Ravens of Avalon (41 page)

She turned to the girls. “Rigana, Argantilla, the Goddess has called you to take on the responsibilities of womanhood. Are you willing to separate yourself from your mother and obey?”

“I am,” they answered her.

The priestess turned to Boudica. “And are you willing to let them go?”

As she gave her assent her heart was crying
No! They are only children. It is too soon!
But the ritual, like the years that had brought them to this place, had a momentum that carried her along.

“Then I cut the cords that have bound you. From this moment, you shall walk free.” With a little s ickle-shaped knife the priestess severed the bonds.

As the cord gave way Boudica felt the loss of another connection that she had not consciously realized was there.
I should not have done this for both girls together,
she thought frantically.
I am not ready to lose both my babies at one blow!

She stood aside as the process was repeated for the other mother and her girl, and followed, unhappily aware that from now on her only function here was to stand as witness. Three of the younger women had stripped off their garments and were helping the girls to disrobe before leading them into the pool. Boudica saw the goose bumps pebble their skin and winced in sympathy. Even at the height of spring the air was chilly at this hour, and the water was always cold.

In the dawn wind ribands fluttered from the branches, some old, some new. She supposed that the one she had left here so many years ago had become dust by now, like the body of her son. But the image of the Goddess was still there—or perhaps it was another one made to the same pattern. Boudica imagined a sequence of such statues, one replacing another as the first decayed, just as new generations of daughters took their mothers’ places at the sacred spring.

“Now let the water bear away all stains and soil,” chanted the young women, dipping up water and pouring it over the girls. “Let it dissolve all that bound you, let all that hid your true selves be washed away … Feel the water caress your bodies, and remember the waters from which you were born.”

Red and dark and fair, the girls turned to receive the blessing. In the flickering light their bodies gleamed like ivory, glittering where the water made rivulets across rounded limbs. Boudica’s breath caught in wonder at the beauty of budding breasts and the sweet joining of slim thighs. At places like this one and the Blood Spring of Avalon she had sensed a holy power. And there had been times when she had felt it within. But as the three girls embraced each other she saw the Maiden Goddess manifest in all Her infinite variety, radiant with potential, and her tears fell to mingle with the waters of the sacred spring.

“Rigana, Argantilla, Aurodil, clean and shining, revealed in your beauty, arise, O my sisters, and join us now …”

The girls got out of the pool with more alacrity than they had gone in, gasping with cold and laughter as they rubbed each other dry and pulled their tunics on. Meanwhile, the women faced each other along the path, arms clasped in pairs to make a tunnel through which the girls must pass to reach the feast that waited in the clearing beyond.

“From the blossom comes the fruit and from the fruit the seed,”
the women sang.
“Dying, we are born again, and buried, we are freed …”

Boudica and Aurodil’s mother opened their arms to catch Rigana, holding her close.

“With this embrace you are born into the circle of women,” whispered Boudica.

“With this embrace you are born into new life,” the other woman replied.

Then they were releasing her to the next pair, and opening their arms to Aurodil. Ahead of them the song continued.

“Birthing and rebirthing, passing, we return, Releasing, we are given all, relinquishing, we learn …”

As the initiates passed through, the line unraveled behind them and the rest of the women followed. Light from the newly risen sun shafted through the branches in long rays made visible by the steam that rose from the pot boiling over the fire. The girls had been given seats of honor and crowned with wreaths of early primroses and cowslips. Laughing and blushing, they received the wisdom and warning, much of it bawdy, that the women were there to provide.

Boudica sipped the mint tea Nessa gave her in silence. She had felt this mingling of joy and loss after childbirth. And why should she be surprised? She had expected it to hurt when she birthed her daughters’ bodies, but this second separation tore at her heart with a new and unexpected pain.

But her children were still with her. The Druids taught that death was another kind of birthing. If her husband made that passage what would she do? After today she would still be able to hold her daughters in her arms even though their relationship had changed. But if Prasutagos died …

Goddess! Lady of the Sacred Spring! I will give him your waters to drink, and if he recovers we will build a temple here at your shrine. Lady of Life! Let my husband live!

rasutagos lay in the great bed, utterly still.

Sweet Goddess, is he dead?
Boudica stopped short with the curtain half lifted, staring.

Surely, she thought in blind assurance, he would have waited—he could not leave her without saying farewell—and then, more sensibly, surely they would have told her if he had died. She saw his chest rise and fall and her heart began to beat once more. And though she had made no sound, his eyes opened and he greeted her with his old sweet smile.

Boudica forced her lips to respond though her heart was weeping.
He is so thin! I should never have gone away!

“So, our daughters are women now …”

“The rites went well,” she said, letting her cloak slide to the floor. The thongs of the bedstead creaked as she sat down beside him.

He sighed. “Surely the years fly fast, when it seems no more than a season since I first held Rigana in my arms … You look no older now than you did then, my wife … when you began to forgive me for begetting her …”

Boudica blinked back tears. “I saw strange horses in the pen,” she said with forced briskness. “Do we have visitors?”

“One for you … one for me …” His lips twitched. “Or I suppose they are both … for me, though I only summoned one.” His breath caught suddenly and his chest heaved as he struggled for air.

Breathe!
Boudica leaned over him, willing him strength, and was rewarded as he drew a shuddering breath. “Shh … don’t try to talk!”

“It will ease in a moment, my lady,” said a new voice. The curtains stirred and a tall thin man in a white robe came in. He took the king’s wrist, feeling for the pulse.

