no reason to ever want a man. But if you do not know that for the past
two weeks your little Tilla has been sharing her blankets with Caw, you
are blind indeed!”
The flush staining Argantilla’s fair skin as she glared at her sister told
Boudica all she needed to know.
“You take life,” the girl protested, turning to her mother again. “I’d
rather give it. I have loved Caw since we were children, and when I was
weeping because the Roman pigs had defiled me he comforted me.
When his arms are around me, I am perfect and whole.”
Boudica gazed at her helplessly, shaken by a surge of longing as she
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remembered how she had been completed in Prasutagos’s arms. If Ar-
gantilla had found such a love, should she forbid it? Could she?
“You are royal women of the Iceni,” she said weakly. “We do not
marry at our own whim . . .”
But Rigana was laughing. “Are those only the Iceni I hear out there?
When we have fought the Romans you will be the mistress of Britannia
or of nothing. If we win, the chieftains will not cross your will. If we lose,
what you want will not matter at all.”
“I am your daughter.” Argantilla straightened and wiped away her
tears. “If you can lead an army, I can at least choose my own man. And
I swear to you that I will have no other, so if you wish the line of Pra-
sutagos to continue, you will accept my will!”
“After we have fought the Romans we’ll speak of this again,” said
Boudica repressively. But her daughters were smiling.
T W E N T Y- E I G H T
To look at the fields, one would have thought the land at peace. The
swelling heads of wheat and barley hung heavy on the stalk as they
waited for harvest. In the fields with a southern exposure the reapers
were already at work, scythe blades flickering in the summer sun. Just so
the swords would flash when the time came for the Morrigan to begin
her harvest, Lhiannon thought grimly as she passed. Now and again a
worker would look up, then bend to his task with steady patience, as his
fathers had served these fields before ever the Druids came into the
land.
And as they will when we are only a memory, she reflected, urging her
horse forward.
Rumor held that the soldiers of the Second Legion were still hiding
behind their walls at Isca. The road they should have taken to reinforce
the governor carried Lhiannon north more swiftly than she could have
imagined, though her heart sped faster still. As she moved into the mid-
lands of Britannia, the farmsteads where she stopped were full of rumors
of the destruction of Verulamium.
Farther north, though, the talk grew more guarded. Lhiannon had
been traveling for just over a week when the farmer whose fi elds she
blessed in exchange for a bed and a meal told her that she was nearing
the point where the Isca road crossed the road from Londinium. A day
or two’s journey farther north lay the new Roman fort at Letocetum,
though the legionaries had marched out of it a week or so before.
But they had not passed the crossroads. They were waiting, thought
Lhiannon, on that hillside where Coventa had seen them. Did Boudica
know?
“The Great Queen is coming up the other road to the east of here
with all the warriors in Britannia in her train,” the farmer said with
mingled pride and fear. “If you wish to join her, my son Kitto will go
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with you. He has been begging my leave to join the army, and I take
your coming as a sign that he is meant to go . . .”
The Great Queen . . . With an effort, Lhiannon kept her face serene.
That title could have more than one meaning. Not for the fi rst time, she
wondered who was really leading that army, and to what end.
“The Great Queen gathers all the brave
To muster in their might,
To strike with spear and sword and stave
And put the foe to flight!”
The people in one of the nearer wagons were singing. That song
had been a frequent accompaniment to the rebellion, but this eve ning it
came constantly, now from one direction and now from another as a
new group took up the refrain. Boudica had heard birds do that in a
wood, the song shifting and swelling from one tree to another as a mi-
grating flock settled there.
Since the destruction of Verulamium a little more than a week had
passed. The Britons had come to the plain beside the little river as the
sun was going down, catching the glitter of Roman armor on the hill
above it, where the governor had taken up position to wait for them.
Boudica had hoped to catch them on the march. Attacking them uphill
would be difficult, but if the Romans wanted to stay safe they would
have taken refuge in their fortress. This eve ning the Celts feasted on the
oxen the Druids had sacrificed to the gods who govern war. When they
faced the legions tomorrow the Romans would have to come down the
hill, and one way or another, the song would have an end.
“She is the Raven and she is the Dove,
The ecstasy of battle and of love . . .”
The chorus followed. Brangenos had begun it, but not all the verses
men were singing now were his own. The song has escaped him, thought
Boudica, as the army escapes me. I am not their leader, but their icon . . . their
talisman. That much had been clear to her for some time. A Roman gen-
eral might be able to command from the rear, but as they journeyed
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north, Boudica had been thinking. Her only hope of directing what her
warriors did tomorrow was to be the point of their spear.
