6

It was all arranged, apparently. Elen was to have no say in the matter. The Roman general had returned to the palace some eighteen months after his first visit with a full detachment of cavalry and this time he had made an offer her father would not hesitate to accept. The general wanted the suggestion of an alliance with Octavius's son forgotten. It was the high king's daughter he wanted and not as wife to one of his children. He wanted her for himself. The alliance would benefit them all. The foreign general from a distant land who had won his rank and position by power of arms and popularity with the vast armies he led in Britannia needed to form an alliance by marriage to the daughter of ancient kings, descendant of the gods themselves.

Elen and Magnus had never been introduced.

‘No!'

Her father had at least had the courtesy to tell her at last the night before her future husband arrived for the ceremony.

Octavius's eyes hardened. ‘It is my decision.'

‘Conan?' Elen appealed to her brother, seated next to her father near one of the braziers. They were at the far end of the reception hall. Groups of people, talking quietly in the body of the room fell silent at the sound of raised voices, glancing at the royal family then, anxious not to be caught watching, returning to their own conversations. Until Octavius's decision that it might be prudent to warn his daughter what was to happen the next day he and Conan had been playing gwyddbwyll, a board game they both enjoyed. ‘You turned the offer of the general's daughter down,' she cried indignantly. ‘You didn't like him. You said no!'

Conan was by blood the son of the high king's sister, adopted by Octavius as his heir when it became clear he would have no sons of his own. The young man shook his head slowly. ‘She did not suit me. And I was not sure he was right for you, Sister. I argued against the marriage when our father first told me of the offer, but don't forget I have met the man, and now I have had the chance to think about it, I agree with him that maybe he would be a good match for you.' He gave a somewhat cryptic smile.

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning,' their father interrupted sharply, ‘the decision is made.'

‘But he is—'

He cut her off mid-sentence. ‘He is a soldier, Elen. You knew you would one day marry a soldier.'

‘But he is not one of us.' She finished the sentence under her breath.

It appeared that her father had been doing his research. ‘Heis head of the legions in Britannia. His mother was sister to the father of the emperor of the East and he is representative ofthe emperor of the West in Britannia. He is a great man. And the marriage will take place tomorrow.' Drawing his mantle around his shoulders, Octavius rose to his feet and, pushing the gaming board aside with such force that the table overturned, scattering the carved pieces on the floor, he stalked out of the hall, leaving brother and sister alone.

Someone was waiting for him in the atrium. At the sight of the woman, swathed from head to foot in black, the king's attendants drew back and one by one melted into the shadows.

‘You must not proceed with this alliance.' Her voice was husky. ‘It bodes no good for your kingdom, or for greater -Albion. Your foreign general bears the mark of the doomed on his forehead.'

Octavius shuddered. His wife had brought Branwen into his household when Elen was a small child as her nurse, her attendant and her teacher. When Aurelia had died, -Branwen effortlessly filled the gap in the child's life. Daughter and granddaughter of wise men of the Silures– and, he strongly -suspected, a follower of the long-forbidden native Druid traditions of the country– Branwen had remained at Elen's side ever since, and all his efforts to dislodge her had failed. In only one thing had he managed to override the woman's malign influence. He had seen to it that his daughter and his adopted son had been brought up in the Christian faith, of which his wife had been a staunch follower.

He took a deep breath. ‘You speak rubbish, woman. The arrangements are made; they cannot be changed.'

‘And does Elen know what kind of man you propose to giveher to? You cannot, you must not marry her to him.' -Branwen stepped up to him, her eyes blazing. ‘Don't you -understand what you are doing?'

‘I understand perfectly well.' The king pushed her away with a shudder. ‘He is a great man. He may one day be even greater. He may be emperor himself.'

She gave a disparaging hiss. ‘No. Elen deserves better.'

‘There is no better,' he snapped. ‘I acknowledge that it is largely due to you that he would consider her as his wife, inexperienced and young as she is,' he added in a conciliatory tone. ‘Thanks to you, my daughter can read and write, she is an -educated young woman, probably a lot better educated than he is, truth be told, but it is not up to her now.' He paused, thoughtful. ‘You can go with her as her attendant. There, does that reassure you?'

