Boudicca, p.47
Boudicca, page 47
“Queen Boudicca, I’m sorry that this . . .” She gestured around her at the barn.
“This is perfect,” I assured her. “Thank you.”
“I can keep my Ecgbert in bed until the sun is above the horizon,” Romilly said.
“We will be gone at dawn.” I went to the saddlebags Briallen had brought from the house. “There is coin here to pay you.” I reached into the heavy purse to extract payment.
Romilly was at my side in an instant. She touched my arm hesitantly and said, “No, Queen Boudicca. I cannot take your payment. My home is blessed to have been chosen to succor you the day you need it the most. That is payment enough, as Brigantia’s memory is long and she rewards her own.”
I bowed my head to her. “You have my gratitude, as well as the goddess’s.”
“And may blessed Brigantia guide you and keep you safe, great queen.” Romilly bowed deeply before she left the barn.
The girls were asleep almost immediately. I curled on one side of them. Briallen took first watch and would wake me when the moon was high in the sky. She stood by the opening to the barn. Just outside, the fire Ecgbert had lit cast flickering shadows over her, illuminating the strong line of her jaw and the stubborn set of her shoulders.
“Briallen?”
She turned to look at me.
“I am glad you are here with us,” I said.
She nodded, and I watched her blink rapidly as she struggled against tears before saying, “I’ll always be here, my queen.”
I didn’t correct her, just as I hadn’t corrected Romilly. Nothing felt real. It seemed I moved through a living dream—and unending nightmare. My mind was as numb as my body. My spirit was broken. The babe within me kicked and I curled around her, or him. Suddenly I wished very much that the child would be the girl her father had wanted so badly.
The image of Maldwyn skewered by a spear and falling from the chariot almost blinded me, and I realized that I could not see because my eyes were filled with unshed tears.
I hope they are laughing and feasting with Andraste—Maldwyn, Rhan, Cadoc, Abertha, Phaedra, Wulffaed and all of her daughters and granddaughters. Let them be together. Let them be free of fear and longing and pain. And let them save a place at the goddess’s feast table for me.
I did not think I would sleep. Truth be told, I was afraid to close my eyes. Afraid that the images of this terrible day would play over and over across my closed lids. Afraid I would dream their deaths. I’d witnessed Maldwyn’s death. I’d watched Abertha fall. I did not want to see Cadoc breathe his last. I could not bear to watch Rhan die.
But weariness ruled my body and I could not keep my eyes open. As darkness closed around me, I whispered a prayer to Andraste. Please don’t let me dream. Whether the goddess heard my prayer or not, I did not dream.
* * *
We left before dawn, fortified by sleep and the dried meat and bread Romilly had packed for us the night before, and a pattern was set. Heading northwest, we avoided settlements, riding all day and only stopping to give the horses a break until twilight, when, every night, just as the sun sank into the horizon, we would come upon a roundhouse or a small camp or a group of hunters or traders returning from market. Each home or group was always marked by the goddesses with either a stag, a raven, or a hare. Each welcomed us. Each recognized me.
At first that worried me, but soon it was obvious the goddesses had touched everyone with whom we came in contact. Maldwyn had been correct. Just by surviving, I gave them hope, though with the dark news the people relayed to us it was difficult for me to understand that hope.
My army had been destroyed.
Out of the three chiefs, only Mailcun lived.
The devastation of my people had ended the revolution. The monster that was Rome had swallowed my world and now ruled Britain.
The night I learned that Rome had declared their victory, I waited until my daughters slept before taking out the Roman pugio Rhan had packed in my saddlebag—the same dagger the procurator Catus Decianus had used to cut my bloody bonds that day so long ago in Tasceni.
I walked to the hearthfire that crackled in the center of the small roundhouse, decorated with carvings of hares, that succored us that night. Slowly, methodically, I lifted fistful after fistful of my waist-length hair and cut it, whispering through sobs each name as I dropped a hunk into the fire. Rhan, Maldwyn, Cadoc, Abertha, Wulffaed, Comux, Leofric, Addedomaros, Derwyn, Bryn, Arianell, Dafina, Phaedra . . . The names went on and on.
