The Eagle and the Raven (11 page)

They looked at her with the natural curiosity of her return overlaid with a dawning hostility. They looked at their chief tribesman, Venutius, with longing. They whispered and stirred, but no one rose to speak. At last they looked at her and waited and she knew she must get up and defend herself. She had never spoken in Council before and she was afraid, but she stood slowly, feeling the last vestiges of sickness weaken her knees and bring sweat to her neck. She looked far back, to where the ungainly huts blotted the field. What are they to me, these simple fools? she thought. Let them send me away and go back to their mutton and their filthy huts! But a mettle rose in her, and she spoke.

“People of Brigantia,” she said, her voice low but carrying clearly. “I have heard myself described as half Catuvellauni and half Roman, and I stand amazed. Have the Druithin lost their famous powers of memory? Do they not remember that royal children leave their homes and go to other tribes, so that when they return to their own they may serve them better? And the sons of the chiefs often go to Mona, to the home of the Druithin, to learn all the wisdom of the ancients. Is this a new thing? Not to my father, who sent me to Cunobelin to learn.” She did not mention that she had also gone under great pressure from Cunobelin, as a hostage, but Venutius knew and he raised his head and shot her a keen, cool glance. She went on, a strange thrill taking her, a slow rising excitement within her. “But sons and daughters return. My father went to the Coritani in his youth. Are the Coritani your friends, then? Do you not hate each other still, even as you hate the Catuvellauni? Then why do you suspect me? I have merely done as my father did, and his father before him. Look at me, freemen!” She pulled angrily at her hair, showed them her arms and her face. “Am I not raven-haired, and am I not fair-skinned as you are? I am Brigantian and you know it. And you also know the Druid’s unspoken fears. I am a woman. Will I long for the little fields and gentle woods of the Catuvellauni? Will I miss my friends and seek to bind them to me, and in the end betray you, my true kinsmen, in my weakness?” Well, will you? Her own thought mocked her, and she lowered her arms and breathed deeply. “You have been ruled by a woman before, and she was a great warrior. I am the last of my line, a line that stretches back beyond the confines of Albion to the northern reaches of the places where the sun is always hot and strong. I am my father’s daughter and thus your daughter, too, and I have an undisputed right to your loyalty. The Druid has played shamelessly on your fears, but I have no fine words with which to win your love. Perhaps you wish to consider the claim of Venutius, for he is well known to you.” She had struck a chord. Some of the faces went blank and there was a general scuffling. “Then consider it. But remember that only I can prove royal blood, and if you cast me out you dishonor yourselves.” She sat down abruptly, not knowing what she had said, her heart pounding, and Venutius immediately rose and began to speak.

His words were few for he had already come to a decision and he knew the people would do as he wished. Before his ride to Camulodunon he had been consumed with bitterness at the thought that he, with his vast honor-price and the adoration of all the tuath, should have to bow to a girl who spoke with the accent of the southlands and whose eyes would be full of disdain at the sight of the rough land he loved, and traveling with her had flung him further into turmoil. Her speech was heavily accented, yes. Her clothes were soft and rich, her eyes held mute rebellion and a cold repudiation of him and his kind, yet there were mysteries within her, layers to be peeled back, and a stubborn disregard for the hard discomforts of the journey that spoke of hidden strengths. He had been told by Cunobelin that she could fight and hunt, and hold her own among free people. He had not believed, yet now, remembering her silent doggedness as they rode hour by hour through mud and rain, he was not so sure. He wanted time to get to know her better and besides, he had vowed an oath to her father to serve her faithfully at the risk of his dishonor, and he valued his honor above all things. That, and his freedom. He had considered the loss of his honor when he had almost succumbed to the urge to murder her, but he had not considered the loss of his freedom.

“I do not care what you do, all of you,” he said to the Council, “but I vowed my lord my sword and my life, and here is the daughter of my lord. Her claim is unanswerable and you know it. I do not care where she spent her childhood. I care only that she is home again, among the people of her tuath, and the goddess can once more run across the hills with the fleet lightness of her earliest days.” He bent and swept up his sword, and flung it down before her. Then he went to regain his place at her side and she turned and smiled at him faintly. There was a pause in which she could sense indecision, then one by one the other chiefs, muttering and grumbling, did the same. She watched the pile grow, but her thoughts were on Venutius. What do you want of me, hillman? she thought. Why didn’t you take your sword and knock off my head? She knew why, thought she knew, and the hollow places within her began to fill with another warmth.

