Dreaming the Bull (29 page)

“It’s clear that, without Venutios, the salmon-trap in the mountains failed. Caradoc and the warriors of the tribes fought with outstanding courage and left behind them eight or nine dead of the enemy for each one of their own, but the smashing fist of the trap could not close and when Caradoc realized they had been betrayed, he ordered the tribes to leave the field. Better to live and fight on than die in a hopeless cause.”

“It is always so. He had arranged it beforehand.”

“Yes. Venutios knew it, and so Cartimandua knew it too, through her spy. She alone knew both sides; the setting of the salmon-trap and that it would fail. She sent Vellocatus so that he would come upon Caradoc as if by happy chance just as he was leaving the battlefield to join the warriors of Mona and the spear-leaders of the other guards. He told him…” He slowed and drank again, gathering himself. This time his gaze rose to Breaca’s face, but not her eyes. “He told him that the Boudica was in danger, that Cartimandua had lured you north with a tale of Caradoc’s capture, but that you were travelling slowly for the sake of
the babe and that if they—Caradoc and Vellocatus—rode swiftly, with little encumbrance and only a few of the honour guard for company, he might overtake you before you reached the strongholds of the north. He went. How could he not?”

Breaca said, “That’s madness. I wouldn’t go north, and even if I did, I wouldn’t take Graine. Why would Caradoc believe it?”

“Because they told him you were in danger and that you had gone believing the same of him. And because the message was given by Vellocatus, whom he trusted, and who had brought with him, as evidence of good faith, the salmon carved in blue stone that is the mark of Venutios.”

“Taken by force.”

“Of course, but he couldn’t know that.”

Airmid said, “He wouldn’t ask. His only care would be for Breaca and Graine. It is his weakness and they know it. As Caradoc is ours.” The dreamer sat in the shadows beyond reach of the fire. The stream ran behind her, a liquid song in the night. For nearly twenty years, she had lived and dreamed here, and when she spoke in this place the god spoke with her, changing the air. Speaking thus, she asked, “Lythas, what symbol do you bring as proof of your good faith?”

Freed from the burden of the message, the messenger had relaxed. One could see more clearly the man in him, through the frightened youth. He was older than he had first seemed. “I have brought no token. There was none left of any worth beyond Venutios’ word and mine that what I have said is the truth.”

He leaned towards Breaca, his face flushed. His smile,
and the margin of hope it offered her, were worth more than any ring or brooch and he knew it.

“Caradoc is held alone and well guarded,” he said. “It would not be possible to rescue him with an army. The Fourteenth are waiting for just such an attack. It would be suicide for the warriors and Caradoc would die before they ever came close to him. But a small group, perhaps the Boudica and one or two of Ardacos’ bear-warriors, might be able to reach him. If not that, I believe—and this does not come from Venutios but from me alone—that there is still time to talk to Cartimandua. She is a mother and she has protected Venutios from Rome though she loathes him and he her. She would understand a plea from the Boudica as a mother and a lover. For that, she might return Caradoc to you alive.”

Breaca said, “Rome would never allow it.”

Lythas shrugged. “Rome hasn’t got the power to stop it. The legions travel slowly and against resistance—Gwyddhien’s falcons and Ardacos’ she-bears harry them as they march so they must build secure camps at night and cannot move faster than the slowest legionaries for fear that the rear of the column will be cut off and destroyed. If we were to ride fast in a small group, we could still reach Cartimandua days ahead of Scapula.”

“But why would she agree to let Caradoc go? She hates him. He refused her a child and she has never forgiven him. For that alone, she’ll see him crucified and be glad of it.”

“Possibly, but she is less influenced by her own petty jealousies than she was and more aware of the pressures of rulership. She commands more spears than any other from the east coast to the west and that has its cost. If they revolt,
she’s lost. Moreover, she has to contend with the northern Brigantes who are oath-sworn to Venutios. They number thousands and are close to rebellion. To free Caradoc now would raise her standing with them, possibly enough to prevent an uprising. It would not harm her in the eyes of Rome. She’s already saved them once from defeat; they can’t reasonably ask more.”

