Ravens of Avalon (55 page)

As if the song had summoned him, Bogle rose from his place by the fire and thrust his great head beneath her hand. The other dogs were leashed for the night, but they had learned the futility of trying to keep Bogle from following.

“You see, I will not be alone.”

Boudica moved among the wagons, stopping now and again to exchange a word with one of the men she had come to know on their journey. From the fires she heard song and laughter, or the rhythmic scrape and screech where someone was putting a better edge on his sword. From the shadows beneath some of the wagons came the soft sounds of people making love. Some of the women were wives, but men would lie with anyone willing when on campaign. It was natural enough—when people faced death there was a powerful urge to affirm life.

Even the Morrigan, on the day before a battle, made love to Da-godevos, thought Boudica, suppressing an unwelcome tremor of arousal. But She had no mate here to balance Her destructive powers with love. From somewhere close by a woman cried out at the moment of fulfillment. The queen stopped, touching her own breast. But that was no solution—she had tried, in the long nights when she slept alone. It was not only her husband’s body that she missed beside her, but his spirit, enfolding her own.

Lovers raise the power and offer it to each other,
she told herself grimly.
I can only offer my need to the gods.
She forced herself to move on.

In the center of the camp the people had built a votive shrine, surrounded by torches and poles on which hung the heads and hides of the animals that had been offered to the gods while the meat was boiled in a thousand cauldrons and roasted on a thousand fires. The scent of blood lay heavy on the air.

The altar itself was a construction of poles and logs covered with rich fabrics looted from Londinium. Among their folds the people had placed silver plates and kraters and dishes of Samian ware, carved wooden stools, amphorae of wine and statuary and clothing with embroidery. At the top were the heads of two Roman scouts who had been caught by the Celtic vanguard, and above them, a hurdle of poles from which three crows dangled, blood from their death wounds red on their black breasts.

“You, I recognize,” Boudica said softly. “You are the three of ill-boding, always slaughtered and always receiving the sacrifice …”

“Some die that others may live …”
said the goddess within,
“and their blood feeds the ground.”

“I know …” the queen replied. It was not a man she needed, but answers, and whether they came from the goddess or her own heart, to hear them she must be alone.

She turned away from the wagons and made her way across the field toward the reedy banks of the stream.

ater gleamed where the brook flowed across the pale ribbon of the road. Lhiannon’s pony pulled at the rein and she loosened it to let him drink.

“Lady, it grows late,” said the farmer’s boy. “Should we not make camp for the night? There’s water here, and we could shelter by those trees.”

Lhiannon straightened her legs, trying to ease the ache of muscles cramped by a ride that had begun early that morning. His suggestion was tempting, but the urgency that drove her was, if anything, greater than it had been the day before.

“How far is the Roman fort from here?” she asked.

“It might be five miles to Manduessedum, but we won’t want to camp near there.”

“No, Kitto, where I
want
to camp is with the queen’s army. The signs of their passage are so recent, they cannot be far.” Even by night the traces where so many men and animals had passed were clear.

In the stillness when the pony lifted his head it seemed to her that she could hear a faint murmur, like the distant sea.

“We will continue until midnight, but I think that before then we will find them.” She shortened her reins, set heels to the pony’s sides, and they went on.

“Yes, Lady,” said the boy, clearly assuming her certainty came from Druid magic. Lhiannon did not tell him that what drove her was fear that the battle would be fought before they got there, and she would never see Boudica again.

But at last the gods seemed to be smiling. Before they had gone a mile she realized that ahead the stars were dimmed by an orange glow, and presently, on the hill to the left of the road, she saw the regular lines of Roman fires.

“The Great Queen’s folk lie ahead of us on the plain,” she pointed up the road. “We can afford to push the horses now, for they will have rest soon.”

Shortly thereafter a man rose up like a spirit from the side of the road and barred their way with a spear.

“It is Carvilios, is it not?” Lhiannon peered through the gloom. “Where will I find the queen?”

