Song for a Dark Queen (15 page)

In the days of our mothers’ mothers the Corn King was a living man bound into the midst of the barley sheaf. But in these softer days it is most often only the
shock of corn that is lauded and called King and then hacked to pieces by the women and ploughed back into next year’s furrows. So it is at least with the Iceni. Other tribes, other customs.

So the Corn King on his wagon was drawn through the Queen’s camp, and set up on a mound of turfs in the central clearing. And from all over, the Horse People gathered to the feasting. Some to the Royal Fire where the Corn King lolled on his turf throne, others to the lesser cook-fires scattered throughout the camp where the carcases of oxen slain that morning were roasting. And presently the folk feasted and the drink went round – wine from rich men’s deserted farms, and barley beer that the women had brewed as best they could; raw stuff with a kick to it like a stallion. And throughout the camps of other tribes along the rolling forest country, much the same thing would be going on.

Some of the older warriors wagged their heads at so much feasting when there was no knowing how much longer we had to wait with our belts pulled ever tighter, before the Red Crests moved.

But food stored for the future is not the only thing needed to keep heart in a long-waiting War Host. Even I, who am no warrior but a harper know that. Maybe a harper knows it best. . . .

But that was no evening for waking the harp. Harping is for a Royal Hall, or for a few gathered beside a hunting fire under the stars, or for a Queen in her tent. You cannot harp to a War Host. And after the eating was done and the drink jars going round, the women began to spill out on to the open space about the Royal Fire, where Boudicca had come from her long horse-hide tent to sit with the Princesses beside
her. They joined hands, circling in the old secret patterns of the Corn Dance, to the music of reed pipes that grew always wilder and more shrill. And the quickening rhythms and the barley spirit set the blood on fire, and the pipes were calling, calling, until the Princesses left their places before the long black tent to join the dancers, eyes bright and hair and arms flying.

And then the wolfskin drums of the Men’s Side took over from the flutes, and young braves sprang into the open space and began to whirl and stamp with upraised spears; and no one cared that it was a war-dance they made, and no dance for the Corn King at all; nothing mattered but the twisting and stamping and wild cries, and the fierce rhythms mounting like fever in the blood.

They laid bright patterns of naked swords on the turf that by now was almost trampled bare, and danced among them where one false step would have meant the loss of a foot. They pulled blazing branches from the fire crying, ‘We are the Sun that ripens the grain. Come, Harvest!’ and drew the women out to join them in bright spinning sun-wheels of flame. I have seen many Corn Feasts in my time. But never the like of that Corn Feast. It seemed to me that the throbbing of the drums was the throbbing of my own heart, and the shrilling of the flutes made a white fire in my head; and the shadows of unknown things crowded out from the blackness of the trees, to make their own dark dancing just beyond the reach of the torches.

And then it was time for the death of the Corn King, and the women made for the shock of barley high on its turf throne. Chanting, they hacked off the heavy-eared head, and the grain scattered in a golden shower. They tore cornstalk from cornstalk until nothing of the
King was left. And the whirling dance was stilled and the music of drums and flutes fallen silent and the dark shapes beyond the torchlight were gone.

Then, as it always happens after the Corn King is dead, the young braves began to catch at the hands of the girls who pleased them, and the girls to hold out their hands to the warriors of their choice; and together they ran away into the darkness beyond the reach of the fires. Always it ends so, the Corn Feast, and ten moons later, just as it happens ten moons after the Beltane Fires that welcome summer in, there are many children born among the Horse People.

Two young warriors, bright-eyed and laughing and flushed with the barley beer and the dancing, came running to where the two Princesses stood side by side. Essylt cried out furiously, a sharp screeching cry like a hawk, and struck furiously at the boy who would have caught her hands; and I saw as though in a slow dream – all things seemed to have gone slow – how Nessan, caught by the other, silently bent her dark head with the magic vervain flowers braided into it, and sank her teeth into the hand that grasped her wrist. The young warrior yelped with surprise and pain, but flung his other round her and forced her head up. And he was laughing still.

