Ravens of Avalon (40 page)

The greed of the Romans seemed unending. She had already sold a great deal of her jewelry to help her people. Of the major pieces, only the torque of Caratac still lay hidden like a secret defiance at the bottom of the oak chest. The Romans did have a legal right to repayment, though among her own people it would be a poor ruler who would not forgive his people their tribute when times were hard. Even the Romans provided their citizens with bread. That was the difference, she thought bitterly. The Romans fed their own people, but despite all their fine words about the benefits of belonging to the Empire, the Britons were still the enemy.

Boudica let the door flap drop and strode back to her loom. Temella looked up inquiringly but knew better than to ask questions when the queen was in this mood. For a moment she stood staring at the pattern of greens and blues, then turned restlessly away. Weaving required patience and calm, neither of which she currently could claim. She wanted to be out and
doing
something, and until Prasutagos returned, there was nothing she could do.

It was with a sense of profound relief that she heard the sound of horses coming into the yard. As the dogs began to bark she sped to the roundhouse. Crispus had already poured the welcome cup. She took it and stood waiting.

The door was pushed open with a blast of damp wind. Prasutagos was coming in, half supported by Eoc, with Bituitos right behind. Her words of greeting, and the reproof that she had meant to follow them, were forgotten.

“What is it?” she exclaimed as the king shrugged off his helper. “Was there an accident?”

“I am fine! Fussing old women.” Prasutagos stood swaying, not seeming to notice that Bituitos had slid a supporting hand under his elbow. Frowning, she handed him the cup. Was that grimace supposed to be an answering smile? He started to drink and went off into a fit of coughing. She handed the cup back to Crispus, then took her husband’s head between her hands.

“He’s burning with fever!” She looked at his men accusingly. “What were you about to let him travel in this weather. He’s ill!”

“Lady, I know it, but he
would
come!” said Eoc desperately. “And he is the king—”

“He said your touch would make him well,” added Bituitos.

“My touch will put him in bed where he belongs,” she muttered, easing an arm around her husband. “Help me get him there!”

Once she had Prasutagos out of his wet clothes he did seem easier. She sat by the bed, spooning hot soup into him until he would take no more.

“All right then, if you will not eat, report!”

“Yes, my lady,” he said with his old smile, though he was still breathing carefully. “Well … I got Morigenos to agree to loan Brocag-nos grain for the spring planting … They’ll share the labor and the harvest.”

Boudica nodded. That was one more clan that would survive. “And was there any news from Colonia?”

He nodded. “Paulinus has finished subjugating the Deceangli. Rumor has it—” he paused for breath, “—he means to march on Mona and end interference by the Druids once and for all.”

“He’ll have little luck,” she answered, hoping it was true. “Half the Druids in Britannia are there. Mona will be defended by powerful magic. I’ve heard news as well. Cartimandua has not only broken with Venu-tios, she’s taken his armor bearer Velocatos as her lover.”

Prasutagos raised an eyebrow. “Is that intended as a warning? I shall have to keep an eye on Bituitos.” His laughter turned into another spate of coughing, and this time when he finished, there were spots of blood on the cloth.

“You will do your watching from this bed, then,” she said tartly. “You’ve been coughing your throat raw.” She laid her hand on his forehead and found his fever a little less than it had been.

“Your fingers are cool,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “I can rest now. I don’t sleep well … when you are not by my side …”

Nor do I, my love,
she bent to kiss his brow. It seemed strange to see him lying there so quietly when it was still day. She’d had to nurse her daughters through various childhood ailments, but Prasutagos had always been aggressively healthy. Strong men were always the most difficult patients. She hoped this illness would not last long.

She wished that Lhiannon were here.

“Sleep, my dear one … and heal,” she said aloud. “I must see to the feeding of your men.” He would rest, and the fever would break, and he would get well. No other outcome was possible.

hy doesn’t Father get better?” Rigana kicked at her pony’s sides and brought her up alongside the white mare that had replaced Roud as

Boudica’s regular mount. The men whom Prasutagos had insisted she bring along trotted behind.

The mare was called Branwen, and she considered herself queen of the road. Boudica saw the white ears flick back and slapped her neck before she could nip the pony. It was a fine day just before the Turning of Spring, and both horses were frisky.

Could she mouth some reassuring platitude when the same question battered at her brain? It had been over a moon since Prasutagos had taken to his bed. He was still coughing, and each time he tried to get up the fever returned. Boudica glanced sidelong at her daughter. Rigana was almost fifteen—more than old enough for her woman-making rite. Boudica had delayed it, dreaming she might take the girl to Avalon to be initiated as she had been. But they could not make so long a journey when Prasutagos was ill. There were other closer shrines that might serve. At this rate, Argantilla would be ready for her own ritual by the time Rigana had hers.

“You are worried about him,” Rigana said accusingly. “You don’t sleep. There are circles beneath your eyes. If you have to do the king’s job—” she indicated the farmstead, “—you should let me and Tilla help with yours.”

“That is very thoughtful of you darling, but—”

“Mother!
Don’t insult me. I don’t need to be protected.”

Except, perhaps, from yourself…
thought Boudica, uncomfortably reminded of herself at the same age. She had brought Rigana with her from some vague sense that the girl ought to be learning a chieftain’s responsibilities, since she would probably marry a ruler someday. The queen did not allow herself to reflect that Rigana was also Prasutagos’s heir.

“Perhaps you don’t,” she said mildly. “But when you have children you will understand why parents feel they have to try …”

“It’s Father who needs help,” Rigana said repressively. “If you cannot heal him, you should find someone who can.”

Boudica sighed. “Lhiannon is in Eriu, and the Druids of Mona are hiding behind their wardings, waiting for the Romans to come.”

