Ravens of Avalon (39 page)

They coursed back and forth, giving chase to a hare that had been hiding in the hedge, barking at the crows that rose in yammering flocks and winged across the fields to their roosting tree. And yet beneath all the surface noise there was a deep quiet in the land that soothed Boudi-ca’s soul. Presently she came to the road and gazed southward, hoping to sight the party of men and horses that would herald her husband’s return.

Boudica could see nothing on the road, but the dogs had come to a halt, heads lifted, scenting the breeze. She stood waiting, fondling first one and then another furry head as it pushed against her palm, and presently a single figure came into view. It was a man, young by the vigor of his walk, in a worn tunic of undyed wool with a pack on his back and a hat of woven wheatstraw pulled down over his brow.

“Well met, wanderer,” she said as he came to a halt before her.

“Why it is Rianor!” she exclaimed as he swept off the hat. He was a full priest now, she saw by his beard and shaven brow. “I hope you were coming to see us at Danatobrigos. If not, my hounds and I will carry you off anyhow.”

“So long as it’s not Arimanes’s pack you have there,” he said, still smiling. “They look like Faerie hounds, but they seem friendly. But that cannot be your old dog Bogle, unless he’s gone to the Land of Youth and returned—”

“Very nearly. This one was born after the first one died, and as you can see, his markings are almost the same.” The dog had settled into her life so smoothly that even without the White Mare’s prophecy she would have believed him to be the same.

“Somehow Lugovalos’s lectures never mentioned the reincarnation of dogs, but I suppose it could be so.” Rianor grinned.

“Tell me what you are doing here?” Boudica asked as they started up the path to the farmstead.

“Being among those still young and strong enough to do so, I mostly carry news and messages. And when the soil seems favorable, plant a few seeds that may sprout into rebellion when the stars are right. All that practice in memorizing, you know.” He smiled. “Anyhow, that is why I am here.”

“Not to persuade me to rebel, I hope—” she began, but he shook his head.

“No. I’ve a message for you, from Lady Lhiannon.”

“Have you seen her? Where is she? Is she well?”

Rianor held up a restraining hand. “I traveled to Eriu, and I hope never to do so again. The ocean and I do not agree. But indeed I did see the lady, and she is well. She is living with a community of Druids in the kingdom of Laigin, and truly they are a wonder, so numerous and powerful they can afford to fight among themselves when they are not using their magic to aid their kings. They are still as we were, I think, before the Romans came.”

“And she sent word to me? You had best give it now. The girls are just the age to think you a figure of great romance. Once they catch wind of you the rest of us won’t get in a word until you have told them the full tale of your wanderings.”

“Very well.” They had come to the wood below the farmstead, and Rianor seated himself on a fallen log and closed his eyes. “These are the words of the priestess Lhiannon to Queen Boudica …” His voice acquired a lighter timbre, as if Lhiannon had imbued him with her spirit as well as her words.

“My dear, I take this opportunity to send word by one you know well. He will tell you that I am well and happy. It was very hard to leave Britannia, but I am glad to have come. I have learned a great deal that I hope to share with you one day. But the chief news is that I have a daughter—no, not of my body, but a little girl that I found weeping in the marketplace one day, with hair as glossy as a blackbird’s wing and eyes the blue of the sea. Her parents had a house full of little ones they could not feed, and were happy enough to sell her to me.

“My little Caillean, which means ‘girl’ in the tongue of Eriu, does not know when she was born, but I think she must be nearly the age of your younger girl. It is hard to tell, for she was undernourished when I found her, though she is shooting up fast with good food and care. She is a bright little thing, and eager to learn. I understand something of your delight in your daughters as I watch her change from day to day.

“I think of you often, and hope to see you again, though I cannot say when that will be. You may send a message through Rianor, who says you were well and happy—and beautiful—when he saw you seven years ago. If the gods are good, he will be able to bring it to me.

“You have my love always, dear. I remain your Lhiannon.”

For a few moments the Druid was silent, then he shook himself and opened his eyes.

“Thank you,” said Boudica. “How much of that do you recall?”

“You don’t understand—when a message is set in me in trance I don’t remember, and it’s frustrating when people want more information, and I have no idea what it is that I’ve said.”

“That must be difficult, but I am sure you delivered the message faithfully. It sounded as if she were speaking to me.”

“I’m glad.” He smiled warmly.

“Come now, our dinner will be ready and I am sure you must be hungry. Did you come from the south? As we walk you can tell me the latest news from Colonia.”

Rianor was a good observer, with a gift for describing the things he had seen. They had all wondered what would happen when the emperor Claudius was succeeded by his stepson Nero, but as far as the Druid could see, the major local result seemed to be the temple being built in the dead emperor’s name. It was strange that a man who in life had been despised by many should in death be honored as a god, especially since it was widely rumored that his wife had poisoned him. But only the good qualities of the dead were remembered, as if the divine spirit to which they had offered incense was all that remained. The ancient kings whose barrows were all over Britannia were still honored, so perhaps the beliefs of the Celts and the Romans were not so different in that regard. But however benign the emperor’s spirit might be, it seemed hard that the Trinovantes, whom Claudius had deprived of king and kingdom, should have to pay for the deification of their conqueror.

“I did not see your husband, but I heard that he was there. He is much respected. They call him ‘the prosperous King Prasutagos,’ did you know?” Rianor stopped. They had almost reached the farmstead. Above the hedge the roofs of the roundhouses rose in dark points against the fading sky, but light streamed from the doorways, and there was an enticing scent of cooking beef in the air.

