In the pastures to either side ewes were taking advantage of the
abundance, surrounded by the leaping lambs that had given the farm its
name. It seemed to Lhiannon that the fertility of the land and its animals
was a good omen for Boudica’s pregnancy. Now she understood the
young woman’s tragic radiance, but it was not yet clear what she should
do. A great deal, she thought, depended on whether the king was a vio-
lent man or had simply mishandled his young mare.
“How long have you been on the road?”
Lhiannon frowned. “I left soon after the equinox, when the moon
was just past the full, and now she is nearly round once more. It was
hard going until I struck the old track near Carn Ava, and then I made
good progress, except when a Roman detachment crossed my path.”
“Were you in danger?”
“Our people are not yet so cowed that they do not honor my Order,
and there was always some house where I could find shelter in exchange
for a blessing or a spell.” Indeed, the journey had reminded her why she
was a priestess. As she had told Rianor, the Druids deserved the honor
folk gave them because they served. And clearly, she was badly needed
here.
The way Boudica was leading them passed through a wood and
along the edge of a field. As the sun sank westward its slanting rays fi lled
each leaf and blade of grass with light. It was peaceful here, a good place
to seek healing. For both of them, it occurred to her then.
As they reached the hilltop the peace was split by the sound of bark-
ing. Lhiannon hung onto the pony’s reins as a creature the size of a
young calf burst from the gate in the wicker fence that surrounded the
farmstead and came bounding toward them.
“Bogle! Down!” Boudica caught the animal in midleap and wres-
tled him to the ground as he strained to reach the priestess.
“What in the name of An-Dubnion is that?”
“He’s my puppy.” For a moment Boudica’s grin reminded her of the
girl she had known. “Down, Bogle, be polite! She’s a friend!”
It must be a dog, thought Lhiannon as the animal licked her hand,
though it was of no breed she had ever seen. Wiry waves of creamy hair
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covered a lean, long-legged form with a dangerously whipping plumed
tail. But the head above the powerful shoulders was broad, with a russet
nose and one flopping white ear and one red ear.
“Impressive,” said Lhiannon in a neutral tone as the dog gave her a
last slurp and bounded off to announce their arrival.
“I think the Goddess sent him to save my reason,” Boudica replied.
F O U R T E E N
L hiannon watched Boudica carefully as Beltane month passed and
the year began to ripen into June. It was a relief when the weather held
fair through July—even without rain, for both of them that month held
evil memories. And not for them only, she realized when one morning
Bogle’s barking announced the arrival of King Prasutagos and his men.
He had come by only twice since the visit in January of which Boudica
had told her, and stayed only so long as it took to water his horses and as-
sure himself that his wife was well. Surely that was no surprise, if the en-
counter had been as been as—intense—as Boudica had said. But Lhiannon
knew very well that her relationship with Ardanos had hardly prepared
her to judge a marriage. She was glad of the chance to see for herself
what manner of man Boudica’s clan had married her to.
“My lady, I salute you,” Prasutagos said as Lhiannon emerged from
the roundhouse to greet him. For a moment his gaze rested on the
doorway, but when it remained empty he turned back to her with a
smile. He did not seem surprised to see her, but then word of her arrival
would have spread quickly through the countryside. “We are glad to of-
fer you a refuge here.”
Clearly, thought Lhiannon, he did not yet realize just why the priest-
ess had come. She knew by the increased tension in his shoulders when
Boudica appeared, bearing the welcoming horn of ale. She was wearing
a linen tunica pinned at the shoulders, and she had tied the belt tightly
beneath her breasts so that the new rounding of her belly was clear. For
a moment Prasutagos’s face was utterly blank. Lhiannon waited for what
would come next—joy, or anger? Instead what she saw was fear.
“The blessing of the gods be upon you, my husband,” Boudica said
evenly.
Prasutagos nodded as he took the horn. But he drank and handed it
back to her without saying a word.
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The king’s silence was covered by the noise made by the other men
as they saw to the horses and sat down to the meal the women brought
out to them, for on such a fine summer day it would have been a pity to
huddle inside. They had set logs for seats around the fi repit, where a
cauldron hung above a small fl ame. Prasutagos sat on a carved stool that
had been a wedding present, with Boudica opposite him on the other
side of the fire. Lhiannon was glad to be outdoors, where there was light
enough for her to continue to observe them both, for she was still not
certain just what was going on.