“You can still ask—maybe there’s someone who would rather be safe here instead!”

“Very well,” answered Boudica. She could tell herself that she was calling for help to please her daughter, not because of the terror that kept her waking in the dark hours when she lay beside her husband, listening to each labored breath. Calgac was a dependable man. She would speak to him about it when they returned to the dun.

Drostac’s farmstead lay on a little rise. Cattle and horses grazed in the surrounding fields. As they approached the farm a tide of dogs surged out of the yard, barking furiously. She saw a soldier on guard by some of the horses—apparently the Romans had already arrived.

“There, my lady.” Calgac pointed toward a group of men who were arguing in the next field. One of them, she saw with distaste, was Cloto.

Boudica considered jumping Branwen over the wicker fence and arriving on horseback among them, but that would not only have upset Cloto, but spooked the cattle they seemed to be discussing, and besides, it lacked dignity.

“I owe ye three cows,” Drostac was exclaiming. “I do not deny it. I’ve penned them yonder. This beast is a bull, and ye’ll not be taking him away!”

The animal in question, a brown bull with heavy shoulders and a suspicious glint in its eye, was standing a few paces away.

“It is I, not you, who will decide which beasts I am taking,” said Cloto. “I have selected that one.” He smiled, and Boudica was suddenly sure that he knew exactly how much pride Drostac took in that bull.

Heads turned as she came toward them, Rigana a pace behind. She looked from Cloto to the Roman official who accompanied him, a small man who kept stepping from foot to foot as if afraid he would sink into the mud, and clearly uneasy in the presence of the bull.

“You want the
bull?”
Boudica produced a titter of laughter. “Why Cloto, have you forgotten everything you ever knew about farming?” She shook her head pityingly and turned to the Roman. “I suppose you will be wanting to tax this man again next year? Where do you suppose the calves will come from if you take the bull away?”

Drostac closed his lips on whatever he’d been about to say as the Roman frowned. Cloto’s face had darkened. As he turned to reply, Boudica uttered a small shriek and edged away.

“Rigana dear, I want you to get back behind the fence,” she said in a high voice. “And good masters, I think we should do the same. That animal does not look
safe
to me …”

Rigana’s outrage at being ordered faded as she saw her mother wink. The Roman official needed no more encouragement to follow her. Boudica and Drostac came after him, leaving Cloto to face the bull, which by this time really was disturbed and had begun to paw the ground.

Once through the gate, Boudica took the Roman’s arm. “If you did slaughter the beast, he’d not be good for much but sandal leather,” she said confidentially. “Your troops will thank you for the meat of three tender heifers, believe me, where they’d curse you for trying to feed them that bull.”

n the field they were passing, new lambs played with an energy one could not imagine their mothers had ever had. Now and again one of the ewes would lift its head in an admonitory baa. Boudica sympathized. As if her speculations had been a prophecy, just after the Turning of Spring Argantilla had come to her mother to announce that she had begun to bleed “from the woman’s place,” and when could they have her ceremony? Though Rigana considered her monthly flowering an annoyance, Argantilla had always been much more comfortable with her femininity. To initiate them together seemed the obvious response, and now that they were on the road, the girls were cantering their ponies up and down the line with equal enthusiasm.

“Calm down, you two,” she called as her younger daughter bounced by. “If you wear out your mounts before we get there you’ll be walking beside them.”

Boudica found herself content to hold the white mare to a gentle amble, her anxiety at having left Prasutagos behind at Dun Garo warring with a guilty relief at being free in the open air. Should she have stayed with him? He had insisted that she should take the girls to the sacred spring.

They could have made the journey in two days, but the wagons in which some of the other women were riding moved slowly. Temella was with them, and some chieftains’ wives. Her own mother had died long ago, but they had sent someone to bring old Nessa down from Danato-brigos, and Drostac’s wife was bringing her own daughter, Aurodil, to share in the ritual.

as the ritual like this for you?” asked Argantilla as they settled into the shelters beneath the trees.

Boudica put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Tilla had not yet gotten her growth, but her figure was already sweetly rounded. She must have inherited that womanly body and her calm nature from her father’s side of the family, thought the queen. It was nothing like the rangy energy she herself shared with Rigana. She would not have been ready for a womanhood ritual at the age of thirteen, but for Argantilla it was time.

“No, for I was with the Druids on Mona. When my courses began we had a celebration, but the ritual was always delayed until a girl was ready to decide whether she wished to become a priestess. So I was much older—”
And in some ways, much younger,
she reflected, giving the girl an extra hug. On Mona the Druids lived in lofty separation from the demands of the world, or at least they had until now, she thought apprehensively. Growing up in the High King’s household had given both her daughters a sophistication beyond their years.

That night, however, the giggling that came from the shelter where the three girls were supposed to be sleeping was all too appropriate to their age. Boudica lay wakeful, remembering how Prasutagos had come to her in the darkness, touching herself as he had touched her, imagining he was beside her now. They had not made love since he had fallen ill. She had not realized how much she needed the release she found in his arms.

In the dark hour before the dawning they were awakened, and followed the priestess who tended the sacred spring down the path, rushlights flickering in their hands. When they reached the pool they set their lights around it and stood waiting.

Boudica’s hands were tied to those of her daughters. As they approached, the priestess barred the way.

“Who comes to the sacred spring?”

“I am Boudica, daughter of Anaveistl, and these are my daughters,

Rigana and Argantilla. Through all the years of their growing I have protected and nourished them. It is my right to stand with them now.”

“The children you cherished are no more,” said the priestess. “They are women, and their own blood flows red at the call of the moon. On the journey they are beginning they must walk alone.”