by Linda Grant
She cleared her throat. “I think we may come to some arrangement. You have been a faithful son.”
She could hardly bear the sudden look of joy on Peter’s face. “But there must be no slacking in your work, Peter,” she warned.
“Of course not, Mother. And I thank you.”
She waved away his thanks. “I will give you money to buy another mare. I hear that Goodman Johnson has one for sale. You might visit him tomorrow. Oh, and I will pay you a monthly wage—nothing exorbitant—but enough to keep you and a wife and any children you may have.”
Peter could hardly contain his joy. “Again I give you thanks, Mother. There is a girl in Salem …”
“That hotbed of witches! Not that I believe in all the nonsense that’s been going on there.”
“There is a rumor that the governor’s wife has been accused of being a servant of Satan,” said Peter.
“Humph! A fine order of things when people of quality are subjected to that sort of thing! Mark my words, this nonsense will be coming to an end soon. The governor’s wife, indeed!”
“You are right, Mother. The accusations must cease soon.”
Peter actually smiled at her then. It had been many a year since he had done that. She found that she was actually enjoying that and the way he was squaring his shoulders. Why had it taken her so long to see how like his father, Paul, he was, the only man—beside her father and once Jeremy—who had ever loved her.
But she had pushed away the few men who had ventured to court her. She had assumed that they all wanted her money more than they had desired her and would take away her freedom to act as she pleased. And now Peter was all she had. But at least he had proved himself to be someone she could trust and, she admitted to herself, even someone she could love.
If what Goody Matthews had told her was correct, there would be grandchildren, some of whom would become instrumental in building a great nation. What more could an old woman ask for?
With a feeling of satisfaction, Susanna sat down in her favorite chair (the only stick of furniture belonging to Paul that she had originally brought with her) and began to daydream of a life encompassing her descendants, who would go on to become great men and women.
CHAPTER 35
Bryanna Vernemeton, a Druid sanctuary, a little over 100 miles north of London, April 13, A.D. 61
* * *
Bryanna looked at the body of her son lying on the pallet and tried to brush aside the sense of guilt disturbing her. While Bran had consented to allowing his body to be used temporarily by another, he had not known of her ultimate purpose. But there was no help for it. She had consulted her oracles that all said the same thing: negative forces would try to wipe out her line. If she could not stop them, Bran would die and history would take quite a different path from what had to be.
The boy moaned; his eyelids fluttered, then opened.
“Bryanna?” he asked uncertainly as he looked at her with those blue eyes that had always produced in her an aching tenderness for her son.
“You are safe here now with me,” she replied to the spirit in Bran’s body.
The boy, a man now of 16 years, sat up. She repressed the urge to take him in her arms and hold him close the way she used to when Bran was very young, before she had sent him away to be fostered. To be reared so in another family led to lasting friendships. The bonds of kinship in these children became as strong as that of birth parents. They learned to trust and respect their foster family and later became more apt to exchange information and even form political alliances with them. Now Bran—or rather his future self—had returned.
“I thought I died,” he said, putting a hand wonderingly to the small of his back.
“You did die, or at least the host body you were in, died. Do not distress yourself. Only the body dies; the spirit is immortal and incarnates over and over again. Now there is much to discuss but before we do, have you need of food or drink?”
The boy nodded. “I feel a little weak.”
“You will find wine and food over there.”
He stood up and walked a little unsteadily over to the table where he began wolfing down the meat and little barley cakes she had prepared earlier.
“Where am I? When am I this time?” the young man asked, his mouth full of food.
“You are in the body of my son, Bran. We live here in Vernemeton, a Druid sanctuary in Alban.”
The boy still looked a little dazed. Then his face cleared. He must be receiving Bran’s memories.
The boy stopped eating. “Oh, yeah. Now I remember where I am this time. You’re my mother—and a Druid, too.”
“Yes, and you, my son, are a Druid in training.”
Her foster father, the Archdruid, had spent years preparing her for her holy calling, imparting to her the ancient wisdom that few—even Druids—were given to know. She had learned that one could connect directly with the One God without the intervention of priests. Some of the gods worshipped by the Keltoi were merely aspects of the One God, while others represented very human aspects of humanity. An example of such was Teutalis, the god of war. The One God, she had learned, desired humanity to live in peace and harmony with each other.
But the Keltoi still clung to their old ways. It would take a giant upheaval to pry them loose from their old beliefs. That time was fast approaching.
She nodded. It was important to tell him enough, but not too much. Choosing her words with care, she said, “Here in our sanctuary, the chieftains of many of the tribes will be attending a very important ceremony.”
Now that the spirit from the future was here, her son would not be part of that ceremony at the feast of Beltane honoring Bel, the god of fire and light, on the first of May—not if she could help it.
She went on, “Many of the chieftains believe that the tribes must unite now in order to expel the Romans.”
“What will happen if they don’t?”
“The sacred groves will be cut down and the sanctuaries defiled, Druid influence will be broken, and Alban will become just another outpost of the Roman Empire.”
“Why would they bother the Druids? I thought they were holy people, not warriors.”
