42
It was All Hallows’ Eve. When they turned at last up the long road towards the high king’s palace in the land of the Silures, the small party of travellers were exhausted. There were fewer men in their escort now, having left the injured behind, and the wagon with the mended wheel had been abandoned, all their remaining belongings piled in the one vehicle, which also carried Valeria and Julia and the younger children. The others walked or rode. They had acquired two ponies for the girls, and an extra packhorse. Elen was uneasy. She and Junius Secundus both suspected they were being followed, though there was no sign of anyone even on the straighter stretches of road where they could see for long distances. If there was anyone behind them, they were keeping well out of sight.
They made their way slowly through the village, along the track past the watermill and up towards the palace gates, which hung open and unguarded. High above them on the topof Bryndinas the oppidum was silent, though there were traces ofwoodsmoke rising above the houses and there was a smell of roasting meat hanging faintly in the air.
The palace with its architrave and pillars, its red roof tiles and its neatly fenced paddocks, had gone, leaving ruined -crumbling walls and deserted courtyards smelling even now of burnt plaster and charred wood. Elen drew to a halt with a barely restrained sob of pain. They all fell silent, staring round the desolate scene.
‘We have to rebuild it,’ Elen said at last, her voice breaking. ‘I will not let these pirates win.’
The only sound she recognised, apart from the lonely cry of a buzzard circling high above the oppidum, was the cheerful trickle of water. She slid off her mare and walked slowly towards the sound, picking her way through the wreckage of the place that had once been her home.
The fountain was still intact at the far end of what had once been an enclosed garden. The bench where she had so often sat was still there, and the stone basin. The basin was clogged with debris, but the jet of water spouted high and triumphantly into the air, fed by the stream from the steep hillside, in spate now after all the rain. She stood staring at it, trying to restrain her tears.
‘It was so beautiful.’ The soft voice behind her startled her.
‘Branwen?’ She turned and after a moment’s hesitation put her arms around her friend.
‘I knew you would be here soon.’ Branwen gave her a gentle smile. ‘I’ve been waiting. Your stepson told me you had landed and were insisting on travelling back to your father’s palace. Then, the commander of your escort sent him a message saying he needed more men because the roads were so dangerous.’ She reached out for Elen’s hand. ‘It is time to leave this sad place and resume your duties.’
‘I have no duties. Only to bring my children to safety.’ Elen sighed. ‘I know now the palace is truly gone but I needed to see for myself. So, I suppose all that is left for me is to go to my father or to Conan.’
She did not notice how Branwen narrowed her eyes. ‘And wait for them to tell you what to do?’ The woman sounded incredulous.
That made Elen smile at last. ‘What else is there for the widow of a disgraced and disinherited family? We were sent away with nothing but the clothes we stood up in.’
‘And your lives!’ Branwen retorted.
And the Virgin’s precious little bowl . The words echoed silently in Elen’s head.
She should have known Branwen would pick them up. ‘What bowl?’
‘Something very special, given to me by Macsen’s mother. She meant it for him’– or did she? She tried to remember what Flavia had said. No, she had suspected that it would never reach Macsen as she pressed it into Elen’s hands.
... this is for you, to use as you see fit, my dear. A gift freely given should be as freely accepted .
Elen sighed again. Her hand went to her throat where she still wore the gold chain with its tiny key. No doubt the robbers had found the box, forced it open and, seeing nothing but the unassuming clay dish, thrown it away in disappointment.
‘It was a little bowl, very precious, used by the mother of our Lord Jesus to catch drops of his blood as he hung dying on the Roman cross. It would mean nothing to a robber. It has no value in itself. It was made of clay.’
Branwen shivered.
Elen stood deep in thought for several moments, trying to put the sad memories out of her mind. She had to pull herself together, assume her place at the head of her weary band of followers and decide where, after her visit to her birthplace, she was going to go. Branwen was right. If she went to her father he would once more feel entitled to tell her what to do. He might even arrange another marriage for her to cement some future alliance. And she had no desire to go to Conan, especially if he was now based in Armorica. Besides which, it would put her and her children in danger if she crossed back across the sea to the mainland of the empire. At least in Britannia she thought she would be safe. Theodosius had made it clear that a province at the furthest reaches of the empire was the least of his worries.
She glanced at her companion. It was only then she realised that Branwen was standing immobile, her eyes closed. She seemed far away.
* * *
The rain had been drumming on the rough roof of the shelter where the robbers had surveyed their pickings after the robbery. Their leader was disgusted at the haul, which mostly consisted of women’s clothes. There was no jewellery. No money. A bundle of blankets. He looked round in fury. ‘Who brought the blankets?’
