The Eagle and the Raven by Pauline Gedge Page A

he marched against Dubnovellaunus. Oh, his hospitality is unimpeachable. He would have feasted Subidasto, and enquired as to the health of all his tuath, but Subidasto would have met with an accident on the long ride home, and Boudicca would have settled here and been happy.”
    Caradoc’s glance slipped to the fire again and he did not reply. Any chieftain would have done the same. Why, then, did this Bran make him feel so dirty?
    “Perhaps you are not aware, Caradoc, how much your father is hated and feared outside his own territory. I travel all the time, I carry news and messages, and I know what other chieftains say.”
    Caradoc looked up sharply. “He does not care, and neither do I. Why should we? Is there any ricon who is greater than Cunobelin?”
    “There is Tiberius,” Bran reminded him gently.
    “I do not understand,” Caradoc replied curtly, and Bran shook his hands free of his robe and put them together, rubbing one small palm against the other. Caradoc’s eyes were drawn to them, those hands, cruel and capable, like the talons of a falcon.
    “I think you should begin to care,” Bran said softly. “You members of the House Catuvellaun are ringed with enemies, but you cannot see beyond your meager dreams of conquest and aggrandizement. Do you really think that Julius Caesar was beaten back by Cassivellaunus? I tell you that the weather defeated him, the weather and the tides of the sea. And Rome does not forget. You and your father are living in a fool’s dream world.”
    Caradoc began to tremble. He could not help himself. It was not Bran’s words but the tone of his voice that played on old and long-forgotten scars, older than the lad himself. “Sir, are you a seer?” he cried out.
    Bran threw back his head and laughed. “No, Caradoc, no, not I. I am of a different order. I read the stars, but not to tell the future, only to discover the hidden secrets of the universe. I sniff the wind of men’s words, and so divine the trends of the tribes and the slow washing of the tides of history. Do not fear me. Yet, Caradoc, I am wiser than you and your crafty old father. Count your days of gay ignorance. They are not to last.”
    Caradoc rose. “Now I know you for what you are!” he said unsteadily. “Of course! It is just as the traders say. You and your fellows wander abroad, inciting hatred in the people against Rome because you suffered under Roman hands, and you always find a willing ear and stir up men’s fears of slavery.” He walked to the doorskin, holding them back with one white-knuckled hand. “Please leave. Tomorrow men will begin to wonder what the magic-maker was doing in the hut of Cunobelin’s son. This I do not want, nor to hear any more of your insane talking!”
    Bran stood and walked to him silently. He was smiling faintly, not at all insulted, and as he left he placed a light hand on Caradoc’s shoulder “Remember me and my seditious words,” he said. “When the hour of your greatest need comes, I and my brethren will be waiting. We may meet again, whether you will it or no.”
    He passed out swiftly and Caradoc let the skins fall, drawing in his shaking breath. He was cold. He went to the fire and squatted, letting the heat beat upon his face, then ran back to the door and bellowed for Fearachar. After a time the man came, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, and Caradoc ordered him to fetch Caelte. There would be music, and laughter. Was the man a seer after all? He shrugged, but the movement of his broad shoulders did not lift the dark load of doubt and unease that had settled around him. He felt as if all his warm flesh had been stripped away and his bones left to rattle in a cold, foreign wind. Caelte played and sang for him, told him jokes, and in the end berated him soundly, but Caradoc turned his face to the wall and would not reply.
    In the morning, he and Cinnamus went together to the harness maker’s shop, where Caradoc’s chariot was being repaired. They passed the