Haerviu jumped back as if he’d been caught fondling the girl, but he quickly regained his composure. “She ain’t the queen just yet,” he replied, “and her hips look a tad narrow to me.”
“Hips…hrrrmph,” the woman huffed and marched past the Burgealdor, smacking him on the chest with the back of her hand. “Wot do ye know of hips?”
“Well I…”
“Hush now,” the woman commanded so sharply that Boudicca was confused.
“Name’s Aina,” the woman announced cheerfully, and then nodded back toward Haerviu. “That pottage head tis me husband. Come let’s get ye cleaned up from yor journey,” she added, and without a backward glance at the most powerful man in Thetford, she led the girl across the courtyard. They soon disappeared into the large hall that dominated the center of town.
Haerviu sighed as he watched them leave. “Pleasin’ that woman can be a trial,” he stated grimly, but then winked at Cadeyrn, “but when I do, she rewards me well.”
Cadeyrn only smiled at the joke, but Haerviu laughed so loud he hardly noticed. “The King’s not due in ‘til the morn. Come, ye look thirsty and tired from yor long journey,” he suggested and slapped the smaller Héafodmann hard on the back.
Cadeyrn didn’t argue and let the big man lead him into the hall. Aina and Boudicca had disappeared into some dark corner, probably in the rear where the water was located, but the Burgealdor headed straight for the central fire. Several dozen men already occupied the long, thick logs that were set up for seating. Everyone shifted about to let the two have a place. Cadeyrn greeted them all, acquainted with most, though he now made his home at Caistor with the King.
A steamy mug of thick mead appeared and was shoved into his hand. Cadeyrn took it gladly, enjoying the faint smell of honey as he lifted it to his mouth. He drank almost half the mug in two quick gulps before coming up for air. Some of the thick brew clung to his upper lip for a moment before the Héafodmann wiped it away.
“Came upon a group of slaughtered Trinovantes not far out of Diss. Prasutagus…”
“Prasutagus should have joined with the Trinovantes!” Ninian, a young, inexperienced warrior, interrupted hotly. “The Rỏmảniscs should na be allowed a foothold on our island.”
“They already have a foot hold,” Cadeyrn countered. “The King is doing wot’s necessary to hold onto wot lands we have. Ye should learn from the Trinovantes’ failure, Ninian.”
Ninian scowled. “Yor a fool…and so is Prasutagus if’n he believes the Rỏmảniscs will let him keep Iceni. Ye will see. The only chance we have is to unite the tribes.”
Laughter erupted from around the fire before Cadeyrn could shake it off. Ninian was young and angry…and possibly correct, but the King had decided on a course of action and it was his duty as Héafodmann to follow.
“Wot ye say could well be true Ninian,” Cadeyrn finally admitted, “but at the moment I’d rather be Iceni than Trinovantes.”
There were mumbled agreements from around the fire, followed by a thick silence which Cadeyrn used to return to his mead in an attempt to wash away the visions of the dead Trinovantes in the meadow.
♀
Boudicca was on the upper level of the hall, stripped naked and standing uncomfortably in the dirty shin-deep water of a wooden washing tub. At the moment two servant women were scrubbing every inch of her body, while a third applied oil and fragrance to her newly washed hair. Boudicca, her eyes closed, ignored their ministrations. Her mind was also filled with dead Trinovantes, or more accurately, one dead Trinovantes. The boy with the sword and the long eyelashes insisted on appearing to her every time she closed her eyes, not that she cared. He grew more beautiful with every conjuring, and for what seemed the hundredth time she wished to the gods she knew his name. But though her imagination could supply many things, the boy’s name remained stubbornly a mystery. ‘He was beautiful,’ she thought and a wisp of a smile crossed her lips, but it was so small none of the other women in the room noticed. Boudicca imagined kissing the sleeping face that would not leave her thoughts, and shivered with pleasure. The women noticed this however, and looked up from their work. Boudicca quickly regained control of her body and went still once more.