In entirely her own voice, Airmid murmured, “And, of course, Rome only ever asks what is reasonable.”

Reaching into the back of the house, the dreamer brought forward three torches. One by one, she lit them from the fire. Dark became light and the scents of pine resin, herbs and tallow sharpened and became stronger, clearing the air, banishing the last traces of fear and desperation. Lythas caught Breaca’s eye and smiled again, a willing if weary conspirator. Across the fire, an agreement was in the making: he would return to find Caradoc and she with him. It only remained to convince Airmid and the other dreamers of the wisdom of it.

Airmid’s shadow fell between them, breaking the moment. She said, “Lythas, you have done all that was asked of you and more. If you are to guide us back to find Caradoc, we should leave you now to eat and rest and find strength for the journey. If you wait, Maroc will bring what is needed.”

He smiled gladly. “Thank you.”

Breaca stood, raised by relief. Where she had expected argument, there was the beginning of a plan. She would go north, there was no doubt of that; the only question was who could safely accompany her. “We can’t take Graine,” she said, voicing her first thought. “We’ll need to find a wet-nurse, someone who can care for her properly.”

Airmid said, “There is Sorcha, the ferrywoman. Her
newest son is near weaning and her milk flows now as freely as it did when he was born. She would have Graine gladly and care for her as her own. Maroc and Luain mac Calma will take care of her other needs and her safety. Neither one would let her come to harm in our absence.”
Because our absence may be permanent. If we go, we may never come back. And we will go, both of us together, because we must.
“Will you come outside with me? If we’re going to leave by dawn, there are things we must do.”

They stepped out of the house of stone and earth into a world filled with dreamers. Luain mac Calma was there, who could have ruled Hibernia and chose instead the guardianship of Mona. With him was Maroc, the Elder, who had once been to Rome to see the enemy close at hand. They stood on either side of the door, naked to the waist as if for the slaughter of bullocks or swine. Each bore a hook-bladed knife with the back edge honed to razor sharpness. Behind them, two of the younger apprentices held ropes of twisted hide. Airmid nodded as the door-skin fell behind her. Maroc pushed it open and entered, smiling.

Breaca spun and was held fast. “Airmid? What is this?”

“He’s lying. It’s a trap. They mean to take you as they have taken Caradoc.” Airmid spoke in the voice not of the god, but of absolute certainty.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because that’s what I’m for, to be sure of these things. If you know how to look it’s clear. He’s well trained, but not well enough. If I were to guess, I would say Heffydd has had him for a while. He’s the only dreamer trained on Mona who would turn our knowledge against us. If you think back to when we first met the ferry, you will remember that Lythas
was happy to meet your eye, but he would not meet mine, except right at the beginning when he was still in the boat and did not know who I was. You saw the fear that came straight afterwards but thought it was for you and the pain he brought, as he meant you to. He’s a clever man and not lacking in courage, but he is Cartimandua’s to the deepest part of his soul. If you go to her and plead for Caradoc’s life, she will give both of you to Rome.”

“You knew this from the start?”

“Yes. It’s why I didn’t bring him food. If he had eaten with us, the guest laws would have made it harder to do what we must.”

Dawn was near. In the impoverished light, Breaca looked into the eyes of the woman she had known for all her lifetime and did not recognize the dark in the soul who looked back. The bleakness of it shocked her. Such a look belonged on the battlefield, late in the day after the first fire of battle-rage had waned. It is a thing shared by those of both sides who have survived, who have killed and will go on killing, who have maimed and will maim again, who have seen enemy and friends die fast, or slowly, and are resigned to the same end. To Breaca’s certain knowledge, Airmid had been in battle only once, and the fact that she had lived through it at all was thanks to good fortune and the protection of the gods, not the dreamer’s skill with sword and shield. Combat was not her strength; healing, not death, was her province.

From the hut came the sound of a struggle and a breathless scream.

Breaca tried again to reach the door. “Let me do this,” she said. “It’s not your work.”

