Songwoman Read online

  Caradog closed his eyes. We knew of this method of execution, reserved by the Romans for their most despised enemies, a warning that others might see. ‘It has been but a day,’ said Caradog.

  ‘This governor is quick to act,’ said the rider. ‘He drove the horses without rest once he had learned of our attack. And he rides southward this day in search of further camps.’

  I looked around at the chiefs, each grappling with our first taste of our new enemy leader. Brutal. Decisive. Our warriors were skilled on horseback, but Scapula must have known by our ambush that we had come prepared only for foot combat and would be no match for a force of cavalry. He forced us to retreat, yet left the eastern tribes firmly held by the legions.

  I stared at our war chief. How would he respond? How would he salvage the will of his war band?

  His face was still. He drew breath and straightened. If he was unsure he hid it well. ‘Scapula must feel great concern to have led the dark riders out himself.’

  ‘He states that his highest priority is to remove Caratacus,’ said the rider.

  ‘Is that what they call me?’ Caradog said, half-smiling. ‘Caratacus?’

  ‘That and more!’ said the rider.

  The chiefs laughed.

  ‘So now we retreat as intended,’ said Caradog, turning to his fighters. ‘And as we leave, we know that we have achieved a great victory.’ He met every eye in turn. ‘We have taken back the reins of this war. We have shown that Rome cannot hold us with their line, nor can they advance beyond it.’

  The chiefs murmured their agreement.

  ‘I have Scapula, Governor of Britain, moving to Albion’s drum,’ he continued. ‘I play the music of this war. And he is forced to dance.’

  There was more laughter.

  I exhaled with relief. Caradog had turned Scapula’s retaliation to a mark of honour.

  ‘We shall return to the mountains and grow our war band in numbers and strength. We have horses and men from the Dobunni. These will serve us well as we prepare for our next attack. Now, pack the horses. We are going home.’

  Anwas’s camp was no more than day’s ride away. We had to leave immediately.

  Caradog sent riders to the remaining camps with messages to retreat and we prepared our departure. Though he joked with the warriors as we rolled our tents and loaded our saddles, I caught glimpses of him when he thought himself unwatched. His expression held no trace of humour.

  A heavy rain set in as we rode. The Habren swelled and we had to search for a shallower ford than the one we had used on our first crossing. Water muddied the ground and loosened stones, slowing the mountain ascent and forcing us to take longer paths. The two-day journey would take at least four.

  ‘Horse-end!’ shouted Hefin as we crested the first mountain late in the day. ‘Look to the east.’

  Caradog called us to stop. We had reached a vantage from which we could see our war camp in the valley below. It was swarming with men in the bronze helmets of the Roman auxilia, searching the remains of our brief settlement.

  ‘See how easily we evade them?’ called Caradog. ‘Even their fastest black wolves cannot catch this hare.’

  An overhanging branch dripped steadily on my neck as I watched them prodding at our abandoned hearths and circling the clearing.

  ‘Warm your hands on our fires!’ shouted Caradog into the valley. ‘For that is all you will touch of us.’

  His fighters cheered. In that moment, we were unassailable, protected by the river, the forest, and the mountain itself. Scapula had taken some of us, but he would take no more. And our leader still stood at our front with the head of the fort commander knocking against his stallion’s shoulder. ‘Ride on!’ he cried.

  I glanced backwards as we set off. A lone figure stood at the camp’s edge staring towards us. Even from this distance I saw the fury in his stance and I knew it was Scapula.

  Caradog did not speak to me alone that day, nor any days of the journey home. At the evening fires he praised my fighting and was as friendly with me as with any other. But no more so. And he would not approach if I stood alone by a spring nor seek my council on where next to steer this chariot of war.

  I saw now the pattern of him, how he bore himself to me then hastened to re-armour, as if he feared I would injure whatever flesh he had exposed. But I had no wish to exploit his weakness. I wanted to help him win this war.

  I silenced my frustrations, but as I rode the drizzling forest tracks, I could not rid myself of the memory of his mouth on my cheekbone. There was no meaning in it. It was merely Caradog’s way: impulsive, unbridled. He was a bonfire of a man and I would be mistaken to think that his heat blazed for me above any other. There would be no surer way to diminish my power.

