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

  “I’ve heard that you have taken advantage of your father in his dotage and convinced him to banish your older brother. That's one prince down and one to go.”

  “My eldest brother was not fit to rule the Catuvellauni. He would sell our tribe to the Romans across the narrow sea. He is too enamored of their ways, never realizing the true price of the trade we do with them.”

  His vehemence startled me. “Was not your father acknowledged by Rome as the so-called King of Britannia? What could you have against the Romans?”

  As I would come to learn, I had unwittingly drawn him out on a subject upon which he was delighted to opine, and he drew me close in conversation. “There is no glory in them. Not one of these small-statured Romans is so glorious a warrior in his own right as to instill terror.”

  “Yet, banding together, they have somehow humbled the world beyond our shores. There is a lesson in that, don’t you think?”

  For we Brigantes were a federation of tribes—the most numerous, powerful, and peaceful of the Britons, not as given to cattle wars and border squabbling like the Iceni or the Coritani or the Catuvellauni. I could not help but think it was because we, unlike our southern kin, came together to enjoy pastoral pleasures instead of stealing one another’s sheep and raiding each other’s villages for glory. Perhaps that was a romantic view of my people, but it was one I held earnestly.

  Meanwhile, Caratacus seemed to be enjoying the debate, even as it pricked at his temper. “My beautiful Queen Cartimandua, here you are too far north, too far away to understand the danger of the Romans. Trust me when I say that every glass bottle and amphora of wine we buy from the Romans gives them a new temptation to return to our shores.”

  He might be right, I thought. I was not yet so enamored of luxury goods from Rome that I could not give them up. But I saw in Caratacus a man who was willing to turn on his own brother for ambition or principle. And if the prince would do that to his own flesh and blood, what might he do if he coveted his wife’s power? “I must think upon your offer.”

  Caratacus smiled brightly, with a great show of teeth, as if the warrior in him appreciated the challenge of my reluctance. “Perhaps you would like to do your thinking while riding upon this beautiful snowy white pony—my gift to you, whether you accept my hand or no.”

  With equal parts charm and hubris, he seized my hand in his rough one as ardently as a lover, even though we both knew he pursued me as a matter of strategy. Yet I could not claim to be a Brigante if the sight of a fine horse did not send my heart racing, and the snowy white pony waiting outside my Great Hall was the finest I ever saw. White was an unlucky color, some said. But others believed it was a sacred color. Brigantia’s serpent was white. White was the color of the Druid’s mistletoe berries and the symbol of the wintry crone. In any case, white looked very good upon this pony, and I could not resist hiking up my tunic to mount her, delighted by her nicker.

  Starting her off toward the meadows, I was surprised when Caratacus launched himself onto the back of another horse and forced it to a trot beside me. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Riding beside my future wife,” the bold prince replied.

  “I said that I would think on your offer.”

  He grinned. “I heard you. But surely you don’t need to do all your thinking alone . . .”

  After that, he was at my side almost every moment. Waiting upon my answer. Pressing to know the reasons for my hesitation. “Is it your kinsman, Venutius? I am told that he presented you with a wonderfully ornamented sword with patterned metalwork. But I could get you one twice as fine if—”

  “He made that sword,” I protested, remembering its fine craftsmanship and the earnestness of the man who forged it. “What’s more, Venutius knows how to use it.”

  We were returning from the stables, and Caratacus stopped in his steps, cornering me beside one of the lodges. “Do you fear that I could not defend you, Cartimandua? I am skilled at war—”

  “I have heard,” I said, not daring to glance at his strong, battle-hardened arms and the blue tattoos on his biceps. I already feared my attraction to him would be my undoing. “But perhaps you like war too much. You have been making war on smaller tribes. When I see the glint in your smile as you speak of war, I think you do it because you enjoy it.”

  The prince came close enough that I felt the heat of him through my clothes. “Do I deny the thrill of battle, Cartimandua? No. The glory, I want. The lands, I need. But for a greater purpose. We can unite all the tribes. You and I can do that. The Brigantes and the Catuvellauni are too powerful to resist. If we join together, every tribe between us must fall into an alliance with us. Can you not see that?”

