A Year of Ravens: a novel of Boudica's Rebellion

by E. Knight

  SORCHA

  Hear me, invincible war goddess, Andraste, the battle raven.

  You are victory, the proud warrior woman who never falls. And yet you were not with us this day of bloody battle. Your priestess, who led your Iceni people against the Romans in your name, rides a borrowed horse, weak and wounded.

  She is your priestess.

  She is our queen.

  She is my mother.

  Boudica is her name, if you have forgotten. But I cannot let you forget her or any of us because I think I shall soon die, too, and with no one to bury me. No Druid to give me the rites that will guide me into the next life. All my people dead, unburied, rotting on a battlefield, with no one to remember them to you and the other gods.

  Except for me.

  I am cold. My skin covered in prickles. I am hungry. I bear the marks of this rebellion on my soul, my body. Scars on my arms, on my fingertips. I am exhausted. But sleep does not find me. We seek shelter and succor from strangers who may very well turn us out into the night. Staring up at the sparkling stars in the sky, I hope the gleam of your moon means you are listening. I hope that after accepting from me so many bloody sacrifices of the Romans I killed, you will now hear me. And remember the stories I tell you.

  Ah. Your wind, fierce as your smile, waves over the ground, rustling the leaves from the oaks that line the road, creating a circle around my body. So you are with me. You will hear my stories from the black rage of my heart and remember my fallen.

  I want you to remember my mother. My father. My sister. My mentor. The young man I might have loved if the ability to love had not been stolen by the Romans. And I want you to remember me . . . if not in the next life, then in this one, to those who follow.

  For surely the desire for freedom will live on. There will be those who fight for it long after we Iceni have breathed our last. I would like them to know our story. So help me tell it, goddess of victory and light. Help me finish my story. And help me to give it an end.

  I was not born a princess.

  On the day of my birth, the sun did not shine. Snow covered the ground, and icicles dripped from the thatched roof of our hut, creating icy divots in the snow.

  My father was one of the leading chiefs of our tribe. My mother was of noble blood, priestess of Andraste, who was goddess of victory, of ravens, the patron of our tribe. With two such powerful people joined in a union, they made a captivating force.

  But the forces of nature and the will of the gods do not distinguish those of noble blood from those without.

  The story of my coming into this world was retold around the campfires of our tribe on the anniversary of my birth each winter. A celebration of who I was and the good fortune I was supposed to bring to my tribe.

  As the story goes, my mother was woken in the early hours of predawn with pains in her belly. She woke with a start, hands wrapping around her middle as waves of pressure mounted. Something was wrong. I was coming, but I was coming too soon. They were not expecting me for thirty dawns or more. Yet, here, my mother’s body was demanding to expunge me from my warm cocoon into the frigid air of our roundhouse.

  “Prasutagus,” she said, one hand pressed over her belly, the other reaching for him, shaking his warm, sleeping body. “Wake. I need you.”

  My father roused, alarmed. He leapt from bed, reaching for the sword that was no longer there and then for the wooden club he kept hidden.

  “There is no enemy,” mother laughed between gasps of pain.

  Father lit a torch from the flaming brazier. “What’s happened?” My mother gasped as another pain struck her. Doubling forward, both arms wrapped around her middle, mouth open in a silent scream. My father rushed from the hut and out into the darkness, returning quickly with the birthing-woman.

  Her cold, bony fingers slithered snake-like over Mother’s belly, palpating her womb. “The gods demand the baby’s breath.” Her words were whispered but might as well have been shouted loud enough for every man, woman, and child of Iceni blood to hear.

  When Father caught the words, he hurried once more from their hut out into the darkness and awakened our Druid. The two men brought a cold swirl of snow with them upon their return, a draft of cold that mother embraced, so covered in sweat was she from the exertion of the pains.

  The Druid walked with a straight back and flat face to the brazier, reached his bare hand into the embers, and wiped the soot in a semicircle on his forehead. “You must bite the afterbirth thrice, Priestess.”