The man who had grabbed the bundle raised a hand half-heartedly. He was nursing a wounded elbow. ‘You fool!’ his leader roared at him. ‘Out of a whole wagonload of treasure you bring me blankets!’ He lashed out at his hapless follower. He surveyed the pile of belongings tipped out onto the muddy floor of the hut. ‘These at least are better quality. They have some value if we can sell them. And this is silk.’ He dived for the shawl at the bottom of one of the heaps of clothing and, grabbing it from the pile, he shook it out. A small box fell on the floor at his feet.
He gave an ugly grin. ‘Well, maybe after all I will spare your miserable life.’ He picked up the box and, sticking a filthy fingernail under the rim of the lid, he tried to open it. It resisted. He was aware that the group of men around him had fallen silent. They were all watching. He rattled the box. Nothing. With a snarl he reached for the dagger from his belt and, inserting the blade, he threw his whole weight onto the hilt. The blade snapped and the dagger fell to the ground. With a yell of frustration he threw the box down. ‘Leave it,’ he shouted. ‘It’s of no value. Go back. We’ll follow them.’
He heard the sharp intake of breath from the man nearest him and then a sharp yelp of fear from another standing near the entrance to the shack and he glanced up. They were both staring at the doorway.
A woman had appeared. She was tall, swathed in a black cloak and she was watching them through narrowed eyes. He bared his teeth as she moved closer.
Was this gift freely given?
He wasn’t sure where the voice came from. She hadn’t seemed to move her lips. She stretched out her hand and drifted closer.
‘Get that woman out of here!’ The outraged man stepped back. He reached for the heavy wooden club that someone had dropped beside him in the mud as they scrambled to reach the stolen clothing. He swung the club back and forth a couple of times and then took a firmer grip, slapping it gently against the palm of his free hand. ‘One step closer and I take this to your head, hussy!’ he said softly.
The woman smiled. ‘Give me the box,’ she said, ‘and I willgo.’
He kicked it sharply as it lay at his feet. ‘Come and get it.’ He tapped his free hand with the club again. He was aware that the men around him were moving back, pressed against the rough walls of the hut. ‘I said, come and get it!’ he shouted. ‘You,’ he glanced across at the man who had brought the bundle in, ‘you pick it up.’
The man stooped obediently and lifted it out of the mud, the broken dagger blade falling at his feet. He brushed some of the mud off it almost tenderly, wincing at the pain from his elbow as he moved. Blood from the reopened wound was beginning to drip through his tattered sleeve as he glanced from his leader towards the door and then back again.
‘That needs to go back to its owner.’ The woman’s tone was relentless. ‘Now.’
‘Throw her out, someone,’ the enraged man called. ‘Or skewer her, if you prefer. With sword or cock’– he gave a suggestive laugh– ‘I don’t mind which as long as she is out of my sight before I count to two.’
The woman seemed unable to resist a smile. ‘So, at least you can count to two! An educated man, no less. You’– her glance flicked sideways to the wounded man holding the box– ‘go now. The box will show you the way. Take it to the woman from whom you stole it. Don’t come back here. There is honest work out there for honest men.’
For a moment everyone in the shack seemed to hold their breath, then the man turned and fled out of the door, the box clutched against his chest.
The woman waited until the sound of his running footsteps died away then she turned back to the others. ‘I advise you all to leave. This man is no leader,’ she said, her voice weighted with scorn. Then, before their astonished eyes, she faded from sight, one moment there, her long cloak dragging in the mud of the shack, the next a shadow against the light, and moments later gone. No one moved.
‘Well, go after him. Get that box back,’ the hoarse whisper rang out in the silence, ‘and then we’ll find out where those women went. There will be more pickings where that came from.’
In the shadows of the ruined palace the robbers, all but three, had crept close, hidden in the enclosing trees and bushes, before racing through the crumbling walls and columns, -brandishing their knives and clubs, letting out wild yells of fury. But they had misjudged the situation. Elen’s escort, though quiet and seemingly relaxed, were still armed and, unsettled by the strange atmosphere of the ruins, they had been alert to the possibility that someone had been following them. There were a few minutes of close fierce fighting before the robbers turned and ran.