Briallen tried to stop me. I commanded her to leave me be. She did not. She could not. Instead she pried the dagger from my fist and continued for me, cutting and cutting as I spoke a new name with each slice until my hair was so short it haloed my head in fire and I finally ran out of names.
* * *
The word officially spoken by Paulinus was that I had poisoned first my daughters and then myself, effectively stopping him from taking us to Rome to be paraded through the streets like slaves. But that was only the official word. Roman soldiers had been commanded to find me and capture me alive. Any Briton who aided in my capture would be granted fertile lands and riches. Any Roman who captured me would be rewarded with a villa in Rome. So under the guise of choking out the last of the Iceni, Roman soldiers raided, sacked, and razed our lands, when in truth they were hunting me.
During the long days and weary nights, we traveled ever northward, passing through territory held by tribes whose names I recognized but I had never known. Carvetii, Novantae, Damnonii, Caledonii, Cerones, and Carnonacae—all welcomed me. All knew me. All kept us safe.
After traveling for a fortnight, I woke one clear early morning with my throat feeling as if I’d swallowed coals and my head pounding. My skin was flushed and hot, but I shivered with cold.
“We are close,” said Briallen, guiding her horse beside Tân. “Can you continue?”
“The Romans could not stop me,” I said with an attempted smile. “A little illness will not.”
Briallen narrowed her eyes at me but said nothing.
At midday we came to a huge stone, white as snow, decorated with carvings of shaggy horned kine, massive swine, and curled-horned rams. Briallen kneed her horse to the stone and placed her palm against it. She bowed her head and whispered a prayer before looking at me.
“’Tis Beira’s Stone. It marks the edge of the Caereni tribal lands—the lands on which I was born. We made it, my queen.”
The girls squealed happily and began firing questions at Briallen, which she answered enthusiastically, though she kept glancing sideways at me.
“I am well,” I assured her. “I just need rest.”
She grunted but said no more. I knew it wasn’t just the illness that worried her. I’d become a stranger. To her. To myself. To the world through which I had to continue to move. I wanted to find myself again, but I’d lost my mooring. My land was inhabited by the enemy. My people were either dead or scattered and in hiding. As I drifted north, I was unable to navigate my life. I’d lost my present and future and could not live in the past. So I ceased living; I only existed.
* * *
The sun was sinking into the ocean as we entered Ulapul, the royal village of Tribe Caereni. Briallen and I rode next to one another with the girls and their wolves trailing us. Even though I shivered with chills and my head ached, the excited chatter of my daughters’ voices soothed me, as did the increasingly strong and constant movements of the babe I carried. When we’d stopped to rest and water the horses, Briallen had told us we would come to her birth village that evening. I’d forced myself to keep moving. I’d braided the girls’ hair and brushed dirt and stains from our travel-weary clothes, trying to make us look more than we were—outcasts fleeing for our lives. As we entered Ulapul I was dizzy with fever, though not so ill that I didn’t realize I needn’t have worried about how Tribe Caereni would perceive us. As soon as they caught sight of Briallen, she was the focus.
“Briallen! She returns!”
The shout went up as we approached the roundhouse in the center of the village. From the open entrance a tall man with a shock of orange hair that matched his massive beard hurried from the lodge. He wore a thick golden torque decorated with the same horned kine image we’d seen on Beira’s Stone. Close behind him was a man I easily recognized as Briallen’s father, as he looked like an older version of her twin brother, Bryn.
Briallen and I dismounted and the girls followed us, though they didn’t approach the chief but remained by the horses with their wolves. We’d learned during our fortnight-long trip that the wolves made almost everyone nervous.
