Dreaming the Eagle

by Manda Scott

  “Of course.”

  “And your father?”

  “It is wise to assume that my father knows everything. It almost always proves to be true.”

  “Then he will know that you are taking ship tonight.”

  “No. In some things we are careful. Of those left behind, only Luain and Segoventos know I am coming. No-one else.”

  “And of those here?”

  “Bán knows. And now you. When I am gone, you can tell the others. Dubornos might wish to betray me out of spite, but I do not believe he will ride back alone into the dun, not with the journey to Mona so close.”

  He stood, smiling in a way quite unlike his father’s. His cloak was lined with raw, undyed wool on the inside. As she watched, he took it off and turned it, so that the plain side faced outwards. The brooch with which he pinned the shoulder had no real shape to it and would not arouse attention. He took a leather cap from his belt and set it on his head, hiding the sunlit gold of his hair. His blade was the one Eburovic had made for him. It hung across his shoulder and the hilt was covered with calf’s hide, concealing the war hammer that stood proud on the hilt. She looked for his horse and saw the pied cob that Segoventos had been riding on the journey down. It was a good mount, but it was not the colt. They walked together to where it stood by the edge of the birch stand and she made a cradle of her hands for him to mount with.

  “You should have taken the dun colt,” she said. “At least then we could have raced one day.”

  It was something to say and not important. Still, he grinned. “Bán and I have agreed a temporary exchange,” he said. “I will return, in due course, for the colt. In the meantime, the beast is safer with the Eceni than on a ship bound for Gaul. I will take the cob and sell him. Segoventos will return the proceeds to Bán in kind. He will buy a mare for Iccius so the lad can set up his own herd. Bán will give him use of the dun colt as a sire.”

  He settled his cloak behind the saddle. She patted the cob on the rump. Caradoc reached down and offered his hand and she took it. “You have it all worked out,” she said.

  “Of course. I am the son of my father.” His smile was light. His grip was cool and firm and touched the depths where she felt most empty. His eyes were the colour of clouds and their patterns as complex. He withdrew his hand and made the salute of the warrior. “You could still ride for Mona,” he said quietly. “The elders did not confirm Dubornos as Airmid’s warrior and she will hardly be unhappy if he is supplanted. You should speak to her. She fears tomorrow’s parting as much as you do.”

  “We have said all we can ever say. There is nothing that words can change.”

  “Maybe.” He kicked the cob on. Breaca walked at its shoulder, pushing the trailing birch out of the way. He looked out over the top of her head, his eyes narrowed, searching the distance. As if to the horse, he said, “Lanis was the daughter of the last true dreamer of the Trinovantes, one of those my father had flayed and hung on an oak. She has reached her womanhood with no-one to guide or teach her. To have three dreamers present at once was a gift greater than any she could ever have prayed for. You can’t blame her for taking all they can give.”

  The spit dried in her mouth. Had it been anyone else, she would have walked away. Because it was Caradoc, with whom she was oath-sworn, and she trusted his integrity, she said, “There is no blame. Airmid chooses where she will. We all do.”

  “Indeed.”

  They reached open ground. She stood in the shade of the trees. A deer track passed east towards the sea. She could see no roundhouses, or herders’ huts, at least as far as the next rise in the land. Beyond it, the air held the bright, reflective quality of sky over water. The smell of the sea mingled faintly with crushed turf and horse-sweat. She thought of his last meeting with the gods of the ocean and the courage it would take for him to board ship once again. On impulse, she unpinned the serpent-spear brooch from her tunic. “Here.” She held it up. “For protection.”

  “Against shipwreck?” He read her too easily. “Do you think I’ll need it?”

  “No. Segoventos will do nothing that might risk his new boat, but it doesn’t hurt to be sure.”

  “No, it never hurts.” His smile was crooked, as it had been in the forge. He pinned the brooch high on the left shoulder where, until these last days, Airmid had worn its partner. Luain would know what it signified, and possibly Segoventos.

  The horse stamped under him, needing to be gone. Caradoc reached down one more time and laid his hand on her arm. His touch was warmer than it had been and his palm damp.

