A white early morning mist hung over the low marshlands covering the village round huts that rose up out of the muddy waters on stilts as Enygeus looked back down the trail for the last time. Far in the distance on higher land, on the other side of the glinting river, she glimpsed a lone stranger bent over by his heavy load. She did not recognise his gait and noted that he deliberately skirted the village. Strangers were not welcome in these days of turmoil but her curiosity was aroused as the pack he carried suggested he was a trader of sorts. She scowled at the thought of him abandoning trade with his native Celtic tribes' men to make a bigger profit from the encampment of the invaders.

"Traitor!" She cursed to herself.

Her tribe was smaller in days gone by. Repeated raids from the clans in the north and cold stark winters had kept their numbers low. The last two decades had been kinder though and their children had flourished into strong well-trained warriors that she was proud of. Thank the old gods. The skilled youngsters would be needed against this new invader to their isle.

In her fifth decade Enygeus was an old woman. Long in the tooth but not long in her stride as before in her maiden years. A wispy plait of hair hung low down her bony back retaining the red of its natural colouring at the ends. At her thickened waist greyness had started to creep in its deep colouring. Her once lustrous locks now lay thinly against her scalp more white than grey in her advancing years.

The grey had come after the death of her beloved husband, Mandubratius, and for a while she had washed her hair with henna thinking he might see her still – stay beautiful for him. After his death ritual and burial she no longer cared and let the silver shine through as a beacon of her widowhood.

Halfway up the ascent to the top of the tor she stopped and felt the soft wild grasses beneath her sandaled feet. They were still too wet from the dew to sit and rest for a moment. Enygeus smiled to herself realising that this was an action she repeated each year on her trek to the burial chamber and each time it was too wet and she was forced to climb further until she reached the familiar boulder she used as a settle. The rock felt hard under her bony aching limbs this year but it was warm from the rays of the rising sun. As she surveyed the horizon she sadly remembered

Her husband had been a great warrior: a great chief. Leaders of the surrounding tribes had travelled many settings of the sun over innumerable leagues to pay homage to his wisdom and bravery, for he had unified many clans. The demise of Mandubratius had shocked them all but they gloried in his death by a wound on the battlefield and not as an old man beside the women by the fireside.

Bonfires had been lit across the land, the flares one by one spreading the sad news. Many feared that his death would bring war for he left no son. He had left her though, with a full belly, but who could say whether it be a son? He was so proud the day his beautiful young wife, Enygeus had snuggled up against him and announced that she was expecting his child. A son! It had to be a son! He was desperate for a son to carry on his line.

Many winters has passed since the badly beaten survivors of the ambush had returned her wounded husband to her. Despite being a village of fisher folk the warriors honed their skills hunting wild beasts in the ancient forests. Her man, the rough leather skinned, stout, broad chested Chief Mandubratius, always led these parties and fought for the greatest prize, a succulent wild boar.

The tale of the ambush had been recited many times around smoky fires since that day. Stealthily the hunters had stalked a plump young buck through the undergrowth into a small copse. Intent on taking venison back to the village for supper all eyes and bows were fixed on their quarry. It was only when the deer bolted at the sound of metal on metal did the tribesmen realise others had entered the clearing. Within moments they were surrounded. The warriors had heard stories of these new invaders who were rumoured to have ridden over wide salty waters to reach this their homeland.

In an instant the attackers, protected from the bowmen's arrows by their tall brightly painted rectangular shields, made from iron-covered wood, had advanced and encircled the tribesmen. As a hunting party, the defenders carried no shields. They were fleet of foot and carried only what was needed – their bows.

"Back to back! Hold! Stand fast!"" Yelled Mandubratius .The hunters' arrows pierced but could not penetrate the foreigners' guard and were soon succumbing to the short lethal stabs from behind the sturdy shields as the circle closed in.

