Magdalen Rising (27 page)

When I reached Caer Leb, the whole place seemed deserted. I ducked into our hut and hurriedly stripped off my torn tunic, groping for another before my eyes had had time to adjust to the dim light.

“That must be our Maeve,” a voice from the other side of the hut made me jump. “Always making a racket. Always rampaging about like a brush fire out of control. I swear I can feel the heat all the way across the hut.”

“What are you doing here, Nissyen?” I could see him now, lying on his pallet with a plaid wound around his head. No stone lay on his stomach, however, so I gathered he wasn't composing. He was napping or had been until I interrupted. “Why aren't you at the games?”

“Why aren't you, is more to the point,” he countered. “Me? I've been to the games five times as many years as you've been alive, lass. There's nothing new under the sun, so I'd just as soon stay out of the sun. Besides I keep better track of what's going on when I'm asleep than most people do when they're awake. So are you going to tell old Nissyen what you've been up to or am I going to tell you?”

Omniscience was a standard ploy of Nissyen's for eliciting confessions. Occasionally we tried to call his bluff, but he was a master bluffer, and we usually ended up spilling everything for the comfort of hearing him cackle.

“Do you think Owen would mind if I borrowed his plain tunic?” I said, still preoccupied with what to wear.

“If he does, offer him a squeeze of those glorious titties he's been slathering after. That'll shut him up.”

Though I was fond of them, my breasts were beginning to seem more trouble than they were worth. I didn't understand, having grown up with sixteen breasts at my disposal, just how hungry so many people were.

“So the neck of your tunic finally ripped,” remarked Nissyen, his eyes still swaddled. “I told you, when you cut it, to hem it securely, but did you listen? Of course not. So who ripped it?”

“I thought you knew everything,” I said crossly.

“Come on, Maeve. You know I like to hear the story.”

“It ripped during the caber toss.”

“You were tossing the caber?” He laughed with delight. “And did you win, colleen?”

“I didn't get to stay around to find out. After I tossed, I suddenly took the place of a wine vat as a prize.”

“Ah, I can see it. I can see it now. Well, I'll miss you, Maeve, love. We all will. But it must be your destiny to be a queen like your namesake. For sure it was a king who won you. Oh, what a song it will make. It will be sung around every fire many a winter. It's enough to make me want to rhyme again. Maeve, fetch me a stone. Then tell me all.”

“Nissyen, I am not a vat of wine to be won.” I was angry, not with him exactly, but with everyone. “I am not a thing to be carried off. I am not going anywhere.”

“Ah,” he said. “Someone put a stop to it. No, don't tell me. I see it. A druid, not just any druid, but a V.I.D. ”

“Lovernios.” I cut him short. I did not want to miss the arbitrations.

“Lovernios.” The amusement vanished from his voice. “That's serious. Very serious. No wonder you're so testy. What did he say?”

“Not much. There wasn't much he could say when I told him I was King Bran's foster daughter.”

“And a good thing, too,” muttered Nissyen.

“He just said that I'd been naive, stupid, thoughtless, and mindless to join the caber toss, and I told him I wasn't mindless at all.”

“Maeve.” Nissyen was still alarmingly serious. “I hope you didn't show him any of your cheek.”

“No, just most of my breasts.”

“Maeve, Maeve!” Nissyen lamented. “You've got to be careful around that one. He's dangerous.”

“What do you mean?” My pulse started to race with fear. “Come on, Nissyen. We tell you everything. And you just drop hints. Tell me what you know about him.”

“I don't know much about him. Not really. That's why I say he's dangerous. He doesn't add up. There's some mystery there.”

“How can you not know anything? I thought all druids knew everything about everyone. Didn't you have to study genealogy in order to become a full-feathered druid?”

“I'm not talking about lineage. I'm talking about character, Maeve. Lovernios is a brilliant man and an able druid. He's never been a great poet. You can tell by the set of his jaw. Too tight. But he excels at moral philosophy and
brehon
law. And of course as a military strategist no one can touch him. He maneuvers kings as if they were so many pieces on a
fidchell
board. It's no secret that he's a contender to succeed as archdruid. A dazzling career, you could say. But it wasn't what he wanted in the beginning.

“I remember him when he was young. Maybe not what you'd call young, but what I would. He started his training very early in life, so even after the full twenty years of study, he was only thirty or so, handsome, quick, virile, sleek, and glossy as a fox. He'd had enough of study. He wanted adventure. The
Combrogos
are not like the Romans—so lacking in imagination all they can think of is conquering people and stealing not just their land but their stories, their art, their gods. Lovernios wanted no ordinary conquest. He wanted to sail West, far West, beyond the Shining Isles of the Blest. He had heard stories of how way, way across the western sea there is an island so large our islands are little more than a cluster of rocks by comparison. Some call it Turtle Island. On its back rests a world.