“This will do ye nicely,” Aina commented from across the room, and held up a beautiful green dress with a white shift for underneath. Boudicca opened her eyes. The dress was lovely, but Boudicca rarely got excited about the finer things of being feminine. She would much rather wear thick leathers and practice her warrior ways. Even so, she wondered what the dead boy in the meadow would think about her while she was dressed in such finery.
For Boudicca it was a radical reflection, for up to now she’d never given any thought to how she’d look to the opposite sex. It wasn’t that she resisted such notions; instead, such thoughts never crossed her mind, no more than calculus or the rings of Saturn did. Being attractive to the opposite sex was simply not a concern for her…at least not before she’d encountered the boy in the meadow.
Boudicca was dimly aware that thoughts of the dead boy were taking root in her psyche, but for the moment did not question why. Oddly, she was enjoying the many fantasies that were springing up effortlessly in her mind.
“Come dry her off,” Aina commanded the women. “She’s likely as clean as she’s goin’ to get.”
For another hour the women fussed and preened over Boudicca. The dress was a reasonable fit. It was certainly much nicer than anything she’d owned up to this point, and everyone seemed rightly enamored when she slipped into it. Even Aina was pleased as she made Boudicca turn this way and that. Boudicca tried to image how she looked, but couldn’t bring up a fair image until one of the servant women set a large wooden bowl of water on the floor. Boudicca stood over the bowl and squinted at the faint reflection of some strange young woman.
“Yor a vision,” Aina insisted happily. “The King t’will be pleased, never fear.”
Boudicca nodded. Long ago she’d resigned herself to the fact that she’d be given to some strange man someday …most likely an older man of wealth and influence. It was a fact of life for wellborn women of her time, but if she had to spend her life as wife to a stranger, it might as well be as a queen…the mother of little princes and princesses.
“I thank ye for yor help. I will try hard to please him,” Boudicca replied sincerely, for Aina had made her beautiful and look more like a queen than at any time in her past.
However the next morning, when she woke to the hollow sound of wooden swords knocking together, all Aina’s work from the night before dissipated from her mind as easily as the dreams she couldn’t remember.
As soon as she recognized the sound, Boudicca jumped from the bed and dashed to the lone window in the room. She poked her head out and glanced down, but all she could see was the top of the stables and an empty patch of courtyard. The sounds of swordplay echoed off the buildings, making it hard for her to pinpoint the exact location. She leaned out just as far as she dared, and though the knocking sounds continued to reach her ears, she could not catch sight of the contestants.
With a sigh of exasperation, Boudicca spun and pulled on her dirty traveling clothes that were piled in the corner of the room. She dressed quickly, excited by the prospect of physical activity. Fighting mock battles, with any weapon, was where she found her greatest joy…except perhaps for hunting with her bow. Thankfully Iceni society allowed, and even encouraged their young women to become warriors, which was something of an aberration for the time.
The hall was slowly coming to life, but for the most part it was still quiet, dark and sleepy. Boudicca pounded down the wooden staircase unmindful of the peace, and slipped outside before anyone caught sight of her.
The morning was chilly, and everything was covered with heavy dew. Boudicca paused in the courtyard, which at the moment was eerily silent, and her heart fell as the silence continued. She feared that she’d missed out on the fun, but soon enough the knock of wood on wood echoed off the walls once m
ore.
Boudicca smiled and hurried out into the center of the courtyard. She spun about; searching for the mock duel, but still could see no one. However, from her vantage point on the ground, she could determine the direction of the sounds. She ran across the dirt yard and raced around a corner where she had to pull up short to keep from barreling into three old women carrying laundry.
“Eh now! Watch yorself!” one of the women scolded, but Boudicca was not listening. Her eyes were riveted on a circular corral of sorts, surrounded by a simple split rail fence. There were at least a half a dozen boys perched along the top rail watching as three young men went at each other with their wooden weapons.
Boudicca slipped past the women, oblivious to the frowns shot her way. She approached the practice pen slowly, almost shyly, now that she had it in her sights.