And if she must be in the forefront of the battle, what were the
chances that when it was over she would still be alive? The question
came with a cold clarity that surprised her, but no fear. Her life would
be a small price to pay for victory. Given their numbers, she found it
hard to doubt the confidence of her men. And if they were defeated?
The world the Romans would make then was one in which she would
not want to survive. But it would be hard to part from those she loved.
Boudica considered them as they passed the wineskin, their faces
warmed by the light of the fire. Some belonged to her life with Prasuta-
gos. She had grown close to others on this journey. Argantilla sat with
Caw, her bright head close to his dark one as they whispered. Rigana
was at Tingetorix’s feet, listening to the war stories of which he had an
endless store. Brangenos was speaking calmly to Rianor.
The old storm crow had seen so many battles. This one would just
be another verse for his song. But even as the thought came to her she
suppressed it as unworthy. During the past weeks the older Druid had
been a welcome source of counsel. As if he had felt her thought, Bran-
genos looked up. Before that calm gaze, her own slid away to rest on
Eoc and Bituitos, who would stand by her
to the end, whatever that
might be.
She missed Prasutagos and Lhiannon most of those she had loved.
But if her husband had still been alive none of them would be here. She
tried not to think about him. The king walked now on the Isles of the
Blessed. Would he even recognize the person she was becoming now?
Lhiannon, she devoutly hoped, was still on the Isle of Eriu. Once,
Boudica’s anguish had drawn her friend all the way from Avalon. But
too much time had passed, and their bond had surely weakened. She
tried to be glad the priestess lived now in a peace and safety that Boudica
would never know again, and even as she did so felt her heart twist with
longing to see her friend’s luminous eyes smiling at her across the fi re.
They all looked up as young man appeared at the edge of the fi re-
light and bent to whisper in Tingetorix’s ear. It was Drostac’s son, who
had been on patrol. Boudica got to her feet.
“What is the news?”
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“The Romans appear to have no more than ten thousand men, to
judge by the number of their fi res.”
“It’s kind of them to make it so easy for us to count them,” Bituitos
laughed.
“They don’t have to send scouts to guess our numbers,” observed
Eoc. “They can see us from that hill!”
Boudica smiled. On their march yet more men had come in. She
herself had no real idea how many Britons had camped on the plain, but
surely they outnumbered the Romans at least ten to one.
“See us, and tremble,” Bituitos replied.
“We’ve no need to draw sword against them,” said Drostac with a
grin. “We can stampede across them and trample them into the dust.”
Boudica exchanged glances with Tingetorix. Numbers could be a
handicap if they were not well used, but she was not about to tell any of
these people to go home.
“Get some rest, lad,” she said to the scout. “Whether you use your
sword or your feet, tomorrow you will need your strength.”
“We should all sleep,” said Argantilla seriously, “including you,
Mother.” Drostac had taken his son’s arm. Others began to rise.
“I know.” Boudica gave her younger daughter a hug. “But my legs
are too restless to lie still. I will walk for a little, and then I promise that
I will lie down.”
Argantilla looked dubious, but Caw had taken her hand. She will be
loved, thought Boudica, picking up her dark cloak, what ever happens to
me. From nearby she heard more singing and smiled.
“The horn blares and the carynx sounds
When the Great Queen rides,
White with red ears, her seven hounds
Run baying at her side.”
As if the song had summoned him, Bogle rose from his place by the fi re
and thrust his great head beneath her hand. The other dogs were leashed
for the night, but they had learned the futility of trying to keep Bogle
from following.
“You see, I will not be alone.”
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Boudica moved among the wagons, stopping now and again to ex-
change a word with one of the men she had come to know on their jour-
ney. From the fires she heard song and laughter, or the rhythmic scrape
and screech where someone was putting a better edge on his sword. From
the shadows beneath some of the wagons came the soft sounds of people
making love. Some of the women were wives, but men would lie with
anyone willing when on campaign. It was natural enough—when people
faced death there was a powerful urge to affi
rm life.
Even the Morrigan, on the day before a battle, made love to Da-
godevos, thought Boudica, suppressing an unwelcome tremor of arousal.
But She had no mate here to balance Her destructive powers with love.