She shook her head. ‘No. I will never serve Rome. She must go without me.'

‘Then what will you do?' It didn't occur to him to insist. If he was honest, he never quite dared insist anything with this woman.

She gave a grim smile. ‘Don't worry, my lord king.' Her voice held a note of mockery. ‘I won't stay here. I will return to my own people up at the oppidum. From there, I plan to retire into seclusion in the forest where I can serve my own gods.'

He opened his mouth to protest but already she had walked back into the pillared shadows of the walled garden.

The oppidum. The ironic Latin term the local people used for their ancient towns on the hilltops, fortified, safe from attack, sanctuaries for people and stock, and only defeated finally by the massed Roman armies. It had been a long time before the Romans had conceded that the local tribespeople could once again use the ruins of their base as a town, but slowly they had returned and slowly they had rebuilt their houses and turned it into a thriving centre, far more their own than the Roman concessionary market town of Venta would ever be.

In the king's reception hall Elen was staring pleadingly at her brother. ‘I can't marry him,' she whispered, watching a slave pick up the pieces from the abandoned game, very conscious of people still glancing anxiously towards the brother and sister after the high king had stormed out of the chamber. ‘I know nothing about him. I've never seen him. He will take me away from everything I have ever known. If Mama was here, she would speak for me. She would understand.' Elen's mother had died five years before when Elen was twelve.

Conan moved across to his father's chair, indicating that Elen take his own before leaning across and putting his hands over hers. ‘I can tell you a little, but as I said, I met him only briefly all those months ago when he came to ask father for my hand for his daughter Flavia.'

She stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘So, go on, tell me about him.'

Conan sighed. ‘Well, I know he virtually rules the country, Elen. He is a legate, general, Comes Britanniarum, head of the field armies of the entire province. He was Dux Britanniarum in the north.' He paused, aware of his sister's gaze fixed on his face. ‘He has been married before, obviously. His wife died. He has two grown sons and a daughter who is probably about the same age as you. I fear he is much older than you.' He did a quick calculation in his head and scowled. ‘Probably more than twice as old. But he is popular with his men, which is a good sign.'

‘What does he look like?' It was a whisper.

Conan laughed. ‘I think you'll find him handsome. I'm no judge of a woman's view, but from a man's I see him as tall, taller than you.' He cocked a glance at his sister, huddled as she was in her chair. She was tall for a woman, slim and athletic with dark blond wavy hair, restrained now by several carved bone pins. With hazel eyes and a clear pale complexion, he had to acknowledge, if she hadn't been his sister, he would have found her almost beautiful. As it was, they had scrapped too often in the nursery for him to be impressed by her fiery temper and her passionate outbursts. He felt an unexpected wave of compassion. In her shoes he would probably be scared. ‘He has regular features, a man of presence. Strong. A man to respect.'

Elen was silent. ‘Is he a Christian?' she asked at last.

‘I've no idea,' he admitted. ‘Does it matter?'

‘I don't suppose so,' she conceded.

It was dark when Elen slipped out to the stables. The colt was there, brought in from the paddock, his coat glossy, a soft -leather head collar over his ears. He was fully grown now and trained to bit and saddle. He nuzzled at her, searching the folds of her shawl for the titbit he knew would be hidden there.

‘I hear you are to leave us.' The voice from the shadows made her jump. Rhys was there, sucking on a wisp of hay as he leaned against the doorpost. ‘I shall miss this chap.'

‘Why? Where is he going?' Elen tried to keep her voice steady.

‘With you. He is your wedding gift from your father. Did he not tell you? You may think you've hidden it from him and your brother, but they know how much you love that animal and how much time you have spent schooling him.' He moved over to scratch the horse's neck. The girl's misery was coming off her in waves. ‘I doubt you'll be able to ride him much,' he went on firmly. Better she come to terms with it at once. ‘Hewillbe,toall intents and purposes, your husband's horse. You will have to behave like a princess all the time in your new life.' He hid a smile. Someone had to tell her, and he doubted anyone else would dare. ‘To show the Roman general how lucky he is to have a royal bride.'