On Branwen’s orders they brought warm water for Elen to wash in, and clean clothes from their headman’s wife’s own clothes box. Safe under the headman’s roof up in the oppidum on Bryndinas, she and Valeria and Julia joined him and his household for an evening meal. It was while they were enjoying a final course of honeyed cream and fruit that Branwen came in and tiptoed towards the table. She was dressed now in a modest tunic of the palest blue with a checked shawl around her shoulders and came to a standstill behind Elen. ‘Please, come outside. There is someone there to see you.’
Elen stood up. ‘What is it, Branwen? Who—’
Branwen smiled. ‘It is someone you will want to see.’ Elen made for the doorway, followed by everyone else who had been seated round the table. In the separate kitchen building behind the main hall, the servants and cooks were all standing in a group behind the worktable.
Three men stood in the doorway which led out into the muddy street between the township’s houses. The man at thefront of the trio was visibly shaking as Branwen appeared, -followed by Elen and her companions. He had eyes only for Branwen, Elen noticed, and they were terrified.
Branwen moved a few steps towards him. ‘This is our queen. You may return the box to her own hands.’
The man glanced around, almost paralysed with fear, then he stepped forward and held out the box to Branwen. She stepped back sharply. ‘I said give it to the queen.’
Elen stared at her and then at the box. Her missing box. The box that contained the clay dish. She stepped forward and held out her hands. The man thrust the box at her. ‘I’m sorry I stole it,’ he mumbled. ‘We’ve brought all your things back. We weren’t part of the attack earlier. We followed behind them to give these back.’ He gestured behind him at the two other men who appeared to be carrying various bundles tied up in blankets. They threw them down in the doorway, ducked outside, then all three turned and fled.
‘I’ll call someone to go after them,’ the headman said after a moment of stunned silence.
‘No. Leave them,’ Elen found her voice at last. ‘They brought our things back. That is enough.’ She looked round at the assembled men and women. ‘What a dramatic end to our evening. I’m not sure what made them change their minds, but I am very thankful that they did.’ She was clutching the box against her heart.
Later on when she and Branwen were alone she reached for the key around her neck. She had sent the servants away and Valeria and Julia had retired to bed. Elen looked at her companion with a shrewd smile. ‘So, how did you do it?’
Branwen shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I saw you. When I first told you about this box, you went away in your head. I spoke to you several times and you didn’t hear me. Somehow you went back to find them.’
‘Maybe.’ Branwen’s reply was deliberately vague.. ‘Maybe you did it yourself.’
And with that Elen had to be content. ‘So, are you interested to see what is in here?’
Branwen shook her head. ‘That magic is not for me. I will leave you to pray to your god and I will give thanks to mine.’
Elen nodded. ‘You called me queen.’ Theodosius too had told her she could call herself a queen. She shuddered.
‘You are no longer an empress.’
‘No, but I have never been a queen.’
Branwen grinned. ‘I think you will find that you are now. You have only to go and find your realm.’
Elen waited until the woman had left the room and then she inserted the key into the lock. The box had been badly marked and scored by the robber’s dagger, but the lock turned smoothly and the lid lifted with ease. Inside the lambswool had protected the precious dish and it lay in its bed completely unharmed. She didn’t touch it. She just looked at it for a long time then she carefully closed the lid and relocked it. Branwen was right. She needed to pray.
Outside in the heavy rain three men huddled together beyond the oppidum gates, under the trees on the edge of the steep hillside. Below them the track plunged back towards the burnt-out ruins. Only two of the gang had followed Branwen’s advice and, grabbing a bundle each from the pile of looted belongings on the floor of the shack, had fled out into the darkness after their companion. Are we going back to him?’ one of them said. They all knew who he meant. Their leader and his surviving followers had fled from the fighting in the ruins but they were probably still out there somewhere.
‘I don’t think so,’ the wounded man said, his teeth still gritted against the pain in his arm. ‘He will kill us.’
‘So, where shall we go?’
‘Like that woman said, we could find work, honest work. I vote we head back east, towards Londinium. There are bound to be jobs there. I used to be a craftsman once, till that bastard lured me away with promises of rich pickings on the roads.’
‘And I had finished my apprenticeship, but the man who had taught me died,’ said the other, ‘and I had no place anywhere else.’
The third man looked down at his feet. ‘I was a slave. My master gave me my freedom but I didn’t know where to go.’
‘Right. Then Londinium it is. We can easily give those -bastards the slip. They won’t hang around long knowing there’s a pack of fearsome natives after them.’ He glanced over his shoulder up towards the fort. ‘Are we all agreed?’
It was only as they set off down the steep hillside that the wounded man realised his arm had stopped hurting. He paused and rolled back his sleeve. The wound had miraculously healed.