“Are you cold?” Caddaric looked down at Jilana and frowned when she did not lift her head to meet his gaze.
“Nay.” Jilana kept her eyes fixed on the fires ahead. Isolated as she had been during the last few days, she had not realized how many Iceni had come to Venta Icenorum. At least a hundred fires dotted the landscape, which meant that the war band surely numbered in the thousands. Boadicea truly intended to have her war. “What is expected of me tonight?”
Her chill tone heightened the unease Caddaric had been experiencing since the encounter with Lhwyd and he drew Jilana to a halt. “You will sit beside me, share the fire and eat your fill. What else should you do?” Jilana continued to stare off into the distance and Caddaric impatiently turned her face to him. “Answer me, Jilana.”
“Serve you and the others from your village. After all, tonight Roman slaves will be in short supply, at least for servants.” Jilana held his gaze until anger blazed in the blue depths of his eyes and hardened the planes of his face; then her eyes slid away to focus on the center of Caddaric’s chest.
“You blame me for Lhwyd’s actions,” Caddaric breathed, anger warring with a sense of loss. “‘Twas not my doing, Jilana.” Jilana shrugged indifferently and a sliver of fear embedded itself in the region of his heart. Eyes narrowed, Caddaric again used his free hand to force her to look at him. “What are you thinking?”
Jilana twisted out of his hold. “You may have my body, Caddaric, but my thoughts are my own. Did you think this afternoon would change that?” The breath hissed between his clenched teeth and Jilana resumed walking in the direction they had been headed. Fool! she chided herself. You should have remained soft and pliable; now you have reawakened his suspicions.
Caddaric followed Jilana, wrapping his fingers around her arm to steer her toward his fire. Jilana was wrong, though she could not know it. He was wary of her strange mood, but not suspicious. Caddaric believed she was afraid, and in her fear lashed out at him. As the days passed she would come to understand that he would, indeed, protect her and then she would open herself to him once again. As they walked, he silently cursed Lhwyd for having resurrected the wall between himself and Jilana.
Several people were gathered around the fire to which Caddaric guided Jilana. Meat was being turned on spits above the fires, including this one, and standing this close the smell of the roasting meat made Jilana slightly nauseous. Heall and Clywd smiled their welcome, a gesture Jilana could not find it in herself to return. Artair and Ede were present as well and Jilana was silently grateful when Ede sidled up to Caddaric and engaged him in some meaningless conversation. Unfortunately Ede’s shift of
attention also freed Artair, and he lost no time in imposing himself between Heall and Jilana.
Artair made a show of inspecting her, his brown eyes sweeping from head to toe and then intently examining her face. Annoyed, Jilana snapped, “What are you looking at?”
“You.” Artair smiled a thoroughly engaging smile that Jilana was certain had melted many an Iceni maid’s heart, but his eyes remained hard. “I see no bruises.”
“Did you expect to?” Jilana inquired acidly.
Artair shrugged. “Caddaric is without equal as a warrior, but I wonder if his prowess on the battlefield is not a disadvantage in his dealings with women.”
Jilana wanted to hit him. Instead she looked deliberately at Caddaric and Ede and then back to Artair. “He does not seem at a disadvantage.” Gods! Did everyone know what had transpired in the bath?
Artair’s eyebrows raised at her self-possessed tone. “I suppose Caddaric does hold a certain fascination for some women. I would not have thought you were one of them.”
“As Ede is?” Jilana asked with mock sympathy. “Poor Artair. Have you nothing you can call your own?” She did not wonder at her own daring. Let Artair do his worst; if he killed her for her uncivil tongue it was likely to be a far swifter death than Lhwyd had planned. Artair stiffened beneath the verbal blow and suddenly Jilana knew the reason behind his interest in both Ede and herself. The breath she had inadvertently held sighed out of Jilana. “You are jealous of him.”
A grin split Artair’s face, but when he spoke his voice was strained. “Jealous of Caddaric? You have taken leave of your senses.”