Shouting orders to encourage his men, Mandubratius tried to imitate their assailants' manoeuvres with his dagger in an attempt to bypass the shields. But his weapon and those of his comrades had been made more for skinning animals than serious fighting Step by step the ring around them tightened. Besieged on all sides the clansmen fought valiantly with fervour for their lives against their advancing foes. They could do little to stop this regimented invader cutting them down with each powerful lunge from behind their guards. One by one the tribesmen fell to their knees and hope was finally lost when Mandubratius took a series of well-aimed thrusts to his belly and went down clutching his weeping flesh echoing, "Hold fast."

Only at the sound of three short sharp bursts from a horn in the distance did the foreigners retreat without a backward glance leaving their blooded prey for dead.

The leagues back to the village were long and painful for the surviving warriors. All had been gravely wounded and they fought still to contain the blood of life from their lesions. The coarse woollen cloth of their wraps already sodden, they had turned the fur of their outside skins inwards to try and absorb the flow of the blood. But it could not be staunched as they dragged each other home.

The effort to carry and finally haul their unconscious chief, Mandubratius, had made the return journey even more arduous. Help had come finally when a bairn who had wandered too far from the village had sounded the alarm. Many times the bored inquisitive youngster had been chastised for roaming too far; now he was a hero.

It was to her husband's cairn that elderly Enygeus ventured now. An annual pilgrimage a few leagues from her village onto the hilltop. The last few years the widow had made the trip at first light, in solitude, so that her kin could not see how she struggled to reach the summit. As she leant on her oak staff for support her faithful rangy hound echoed her steps, encouraging her upwards.

"That's it boy, push me up. It's hard work today."

It was a cool morning before the heat of the sun warmed the earth and she was grateful for its fresh breeze against her perspiring skin as she exerted herself up the steep slope.

The druid had stood beside her calmly until kin had carried the deathly white clan leader into the village's central hut on a makeshift pallet. As she had waited for the injured body of Mandubratius outside their home, custom and dignity did not allow her to run to his aid. The only sound she heard from the approaching assemblage was a low murmuring of "Not long now," indicative of the seriousness of his injuries.

Word of his wounds had travelled swiftly and she had prepared her bone needle and thread of sinew, both used many times before on the men folk of the village.

The priest, who had lingered after presiding over the mid summer's day festival, unwrapped her husband's bloody bindings to reveal a long jagged gash, made from a multitude of small stabbing thrusts. Mandubratius awoke briefly and his clouded eyes met those of his wife as she looked on in concern. Fleetingly he recognised her and then sank back into the darkness. It was not her name that he uttered.

Enygeus thought despairingly as she held his limp hand, that her beloved would not survive the rest of the day.

Roughly the arrogant tall dark eyed, dark robed preost from the west replaced the wound's covering and spat out,

"Stitch the woods and smear this on. By the will of the gods, he'll live."

Having faith the young Enygeus did as was bid: she stitched the wound and padded it with sheep's wool infused with the balm he gave her. As she kept her love warm she encouraged him to swallow the herbal potion that would restore him

"Drink beloved." She murmured cradling his head as she poured the liquid gently between his lips.

And as predicted the more of the potion he drank the stronger he became. He even took a little broth as the sun sank, and soon settled into a steady slumber.

But Enygeus' optimism was not to be born out. As the darkness of the night steadily deepened so did the deepness of his sleep. Mandubratius slept on. Soon the fabled dark hour of death approached before dawn and Mandubratius' breathing slowed, and gradually the rise and fall of his chest became shallower.

Satisfied he was resting peacefully his doting young wife allowed herself to briefly close her eyes. The bairn inside her was making her weary these days. When the expectant Enygeus awoke a short while later at the crow of the cockerel she saw his head turned away from her, saw the sag of his face and the greyness of his skin in death. She sat and stared awhile, empty headed, before being disturbed as the druid returned.

Not only warriors had died the night of the ambush, the aged Enygeus dimly remembered. The mother of a small child, Prasutagus, had also been taken. Death had stalked their village that night so many years ago.

