drove the spear past the rapist’s shoulder and into his victim’s heart.
This is your work, Lady, she thought despairingly. If it must be done,
I don’t want to see. This time she willingly abandoned consciousness, and
the mercy of the Morrigan folded dark wings between her and the pain.
Even the queen’s escort left a distance between them and the One
they followed through the streets where blood flowed in the gutters,
for the calm, clear voice that directed them where to search for valuables
held a resonance that was more than human, and the mind that directed
it had a deadly patience that they did not understand.
But Boudica found herself walking through an oak wood drifted
with autumn leaves and scattered with what she took to be acorns. As
she drew closer she could see that they were human heads. Their faces
were contorted, but she could not tell if it was in exaltation or rage.
“This is My harvest . . . their blood will feed the land,” came a harsh
voice from above.
She looked up. Balancing on one of the branches was a Raven with
red eyes.
“Men are no different from any other creature,” said the Raven.
“When one group is stronger they conquer, and when they weaken,
another comes and feeds on them in turn. Confl ict and competition are
necessary. The fury passes through like a great fire, burning weakness
away, and in its light the essence is revealed. The strongest in both
groups survive. Blood and spirit are blended and what grows from them
is stronger still.”
“Is this the only way?” Boudica cried.
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“This is the way you must follow now,” came the reply. “Britannia
is a mingling of many bloods already, from peoples that strove against
each other as they came to these shores. In time more will come and
today’s victor will fail, leaving his own strength in the land.”
“That is a hard teaching,” Boudica said.
“It is my truth—the Raven’s Way. One way or another the cycle
must continue. The balance must be maintained. And there is more
than one kind of victory . . .”
W hen Boudica came to herself once more she was back in their
camp, dismounting from the mare. Brangenos caught her as her knees
buckled and Eos took the rein to lead Branwen away. Red smeared and
splattered the mare’s white hide. The stink of blood was all around her.
Boudica looked down and saw her legs splashed with clotting red to the
knee. Bogle whined and sat down. He was blood-smeared as well.
“It is a red woman on a white horse that leads us . . .” ran the whis-
pers, “and with her the hunters of the Otherworld, the white, red-eared
hounds . . .”
“Is my horse all right?” Her voice seemed to come from a distance.
“She needs to be cleansed, like you, but she is Branwen, the white
raven. What better mount for the Lady of Ravens to ride?”
But I was the horse, thought Boudica dizzily. She wondered what had
happened after the goddess severed her from her own identity.
The faces around her were warmed by a sunset glow, but the hori-
zon was dark. Slowly she realized that the light was refl ecting off the
clouds over the burning city. It was over, then—for now—and the dead
had their pyre.
“Come,” said Brangenos. As she steadied, he set his hand beneath
her elbow. “You need water. You need rest.”
“Yes, but not to drink. First I must get clean.”
They had made their camp by one of the streams that ran into the
Tamesa. Ignoring the startled exclamations of her household, Boudica
plunged through the reeds and into the water, Bogle bounding after her.
The cold shocked her fully into her body as it washed the blood away.
When she struggled back ashore she was shivering with reaction. The
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dog pushed through the reeds and shook himself, sending out arcs of
spray.
Temella hurried toward her with a blanket. When she was dry and
had a bowl of hot soup in her hands Brangenos settled beside her. Be-
yond the tent poles men bowed as they passed.
“I saw that man in the city,” she said as a burly figure with an ax
stuck through his belt went by. “He was killing a Roman who was de-
fending his home. But he looked different—” She gestured toward the
crowd. “They all did. Now they look like themselves again. Was it my
imagination? What did I see?”
The Druid sighed. “Another spirit can possess men who are joined
by great emotion. I do not know if it is a curse or a mercy.”
“The mercy of the Morrigan,” she said bitterly. “Is it like the thing
that happens to me?”
“Somewhat, except that this is a shared ecstasy, created when many
souls under pressure become one.”
“Will they remember what they did?”
“In such a state men are capable of great feats of valor—or of cruelty.”
His lean face was somber. “To be unable to remember the former relieves
them of the yearning to reach a level they will never again be able to at-
tain. To forget the latter . . . do you think they could face their own wives
and children if they had full memory of what they had done?”
“But if they do not remember, they will do it again,” she said,
knowing she had no right to judge, having given up her own will to a
force equally implacable. “And if the Battle Raven rides me again, so
will I . . .” She swallowed. “Is there no way to make war with honor?”