  We rode into Llanmelin in the late afternoon. The townspeople lined the entrance path, casting petals and grains of barley and wheat over us as we approached the gateway. Caradog held his sword above his head and shouted ‘Your people are victorious! The Silures are undefeated!’

  The crowd cheered, but I flinched at his words. It was right that our war chief paint a shining image of our success. But the truth beneath was a knot. We had not even begun to untangle it.

  The smell of roasting meat and damp fur filled Hefin’s hall. Caradog had arranged for a feast on the night of our return, as payment to the chiefs who had fought under his command.

  The spits dripped with sizzling pork and mutton, and the servants’ arms strained under platters of walnuts, dried plums, cheeses, and loaves. The spread was too extravagant for a chief whose war camp had swelled with numbers far greater than what Llanmelin’s grain stores could feed over winter. But Caradog was right to provide it, for only feasting could affirm the bond between chief and warrior and restore the order that killing had unsettled.

  After wheat cakes glistening with honey had been served, Caradog called for his Songman. All chattering ebbed as Rhain walked to the fire.

  For the second time, I watched him take his place at the centre of the hall. For the second time, my breath caught at the disruption of his face in the flame light.

  He stood unmoving, letting the silence wait for his bidding. Then he parted his lips and summoned the ancestor in whose name he would sing.

  I shivered to my marrow with the strength of his authority.

  ‘Sing the battle of Tir Cantii,’ cried a woman from the audience, when he had finished his invocation.

  ‘Sing Cun’s rampage of Tir Dumnoni!’ shouted another.

  Rhain shook his head. ‘Tonight I sing Caradog’s attack on Tir Dobunni.’

  There were murmurs of surprise. It was an honour to hear a new song, freshly-conjured. But there was also apprehension. He would sing of our attack, but how would he describe it? The Songmen alone had the power to judge their chief’s nobility, to praise or to satirise. They were granted this freedom, for without it, their praise would carry no weight.

  I looked at the war chief. He sat straight and unsmiling.

  But if Caradog had feared Rhain’s judgement, he needn’t have. For the song that poured from Rhain’s chest described, in spinning rhythms and weaving language, a warrior chief so mighty, so luminous, that no one could shield their eyes from his light.

  The song did not shy from his errors or failures. It spoke of the retribution that had come too soon, and of Caradog’s hopes, not yet fulfilled. But Rhain drew forth, with intricate precision, his courage, his nobility—all interwoven with older stories of other great chiefs, stories that echoed Caradog’s own.

  Though his stature was small, the muscles in Rhain’s arm were thick and strong from pounding the staff. He drove the song forward with a ceaseless rhythm. Sweat poured from his face. He worked as hard as any smith.

  I looked around at the audience, enraptured by every word. I saw the song soothe the warriors, and affirm all that bound us to this land. But then, as I watched this strange-shaped man continue to sing, I began to see a purpose that was yet greater.

  The true s
pirit of the war chief was captured in this song. Rhain would sing it tomorrow, on the next moon, and many more times. While this song was sung, the war chief would live. The song made Caradog immortal.

  I took a deep draught of the strong ale and stared, transfixed, at my teacher. This was his power: to determine what endured. He had crafted and memorised this song in the few hours since we had returned. I hungered more than ever to know his craft, to devote myself to it.

  I still did not know my role in this war. I was still fighting to have my Kendra’s voice heard. I ran my palms through the dense deer fur on which I sat. Was it possible, I wondered, that now, with our land under threat, it was not the Kendra’s power that was most needed, but the Songwoman’s?

  Early the next morning I went to seek Rhain. The township was quiet, still slumbering after the feast. Only journeypeople and farmers had business with the dawn.

  I could not find him at the temple nor in his hut. It was Neha who barked up at the eastern platform to signal she had caught his scent. I climbed the ladder and found him slumped against the wall.

  He turned to me, his face crumpled with sleep. ‘Greetings, Kendra.’

