London by Edward Rutherfurd Read Free Book Online Page B

the men to leave a coracle there for her, and then abruptly started back up the hill with Branwen and the baby again? Why, while the rest of the hamlet had reached the southern bank, had they spent all this time searching the two hills for the druid, who had mysteriously vanished? And why was her mother so pale and agitated?
    Had the little girl only known it, the reason for Cartimandua’s behaviour was all too simple. If the druid had so abruptly and unexpectedly called for these sacrifices, it could only mean one thing. With his special powers and his contact with the gods, the priest had divined that danger was very near. Her own dreadful hour, therefore, had arrived. The Romans were coming. And once again, with a terrible force, the agony of her dilemma had thrust itself before her.
    Had she done wrong? What could she do? Hardly knowing what to say or what to ask, she had returned in search of the druid. Surely he could guide her, before it was too late.
    Yet where had he gone? Carrying the baby, and dragging little Branwen along by the hand, she had traversed the western hill, crossed, by stepping stones, the little brook between the twin hills, and mounted to the summit of the eastern hill, expecting to find the old man there. But there was no sign of him, and she was about to give up when she saw a thin column of smoke coming from the far side of the hill. She hastened towards it.
    There was one other curious feature of the place called Londinos. On its downstream side, the eastern hill did not fall away evenly. Instead, a spur continued, before curving round and descending to the river. Thus, on the hill’s south-eastern flank, there was a sort of natural, open-air theatre, with a pleasant, grassy platform by the riverbank providing the stage, and the hill and its curving spur the auditorium. The slopes around this spacious stage were grassy and dotted with a few trees; the platform itself covered only with turf and some bushes. It was here, by the riverside, that the druid had built a little fire.
    From the slopes above, Cartimandua watched, but hesitated to go down. This was for two reasons.
    Firstly, from where she stood, she could see what the druid was doing. He had extracted bones from the birds he had sacrificed and was placing them in the fire. That meant he was telling oracles – one of the most secret rites the Celtic priests performed, and one that should not be audaciously interrupted. The second reason concerned the place itself.
    It was the ravens.
    On the curving slopes around this riverside site, for as long as anyone could remember, there had dwelt a colony of ravens.
    Cartimandua knew, of course, that if you treated them well, ravens were birds not of evil, but of good omen. Their powerful spirits, it was said, could defend the Celtic tribes. Probably that was why the druid had chosen this spot to read the oracles. Yet as she gazed at them, Cartimandua could not suppress a shiver. The large, black birds with their powerful beaks had always frightened her. How grim and ungainly they looked as they flapped and hopped about on the turf, making their horrible, deep, croaking caws. If she ventured down there, at any moment she would expect one of them to walk over to her, grasp her hand or leg in its vicious claws, and hammer a hole in her flesh with its brutal beak.
    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