  My mouth ran dry at the magnitude of his suggestion. At the audaciousness of it. At the way my own blood heated at his ambition, and a yearning echo of it resounded in my bones. I had never known a time when the southern tribes were not fighting one another or making war upon us. But if we could all unite in common purpose . . .

  The idea shook me. It shook me to my foundations. Which is why I made certain to absent myself from the prince’s company in the days that followed. Because I sensed in him the magic of a poet, a storyteller who can bind you with tales of things that had never been and could never be. And I felt myself so bound. Pulled under. At a loss for breath in his presence, just as I once was in a river, clinging to life.

  Under siege by my ardent and determined suitor, the only place I felt the air fill my lungs again was on my long walks on the moor. There it was that an Iceni nobleman, Prasutagus, found me. He did not bring me intricate swords or swift ponies. He did not talk to me about great ideas, nor promise me that he would one day be a king and worthy of my hand. But he walked quietly with me and let me think.

  He let me be. He let me breathe again. He made me feel better.

  His company was a balm.

  Oh, wily Brigantia, I thought upon a startle. You have given me the choice between a bard, a blacksmith, and a healer.

  As I spent more time with Prasutagus on our quiet walks, whispers began amongst my people that Caratacus had lost my favor. But this did not discourage the Prince of the Catuvellauni. At my table one night, Caratacus raised a cup of wine in toast and laughingly suggested, “Call a fight! Let us compete for the hand of Queen Cartimandua with a test of arms.”

  His rival Venutius, who had warmed in friendship to the charismatic young prince, readily agreed. My brawny-armed kinsman, who spent as much time fighting as at the forge, thought he could win. My people thought Venutius could win, too, and cheered for what they said would be an easy victory. But I knew better. Ambition and cleverness burned in Prince Caratacus’ breast, and in my estimation, such counts much more than strength when it comes to a fight.

  Besides, I was not going to turn the matter of my nuptials over to chance. As with everything in my life, it would be a choice. My choice. So though both the two younger suitors strutting about my Great Hall were handsome, virile men yearning for a show of arms, I refused to call combat. My eyes kept drifting past them to the quietly dignified Iceni nobleman. Prasutagus. He had neither their youth, wealth, nor status, but there was a calm intelligence in his dark eyes. He did not heat my blood, but I enjoyed his company.

  One might not think this would be the start of any sort of romance. And clearly Prasutagus did not see our courtship in those terms because, walking beside me one foggy day amongst the stone outcroppings, he said, “I should soon return to my Iceni lands.”

  “You’re giving up your suit already?”

  He smiled wryly. “Queen Cartimandua, you’re not going to choose me for your husband.”

  “You can’t know that,” I said coquettishly.

  “You prefer Prince Caratacus. And your people prefer Venutius,” he pointed out reasonably.

  “They both come with trouble,” I replied, pressing my back against a bridestone. “If I was to marry Venutius, favoring one tribe in the Brigante fe
deration over all the others, there might be jealousy.”

  “Then you will choose Caratacus.”

  Hope threaded itself through my voice. “They say an alliance between such powerful tribes as the Brigantes and the Catuvellauni would unite all the people.”

  “Or cause a war such as we have never seen before,” Prasutagus replied, crushing that hope. “Drawing the Romans to our shore besides.”

  I had not considered that, and the mention dispirited me. Still, I appreciated that Prasutagus did not tell me what he thought I wanted to hear. What I had wanted to hear was that I was right to like Caratacus. Because I did like him. I liked him very much. I sensed even then that a man like Caratacus comes along only once in a generation. I admired him, though warily. Like a boar must admire the cunning and deadly skill of a wolf without falling prey to it.

  Prasutagus seemed less dangerous by far.

  I felt at ease with him. Comfortable as I had not been since before I was queen. “You are a strange suitor to help me decide between two other men without feeling jealousy.”