“In the center of the camp, Lady, to the right of the road.” He grinned. “She will be glad of your coming.”

But it was Crispus and the rest of the household who made her welcome.

“She went off a little while ago to walk through the camp,” said Temella. “She often does so before she sleeps, but I thought she would be back by now.”

“Perhaps I should look for her,” said the priestess. “My legs are cramping from too many hours in the saddle, and I need to walk the kinks out of them.”

“We would be grateful.” Crispus looked relieved. “She said she was too tight-wound to sleep. Well, so are we all, but not all of us will be fighting a battle tomorrow. She must rest, my lady. She will listen when
you
tell her to come in.”

t was very quiet here in the no-man’s-land between friend and foe. The ducks that paddled in the water by day were asleep in the reeds, but an owl slid past on silent wing. Above the murmur of the current Boudica could hear a familiar splash and slap. She glanced at the dog, but Bogle’s tail was wagging. She followed the path along the banks toward the ford, and halted as she saw a figure kneeling at the water’s edge.

What she had heard was the sound of someone beating laundry. But why in the middle of the night before a battle would s omeone—her thought stopped as the woman turned. Pale in the starlight, the face before her was her own.

“What are you doing?” Did the question come from without or within?

“I cleanse the clothing of the slain … Ravens gnaw the necks of men, blood spurts in the furious fray, flesh is hewn in battle fury, and blades bite bodies in red war. Heroes in their battle-heat harry the foe with hacking blows. War is waged, each trampling each …” On the smooth cheeks gleamed the silver track of tears. “Do not fight tomorrow. It will be your doom.”

“I have no choice but to pay that price,” Boudica replied. “To do otherwise would be to betray my people—” She gestured toward the scattered fires. “You wear my face, but I know You, Strife-Stirrer, Gore-Crow, Raven of Battle. You delight in conflict. Why do You pretend to weep? You led these people here.”

The woman shook her head. “They would say they followed Boudica.”

“But You are the one with the power!”

“My heart is your heart. My rage is your rage. You are the goddess—”

Boudica realized that as the woman spoke she was saying the words as well. She shook her head in desperation. Was this a delusion, or had she been deluding herself all along?

“And are my hands
Your
hands?” she cried.

The woman got to her feet and Boudica saw herself reflected in the Other’s eyes.

“Only when you allow Me to use them,” came the soft reply. “You shape the gods as We shape you. But the forms in which you see Us have been honed through many lives of men. Through Us you pass from mortality to eternity. Through Us, the Divine becomes manifest in you.”

Boudica realized that she was trembling, and did not know whether what she felt was terror or ecstasy.

“Then will You use my hands tomorrow?” Boudica retreated to a fear she did understand. “Will You lead us to victory?”

“It will end as it must for the greater good,” came the reply. “To give everything in the cause of life is one path to growth, but conflict is another. In war, you are tested to destruction. Winners and losers alike can fail, giving way to greed or fear. And winners and losers alike can transcend mortality. But only those who fall fighting bravely tap the last reserves of valor. Only those who give everything win the glory that lives in song and feeds generations to come. That is a prize that the winners cannot claim.”

“And to gain that victory, will many die?” Boudica asked then.

“Death is only a doorway, but how you go through that door will change what you see on the other side …”

hiannon stopped, skin prickling at the presence of power, as she saw the figure standing by the stream. The great dog sat at her side.

When Crispus asked her to look for the queen Lhiannon had wondered if power had made Boudica willful. But if so, she thought now, the power, and the will, were not the queen’s. The figure before her stood tall beyond the height of mortals, with a light around her that did not come from the stars. Leached of color by the night, her hair flowed down in waves of shadow. From beneath the closed eyelids came a steady stream of tears.

The priestess took a deep breath, forcing her voice to calm. “Great Queen—the night is passing, and the body You wear must rest.”

The goddess turned, opening eyes that held a sorrow older than the world.

