Ravens of Avalon (28 page)

Boudica grunted, and suddenly mind and body were partnered once more. Again and again she pushed; she was being cleft in two, but it didn’t matter. With a scream that was a battle cry, she drove toward her goal. And the child, red-haired, bloody, and already squalling, slid into Nessa’s waiting hands.

For a time, the relief was so great that Boudica scarcely cared what happened, as long as she could still hear the baby’s lusty cries. But by the time the women had washed and dressed her and changed the bedding, the yells had been replaced by a lullabye.

As she focused, she realized that it was Prasutagos who was singing, sitting beside her with the sleeping baby in his arms. His hands looked scraped and bruised, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. At least, she thought resentfully, he had suffered, too.

“I would like to name her Rigana,” he said thoughtfully. “She looks as my mother did when she was old.”

“Who did you expect her to look like, Pollio?”

“I thought it was possible,” he kept his eyes fixed on the baby. “I would not blame you.”

“Would you not?” she snapped back at him. “That was not what you said the night she was conceived. But the child is yours,” she added, “if you care …”

Color washed up from his neck to his forehead and then receded again. He looked down at the child.

“How strange that such a miracle should be the fruit of my madness. But perhaps that is why this one is a fighter …” His voice sank to a whisper, “and she will live …”

“And have you nothing to say to
me?” Are you sorry?
Her inner voice continued. She wondered that he could not hear.

“I am sorry … for many things. I never told you …” He closed his eyes, and she suddenly felt she knew what he was going to say. “I was afraid. You know I had a wife who died … giving birth to my child. When I saw that you were bearing I armored my heart lest I be hurt again.”

“And then the baby died.” Boudica said flatly. She could not yet forgive, but she was beginning to understand.
But I have been hurt, too, and I am not yet ready to put down my shield.

“Silence becomes a habit,” he said then. “But I will try.”

hortling in triumph, Rigana fixed her chubby fingers in Bogle’s fur and pulled herself upright, watched narrowly by Nessa, who was still not quite convinced that the big dog would not turn and eviscerate the child. Only last year Bogle had still been half a puppy himself, but once the baby arrived he seemed to have decided that she was an extension of Boudica, and therefore entitled to boundless patience. As soon as her infant fingers were able to grasp they had closed on Bogle’s fur. He had become something to climb on as soon as she could crawl. And now that she was on the verge of walking, the dog was a portable support, with bared teeth to discourage any stranger who came too near.

And today there were many, thought Lhiannon, twisting more wool around her distaff and continuing to spin. Beyond the fence the stubbled field had sprouted a new crop of tents and shelters as the Northern Iceni clans arrived for the autumn council and horse fair. The Romans complained that the Britons were without civilization because they had no cities, but she realized now that these gatherings were the Celtic equivalent, manifesting when and where they were required. Here were traders selling cloth and jewelry and leather shoes, and vessels of copper and Roman glass. Blacksmiths and woodworkers plied their trade. Cattle for meat and milk grazed with the horses that were the reason they had all come.

It was the first time the clan council had been held here. Since Rig-ana was born Prasutagos had lived at the farm by the Horse Shrine. Not even for the council would he return to Eponadunon while his wife and child were here. They saw him often, and although Boudica had not yet invited him to share her bed, she was still nursing the child, so no one really expected it. They sat together now, listening to the messenger from King Antedios at Dun Garo.

“It is certain, then, that Governor Plautius will be returning to Rome?” asked the king.

“His term is finished, and they do not like to leave men in place too long, lest they begin to think the land belongs to them and not to the Empire.”

“This sun is too bright for my old head,” said Nessa. “My lady, shall I take the babe inside?” Rigana and her canine servitor had maneuvered themselves halfway across the yard. The child was sitting between his paws, gathering the energy for another attempt to master the balance that enabled the adults to get around so easily.

“She is well enough where she is,” said the queen. “We are here to watch her. You should go into the shade.”