  All those in the surrounding roundhouses woke and danced, their hands stretched out to the sky as they pleaded to the gods and waited for my mother to give birth to the first of Prasutagus’ heirs. Their breaths mingled in puffs of frozen clouds despite the leaping bonfires. As their lips turned purple from the cold, my mother cried out.

  I burst my way into this cold world. I was small. I was blue. I issued only a quiet whimper as I gazed out into the void of my new world with glassy eyes. The Druid thought me a bad omen, a mark of darkness upon our tribe.

  Whispers loudly echoed like the wind sweeping over the heath in a storm, and my mother and father stared at each other, at me.

  “This child of Andraste has a fate we cannot decide,” the Druid shouted. “We must leave it to Andraste herself.” I wasn’t the first and only babe to be taken outside the roundhouses and left on the sacrificial mound centered in the circle of sacred oaks. If a babe was left and found alive the next morning, then the child was meant for greatness. If a babe was found dead, the gods had not accepted it—and woe to the mother of such a child, for her fate was then never certain.

  Not an hour after pushing me into this world, Father wrapped Mother up in furs, and they walked together into the forest, with me curled quietly in her arms. With great wretchedness, they placed me on that sacrificial mound. I am told that I wailed at the injustice of being abandoned to the cold—the first cries I made—and my mother took off her fur cloak and wrapped it around my tiny naked body.

  Mother dropped to her knees on the snow-covered ground, raised her hands up to the stars, and shouted, “Andraste, hear me! I call upon you, as a humble daughter of your virtue. I speak to you as a woman to a woman, I pray for the life of my sweet child. Do this for me and I will forever be a servant to your will.” Tears streamed from her eyes, freezing on her cheeks. She begged her goddess to return her child to her, for the good fortune of our tribe.

  The wind whistled, the branches of the barren trees creaked and moaned. Was it Andraste? Was she listening? Father lifted Mother into his arms, wrapping her in his own thick fur cloak, and carried her back to their hut. Father was very strong, for Mother was never a small woman.

  Before the sun rose, the world turned gray. Was this when spirits walked the earth? Was this when death would come to claim those the gods had chosen? To choose me?

  It was my mother who chose me.

  My mother, whose beauty was unmatched and ethereal. Beyond her burnished red locks and startling blue eyes, she had an energy that spoke to one’s soul. I always felt as though the silent ones floated from the ether when I was with her. Blessing us. Protecting us. As she had protected me in my first night of life.

  Just before the first fingers of dawn stretched over the roundhouses, while my father still slept exhausted, my mother crept back into the forest, skin tingling with fear. The closer she came to the sacred groves, a sound grew louder in her ears. The echo of tiny wails.

  I was alive, and I was angry.

  She ran forward, scooped me up, thrusting my body toward the sky and shouting her thanks to the gods for blessing me.

  I often wondered if she’d waited, what would have happened then?

  From that moment on, I was told again and again that I was our tribe's lucky charm, the blessed one. Our harvests thrived. Father was named King of the Iceni, mother Queen. The wealth of our tribe grew in leaps and bounds. I had a lofty ideal to live up to, a great banner waving metaphori
cally above my head, and yet I could not see the symbol it brandished. I only knew I must not fail. And for so long, I did not.

  I was rarely ill. I thrived.

  I believed I was invincible.

  I was the child that leapt, arms outstretched, into the river when I’d not yet learned to swim. I was the child that ran toward the edge of the cliff to see if I could fly as high as the ravens. I was the daughter of a king who wanted to train to be a warrior, to fend off an opponent's blade with nothing more than my wit and the strength of my arm. I was the daughter who sought vengeance against those who’d dared to take my virtue. I was the daughter of a great queen who rode headlong into battle and cut down my enemies.

  Learning that I was not invincible, that life does expire, that the gods did not always protect me—that was perhaps the hardest lesson of any. Trying to find the meaning behind such cruel neglect from our gods seemed impossible. Because now I had failed. Our tribe had thrived in so many ways, but now we were crushed. Our warriors slaughtered. Our Druids dead. Our past erased.

