The Eagle and the Raven (24 page)

Chapter Thirteen

S
OMETIME
in the night, in the middle of a nightmare, Caradoc felt a hand on his arm. He was standing above a rocky valley, and the oppressive, sticky atmosphere, fraught with terror, turned his bones to sodden wood. Behind him waited a group of strange, unknown chiefs. A black spot appeared in the sky, grew rapidly, and became the Raven of Battle speeding toward him with a rustle of black wings, and just when his breath grew shorter and the sweat began to pour down his face, he felt one of the chiefs take his arm. He shouted aloud in shock, reaching for his sword, and sprang to his feet to find himself in the Great Hall, Eurgain struggling up beside him, and Cinnamus swaying blearily toward him, fumbling with the knife at his belt. One lamp burned, and around it the shadows were thick and black and utterly still. Outside, the roaring of the fire had died to a fitful crackling, and light rain pattered on the roof, while now and then the thunder rumbled discontentedly.

Caradoc came fully awake. A tall figure stood before him, hooded and cloaked. Nothing of the face could be seen. There was only a deeper blackness within the long oval of the hood, and Caradoc, his mind still teeming with the vivid images of his dream, cried out and raised two crossed fingers. In the unseen depths of the Hall the chiefs stirred, whispering, and blundered toward him, and Gladys strode under the lamp, her sword already raised high. As the Catuvellauni crept closer, peering in the dimness, the figure bowed, put a hand to its head, and folded back the hood. Black hair rose stiffly in a great crest from the forehead high above the two black, sharp eyes, and a black beard bushed around the hidden mouth and fell into riotous curls upon the massive chest. The hand moved to the beard and parted it, momentarily revealing a plain bronze torc, and the thick fingers then extended in greeting and Caradoc stepped forward to grasp the wrist. Gladys still held her sword above her shoulder and Cinnamus’s hand stayed on the hilt of his knife.

“No words of welcome to your Hall, Caradoc ap Cunobelin? Am I not bidden to rest in safety?”

Caradoc withdrew his hand. “There is no longer any safety within my walls, freeman, nor can I offer you anything but old, cold beef and the barrel’s dregs. I do not speak the words of hospitality until I know whether I face friend or foe.”

The man gazed around at the listening chiefs. “At one time the proud Catuvellaunian tuath and its Roman friends would have regarded me and mine as foes,” he said, “but it seems that certain friends have had a falling out and the tribes of the lowlands tumble over each other to snatch up the pickings. What shall I be to you, ricon without a people. Friend or foe?”

“I do not want to play the game with you, stranger,” Caradoc snapped. “There is no longer any time or place for such pursuits. If you want food and drink, that I will offer, such as it is. If not, state your business. Where are you from? How did you pass the Roman sentries?”

It was the question uppermost in all their minds. This man might be a Roman emissary. Gladys and Cinnamus did not move, and Eurgain slipped quietly and unobtrusively to stand over her children. The man laughed.

“On my belly! The Romans have worked much harder than you, digging into your fine walls for hours on end, and the night is old. The sentries’ eyes are heavy. Now for my business.” He undid his cloak slowly, so that all could see the grass stains on his brown tunic, and he loosened his belt, and sank to the skins with a grunt, the others following, all but Gladys, Cinnamus, and Eurgain. “I have come to take you all away with me, those who will come, of course. My men wait for you in the woods, with horses.”

A stunned, unbelieving silence greeted his words, and a glimmer of understanding flashed across Caradoc’s mind and was gone. “Where are you from?” he repeated, motioning for Cin and Gladys to put away their weapons.

The man clucked impatiently. “You know where I am from,” he said. “We waste time. I am a man of the west. The Silures are my tuath. I have orders to bring you, Caradoc, and all your family and your chiefs to my country.”

‘’Why?”

“Because you will all die tomorrow if I do not. You know this. There is absolutely no hope of any reprieve. Even your own people fight against you, and with your death goes the last resistance of the lowlands. You have always been soft, you river lovers,” he went on derisively. “How wise we were not to trust you! Look at you! The Atrebates surrendered, the Dobunni surrendered, the Iceni, the Brigantians, the Coritani, the Cornovii, ready to sue for peace without raising a single sword! And the Durotriges were defeated.”

Shock tingled in Caradoc’s fingers. So Vespasianus had returned victorious, just like that. Mother! It was not possible! The Durotriges were the best fighters, the wildest, most tenacious tribe of them all! Except… He looked at the Silurian and realized the answer to his own question. Except for the men of the west.