  “Oh, make no mistake, Cartimandua. I burn with jealousy for every gaze you cast upon another,” Prasutagus quietly remarked. “But a man of my years learns to smolder rather than blaze.”

  My mouth parted in surprise. “It would seem a man of your years, who smolders, ought to have a wife.”

  He chuckled. “Which is why I came here.”

  Prasutagus seemed to me a quite remarkably mature man—and that brought out mature thoughts of my own. I did not wish my choice in a husband to be the cause of bloodshed. And if the tribes would not unite peacefully, I would not marry Prince Caratacus only so that he could slaughter his way to becoming the King of Britannia.

  Just like that, the fog in my mind he had roused with a bard's poetry cleared away. No matter the order of his birth or the worthiness of his dream, Prince Caratacus meant to rule. He would do it by conquest or connubial means, or both. If I took Caratacus for my consort, soon he would be the King, and I would be the consort.

  Which is why I could not marry him, and I said as much. “So you see, Prasutagus, you are the only choice without serious disadvantage.”

  The Iceni smiled, reaching for my hands with his big, scarred palms. “But still, you will not choose me. Because I bring you no advantage, either, except for the fact that you enjoy these walks of ours together. I flatter myself to think we have become friends.”

  I laughed uneasily. Friends, yes. But more than that. They say opposites attract, but like meets like, too. In Prasutagus, I’d found a kindred spirit.

  As queen, I drove my own war cart; my limbs were lithe and hard—but I would never have the bodily strength of a king. To survive in a world of men, I would always have to rely upon my people’s love instead of their fear. Upon stratagems rather than bluster. And even though Prasutagus was so strong that his neck bulged with power underneath his golden torc, I recognized in him a fellow tactician. To be sure, he was employing some persuasion upon my heart even as we spoke together in the shadow of the bridestones.

  I felt as if he knew me in a way no one else knew me.

  Which is why I gave myself to him, there, on the moor, while I was still free to give myself.

  When it was done, we panted in mutual satisfaction, and he tangled his hands in my red hair with delight. “Now I shall never be happy again unless I am running my fingers through flame.”

  It ached to hear him say it, ached right beneath my breast. “Then I wish for you to take a beautiful red-haired bride who will love you and cherish you and—”

  “Ah,” Prasutagus said with a resigned sigh. “This was good-bye, then.”

  How glad I was he did not make me explain myself.

  In the end, I did not marry the Catuvellauni prince whose boldness called to my blood and whose vision shook me to my bones. Nor did I marry the Iceni nobleman who so quietly stole my heart. I put aside my feelings, and in faith to my first marriage—as a bride of the Brigantes—I made the sensible, inoffensive choice that would please my people and leave me unentangled by foreign alliances. I chose for my consort my uncontroversial kinsman, Venutius: handsome, rock-strong, uncomplicated, and loyal.

  It may be difficult to believe it now, but we got on well, Venutius and I. Given his battle prowess, I did not fear the tribes at our borders. And when Venutius was not busy fighting, he was content to spend his days hammering things near a forge and his evenings hammering, well . . . as I said, we got on well.

  So I never doubted the wisdom in turning away Prince Caratacus, not even when he took a wife and began amassing real power in the south. But neither did I forget Prasutagus, whose child I lost before my wedding day.

  To my great sorrow, it was the only time I have ever carried a child inside me. The only time I have ever known such a bitter loss. It was a loss I could not share with my new husband. Nor with Prasutagus, who never knew.

  And who I never thought to see again.

  But two years later, a rider thundered up to the ramparts of my new stronghold with urgent news. Roused from bed, I hurried out into the night with my husband to greet the messenger and was struck dumb when the moonlight revealed his weathered face. It was Prasutagus, sweat dripping in rivulets down his cheeks and his expression grim. “Queen Cartimandua,” he said with the utmost formality as he dismounted his horse.

  “What brings you to my kingdom?” I asked, noticing the froth on the animal’s lips and wondering how hard he had ridden.

  “Prince Caratacus has conquered the Atrebates and taken their lands.”