  ‘Have you been here all night?’ I asked, sitting beside him.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he murmured. He brought his water bladder up to his lips and tipped it high.

  ‘You must have frozen.’

  He shook his head. ‘I barely feel the cold.’

  He smelled sour and fleshy, in need of a soaping, yet I felt no urge to draw away.

  ‘Are you glad to be home?’ he asked.

  I shared his bleak smile. This was neither his home nor mine, but now home to both of us.

  ‘I am glad to be returned to your teaching.’

  ‘Is that why you have tracked me here to my nest?’

  ‘Yes—but if it is too early…’

  ‘No, no…’ He propped himself higher against the wall and drank again from his water skin, before holding it out to me. ‘Something from the Mothers?’ he offered. The tang from the bladder’s opening told me it was not water he drank. I shook my head and he hooked the pouch back on his belt. ‘The craft of the Songwoman has two parts, two powers,’ he said, without prelude.

  I drew my cloak tighter and waited, surprised. I had thought we might return to the grove or temple. But I would learn here if he wished it.

  ‘The first is well known, nine tenths of our art.’

  ‘Voice,’ I said.

  ‘Not voice,’ he said. ‘Memory. You have learnt poems already in your training to journey-law, but these are mere droplets compared to what will come. As Songwoman, your memory will become a cauldron whose depth is without limit.’

  I nodded. The Songmen knew hundreds, thousands of poems: battles, histories, magical tales, summoned from a vast inner pool at a moment’s notice.

  He rubbed his eyes. ‘I will teach you to remember when I do not have such a headache.’

  ‘Of course,’ I assured him. ‘And the second part?’

  Rhain drank again. ‘To understand the second part, you must go to the craft huts and watch the smiths.’

  I laughed. ‘Why this?’

  ‘Because there you will see the metal being shaped.’

  I frowned in confusion.

  ‘Forging!’ he said. ‘The making of a new vessel, a new sword…’

  ‘Yes, I know the craft,’ I said, ‘but not the relevance.’

  ‘Memory is a strong art, but the greater skill of the poet is forging.’

  ‘As you showed last night…’ I whispered, beginning to understand.

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘Metal and song. Both drawn from the land. Both wrought by fire.’

  ‘What is the fire that forges song?’ I asked, warming to the correspondence.

  ‘Inspiration!’ he said. ‘The Songwoman is not only one who can recall the poems at will, but one who can soften the metal of the stories and find new ways to shape them, new lustres in their meaning. This is her purpose.’

  I stared at my hands, grazed from fighting. Rhain’s poem last night would preserve Caradog’s spirit as a sword never could. Here was a craft that offered hope. ‘When can I begin to learn it?’

  ‘Hoo! Not for some time. First you mine the ore. Then you learn to forge.’

  ‘How long, Songman?’

  ‘You will be quick to learn the poems and how they are structured,’ he said. ‘But I cannot predict when you will gain the authority to create them.’

  Inwardly I groaned.

  Fine beetle trails in the platform we sat on reminded me of what I had seen in the Roman hut. ‘Can you write letters?’ I asked him. I knew many journeypeople learned Greek and Latin.

  ‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘I was raised on the fringe of the Empire. I know Latin letters, but I do not practise them. Writing will make your songcraft weak.’

  ‘How?’ I asked, suprised.

  ‘Because it steals your memory.’

  Slowly, I nodded.

  ‘This is the sickness of the Romans. They cannot remember.’

  I helped Rhain descend the ladder. We were both expected in the Great Hall after libation to meet with the war council. As we walked I asked him why he kept mead in his bladder, not water.

  ‘Against the cold,’ he answered.

  ‘But I thought you did not feel it?’

  He tapped the bladder. ‘And this is why.’

  We huddled on the inner circle of benches in the Great Hall, stamping our feet and cradling cupfuls of warm ale from a pot on the fire.

  Caradog sat, as always, in the strong place facing the doorway, his fists balled on spread knees, speaking with pride of the attack. Scapula’s swift reprisal had shocked us all, yet Caradog saw only the glory in his war band. He was unbreakable as the greenest timber.