It was a thing that I had known must happen soon or late. In the old days, before the Procurator and his men came to the Royal Dun, no one save those who were named for them at the Choosing Feast would have thought to lay hands on the Royal Daughter or her sister. They were taboo, the channel through which the unbroken line of life, the life of the tribe, flowed on. But the Procurator and his Red Crests had come, and all that was changed. And the Queen also must have
known the thing that would happen soon or late, and known also that if men came to use the Princesses as any other girls of the tribe, then that indeed would be the end of the Royal Line; maybe the end of the Tribe as well.

I looked to see what she would do.

She had risen from her seat, and stood with arms upraised. All round the Royal Fire, though I could hear the uproar of the Corn Feast going on through the rest of the camp and the camps beyond, a stillness began to spread. When it was complete, and every face turned towards her, she lowered her arms. But still she left the stillness unbroken. And no one but she could break it.

At last she said, not overloud, ‘Seize them.’

And men of her bodyguard sprang forward to where the young braves stood with their hands dropped to their sides. Sober enough, they were now.

‘Bring them to me,’ said the Queen.

And they were brought, their arms twisted behind them.

The Queen looked them over. ‘For overlong we have made this pretence, this token of Offering to the All Mother at Harvest time. And it is in my mind that the Mother grows weary of the pretence. Now, therefore, we will return to the old ways, and the Offering shall be a true one.’

One of the young men licked his dry lips. The other swallowed thickly. Neither made any attempt to break away.

‘And this time we will make the Offering twofold.’

The wolfskin drums were speaking again; but in a different tongue, a darker tongue that called for blood.

‘Let them stand free,’ said the Queen. ‘They will not try to run.’

The Princess Essylt stood as still as her mother, looking on. Her teeth showed between her lips. Her eyes were brighter than love could make them. But Nessan came running to fling herself down at her mother’s feet.

‘No!’ she wailed, ‘Oh no, my mother, no! There has been enough of blood!’

And the Queen looked down at her with empty eyes. ‘Not yet. There has not even begun to be enough of blood. But soon that shall be set right.’

And she made a sign to two of the bodyguard, and they drew their swords.

The two young warriors stood side by side, unmoving. The death spell was on them. I remembered how the black goat had stood for her to cut its throat, at the time of sending out the Cran-Tara.

And then, into the last heartbeat of time, there broke the sound of someone coming; a shifting and a splurge of voices beyond the firelight, and the Queen made a gesture to stay the men with the swords; and the drumming fell silent.

Into the light of the Royal Fire, shining with the sweat of his long running, came one of those hunters who were the Eyes and Ears of the War Host. He made for the Queen, and stood before her with heaving flanks.

‘What word do you bring?’ said the Queen.

‘Lady, the Red Crests are making ready to break camp. They have already sent scouts on horses towards the upriver ford, and a strong party to hold for them the bridge at Londinos.’

So the waiting was over at last.

‘That is a good word,’ said the Queen. ‘The Corn Feast is ended, and we too will make ready to break
camp.’ She turned back to the two young braves, and the men who stood with drawn swords beside them.

‘So, I lend you back your heads. The Great Mother says that she will wait. This, I lay on you instead, that on the day of battle you shall bring me the head of Suetonius Paulinus, who calls himself Governor of Britain.’

A long breath rose from the crowd about the fire. And the two young men looked at each other and laughed. They knew themselves still marked for death, by the task that had been laid on them, but it would be death in battle, which is better than to stand to have one’s head struck off. I knew that even though we had the victory, I should not see them again.

Already the news was roaring through the camps, on and on along the forest ridges; and all night long there would be the throbbing and thrumming of the War Host making ready for battle.

This may be the last that I write to you, Mother. By this time tomorrow night, in one way or another it will all be over. We waited as long as might be for the reinforcements from Gaul – until it became clear beyond all doubt that they were not coming; and the supply situation was getting hopeless. So Paulinus decided to attack with what men he now has; about ten thousand counting the native cavalry and raw auxiliaries. And a couple of days ago we broke camp, and marched, some for Londinium Bridge, the rest of us for the river ford above the town. We had a sharp skirmish with a force of tribesmen at the ford – set there to slow us up, I suppose; they could have had no hope of stopping us. Felix was disembowelled under me. We had only known each other a few months, but he was a good fellow and I shall miss him. I took personal pleasure in killing the man who did it.