At last she rose. “I accept your oaths,” she said. “Take back your swords. Tomorrow we will sing for my father, and then we will begin our life together.”

She and Venutius left the bright circle of the fire and walked slowly to her house. The moon was full risen now, caught in a wisp of bluish cloud, but the rest of the sky was clear, and she was tired, needing another healing sleep and another day of inactivity. They reached her door, and suddenly he reached inside his tunic, bringing out a small purse. He extracted a coin and held it up before her face. They both stood in the deep shadow of the gray stone wall and all she could see of him was the glint of moonlight on his fierce eyes and the pale movement of his fingers.

“Lady, do you see this?” he said softly. “This is a Brigantian coin, not well made, maybe, not silver, but clean, Lady. No Roman hand has ever touched it, nor Roman craftsman put his crude design upon it.” He bit it automatically and stowed it away again. “Tell me, is it true that Cunobelin employs Roman artists and silversmiths in his shops and forges?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

He exclaimed in disgust, muttering something to himself in an undertone. “Do not take your people lightly, Lady,” he said aloud. “The Catuvellaunian river hums day and night with the sounds of barter, but we also trade from the bays of our coast, for things we value above the fripperies Caesar sends Cunobelin. We trade for bright swords and helms of bronze, for pots and dishes made by those who follow the ways of our fathers. In return we give them sheep hides— and this.” He delved into his tunic again and pressed something hard and cold into her hand. She stepped into the moonlight and looked. It was a thick bronze thumb ring, set with a pear-shaped stone of unusual weight, and its facets glittered balefully at her as she moved it to and fro. It was black. It had no instant appeal, it did not bring forth cries of admiration and envy, but as she looked at it, it drew her gaze ever deeper into itself, exerting an unwilling fascination and a desire to own, to stare forever. She handed it back.

“What is it?”

“It is jet, Lady, jet, as black as night. Not beautiful as the amethyst, or the bright corals the Catuvellauni love, but it is the stone of your country and reflects it with truth. It is a country of loneliness and secrets, hard and rough, yet it can compel if you will let it.” He took a step and she raised her head, her breath stilling in her throat. A whiff of desire came to her from him and he put his large hands on her head, stroking her hair, and they came to rest on her slim shoulders. “It can also destroy,” he whispered, “if you are weak, and bring to it fear and loathing.”

On an impulse she stood on tiptoe and brushed the bearded cheek with her lips, but even as she felt a rush of gratitude toward him she also felt contempt, a recoiling from him and his wild people and this dirty place. Fumble all you will, you fool, she thought with an inward smile. Before long I will be able to do what I like with you, all of you, and your bays will be full of traders bringing me wine, and this place will rise high upon the earthwalls I will construct, and I will bring cattle to mingle with these stupid sheep. She moved gently from his grasp but not from his eyes. She had seen eyes like that before, watching her intently from the thick underbrush as she rode along the forest paths with Caradoc and Togodumnus, the eyes of an animal that did not reason its danger but sensed it.

Venutius smiled through thoughts gone suddenly dim and confused, and she smiled back, reaching for her doorskins. “You do not need to harangue me, my friend. I do not deny that I came here as a stranger, but I am young, and I prefer to face change and adventure rather than turn and run.” With another thought she let the skins fall and turned to him again. “Tell me, Venutius, are the Druithin seen often in this land?”

“Of course. There are always one or two of them staying in the guest hut.”

“I see. Well, a good night to you.”

“Sleep in safety, Lady.”

She went in, letting the skins fall into place with a soft sound behind her. Her servant had gone to her own bed but the fire danced on, and the shadows on the walls danced with it. She walked to her bed and sat down slowly, the night silence lapping her in peace for a moment. Then she lay back, picking up the talisman Gladys had given her and fingering it gently. The Druithin will have to go, she thought. Somehow I must see that the people turn against them, but it will not be easy and I will have to take much time and planning to accomplish it. The fire suddenly spat and a log rolled slightly. A deep grief seized her, a wave of homesickness. For two weeks she had not laughed, nor seen a single person with whom she could share the last fifteen years of her life. She was among strangers, and they would all, always be strangers. She was alone. She turned on her side and wept at last as the thing she had sensed while she hesitated at the border to her land, the dark, unknown thing, came closer.

