Chapter Twenty-eight
We are met at the other side by a deputation of two men, heavily armed, and an escort of some twenty spear-wielding warriors. I think the latter are for the wolf’s benefit because I’m sure one muddy girl would not justify such a show of force. I quietly remove the arm ring and slip it back into its pouch. I can’t afford to be distracted here.
There is nothing I can do to look less disreputable. I resist the urge to smooth my hair. I don’t know if Morcant senses my discomfort but the wolf stands very close beside me and seems happy for me to rest my hand once more on his back. I have tied the sword to my belt and wrapped it in my cloak so that it does not cut me. I carry the spear in my right hand, the shield over my shoulder. Whatever I look like I have no doubt that it is not a warrior.
There is a distinct air of unease as I approach the waiting men. They glitter with gold; their thick torques glint in the steely light. Precious stones stud their belts, their fingers, their scabbards, and blue tribal tattoos wind, like ivy, up their arms. Their trews and cloaks are of fine wool, woven into complex patterns and bright as if newly dyed.
‘Who showed you our route across the river?’ It is the taller of the two men who speaks. His accent is unfamiliar, difficult to understand. There are no preliminaries, no introductions, but at least his sword remains sheathed. These people don’t know if we are friends or enemies. When I remember the vast encampment full of our steel-armoured invaders, I sympathise. However, it does not do to be too meek and humble with men such as these – that at least I know.
‘I am Trista, a warrior of the Brigante and a seeress; this is Morcant, a shapeshifter. We were guided across the water by the Wild Weird. We have travelled here because we have a message for Caratacus.’ I speak slowly and clearly, reasoning that the problem of understanding might run in both directions, but I make sure that I show the bravado fitting for a bloodied warrior of a bloody tribe.
There is no response for a moment. I wait. Surely these people are not just another variety of foe? Is it possible that I’ve made a mistake in coming here?
The wind buffets the cloaks of the assembled warriors as if they are sails. It ruffles Morcant’s thick coat. It catches my hair and whips it into my mouth, bringing with it the taste of salt and the scent of fish. Above, seagulls circle, cawing noisily. Here on the river bank no one moves a muscle. No one makes a sound. The silence stretches and I wonder if there was some password I was supposed to know, something else I should have said to have them know me as an ally. I am about to break with all usual etiquette and speak again, but finally the man replies.
‘I saw your little game of cat and mouse with the cavalry over there – was that staged for our benefit?’ His tone is much clearer than his heavily accented words. He is still hostile.
I am gripping my spear so tightly that my knuckles are white. The wolf is as restless as I am and I suspect that he too is deciding who to attack if things do not go as we expect. The wind tries to steal the words away before I’ve even got them out. I have to shout to be heard. I bellow like I’m calling children in from the fields. It isn’t very dignified. ‘No, of course not! I am a tribeswoman and my companion a shapeshifter and both of us have come to lay our talents at the service of a leader worthy of the loyalty of the tribes.’
The second man nods. I can’t hear what he says because he puts his mouth hard against his companion’s ear, but the next moment he gives a hand signal and the spearman surge forward to surround us. The wolf growls.
‘Our men will escort you to Caratacus,’ the tall man says in response. I notice that his hand hovers nervously near his sword and that he does not take his eyes off Morcant.
‘I trust that you will give us a safe passage,’ I say as coolly as my dry mouth allows. ‘The wolf is quick to anger and I’m not slow.’
The spearmen surround us all right, but are careful to keep a healthy distance between the wolf and their own vulnerable hides.
We are marched away from the broad river and along a narrow gully towards the hills beyond. At every stage we are challenged by tribesmen who stare at me and at Morcant as if we are creatures from the other world, which might just about be fair in Morcant’s case but is hardly so in mine. I am beginning to get irritated by their endless scrutiny and it is only the spectral hand of Morcant the man on my flesh and blood arm that keeps me calm.
By the time we reach the peak of the nearest hill the sun has come out and the grey world has turned blue. I have to squint to see the several large timber buildings that have been constructed in something approaching the Roman style. There is also an open-sided building much like the stalls at the vicus outside Morcant’s fort. It is furnished with all the opulence of a King’s hall and is occupied by several people in the rich clothes of the tribal nobility. I am dazzled by the display of wealth. The tall warrior who escorted me here addresses one of them with a bow.
‘Lord, we have brought them,’ he says. I think I see someone who looks a bit like Ger seated by the campfire, but it can’t be him. I left him far away just a day ago. I squint against the now bright sun to get a better look, but then a man stands up, separates himself from the bright melee and walks towards me. All other thoughts fly from my head. He is not naked and in chains, as I have so often seen him in my dreams, he is flamboyantly dressed in tribesman fashion, but it is still unmistakably him. His handsome face is smiling. I’ve never seen him smile. I am afraid that I might collapse with shock. My life has finally caught up with my visions. The man who has haunted them since I was a child stands before me. Does that mean my life is about to end?
He is younger than I thought him, but then when I first dreamed of him I was a little girl and all men seemed old to me then. I sway a little and it is lucky that I can lean on the wolf. The man of my dreams is courteous and courageous. He sees my difficulty and comes to assist me. Bowing to the wolf, he guides me to a fur-covered couch. He pours cool water into a silver goblet and hands it to me. I avoid making contact with his elegant hands. I am confused. Am I a prisoner or not?