Wise enough not to press too hard, Jilana murmured, “As you wish,” and moved away to sit on the grass just outside the circle of firelight. Looking around, Jilana watched the Iceni gathering around the fires. Embraces were exchanged, as well as some friendly insults which were quickly forgotten as the Iceni refilled their skins from the plentiful vats of mead and the more rare kegs of Roman wine which dotted the spaces between the fires. The last remnants of the sun were gone now and the moon and stars began to appear in the night sky. Around her Jilana was aware of the women unwrapping the rest of the feast as they gossiped about everyday subjects: their husbands, their children, the birth of a baby, their homes. And when they spoke of the future their remarks were prefaced by, “When we return from battle.” Celtic voices swirled around Jilana; from the distance a bard sang the glories of bygone days and suddenly Jilana realized why the sound of the Iceni tongue, familiar from childhood, was now oddly changed to her ears. For the first time in her life, the Iceni were free, truly free in spite of the battles yet to come, and that freedom resounded in their voices and actions. Were these the sounds from Caddaric’s youth? Jilana wondered, forgetting that she was hardening her heart against him. Was the loss of what she was witnessing what had driven him all these years?
Jilana pulled away from her thoughts long enough to acknowledge Heall when he left the fire and joined her. He appraised her much as Artair had, but his eyes were compassionate. Jilana felt a blush rise in her cheeks and was grateful for the darkness. Caddaric’s friends apparently had no doubt as to what had transpired between the two of them.
Heall looked up at the heavens. “A pleasant evening.” From the corner of his eye he caught the motion of Jilana’s head as she nodded agreement. “There is a chill to the air, though. Each year I am more eager for Beltane.”
“This year the celebration will be even more special, will it not, Heall? The Beltane fire will be kindled by a Druid,” Jilana observed quietly.
“Aye.” Heall’s voice held an unmistakable note of reverence. “Too many years have passed since our priests have been present.”
Jilana looked to where Clywd stood, the fire casting leaping patterns upon his black robe. He was as tall as his son, but not nearly as muscular, and their temperaments were so different that Jilana often had difficulty believing they were father and son. And yet in one way they were similar: both held themselves apart, as though an invisible wall separated them from the rest of their countrymen. Caddaric’s aloofness Jilana understood, it was the way of a man who made a living through waging war, but she found Clywd’s remoteness confusing when he so obviously cared for his people. Curious, she asked, “Where has Clywd been since Caddaric freed him?”
Heall left his contemplation of the heavens and looked at Jilana. “On Mona.”
A chill ran down Jilana’s spine and before she could stop it, a tear spilled from her eye.
Heall nodded sympathetically and wiped the dampness from her cheek with a finger. “He left barely a month ago. I woke up one morning—the day before Boadicea was flogged—and he was sitting at my hearth, staring into the ashes. When I asked why he had left Mona, Clywd replied that he was needed here.”
“And you believed him?”
Heall chuckled softly. “I have known Clywd for all of my fifty years. The first I knew of his gift was the day thirty years ago.” His voice grew soft as he traveled back to the days of his youth, and in spite of her own predicament, Jilana listened eagerly. “Caddaric had just been born, and in celebration Clywd and I formed a hunting party. My sister’s husband was one of those who joined us and I shall never forget the look on Clywd’s face when he saw Gawen. He knew, you see, that Gawen would not return from the hunt, but he hoped
that his vision was wrong.” Heall’s voice trailed off and he had to clear his throat before continuing. “Gawen died, torn apart by the wild boar we were tracking. Clywd killed the boar using only his knife.” Heall shook his head. “He was a madman, leaping from his horse and charging the animal before we could stop him. He should have been killed—no one takes on a boar with only a knife—but he emerged without a scratch, the only blood that of the boar. Clywd picked Gawen up, carried him home and then disappeared into the forest for a week. I was frantic, searching for him throughout the daylight hours, but his wife, Caddaric’s mother, told me to leave him be, that Clywd would return. And he did.