We spent last night in the old transit camp north of Londinium, then pushed on about a mile, to the place I think Paulinus has had in mind all the while, as giving us the best chance (if indeed we have any chance) of victory against odds of something like ten to one. A defile opening to the south-east, thickly wooded behind us and on either hand – really dense stuff, damp-oak and yew and thorn. The kind of stuff even the Britons can’t attack through; though of course we have scouts out to guard against the impossible. Open scrub land in front. This is about the first time in history, I should think, that the Eagles have ever camped for the night without throwing up nice regular square banks and ditches. But as we shall fight tomorrow only just forward of where we sleep tonight, and we have the natural defence of the forest on flanks and rear, it seems better to leave the ground uncluttered. The
Governor’s pavilion has been set up in the centre of the camp with the Eagles and cohort standards ranged before it; and we have piled him a turf look-out platform for tomorrow, and that’s all. Oh, and we’ve dug latrines. I think if the end of the world were at hand, we should prepare for it by digging latrines. Paulinus has been round from watchfire to watchfire talking to the men. The usual kind of thing, I should imagine. The honour of the Eagles, the honour of Rome, the whole future of Rome in Britain – remember that if they do outnumber us ten to one, they are an undisciplined rabble dangerous only in ambush and on ground of their own choosing, while we are disciplined troops packing ten times their fighting power man for man; and the fewer there are of us, the fewer there are to share the honour of tomorrow’s victory. ‘So when the battle joins,’ says he, ‘keep close formation, and when your spears are thrown, out swords, and smash their faces in with your shield bosses.’ That bit got the biggest cheer.

That’s about all. Now it’s just the waiting. Not much use trying to get an hour’s sleep. Paulinus doesn’t sleep himself on the eve of battle, and doesn’t see why any of his staff should either. Well I suppose we wouldn’t anyway. The knowledge of Boadicea and her battle-host somewhere a few miles across that open country in the dark doesn’t act as a lullaby. What a woman! I suppose if she has the victory tomorrow, they’ll make a song about her to sing through Britain for a thousand years. They’re a great people for making songs about their heroes, the British. If she has the defeat, too, come to think of it; only then it will be a lament.

I think I was nearly asleep, then, after all. Better get up and walk around a bit.

THE WAR HOST
rolled out from the forest and turned south and west towards the ruins of Londinium. As many as though the leaves of the forest had fallen and turned into warriors. Men on foot and on horseback and in chariots, with their spears thirsty again after the long wait; and bringing up the rear, the great ox-wagons with the women and children and the Priest Kind; the Royal Wagon lurching along like a ship on dry land in their midst; and the Queen with the chariot columns at the head of all.

There is a place, where the forest comes down towards Londinium – towards where Londinium used to be. A valley runs up into it from the open scrub land; and the rising flanks and the high ground at its head are matted thick with trees; yew and thorn and dense dwarf oak, with scarce a deerpath to make a way through it. And when word was brought to the Queen that the Red Crests were camped there for the night, no more than ten thousand, counting the renegade tribesmen they call auxiliaries, and their cavalry which has always been a jest to the horsemen of the Iceni, she laughed, and said, ‘Surely their gods have made them mad, that they have set themselves down in a trap, and we not having to lift a finger to drive them into it!’

That night we made our own camp scarce three Roman miles short of the place. And next morning, when the sun rose and the mists scarfed the river valley, and the dew of late summer spattered from the bracken as the horses’ legs brushed by, we went
forward on the last stretch. We were like a great shadow spilling along the land, the shadow of a vast storm-cloud, made up of men and horses, stretching back as far and wide as the eye could see. And out of the storm-darkness came the rolling thunder of wheels and hooves and tramping feet, and the lightning that the level sun-rays struck from spear-points and horse-trappings and the captured cohort standards that we carried with us.