From somewhere close by a woman cried out at the moment of fulfi ll-
ment. The queen stopped, touching her own breast. But that was no
solution—she had tried, in the long nights when she slept alone. It was
not only her husband’s body that she missed beside her, but his spirit,
enfolding her own.
Lovers raise the power and offer it to each other, she told herself grimly. I
can only offer my need to the gods. She forced herself to move on.
In the center of the camp the people had built a votive shrine, sur-
rounded by torches and poles on which hung the heads and hides of the
animals that had been offered to the gods while the meat was boiled in
a thousand cauldrons and roasted on a thousand fires. The scent of blood
lay heavy on the air.
The altar itself was a construction of poles and logs covered with
rich fabrics looted from Londinium. Among their folds the people had
placed silver plates and kraters and dishes of Samian ware, carved wooden
stools, amphorae of wine and statuary and clothing with embroidery.
At the top were the heads of two Roman scouts who had been caught
by the Celtic vanguard, and above them, a hurdle of poles from which
three crows dangled, blood from their death wounds red on their black
breasts.
“You, I recognize,” Boudica said softly. “You are the three of ill-
boding, always slaughtered and always receiving the sacrifice . . .”
“Some die that others may live . . .” said the goddess within, “and their
blood feeds the ground.”
“I know . . .” the queen replied. It was not a man she needed, but
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answers, and whether they came from the goddess or her own heart, to
hear them she must be alone.
She turned away from the wagons and made her way across the fi eld
toward the reedy banks of the stream.
W ater gleamed where the brook flowed across the pale ribbon of
the road. Lhiannon’s pony pulled at the rein and she loosened it to let
him drink.
“Lady, it grows late,” said the farmer’s boy. “Should we not make
camp for the night? There’s water here, and we could shelter by those
trees.”
Lhiannon straightened her legs, trying to ease the ache of muscles
cramped by a ride that had begun early that morning. His suggestion
was tempting, but the urgency that drove her was, if anything, greater
than it had been the day before.
“How far is the Roman fort from here?” she asked.
“It might be five miles to Manduessedum, but we won’t want to
camp near there.”
“No, Kitto, where I want to camp is with the queen’s army. The
signs of their passage are so recent, they cannot be far.” Even by night
the traces where so many men and animals had passed were clear.
In the stillness when the pony lifted his head it seemed to her that
she could hear a faint murmur, like the distant sea.
“We will continue until midnight, but I think that before then we
will find them.” She shortened her reins, set heels to the pony’s sides,
and they went on.
“Yes, Lady,” said the boy, clearly assuming her certainty came from
Druid magic. Lhiannon did not tell him that what drove her was fear
that the battle would be fought before they got there, and she would
never see Boudica again.
But at last the gods seemed to be smiling. Before they had gone a
mile she realized that ahead the stars were dimmed by an orange glow,
and presently, on the hill to the left of the road, she saw the regular lines
of Roman fi res.
“The Great Queen’s folk lie ahead of us on the plain,” she pointed
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up the road. “We can afford to push the horses now, for they will have
rest soon.”
Shortly thereafter a man rose up like a spirit from the side of the
road and barred their way with a spear.
“It is Carvilios, is it not?” Lhiannon peered through the gloom.
“Where will I find the queen?”
“In the center of the camp, Lady, to the right of the road.” He
grinned. “She will be glad of your coming.”
But it was Crispus and the rest of the household who made her
welcome.
“She went off a little while ago to walk through the camp,” said
Temella. “She often does so before she sleeps, but I thought she would
be back by now.”
“Perhaps I should look for her,” said the priestess. “My legs are
cramping from too many hours in the saddle, and I need to walk the
kinks out of them.”
“We would be grateful.” Crispus looked relieved. “She said she was
too tight-wound to sleep. Well, so are we all, but not all of us will be
fighting a battle tomorrow. She must rest, my lady. She will listen when
you tell her to come in.”
It was very quiet here in the no- man’s-land between friend and
foe. The ducks that paddled in the water by day were asleep in the reeds,
but an owl slid past on silent wing. Above the murmur of the current
Boudica could hear a familiar splash and slap. She glanced at the dog,
but Bogle’s tail was wagging. She followed the path along the banks
toward the ford, and halted as she saw a figure kneeling at the water’s
edge.
What she had heard was the sound of someone beating laundry. But
why in the middle of the night before a battle would someone—her
thought stopped as the woman turned. Pale in the starlight, the face
before her was her own.
“What are you doing?” Did the question come from without or
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