In the morning, under a hot sun, the chiefs gathered outside her father’s barrow. A fire had been lit, pale and powerless, dwarfed by the light that poured over and around it. All the freemen stood about it, Aricia with them, dressed in yellow and blue, and with gold circlet on her unbound hair and her sword strapped to her waist. Venutius stood next to her, his red hair cascading down his back and his tousled beard combed. He carried his shield slung over one arm and his helm was on his head, for they had come to salute a warrior, not an old, worn-out dotard. Her father’s shield-bearer and his bard stood apart, the latter with his little harp in his arms, and at last the Druid came, his white robe shining in the sun. The sacrifices had been made while she lay tossing in her fever and his presence was not needed, but he was there out of respect, and some perverse show of almost impudent immunity caused him to come and stand beside her, smiling a greeting.

When the assembly was ready the bard walked to stand under the shade of the small earthmound and, after tuning his harp, began to sing. He sang of feasts long gone, of her father and his wife striding young about the hills in the pearly dawns, of herself as a baby. He told them of how her father had met the goddess by the sea and kissed her, and of how his rule thenceforth had been just and fruitful. When he had finished, her father’s chiefs began to sing, softly at first, beating time on their shields with supple brown hands, their hair stirring in the wind. The sun glinted on their myriad bronzes—brooches, bracelets, thick torcs, all twisted and tortured into the nightmare patterns and suffocating tight-tangled curlicues of the northern artisans. They reminded Aricia of the strange shapes carved about the Great Hall at home, in Camulodunon, but here, where they belonged, they had a power and a life far beyond the dark, unheeded, smoke-dulled pillars where Cunobelin wove his lies. The song strengthened, took wings, soared into the clean air as others joined in, but the Druid was silent, and Aricia, tears trickling down her cheeks, did not know the words. The rhythmic majesty of the music and the sight of these great, bearded men leaning on their swords and singing moved her, and in a blinding moment of self-realization she knew she was not worthy of them, these innocent people of the unsullied hills. The music changed, became mournful, and died away, and the bard took it up again, singing of her father’s slow aging around the fires of his middle age, his loneliness, his longing for the wife now lying peacefully in her long sleep under the heaped earth. The chiefs sang again, their chorus and the bard’s high voice blending, and Aricia, already living on nerves stretched to their limit by the events of the past days, broke down, laid her head on Venutius’s chest, and cried. He went on singing but his arm held her tightly to him, and she closed her eyes while the tears continued to well from beneath the white lids. When the singing was done the men stepped forward one by one, eulogizing their dead lord in brief poignant speeches. Then it was Aricia’s turn. She went to the hole in the earthmound and turned to face them, feeling frantically for words that would not come. What can I say? she thought in a panic. Lies, only lies. Can I say that I loved him, that I missed him? Can I say that I spared him one thought when Cunobelin and I gambled the evenings away together? She swallowed more tears and began to speak, and once again that odd thrill of approaching power overtook her, so that words began to flow glibly from her red mouth, and deep silence fell. Lies! her mind screamed at her. All dirty, dishonoring lies! Then her voice gained strength, intoxicated with itself, and the tears ceased to fall as she began to realize that she was holding the people as the Druithin could do. Power expanded like a slow-rising sun within her, pouring a thrall over the wrapt gathering, and when she had spoken the last word and went back to her place, taking Venutius’s hand, she did not know that Aricia had gone away and the embryo of someone new pressed Venutius’s hand and smiled into his eyes with a promise and the invisible threads of a holding spell.

W
INTER
, A.D. 40

Chapter Five

F
EARACHAR
slipped off the leashes and the dogs catapulted into the underbrush, their deep excited baying a deafening cacophony of confused sound.

“They have the scent!” Cinnamus shouted. “After them!”

“Don’t lose them, Fearachar!” Sholto yelled. “Keep them in check!”

