Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  of the invoking priestess, but the Oracle prophesying doom. She had

  forgotten Lhiannon’s training. Perhaps the priestess had forgotten it

  herself.

  “What does the High King say?” she asked.

  Prasutagos shook his head. “Antedios is an old man, and ill. We

  have no war leader to match Caratac. The king is without a son, and

  your father, who is his tanist, is also old. The High King has ordered

  that we comply.”

  “You are not old,” growled Lhiannon.

  “Would you have me rebel against my king and the Romans, too?

  We would be as divided as the southern clans.”

  “Shall I summon Caratac here to lead you?” she spat. “You are all

  old women, and you will be sorry you did not heed my words!” She

  stalked out the door.

  Boudica stifled a burst of hysterical laughter at the image of Caratac

  manifesting here by the fire. Lhiannon could probably do it, given the

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  mood she was in just now. Boudica could almost hear the fi ery speeches

  and the fury of the mob’s reply.

  “Perhaps . . .” murmured Prasutagos, “but I am a king for peace,

  and what is needed now is a leader of war . . .”

  I cannot stay here . . . thought Lhiannon.

  She sat by the cauldron in the roundhouse, a veil bound across the

  betraying sigil on her forehead and a shawl around her shoulders, stirring

  the soup in the cauldron that hung above the fi re. The first of the spring

  greens had gone into it—tender new nettles and dandelion to eke out the

  salted beef from their dwindling stores. But it was still winter in her soul.

  She could hear the tramp of hobnailed sandals and men’s deep voices

  outside, and the clatter of steel and bronze as swords and shields and

  spearheads were cast upon the pile.

  I came here to get away from warfare, but this is not peace, it is death . . .

  Boudica sat across from her, nursing the child. Rigana was mostly

  weaned, but when she was anxious she still sought her mother’s breast.

  They winced at each clash of metal, but Lhiannon’s slow fury boiled

  beneath a layer of ice. Prasutagos had no choice but to watch the confi s-

  cations, if only to control the fury of his men. She hoped that each

  sword struck him to the heart as it fell.

  She started as the heavy hide that hung across the doorway was

  pulled aside. Light shafted across the center of the roundhouse as the

  Roman agent Pollio came in, backed by a legionary in a cuirass of over-

  lapping plates like a centipede who held a round helmet with a flared

  neck-guard under his arm.

  “I beg pardon, ladies,” he said in surprisingly good British, “but my

  orders require me to search the house as well—”

  Boudica rose to her feet, the sleeping child still in her arms. “I un-

  derstand,” she said sweetly, but there was a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

  It was just as well they had tied Bogle securely by the horse pen. He was

  as dangerous as any steel, if the Romans had only known.

  Pollio gestured, and the soldier moved hesitantly around the hearth,

  lifting covers and looking under chests. Lhiannon continued to stir the

  stew, drawing anonymity around her like a veil.

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  When he touched the curtains around the bed- place, Boudica stiff -

  ened. “Don’t forget the mattress! We Celts are such hardy barbarians,

  we sleep on spears. And why confine yourselves to the furniture,” she

  added. “Search here in my bosom! I might be hiding a dagger.” She

  pulled down the front of her wrap, still unpinned from nursing, to bare

  a white breast. The soldier gaped and turned his back, and Pollio col-

  ored up to his hairline. “Or perhaps you would like to look in my baby’s

  clouts to see if we have concealed a spearhead inside!”

  “No, my lady, I know that you and your husband are friends to

  Rome,” said Pollio. He muttered something to the soldier, who turned,

  looking relieved.

  He would have seen nothing in the bed, thought Lhiannon. Were

  they really so naïve as to think weapons would be hidden where they

  could so easily be found? The legionary would not discover Prasuta-

  gos’s sword unless he could handle coals as she had learned to do on

  Mona. They had wrapped the heirloom weapons in oiled leather and

  buried them deep beneath the hearth. Let the goddess who guarded

  the family fire keep them until the time came to use them once

  more.

  And that day will come. As Pollio and his minion retreated Lhiannon

  glared at their backs. Those swords will drink Roman blood as now we drink

  Roman wine . . .

  She had believed she was done with war. She had thought herself

  cut off from prophecy. Awareness of both stirred in her now.

  I have stayed here too long . . .

  The strangers came limping up the track just as the sun was rising.

  By the time they reached the gate, Bogle’s flurry of barking had awak-

  ened the entire steading. Boudica pulled a shawl over her shift and

  stumbled sleepily to the door, gripping the dog’s collar. At her word, his

  barking modulated to a subliminal growl.

  There were three of them, with young bodies and faces prematurely

  old. One had his arm in a sling. Another had a stained cloth around his

  head. Together they were supporting the third, whose leg bore bloody

  bandages from ankle to thigh.