She smiled sadly. This young one was so naive. He knew nothing about the all-pervasive influence that the Druids exercised on their people, an influence that extended from legal to spiritual matters.
“You must understand that a Druid is not just a priest; he also acts as a judge, a teacher, a healer, and a counselor to the king, who must obey his edicts. If one is to destroy the will and heart of the people, one must destroy the Druid priesthood.
“The Romans also fear that Druids are fomenting resistance to them. It is true that some rebels have found sanctuary on Mona, a trading depot and a most holy Druid center.
“But they have another reason for wanting to destroy us. The Romans know that we Druids control the flow of gold from the Wicklow Hills of the sacra insula, Ireland, all through this realm and across the channel dividing us from the tribes of Gaul and others.
“The Romans have a madness for gold. They do not think of it as we do, a metal out of which can be fashioned things of beauty, the most beautiful of which we use in rituals and offerings to the gods. They would seize this gold for themselves, but first they must smash the power of the Druids.”
She paused. Here was the delicate part. “Would you be willing to follow my counsel?”
Under her intense scrutiny, the boy flushed. She could see the conflict going on within him. In the end, as she had known he would, he nodded cautiously.
Smiling at him she said, “Rest now. We will speak again tomorrow.”
It was a journey that her oracles had told her would have fateful consequences, she reflected as she walked out of the dwelling where she had resided for so many years.
CHAPTER 36
Bran–Jason Kramer Vernemeton, April 13, A.D. 61
* * *
Watching Bryanna’s retreating back, J.J. wanted to shake in
formation out of her the way you’d shake apples off a tree, but he suspected it wouldn’t work that way. She knew far more than Bran did. J.J. sensed that her plans ran deep and that she was keeping them to herself, sharing only what she thought he should know.
The Keltoi must be the Celts. A book he’d read in grade six showed pictures of fierce long-haired men holding shields in front of their naked bodies, swinging away with long swords at the shorter, darker Romans dressed in body armor and helmets.
The Romans had taken more than 100 years to conquer Britain, he remembered, and, at that, Scotland had never been subdued. The Romans had finally built a wall to keep out the marauding Picts and Scots. Ireland had managed to stay free, too.
He must be somewhere in the time period around A.D. 61 in what would later be called England. Even if this body died, the real him would probably survive—at least according to Bryanna. Nobody had really spelled everything out; both she and Jeremy had been short on details.
He looked down at his body: his limbs were long and muscular. He’d try to look after this body better than Tom’s. He shivered as he remembered running through the field of peas, trying to get to the canoe that would take him to the boat. Would Church have died if he, Jason, hadn’t taken a bullet for him?
But it did happen, or would happen. Keeping track of time while you hopped back and forth through history got a little confusing. Restless, he stepped to the door, fastened by wooden pegs to the door frame, opened it, and went outside.
He stood on the slope of a hill on which clustered a dozen or more round, thatched buildings measuring about 50 feet across, similar to the one out of which he had just come. Dwarfing the houses was a thick grove of trees at the top of the hill. A herd of cows lowed in the distance, while a flock of geese hissed at him. Horses roamed around in an enclosure.
A thundering in his ears made him turn. A man with long fair hair stiffened into a flying mane was pounding toward him on his horse from which swung a head, the eyes still glaring and the mouth twisted into a hideous grimace. Scowling fiercely at him, at the last minute the man swerved, letting out a loud guffaw.
“Kunagnos rides like Epona herself,” said a feminine voice admiringly behind him.
He knew that voice! Or Bran did, and very well, too. Emotions pouring into him along with the memories were making him blush. Swinging around, he almost knocked into a young woman. Devonna was only a few inches shorter than he was, a real Amazon with dark red hair tumbling down between two enameled combs to her slim waist. Her lightly freckled skin was tanned, her cheeks and mouth red. Two amber-colored eyes peered anxiously at him.
“You look pale, Bran. Have you been fasting over much? I know Beltane will be soon upon us, but you still have some time to prepare.”
J.J. was spared from replying by the appearance of a middle-aged man whose hair had been shaved from his hairline at his forehead to the middle of the top of his head. The rest of his hair, blond mixed with gray, hung down past his shoulders. Over breeches and a linen tunic, he had flung a cloak; the blue-and-green design on it reminded J.J. of a Scottish tartan.
Coming closer the man said, “My son.”
Mabon wasn’t Bran’s real father, who had died shortly after coming to Britain from Ireland, but his foster father.
“Mabon. Greetings. May the gods look with favor on you.”
Mabon nodded and said, “Let us go find out what Kunagnos has to report.”
J.J. followed Mabon and the girl into a house already crowded by dozens of other people. The lucky ones who’d arrived there first were already seated on animal skins. The rest were standing around chattering to each other. The noise level was fierce, just like between classes at his high school.
Bryanna was there, too. He waved to her. She seemed startled to see him and frowned slightly, then waved back.
Was she mad at him because he went out? Was he under house arrest or something? But if he was to do anything useful in this era, he had to know what was going on.
The noise suddenly stopped. The big guy, Kunagnos, was starting to speak. You could see he was enjoying being the center of attention.