  The council murmured their approval as he spoke.

  ‘But I have thought long on our journey home,’ he continued. ‘It is clear to me that we cannot drive Rome from Albion unless we meet her army and defeat it in open battle.’

  ‘War Chief,’ said Prydd in surprise. ‘We have, for years, sought to avoid this.’

  ‘Because we did not think we would succeed in it. But I saw a spirit of fighting in Tir Dobunni, more powerful than I have seen in any combat.’ He looked to Hefin. ‘There is power in this soil that grows strong fighters. My own men have strengthened here. I believe we are ready.’

  Hefin sat tall in Caradog’s praise. ‘I agree with you, Horse-end,’ he said. ‘We need to settle this. These dog skirmishes are like picking a scab.’

  A few other warriors muttered in agreement but I was astonished. This went against everything we knew. ‘Stealth has long been your success in this war,’ I said. ‘What has turned you, War Chief?’

  ‘I am hungry to end this,’ he said. ‘We all are. This war is draining both our grain stores and our spirits. Now is the time to act.’

  The council were listening, nodding.

  ‘But,’ he continued, ‘we cannot do this unless we have numbers.’

  ‘The Brigantes,’ murmured Prydd.

  ‘Yes,’ said Caradog. ‘We cannot defeat Rome without the Brigantes. I have decided to go to Cartimandua and speak to her myself.’

  ‘Are you sure that is wise?’ said Prydd slowly. ‘She is in treaty—’

  ‘She is kin, journeyman,’ said Caradog. ‘When I stand before her, she will not put a treaty with Rome above the bonds of blood.’

  Prydd frowned, clearly unwilling to favour a plan that was not of his design.

  ‘Which route would you take?’ Hefin asked. ‘The Cornovii paths will be thick with Romans.’

  ‘That is fine knot work!’ said Caradog, waving the question away. ‘You and the way-finders determine the best route, and I will ensure that I ride it.’

  ‘Through Tir Deceangli would be the safest route,’ said Hefin.

  Caradog nodded, enlivened by the plan. ‘It would also give me opportunity to meet with the Deceangli chiefs after their los
s at Tir Dobunni, and make firm our union.’

  Once again, Caradog had described his intention as unquestionable. Yet it was far from this. I had heard much of the great tribequeen, Cartimandua. She was feared throughout the tribes for her ruthlessness. And she was a friend to Rome. She had already made her choice.

  ‘How can you be sure that your cousin will join you when she has refused you already?’ I asked.

  ‘I cannot be sure she will join me,’ Caradog answered. ‘But if I don’t go, I can be sure that she will not.’

  ‘But what of the danger?’ I said. ‘To present at her hall will expose you to great risk of capture…’

  I looked to Prydd. Would he not speak out against such a gamble?

  Caradog paused before answering. ‘Do you think me so unpersuasive, Kendra?’

  ‘No…I do not, I—’

  ‘War Chief?’ Rhain’s voice was quiet. ‘If you are resolved to this plan, I might know a way to convince Cartimandua to turn back to you.’

  All eyes fell upon him. Rhain rarely spoke at council, attending only to verify questions of history. ‘We must establish, beyond question, your rightful bond to these tribelands,’ he said. ‘Beyond the immediate jurisdiction of a war chief.’

  ‘A fine suggestion, but how?’ asked Caradog.

  Rhain stared at me. ‘Here sits, among us, the living embodiment of our sovereign spirits. The Kendra has stood with the Mothers. She carries the soul of the land.’

  I waited, unbreathing. What did he mean by the acknowledgement?

  Rhain held my gaze. ‘Our kings are made through their bond with the land.’

  I gasped. ‘You do not suggest that I…?’

  Rhain nodded. ‘Marry the war chief.’

  Hefin roared with laughter.

  ‘This is no occasion for humour,’ said Prydd.

  ‘I have a wife, Songman,’ said Caradog.

  ‘Ah, but I speak of sacred marriage,’ said Rhain. ‘A marriage between land and king. If Ailia chose you as husband, then you would be a king chosen by the land and wedded to the land. Cartimandua would not refuse such a king.’