afraid. You know I had a wife who died . . . giving birth to my child.
When I saw that you were bearing I armored my heart lest I be hurt
again.”
“And then the baby died.” Boudica said flatly. She could not yet for-
give, but she was beginning to understand. But I have been hurt, too, and
I am not yet ready to put down my shield.
“Silence becomes a habit,” he said then. “But I will try.”
C hortling in triumph, Rigana fi xed her chubby fi ngers in Bogle’s
fur and pulled herself upright, watched narrowly by Nessa, who was
still not quite convinced that the big dog would not turn and eviscer-
ate the child. Only last year Bogle had still been half a puppy himself,
but once the baby arrived he seemed to have decided that she was an
extension of Boudica, and therefore entitled to boundless patience. As
soon as her infant fi ngers were able to grasp they had closed on Bogle’s
fur. He had become something to climb on as soon as she could crawl.
And now that she was on the verge of walking, the dog was a portable
support, with bared teeth to discourage any stranger who came too
near.
And today there were many, thought Lhiannon, twisting more wool
around her distaff and continuing to spin. Beyond the fence the stubbled
field had sprouted a new crop of tents and shelters as the Northern Iceni
clans arrived for the autumn council and horse fair. The Romans com-
plained that the Britons were without civilization because they had no
cities, but she realized now that these gatherings were the Celtic equiva-
lent, manifesting when and where they were required. Here were traders
selling cloth and jewelry and leather shoes, and vessels of copper and Ro-
man glass. Blacksmiths and woodworkers plied their trade. Cattle for
meat and milk grazed with the horses that were the reason they had all
come.
It was the first time the clan council had been held here. Since Rig-
ana was born Prasutagos had lived at the farm by the Horse Shrine. Not
even for the council would he return to Eponadunon while his wife and
child were here. They saw him often, and although Boudica had not yet
invited him to share her bed, she was still nursing the child, so no one
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really expected it. They sat together now, listening to the messenger
from King Antedios at Dun Garo.
“It is certain, then, that Governor Plautius will be returning to
Rome?” asked the king.
“His term is finished, and they do not like to leave men in place too
long, lest they begin to think the land belongs to them and not to the
Empire.”
“This sun is too bright for my old head,” said Nessa. “My lady, shall
I take the babe inside?” Rigana and her canine servitor had maneuvered
themselves halfway across the yard. The child was sitting between his
paws, gathering the energy for another attempt to master the balance
that enabled the adults to get around so easily.
“She is well enough where she is,” said the queen. “We are here to
watch her. You should go into the shade.”
“Hmph,” muttered the old woman as she turned toward the round-
house. “You named that child after a queen and she is growing up to
think she is one. She must learn she can’t always do as she wills, or mark
my words, you’ll have trouble one day!”
That might be so, reflected Lhiannon as the thread spun out be-
tween her skillful fingers, but as Nessa prophesied disaster of one sort or
another daily, her words were rarely marked at all.
“Who comes after him?” asked Boudica.
“A man called Publius Ostorius Scapuola is being sent, but he can-
not arrive much before winter, and that is no time to be starting a cam-
paign, so we may have peace for a while . . .”
“Here, certainly,” Prasutagos sighed. “We have paid enough to
make them leave us alone . . .”
Indeed, the day was too beautiful to think about war. The heavens
always seemed wider up on the shoulders of the chalk hills, an expanse
of blue crossed by a few wisps of cloud, as if some of the wool had es-
caped from her basket into the sky. From beyond the hedge came a
thunder of hoof beats as some of the younger men practiced for the
races that would be held the next day. Yesterday they had raced with
chariots. Lhiannon had not been there—her memories of the last charge
of the Trinovante chariots still held too much pain. She supposed she
ought to have watched. The Britons were the only people who still
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used chariots, and who knew when anyone would see such a spectacle
again.
Someone shouted, and the hoof beats grew abruptly louder. Spindle
and distaff flew from Lhiannon’s hands as a hysterical horse plunged
through the gateway. The animal half-reared as its rider fought for con-
trol, sharp hooves striking a pace from the child. The adults were out of
their seats and running as the dog leaped for the horse.
The rider went flying into the fence and the horse went down,
screaming. Blood splattered as sharp teeth ripped at its throat. Prasuta-
gos scooped up his daughter and passed her to Lhiannon, who ran for
the house. Boudica, seeing her child safe, turned to the dog, which was
snarling horribly as he tried to reach the jugular.
“Bogle! Leave it! She’s safe, lad. Leave it now!”