In my mind’s eye I get a flash of those other times I’ve seen him – naked and in chains walking through a city made of stone, a Roman city I am sure, perhaps even Rome itself.
I’ve seen him stripped, whipped and humiliated, weeping, gritting his teeth against pain, but I’ve never seen him like this.
‘Lady, are you well?’ His voice is soft and though his accent is not mine, I have no trouble in understanding him. His face is as familiar to me as my lost brothers’ and it is strange that he doesn’t know me at all. I try to smile, but I fear that the effect is less than friendly.
‘I am well, thank you. I did not expect to see you here, that’s all.’
He frowns, ‘Forgive me if we have met before, but the occasion escapes me.’ I shake my head.
‘I am sorry. It’s hard to explain.’ I take a sip from the goblet.
Although the man is friendly, our escort still waits, surrounding the wolf. All around us are armed warriors alert and ready for violence. I steady myself and try to behave with the gravitas of a visionary.
‘I am a warrior and seeress of the Brigante. I have seen you in my visions since I was a child.’
He looks at me curiously. I feel stupid. He is so finely dressed that he is obviously a man of great importance and I ought to know who he is. It takes a moment and then the realisation comes. This, the man of my dreams, is the man everyone has been talking about: Caratacus of the Catuvellauni, the leader of the Keltic rebels. He looks like a leader. His blue eyes are very piercing. He is undoubtedly the best-looking tribesman I’ve ever seen. I remember my childhood belief that he was to be my husband and become hotter and more uncomfortable still. He pats my arm in a gesture somewhere between a comradely embrace and avuncular reassurance. I see him bloodied, naked and in chains, and the vision image is as real as the flesh and blood image before me. I sway and might have fallen were I not already safely seated.
‘I have a message, sir, from a lady. She asked me to give you this.’
I grapple inelegantly for the pouch at my waist, conscious of the many eyes upon me and of the silver shadow of Morcant staring at me with a most disgruntled expression.
‘Ah. You are also a rebel fighter then?’ I wonder if he is laughing at me. I’m sure I’ve never looked less like a fighter.
‘I am a warrior, sir,’ I say with pride of my own. ‘I fight whoever tries to hurt me and mine.’ I sit up straighter and feel a fool.
He reaches over and touches my hand. ‘My dear, I was not taunting you. I see by your hands that you are used to the sword at your waist and your fierce eyes mark you as a fighter. I am anxious only that your commitment to our cause be properly recognised.’ The armed men around me do not stand down and I am not reassured.
He takes some time to study the now damp bark on which Cassie scratched the marks of which she was so proud. When he speaks, it is to the other men and women assembled round him.
‘The Queen’s consort, Venutius, may have been too optimistic. If this missive is true, it seems that Cartimandua, our Queen of the Brigante, is still paying her Roman dues. If she is to join us, I don’t think it will be yet.’ He sighs. ‘She is a wily politician as likely to do one thing and say another as any man I’ve met but we will have to proceed without her, for now at least.’
There is much murmuring at that, but I can’t catch any of the words. It seems clear to me that this news is a blow to him and perhaps to the others assembled there. I seem to have stumbled upon a council of war. I never thought that this message, that was so precious to Cassie, would matter at all to anyone else. I only delivered it out of duty. I revise my estimation of Cassie yet again. It seems that she is not only a spy but a useful one.
He turns his attention towards me again. ‘We are grateful to you for carrying this news, however unwelcome to us. Ger had prepared us for the arrival of a great seer, but I see you are more than that.’
I look towards the fireside. It is Ger! He greets me with a shy, gap-toothed smile.
‘There is a great army gathering against us. If we can defeat it before it reaches our holiest lands, then we may yet preserve our heritage. You at least have arrived in time for the fun.’ He sounds grim and the effect of his words is not much softened by his smile. I know little of tribal politics, but even I understand that my Queen commands numberless warriors and, with her support, Caratacus could expect an army of ferocious, well-trained Brigante fighters to swell his ranks. I know that he doesn’t think he can win the battle that is certainly coming without them, or rather us, for I should by rights be part of that Brigante army. I fear that he cannot win it either, for what victor travels to the stronghold of his enemies in chains?
‘Sir, there is more.’ Finally he waves my armed escort away and I tell him of the encampment I have seen. He sends slaves to bring a tray of flat damp sand and a narrow golden dagger which I use to mark the layout of the camp. I smooth it away and try to shape the sand into the form of the landscape around the camp.
Ger looks grave. ‘Our seeress here estimates the numbers of legionaries at around twenty thousand – which fits with our other intelligence.’
‘We’d better get a move on with the fortifications then.’ I don’t know who speaks but it is a woman’s voice and after that I lose track. Perhaps it is exhaustion, perhaps it is the gods’ revenge for my days of freedom from my visions, but suddenly I am beset by them: Caratacus in chains again, Morcant the man, a white corpse, the Parisi pedlar burning and screaming, Ger’s druid on fire, and everywhere in every vision now the grey folk are there, watching.