  “We will meet again in the autumn,” he said. “I have promised Bán I will speak for him when he sits his long-nights.”

  “Thank you. It matters to him.”

  “And to me.” He swung the horse away. His voice came back over his shoulder. “Briga keep you safe.”

  She watched the path for a long time after he was gone.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Eceni travelled faster once Caradoc had left them. The track was broad and the horses were more closely matched than they had been. From the first, Breaca pushed the grey mare forward into a canter, seeking freedom in the rhythms of movement that stilled the need to think. The others followed at their own pace, always keeping her in sight.

  Caradoc had chosen his place of leaving well. For the rest of the day and on into the one that followed, they met no-one. The track passed through great swathes of managed woodland, dotted here and there with the huts of charcoal burners and signs of recent felling, but no men hailed them for news of the dun, or sent their children to beg rides. If word were to travel to Cunobelin that his son no longer rode with the Eceni, it would not do so by chance.

  Late in the second day, they reached the Place of the Heron’s Foot, named by the ancestors for the pattern of three rivers running into one that made the land look as if the great stilted bird had walked across it, leaving a single footprint deep in the plain that stretched on either side. The rivers themselves ran through wide, wooded valleys, making singular contrast with the surrounding land and marking convenient boundaries. Here, the boundaries of three tribes came together. To the north and east were the lands of the Eceni, stretching as far as the north coast. The Trinovantes, on whose land they had travelled, held everything to the south. Westward were the Catuvellauni. The valley of the heron’s print itself was owned by no-one, being the preserve of the gods and granted freely to all who passed, that they might rest for a time without fear of attack.

  They crossed the river late, swimming naked through the cold, fast-flowing water, and made camp in a clearing on the far side.

  Breaca made her bed in the shelter of a briar some distance from the main clearing. Night mist gathered at the base of the trees. The air hung heavy with the scent of cow parsley sharpened by thyme and the beginnings of bloom on the thorns. She sat for a while, wrapped in her cloak, and watched the moon rise towards the top of the thicket. The hare who lived on the moon’s surface showed her face so that the ears and the one eye looked down to the earth, watching the watcher. Breaca’s shield hung on the stub of a cut branch close at hand, the round whiteness of it mirroring Nemain’s light. The old scar on her palm ached and had done so since morning.

  “May I join you?” It was Airmid. She could always walk more quietly than the others when she chose.

  “If you wish.”

  She had not placed her back to a tree, believing there to be no threat. Airmid came to sit behind her and wrapped her arms loosely round her waist. Her chin rested close to Breaca’s shoulder in the way it had done in the beginning when they had wanted to speak together and not be heard.

  One could wonder, now, why it might be necessary. One could remember a woman emerging unclothed from a cold, fast-flowing river, and the earthen smoothness of her skin, like sand newly washed by the sea. In doing so, one could note, in retrospect, that there were none of the marks that such a woman might carry had she taken a new lover and wonder if it was tact that made it
so, or the absence of cause.

  “She is a dreamer. She is also pregnant. We dreamed the birth of her child and how it should be named. It was her first dreaming. She could not do it alone.”

  The words throbbed through Breaca, carrying the air from her chest. “You are talking about Lanis?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “She didn’t walk with the joy of a woman who has seen her child grow in the dream.”

  Airmid said, “She saw his death. It was not good.”

  “On the orders of the Sun Hound?”

  “No. He died at the hand of a Roman and a warrior of the tribes and those who could have stopped it stood by and did nothing.”

  Amminios, then. Neither Caradoc nor Togodubnos would do such a thing, whatever the circumstances.

  Breaca leaned back into an embrace that carried no guilt. The hands that circled her waist knew her better than any, and the voice in her ear asked presently, “You gave Caradoc your brooch?”

  She nodded. It was not a time for speech.

  “Did he give anything in return?”

  He had given his armband to Odras and she had given it back. He had nothing of like worth that he could have given Breaca, except his word, which was worth a great deal. “He said he would come back in the autumn, to speak for Bán at his long-nights.”

  “Good. I’m glad.” The hands moved from where they had been. “Do you want me to leave you?”