Boudica stared at him, memory gradually matching the lean features and graceful hands to those of a Druid she had last seen on Mona more than half her life ago. There was scarcely more silver in his black hair than she had seen there then.

“Brangenos! What are you doing here?”

“Responding to your call, my lady,” he replied. “I trained as a healer—I use medicine to heal the body, and song to restore the soul.” He looked down at Prasutagos, who seemed to have drifted into sleep, and drew Boudica aside. “I can ease the king’s pain, but music is the best treatment I can offer now.”

“He is dying?” She closed her eyes against his answering nod.

“Do not blame yourself, my queen. It would have done no good if I had come sooner. This is not the coughing sickness, but some deeper ill. He tells me that a horse kicked him in the chest some years ago. That might be the first cause, or some other evil that we cannot know.”

“But he seems so cheerful,” she said weakly.

“He knows what comes to him, but he will not show his pain to you. Not yet. But you studied on Mona—soon you will have to remember your training. He will fight—and suffer—until you give him leave. You must be the Goddess for him, my lady, and ease his birth into the Otherworld …”

Boudica shook her head.
I don’t remember… I am not a priestess … I can’t let him go …

“But not yet,” came a whisper from the bed. Boudica and Brange-nos both turned. “First … we have work to do.”

“Yes, my lord.” The Druid bowed. “Do you wish the Roman to come in?”

“While you tended our daughters’ spirits … I have tried to safeguard … their inheritance,” Prasutagos said as Boudica’s brows lifted in surprise.

She resumed her seat beside him as the curtains were drawn aside and Brangenos returned, followed by Bituitos, Crispus, and a bald man in a Roman tunic who eyed her with mingled appreciation and apprehension.

What on earth has he heard about me?
She forced her grimace to something more pleasant.
I won’t hurt you, little man, no matter how unwelcome you may be.

“This is Junius Antonius Calvus, a lawyer from Londinium,” said Crispus, in British, and then in Latin, “Sir, this is the queen.”

“She speaks our language?” asked Calvus, as if finding it hard to believe.

Boudica bared her teeth in a smile.

“She does, but Bituitos here does not. Therefore I will translate so that he may serve as witness.”

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Very well then. Domina, your husband has asked me to draw up a will in our fashion, as he is a client of the emperor and a friend of Rome. Ordinarily, this would have been done long ago and the document sent to Rome to be recorded in the temple of Vesta, but we can keep it in the Office of the Procurator for now.” He opened the leather satchel at his side and withdrew a scroll.

Boudica tried to listen as the sonorous Latin rolled forth, its lilting British echo driving the sense of it in. The dower lands already settled on Boudica remained her own, but the king’s possessions were divided between his daughters and the emperor. As Calvus read, Prasutagos listened, his features set in the lines of stubborn determination Boudica knew so well.

“In Roman law, it is usual for a woman to inherit from her family, not her husband,” the lawyer said apologetically when the reading was done. “A man leaves his wealth to his children. Daughters may inherit when there are no sons.”

“But—the emperor?” she asked.

Calvus grew a little pink and looked away. “You may be aware that there are men … close to the emperor, who exercise a great deal of power …”

Boudica nodded. Seneca and the other old men who controlled the boy emperor had been raping Britannia of her wealth these past few years.

“We think … that if Nero is co-heir with your daughters, they will not dare to challenge the will. It was the only legal way I could devise …” His voice trailed off. He still looked, thought Boudica, as if he thought she might eat him. She turned to her husband.

“My love, is this indeed what you desire?”

“My
desire
is to live,” he breathed. “But if I cannot … this is my will. I ask the council to confirm … you to rule.”

“Until Rigana is grown and chooses a husband,” added Bituitos. “The Romans supported Cartimandua because she served them, but they are not comfortable with ruling queens.”

Prasutagos’s eyes had closed. Brangenos, who for such a tall man had a remarkable ability to fade into the background when he desired, stood up. The Roman jumped, having apparently not realized he was there.

“The king has exhausted his t trength—he must sleep now.” The Druid’s frown was a command.

Calvus hastened to gather his things and was escorted out by Cris-pus. Bituitos followed. But Boudica remained standing. Her defiant gaze met the compassion in that of the Druid, who bowed. When he had gone, she stood gazing down at Prasutagos’s closed features, memorizing the arch of his nose, the line of his brows. There was a little line between them, as if even in sleep he felt pain. His mustache was entirely silver now.

Her vision blurred, and she sank to her knees beside the bed, weeping soundlessly. A long time later, it seemed, she felt a touch upon her hair and jerked upright, trying to dry her eyes.

“Go ahead and cry,” he said. “The gods know I have done so. Do you think it is easier for me to go than for you to stay?”

“Yes!” she dashed more tears away. “Was it not worse for you when your first wife died? And you had only lived with her for a year. You and I have been bound for nearly half my life, and you are leaving me alone!”

Prasutagos closed his eyes. Boudica held her breath, appalled at her own words. They had never talked about the first woman to call him husband. What madness had made her mention that now?

“When she died … I wept because I could not save her,” he whispered at last. “Now … because I will not be able to protect
you
…”

oudica liked to walk down to the horse pen when Brangenos insisted that she leave Prasutagos to get some air. Now it was only here that she allowed herself the luxury of tears. Bogle and the other dogs trailed her in uncharacteristic silence as they sensed her mood. The afternoon was fading. The white mare came to the fence, butting at her shoulder in hopes of a treat, and Boudica put her arms around the strong neck and buried her face in the mare’s white mane. She did not pray. She had not been able to pray since she returned from the sacred spring, but the mare’s solid strength was some comfort.