She is nine years old and holding a spear for the first time. For years she has been pestering her parents to let her train in the courtyard with the other youngsters. Her father has tried to distract her with pony rides and new toys, but Belis will not be bribed. She wants to be a warrior like her mother. Eventually the king threw up his hands and ordered the carpenter to make her a practice spear, blunted at both ends.
On presenting the much-longed-for weapon to Belis, her mother warns her that this is not a toy.
“A spear is not just a weapon, it is a life, a duty. I had it carved from an oak tree that had stood for a hundred years. You must respect that, honour the strength of the oak when you fight. A warrior may wield it in war but must do so with purpose, with truth in their heart. To be a spear maiden is to understand when to stand down as much as when to fight.”
Belis nods, her brow furrowed in concentration. The queen stands before her, her long hair swept up in battle braids, her own spear in hand. She wears practice garments, deerskin leggings and vest, leaving her limbs free to move. She spins on a toe and strikes so hard that the air sizzles.
“I do not speak only of choosing your opponents with care,” Boudica says, twisting the spear above her head. “Any warriorwith a scrap of honour knows not to attack the weak and the sick. I should not have to tell you that.”
She throws the spear and it flies through the air, thudding into the hitching post on the other side of the yard. She turns back to Belis.
“I speak of more cunning things. When to retreat and regroup, when to let an opponent think he has beaten you and concede. When to fight with all the strength and all the blood in your body.”
Belis grins, still clutching her practice spear. The queen smiles at her and suddenly the fierce warrior is gone and her mother is kneeling before her. One hand comes down to tuck back a loose curl.
“I know you will make me proud, little acorn.”
Belis practises for hours, striking, blocking, fighting opponents a year or two older than her. Her mother sits and watches as the weapons master drills her and the other children. Cati, now four summers old, has wandered out into the sunlight and flops to the ground at her mother’s feet.
Belis waves at her little sister and takes a spear butt to the chest. Sprawling in the dirt, she gasps for breath then scrambles back to her feet. She can feel her mother’s eyes on her and she forces herself to calm and reset to the basic defence position, feet in a wide stance, crouched low.
The weapons master is the one who struck her and he looks down approvingly.
“Don’t get distracted, Princess. But if you do take a fall, that’s the way to do it. Straight back on your feet. If you stay on the ground then you’ll never win.”
She nods and moves back towards her fellow trainees. The old warrior watches her go, tugging thoughtfully on his braided moustache.
“She’s got guts, your girl,” she hears him say to the queen. “Lacks a little focus but she’ll get there.”
Boudica doesn’t answer but out of the corner of her eye Belis can see a smile flicker across her face. She feels a swell of courage and pushes forward with renewed vigour.
The yard is filled with the clatter of wood on wood, of grunts and gasps and the occasional stifled sob. Belis feels the fading sun on her back and uses the evening glare to temporarily blind her adversary, knocking them down with a lucky blow.
The other child rolls on the floor and Belis reaches out a hand to help them back up. This is what she is made for, she thinks to herself, not clumsy embroidery or tilling the land. She is a spear maiden, wild and free.
Chapter 5
Vatta led us another half-mile or so through the woods, down through heavily vegetated gullies where even the songbirds fell silent. I had to clutch at the exposed roots of the trees in order not to trip, but Belis had no problems keeping up with Vatta. Both of them bounded down like spring lambs and looked irritated whenever they had to pause and wait for me.
Eventually we halted in a patch of woodland seemingly no different from any other. Belis looked around, clearly confused as to why we had stopped again. Vatta paused to check I had caught up. Then she went up to the nearest tree, an enormous spreading oak, and rummaged in the thick ivy that coated the trunk. She pulled out a rope and tugged on it. A ladder tumbled down from one of the branches above. I looked up, squinting through the leaves. There didn’t seem to be anything there. I could see through the leaves all the way to the chinks of blue sky.
These days my eyes had become significantly less reliable at seeing things that were hidden, so I followed Vatta up the ladder. My second tree climb of the day was less successful than my first. Even with Belis holding the ropes taut on the ground the ladder wriggled underneath my hands and feet and it took me an embarrassingly long time to haul myself up to the branch.
Vatta ended up helping, gripping me under my shouldersand heaving me up the last few rungs until I finally collapsed, frustrated and exhausted, at the top.
When I got my bearings I found that I was sprawled out on neat wooden planks, nailed in a wide circle around the main tree trunk. I took Vatta’s outstretched hand and let her help me to stand. She smiled at me then leaned over to help Belis who was swarming up the ladder behind me as if she did it every day of her life, the show-off. My old body would have leapt up without even the need for the ladder, reaching for a branch and swinging myself up.
I squinted at the tree trunk, trying to see past the glamour. The air shimmered and rippled and suddenly I was staring at a small cottage, built from blocks of creamy limestone and thatched with thick golden straw. It looked as if a giant had picked up a completely ordinary peasant’s house and dumped it in the middle of the tree, with no regard for how it would stay up or whether the tree could bear the weight. That was possible, I supposed, but unlikely. I took a step closer, one hand on the railing, and peered out. Parts of the house seemed to be hanging out over the air. Vatta clapped me on the back.
“Welcome to my home, Mallt Y Nos. It is an honour to host you.”
I smiled back at her. “Yes, it probably is.”
She laughed and stepped towards the whitewashed front door. It swung open before she had even reached out a hand to touch it and the witch disappeared inside. I glanced at Belis and then followed her in. The cottage was artificially stretched out, much larger than I had expected from outside. Even the additional space seemed cramped as it was absolutely packed with things. Piles of vellum scrolls covered in a spidery acorn-ink handwriting littered the floor, drying herbs hung from the rafters, an entire deer skeleton wired together with gleaming copper string stood in front of a wooden bed piled high with blankets. Half-completed knitted scarves were draped from the skeleton’s antlers and a gently turning potter’s wheel spattered clay across the floorboards in the corner of the room.
I skittered backwards on instinct as something on the floor moved towards me, then relaxed as I recognised what it was. A fully grown chicken was pecking at a half-opened scroll. I looked closer and saw more chickens, scratching on the table, nesting in between cushions and on windowsills. Looking out over the entire mess, with all the royal disdain of Gwyn ap Nudd himself, was an enormous ginger cat lounging in the very centre of the kitchen table, flicking his tail and glaring at the intrusion of strangers into what he clearly considered to be his domain.
I picked my way through the chaos and took a seat at the table. Then I stood up again and removed the speckled chicken egg that had been left there. I handed it to Vatta and sat down again. She put it into one of her pockets and beamed at me.