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  “Lhiannon,” she said over her shoulder, “come quickly. We have

  wounded men.”

  “Lady . . .” said the one with the hurt arm, “of your mercy, do you

  have any food, and is there a hidden place we could lie? We would not

  bring trouble upon you—with sunset we will be on our way—”

  “That you will not!” exclaimed Boudica. “You are no more fi t to

  travel than my little girl. Come into the house—none here would betray

  you, but there’s no telling who may be about—you are not the fi rst refu-

  gees to come this way.” Since the order to disarm had been announced

  some had chosen to leave their homes rather than give in.

  But these were not merely refugees fleeing a Roman advance, she

  thought with a sinking heart as she helped them inside. These men had

  seen battle, and that not long ago.

  The man with the broken arm was called Mandos. He came from a

  small farm not far from the dun where Boudica had been born. Of his

  companions, the one with the knock on the head was Trinovante and

  the man with the wounded leg from near the coast somewhere. They

  had not known each other before the battle, he said. They had ended up

  hiding in the same thicket and had been together since then.

  By the time the three were fed and washed, Prasutagos had arrived.

  Lhiannon was tending the man with the wounded leg, who was fevered,

  but the others seemed recovered enough to tell their story.

  “I am glad you are here, sir,” said Mandos. “The gods know what

  stories are going around. I know you did not think we could win, and

  perhaps you we
re right . . .” With the grime washed off, he looked

  barely eighteen, two years older than Boudica’s younger brother, whom

  she prayed her father had kept out of the rebellion.

  “Perhaps,” said Prasutagos quietly. “But it may be that you were

  right to try. What happened?”

  “It should have worked!” his companion put in. “Our war leader

  was a man of the fens who knew the way to an old earthwork on a islet

  of raised land there. He figured we could lead the Romans there, where

  the ground would be no good for their cavalry, and wear them out as

  they attacked us.”

  Mandos nodded agreement. “But the Roman commander was a

  fox, too. He dismounted his men and they rushed us. The ramparts

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  turned into a trap once the Romans were inside. We were trampling

  over each other, trying to get out. Some of the local people had taken

  refuge with us. There were old men . . . children . . . they slaughtered

  them all. That was four days ago.” He took another drink of nettle

  broth. “We could only travel at night. By day the Roman patrols were

  hunting those who got away.”

  “You are safe here,” said the king. “We will fi nd households where

  you can stay.”

  Mandos shook his head, his young face grim beyond its years. “I

  thank you, lord. Our friend with the bad leg must certainly bide. But

  this Trinovante fool and I will go on until we reach a land where we are

  allowed to wear our swords!” He caressed the battered blade at his side.

  “Perhaps there will be others from the Society of Ravens there.”

  Boudica saw her husband wince, and this time it was she who could

  find no words.

  Three days after the two young warriors had left, the third man

  died. At sunset they buried him near the Horse Shrine with his cher-

  ished sword in his hand. As they were walking back to the farmstead, a

  horseman came over the hill. He bore no signs of battle, but his face was

  grim.

  “My lord Prasutagos, you are summoned to Dun Garo.”

  “Has the king called another council? I thought I had already made

  my opinion clear!”

  “My lord, King Antedios is dead. It is the Roman governor who has

  summoned you and all the surviving chieftains of the Iceni clans.”

  “I suppose he died of a broken heart,” said Boudica when the mes-

  senger had been sent to Palos’s farm for food and rest. She started up the

  track to Danatobrigos and Prasutagos, who had been silent since he

  heard the news, followed her. “Antedios will have known most of those

  who fell. I probably played with some of them when I was a child.” De-

  spite Lhiannon’s tales of the war in the south, it was hard to imagine that

  young men who should be riding horses and siring children could so

  easily die.

  For a few minutes they walked in silence, but in the king’s eyes she

  glimpsed the glitter of tears. “Well, don’t you think so? Say something!

  Don’t you dare turn into a stone again!”

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  “Don’t you think my heart is wounded, too?” Prasutagos burst out

  suddenly. “Ever since those young men came through our gate, I’ve

  been wondering if I should have joined the rebellion, if it might have

  gone differently with a few wiser heads to lead them, or at least with a

  few more swords!”

  “And it might be you lying dead in the fens if you had gone,” she

  responded. “And then what would we do?”

  He stopped in the path, his gaze following a scattering of crows as

  they winged across the fields. “You got along without me quite well last

  year and the year before,” he said softly, still watching the birds. “I

  know that you tolerate my presence only for the sake of the child . . .”

  “That isn’t true!” Boudica exclaimed, and wondered suddenly when

  her feelings had changed. Prasutagos stood very still, head bowed, and

  she did not dare to break his silence. She crossed her arms across her

  breasts, feeling a little cold.

