London - Edward Rutherfurd [19]
But the druid had looked up and seen her. For a moment he gazed at her, apparently annoyed. Then he silently beckoned her to come down.
“Wait here,” she suddenly said to little Branwen, handing her the baby. “Wait and don’t move.” And taking a deep breath, she walked down the slope past the ravens.
As long as she lived, Branwen remembered the long minutes that followed. How afraid she had been, standing at the top of the grassy slope, alone with the baby, watching her mother and the old man below. Even though she could see Cartimandua, she did not like being left in this strange, eerie place, and if she, too, had not been afraid of the ravens, she might have run down to her mother.
She saw her talking earnestly to the druid; saw the old man slowly shake his head. It seemed, then, that Cartimandua was pleading. At last, gravely, the old druid took several bones out of the fire and inspected them. Then he said something. And suddenly, a terrible sound came from below, echoing so loudly that it caused the ravens to rise, startled into the air, and descend with cross, croaking sounds. It was an awful, wailing scream that might have come from a desperate animal.
But it came from Cartimandua.
Still, no one had guessed his secret. Segovax felt pleased with himself. Ever since their return, Londinos had been a hive of activity. The dark-bearded noble had already arrived by the time they reached the hamlet, and his father had immediately been sent with the other men to the ford just up the river. Indeed, so busy had the men been that his family had hardly seen the fisherman from that time.
The preparations were extensive. They were driving pointed stakes into the riverbed at the ford. Men from every hamlet within miles had been summoned to cut down trees so that all along the bank of the druid’s island they could build a stout wooden palisade.
News came daily now, as fresh men arrived at the ford from all quarters. The news was sometimes confusing.
“All the British tribes have sworn to follow Cassivelaunus,” one fellow stated, whilst another declared: “The Celtic tribes across the sea in Gaul are going to rise. We’ll soften Caesar up here. Then they’ll cut off his retreat.” But others were less confident. “The other chiefs are jealous of Cassivelaunus,” some wiser heads remarked. “They can’t be trusted.”
Yet at first the reports were good. Caesar had landed by the white cliffs on the south coast and started to march through Kent, but straight away the island gods had struck. As before, a huge storm had nearly wrecked his fleet, forcing the Roman back to the coast to repair it. When he began to march once more, the swift Celts in their chariots had harried his line, swooping down, wasting his troops. “They’ll never reach the river at all,” people were saying now. Still, the busy work went on.
For Segovax, it was a time of suspense – a little frightening, but most of all exciting. Soon, he felt sure, they would come. Then it would be time for his secret plan. “The Celts will smash them, of course,” he proudly explained to Branwen. He sneaked off along the riverbank until he came to a place where he could watch the preparations. By the second morning, they were floating extra timbers down the stream.
Cartimandua was now in a daze of terror and confusion. If Branwen left her side, she grew anxious. If the baby cried, she rushed to it. If Segovax disappeared, as