Airmid would not let her pass. “More my work than
yours. The herb-smoke from the torches does half the job and you couldn’t stay in there for much longer. It was already affecting your judgement. And what we do here is not killing in war. You haven’t ever slain a warrior when the battle-heat wasn’t on you, and this is not a good time to start. You would carry the guilt and it would weaken you when we most need you whole for the ride north and whatever comes after. Go to Sorcha and tell her what Graine needs to be safe and happy. Whatever else must be done we will know by the time you return.”

“Then we’re still going north?”

“Yes, I believe so. Caradoc has been captured, that much would seem to be true, although I think it may be more recent than Lythas would have us believe. But the message was not sent by Venutios. What we must find is how best to get to him, knowing that Cartimandua expects us.”

“And what of Lythas afterwards? What will we do with him?”

Airmid shook her head. “There will be no Lythas afterwards. The carrion beasts will have what remains.”

Sorcha was awake in her cabin near the shore, feeding her son. Big and broad-boned, she lived for the sea. Her mother was Belgic, an escaped slave; her father the Hibernian seamaster who had given the woman both reason and means to abandon the home she had known for two decades. All of their seven children had been born at sea and six of them sailed it still. Sorcha was the youngest. Her choice to settle on land came late and for much the same reason as her mother had taken to the sea. Her man was a warrior and had died in a skirmish in the early summer. In his absence, she
raised their three children in the company of the few others who were born and raised on Mona, and she manned the ferry across the straits as she had done every year since the legions’ invasion.

She met Breaca’s request to act as Graine’s wet-nurse with the same willingness with which she sailed. Motherhood came easily and she was already regretting the growing up of her infant. More deeply, she knew what it was to lose the light of her soul to the enemy, what it did to head and heart. She stood with her back to a wall, rocking her child in one arm, studying Breaca in much the same way as she studied the swell of the sea.

“Are you the right one to go for your man?” she asked. “If you see him, you’ll not hold back. If it’s both of you they want, that’s the way they’ll get you, using him.”

Breaca said, “Airmid will come. She won’t be so readily blinded.”

“No?” Sorcha’s hair was copper, her brows a shade paler, almost lost in the sun-worn freckles of her skin. She raised one of them now. “Unless they take you. Then I’d say she’ll be worse.”

“Maybe.” It was always there, hanging over everything. One took risks, daily, of death, captivity, torture, and prepared in heart and mind as much as one could. One could not do the same for the equal risks to those one loved; no such preparation was possible. Breaca thought of Caradoc and his last words on parting.
I love you, never forget. For your freedom and that of our children, I will do anything and everything, to the ends of the earth.
Her heart lay shattered in the cage of her chest and words did not mend it.

The cabin was built of green oak, pitted with knots. For
a sharp, haunted mind that sought the patterns in everything, the whorls moved and resolved into bears and blades and crucified men. Breaca stared at the shifting shapes, lost in a past that was irretrievable and a future that could not be known.

Sorcha’s child fell asleep at the breast. With unhurried competence, the ferrywoman wrapped her son in a lambskin and laid him on the bracken in the high-sided bed with his siblings. A signal bell rang faintly, chiming over the murmur of mother and children: the request from the mainland for the ferry. Sorcha raised a patch of blue-stained calf hide and looked through the peephole thus uncovered, which gave a direct view of the jetties at both sides of the strait. Pulling on a rope, she raised a signal that could be seen on the far side.

“That’s Ardacos. He’s there now with his bear-warriors. If he’s come this far, Gwyddhien and Braint won’t be far behind.” She turned back into the room, her jaw set bluntly. “So that’s five of you going, and not one whole if another is lost.”

“No.” Breaca took her turn at the peephole. With her eye to the knot, she said, “Love isn’t always a weakness.”

She believed it. First and last, more than care of the land or the gods or the desperate need not to see a people made slaves and lackeys to Rome, it was love that bound the inner circle that made her life whole. Ardacos had been her lover in the years before Caradoc and Airmid had been her first love, long before him. Ardacos was Braint’s lover now as Gwyddhien was Airmid’s and all four were sworn to the Boudica, to protect and to serve until death and beyond. The mesh and weave of given hearts was impossible to unravel, nor would any of them wish to try. Only a stranger
would not be pulled into it and no stranger could ever be trusted with what came ahead.