Lhiannon, hovering in the doorway with Rigana in her arms, lifted
an eyebrow. This was no spindle to be rescued from a puppy’s jaws.
Could even Boudica’s voice penetrate the fury that ruled the animal
now? Bogle’s leap had been amazing. For him to release his grip and
stand trembling, jaws streaming red as Boudica called him again, was a
miracle.
Murmuring softly, Boudica waited until the madness left his eyes.
Then she got a grip on his collar and led him slowly past a gathering
crowd to the horse trough, where she filled his water bowl. The water
turned red when he thrust his muzzle in. She filled it again and emptied
it over his head, then let him drink until he shook the water from his fur
and ambled off toward the roundhouse as if wondering why everyone
was fussing.
Prasutagos was speaking to the rider, who had picked himself up
and was sputtering excuses to anyone who would listen. The king’s
voice was low and controlled as always, but Lhiannon had never
heard that vibration of fury in it before. The rider slunk off , and Pra-
sutagos knelt by the horse, which lay twitching and bleeding on the
ground.
As he laid a hand on the soft muzzle the horse convulsed; a swing-
ing forehoof knocked the king across the yard. Eoc ran toward him.
After a few moments he stirred, waving the man away, and moving very
carefully, approached the horse once more, this time from behind. The
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dog had not severed the great artery, but the animal’s neck was too torn
to repair. Steel fl ickered as someone handed a knife to the king.
“So, so . . . my beauty,” he murmured, kneeling stiffly as Eoc watched
with worried eyes. “ ’Twas not your fault, even so. Go now to Epona to
run in her green fields, where no fool of a rider will do you wrong. Sleep,
now, my hero.” He laid one hand across the horse’s eyes and the beast
stilled. The blade struck once, deep beneath the jaw, and then across.
The king leaned back as the horse jerked, blood pouring out in a crimson
stream, and then subsided into immobility.
By this time Rigana’s yells had dwindled into an occasional sniffl
e.
Lhiannon handed her to Boudica and started forward as Eoc put out a
hand to help Prasutagos stand.
The king took a step, bit his lip, tried to straighten, and stopped,
breathing carefully.
“Come here,” said Lhiannon.
“I’m all right,” he muttered, not meeting her eye.
“Of course you are,” the priestess said genially. “Now come here so
I can see.” She put a touch of the priestess voice into it, and Prasutagos
looked up in surprise. She could see him considering, then, with a sigh,
he turned toward her.
“Shall I help him into the house?” asked Eoc.
Lhiannon shook her head. “Bring a blanket out here and lay him
down. I will need light.”
By the time they had pulled off his tunic and gotten the king on his
back on the blanket he was pale and sweating. A fine golden stubble
glistened on his chin. Boudica hovered indecisively, Rigana in her arms.
On the left side, the skin above the king’s lower ribs showed the red
mark of a hoof. The fl esh around it was already discolored and swelling.
He would have a most colorful bruise there before too long.
Closing her eyes, Lhiannon held her palm above the area to identify
the point where the energy body was most disturbed. Then, using eyes
and fingertips, she began to probe along the ribs.
After a moment she sat back and frowned. “You are a warrior, my
lord, and by definition brave. But I can learn little if you insist on hiding
your pain. Where does it hurt most? There?” she poked gently. “There?”
She nodded as he yelped. “Yes, I thought so . . . You have a broken rib
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or two, and are lucky your ribs were there to ward what lies within. We
will bind them, but you should not be riding horses for a moon or so.
Temella—” she turned to the girl, “—I’ll need my healer’s bag, and you
should start water boiling for willow bark tea.”
By the time Lhiannon had finished strapping Prasutagos’s ribs, he
was pale once more. Most of the onlookers, seeing that the excitement
was over, had drifted away.
“Thank you,” he whispered as Eoc helped him to rise. “You have
good hands.”
“The way you calmed that poor horse was remarkable,” she replied.
“If you talked to your wife half as much as you talk to your horses,
many things would have been different these past two years.” His twitch
at that was not from physical pain. It was not quite fair to speak so when
he lacked the breath to reply, but she had earned the right. It would give
him something to think about as he waited for his ribs to heal.
And Lhiannon, too, had something to consider. The messenger from
Dun Garo had said that Caratac was in the Ordovice lands with his wife’s
kin, preparing to take advantage of the governor’s absence to punish the
Dobunni and Cornovii who had allied with Rome.
She had thought the cause for which she and Ardanos had endured
so much was dead. Did she betray his memory by staying here in safety
with those whom Caratac would call traitors? She was useful here, but it
was work that any village wisewoman could do. Should she return to
Mona, or go to Caratac and take up the fi ght once more?