  Were the Roman gods stronger than our great battle raven, Andraste?

  KEENA

  We approached the village as the moon rose. Sorcha battered at the doorpost of the largest roundhouse.

  “Please, I beg you, let us in. We need a healer and shelter for the night.”

  A man appeared in the doorway, a lamp in one hand, a sword in the other. He held the light up to my mother, studying her, and then my sister and I. I could see the moment when he realized who we were. He blanched, eyes widening with fear.

  I pressed a hand to his forearm. “Please. We will leave come light.”

  He pressed his lips together, but his eyes met my pleading gaze, and he mumbled, “A moment.”

  He retreated, and we were allowed to follow. The roundhouse was no Great Hall, but there was a fire and the smells of mead and meat. A cluster of villagers huddled together for warmth, fear in their eyes as they looked at us. They barely made eye contact as they provided me with an herbal poultice, ointments, thread, and needle. I worked quietly by a brazier to clean and stitch our mother, who nodded encouragement at me. When my hands started to shake, a healer reached forward to help, but I pushed her aside. This was my calling. Had been. If I was going to come to terms with the whole of my world changing, at least I should hang on to this: my skill as a healer, my need to help my mother.

  They let us sleep upon the floor of the roundhouse. And when dawn lit the fields, they pushed us out just as quietly as they’d let us in.

  They did not offer anything for us to take. Not even to fill our water skin. They just wanted us gone before the Romans, who were surely on our heels, arrived. By not uttering our names, by not giving us anything to take, there was no proof we’d ever been there. Strangers passing through the night.

  Two days passed since leaving that solemn village.

  By the time we reached the outskirts of the Cornovii stronghold, my aunt’s domain, the scent of peat fires filled the air, and an eerie quiet blanketed the moors. High up on the hill, we spotted the wall of the hill fort, lit by torches.

  Was it possible the Romans could have beaten us here? Gone past us in the night while we slept? My knees shook, and I had to wonder if Sorcha would show even the least bit of fear. Mother listed heavily to the side of her horse. Sorcha pushed her back on while I carried mother’s sword.

  “They will help us get north. They will help renew us.” Though her voice was hoarse, there was a queen's strength of will in her words.

  I was not too full of pride to admit I wanted to run the other way.

  “Wait,” I said, my voice shaky. I stopped walking, my feet feeling as though my boots had been filled with iron. “We should check first. They could have returned.”

  Sorcha nodded. “Watch Mother.” My older sister walked our chestnut mare toward a thick bramble hedge. Mother tried to dismount from the horse, and Sorcha was there to catch her before her knees buckled. I spread a fur on the ground in front of a tree for her to rest upon.

  Sorcha cleared her throat. “If I’m not back by the time the moon follows the line of that large oak, take the horse and go north.”

  I shook my head, gaze darting from Mother’s prone body to the hill fort. “Do not leave us here.” My voice had grown shrill. At least before, I had Sorcha to protect me. Mother’s once-great strength had ebbed away, and those strong arms of hers now hung limp. If left alone with her, I was the one who’d have to be strong. And I had no strength left in me.

  Sorcha sighed, the way she had all the while we’d grown up. It was a resigned sound, one that spoke volumes of disappointment. She pressed her hands to my shoulders. “Keena,” she said matter-of-factly. “Be brave. Your mother needs you. I need you. You must be brave for once.”

  My entire body trembled, and I clenched my teeth, gripped tight to the sword in my hand. She needed me. Those words I’d never heard before from Sorcha. I was a healer, not a protector. No one needed me to guard them, least of all Sorcha and mother. And yet . . .

  “You can do this. You must do this. Somewhere inside here”—Sorcha tapped my chest, causing my heart to skip a beat—“there is strength. Call upon it.”

  I blew out a ragged breath, on the brink of tears or laughter at the absurdity of it. I was without a doubt close to hysteria. “I do not think I can.”

  Sorcha smiled, her teeth flashing in the moonlight. “That is because you cannot see the Keena I see. But I can. She shines like a beacon.”