“He started out in a
curragh
worthy of Manannan Mac Lir. He took no weapons. He was a druid. And no warriors either. He went alone, armed only with a keen mind and a strong will. He did not aspire to be a King. Myself, I think he wanted to be a god.” Nissyen paused.

“Why did he come back?”

“That's what no one knows, and he will never tell. A year and a day after he sailed away, someone sighted him drifting past the Isle of Mannin. When he finally came ashore, he was wild-eyed and raving. No one could understand what he was saying. He was crazed with hunger and
thirst, and it took a long time to nurse him back to health. When he had recovered, he refused to tell his tale. Some think he cannot remember; others believe he is under a geis. No one knows.

“He went on with his life and made good use of his druid training. I respect the man for that. But there's something hidden in him. Something that torments him. Whatever it is, he keeps a tight rein on it. Too tight. A man who lives in fear of himself is a dangerous man. You wouldn't want to draw his personal attention to you any more than a hare would ask for notice from a fox.”

“I am no rabbit,” I asserted. It was the second time today that I'd been compared to one. I didn't like it.

“No, you're more like a bird, a great, honking goose, maybe,” Nissyen laughed. “But a fox doesn't scruple, Maeve. It will kill whatever it can catch. Be ready to fly. But better yet, learn to be quiet and blend into the scenery when the fox is on prowl.”

“I'm afraid it's too late for that,” I said. “Although he never seems to remember who I am.”

“Eh? What's that?” Nissyen pushed the plaid up off his ears.

“Nothing,” I said firmly. I had no intention of alarming Nissyen with an account of my encounter with Foxface in the Dark Grove. “I have to go now, Nissyen. I want to hear the arbitrations.”

“Ah, yes, King Bran and the King of the Atrebates, what's-his-name, Borvo, will be going at it. It's almost enough to get me out of bed. But I have to save my strength for watching my poor lambs go to slaughter tonight.”

“If you mean our recital, all I can say is, your metaphors leave a lot to be desired.”

“Tell me I may rest assured you're ready, Lambchop.”

“As ready as I'll ever be,” I answered with truth and ambiguity.

I bent to kiss Nissyen's cheek. It had that withered apple softness that reminded me of the Cailleach.

“Ah, Maeve,” he murmured, pulling his plaid back over his ears. “You are intoxicating. The sweat of Macha, the great mare, and the scent of Emain Ablach all mingled. Breasts to die for. You'd better learn to guard such treasures. Do you understand that?”

But I was already slipping out the door, and I didn't understand, any more than I understood the strangeness that came over men when they heard the words Tir na mBan.

B
EFORE WE GET TO the arbitrations where the Roman question will be once more hotly debated, I want you to run with me over the lush earth of Mona Mam Cymru, Mona the mother of Wales, her wide lap full of ripe grain. If you could fly over Mona, you would see that the crops are planted in curves and swirls. There is not a straight line in sight. Feel in your body that love of roundness, of intricate loops and twining knots, and you may better understand why Rome with its legions of straight lines was anathema.

Arbitrations were held in—what else?—a grove. Think about it. The columns and arches of all imposing buildings, whether classic or gothic, are nothing but an imitation of the real thing: trees. The druids knew the connection between trees and justice. Between trees and everything. Who needed a courtroom? No courtroom column ever sheltered a singing bird or drank the dark waters under the earth.

The trees in this particular grove were primarily ash, a slender, graceful tree, with excellent posture and high branches. The delicate, five-leaf clusters let in more light than the oaks. Underneath the arching boughs, the grove was spacious and airy, easily accommodating the crowd that gathered around the central tree that was set apart not because of its girth or height, but because it topped a small rise. Beneath it twelve druids waited. One of them was Foxface.

With uncharacteristic restraint, I decided it would be better not to push my way to the front of the crowd. Instead I climbed into the branches of a lone willow. A small stream ran beside the tree, and from my perch, I noticed that it joined another at the edge of the grove. I climbed high enough to get a good view of the crowd, about a hundred men and women, heads of tribes and
tuaths,
I reckoned. They were dressed in rich colors, and their heads, arms, and necks flashed with gold in the dappled, moving light. At the front of the crowd, I saw King Bran, laughing and bantering with his companions. I recognized many of the women of his household. Branwen was among them, looking serious and keeping quiet, giving all her attention to worrying for him.

I looked around, trying to decide which man was King Borvo. He had sold out to Rome, Branwen said, and her father was reviving some old grievance against him in hopes that the druids would strip him of his authority. I decided he must be standing across from King Bran in the semi-circle gathered round the tree, because he kept fixing Bran with killing looks that Bran ignored. King Borvo wore a heavy torque and a crown as well. His cloak was bright red, but all his finery made his complexion appear more ashen.