She scowled, burying her face in the horse's mane. ‘Will I have to go to live at Isca?'

He chewed his lip. This was way beyond the limits of his experience. ‘I suppose you will follow him like any officer's wife but with more dinner parties. Are you taking your own servants and slaves?'

She hadn't even thought of that. She hadn't had time to think of anything except running to the stables for comfort from her beloved horse. ‘Will I go tomorrow, straight after we are married?'

‘I am only your father's horse master, Princess,' he said softly. ‘I know nothing of how these things are managed. Is there no one else you can ask?'

It turned out the servants and slaves knew far more than she did, which was not unusual. The palace was a hotbed of gossip at the best of times, but news of the wedding, unexpected and exciting as it was, had travelled the corridors and courtyards with the speed of light. When she returned to it, Elen found her bedchamber was warm. The hypocaust had been fired up and already a trunk was lying open on the floor, half full of tunics and mantles and shawls.

‘There you are at last!' Delyth, Elen's senior attendant, her confidante and friend, hurried towards her with an audible sigh of relief. ‘There is so much to do.'

Elen sat down on the end of the bed and kicked off her sandals. Her silk tunic and her smartest mantle were already hanging up ready for the next day's ceremony. The gold embroidered girdle that had been her mother's was lying on a side table. Delyth followed her gaze. ‘I thought you would like to wear that,' she said gently. ‘But if you would prefer something else?'

Elen shook her head, trying not to cry. Delyth took in the situation at a glance and, turning towards the room, clapped her hands together loudly. ‘Leave us, please. Nia, Sian, go to the kitchen and bring something for our princess to eat. The rest of you may go. The last items can go into the travelling chests tomorrow.'

She waited for the women to leave the room then she came and sat down next to Elen. ‘I am to come with you, if you wish it. The general has ordered that you can bring your own household. Servants, slaves. Me,' she added. ‘He seems kind.' She glanced across at Elen.

‘Where will we go?' Elen swallowed hard.

‘We follow the army now. But at first we will be at his headquarters at Isca. He has requisitioned the commander's house there. Not so far away,' she added.

‘It seems far away to me.' Elen reached out her hand and clasped the other woman's fingers. ‘I'm glad you're coming.'

‘Don't fret. I'll be there as long as you need me.'

The older woman and the girl looked at each other for several long seconds. Both knew their future was in the hands of a stranger.

‘And Branwen. She can come too?' Elen whispered at last.

There was a long pause. Delyth bit her lip. ‘Branwen has gone,' she said after what seemed an eternity. ‘I'm sorry. I don't know what happened, but it appears that the king your father has sent her away.'

‘Why?' The word came out as a cry of pain.

Delyth shook her head. ‘I didn't see her. All I know is that the servants watched her pack her bundle and leave the palace.'

‘She can't have gone. She wouldn't go without saying goodbye.'

‘She was escorted off the premises, Elen. Sent on her way down the road.'

‘So she will have gone up the hill, to the oppidum, to find her family.'

‘I don't know if she has any family, sweetheart. We, you, were her family.' Delyth sighed. ‘I believe... that is, someone overheard her with your father. They were quarrelling. No one quarrels with the high king.'

* * *

It was much later and the lamps had almost burned down. Elen lay tossing in her bed, wishing now that she had asked for one of the girls to come and sing to her as she tried to sleep, when the door opened again and someone slipped into the room. She sat up. ‘Who's that?'

‘It is me, child.' Branwen, wrapped in her black mantle, tiptoed across the room. ‘I couldn't go without seeing you.'

Elen slipped out of bed and ran across the room, the mosaic floor warm beneath her bare feet. She threw herself into Branwen's arms. ‘You have to come with me. I can't go without you.'