“Clywd came to me and told me what had happened. This was not the first time the sight had come to him; he had been living with it since boyhood but had rejected it. He wanted to be ordinary, to live a simple life; Gawen’s death had showed him that he could deny his power no longer. His wife understood, perhaps better than I, the pain he had been living with in attempting to deny the sight. Clywd left for Mona that same day and was gone for five years. When he returned he was changed but still my soul’s friend. There was a sadness in him that permeated the delight he found in his wife and children. I do not know if he saw their fate, if he knew that he would have them for only a few more years, but I think he did. But for those few years they were happy; Clywd had learned the art of healing on Mona and he gave up farming and raising horses and cattle. Raiding was commonplace then, and on more than one occasion our village was glad of his art.” Heall saw the tears brimming in Jilana’s eyes and reached over to pat her hand. “I am sorry; I did not mean to make you sad.”’
Jilana shook her head. “I am glad you told me, Heall. It helps me understand why Caddaric turns so often against his father.”
“Caddaric was without a father for the first five years of his life and when Clywd returned it was another year before his youngest son truly accepted him. And then Claudius invaded and Clywd and the other two boys were taken and Caddaric was left to me. Life has soured that young man, I am afraid.”
“But not you,” Jilana commented wryly and had the satisfaction of seeing Heall grin his agreement.
“Nay, not me,” Heall laughed. “As long as there is mead to drink and women to love, life is never bitter.”
Jilana’s soft laughter joined his. “And why have you never married?” she asked when their laughter faded to smiles. “Surely one of those women you loved felt slighted when the warrior Heall did not take her to wife?”
Heall’s smile disappeared with alarming suddenness, and Jilana hastily apologized. “Forgive me, Heall, I did not mean to pry.”
Heall remained silent for a long time, watching the festivities around them, and when he spoke his voice was laced with pain. “Our ways are different than yours, Jilana. A woman may accept or reject a suitor as she pleases, according to her wishes rather than her family’s. And she may share a man’s bed freely without benefit of marriage; there is no shame in that.” He hesitated for so long that Jilana thought he was finished, but then Heall cleared his throat once more and continued. “I gave my heart to a woman once, many years ago. I wanted, more than anything, to take her to wife but there were entanglements, complications I could not overcome. To ask another to be my wife would have been unfair.”
Jilana would have pursued the topic further but at that moment Boadicea, flanked by her two daughters and followed by warriors of the royal household, arrived in her wicker chariot. A great cry went up from the Iceni as Boadicea dismounted and walked among her people; the sound built and swelled and the Iceni stamped their feet and beat their weapons against their shields until the ground trembled. Unlike Heall, Jilana did not rise in order to salute the Queen. She remained seated, watching. Heall raised his voice with the tumult but Clywd was silent and unmoving while Caddaric merely nodded his support as Boadicea passed by.
Boadicea’s fire was at the heart of the roughly formed circle of Iceni, and when she had reached it she raised her hands and gestured for silence. Slowly the shouting subsided and her strong, confident voice rang out. “My people, the time has come! Tomorrow we march against the Roman oppressors!” The Iceni shouted their approval and Boadicea waited patiently for their silence. “Already we number a thousand, and even now the rest of our nation rides to join us. The Ordovices and Trinovantes will ally with us as well. By Samh’in we will have driven the legions into the ocean and destroyed all traces of Rome in our land. No more will our precious island be known by the hated name of Britannia. As we take back our land, so shall we take back the name of our country. Albion!”
This time the roar was deafening and looking up, Jilana found that Caddaric had lifted his sword high above his head and was shouting along with the rest.
“And now, my people,” Boadicea continued when she could be heard again, “let us celebrate what is to come. Lhwyd,” she gestured to the Druid who stood respectfully behind her, “has blessed the herd from which this night’s feast was taken. With the gods watching over us our success is assured!”