Whatever it was, the past months had been hard on him as well. The
prince she had met on Mona had been quiet, but forthcoming enough
when speech was needed. The king she had seen at Camulodunon had
been so contained he might as well have sent a stone image. If he had mar-
ried in the same mood, Lhiannon was not surprised Boudica had reacted
badly. She had always been a forthright girl. But what the priestess saw in
him now went deeper. This was not quiet, it was constriction, as if his si-
lence were a barrier to hold back emotions he did not dare reveal. She
could see the tension in the way he held his head, in the abrupt way he
moved, and she could see the pain in his eyes when he looked at Boudica.
After the meal, Prasutagos went round the farm with old Kitto, who
managed the work for Boudica. Most of his men remained where they
could tease little Temella and exchange mock insults with Nessa, but
presently Bituitos strode across the yard and came to attention before
her, obviously searching for words.
“Is there some way I can help you?” Lhiannon took pity on him.
“Lady,” said Bituitos, “it is clear that the queen has great regard for
you. Can you speak to her on behalf of my lord? He does not complain,
but we know that he is suff ering. Another man might have dragged her
home by her hair, but he will do nothing, say nothing, until she gives
the word.”
Lhiannon nodded. “Has he always been so silent?”
Bituitos frowned. “Compared to his brothers he was always the
quiet one. But not like this, no. He lost his joy when his first wife died
with the child. And then to lose all his brothers—it was hard.”
“I would have expected shared sorrow to bring them together after
their son
died,” said Lhiannon.
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“I think grief drove them apart,” muttered the warrior.
She considered him for a moment in silence. It was worth some-
thing to know that the king was a man whom his sworn warriors served
not only from duty, but from love.
“I am sorry . . .” she said presently. “I know that you would shed
your blood to protect him. But you cannot ward him from the wounds
he gives himself. Nor can I so shield the queen. Perhaps things will im-
prove between them when this child is born.”
“May the gods grant it is so. I think it will kill him if things go
wrong again,” Bituitos said in a low voice. “I saw his face when he
thought she was dying like the other one.”
He straightened, and Lhiannon realized that Prasutagos was coming
through the gate, still talking to the old man. His face was quite diff er-
ent when he laughed. But as his men began to ready the horses he came
to Lhiannon and his features became impassive once more.
“Priestess, I am glad that you are here. I would never force Boudica
back to Eponadunon, but I have feared for her, with no one near who
had the authority to rule her and the household if she should take harm.
Send to me if there is anything she needs.”
Lhiannon might have thought those words only the speech of duty
if she had not spoken with his man; if she had not seen how Prasutagos
looked when he smiled. As it was, she nodded. But he was no longer
looking at her. Boudica had come out once more, with the parting cup
in her hands.
“A safe journey to you, my lord,” she said clearly.
“The blessing of the Great Mother be on you, my lady,” he an-
swered in a low voice, and in a whisper, “and on the child . . .”
When they had gone, the farmstead seemed very silent, and color-
less, as if some of the life had gone out of the world. Or perhaps it was
only Boudica who seemed suddenly pale.
That eve ning the queen sought her bed early, but around midnight,
Lhiannon woke and heard her weeping. Quietly she parted the curtains
and knelt beside the bedstead.
“Hush, my dear one, how is it with you? Are you in pain?”
Boudica stilled, hiccupped, and turned over. “Only in my heart,”
she whispered. “And I should be used to that by now.”
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Carefully Lhiannon lay down and put an arm around her, drawing
her in so that Boudica could rest against her shoulder.
“It will be all right . . . It will be well, my darling.”
Some of the tension left Boudica’s body in a long sigh. “I was so
happy when I was with child before. But this time when I quickened, I
was afraid. What if I lose this one, too?”
It was what Prasutagos had feared as well. Lhiannon stroked the hair
that curled with such vigor from Boudica’s brow. “Your husband . . .”
she began, but Boudica jerked away.
“He came to inspect his mare. Perhaps he’ll leave me alone now that
he knows I’m breeding again.”
The opposite was more likely, thought Lhiannon, but clearly this
was no time to say so. “Never mind, then. I will take care of you.”
Boudica sighed and settled down beside her. Lhiannon’s heart ached
with pity for her, and for her husband as well, but it was strangely sweet
to hold that strong young body, beginning to ripen now in pregnancy.
And I will love you, silently she swore, and in Brigantia’s name I will
stand between you and whatsoever may threaten your life or that of your child!