With thoughts returning to current events it was with satisfaction that as a proud mother the ageing Enygeus, a few days ago, had watched her only daughter marry the clan's present chief, the now adult, Prasutagus. She had been the only parent still living to attend the ceremony. Her plans now fulfilled the old woman felt that she could finally rest.

Nearing the top of the mound the ancient clasped the stone around her neck with her free hand as if drawing strength from it. It was an amber neck let that she had worn from the day that her beloved husband had died. She recalled how so many years ago, she had discovered Mandubratius covertly shaping and polishing the stone. Happily she had crept away before he had seen her, with the expectation that he would surprise her with his gift on the oncoming mid summer's day festival in gratitude for the life growing within her womb.

As Enygeus reached the summit of the tor she tried to control the rasping of her breaths. She had only to climb the high barrow of stones that covered his burial chamber, individually brought by her husband's mourners from as far a field as the blue granite valleys of Cymru, to finish her task.

Retrieving a phial that she had secreted within her shift Enygeus fondly scanned the green valleys and plains beneath her before letting a few droplets of the potion fall onto her tongue.

Resolutely she clambered to the pinnacle of the cairn, trying not to disturb the carefully laid stones. Tears welled in her eyes as she untied the leather thong, which held the amber stone. Finding a deep crack in the structure, which ran down into the chamber itself she released her tight grip on the cord, returning the gift to its maker. She heard it reverberate as it hit the covering stone of her beloved's tomb.

"It's over. Over. Finally." She whispered hoarsely to herself holding back tearful sobs.

Her mission complete the wife of the dead chief, Mandubratius, lay on the surrounding moss, kept upright only by the small outcropping that supported her back. The potion of foxglove oil had begun to take effect.

Rotund with child the happy young Enygeus ambled across the walkways to meet with the other women of the village who were fishing in preparation for the feast of mid summer's day. As she approached she saw the younger slim vibrant wife of her husband's rival. Beneath and partially hidden by her shift, hung the amber pendant. Swiftly Enygeus changed direction.

This clandestine lover would also die peacefully on the night of the ambush as the expectant wife took possession of her husband's craftsmanship. Enygeus' only regret had been leaving the young boy Prasutagus motherless.

After the death of the great leader Mandubratius and his mother, the young boy's father had succeeded as chief. He was to prove a weak leader who had favoured peace with or rather dominance by the foreign invaders, a view later to be held by Prasutagus his son.

Alone over the years Enygeus had raised her daughter traditionally with respect for the old ways. She had nurtured a strong independent child who would fight for freedom from the trespassers on their Celtic lands. She had been taught that she was inferior to no man.

Drifting calmly into her final slumber, as had Mandubratius when she had fed him the deadly poisonous potion, Anna Enygeus wondered how long it would be before her offspring would dominate or dispose of her traitorous husband, Prasutagus. The old woman knew that only her daughter was strong enough to preserve the Celtic clans from the might of the Roman invaders.

Proudly before succumbing to sleep Enygeus pictured the great chieftain Mandubratius' fiery red headed daughter, saviour of the clans: Boudicca.

Comments

Opening = 4
Character(s) = 5
Dialogue = 4
Setting = 5
Plot = 5
Suspense = 5
Ending = 10
Enjoyment = 4

Jo, this story is puzzling until the very last word, Boudicca. I recognised the name of the warrior queen. A little more indication as to the location it might have helped things along. I read it a second time, noting that Mandubratius and Euyens were the parents of Boadicia, the former pronounciation of Boudicca.

Dorothy Spry

Opening = 9
Character(s) = 8
Dialogue = 7
Setting = 9
Plot = 9
Suspense = 10
Ending = 10
Enjoyment = 9

The Celtic names, the short sword thrusts of the Roman legions, the invaders travelling across salty waters: the clues were all there for the final denouement: Boudicca.
It's always difficult to judge which clues a reader will pick up - never more so than in historical fiction. What is a clue for one reader passes over the head of another.
This is a well researched, well crafted story that maintains suspense from start to finish.

Philip Neptune

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