The Eagle and the Raven (6 page)

The light from his fire and his lamps shone out under the doorskins, and Fearachar stood without, huddling dejectedly into his short cloak while the rain dripped off his long nose.

“I have been waiting…” he began in an injured tone, and Caradoc cut him short.

“I know!” he snapped, not amused tonight by the servant’s whining. “For a long time. Go away, Fearachar. I have no patience with you tonight.”

“Lord, I have been waiting here to tell you that you have a visitor,” Fearachar concluded in a morose but satisfied tone. “Seeing that you wish no commerce with me tonight I will forbear to tell you who it is.” He sniffed once and sneezed twice. “I am getting a cold.” He bowed perfunctorily and walked away quickly, his back hunched.

Caradoc just stood there, his heart beating wildly. Aricia! He pushed past the skins and ran into his room, but it was not Aricia.

The Druid sat in the bronze-plated Roman chair, his long legs stretched out before him and his hands, as before, still in his lap. The firelight haloed him, throwing his bony profile onto the wall, magnifying it and giving it life, and to Caradoc it seemed as if the man had grown, become grotesque. He stopped in fear and confusion, but the man did not turn his head.

“Come in, Caradoc ap Cunobelin,” the Druid said, his voice young and strong.

Caradoc took three steps and looked openly at the face. He was not old, this priest-philosopher. He was perhaps not more than half Caradoc’s own age again, and the beard that earlier had seemed gray was in fact pale gold. What do I say? he thought in a panic. What do I do? Has he come to put a spell upon me?

The man laughed softly. “Why are you afraid, Catuvellaunian warrior? Come and sit.”

Caradoc recovered his wits and walked to the other side of the fire, then lowered himself onto his stool and leaned forward to gaze into the orange depths of the flames. He felt curiously shy and could not look full into the thin face. The Druid slowly sat up straight, pushing his hands into the folds of his deep sleeves.

“Forgive me for intruding, and for startling you, Caradoc,” the Druid said at last, after a long and speculative scrutiny of the youth before him. He nodded to himself, for what he saw seemed to satisfy him. The boy’s face was broad and cleanly boned, the nose broad, too, but not ill-formed. The chin was square and cleft, like the father’s and the two other brothers’, a sign of pride and great stubbornness. But whereas the eyes of the young Togodumnus were never still, never fixed for long in thought or observation, these brown eyes even now lifting to meet his own were steady and acutely perceptive, full of a wisdom that the boy was perhaps unaware he possessed. The hair fell dark and softly waving from a high, wide forehead, and the hands…The Druid stirred. Hands told him everything the eyes could not. These hands were large-palmed but not fleshy, the fingers long but blunt at the tips, the hands of a man who could combine foresight with impetuous action. So. Here was another tiny fruit of possibility, as yet tart and unripe, but to be watched carefully. He leaned toward Caradoc, and stretched out his arm. “I am Bran,” he said.

Somehow, unwillingly, Caradoc found himself grasping the wrist of the man in friendship, and finding it wellsinewed and very warm, his fear seemed to flow from himself into the other and to be dissipated somewhere in the depths of the white woolen gown.

Bran sat back once more with a smile.

“What do you wish of me?” Caradoc asked.

“I wanted to meet you,” Bran said, raising one shoulder, “and I think that if I had sat down beside you in the Hall tonight you would have gotten up and run away. Am I right?”

Caradoc flushed angrily. “The House Catuvellaun runs from nothing and no one,” he said hotly. “But I will confess to a certain unease when I saw you there.”

“Why?”

“Because the Druithin are no longer seen in these parts. The traders…” He broke off.

“The traders, being good and loyal sons of Rome, drove us away. Yes, I know.” The pleasant voice held no hint of bitterness. “And so the sons of Cunobelin forget that the Druithin do not exist to cast spells and make magic.” He was amused now, his eyes twinkling, and Caradoc felt like a clumsy peasant. “But we are still useful, Caradoc. What would your father have done if Subidasto and his daughter had not come under my immunity?”

“Father would have kept Boudicca and perhaps slain her father, and then he would have made war on the Iceni.”

“And called it self-defence, as he did when Tiberius sent to ask of him why he marched against Dubnovellaunus. Oh, his hospitality is unimpeachable. He would have feasted Subidasto, and enquired as to the health of all his tuath, but Subidasto would have met with an accident on the long ride home, and Boudicca would have settled here and been happy.”