With a final, thundering salute the Iceni settled to the ground and applied themselves to their food. Uncertainly, Jilana rose and stepped closer to the fire as people swarmed around her and reached out with their knives to carve off chunks of meat from the roasting haunch of beef. Jilana stared at the meat, the bile rising in her throat, and knew that she could not force herself to eat it. There was a gentle touch on her arm and she turned to find Clywd regarding her sympathetically.
“I regret there is no fowl, but Caddaric has said that we must save them for the march since ducks and chickens are easier to transport than cattle.” Clywd smiled and reached inside his robe to extract a leather bag which he handed to Jilana. “I managed to save this from the kitchen, but eventually, child, you will have to learn to eat as we do.”
Nodding, Jilana took the bag. “Thank you, Clywd.” Caddaric appeared at her side, a large piece of meat skewered on his knife in one hand and a wineskin hanging across his chest. In his other hand he carried part of a loaf of bread. Holding her own meal, Jilana followed Caddaric to a small group of people and reluctantly sat beside him. The only familiar face was Heall’s and Jilana braced herself against the expected abuse from the others. When it was not forthcoming, she dared a quick glance around and was surprised when two of the women greeted her with shy smiles. She responded with a tremulous smile of her own and then turned her attention to her meal.
The drawstring bag yielded two rounds of cheese, dried figs, a generous handful of almonds and a small pot of preserves—more than enough for one meal. Jilana crumbled a bit of cheese between her fingers and dropped it onto the ground as an offering to whatever gods inhabited and protected the plain before breaking off a portion ; of cheese for herself and returning the rest to the bag. Beside her, Caddaric was tearing into his portion of beef with obvious relish, the loaf of bread balanced on his breek-clad thigh, ignoring the conversation which flowed around them except to nod or shake his head when a question was directed to him. When the meat was gone, he wiped his knife clean and returned it to its sheath, then tore a piece of bread from the loaf. He was as methodical in his eating habits as he was in everything else, Jilana thought as she nibbled the cheese.
Jilana found it impossible to remain aloof from her eating companions for long. Gradually the women drew her into conversation by asking questions about her life before the revolt. At first Jilana answered hesitantly, uncertain of their motives and more than a little discomfited by the fact that the men would pause to listen to her replies. The women, however, were genuinely interested and their questions were without malice. They were simply satisfying their curiosity. Jilana could not help comparing this conversation with those she had had with Claudia, and immediately felt guilty because Claudia suffered by the comparison. Her appetite disappeared and Jilana returned the cheese to her bag.
“You could be Iceni,” one of the women was saying, and Jilana looked up at her. Her name was Guendolen and she
was a true warrior maid. A sword lay by her side in its sheath and her hair was obviously bleached and hung stiffly about her shoulders. She was also tall and the muscles in her arms and legs bespoke the rigors of her training and life. Jilana murmured her thanks for the compliment and the warrior maid continued. “I have often seen you ride outside the town; you ride well.”
Jilana smiled weakly, embarrassed that this women recognized her while she could not remember ever having seen the woman. Until a week ago, Jilana realized, she had paid little attention to the Iceni. “Your hair is most unusual,” Jilana offered in return.
Guendolen smiled with pleasure and Jilana found it hard to believe that she could be fierce in battle. “I wash it with lime, according to the old ways.”
Jilana listened as Guendolen explained that once men and women alike had treated their hair with the bleach obtained from heating shells or limestone. It was as Jilana was reaching for the wineskin Caddaric held out to her that an unnaturally high scream rent the air. The sound froze her hand in mid-air and Jilana felt the fine hairs at the back of her neck stand up. The scream came again, followed by a wail of Latin words that was soon drowned out by Celtic voices. Slowly, carefully, Jilana withdrew her hand and placed it on her lap. There was no need to ask what had happened or stand, as the others were now doing, to see the event with her own eves. She knew. Lhwyd had begun the sacrifice.
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