F I F T E E N
Do you think the king will be home soon?” asked Temella.
Boudica slapped the weaving sword down between the warp threads
and swore as the weft thread wound around the shuttle broke. It would
do no good to scream at the girl for asking. In truth, Boudica herself was
not sure why the question annoyed her. She ought to have been glad
that Prasutagos was still with Antedios the High King at Dun Garo. To
have him so very much underfoot this last winter while his broken ribs
were healing had driven her half crazy, though she had tried to hide it
for the sake of the child.
It had not helped that where the king was, there came the messen-
gers, and disturbing news continued to trickle in. The new governor
had apparently never heard that winter operations were impossible, and
attacked with such vigor that Caratac was forced to retreat northward
into the inaccessible mountains that held the Ordovice strongholds.
That should have been the end of it, but just after the feast of Brigantia
a rider came galloping from Dun Garo, calling Prasutagos to an emer-
gency council of the tribe.
And now a moon had passed. If there had been an accident surely
Eoc or Bituitos would have come to tell them. What could the council
have to discuss that would take so long? And why did she grow more
uneasy with each day her husband was gone? Boudica sighed and began
to separate the broken ends of the yarn so that she could spit-splice
them together again. It would be a little lumpy, but the weaving could
go on.
She was to remember that observation in the days after Prasutagos
came home.
When Bogle’s barking brought them all out to greet the returning
riders she thought at first that the king must have suff ered some wound.
Even when his ribs were at their worst he had not looked so gray and
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grim. Nessa brought him a horn of mead, and poured him another after
he drank the first one down. But it was Bituitos who had to tell them
the news.
“The Romans have taken our land, our grain, and our gold. Now
they are taking our swords!” He saw the confusion in their faces and
laughed without humor. “They want us to disarm. This governor fears
that if we have weapons we will join Caratac. He has ordered everyone
on this side of the border they call the limes to give up all weapons of
war—the conquered tribes and the allied tribes as well.”
“They can’t,” exclaimed Boudica. “We have a treaty. How can we
be their allies if we cannot fi ght at need?”
“They can . . .” Prasutagos spoke at last. “Cohorts are already going
through the Trinovante steadings, commanding men to bring out their
weapons, and if they are not convinced by what is put on the pile they
tear up the thatching and stab their spears into the stored grain. They
will be here before the Turning of Spring.”
“The soldiers who are building the fort have conscripted the local
farmers as laborers to build their walls. Some of the Trinovantes are al-
ready planning rebellion. Many of our southern chieftains and princes
want to join them,” Eoc said f
iercely. “Some are banding together in a
secret group to plan resistance—they call it the Society of Ravens.”
Boudica shivered, remembering how the Lady of Ravens had spo-
ken though her long ago. If they wanted her as their patroness, they must
be desperate indeed.
“Are we going to fi ght?” Temella’s eyes had grown very round.
The king looked at her and tried to smile. “Whether to resist or
comply is what we were discussing for so long . . .”
“You cannot give up your father’s sword,” Boudica exclaimed. The
sword that had come down to Boudica’s father had been lost with her
oldest brother at the Tamesa. With it not only his son, but the symbol of
his family’s honor, had gone.
“No . . . but I see no hope in fighting Rome. We will have to give
them enough to be convincing, but we will save the weapons that have
been blessed by the gods.”
“You will give in?” cried Lhiannon. “Don’t you see that this is our
chance to take back what we have lost?”
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Boudica stared at her. They had lived here in peace for so long—
these days Lhiannon no longer even wore blue. She had assumed that
like the rest of them the priestess had become resigned to living under
the yoke of Rome. But even now, Lhiannon would sometimes wake
screaming from nightmares of the war in the south.
“This Roman pig is right to fear! While Caratac hits them in the
west, the south and east may rise. Only when something that outrages
all our people equally happens will they forget old enmities! If we had
been able to get all our people fighting on the same side we would not
have lost four years ago.”
Lhiannon’s eyes were white-rimmed, her fair hair stood on end.
This was not the beloved friend but some avenging spirit that stood
shrieking above the fire. The blood pulsed in Boudica’s ears.
“I fear to imagine what further disaster would be required to
arouse our spirit if we let this opportunity pass us by,” Lhiannon added.
“And if that should come to pass, what could we do? We will have no
weapons to fight with, no young warriors trained to the use of arms!
There will be blood! I see blood and ruin if you do not seize this
chance!”
Boudica’s gut clenched as she realized that this was not the mask
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