  “I have heard,” I said, puzzled by the urgency of this news and more puzzled by the messenger. For in the time since we had parted, Prasutagus had risen to become one of the chieftains of the Iceni tribes. He was of such prominence now that he might have sent someone else to carry word to me. Instead, he had come himself.

  Prasutagus gave a curt nod. “Did you also hear that the dispossessed chieftain of the Atrebates fled to Rome to plead for help in reclaiming his territory?”

  A pit opened in my stomach. “That I did not know.” For almost a hundred years, the Romans had kept away from our shores. Now they had an excuse to return. Had Caratacus’ loathing of them actually drawn the foreign enemy back?

  “It is only bluster,” my husband said. “The Romans have threatened to come before. They will not risk a humiliating defeat. If Julius Caesar could not humble us, it cannot be done.”

  That seemed to be the consensus of my councilors as well. But Prasutagus, my former lover, met my eyes and said, “The Romans have already come. They were met by the army of the Catuvellauni.”

  Well then. Good. The strongest army but mine was in the field to repel them. “Who leads the army?” It would be Caratacus, surely.

  Prasutagus shook his head. “There is no more army.”

  A collective gasp went up from the Brigantes, and my husband’s eyes bulged. “How can that be?”

  “The Romans are fast and formidable.”

  I pressed my hands to my face in dread of the invaders. “This is a disaster.”

  “It’s not possible,” my husband half shouted. “Not possible that such a battle would be fought without our having heard of it sooner!”

  Prasutagus shook his shaggy head with a helpless shrug. It was not his fault that the kingdom of the Brigantes was so far north that we were almost the last to know anything. “Caratacus has managed to escape capture.”

  “We must get word to him,” I said. “Offer him shelter.”

  I was grateful when my husband nodded his ready agreement. “Our Brigante warriors will march south, ask every tribe to join us, and beat back these puny Romans from our shores.”

  A battle cry went up from my warriors. Because we are a proud people, there was excited talk of glory. If the Romans had defeated the Catuvellauni, perhaps the army of Caratacus was not as fearsome as we had always supposed. Perhaps they had been badly led. The Brigant
es would now lead the way, everyone agreed.

  But Prasutagus said nothing, and his silence weighed on me such that I slept not at all that night. Neither did he; I found Prasutagus staring out at the rising dawn while the rest of my encampment still slumbered.

  Clutching my checkered cloak tighter around my shoulders, I said, “It now falls to me to unite the tribes against the foreign invader.” Caratacus and I both dreamed of it, but he had failed. “Do you think I can succeed?”

  It inspired me to think so, and I hoped to inspire Prasutagus, too.

  Alas, he gave another shake of his shaggy head. “If anyone could, it would be you. But you will be met by treachery from every tribe along the way if you try. Every tribe, including my own.”

  I startled. “Why should you say such a thing? What have I done to make the Iceni my enemy?”

  “It’s over, Cartimandua,” he said, daring the familiarity of my name. “We have seen the most powerful tribal army assemble and be cut down. The Romans are here to stay. All that’s left now is to surrender to Rome and the Roman way or face utter annihilation.”

  I could scarcely believe him. How was it that my life, that our very way of life, was to be lost without my ever having set eyes on the Romans who meant to take it from us? “I would face death rather than slavery,” I flung back with all the pride of my ancestry.

  “Fortunately, the Romans offer a third option,” Prasutagus replied. “Their emperor has made landfall to await the tribal leaders who will surrender to him. I know of ten chieftains, including myself, who will go to meet the Roman emperor. I have come here to Brigantia to plead with you to be the eleventh.”

  Had this suggestion come from any other man, I’d have spit in his face. But the suggestion had come from this man, and though I disagreed with him, I knew I must hear what he had to say. “You will have to persuade me, Prasutagus. Shall we walk together, as we used to?”

  “If it would not provoke your husband.”

  Heat stung my cheeks at what I took for a rebuke. “I am the Queen of the Brigantes. I do not answer to a husband about where I stroll and with whom.”