London by Edward Rutherfurd Read Free Book Online Page A

himself – a huge figure in a red cloak and with long, trailing moustaches – summoned his father over and spoke with him. He saw his father kneel to the chief, saw them exchange words, saw the great man smile warmly, place his hand upon his father’s shoulder and then give him a small brooch. His father, a humble peasant but a valiant man, recognized by the greatest chief on the island. Segovax blushed for joy.
    It was well into the afternoon when his father came over to him. He was smiling, but seemed preoccupied. “Time to go,” he said. Segovax nodded, but sighed. He could have stayed there for ever.
    Soon, however, with his father working the oars, they were making good progress back up the river. Looking behind, Segovax saw the last of the rafts being pulled ashore.
    “Are they going to fight soon?” he asked.
    His father glanced at him with surprise.
    “Didn’t you realize, boy?” he said quietly. “They were on their way to the coast.” He pulled steadily on the oars. “The Romans are coming.”
    Little Branwen watched her mother curiously. She had been asleep when Segovax and her father left, and the day had promised to be quiet and rather boring. Her mother had spent the morning making a basket, sitting with some of the other women in front of the hut, talking quietly while the children played. And there, no doubt, they would have stayed all afternoon, had it not been for the druid’s visit.
    He had arrived quite unexpectedly, rowing himself in a dugout, but then one could never account for the old man’s comings. With the quiet authority of his ancient order, he had commanded the people of the hamlet to give him a cock and three chickens to sacrifice, and then to accompany him to the sacred places across the river. And so, obediently, not knowing what instinct or premonition had caused the old man suddenly to leave his island, the villagers had followed him, on rafts and coracles, across the broad stream that sunny afternoon.
    They had not gone directly to the twin hills of Londinos, but had first made their way to the broad inlet where the stream descended the western flank of the hills. Disembarking on the left side of the inlet, they walked up the bank to a spot about fifty yards from the stream. There was nothing much to see except a group of three rough stones, about as high as a man’s knee, which were set around a hole in the ground.
    It was a sacred well. No one knew when or why it had first been opened up. It was fed not by the river but by a little spring. And in this deserted well, it was said, a certain benign water goddess dwelt.
    Taking one of the chickens, the druid murmured a prayer while the people watched, expertly slit the bird’s throat, and dropped it into the well, where a moment later they heard it splash into the water deep below.
    Next, returning to their boats, they crossed the inlet and walked up the slope of the western hill. Here, just below the summit on the river side, there was a bare expanse of turf with a fine view over the water. In the centre of this grassy spot there was a little circle cut a few inches into the ground. This was the ritual killing place. Here the druid sacrificed the cock and the other two chickens, sprinkling their blood on the grass within the circle and muttering:
    “We have shed blood for you, gods of the river, earth and sky. Protect us now in our hour of need.” Then he took the cock and the chickens, and, telling the villagers they could now return home, made his way across to the other hill to commune with the gods alone.
    And this, for the people of the hamlet, should have been the end of the matter. They had been dismissed. As they trooped down to their boats and rafts, they were content that they had done all they should.
    Except for Cartimandua.
    Branwen continued to observe her mother. She was strange; the little girl knew that.
    Why else, just as everyone was getting into their boats, should Cartimandua suddenly have begged one of