“Before we go in, there is a thing I would say to you. When we were younger,” he said with sudden diffidence, “I hoped that you would stay on Mona, and maybe dance with me at the fires.”

And then you fancied yourself in love with Lhiannon,
thought Boudica.

“But when I was here with the High Priestess and Coventa I saw how your husband looks at you. He is no firebrand, but he has clearly been good for you. Some women only grow old, but you have grown more beautiful.”

Was that a declaration or a renunciation? Boudica repressed a temptation to laugh. Now that her daughters were approaching marriagable age it was consoling to know that she herself was still pleasant in men’s eyes. “We have been very happy,” she said at last. “But I am honored by your regard.”

As they came through the gate the dogs came whirling back in a tumult of lolling tongues and wagging tails, followed by her daughters.

“Where
were
you, Mama? We’ve been back forever, and dinner is
done!”

oudica swallowed a last spoonful of beef and beans and considered her husband, finishing his own bowl on the other side of the fire. For the first time since she had known him Prasutagos looked old. He and his men had ridden in earlier that afternoon, and for a time they had all been busy unloading the bags and bales of goods and gifts that they had brought with them from Colonia. For Rigana there was a bridle of red leather with fittings of bronze for her pony, and for Argantilla a selection of embroidery yarn in every possible color. The younger girl was already more clever with her needle than her sister, better, really than Boudica herself would ever be.

She wished that Rianor could have stayed with them until the king arrived. It would have been interesting to compare his information with whatever it was Prasutagos had learned at the council … the bad news that he was saving until they were alone. It had to be political, she thought unhappily. They would already have heard anything public from the men. The others might think that the king was so quiet because he was tired. Prasutagos did look more fatigued than he ought to, even after such a long ride, but after sixteen years of marriage, his silences said more to her than most people’s words.

oudica had always loved the diffuse glow that lit their bed place when the light from the coals on the hearth filtered through the curtains. Neither light nor darkness, it made of their marriage bed a place protected and separate from the world. Now she raised herself on one elbow, looking down at her husband, carefully brushed back a strand of thinning hair, and kissed him on the brow.

“I have missed you,” she said softly, and kissed his lips. He pulled her down and the kiss became deeper.

When they came up for air, she snuggled into her accustomed place with her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest, listening to him breathe.

“And I you,” he murmured. “I missed holding you in my arms, and I missed talking to you when the meetings were done.”

“Did you? So what is it that you have been so carefully not saying since you got home?” She moved her hand across the muscle of his shoulder, relearning its contours.

“Is it that obvious?”

“It is to me.” She tweaked his chest hair and he winced and laughed.

“Money.”

Her caressing hand stilled. “What do you mean? The harvest was good this year—”

“To raise the wealth we will need, every grain in every ear would have to be made of gold …” He sighed. “All the imperial loans are being called in. You remember, those convenient funds that were offered by Claudius and his patrician friends the year of the floods, and the money we borrowed to build the hall at Teutodunon. The men who rule for young Nero want their money back. They say that Seneca has loaned forty million sesterces to British chieftains. Keeping so large an army here is expensive, and the mines have not proved as rich as they expected. The new procurator, Decianus Catus, seems to have been chosen because he will take a hard line.”

“But can’t the governor rein him in?” She stared unseeingly at the canopy.

“Varanius is dead. A man called Paulinus is on the way, but we don’t know what his policy will be. For the time being, Catus is in charge.”

“Catus and Clotho …” She shivered, remembering the meaning of the procurator’s name. “One to figure out how to cheat us and the other to measure the price. They should deal very well.” Mentally she was tallying stock and stores, wondering what could be sold and what they could spare. The curtains around their little world no longer seemed so secure a barrier.

“I suppose Rianor knew better than to talk rebellion here, but elsewhere he has found willing ears,” Prasutagos said. “So far everyone still hopes the blow will not fall on them, but once the seizure of property begins, any spark will be enough to set the land aflame. The mood in the council was ugly, there at the end.”

“We’ll find the money somehow. We have to—rebellion can only bring disaster now …” Boudica sat up and set her hands on his shoulders, trying to make out his features. His eyes gleamed in the gloom. “And next year I will go to the council with you. I’ll not have you coming home again looking like something Bogle dragged in from the moor.” She stroked the strong muscles of his chest and belly as if her touch could make him whole.

“I am reviving already,” He tried to laugh but his breathing had grown uneven. She smiled and reached lower, cupping the warm weight of his manhood. As he rose to meet her she straddled him and welcomed him home.

TWENTY
-
ONE

ver since the Feast of Brigantia it had been raining, a soft, persistent precipitation that left a pervasive damp behind it, as if earth and sky were both dissolving into primal ooze. If this kept up, thought Boudica, Dun Garo would slide into the river. The sharp cold of winter would have been more welcome.

When she went to the doorway of the weaving shed she could look down the muddy road. But the trees faded into mist beyond it. In such weather she would not be able to see Prasutagos approaching until he was at the gates. Drat the man—he should have been back by now! Dro-stac from Ash Hill had been waiting for two days for judgment in a boundary dispute, and though he accepted her authority as queen, she wanted her husband’s counsel.

This morning a little party had come in from the Trinovante lands, dispossessed from their farmstead by a Roman official who was giving it to one of his underlings. It was a hard thing to be forced from the land where you knew the spirits who lived in each stone and stream by name— harder still to flee to the territory of a different tribe. But they no longer had a king of their own to ward that sacred relationship. Would Prasutagos take them under his cloak?
Could
he, wondered Boudica, when the strain on their own resources was already so great? Between the king’s building projects and Roman taxes there was not much left in the coffers.