Authors: N. M. Browne
The wolf is some distance ahead of me, finding firm ground with an unerring instinct. I wonder how he does it until I see the shadow of Morcant gesturing to me desperately. The sunlight makes it harder to see his silvery spectre. He is miming something. The ring? The ring! I struggle a little with my belt pouch and my sword. I am terrified of dropping either of these most precious objects into the mud. I fumble clumsily, almost dropping it. My muscles tremble with the after-effects of my flight and with fear too, but it’s all right. I slip Ger’s arm ring up over my wrist and push it as far up my arm as I can. Suddenly I see what Morcant wishes me to: the grey folk guiding our steps, leading the way. I try to run, though my tunic is a hindrance, and once more four legs prove themselves more stable than two. There are two grey creatures in front of me – a fox-headed homunculus and something else that defies description – they are pointing awkwardly with deformed limbs towards firmer ground. That is all very well, but I am caught and the horsemen are coming nearer. I duck down, trying to hide under the reeds and scrubby vegetation, but there is nothing else to see on this flat flood plain but me, the wolf and a few seabirds. The wolf is surprisingly difficult to spot, blending into the sandy mud so that his darker markings look like clumped reeds or shadow. I know that my hair in sunshine is bright enough to be a spearman’s target in this place of muted greys and sandy browns. I try to hide it with my shawl.
I have my sword raised and ready. That is all that I can do. The pounding hoofs are nearer and the men shout to one another. I squat down in the mud so that it reaches up to my shoulders. I keep the sword up and out of the mud so that it looks for all the world like a needle emerging from sackcloth. I stay very still and try to ignore the efforts of the Wild Weird, who are intent on showing me the firm pathway to Morcant, never mind that it is no use to me at this moment, when all that matters is that the horsemen cannot see me well enough to splice me with their spears. They are very near now. A bird hurls itself into the sky so close to me that I’m startled. It is desperately trying to take off in advance of the charging men. I duck, and in the motion my shawl slips from my hair and I know I am seen. A spear flies – a good shot; it lands barely a hand’s breadth away. I am about to get to my feet. I may get a chance at one of them at least, but then I hear the growl of the wolf and the startled shouts of the mounted men. The wolf has abandoned all attempts at camouflage and is running straight for them. He is sure-footed and fast. The horses rear. One man falls and is hauled upright by his desperate comrades who seem to have forgotten their spears and their swords in favour of flight.
I don’t waste the distraction; I know he risked himself for me. I pull the spear from the bog with no little difficulty and then use it as a staff to help me stay on my feet as I wade as quickly as I can towards the firmer ground. I move with such haste that I don’t test the depth of the mud with the spear’s end but simply follow the urging of the grey folk. They are dancing around with great agitation and I take that as a sign that I should hurry.
There is a pathway of sorts, reinforced by stones but so well hidden that anyone unaware of its whereabouts could spend days looking for it. I glance over my shoulder. The wolf has done his job. I am sure the mounted men were unnerved by the sight of a monstrous beast appearing from nowhere in the middle of the day and were startled into flight. I am certain they will regroup and return. We don’t have much time to make our escape. I begin to run or rather squelch along this stone road before the cavalry regroup and return. Morcant is back beside me in twenty long paces and in his mouth he carries a cavalry shield. He drops it at my feet like a hunting dog presenting his kill.
‘Thanks,’ I say, because without him I would have stood little chance. The shield is a cause for gratitude too. It is a little damp and chewed at its leather edges now, but a good thing to have. I sling it over my back by its long, leather strap and keep moving along the narrow causeway. Much to my surprise the causeway continues over the broad river itself. I don’t know what I would do without the grey folk leading me and the wolf following behind so that I can’t turn back. The stones must be pillars sunk into the river’s bed, invisible to the eye, lying just below the surface of the water. Each step is a leap of faith, for it looks as if I will plunge into the depths of this great river. Each time my feet find the safety of a flat rock, I sing my tuneless little song of thanks to the goddess, though I don’t think the wolf is impressed by my musicality. I don’t know what the grey folk think, if indeed they think anything at all.
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.