But the dogs did not respond to Fearachar’s frantic whistling and the group plunged on their trail. It was another winter morning, still and cold. There had been a frost in the night, which had melted quickly in the sun, but here, under the trees, patches of white still lay, and the men’s feet crunched the brittle grass, their breath rising as steam to hang in the branches above them and their faces red and pinched with cold. Togodumnus leaped a small bush and disappeared along the path, passing Fearachar and running out of sight, and Caradoc, his son, Llyn, and Cinnamus pounded after him. Caelte paused to fasten his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, then he picked up his spear and ran too, crashing through the trees. There was no need for silence now. The dogs had the scent and the boar would be very close, clumsily feinting this way and that, angrily darting to find a stream, or the densest bush in which to wriggle. Fearachar whistled again, but the dogs took no notice. He could hear the echo of their tumult somewhere off to his right and he plunged on, seeing the flick of scarlet as Togodumnus forged ahead. Caradoc, Llyn, and Cinnamus soon caught up with him and together they stumbled on, Caelte panting behind them. Suddenly the trees thinned and they heard Togodumnus give a great shout.

“There he is! What a big one! Where are the nets?”

Caradoc pointed beyond the boar that stood still for a moment, wheezing and befuddled. “Vocorio and Mocuxsoma have them. They should be there, a little to the left. Where are those confounded dogs?” Fearachar whistled again in a rage, and at last the dogs came loping, red tongues hanging out. At the sight of them the boar charged again, away from the men and on into the brush and the dogs forged after him, fanning out in response to another whistle. “Tog, stay where you are!” Caradoc called. “Cin, Fearachar, take the right hand. Caelte, you and I will move ahead. If the nets are set where they ought to be we shall have him neatly trapped.”

“My kill, my kill!” Llyn begged, his brown eyes fixed in pleading on his father, but Caradoc shook his head briefly.

“Not yet, Llyn. Your mother would never forgive me if you were hurt. You’re not old enough.” The eyes lost their spark, but Llyn shrugged philosophically and Caradoc smiled down at the tousled head. “Carry my spear,” he offered, “and if I make the kill you can have a tusk.”

“What is a tusk, father, compared to my knife in his throat?” Llyn said, but he hefted the long shaft proudly, and Caradoc ran on. Suddenly a wild, animal shriek went up, a call of pure rage, and a great squealing began. Togodumnus was tugging madly at his spear, entangled in a vine that snaked behind him, and Vocorio and Mocuxsoma struggled to hold the net while the boar thrashed, tossing his head sharply, his tusks and one foot wrapped in the tough leather. The dogs barked and ran up and down in a frenzy of excitement, and the little red eyes of the boar blazed at them even as he wrenched himself free.

“Look out!” Cinnamus screamed. “Vocorio, throw the net!” The man ran forward as the boar shook his head and charged straight at the nearest dog, his short legs drumming over the ground. The net fell over him and he rolled onto his back, threshing and squealing in a high-pitched agony of fear. Llyn shoved the spear at his father and ran forward, tugging at his knife, but Caradoc pulled him back firmly. “No Llyn. Behave yourself.”

“It is my kill,” Togodumnus said, and he heaved his spear free of the vine and strode forward, but Caelte barred his way.

“No, Lord, it is mine,” he said, and the boar was suddenly quiet, lying under the net as if dead.

“You killed three days ago,” Togodumnus protested.

“And you yesterday,” Caelte persisted, but Togodumnus refused to concede.

“That was only a deer,” he said in an injured tone.

“Nevertheless, this boar is mine. Do you want to fight?” Caelte looked calmly into the sullen face but Togodumnus dropped his spear and turned his back like a spoiled child, shaking his head.

“Really,” Llyn said loudly, “the boar is mine but Father will not let me kill it.”

Togodumnus turned back. “Of course not!” He came forward. “Watch this, Llyn, and you will know how wise your father is.” He walked slowly to the boar, and Caelte watched anxiously in case he suddenly drew a knife and robbed him of his kill, but Togodumnus made no move to his belt. The boar still lay inert but its tiny eyes followed his every step. Tog came to a halt, raised a hand as though he held a knife, bent over, and the boar suddenly sprang to life with a grunt. It lunged at Togodumnus, its leather-held tusks scooping viciously to rend, and three of the strong leather thongs parted. Togodumnus skipped quickly away and the boar struggled furiously, one tusk stuck into the ground where Tog had stood a moment before.