King Bran was a massive man. He was not fat—no warrior could afford to be fat. Indeed, any warrior whose girth exceeded the standard length of the girdle had to pay a fine. But King Bran's appearance made you think of feasting, sinking your teeth into a juicy haunch, quaffing ale, reveling in all the pleasures of the flesh, including the ones my mothers had enjoyed with him.

King Borvo was nothing but bone and gristle. Even his mustache was sparse, and his hair, though thickened with lime, revealed patches of scaly scalp. In short, he looked unwholesome. If he were Jewish, Yahweh would have considered him unclean. Still, he was surrounded by stout enough warriors, and he had a woman by his side who looked young enough to be his daughter, though his manner towards her suggested a different relationship. No one could doubt King Bran's devotion to Branwen, but he was not focused on her. In contrast, King Borvo kept touching the young woman, even as he spoke to others, drawing her close, repositioning her—now beside him, now in front—as if she was a shield to be used to the best advantage.

At one point I got a clear view of her profile, and I was astonished by her shape. Her belly extended far beyond her breasts. It was perfectly round, round as the full moon. I wondered if she had eaten something foul that had caused her to blow up with gas.

I forgot about the strangely shaped young woman as a hush fell over the crowd. At a gesture from the old archdruid, the wind stilled, and even the stream seemed to make an effort to quiet the sound of its flow. The archdruid sang to the quarters. Every note lingered till the air was thick with magic. This time the archdruid did not plant his staff. The ash tree rising behind him became the Tree and stood for a justice that was more than human.

Now the archdruid stepped back and sat down cross-legged beneath the tree. Everyone else sat, too, except for Foxface, who stepped forward, and the two kings, whom he called to stand before him. Foxface was the
arbiter, the keeper of the rules, which he stated clearly before he allowed either King to make his opening statement. As the two kings spoke in turn, I paid as much attention to Foxface as to the arguments. He was at his best in this role: grave, attentive, and scrupulously fair. King Borvo was clearly on the lookout for any hint of anti-Roman bias, but Foxface showed King Bran no favor.

In fact, unschooled as I was in politics and law, I could tell that King Bran's line of attack was failing. A glance at Branwen's troubled face confirmed it. Bran argued that King Borvo was his
celsine
—his client. He based this claim on some old war between the Silures and the Atrebates. The Silures had taken hostages and for a time Bran forced King Borvo to pay tribute. Bran maintained that Borvo could not become a client to Rome, since he still owed tribute to the Silures, not to mention fines for nonpayment.

“The Atrebates owe tribute to the Silures?” snarled King Borvo. “In exchange for what? Tell me, Bran Fendigaid ab Llyr Lleidiaith, what have you done for me lately?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just offered your tribe the use of some prime grazing land. Not to mention putting at your disposal the strength of the Silures' arms.”

“It's been a generation since any of my people grazed cattle on any land controlled by the Silures. Every time we did, we ended up getting raided. As for protection, the Atrebates have scant need of it, except and against you and your friends the Ordovices. Savages. All of you. You, who claim to prize freedom above all else, who scorn relations with civilized foreign powers—”

“Rome? Civilized!” Bran restrained himself—barely—from spitting. Foxface would have penalized him. But there was quite a bit of hearty expectorating in the crowd.

“Understand, all you who have assembled here. I am no
celé,”
King Brovo declared, “no commoner. Nor have I consented to be a client to any other king. I never paid tribute in some orderly, civilized exchange. I ransomed my people and bought back their freedom.”

The child of my mothers, I felt no surprise that there should be two contradictory versions of the same events. What was new—and unnerving—to me was that here contradictions had consequences. One account would be accepted; the other, rejected. That may seem self-evident to you. To me, it was a seismic revelation. I was on the edge of my branch.

“No
celé,
you say. You boast of buying your people's freedom even as you sell them to Rome. Hear me, everyone. He didn't buy their freedom from me! I granted it as part of an agreement. I am no slave holder or dealer—”

“No, you've never needed to deal in slaves with the stranglehold you Silures have on the gold trade. And how did you get that stranglehold? By raiding. You control the Cambrian Mountain passes. No one can get through unless they've paid—and paid dearly—for safe conduct. And you dare to talk of freedom!

“And now you seek to strip me of my sovereignty by exhuming an old war that no one admits to losing. For I will never admit it. And if you can't best me with your specious arguments, I know you plan to stoop to lower tactics to discredit me before the
Combrogos.
Hear me, all of you, and behold. I am a sovereign, a potent sovereign. Here is the proof.” He thrust the blown-up woman towards the crowd. To the druids he said, “I have witnesses to attest to my prowess.”

There was a moment's silence as everyone registered the turn the case was taking. Then someone snickered, and one of the Silures called out rudely, “Yeah. He needs a cheering squad to get it up.”