It was a golden summer. As the grain ripened in the fi elds, Boudica
felt her own body swell and bloom. And as one month followed the next
without incident, her fears began to ease. She could feel Lhiannon’s love
like a protective shield around her. She blessed the fields as her men
brought in the harvest, living model for the image of the Corn Mother
they twined from the last sheaves in the field. And as the ninth month of
her pregnancy began, she realized that she was looking forward to the
birth with joy.
She was crossing the yard with a basket of scraps for the chickens—
the heaviest burden they would allow her to bear—when she felt the
familiar ache in her lower back begin. She stopped, biting her lip—she
had had such pains before and had all the household in a panic around
her, only to have them cease. Lhiannon said it was the womb’s way of
getting ready, practicing like a warrior for the battle to come. They
would make her lie down if they knew this was happening, and the
compulsion that was on her now was to walk. Not
far—she knew
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better—but if she stayed within earshot she could circle the farmstead.
She finished feeding the chickens and went out through the gate into
the fi eld.
Boudica had made three circuits, pausing from time to time to let a
pain pass, when she realized that Lhiannon was walking beside her.
“Has it begun?” asked the priestess.
Boudica nodded, panting a little as another contraction rolled through
her belly. “Please, don’t make me go inside . . .”
“I may not have borne a babe, but I have helped at many births,”
Lhiannon replied tartly. “Lean on my shoulder if you need to, and walk
until you tire.”
That did help, but when the time came that Boudica could not take
helped her to disrobe, she turned to Lhiannon.
“Send . . . for my husband. He should be
here . . . to see what
he . . . has done.”
“He’s just down at the Horse Shrine,” said Temella eagerly. “He has
been staying with Palos and Shanda at the farm.”
“Damn him!” she whispered. “Spying on me!” Then that mighty
grip tightened around her belly and she had no breath to say more.
When she bore her son, the pains had been sharp, but she recog-
nized now that they had not lasted long. This labor went on and on.
Awareness came and went with the pangs. During one respite she heard
Prasutagos’s voice and called his name. When the next contraction had
passed he was sitting beside her. In the flickering light of the Roman
lamp that hung from the crossbeam she could see his face, unmoving as
the image of a god.
“You did this to me! You, with your face like stone! Don’t you
care?” She realized that she was babbling and could not cease, nor could
she control the words. She flailed and he gripped her hands. She hung
on, panting, and as the pain passed, began to curse him once more. She
was vaguely aware of Lhiannon and the others, coming and going in the
room, but Prasutagos was the rock to which she clung.
“Why didn’t you come? I was cold and it hurt and you didn’t come . . .”
she whispered in a moment of respite, and saw him close his eyes in pain.
But when he looked at her again he had regained his calm.
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“I am here . . .” he said quietly. “Boudica, I am here.”
“Yes . . .” she said in wonder. “Stay with me . . .” Then she gasped.
It still hurt, but this was diff erent. She struggled to sit up.
“It’s time,” said Nessa, who had seen even more babies come into
the world than Lhiannon. But it was the priestess who got into the bed
behind her, bracing her back as Prasutagos hauled on her hands.
Boudica grunted, and suddenly mind and body were partnered once
more. Again and again she pushed; she was being cleft in two, but it
didn’t matter. With a scream that was a battle cry, she drove toward her
goal. And the child, red- haired, bloody, and already squalling, slid into
Nessa’s waiting hands.
For a time, the relief was so great that Boudica scarcely cared what
happened, as long as she could still hear the baby’s lusty cries. But by the
time the women had washed and dressed her and changed the bedding,
the yells had been replaced by a lullabye.
As she focused, she realized that it was Prasutagos who was singing,
sitting beside her with the sleeping baby in his arms. His hands looked
scraped and bruised, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. At
least, she thought resentfully, he had suff ered, too.
“I would like to name her Rigana,” he said thoughtfully. “She looks
as my mother did when she was old.”
“Who did you expect her to look like, Pollio?”
“I thought it was possible,” he kept his eyes fixed on the baby. “I
would not blame you.”
“Would you not?” she snapped back at him. “That was not what
you said the night she was conceived. But the child is yours,” she added,
“if you care . . .”
Color washed up from his neck to his forehead and then receded
again. He looked down at the child.
“How strange that such a miracle should be the fruit of my madness.
But perhaps that is why this one is a fighter . . .” His voice sank to a
whisper, “and she will live . . .”
“And have you nothing to say to me? ” Are you sorry? Her inner voice
continued. She wondered that he could not hear.
“I am sorry . . . for many things. I never told you . . .” He closed his
eyes, and she suddenly felt she knew what he was going to say. “I was
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