The boys along the fence hooted and hollered encouragement to those who were swinging and flailing about inside the pit. On the far side of the corral three older men watched the melee; two were shouting heated instructions to the participants, while the third just watched impassively. The boys, most with their backs to Boudicca, took no notice of her arrival; neither did the two men shouting instructions, but the quiet one eyed her approach and continued to study her as she leaned against the fence. She was keenly aware of the man’s gaze, and for a brief moment was uncomfortable, but her attention quickly fell on the combatants in the pen, and soon she forgot all about him.
An enormous young man was fighting, though Boudicca could tell by the wisp of a beard on his chin that he was not yet fully grown. Despite his youth, he was giving his two opponents all they could handle, even though they were clearly older. It only took a moment for Boudicca to determine that the contest was not a free for all, rather it was two against one, and the large young man held the upper hand.
She noticed almost immediately that the young one was not as slow as most large men tended to be, however he was guilty of their other flaw; he relied almost entirely on his strength. He swung his wooden sword hard…very hard, often leaving himself off balance. To be fair however, his opponents were rarely in a position to capitalize on the situation. Men being men, they insisted on trying to meet his strength with their own, which was obviously a losing proposition.
Boudicca and the man on the far side of the corral were the only people watching the contest that did not hoot, holler or otherwise shout encouragement to the contestants. Both watched silently as the large young man, Arthfael, by the cheers of the spectators, slowly wore down his two opponents with his speed and strength. His wooden sword finally crashed through the defense of one man, striking him hard on the right shoulder. Despite the padding he wore, the man cried out and went down. Boudicca knew he would be sporting a painful bruise come tomorrow. Arthfael grinned in triumph, gloating over his fallen opponent for just an instant, before spinning and raising his guard.
Instead of taking advantage of the Arthfael’s momentary lapse, the final contestant skipped away, and with a grimace gathered himself for the coming onslaught. Arthfael continued to smile, brimming with confidence, and swung his wooden sword about in a playful display of skill. Boudicca had to admit that the young man had talent, as well as strength. He was obviously no stranger to weapons, or the sparring ring. She admired the set of his wide shoulders, wondering just what it would be like to possess such power.
Suddenly Arthfael attacked, swinging hard and grunting from the effort. Boudicca snapped out of her reverie. She frowned, realizing instantly that if she had such strength, she’d probably employ it just as stupidly. His opponent however, insisted on facing such stupidity head on, which in Boudicca’s mind made him even more of an imbecile. Each time Arthfael swung, the other tried to parry the blow, force with force, which kept him just as off balance as his clumsy attacker. Mercifully, it only took half a dozen swings for Arthfael to finally break through the other’s defenses and send him to the ground with a ringing blow to the right temple.
The man’s eyes rolled back into this head and he dropped to the ground unconscious. All the boys surrounding Boudicca cheered wildly. Arthfael raised his sword arm in triumph and spun slowly in a circle, basking in the adulation. When his eyes finally fell on Boudicca he paused, and his smile widened. Boudicca shrugged off the obvious compliment; she knew she was striking, if not actually beautiful, but that did not keep her from immediately expressing her own opinion concerning the young man’s prowess.
“Ye swing too hard,” she said loudly and everyone went quiet, “it leaves ye wide open to counters.”
Several of the boys laughed, but the quiet man across the corral just nodded slowly without comment.
Arthfael frowned. “Is that so?” He replied and Boudicca was surprised by the high pitch of his voice. She expected a deep bass to come from someone so large, instead of the sweet high tenor.
“Perhaps you’d like to show me how it’s done,” Arthfael continued. It was not a surprising request, but it was one Boudicca was hoping to hear. After the boredom of travel she was ready for a little exercise.
“Gladly,” she answered and hopped the fence with easy grace. Boudicca snatched up the sword from the still unconscious man and backed away from Arthfael, who was spinning his own sword gleefully.
“Let her suit up,” the quiet man from the far side of the corral said, and though his voice was soft, Arthfael immediately obeyed.