“Hmph,” muttered the old woman as she turned toward the roundhouse. “You named that child after a queen and she is growing up to think she is one. She must learn she can’t always do as she wills, or mark my words, you’ll have trouble one day!”

That might be so, reflected Lhiannon as the thread spun out between her skillful fingers, but as Nessa prophesied disaster of one sort or another daily, her words were rarely marked at all.

“Who comes after him?” asked Boudica.

“A man called Publius Ostorius Scapuola is being sent, but he cannot arrive much before winter, and that is no time to be starting a campaign, so we may have peace for a while …”

“Here, certainly,” Prasutagos sighed. “We have paid enough to make them leave us alone …”

Indeed, the day was too beautiful to think about war. The heavens always seemed wider up on the shoulders of the chalk hills, an expanse of blue crossed by a few wisps of cloud, as if some of the wool had escaped from her basket into the sky. From beyond the hedge came a thunder of hoofbeats as some of the younger men practiced for the races that would be held the next day. Yesterday they had raced with chariots. Lhiannon had not been there—her memories of the last charge of the Trinovante chariots still held too much pain. She supposed she ought to have watched. The Britons were the only people who still used chariots, and who knew when anyone would see such a spectacle again.

Someone shouted, and the hoofbeats grew abruptly louder. Spindle and distaff flew from Lhiannon’s hands as a hysterical horse plunged through the gateway. The animal half-reared as its rider fought for control, sharp hooves striking a pace from the child. The adults were out of their seats and running as the dog leaped for the horse.

The rider went flying into the fence and the horse went down, screaming. Blood splattered as sharp teeth ripped at its throat. Prasuta-gos scooped up his daughter and passed her to Lhiannon, who ran for the house. Boudica, seeing her child safe, turned to the dog, which was snarling horribly as he tried to reach the jugular.

“Bogle! Leave it! She’s safe, lad. Leave it now!”

Lhiannon, hovering in the doorway with Rigana in her arms, lifted an eyebrow. This was no spindle to be rescued from a puppy’s jaws. Could even Boudica’s voice penetrate the fury that ruled the animal now? Bogle’s leap had been amazing. For him to release his grip and stand trembling, jaws streaming red as Boudica called him again, was a miracle.

Murmuring softly, Boudica waited until the madness left his eyes. Then she got a grip on his collar and led him slowly past a gathering crowd to the horse trough, where she filled his water bowl. The water turned red when he thrust his muzzle in. She filled it again and emptied it over his head, then let him drink until he shook the water from his fur and ambled off toward the roundhouse as if wondering why everyone was fussing.

Prasutagos was speaking to the rider, who had picked himself up and was sputtering excuses to anyone who would listen. The king’s voice was low and controlled as always, but Lhiannon had never heard that vibration of fury in it before. The rider slunk off, and Pra-sutagos knelt by the horse, which lay twitching and bleeding on the ground.

As he laid a hand on the soft muzzle the horse convulsed; a swinging forehoof knocked the king across the yard. Eoc ran toward him. After a few moments he stirred, waving the man away, and moving very carefully, approached the horse once more, this time from behind. The dog had not severed the great artery, but the animal’s neck was too torn to repair. Steel flickered as someone handed a knife to the king.

“So, so … my beauty,” he murmured, kneeling stiffly as Eoc watched with worried eyes. ” ‘Twas not your fault, even so. Go now to Epona to run in her green fields, where no fool of a rider will do you wrong. Sleep, now, my hero.” He laid one hand across the horse’s eyes and the beast stilled. The blade struck once, deep beneath the jaw, and then across. The king leaned back as the horse jerked, blood pouring out in a crimson stream, and then subsided into immobility.

By this time Rigana’s yells had dwindled into an occasional sniffle. Lhiannon handed her to Boudica and started forward as Eoc put out a hand to help Prasutagos stand.

The king took a step, bit his lip, tried to straighten, and stopped, breathing carefully.

“Come here,” said Lhiannon.

