Chapter Thirty-three
After the King’s mounts and men are fed and watered and the King has held court at the fireside for a time, he brings a jug of wine and joins me in my quiet spot away from the others.
I think he is a little drunk, or perhaps he is merely exhausted. ‘I would ask something of you, Trista,’ he begins and my heart sinks.
‘Of course, sir . . .’ I cannot argue with a King.
‘I am going to Cartimandua to ask her in person to send your compatriots. Without her forces I cannot trap the legions west of the Sabrina where the land favours us and where the gods are on our side . . .’ His words make my stomach churn with apprehension. I don’t think he should go anywhere near the Brigante Queen. Every instinct cautions against it. I am about to interrupt, but he stops me with a raised hand.
‘Hear me out. I know there are risks and for that reason I charge you with the safekeeping of my son, and of my story. Watch over him for me and make sure that whatever else happens, when the time comes, he knows his heritage.’
Of all the things I thought he would ask me, I didn’t expect this, and of all the responsibilities I was prepared to accept, this is the one that suits me the least. I am a warrior and a seeress, not a nursemaid.
‘Sir, if that is what you command me, then that is what I’ll do, but please do not go to Cartimandua. In all my dreams I have seen you bound, in chains, and handed over to our enemies. Why would I have such dreams if not to warn you, to save you from such a fate?’ My mouth is dry. If he and the Queen are kin, which they may be for all I know, he might cut my tongue out for disloyalty: royalty sticks together when they are not at one another’s throat. I take a deep breath. ‘Sir, I believe the Queen will choose Rome over you. She will betray you.’
I see anger in his eyes and note that his hand strays to his sword. The Wild Weird are suddenly still and watching.
‘You cannot know this for sure? Without Cartimandua’s forces we cannot win. If the soldiers of Rome are allowed to advance further west to take Mona, the Sacred Isle, then we’ll be broken.’ He sounds furious, desperate. ‘We have to trap them here while they are still among the Ordovices. The freedom of our people depends on it!’ His hand stays on his sword, but he does not draw it and I do not reach for mine; he is a King after all. ‘You are telling me I must fail. You are not a druid – why should I trust your words?’
I am a little angry myself. I do not endure what I endure to be called a fraud or a liar. ‘My father was chosen for a druid’s path and rejected it. He would not have me follow a way he rejected. But trained or not, I am a seeress. I’ve often wished that I’m not!’
He runs his hands through his hair and rubs his face as if he were a weary, frustrated farmer facing a field of spoiled crops. ‘Trista, it’s not that I don’t believe you are speaking the truth as you’ve seen it, but I have to go to the Queen. She is our only chance of success. I have to hope that you are a worse seeress than you are a warrior.’ My eyes stray towards Bethan and his child. I foresaw that. Caratacus follows my gaze and sighs. ‘If you are right, I have not much time. Listen and remember what I tell you so that you can tell my son.’
He wraps himself in his cloak and settles down to tell me his story. He has a druid’s skill and I can see his life unfold in vivid pictures in my mind’s eye: the wealthy heir, the brilliant war leader and the inspirational fighter for freedom. It is good to have other images in my mind besides the one that has haunted me all my life: Caratacus the prisoner. Why have I been so haunted by his image? Was there something else I was supposed to do to save him?