“You have so little time, and so much to learn …”

Lhiannon fought the temptation to use this opportunity to ask a few questions of her own.

“No time,” she agreed, “if the woman is to sleep at all. In the name of Dagdevos, Lady, let her go.”

After a thoughtful moment, the still features were transformed by a smile. “In the name of He who loves the one Boudica loved, I will …”

Once more the eyes closed, but now the face was changing as the energy ebbed away. Lhiannon reached as Boudica’s limbs gave way, and staggering a little, for since she had seen her last the queen had gained mass and muscle, lowered her to the grass.

“Lhiannon …” Boudica struggled to sit up. “I dreamed you had come.” She looked around her in confusion as Bogle whined and nosed at her hand. “Or is this the dream?”

“This,” said the priestess with a tartness born of relief, “is the eve of battle, and we all belong in our beds.”

“There was a woman washing bloody clothes.”

“I know Who you met here,” Lhiannon said grimly and sighed. “Do you think you can walk now, or do I summon men to carry you?”

“In the morning we will fight,” Boudica continued as if she had not heard. “Watch over my daughters, Lhiannon. Keep them safe for me!”

“Yes, Boudica—”
If I can …

Boudica caught her breath and focused fully on the priestess for the first time. “Oh Lhiannon, thank the gods you are here! I have needed you so badly, for so long!” She turned, weeping, and Lhiannon gathered her into her arms.

TWENTY
-
NINE

he gods had given them a beautiful morning. The sun filled a transparent sky with light, and the poppies glowed like spots of blood upon the bright gold of the ripening fields. On the plain between the stream and the slope the Britons were assembled by tribe and clan. In that clear light, their striped and checkered garments and their painted shields were a riot of fierce hues. Some had stripped to the waist, the swirls and spirals of war paint showing bright against fair skin. Others wore mail shirts whose links shimmered in the sun. Sunlight glanced from shield boss and gleamed on bright blade. The same light glared from the armor of the Romans who waited on the hill.

Holding the high ground gave the enemy an advantage, but they were facing into the sun, thought Boudica as she jumped into the chariot behind Tascio. She worked her shoulders back and forth to distribute the weight of her mail. The shirt had been made for a large man and except across the bosom hung loosely. The added weight seemed to give her more stability in the chariot, though after the miles she had journeyed standing in the thing, balance was no longer a problem. As Tascio reined the ponies toward the line the ruddy plaid of her own cloak streamed out behind her. She could feel the raven wings attached to her cone-shaped helmet flutter in the wind. A second chariot, bearing Rigana and Argan-tilla, followed. When the fighting began Calgac would drive them back to the wagons drawn up in a semicircle at the other end of the field. Ar-gantilla, at least, could be trusted to stay there.

As the chariot bore her along the line the men began to cheer. “Boud! Victory! Boud-ee-cah!” Ravens flew up from a cluster of trees, cawing exultantly.

Lady, I hear You …
Boudica’s heart answered.
Do You hear me? You brought us here—help us now! Help me!

She flinched as the first wave of sound vibrated through flesh and bone. She could see faces now. She lifted her sword in salute to Brocag-nos and his boys. Segovax and his older son Beric and their men made a group near the clan of Morigenos. Farther down the line Drostac of Ash Hill and his household shook their spears.

“Boud-i-ca!” came the shout, and with it a surge of energy that was like the power when Cathubodva came in. Other faces emerged from the blur before her—Mandos, who had returned from his exile in the Brigante lands when he heard about the rebellion, bearing the sword he had refused to yield; Tabanus, who had been a slave in Colonia; Vordilic and his grim band of Catuvellauni; Corio of the Dobunni with the men of his tribe. She saw Iceni and Trinovantes, Durotriges and Dobunni, and smaller groups from a dozen other tribes. There were even a few Silures who had fought with Caratac, who saluted as they recognized the torque she wore. At the far end of the line Tingetorix led a mixed group of mounted warriors. They were all cheering, waves of sound rolling through the bright air.