She hesitated as if she wanted to say more but there was a rumble behind us and I sat up. Arawn was standing behind us, looking out at the newly ploughed field.
“You sowed the seeds?” he asked. Belis scrambled to her feet and nodded. He let out a long breath. “We will wait until morning to be sure, but this is a good omen. Mortal blood, living blood, may be able to help us turn the tide. Sleep here tonight and I will think on what to do next.”
I held out my tattered hands to him.
“And these? What do you expect me to do? Can you heal them?”
He glanced at the bloody fragments of my skin.
“Injuries heal fast here. Yours may be slower than one of the dead but they should be scarred over by sunrise.”
I scowled but Arawn ignored me, turning on his heel and vanishing with the same rumble that had announced his arrival.
“And some dinner would have been nice!” I yelled at the empty air.
Belis Before
4
She is nineteen years old and her father is dying. Her sister clutches at her arm, fingers tight on the muscles of her biceps. Before them the king’s breath is slow and ragged, each inhalation painful, each exhalation perilously close to a death rattle. Her mother stands at his bedside embroidering a woollen blanket with long nimble fingers. There is grey at the corner of her temples and starred through her long red braids, grey in her face, but she is holding the court, holding this family together with the calm, neat stitches.
At her father’s left hand a scribe is writing down a letter, smoothing the king’s half-gasped words into an eloquent missive to the Roman emperor. Belis sits there silently as half her kingdom is written onto a thin curl of parchment in acorn-inked Latin. Each scratch of the quill she feels as a lash on her back, but it is the only way to hold onto what remains of her world. The representatives from Londinium have assured the king that the will is a formality. It will bring the Iceni under the cloak of Rome, sheltering them beneath the Eagle’s wings. Belis thinks the Romans less eagles than wolves, slavering at the gate, picking off the weak and the sick. She tells herself that they are not weak, that her mother can hold the line.
The scribe is finished. He reaches for a tin of sand to scatter over the damp ink. When he is satisfied he raises the letter to herfather and the dying king grasps the quill with hands ravaged by the killing thing and makes his mark.
She wants to let out a long sigh but she holds it in. This is not about her, she tells herself. Even though this letter will dictate the rest of her life, this moment is not about her. At her father’s deathbed she is a bit player in the drama of kings and emperors.
Her father sags back against the pillows and blankets and her mother reaches out to stroke his hand.
“It will be all right, beloved, this is for the best. The Romans keep their word.”
Her mother’s voice is strong and her father manages half a smile, twitching his fingers to lace with hers.
The scribe takes back the letter and rolls it up, slotting it into a leather tube. He hands it to a messenger and the two of them leave the room.
The king looks over at her and she knows he wants her to approach. She hurries forward, kneeling beside the bed. She feels useless and ungainly; the muscles she has worked for on the training ground, the strength she is so proud of is worthless here. She can fight any man on the island and win but she cannot save her father’s life.
Cati sits beside her and their father grimaces in what she thinks is a smile.
“Little Cati,” he gasps. “My precious second girl. So funny, so gentle. Don’t let the world burn the heart out of you.”
Her sister is crying properly now, tears pouring down her cheeks. She leans forward and kisses his hand.
“Don’t be too sad,” her father manages to say. “There’s a world of peace and plenty waiting for me. You just look after yourself, Wildcati girl.”
Her sister shuffles back and her father’s eyes flick to Belis.
“Now, my firstborn, my battle cry, my warrior girl. You have your mother’s strength, my dear; some day you will make a fine queen. I know you will make me proud.”
Belis nods, blinded by sudden tears. She moves to press her lips to her father’s cold fingers, noticing how thin they are,with none of the strength that had tossed her into the air as a child.
She sits back down and her father looks at his wife.
“Beloved,” he whispers. He doesn’t say anything else, just holds her gaze. Belis sits with her family and waits for death.
Chapter 10
We snatched a little sleep, dozing off here and there into an unconsciousness plagued by vividly colourful dreams. I finally flinched awake just before dawn. Belis was already up and checking her pack. I could feel the nervous energy rolling off her.