  “Do you want to go?”

  “No.”

  “Then, stay. Please.”

  She had sworn to herself a long time ago that she would spend the last night alone. She was older now, and understood more of the world and her place in it, and an oath made privately, in anger, carried no weight. The night was cool but not cold and the wind softened as it coursed through the briar to brush feather-light across her skin. An otter took a fish from the river and carried it past them, still wet and garlanded with weed. Somewhere in the forest an owl hunted and a dog fox made a kill. Rain fell, but softly so that it did not penetrate the briar. These things came distantly, as facts in a dream while her mind and her soul were elsewhere. She remembered at the end not to weep.

  Breaca dreamed of war. It was not surprising, but it meant that when she woke to shouts of alarm she did not respond as quickly as she might have done, believing herself still sleeping. She rolled over lazily, reaching for Airmid and not finding her. The memory of the coming day closed on her, bleakly. Without opening her eyes, she said, “What is it?”

  “Eburovic.” Airmid stood at the edge of the briar, looking out towards the clearing where the remains of the night fire burned. “Get up. Quickly. We’re under attack.”

  “Did you dream it?”

  “No.” There were shouts again from the riverbank and a horse screamed in anger. Airmid spun back. “Where’s your blade?”

  “Here.” She would not sleep without it, as her father lived always with his. She had never used it in anger, had never unsheathed it save for burnishing or, once, to offer it to Caradoc. Drawing it now, Breaca felt the difference as a song in her blood. The throb in her palm screamed as she reached for the hilt. It hurt less when she held it. Her shield hung by its shoulder strap from a stubbed branch of a beech nearby. The lower edge had touched the water as they swam the river and the red dye had run then dried overnight, fixing it so that the serpent bled across the haft of the spear. She settled her hand in the grip behind the boss and this, too, felt different.

  Men shouted one to another at the riverbank. She heard Bán’s voice shifting register again, starting high and finishing deep, and then Iccius’s shrill scream, cut off prematurely. Airmid was beside her. They ran through the hazels towards the noise. Breaca asked, “Who is it?”

  “Coritani. Who else?”

  “But this is the gods’ place.”

  “And your mother was giving birth, which is sacred. It didn’t stop them then, either.”

  Airmid spat. She had forsaken the grey cloak of Mona and armed herself with blade and helmet. Of itself, it said she would not be taken alive as a slave. If they died, it would be together: a dreamer and her warrior. In adversity, there was some good.

  They broke from cover into chaos. The enemy far outnumbered the Eceni. Their green and black striped cloaks blurred their outlines in the poor light of dawn. The mark of the red kite stood proud on their forearms, new, as if freshly done in the night. They made a half-circle, blocking the way to the river. The Eceni warriors stood in a knot before them, half naked and poorly armed. Eburovic was at the fore, shieldless, wielding the great she-bear blade of the ancestors with both hands, cutting arcs in the air that kept the enemy back but would not do so if they built the courage to come at him together. ’Tagos stood to his left, guarding his side in place of the shield. Sinochos stood before Macha and Dubornos kept fast to his flank. All bore blades and nothing else; their shields had been set by the fire to dry overnight and were out of reach.

  Airmid spun on her heel. “They need their shields. I will get them.”

  “No! It’s too far. You’ll die before you’re halfway there. Stay with me. We need to get the horses.”

  Their mounts milled on the riverbank downstream of the ford, herded by one of the Coritani. Breaca whistled and the grey battle mare screamed an answer. She struck out at the man beside her. He fell and water ran red on the shingle. Another warrior grabbed for the mare’s halter and was knocked from his feet by her shoulder. He died underfoot. Warrior and battle mount met at the foot of a willow and the crash of blood, more powerful than the horse-sweat, stung them both. Breaca whistled again and two other horses pushed through the trees. The herders stood back in fear and let them go.

  “Airmid, get the colt. And Bán’s red mare. They know how to fight.”