“With perfect warriors—with perfect discipline,” he replied. “In
the old days the champions would go out to fight between the armies,
and the will of each side rode with its defender, and all were ennobled
by their strife. The Romans will not allow us that kind of war. What we
have here is not an army, my queen. It is a mob, a creature composed of
outrage and pain that burns its way across the land.”
“She said something like that,” murmured Boudica, and saw his
gaze sharpen. “While She was doing battle She was also talking to me
in an oak wood where men’s heads lay on the ground.” Haltingly she
recounted Cathubodva’s words.
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“It is a harsh teaching indeed,” the Druid agreed when she was done.
“But it is all we have. If this fire you have started can kindle the valor of
all the tribes we may yet drive the Romans from this land. If not, our
own blood will feed the ground. You cannot stop it now, my queen, you
can only fan the fl ames and hope they burn quick and clean.”
Boudica gulped soup, but its heat could not warm her. Now, more
than ever, she understood why Prasutagos had sought peace so earnestly.
Suddenly she ached with the need to feel his arms around her, to make
life in this wasteland. Would he turn from her in horror if he saw what
she was doing now? But the peace the Romans would have given them
was a living death, destruction with no hope of renewal.
“My lady, if you wish I can m
ix you something to make you sleep,”
said Brangenos.
She looked up, seeing him suddenly as a man, still strong, despite
the white in his hair. If she asked, would he lie with her? Their eyes
met, and she knew his answer.
“No—” She shook her head, denying him, denying herself the re-
spite that she craved. “If those who died today could bear their pain, the
least I can do is endure my dreams . . .”
The journey by sea had gone by like a dream, but the Summer
Country seemed scarcely closer to the world of death and battle Lhian-
non had left behind. As the boatman poled the long, flat craft through
the marshes, reed and willow closed around them, and their only ene-
mies were the midges that rose in humming clouds as they passed.
Each morning the mist rose from the water to veil the marshes in
mystery. Lhiannon found herself half hoping that when it cleared she
would find herself in the Otherworld, but the long shafts of afternoon
sunlight showed the same landscape as before. But with each day the
pointed tip of the Tor appeared more clearly above the tangled trees,
until they came with the last light of sunset to the shores of Avalon.
The little house in which Lhiannon had lived had lost some of its
thatching—the Druids had not had much time for initiations in recent
years, and only one old priestess, a woman called Nan, remained—but
everything else seemed unchanged. The slender, dark-haired folk of the
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marshes provided them with food and brought their sick for healing. As
the Summer Country drowsed through the long days, Lhiannon found
her heart easing. If Avalon held no answers, at least here she could some-
times forget the questions.
Her only anxiety was Coventa, who continued to be sick during the
day, and troubled at night by evil dreams. A week after they had arrived
on the isle Coventa awoke one morning weeping. With a sigh, Lhian-
non rose and held her until the sobs began to ease.
“Nan, will you make up the fire and fill the hanging pot with water
so we can have some chamomile tea?”
“Thank you,” said Coventa when the old woman brought her the
cup. “I am sorry to be such a bother to you all.”
“Was it another bad dream?” Lhiannon asked the girl.
Coventa sighed. “I dreamed that I gave birth to a son, who grew up
tall and strong with golden hair. But when he was grown he turned into
a raven and fl ew away.”
“Is that why you were crying?”
Coventa shook her head. “He was a beautiful boy. It made me
happy to see him. I wept because when he is grown he will become a
warrior.”
“In your dream,” said Lhiannon, frowning.
“In this world.” Coventa looked up at her with an odd smile. “I
never expected to have to know such things, but living among women
one cannot help learning something. My breasts are tender and I have
missed my courses and I am sick in the mornings. I think I am with
child.”
“By the Romans . . .” breathed Lhiannon.
“By one of them,” Coventa corrected, “even among the Romans I
believe there is only one father for each child.”
“I know of herbs you can take to cast the abomination from you,”
said Lhiannon. “I will ask the marsh folk to show me where they grow.”
“No. What I carry is not yet a child, but I cannot deny him life. I
believe that in the future he will have some part to play.”
Lhiannon stared at her, uncomprehending. I would tear out my womb
rather than bear a Roman’s child! Coventa will not be the only one burdened this
way, she thought then. Perhaps the other women will be more sensible, and if
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they cannot kill the babes before they are born, they will destroy them after. But
she did not say so aloud.