“You dug your own grave with your rapaciousness, Caradoc ap Cunobelin, you and your mad brother, and the tribes have turned against you. The Romans will toss you into the earth tomorrow, and the captured Trinovantian peasants, your slaves, will shovel the soil over you. My lord has been advised to rescue you, though it was against my wishes. I spoke in the Council, but the Druid spoke too, and my voice went unheeded.” He grinned maliciously. “It seems that you are needed in the west. Perhaps as an offering to Taran or Bel.”

The chiefs began to mutter among themselves, but Caradoc caught their sly, sidelong glances and his heart sank. Here, on the edge of eternity, facing annihilation, came a gift from the goddess, a chance to go on living, and suddenly their pledges of honor seemed a tawdry exchange for the hope of one more breath. He glanced at Eurgain as he turned to address the Silurian, but seeing the new hope light in his wife’s eyes, he stayed his eyes on her and kept his voice loud. “I have sworn to defend my birthright to the end, and my chiefs with me. I will not go as a slave and an outcast into the west, carrying with me a load of shame, while the Romans tear down the shrine and plant their aquilae on sacred ground.”

The man snorted rudely. “Rubbish! They will do those things anyway, you fool, as soon as your body is flung on the dungheap with the rest. Besides, I swear on my honor, on pain of forfeiting my honor-price, that you are not needed to haul wood and draw water. The Druithin have a use for you.”

Of course! Caradoc thought frantically. Mother, I know, but how do I know? There is something to remember, I must remember. But the remembering did not come. He shook his head. “This is my tuath. I will not go.”

The chiefs pressed forward shouting angrily, all but Caradoc’s own train. “Call for Council, Lord! We must all decide!” and the man sat back, smiling.

Caradoc kept silent, but then Eurgain stepped forward, her color high and her mouth set in a firm, rebellious line.

“It is time for Council,” she cried. “All slaves depart. All freemen draw near.” Caradoc jumped up but it was too late. She met his eye with a defiant glare and sat down taking Llyn’s hand, and he knew he had lost. Wild rage took him but he could only stand and shake with it, as one by one the chiefs leaped to their feet and voted to go. It did not matter where. Many of them had already decided to escape with the Silurian and then forsake him, heading north or southwest, to the coast, running anywhere but free, free, and only Gladys did not speak, watching them all with a twisted grimace of pure contempt.

She had already made up her mind. She did not want to die, but she had never run from anything or anyone and she was not going to begin now. She had no one to love, no ties to bind her, no one to mourn for her and eulogize her in song. All she had was her honor and her stubborn will, and she knew that if she ran she would leave even those things behind and become nothing. Her thumb found the edge of her blade and she drew it back and forth, feeling its sting.

Finally there was quiet. “What about you, Cin, and you, Caelte?” Caradoc said, holding his temper forcibly in check. “Fearachar? Vocorio? Mocuxsoma? You have a right to speak also.” Fearachar struggled to his feet, his loose jowls quivering and his mournful, hang-dog eyes sorrowful.

“I will stay with you, Lord,” he groaned. “I always knew that I would come to a violent end, but it does not matter. What is the final misery in a life of misery?”

He sat down and Cinnamus rose, his eyes on his wife who stood against the wall sneering, her hands on her curving hips.

“I stay,” he said shortly.

Caelte brought his hand smashing onto the strings of his harp, and a loud, discordant twang filled the room. “I, too,” he said, and then Vocorio and Mocuxsoma nodded.

Caradoc took a step and looked down on the rest. “I cannot gainsay the Council,” he said bitterly. “You are free to go as you have always been free in my service,” but the Silurian was rising, his fleshy hands waving.

“No,” he said firmly. “If the Lord and his men will not go, then my orders are to leave all of you.” An uproar of angry shouts and shaking fists greeted his words, and several of the chiefs turned on Caradoc, who drew his sword and backed against the wall.

“Idiots!” he called. “If you wanted to go why didn’t you just slip over the wall!” He swung the blade and the men retired.

“That was before Council,” someone said in an undertone. “Are we not men of honor?”

Caradoc felt like spitting in his face. Honor! By the Mother! Eurgain came close to him and put her hands on his shoulders, her eyes strained and her mouth trembling.