“I’m all right,” he muttered, not meeting her eye.

“Of course you are,” the priestess said genially. “Now come here so I can see.” She put a touch of the priestess voice into it, and Prasutagos looked up in surprise. She could see him considering, then, with a sigh, he turned toward her.

“Shall I help him into the house?” asked Eoc.

Lhiannon shook her head. “Bring a blanket out here and lay him down. I will need light.”

By the time they had pulled off his tunic and gotten the king on his back on the blanket he was pale and sweating. A fine golden stubble glistened on his chin. Boudica hovered indecisively, Rigana in her arms. On the left side, the skin above the king’s lower ribs showed the red mark of a hoof. The flesh around it was already discolored and swelling. He would have a most colorful bruise there before too long.

Closing her eyes, Lhiannon held her palm above the area to identify the point where the energy body was most disturbed. Then, using eyes and fingertips, she began to probe along the ribs.

After a moment she sat back and frowned. “You are a warrior, my lord, and by definition brave. But I can learn little if you insist on hiding your pain. Where does it hurt most? There?” she poked gently. “There?” She nodded as he yelped. “Yes, I thought so … You have a broken rib or two, and are lucky your ribs were there to ward what lies within. We will bind them, but you should not be riding horses for a moon or so. Temella—” she turned to the girl, “—I’ll need my healer’s bag, and you should start water boiling for willow bark tea.”

By the time Lhiannon had finished strapping Prasutagos’s ribs, he was pale once more. Most of the onlookers, seeing that the excitement was over, had drifted away.

“Thank you,” he whispered as Eoc helped him to rise. “You have good hands.”

“The way you calmed that poor horse was remarkable,” she replied. “If you talked to your wife half as much as you talk to your horses, many things would have been different these past two years.” His twitch at that was not from physical pain. It was not quite fair to speak so when he lacked the breath to reply, but she had earned the right. It would give him something to think about as he waited for his ribs to heal.

And Lhiannon, too, had something to consider. The messenger from Dun Garo had said that Caratac was in the Ordovice lands with his wife’s kin, preparing to take advantage of the governor’s absence to punish the Dobunni and Cornovii who had allied with Rome.

She had thought the cause for which she and Ardanos had endured so much was dead. Did she betray his memory by staying here in safety with those whom Caratac would call traitors? She was useful here, but it was work that any village wisewoman could do. Should she return to Mona, or go to Caratac and take up the fight once more?

FIFTEEN

o you think the king will be home soon?” asked Temella.

Boudica slapped the weaving sword down between the warp threads and swore as the weft thread wound around the shuttle broke. It would do no good to scream at the girl for asking. In truth, Boudica herself was not sure why the question annoyed her. She ought to have been glad that Prasutagos was still with Antedios the High King at Dun Garo. To have him so very much underfoot this last winter while his broken ribs were healing had driven her half crazy, though she had tried to hide it for the sake of the child.

It had not helped that where the king was, there came the messengers, and disturbing news continued to trickle in. The new governor had apparently never heard that winter operations were impossible, and attacked with such vigor that Caratac was forced to retreat northward into the inaccessible mountains that held the Ordovice strongholds. That should have been the end of it, but just after the feast of Brigantia a rider came galloping from Dun Garo, calling Prasutagos to an emergency council of the tribe.

And now a moon had passed. If there had been an accident surely Eoc or Bituitos would have come to tell them. What could the council have to discuss that would take so long? And why did she grow more uneasy with each day her husband was gone? Boudica sighed and began to separate the broken ends of the yarn so that she could s pit-splice them together again. It would be a little lumpy, but the weaving could go on.

She was to remember that observation in the days after Prasutagos came home.

When Bogle’s barking brought them all out to greet the returning riders she thought at first that the king must have suffered some wound. Even when his ribs were at their worst he had not looked so gray and grim. Nessa brought him a horn of mead, and poured him another after he drank the first one down. But it was Bituitos who had to tell them the news.