Coventa looked better than she had for many days, and Lhiannon
was unwilling to jeopardize any belief that led to happiness.
Clearly our next objective should be Verlamion,” said Vordilic. “Or
rather, Verulam ium, ” he said, adding the Latin ending with a vicious
snarl. Grizzled as a badger, he was a man of the Catuvellauni, some kind
of relation to Caratac. “The royal enclosure on the banks of the Ver was
the sacred center for my tribe. The town that squats there now is a Ro-
man blasphemy.”
From the circle of chieftains and kings who had gathered around
Boudica’s fire came a mutter of agreement. The stretched cloths that
kept off the evening dew were costly fabrics that had once curtained
Roman doorways. The discussion had been lubricated by an amphora of
Roman wine.
“But they are Britons,” someone objected.
“They are traitors,” Vordilic spat. “They were once Catuvellauni,
but they have abandoned their name and race to wear the toga and boast
of being Roman citizens.”
“That makes them worse than honest enemies,” another man re-
plied. “They show us what will become of us if we do not win. We
must make them an example for all Britannia.”
“That great road the Romans carved across our holy earth at least
makes it easy to travel. If we set off tomorrow, we could be in Verlamion
in two days!” Vordilic had joined them when they reached Londinium.
His skin hung loose on his bones and the good cloth of his tunic was
worn threadbare. Everything about him spoke of a vanished prosperity.
representation of the hatred that was eating away at his soul. Being near
him was like standing by some noxious bog. The problem with calling
on all the tribes was that the people most motivated to fi ght the Romans
were the most damaged, in body or in mind, and the least willing to
conduct an intelligent campaign.
“We could be,” she said mildly, “but should we take the time to
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attack? Unlike an army, a town cannot run away. The legions are on the
move, and we should be getting ready to meet them.”
“We obliterated the Ninth with half the men we have now,” boasted
Drostac. “Why should the men of the Twentieth and the Fourth give us
more trouble?”
“The Second Legion will not reinforce them,” said someone else to
general laughter. “The word we hear from the Durotriges is that their
camp prefect thinks the situation ‘too uncertain for secure operations.’
They’re staying in Isca.”
“Whereas we gain more warriors every day!” said King Corio. “We
don’t need a fancy strategy—we can crush them by sheer numbers!”
Numbers they certainly had. Campfires dotted the rolling country
north of what had been Londinium like poppies in a wheatfi eld. They
had captured enough wine and meat for everyone to make merry. The
night wind was musical with laughter and song.
Boudica traded glances with Tingetorix. He was the best com-
man
der they had, and he had done his best to make her understand how
men made war.
“Numbers are not enough. We defeated the foot soldiers of the
Ninth Legion because we made the land fight for us,” the old warrior
said reprovingly. “If we can catch Governor Paulinus on the march, we
have a good chance of whittling away his strength. But we dare not let
him force us into a pitched battle.”
“And that means we must march northward, and quickly,” said
Boudica, “even if some of the wagons, especially the ones with the women
and children, are left behind.” Perhaps she could persuade her daugh-
ters, as representatives of the royal house, to stay with them.
“We’ll move out in the morning,” she continued. “Tingetorix, I
want you to take your best horsemen and scout ahead. Morigenos, will
you work with the men who have just joined us? Show them where they
should march, make sure they have weapons. Drostac, you are in charge
of the supply wagons. We must take some care with the food—we do
not know how long it will have to last.”
Cities had ware houses. Gathering supplies for the horde had been
another reason to attack Londinium.
“There is food in Verlamion,” muttered Vordilic.
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“And it will still be there when we have the time to deal with the
town as it deserves.” Boudica frowned, and the Catuvellaunian looked
away.
In the golden days of the heroes it had all been much simpler, she
reflected as the chieftains finished their wine and made ready to go.
When they celebrated ancient battles, did the bards simply skip over
the challenges of strategy and supply? Her young men had grown up
denied the experience that would have taught them the realities of war,
and the old men seemed to have selective memories. The responsibili-
ties she shouldered now had little to do with the glory of which the
poets sang, but though they might be far greater in scale, they were not
so different from the planning any woman who ran a large household
must do every day.
But fighting Romans was not like killing rats in a store shed. These
were wolves. As if he had sensed her thought, Bogle lifted his great head
with a soft growl.
T W E N T Y- S E V E N
The ravens were dancing, black wings scattering shadows across the