  After a few moments, he began to walk again. “I think that if I had

  been there,” he said in a low voice, “I might have helped them to win

  the battle, but we would still have lost the war. Caratac was right—the

  time for the tribes to unite was four years ago, before the Roman eagles

  had sunk their talons into this land. All we can do now is to make the

  best accomodation we can.”

  Now he stopped and faced her, a silhouette against the fading sky.

  “My lady, do you agree with me?”

  Boudica looked at him in confusion. Why did it matter what she

  thought about anything? No doubt Lhiannon would say they should

  keep fighting, but she still remembered the agony in the face of that

  poor boy as he died. Wasn’t peace, even with attendant inconveniences,

  better than that waste of men?

  “Yes, my lord, I do.”

  “I must go down to Dun Garo,” he said soberly. “Your father was

  Antedios’s tanist, but he is old. Of the royal kindred I am next in blood,

  and I think they will try to make me king of the united tribe. The Ro-

  mans will allow it only if they trust my commitment to them. I don’t

  want this, but it may be the only way to keep what inde pendence we

  have.”

  Isolated on the farm, until the order to disarm, Boudica had been

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  able to pretend that it was possible to live without being troubled by

  Rome. But Prasutagos had not had that luxury.

  “When I leave, will you come with me, Boudica?”

  She could not see his eyes. She reached out to reassure herself that

  the words came not from a shadow but from a living man, and felt the

  hard muscle of his forearm quiver beneath her hand.

  “I will, my husband. I promise you.”

  L hiannon untied the roll of bedding and laid it out next to Boudi-

  ca’s. The roundhouse assigned to the queen and her women was barely

  large enough for them all, and none too clean, but she and Temella had

  managed to make it habitable. Whoever became High King, they would

  have to stay at least until Beltane was past.

  She looked up as a shadow fell across the open doorway.

  “It is you!” said a voice she ought to know. “Someone said you had

  been seen—I can hardly believe it’s true!”

  As Lhiannon got to her feet she recognized Belina, with the same

  comfortable figure, though there were new strands of gray in her

  hair.

  “We’ve counted you lost these three years after Rianor reported that

  you had disappeared from Avalon,” said the priestess. “We set a place for

  you at Samhain, child. We thought you dead, or gone into Faerie—

  don’t look so surprised—you’re not the first to have met the queen of

  that land.”

  “I’ve been serving the queen of this one.” Lhiannon found her voice

  at last.

  Belina laughed. “Come out of those shadows and let me see you,

  darling! Still thin as a wraith—don’
t they feed you in those fens? But

  you look healthy, Goddess bless.”

  Lhiannon blinked as she emerged into the light. Dun Garo buzzed

  like a hive as the clans continued to come in. Men were dragging in logs

  to build the great Beltane fire in the meadow. Tents had sprouted in

  colorful disarray all over the farther pastures. On the other side of the

  river a palisade enclosed the neat rows of leather tents that housed the

  Roman governor and his men, a mute but eloquent reminder that

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  although the clan fathers might elect their new High King, they had

  better not acclaim anyone not approved by Rome.

  “But you don’t need to wear that band across your brow.” Belina

  plucked at the scarf Lhiannon had tied to cover the crescent of Avalon.

  “Even if they knew what it means, the Roman pigs don’t care what

  women do. And so far, no one has tried to enforce the ban on the Druid

  Order here.”

  Lhiannon wondered if Belina had always chattered so, or did she need

  the words to cover her emotion at this unexpected reunion?

  “We should have expected that you would go to Boudica,” the other

  woman went on. “She was always your pet when she was at the school.”

  “What are you doing here?” Lhiannon got a word in at last. “Who

  else has come? Is Helve—”

  “Oh no! Surely you don’t think our beloved High Priestess would risk

  herself among the enemy, though she is willing enough to send the rest of

  us out to foment rebellion here—the other senior priestesses, that is.”

  Lhiannon laughed. It sounded as if little had changed. “Is that what

  you are here for? You’ll have no luck among the Iceni—their teeth are

  well and truly drawn, and Prasutagos is not a man to risk what he still

  has,” she added bitterly. The king had not listened when her arguments

  might still have done some good. Now they did not speak at all.

  “Does he cling so to power?” asked Belina.

  “Not to power,” Lhiannon answered honestly. “To peace. Boudica

  would make a better war leader than he would, had she been a man.”

  Belina nodded. “But will she make a queen? There is more to con-

  ferring kingship than an election. The transfer of sovereignty is women’s

  business. It is best if the queen can do the rite, but we did not know if

  Boudica would be able. How much does she remember of what she was