Page 29 of Boudicca

Gar pushed his way forward, his hand gripping the arm of a man whose wrists were tied behind him. Over dirty leather pants the hostage wore a tunic that was the brown of the fens. Its only embellishment was a design painted with the black dye of walnuts that formed moons and hidden faces—the unmistakable symbols ofthe Catuvellauni tribe, a tribe that had exchanged their freedom to ally with Rome.

I heard the mutters of the tribe as they, too, recognized the symbols on the man’s tunic.

Derwyn moved to stand at my side. As leader of the Druids, it was his responsibility to dispense tribal justice.

“Gar, how did you come to capture this man?” Derwyn asked his Druid.

“You bid me search the fen for someone who did not belong there. Queen Boudicca asked that I search with stealth because the person I sought must be surprised were he to be captured.” Gar jerked his chin in the direction of the captive at his side. “The queen’s words were wise. I knew by his tunic this Catuvellauni did not belong so close to the heart of the Iceni people. Had I not come upon him secretly, he would have escaped into the river, as he surely tried to escape me several times on the way here.”

I met the silent captive’s gaze. He was an older man, probably one who had seen at least forty years. His long hair was a unique shade of bright blond that shined gold. His face was pale and a spot of red burned over each of his cheeks.

“My mother is dead,” I said to the captive without preamble. “My daughters were raped. Our elders were killed by a Roman centuria that surprised us by stealing into our village from the fen with a fog so thick it hid them perfectly.”

Derwyn cocked his head, studying the captive. “How did the Romans, weighted down by armor and weapons, without any knowledge of Iceni lands, find their way through the fen? Why did the sinking sands and sucking mud not swallow them? Why would they even attempt such a thing unless they had a guide to lead them—a guide who knew the Iceni warriors would be at the spring games? Explain that.”

The tribesman remained silent as he stared at a place behind Derwyn.

“I know this man.” Cadoc moved closer, peering at the captive. “Hefeydd, it is you!”

The captive reluctantly met the old warrior’s gaze. “I see you, Cadoc.”

“Shield of the Iceni, how do you know this man?” Derwyn asked.

“Several of us know him, though he was a youth when last we saw him. I only recognize him from the color of his hair and the symbols on his tunic. Hefeydd was the last of the Catuvellauni royalty to foster with us before they whored themselves out to Rome. He is Chief Togodumnus’s nephew. Prasutagus treated him like a son for the years he spent with us.”

Derwyn’s voice was filled with disappointment. “You played in the fen as a youth. That is how you were able to guide the Romans through it. And you knew the Iceni warriors would be visiting the Trinovantes just before Beltane, because that is their tradition.”

Around them the Iceni moved restlessly, like warhorses aching to charge the enemy.

My anger burned hotter. I moved closer to Hefeydd, forcing Cadoc to step aside. I was taller than the Catuvellauni tribesman and looked down my long nose in disgust as I spoke. “So you repaid my husband’s kindness by leading Romans to his door.”

“Prasutagus died three months ago,” Hefeydd said. He looked around me at the high Druid. “Derwyn, I ask that you ransom me to Togodumnus. My uncle will pay to see me safely returned to him.”

Derwyn surprised everyone by ignoring Hefeydd and speaking to me instead. “This man repaid your husband’s hospitality with betrayal. Your back will, for the rest of your life, bear the scars of Rome. It was your daughters who were brutalized, your mother killed, and your elders slaughtered because this man led the Romans through the fen when he knew your warriors would not be here to protect the tribe; therefore, I grant the judgment of Hefeydd, nephew to Togodumnus, chief of the Catuvellauni, to you, Boudicca, queen of the Iceni.”

I watched Hefeydd’s eyes widen in shock and his face lose all color. But he stood straight and met my gaze.

“Boudicca, I say again—ransom me to my uncle. Catuvellauni will pay the Iceni richly,” pleaded Hefeydd.

“Ransom you? As if you were caught stealing cattle? No, Hefeydd.You willnotbe ransomed.” I appeared to turn away from him. Then, with the speed of a well-trained Iceni warrior, I pulled the Roman dagger from my belt and whirled around, slicing through the traitor’s neck. “My judgment is death!”

“Judgment has been meted out!” Derwyn cried, spreading his arms ceremoniously.

Hefeydd gurgled in shock. His blood sprayed strong and thick for one, two, three heartbeats before he fell to his knees and then collapsed.

The Iceni went completely still.

The moment the blood began to pump from his death wound, the full realization of what I had done hit me. My strike had been graceful, lethal, swift, and accurate—everything the master warriors had drilled me to be for the fifteen years I had been married to their chief.

But I hadn’t practiced the emotions that came with taking a life—watching a man’s eyes go dim as his blood soaked the ground.

Killing a man was not like slicing into a straw target. Killing a man, even one who richly deserved it, was a terrible, dark thing that I felt settle heavy and sick in the depths of my spirit.

A wave of nausea crashed over me. My hands and feet went cold. I swayed and might have stumbled, even fallen, but a firm hand took my elbow and lent me strength.

“Courage. You did the right thing,” Rhan whispered. Then she swept her arm dramatically up to point at Derwyn, and in a voice filled with power, she cried, “Behold, Tribe Iceni! Andraste has given sign!”

Silently the tribe stared at the high Druid, whose white robes were spattered with Catuvellauni blood spray—which clearly formed the outline of a scarlet raven in flight.