Briallen bowed to the chief. “Calgacus, chief of Tribe Caereni, and his shield—”
“Come here, you bonny wee thing!” Briallen’s father, shield to the chief, interrupted her. Stepping up beside his smiling chief, he opened his arms to his daughter. As she flung herself into his embrace he added, “Where is that dunderheid brother of yours? Late, as usual?”
Briallen squeezed her father and then stepped back. “Bryn is dead, Father. He died protecting the Iceni queen against the Romans.”
Her father’s face drained of color and his shoulders slumped. His chief rested a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Och, Colin, it hurts my heart to hear of it.”
Colin nodded and swallowed. “We’ll tell your mum together.”
Then both men looked to me. I moved forward so that I stood beside Briallen. She cleared her throat and wiped her eyes and continued with her interrupted introductions. “Calgacus, chief of Tribe Caereni, and his shield, my father, Colin, ’tis my honor to introduce to you Herself—”
This time it was the chief who interrupted Briallen. “Boudicca, queen of the Iceni, Andraste’s Victory, and the woman who united the southern tribes against the plague of Romans infesting those lands.” Calgacus moved to stand before me. He bowed his head. “You are most welcome here, mighty queen.”
I met his eyes. They were a gray blue that matched the ocean. In a voice rough with illness I said, “I am queen no more. I am but a woman asking for succor for herself and her two”—I paused and placed my hand over my rounding belly—“and soon three children.”
His reply came with no hesitation. “Then know that Boudicca the woman and mother is as welcome in Caledonia as would be the queen of Britain. You are safe now. You may rest.”
Relief added to my fevered dizziness. I bowed in turn and intended to speak eloquently about my love for his shield’s daughter, my despair at the death of her brother, and my appreciation for the sanctuary he offered, but I could not catch my breath. My vision went black and then I fell.
Chapter XLVI
They thought I would lose the babe. I knew that but not much more for many days. Between fever dreams where Maldwyn died over and over followed by Rhan leaping into his funeral pyre, I heard, as if from far away, women’s voices discussing whether my child would live or die. She will live! I wanted to shout, but the dreams trapped me again and I could not speak. When my fever finally broke, my first words were, “The babe? Is she . . .”
Briallen was at my side, bending over me. “The babe is well.”
“Enfys? Ceri?” I croaked.
“Och, the bairns are teaching their wolves to fish. All is well, my queen.”
I cleared my throat. “Don’t call me that.”
She raised a brow but said nothing and instead helped me gulp a cup of cool water. As I drank, my babe fluttered and then kicked. Hard. Causing me to grimace.
“How long?” I asked.
“Three days. But you’re mending now, so all is truly well,” she said.
And as usual Briallen was right. I recovered quickly. Ulapul was situated on the coast, a thriving port village that was the gateway to the northwest and the rest of the coastal Caereni lands. Their hearty fish stew strengthened me, and soon I was able to join Calgacus and Colin on the practice field with the rest of the Caereni warriors. Though my babe continued to swell my stomach, I was determined to be useful. I refused to be treated like a deposed queen. At first Calgacus argued with me, but I easily found his weakness and prevailed. The Caereni bred garrons, small but sturdy horses they farmed with and rode into battle, but the tribe lacked chariots. When Calgacus and Colin understood that I could teach their blacksmiths how to make chariots that could be used over the rough Highlands and train their warriors as drivers, the chief relented, becoming more and more excited as the first chariots took shape and warriors clamored to learn the skill of driving.
So I was useful. My babe grew steadily, moving strongly within me. My daughters thrived, and did teach their wolves how to fish, much to the amusement and wonder of Tribe Caereni.
And still I was unmoored.
The tribe built a roundhouse for me near their herd of garrons. I enjoyed training the intelligent little horses, though I often thought of Ennis and Finley. Almost as often as I thought of Maldwyn. I could not help it. Not with his child growing within me. I thought of how much he would love working with the garrons and imagined his cornflower eyes shining as he spoke soft words enticing them to trust him, love him. And they would. He had been easy to love.
I tried not to think of Rhan.