  And then she was gone, leaving my arms outstretched and empty as she rushed, body hunched, crossing the moors toward the hill fort.

  I wanted to sink to the ground beside Mother, but I couldn’t. Sorcha was counting on me. Mother was counting on me. Dragging myself to the bushes, I stood as tall as I could, and I held the sword with two hands, prepared to swing if someone should happen upon me.

  I shivered.

  “Keena . . . my brave, Keena,” Mother whispered.

  I glanced down at her, seeing her soft smile.

  “I’ll protect you, Mother,” I said, forcing my teeth to still their chatter.

  Some creature cried overhead, and I leapt, a gasp echoing on the wind from my throat. Every noise had me twisting. Swerving. Heart pounding. Dizzy.

  Sweat trickled down my spine, over my brow, despite the frigid cold. I swung at the bats that darted in a path over my head, screeching as they passed. I reeled toward the grass, cutting in an arcing pattern when it swayed with the breeze. I parried the night wind, swinging as I’d seen my mother do. Fighting like a great Iceni warrior.

  I nearly cut my own foot when a rodent scurried over it.

  But I stood tall until my sister returned with several tribesmen.

  “Keena.” She rushed toward me, arms outstretched, gripping me in an embrace we’d shared more over the past few months than we had our whole lives.

  “You returned,” I said, my voice carrying more uncertainty than I wanted it to.

  “Of course.” She gestured at the darkened shapes of men. “They are here to help.”

  The men grunted, one lifting Mother into his arms. She barely made a sound, her arm flopping nearly lifeless to the side. Another man led the chestnut mare. I wanted to rush forward, to grab the reins—feeling stubborn in the fact that the precious horse was our only way to freedom.

  “Come. We have shelter for tonight,” Sorcha said before rushing to walk beside the warrior carrying our mother.

  I came behind in a daze, not letting anyone take my mother’s sword from my grasp. This was mine now. I wouldn’t let it go. Couldn’t. It was as much a part of my mother as her heart, which I willed to keep beating. It had to keep beating.

  You know how badly she is wounded, my thoughts whispered. But I couldn’t bring myself to think the truth. That she was dying.

  The stronghold was quiet. Our feet scuffled on the hard-packed dirt until we were brought into the warmth of the Great H
all. The heat hit me like a wall, the sounds inside seemed distant to the rush of blood filling my head. I had been holding my breath. I was close to collapsing.

  Strong hands braced me, urging me. I looked to see a woman close to my mother’s age, familiar in her height and the bone structure of her face. She led me toward a fire lit in the center of the room and furs piled on the floor. I sat, my skin thawing in painful prickles. A cup was shoved in my hands. “To help you sleep.”

  I drank. Mead. An essence of herbs.

  I spat it back into the cup.

  Soft laughter sounded. “It’s not poisoned. I promise.” The cup was taken, the contents drained into the mouth of the woman with the plaited dark hair—my aunt. She smacked her lips when she was done in an exaggerated move, then refilled the cup and handed it back. “Now drink. The mead will soothe, the herbs will help you sleep.”

  I pushed her offer away and shook my head. “My mother—”

  “Is in good hands. You are safe here.” Her eyes implored me to believe her. “I would never harm her. Or her daughters.” My aunt stroked a calming hand over my shoulder. She pushed the cup back toward my lips, and I drank.

  Contemplating the orange-and-yellow flames, I said softly, “We lost.”

  My mother’s sister looked sad, face falling into shadow. “I see that.” Behind her, I heard whispers from the other Cornovii, moans, prayers.

  “My mother . . .”

  “Hush now, child. You must sleep.”

  I jutted my chin forward. “I’m not a child.”

  My aunt smiled, the same curl to her lips my mother used when I threw tantrums as a child. She pushed to her feet, hands on her hips, and gazed down at me with kindness. “All right, little woman, go to sleep.”

  “I need to help my mother. I’m a healer.”

  “You are brave, daughter of Boudica. But let us help you this night.”

  Brave. It was not something I’d ever thought to be. But perhaps I was learning.