“Eogan, Mael, pad her up,” the man ordered and a pair of boys quickly jumped into the ring to help her. It took a moment for them to find a set that would fit her. She was larger than they’d guessed, and in the end she took the upper pads from the man who’d taken the blow to the shoulder. As they secured the pads, the unconscious man finally came around and was helped woozily from the ring.
“Yor sure about this?” Arthfael taunted confidently. He didn’t mind teaching the girl a thing or two, but he’d prefer to have a challenge. Still, he always enjoyed dominating an opponent in sight of an audience.
Boudicca did not take the bait, and just waited silently until the last of the straps were tightened and the boys exited the corral. She pushed around Arthfael, making her way to the rack of practice swords. As she slipped by, he noticed for the first time that she was near to his height, though she was still giving up quite a bit in weight and muscle.
The quiet man watched with interest as Boudicca picked through the wooden swords. He nodded with satisfaction as she tried and discarded several heavy swords before finally deciding on one in the middle of pack.
“Fine choice lass,” the man commented, and Boudicca glanced up curious.
“Yor name Sir?”
The men on either side grunted, but the quiet one only smiled. “Malvyn Goff,” the man replied.
Boudicca nodded; she recognized the name of Prasutagus’ Master Knight.
“Be careful with him,” Malvyn warned and nodded toward Arthfael. “Yor correct ‘bout him swinging too hard…tis hard enough to break a man’s skull, and despite the talk, I ‘xpect yor’s tis na any harder.”
Boudicca smiled. “Talk sometimes has a bit of truth to it,” she replied and then spun the sword about in an attempt to get the balance. After a moment she decided it was excellent. As she walked to the middle of the corral she continued to ignore Arthfael, and instead studied the ground around her. The dirt in the ring was loose and for the most part dry. It would hold her footing well, though she noticed it was a bit muddy near the north side of the hall where sunlight was likely to be rare. She made a mental note to keep well away from the area.
When she finally turned to face him, Arthfael was no longer smiling; instead he was giving her a look like he wanted to cave her head in. Boudicca decided she would be very careful indeed.
“Prepare!” Arthfael warned and then waded in, pulling his sword back and swinging all the harder for her criticism. Despite her caution, Boudicca was surprised by the ferocious power behind the swing. She deftly skipped aside and raised her own sword, which suddenly seemed
wholly inadequate and pitiful against such strength. Somehow she managed to hold onto her weapon as she deflected the blow, her hand tingling painfully as she backed quickly away.
Once again Arthfael was pulled around by the power of his swing, but Boudicca had little chance to take advantage of the situation before he reversed his momentum. His sword whistled through the air on the way back and rustled her long hair despite the fact that it missed by a healthy margin. Boudicca did not even bother to parry the wild swing.
Arthfael swung hard several more times but Boudicca simply skipped away from the onslaught without even using her sword, something Arthfael’s male opponents failed to do.
“Stand and fight!” Arthfael demanded. Boudicca just smiled and continued to retreat from his powerful, awkward blows. She was beginning to get the measure of her opponent, and while he was fast for someone so big, he couldn’t come close to matching her quickness. It was a disadvantage that Arthfael continued to compound by his overly aggressive swings.
The sparring continued for nearly ten minutes, Arthfael flailing away and Boudicca retreating. At times he managed to get close enough that she had to deflect his blows with her weapon, but more often than not she could avoid them simply by moving her feet.
After a time, strong as he was, even Arthfael began to tire, but not before his anger and frustration got the better of him. He rushed forward, sword held high over his head, determined to finally brain this smiling, over-confident girl. As he raced forward however, Boudicca finally moved in to meet his attack. The instant his sword was up she glided in and poked him hard in the belly before flashing by. He grunted but continued his swing, as she knew he would. If the blow had landed it might have killed her, but she lunged past and tucked into a roll. She hit the muddy ground softly, without a thought for her appearance, and deftly sprang to her feet directly behind him. She completed Arthfael’s embarrassing loss with a loud swat to the seat of his pants.
One Life Well and Truly Promised Page 19