  Breaca mounted and the height gave her a better view. Bán stood to the left of the others between an oak and a cluster of brambles. Iccius knelt at his feet, clutching a blade wound on one thigh. Three warriors closed on them, grinning. She kicked the mare forward. Two of the enemy died without honour, caught from behind by a blade that sang as it killed. The third looked to his left where a horse struck at his shoulder and did not see Bán’s blade as it swept through his throat. Blood sprayed in a fountain where he fell. Breaca shouted, “You have killed. I saw it. If we live, you’ve earned your spear.”

  Bán grinned wildly and made the warrior’s salute. There was no time for more. Airmid was there with the red mare and the colt. Breaca shouted at whoever would hear. “Get Iccius mounted. He’ll die if he’s left on foot.” They put him on the colt and he clung to the mane, weeping. Bán was up on his Thessalian cavalry mount. Breaca reached down and pulled Airmid up behind her on the grey. A shadow moved at her left. She thrust out with her shield and drew back her blade for the swing. The red mare moved ahead of her and the enemy warrior died in a plash of blood and splintered bone. Bán shouted, exultant, and punched the air. His mare’s feet streamed blood. Breaca screamed at him, “Get the other horses. Bring them to the fire.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Fight!”

  They wheeled and separated. Iccius followed her brother. As they parted, her last thought was that the Belgic boy was unarmed and would die.

  Bán rode with fire in his heart, circling the encircling enemy. The red mare killed for him. In every way, she was the mount from his dreams, faster and more savage than he had dared hope. Lifeblood stained her teeth, and crushed fragments of men clogged her hooves so that when she turned fast to catch a warrior who came at her shoulder she slipped and fell into him, and Bán, for once, had the chance to use his blade in defence of them both. The man swung at him, backhanded, and Bán had to duck. His mind held the impression of a wide grin and a single crooked eyetooth. The image jarred, prodding at his memory as he grappled to hold his balance on the spinning mare. He put it aside and gave thought to fighting.

  The enemy warrior was still off balance. His cloak fell away from his shoulder, exposi
ng the blue edge of a mark drawn at the nape of his neck at the point where the collarbone met the great vein. Bán swung his blade backhanded, aiming for the blue line, but the grip slipped in his hand and he struck low on the shoulder and drew no blood. The man sneered as he might at a child and drew his own blade back for the killing blow. His attention was all on the strike; he never saw the snaking teeth that came forward and smashed the angled bones of his face so that the laughing grey eye split open like an egg and the roots of his teeth showed clean through the rent in his cheek. He fell backwards, bellowing, and the mare screamed with him, throwing herself forward. The crack of his ribs breaking underfoot was the sound of an axe splitting wet wood in winter.

  Bán hauled the mare to a halt and hurled himself at the ground. The man lay flat on his back, clutching at his face. Blood pumped crazily from the wound on his chest and air bubbled through it, foaming. The mare came in to finish what she had started but Bán shouted her back. The enemy warrior lifted his head and gargled on blood. The noise was an animal one, of pain and death and inchoate terror. His guts had been caught by one of the murderous hooves and the smell of split lights was appalling. Bán ripped the brooch and the cloak from the warrior’s shoulders. There at the neck was the mark for which he had aimed; not the red kite of the Coritani, but the war eagle, wings flung high in the stoop and feet braced for the kill. It was an old sign, recently resurrected, with the oaths of the ancestors renewed and respoken, reworded for a man who favoured Rome. Bán had seen the sign often in the past days, had taken meals with men—only men; their leader did not take the oath from women—who bore it with pride, had played the Warrior’s Dance with their leader and won. These were Amminios’s men, he was sure of it. Memories of a broad smile and a single crooked tooth gave him a name that might go with one that lay at his feet.

  “Decanos?”

  He was not sure. He could not be sure. A man’s face changes so much when he is dying. Bán laid a palm on a death-cold forehead and avoided the one good eye that searched for his. He had not seen death in battle before, had imagined more glory and less time taken dying. The reality curdled his guts, but he had no time to consider it. Already the black birds of Briga circled in the dream to carry the man’s soul to the river. Bán could feel the beat of their wings, hear the carrion call tear into his own soul with a promise for later. He shook the stiffening shoulder. “Decanos,” he said, more urgently, “is it you?”