed to the edge of the bog, but Cethin saw nothing save the brown tangle of last summer’s vegetation. He followed her off the path, looking to the clouds and trying to determine how far away the heavy rainfall might be. Her hand on his shoulder brought his gaze back to earth.
“Mallow,” she said, simply, and squatted before the matted tangle of brown stems. Cethin knelt beside her, but still could see nothing.
“See,” she said, lifting some of the dead stalks. “They die back in the autumn. But see, the young green shoots are just starting to come forth.” She brushed aside the old vegetation and fallen leaves, and there among the brown tangle were the new shoots. Brushing a little uncovered the tell-tale mass of avoiding the new growth, Fianna covered the roots and broke off part of a brown stalk that still bore several leaves and a hollow crescent seed pod.
“Come, Healer,” she said, standing. “I will tell you about marsh mallows, and then about marsh tales.”
The rain began falling in earnest as they entered the gate of Llan y gelli.
~
When they had dried themselves and restored the hearth fire, Fianna spread the old marsh mallow plant out on Cethin’s cutting board.
“In the marshes we call this plant cwbl-iechyd for its powers of healing,” she said. “They say whoever eats a bit of mallow leaf shall that day be free of all illness.”
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