“You see?” said Tog, grinning. “If you had gone to slit his throat he would have had you, Llyn, and even now you would be lying on the ground with your leg ripped to the bone.”

Llyn smiled back. He loved his uncle very much, drawn to the sunny glow of well-being and radiant charm. He loved his father, too, but at the age of six he still feared and respected him too much to feel entirely easy in his presence. As for his grandfather…Llyn wrinkled up his nose and sheathed his knife. Cunobelin was like a fat, smelly old spider, crouching in his Hall all day, and Llyn avoided him as often as he could.

“Well, Caelte, get on with it,” Togodumnus said, and Caelte took out his knife and circled the boar, waiting for the moment when the red eyes were distracted. Then he ran in, grasping a tusk and drawing the knife cleanly through the gray, bristled throat. Blood steamed on the white grass, rapidly melting a tiny pool of frost and showing the green blades beneath.

“A neat kill,” Caradoc approved. Vocorio and Mocuxsoma waited for the twitching of the dying beast to subside, wary still, then began to tie its legs to the pole they had brought, and Caradoc turned to Fearachar. “The dogs are unruly,” he said. “They will have to be worked a lot harder if they are to be ready to be shipped in a month.

That black one with the gray muzzle should be trained on his own. He hangs back until the others have done all the work. Then he hops in and shares the glory.”

“Like someone else I could name,” Fearachar grumbled, one eye on Togodumnus as he talked to Llyn. “Well, I had better have a word with the trainers.” He stretched. “A good morning’s hunting. Now for wine and hot broth.” Vocorio and Mocuxsoma swung the pole onto their shoulders and started back to the track where the horses were tethered and a wain waited for the kill. Cinnamus, Llyn, Caradoc, and Togodumnus followed together, and Sholto and Caelte swung along behind them. Fearachar was left to catch the dogs and leash them, and the sound of his whistles and blows slowly faded.

“Was it really your kill, Caelte?” Llyn asked, and Sholto cuffed him playfully on the ear.

“Be patient, little cub. You have at least another year before you, and even then your father may not allow it.”

“Then I shall have to go off on my own and do my killing in secret.”

Caradoc laughed but there was a warning note to the sound. He put his arm across the sturdy shoulders, feeling a rush of pride, glad that the boy was showing signs of taking after him and not Eurgain, though he loved her. Llyn had his own dark brown hair, but there were red lights in it when the sun smote his head. The square chin, still molded with the soft bones of youth, was undeniably cleft, a true sign of the members of House Catuvellaun, and the body was well made, already muscled. Llyn walked with his father’s regular, dogged stride that ate up the ground confidently, but he had Togodumnus’s full-throated, infectious laugh that spread merriment. Sometimes, when Llyn was sunk in thought, Caradoc imagined that he saw Cunobelin in the veiled eyes and the secret smile, but Llyn was not often still enough to be plunged into introspection. He ran about Camulodunon and the surrounding country with three or four of his own friends and spent much time hanging around the stables, waiting for permission to ride the big horses. He had given up the chariot ponies a year ago, but sometimes he would grudgingly ride one to keep his sisters company.

Little Eurgain was five, blonde and headstrong, already chafing to ride something more spirited, and Gladys was four, dark like her aunt, a quiet child who never cried. She was disturbingly like the young Aricia, looking at the strange world of the Catuvellauni with haughty, wary eyes, and more than once, creeping to his knee, she had flung open the gate of Caradoc’s memories. For a moment the tearing, aching need would be there in all its impossible sweetness, immobilizing him with the strength of its remembered odors and colors. Even now, seven years after Aricia had ridden away into the mist with tears in her eyes and her mouth set tight against the pain of parting, she could reduce him to almost physical impotence, and in the time it took to lift his daughter onto his lap he would have relived every frenzied encounter, every whispered word, every act of violent repudiation, and be once more obliged to chase the lingering memories away by an act of the will. He was more than happy with Eurgain and knew that he had made the right decision. He would rather lose his honor-price than her. Their seventh year together was almost over and he had teased her, asking her whether now she would take her herds and the children and return to her father, having had enough of married life. In the seventh year by custom she could have done it, but she only laughed. “I have had my eye on Cinnamus for a time,” she had said, trying to keep a straight face. “He greatly interests me, but I think I prefer being first wife to you than second to Cinnamus.”