“My husband,” she said, her voice low. “All of us were prepared to die with you, but the Dagda has sent a chance of escape. Think well. It is good to die for honor’s sake, but is it not better to flee and then to turn and fight again? I know why this man is here. The Silures need you. You know the Romans as none of their people do. You can win the trust of their chiefs. Men follow you. Oh, Caradoc, please, please listen to me. I am not afraid to die. None of us is. But to die without reason, to throw away our lives in pride and stubbornness, this is not our way. If you stay then I and the children will stay and we will perish, but would you not like to see the sun set over the mountains of a free country and know that you live to fight again?” Tears shimmered on the long blonde lashes, and she dropped her hands and clasped them tightly together.

He looked at her for a long time. All his training, all his upbringing urged him to draw his sword and set about them. Before this, before his betrayal by his own people on the battlefield, before his brother’s death, honor had meant the sacrifice of everything else, but now his men had forgotten their honor, and suddenly he knew he could not blame them. Everything else had gone. Only pride remained, and pride, to a broken, dying tuath, was too expensive. He knew what Tog would do. Tog would kill the foreign chief and perhaps a few of his own men, and then stay lightheartedly to die. But then, Tog had been crazy. And what of you, my father? he asked in his mind. What would you have done? And again, he knew. Cunobelin had always walked the middle road, and that was why the Catuvellauni had become the greatest tribe in the lowlands. Caradoc sighed inwardly. Cunobelin would run away and live to smite his enemies again, but Caradoc, seeing his own struggle mirrored in the blue-clouded, pain-filled eyes of his wife, feeling her steady empathy, knew that whatever he did would bring guilt to torment him. Honor or life? Die like a warrior or sneak away, leaving the peasants to be slaughtered?

“Hurry!” the Silurian urged. “The moon is setting and soon the choice will be taken from you.”

Reluctantly, Caradoc sheathed his sword, picked up his cloak, and looked around disdainfully at the eager, watchful faces. “I will come,” he said.

The men sprang to life, cloaking and hooding themselves, thrusting their few treasures into their tunics, and Eurgain went to gently rouse the little girls. Fearachar spoke to Llyn, taking him by the hand, and Caelte thoughtfully wrapped his harp, and then they all moved toward the black hole of the doorway.

Only Gladys stayed where she was, leaning against the wall, her sword point in the floor and her head hanging.

Caradoc ran to her. “Gladys, sheath your sword. Be quick!”

“I am not going,” she said, raising her head wearily.

He wanted to slap her, to shake her, to draw his knife and put it to her throat and push her out of the room, the barbed lash of his own faint-hearted decision blooding him, and the undisguised scorn in her eyes a goad to his guilty rage. His head had said Go, but his heart still throbbed with the urge to stay. “You must!” he said, shouting at her. “There will be no one left! We can go on fighting, Gladys!” He took her arm, dragging her away from the wall, but she let go her sword and struck his hand away.

“Someone must be here when the peasants wake,” she hissed “Someone must lead them, someone must put up at least a token resistance. Never before have the Catuvellauni abandoned a stronghold without defence!”

“Gladys,” he replied quickly, while the chiefs shuffled at the other end of the room. “Our father himself would tell us to run if the opportunity came, for never before have we faced the might of Rome. We gave them battle on the banks of the Medway. We held them off for nearly two days. Who else could have done that? We did not dishonor ourselves then and we do not dishonor ourselves now. We run in order to preserve our heritage.”

“What heritage?” she sneered openly, tears pouring down her sallow cheeks. “For a hundred years no Catuvellaunian chieftain has been bested by Rome, or anyone else, until now, and now our heritage has dwindled to a handful of cowards.”

He looked at her speculatively for a moment. “This is not like you,” he said at last. “You of all people have always kept a clear head. You know what Cunobelin would do, and you would have advised him to do it, so why this sudden blindness?”

Her shoulders slumped and she held out her hands. “My fingers are soaked in blood, Caradoc. I cannot wash it away. It is not Roman blood, for Roman blood is thin and cold. This is the blood of my kinsmen, my friends, hot and strong, and the stains will not go away.” She turned to him, tendrils of dark hair curling on her wet, high forehead, and her eyes were full of a suffering he could only see but never feel. “Do you know who I killed, Caradoc?” she said, laughing, the sound coming out breathy and abrupt, strangled. “Do you? I slew Sholto as he swung beside a Roman soldier, before he could cleave Togodumnus in two. What madness took them, the traitors? You and I, all of us, were forced to dishonor ourselves by killing our own tuath, and I dream of their blood streaming around me and I cannot rid myself of the vision of Sholto’s eyes as he went down under my blade. I must stay. I must retrieve my honor somehow.”