The way he started out with flowery, complimentary phrases made him sound like one of the politicians back home. Finally, he got down to the important part. “Combroges, my people, I have ridden hard from the court of the Iceni, that kingdom, bordering on the east of the North Sea. You remember how after the death of King Prasutagus the Roman procurator, Catus Decianus, confiscated the entire wealth of the king for his emperor, even though Prasutagus had willed half his estate to the emperor Claudius.
“Not content with robbing the king’s wife, Queen Boudica, and her two daughters of their inheritance, Decianus had the queen flogged and her daughters raped.”
Kunagnos paused as a roar went up. Several men, their long mustaches bristling, brandished their swords.
After a few moments when the crowd fell silent, Kunagnos went on. “It is not the royal women only who suffer. Many chieftains, given gifts of money by the emperor, have now been told that these were loans to be paid back with interest. As well, their lands are forfeit to the new emperor, Nero.
“You know, too, that other tribes suffer. The Trinovantes, neighbors of the Iceni, were forced to flee their homes and lands, which were given to retired Roman army veterans who now idle away their time in theatres and baths. Not content to worship in sacred groves as we do, the former emperor Claudius had the arrogance to rear a temple to himself, built by the sweat and money of our countrymen!”
Men muttered and beat their swords against their shields. Kunagnos held up both hands. The people fell silent. “Boudica and her people arise even now to avenge their wrongs. They offer a glorious cause to fight for: the freedom of all the Keltoi. Who will join them?”
This time men and women jumped up, shouting and stomping their feet.
A man with a livid scar running down the left side of his face, stood up. After the noise had died down, he said, “I am Gruff-udd, of the tribe of the Silures in Cymru, which borders the Irish Sea. I was but a boy when I began fighting the Romans, hitting their outposts and convoys with great success. Under our leader, Caratacus, king of the Catuvellauni, who dominate the lands in the southeast, we fought well, but we were defeated more than once by the Romans under Aulus Plautius. By the time Plautius left for Rome, most of the southeast of this great island had submitted to Roman rule.
“Then Caratacus and I took refuge in Cymru in the Cambrian mountains, where he inspired the Silures and Ordovices to do battle against the Romans. We fought bravely,” he said proudly, “but evil finally overtook us. Caratacus fled north and appealed to the Brigantian queen, Cartimandua, to shelter him. She played him false and handed him over in chains to the Romans for judgment.”
“But the Silures and Ordovices fight on in the mountains of Cymru, do they not?” asked Kunagnos.
“Yes, for they are men of valor, but how long can they last? I have come to this sanctuary to offer up a sacrifice to Teutalis, in the hopes that this god may grant my prayers for success in battle against the Romans. And yet …”
He shrugged uneasily and stared off into space for a long moment before continuing, “The Roman Paulinus Seutonius is a cunning and determined leader. It is known that he was appointed specifically to wipe out resistance among my people.
“It is also rumored that the new emperor, Nero, looks for new ways to fill his treasury. He casts greedy eyes on the rich mineral deposits in our mountains, caring not if they rip out the bowels of Mother Earth to satisfy his avarice.
“As for me, I will join with you in any enterprise to break the Roman yoke and will fight until the sky falls and the sea breaks its bounds.”
J.J. shivered. Gruff-udd sounded so bleak.
A hawk-faced woman with bold eyes asked, “What other tribes will help the Iceni, whose queen, Boudica, and her daughters were humiliated by the Romans?”
“The Trinovantes, Coritani, and Cornovii have pledged their a
id.”
“It does not seem enough,” the woman muttered.
“What choice do we have? This may be the last opportunity for the tribes to unite and drive the Romans into the sea. Besides, there are favorable auguries,” went on Kunagnos. “In Camulodunum, where the stench of Roman perfume must inflame the gods, there are rumors of the sea turning the color of blood. The ebb tide throws up corpses with shapes akin to those of humans. Some swear to having heard shrieks in the senate house and the theatre and have witnessed the statue of Victory topple from its lofty perch. Shall we fear when the gods favor us?”
A mighty howl split the air. The sheer animal fury of that sound made the hairs on the back of J.J.’s neck stand on end.
Then Bryanna stood up. Instantly, the assemblage stilled. “If you go to war against the Romans,” she said bluntly, “those shrieks will be yours, not those of the legionaries, as you fall in battle; the corpses will be yours also that litter the seashore.
“Have you not heard from the mouth of Gruff-udd himself the result of warring with the Romans? They took Caratacus to Rome in chains. His men, who still battle on in the mountains of Cymru, are being steadily exterminated by Seutonius. Do you wish to share their end? Dire consequences await those who meddle with fate.”
Her words were greeted with an uneasy muttering. Mabon turned and stared hard at J.J. Even at a distance of five or six yards, he could feel the malice in that look.
What had Bran done to deserve Mabon’s dislike? Carefully, J.J. searched Bran’s memory. All that came were flashes of the endless conversations the two of them had carried on.
Unlike Kunagnos and most of the others here, Mabon was a Druid, a big man in the priestly hierarchy and well respected. He had spent many years teaching initiates in the special school for aspiring Druids. Bran, who had been one of Mabon’s students, would be a Druid himself one day.