The Caereni had no Druid, though their healer had trained on Ynys Môn. I questioned Calgacus about other Druids in his tribal territory and he answered with great sadness that he knew of not one in Caledonia.
I tried and failed not to think of Rhan.
* * *
The people of Tribe Caereni were strong and honest. Like Briallen and Bryn, they laughed easily and often. Famous for their fishing skills and the intricate knot work created by their artists, the tribe was well respected and prosperous. The women of the tribe welcomed me warmly. They even adopted the tradition of Arianell’s Day. I would never be Caereni, but I could easily appreciate their tribal pride. It made me miss Tasceni deeply.
Ulapul was framed by rolling mountains, beautiful and craggy, covered with heather. I liked to explore them, finding some peace as I walked ancient sheep paths. It was on a ridge overlooking the village that I found a large rock shaped like a raven. As the babe grew and the days became shorter and colder, I took to daily walking the path to what I thought of as Andraste’s rock. I would leave offerings there to my goddess—brightly colored shells, feathers, bowls of milk and honey, choice pieces of succulent fried fish. I spoke to Andraste there, telling her the things I could not say to anyone else. How much I missed my life, my people, my home, my loves. How unmoored I continued to be. And how very much I wanted to know that she forgave me.
Andraste did not answer. She gave no sign. It was as if I’d never been her Victory.
I understood. Truly I did. I’d lost. The Romans had defeated me, and through me all of Britain. Only Caledonia was out of their grasp, but every tribesman and -woman in the Highlands prepared. Rome would come. They always did. Perhaps Caledonia would fall, too. I’d opened the door to their invasion when I’d failed Andraste. I could easily imagine the goddess’s disappointment in me. It could not have been greater than the disappointment I felt in myself.
Samhain neared. Harvest was complete. Snow was in the air and whitening the mountains. I awakened early from a dream I could not remember, but from which I woke speaking Andraste’s name. By now the babe was so large I could not get comfortable. Restlessly I paced the roundhouse I shared with my daughters and Briallen. Then, not wanting to awaken them, I draped a heavy fur-lined cloak around me, poured mead in a wooden bowl, and went out into a world turned gray. Fog had wafted in from the port, thick and blanketing. I was glad I’d walked the path to Andraste’s rock so many times that I did not worry about finding my way, even in the breath of the dragon.
The breath of the dragon . . .
I wished for my sword as a chill fingered down my spine and pain tightened my belly. I grimaced and rubbed where the babe kicked against my rib. They’re just practice contractions, preparing me for the birth, and the fog is just fog—not the breath of a dragon, not sent by Andraste—and there are no Romans hiding within it.
I took several long breaths and kept walking. It felt good to move, though I had to pause often as my stomach tightened. By the time I reached Andraste’s rock I could not deny that the pains were well beyond practice. The babe was coming. I didn’t fear the birth. Enfys and Ceri had been born with no problems. There was no reason for me to worry that this babe would not be the same.
Another wave of pain gripped me. I leaned against Andraste’s rock and forced myself to breathe deeply, steadily.
My mother isn’t here. She will not be here to comfort me during the birth. She will not be here to greet her newest grandchild. This birth will not be the same as my other two.
Still I did not start back for the village. I leaned against Andraste’s rock, yearning for my mother and wishing for my goddess. As the sun lifted over the horizon it burned off the fog and I was mesmerized by the colors that painted the sky. It was as if I’d never seen such vibrant pinks and blues, yellows and oranges.
Then with a jolt I realized that I had seen those colors before—the last time I’d seen the breath of the dragon—in Annwn. My heartbeat thundered in my ears and my hand found the part of the boulder that formed the raven’s beak. I caressed it as if it were alive. Had I been compelled here today?
Between contractions, I poured the bowl of mead around the boulder and then leaned against it again as another wave of pain crested and broke over me. I wiped the damp hair from my face. Over the past several months it had grown, and now the ends dusted my shoulders. I shook it back, wishing I’d thought to tie it up before I’d left. No matter. I should return and have Briallen go for the healer.