“Cinnamus likes his women to be fierce and quarrelsome,” Caradoc had flashed back, a tiny whip of jealousy flicking him. “He would not know what to do with you.”

She had come close to him, her blue eyes still dancing. “But Caradoc,” she had said smoothly. “He told me the other day that all men need some variety. Perhaps he tires of Vida’s teeth and claws and wishes for a change.” She had kissed him then before he could explode, her mouth still quivering with mirth, knowing that he and she were bound together forever.

Caradoc looked down at his son as they neared the edge of the wood. “Never hunt alone, Llyn. If you lay injured in the forest, who could bring you aid? There may not seem to you to be much difference between bravery and recklessness, but no man respects another who is reckless.”

Llyn did not reply. They broke through the trees to find the horses waiting patiently and the stable servant sitting on the bank. He rose to greet them and they mounted, Llyn jumping off a humped root to fling his leg across his horse before it trotted away without him, and set off for home. The sun was bright but held only a frail, watery warmth, and the men were more than ready for a fire and hot wine. The wain creaked after them, laden with the boar and all their hunting gear, and Vocorio and Mocuxsoma perched on the back, singing, their legs dangling, as Llyn cantered up and down the path, shouting and hooting.

They led their horses under the cold shade of the gate and Vocorio and Mocuxsoma jumped down from the wain, leaving it standing beside the wall. The freemen would come and skin the beast, saving the tusks for Caelte, and the gear would be taken to the armorer for cleaning and mending. All of them walked past the stables, the kennels, up through the freemen’s circle, and so to the flat ground before the Great Hall where a chill wind pulled at their cloaks and heightened the color in Llyn’s already pink cheeks. A crowd was gathered there, standing in loose groups talking or squatting on the ground. Beyond them they heard the clash of weapons and they went forward to see. Llyn tugged excitedly at Caradoc’s sleeve. “It’s mother and Aunt Gladys!” he said. The chiefs and freemen made way for them and they found a place and sat. Llyn was pulled down beside Sholto and warned to be quiet. Any sudden cry or movement could end in tragedy on the practice ground where no killing was intended. Llyn knew this well and he sat very still, his eyes shining and his mouth open.

His mother and his aunt circled each other, swords high. Both women wore breeches and short tunics, and their hair was plaited and strapped tight to their waists. Their left arms were empty. Caradoc preferred Eurgain to work with a shield but she seldom did and neither did Gladys, though they knew that they ought to become used to the extra weight. Gladys had just shrugged when Cinnamus took her to task over it. “I am not likely to go to war,” she had said, “and I have vowed never to raid again, so why should I be encumbered?” Cinnamus disapproved, everyone disapproved, but the women took no notice. Gladys’s trainer called something and the two of them closed. Then, as swift as a gust of wind, Eurgain slipped under Gladys’s upward swing and brought her sword in a neat horizontal slash that would have sliced her sister-in-law in half if Gladys had not seen it coming, continued her backswing, and spun away. Both were tired, and sweat ran down their faces and their breath came in little gasps. Gladys was the more powerful of the two, with a clean, forceful style, but Eurgain was lighter and quicker. They were well matched. Eurgain pressed her advantage, pursuing Gladys with a series of short slashes back, forth, back, forth, and the crowd tumbled to get out of the way. Then Gladys turned and stabbed. It was not a common ploy. The swords were meant for great slashing sweeps, not for close stabs, the points blunt though the blades were honed to a sharpness that would slice through a wisp of grass floating in the air. Nevertheless, the point of Gladys’s sword grazed Eurgain’s neck and dark blood welled and began to course down the front of her sweat stained tunic. She ignored it, whirling low for another blow, arm singing down, but the trainer called “Enough!” and the women immediately dropped their swords, staggered to each other, and laid their heads on each other’s shoulders, panting. Caradoc rose and went to them, Cinnamus joining him.