Caradoc’s glance slipped to the fire again and he did not reply. Any chieftain would have done the same. Why, then, did this Bran make him feel so dirty?

“Perhaps you are not aware, Caradoc, how much your father is hated and feared outside his own territory. I travel all the time, I carry news and messages, and I know what other chieftains say.”

Caradoc looked up sharply. “He does not care, and neither do I. Why should we? Is there any ricon who is greater than Cunobelin?”

“There is Tiberius,” Bran reminded him gently.

“I do not understand,” Caradoc replied curtly, and Bran shook his hands free of his robe and put them together, rubbing one small palm against the other. Caradoc’s eyes were drawn to them, those hands, cruel and capable, like the talons of a falcon.

“I think you should begin to care,” Bran said softly. “You members of the House Catuvellaun are ringed with enemies, but you cannot see beyond your meager dreams of conquest and aggrandizement. Do you really think that Julius Caesar was beaten back by Cassivellaunus? I tell you that the weather defeated him, the weather and the tides of the sea. And Rome does not forget. You and your father are living in a fool’s dream world.”

Caradoc began to tremble. He could not help himself. It was not Bran’s words but the tone of his voice that played on old and long-forgotten scars, older than the lad himself. “Sir, are you a seer?” he cried out.

Bran threw back his head and laughed. “No, Caradoc, no, not I. I am of a different order. I read the stars, but not to tell the future, only to discover the hidden secrets of the universe. I sniff the wind of men’s words, and so divine the trends of the tribes and the slow washing of the tides of history. Do not fear me. Yet, Caradoc, I am wiser than you and your crafty old father. Count your days of gay ignorance. They are not to last.”

Caradoc rose. “Now I know you for what you are!” he said unsteadily. “Of course! It is just as the traders say. You and your fellows wander abroad, inciting hatred in the people against Rome because you suffered under Roman hands, and you always find a willing ear and stir up men’s fears of slavery.” He walked to the doorskin, holding them back with one white-knuckled hand. “Please leave. Tomorrow men will begin to wonder what the magic-maker was doing in the hut of Cunobelin’s son. This I do not want, nor to hear any more of your insane talking!”

Bran stood and walked to him silently. He was smiling faintly, not at all insulted, and as he left he placed a light hand on Caradoc’s shoulder “Remember me and my seditious words,” he said. “When the hour of your greatest need comes, I and my brethren will be waiting. We may meet again, whether you will it or no.”

He passed out swiftly and Caradoc let the skins fall, drawing in his shaking breath. He was cold. He went to the fire and squatted, letting the heat beat upon his face, then ran back to the door and bellowed for Fearachar. After a time the man came, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, and Caradoc ordered him to fetch Caelte. There would be music, and laughter. Was the man a seer after all? He shrugged, but the movement of his broad shoulders did not lift the dark load of doubt and unease that had settled around him. He felt as if all his warm flesh had been stripped away and his bones left to rattle in a cold, foreign wind. Caelte played and sang for him, told him jokes, and in the end berated him soundly, but Caradoc turned his face to the wall and would not reply.

In the morning, he and Cinnamus went together to the harness maker’s shop, where Caradoc’s chariot was being repaired. They passed the kennels, hearing Togodumnus shouting and the kennel guards swearing. A few traders hung around the door, slates in hand, waiting impatiently for order to be restored before the dogs were taken down to the barges and thence to the river estuary where they would board the ships bound for Gesioracum and Rome. Caradoc did not stop. Let Tog sort it all out himself and perhaps learn a lesson, he thought.

The harness maker was sitting outside his shop, surrounded by his awls and knives and strips of leather, and in a bowl at his feet lay a pile of dark red coral studs mounted in bronze, waiting to be fitted to the harness of some chief. “A good morning, Lord,” he said, remaining seated as Caradoc approached. “You’ve come for the chariot, I suppose.” He indicated his door. “Go in and take a look. It will cost you a silver coin.”

“Pay him,” Caradoc said to Cinnamus, and ducking his head, he entered the dim interior. His chariot lay on its side, and where the hidden tree stump had ripped the wickerwork to shreds with its jagged teeth, the harness maker had woven a new side. He grasped it firmly and heaved it upright. It came easily, and he examined the work closely, prodding and pulling until he was satisfied, then went back outside. “The work is good,” Caradoc said. “Who are the coral studs for?”