Suddenly I got it. The young woman wasn't bilious. She had a baby in there! Now you must understand I had never seen a pregnant woman before, much less a baby. (Seeing a pregnant sheep or goat is not the same.) Now I remembered Branwen explaining to me that morning that a King had to have the power to get a woman pregnant. If he was impotent, the crops would wither and the cattle sicken and die. Apparently there were rumors that King Borvo's appendage no longer rose to the occasion. Or, as King Bran might have put it, he'd sold his nuts to Rome.

“You anticipate an argument that has not been put forward.” Foxface's voice was not loud. It didn't need to be. Everyone hushed as soon as he spoke. “We must first judge the claim of Bran, king of the Silures that Borvo, king of the Atrebates, is his
celsine
and has reneged on his obligations as such. We have heard the testimonies of the principals. We will now hear the histories sung and then the laws pertaining to such cases.”

At a sign from Foxface, an elderly bard came forward and began to sing the story of the battles between the Silures and the Atrebates. After he sang one complete version, he launched into another. At that point I eased myself closer to the trunk of the tree and nestled against it. As the namesake of Queen Maeve of Connacht, not to mention as a bard-in-training,
I ought to have been more gripped by tales of war and cattle raiding. But I could not keep my eyes open, which was perhaps pardonable after the day I'd already had, and even wise considering the night to come. I came half-awake when the rhythms changed from epic tale to law triads. But listening to recital of law is a wonderful soporific. I went back to sleep and did not wake until I heard King Bran's voice again. It was his passion that made me snap to.

“You have found against me,” he was saying, “though it breaks your noble hearts to do so. Now that I have nothing to lose, I will freely confess. Yes, I picked the bones of an old quarrel for a scrap of meat that might nourish the
Combrogos.
And yes, I intended to question by any and every means the sovereignty, and, yes, the potency, of a king who surrenders his kingship, his manhood to Rome, then justifies this treacherous act by calling it ‘merely a trade agreement with a civilized power.'

“I have lost my case.” Bran's voice did not rise, but it deepened, widened like a great river, submerging King Borvo's outraged sputterings. “But that is nothing compared to what may yet be lost. And so I put it before you: What is a king's sovereignty? Is a king free to sell himself, his people, the very body of Anu into bondage? How answers the Law?”

Bran's speech was met with both cheers and angry shouts. The archdruid rose and the others with him. Then all twelve druids closed ranks and conferred in a huddle. They had given judgment; the case could have been closed. But the druids were well versed not only in law but in human nature. They knew a cauldron of deep feeling had been stirred and was rapidly coming to a boil. They weren't about to let it boil over into a useless mess. They were masters of the flame. They knew how to contain and direct raw energies.

In a moment, the other druids resumed their seats and Foxface came forward again, stepping into a shaft of afternoon light, so that his long shadow penetrated the crowd. The edges of his hair and beard glowed fiercely. By contrast, his face seemed ghostly and full of grim command.

“The Law is a living thing. It stands as a tree with its roots deep in time, even as storms rock its branches. It endures many winters and still puts forth new leaves to drink summer's fire.”

I thought this speech very fine, despite the poor rating Nissyen gave Lovernios as a poet.

“When lightning splits the trunk or a branch breaks, the tree heals itself, growing around the wound, adjusting its shape to become stronger and wiser still. The tree grows to answer each challenge. Let the
Combrogos
stand beneath the tree. Let the
Combrogos
speak. Let the
Combrogos
understand that the law grows like a tree, according to its own time.”

It was an impressive non-answer. With our paltry human life spans, we tend to want everything settled right now. But the druids attuned themselves to deeper rhythms. They measured time by the widening circles rippling slowly from the unseen center of the Tree.

“I object vehemently to the extremist, insular, isolationist position that views all Roman clients as slaves,” someone from the crowd spoke up. “Say what you will. In Gaul we enjoy peace and prosperity, an orderly exchange of goods and services.” The man made the classic case for
Pax Romana.
“We have good roads and sophisticated plumbing. And we have protection from the kind of savagery that is here exalted as freedom.”

“But you do not even have your own kings. You're ruled by Roman prefects!” an insular extremist objected. “You are the bastard, orphan children of a mercenary empire. You cling to your last shreds of pride and fancy that you are clothed. You gobble crumbs from the Roman tables you heap with your land and your labor and you imagine yourselves well fed!”

“That worn-out argument is both absurd and ignorant,” said the Gaul, doing his best to seem unruffled. “We are still the
Combrogos.
We practice our arts unmolested. We worship our own gods in our own ways—”

“Oh, sure,” someone sneered. “As long as you worship the emperor first. Your druids are geldings. They are not free to teach in their own colleges. Why else do your tribes send candidates to the Holy Isles for training? Though what use they can make of that training I don't know, since Rome has outlawed the most sacred rites—”