Branwen held her close, then gently she pushed her away. ‘No, Elen. This is goodbye. Your father has spoken and you must obey him. I have done all I can for you and he has thanked me. He has told the man who will be your husband that you are an educated young woman with a mind of her own.' Branwen smiled. ‘You will bring authenticity to his position as a leader in Britannia. Your blood is royal, your children will be kings.'

Elen stared at her. ‘You can see the future?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘But you didn't see that I was going to be married tomorrow!' Elen knew she sounded petulant, but she couldn't help herself.

She swung round as the door opened. A slave girl came in carrying a tray. On it were two flagons, one of warm wine and one of water, and a flask of oil with which to replenish the lamps. The two women fell silent until she left the room. -Branwen smiled. ‘I came in through the kitchens. I asked Stella to bring the wine. My friends there will make sure we are not disturbed.'

‘Please come with me.' Elen leaned forward and caught Branwen's hands in her own.

The woman shook her head. ‘My home is with my people, Elen. I have taught you all you need to know. You have to be strong now. You don't need me anymore. You are ready.'

‘Ready?'

‘Ready, child.'

‘But I can't read the future like you. I can't see what is to happen.'

‘That is a power you can well do without, Elen. You are too young—'

‘No!' Elen stamped her foot. ‘If you won't come with me, then you must teach me the art of scrying, so I know what to expect, just as you do.'

‘No, child!'

‘Stop calling me child. I need to know. Here.' Elen ran to the side table and grabbed a glass bowl full of fruit; tipping the contents onto the floor, she reached for the goblet of water, pouring it into the bowl. ‘So, show me what to do.'

Branwen sighed. ‘It is simple. Sit down and hold the bowl, so. Then make yourself quiet. Look into the water and allow the pictures to come.'

‘It can't be that easy.'

‘It is easy if you still your thoughts and wait.' Branwen walked over to a stool by the door and sat down, folding her arms.

Elen glanced at her, then down at the bowl of water.

How it slipped from her hands she didn't know. One moment she was sitting quietly waiting for the revelations to appear and the next Branwen had her arm around her shoulders and with tears pouring down her face Elen was staring at the broken glass at her feet. One of the maids came running. A brush and pan was brought, the glass swept up and a beaker of warm wine was pressed into her hands.

Branwen shook her head. ‘It was obviously not to be,' she murmured. ‘Leave it now.' She would never tell Elen that she had slipped easily into the waking dream and that whatever it was that she had seen had terrified her. ‘Whatever the goddess has decided,' she whispered, ‘she will not be deflected.' She stepped back and stared down at the floor where the head of the goddess stared serenely up at them from the mosaic. ‘Whatever happens, she will be with you, child. Yours is a sacred and a special bloodline. My gods and yours will protect you, I promise you that, and if ever you do need me, really need me, I will come to find you.'

* * *

Was that how it had happened? The scene seemed somehow familiar. As though she had seen it before. Cadi stared down at the pages in front of her. So many scribbled notes. The crude sketch of a rearing horse– she was no Rachel– and the birth of a story. She gave a grim smile. That was how it had been when she was a child. Stories. She was always writing -stories, -illustrating them herself, her tongue clamped between her teeth as she concentrated hard on the page, reaching for her coloured chalks, then abandoning the pictures in frustration for the greater flexibility and complexity and sheer accuracy of the written word, the stories which never seemed to stop, the stories that became ever more exciting as she covered page after page in her exercise books with the weird and wonderful tales that endlessly and effortlessly emerged from her -imagination.

With a sigh she tore the pages from her notepad and screwed them up, hurling them towards the wastepaper basket. She hadn't done this for years– writing almost unconsciously, carried away by the power of some half-remembered story when she should be concentrating on the spare, pure verses that were her trademark style as a poet.

And now it had happened twice.

She sat for several minutes staring into space, then she bent and retrieved the pages. Slowly she flattened them out on her desk, and after a moment slipped them into the back of one of her folders. It might be interesting, one day, to read through what she had written. And in the meantime she had thought of someone she could talk to about all this. Maybe.