“The Lady Gladys. She has ordered a new harness for her horse, and new leather boots, also studded, and a new belt picked out in silver, for her sword.”

“Oh. How beautiful they are!” He squatted and ran his hands through the pile, feeling the cold smoothness of them, then he rose. “Cinnamus, I’ll take the chariot out today. Get the horses yoked, will you, and I’ll meet you outside the gate.”

He retraced his steps, noting that the kennels were quiet and the dogs and Togodumnus gone. On the way to his hut he met Gladys, swathed in green, her black eyes veiled by the gray morning and her hair hidden in the hood of her cloak. “Where are you going?” he said, stopping to speak with her.

She waved toward the river. “I’m going to the sea, with the traders. I am wasting away for want of seeing the rocks and the sand and the salty breakers.”

“I saw your new leathers, and the coral. They’re very pretty. Where did you get them?”

“They were a gift. I was also given a handful of pearls.” She changed the subject abruptly and he guessed that some infrequent suitor was trying his luck again. “I hear you had a visitor last night, Caradoc.”

Was she smiling? “I suppose all the town now knows that the Druid came to me,” he said angrily. “But Gladys, there was nothing I could do. He was there when I arrived.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Why should he have told me anything? He talked a lot of nonsense and I grew impatient and sent him away. That is all.”

She moved past him. “Take care, brother of mine,” she said smoothly. “The Druithin are poison.”

Before he could reply she was gone. He strode to his hut, strapped on the heavy iron sword in its finely wrought bronze scabbard, barked at Fearachar, and strode out again, down to the gate. The day was damp and clammy. Fog hung about the lower slopes of Camulodunon and the sky was unrelievedly heavy with gray cloud, but he did not feel cold within his long, bright woolen cloak, and only his ears and the tips of his fingers tingled as he ran to meet Cinnamus.

The chariot was harnessed to a pair of ponies, shaggy and sturdy, not particularly fast, but steady, the horses that the people of Albion bred many years ago, before his ancestors brought the big riding horses with them in their flight from Gaul. The children learned to ride on them, for they were docile and good-natured. Now the two stood quietly, muzzles together and ears twitching at the sound of his coming.

Cinnamus handed him the reins. “Shall I come, Lord?” he asked, but Caradoc shook his head, stepping up between the two big, iron-rimmed wheels and placing his feet apart.

Already he felt content and untroubled. Cinnamus turned away and Caradoc shook the reins, trotting along the wide path, his cloak floating out behind him, his hair streaming with it on the freshening wind.

As he approached the steep slope he dismounted and led the ponies down, and then across the dyke, then mounted again and called to them, rolling ever faster toward the river, veering east under the trees. The mist enfolded him, beading on his arms, his hair, hanging shimmering in the folds of his scarlet tunic. Around the next bend, he knew, was a smooth, straight stretch of track, mossy and even, hailed over by the massive oaks, and he slowly came to a state of nervetautening concentration, wrapping the reins about the frontal bar of the little chariot and balancing with arms outstretched. The ponies’ gait never varied. Whistling and chucking to them all the time, he placed one foot up and onto the yoke, seeing the stretch open out before him. With infinite care he tested his foothold, raised himself, feeling his unused muscles protest. Then he was up, standing lightly on the yoke, and still the ponies thundered on. He stepped out, ran to the ponies’ wide backs, ran back, ran up again, glorying in the perfection of his body, in its instinctive, humbling skill. Then he jumped down onto the wicker floor and took the reins again. The track narrowed now, began to twist, and branches whipped at his face. He crouched, reined in, and turned about, preparing to repeat the performance, but suddenly he heard hoofbeats on the turf and he stood waiting while the ponies steamed and wheezed.

It was a woman on a horse. It was Aricia, her hair braided in three plaits, the short tunic of a man covering her and her legs clad in men’s breeches. Her cloak hung almost to the ground. The mist parted to let her through, and when she saw him she kneed her horse and trotted up to him, sheathing the knife she had drawn.

“Caradoc! So your chariot is running again.” Against the vivid blue of her cloak her skin was pale ivory, but under her eyes there were dark smudges. “That’s good. I’ve been down to the pier with Tog. Your father refuses to take more wine for the dogs. He wants money instead, and the Romans are busy haggling with him. I think the presence of the Druid last night upset them and today they are viewing Cunobelin with some suspicion.”