It was all for the best. She had told herself so a thousand times. Branwen would belong to the captain of course. Technically, she would be a slave. He could sell her or do what he liked with her. But the fate of such a girl might not be bad. She would be at the court of the great Cassivelaunus; if the captain liked her he might free her; she might even make a good marriage. Such things happened. Better than waiting around this village where everything was so dull, Cartimandua reasoned. If the girl could learn to control her temper, it could be a fine opportunity.
And in return, her husband would not fight the fearsome Romans, but come with her to safety up the river.
“You will all go upriver,” the captain had told her bluntly. “You will deliver the girl to me at the summer’s end.” Meanwhile, all she had to do was to hide the bargain from her husband. For though she knew he would never agree, once it was done, it would be too late. An oath was an oath in the Celtic world.
No wonder, therefore, that from the day when the wolf nearly killed her, Cartimandua kept the girl always at her side.
Still no news was heard of Julius Caesar.
“Perhaps,” Segovax’s father cheerfully remarked, “he will not come.”
For Segovax, these summer days were happy. Though his mother continued in her strange, dark mood and kept poor Branwen always at her side, his father seemed to delight in spending time with him. He had mounted one of the wolf’s pads for the boy, and Segovax wore it round his neck like a charm. Every day, it appeared, his father was anxious to teach him some new skill of hunting, or carving, or guessing the weather. And then, at midsummer, to his surprise and delight his father suddenly announced: “Tomorrow I shall take you to the sea.”
There were several kinds of boats in use upon the river. Normally his father used a simple dugout hollowed from an oak trunk for setting his nets along the bank or crossing the river from time to time. There were rafts, too, of course. The boys of the hamlet had made their own the previous summer, mooring it out in the stream and using it as a platform from which to jump and dive into the river’s sparkling waters. There were also little coracles, and occasionally Segovax had seen traders from upriver come by rowing long boats with high, flat-boarded sides that the Celtic islanders also knew how to make skilfully. But for a journey like this, the little hamlet owned one vessel that was especially appropriate. It was kept under cover and tended by his father. And if the boy had any lingering doubts about whether the long-awaited journey would actually take place, they were finally dispelled when his father told him: “We’d better test it on the river. We shall take the wicker boat.”
The wicker boat! It consisted of a shallow keel, with broad ribs made of light timber. But this delicate framework was the only hard material in the vessel’s hull. Over the frame was stretched a coat not of wood, but of osier woven into stout wickerwork. And over this, to provide the necessary waterproofing, was a coating of skins. Traders from over the seas had long admired the wickerwork of the Celtic Britons. It was one of the island’s minor glories.
Though only twenty feet long, the wicker boat had one other refinement. In its centre, secured with stays, was a short mast on which a thin leather sail could be raised. The mast was nothing more than a small, freshly cut tree trunk, carefully chosen so as not to be too heavy, and with a natural fork left at its top as a head for the halyards. Charmingly, it was also the custom to leave some sprigs of leaves growing at the top of the mast, so that the little wicker boat seemed almost like some living tree or bush floating upon the waters.
Primitive the vessel certainly was, but also remarkably convenient. Light enough to be carried; flexible but sturdy; stable enough, despite its shallow draught, to be taken out to sea if necessary. The oars and tidal flow would propel it about the river, but its little sail could be a useful additional source of power – enough, given its lightness, to overcome the river current if the wind was anywhere behind it. For an anchor, it had a heavy stone set in a wooden cage like a lobster basket.
They carefully inspected the little vessel, raised and set the mast, and for several hours that afternoon they tried the boat out upon the river. At the end of which time his father remarked with a smile: “She’s perfect.”
High tide came some while before dawn the next day, and so it was just at first light that father and son pushed the wicker boat out from the spit and caught the ebb tide that would carry them downstream for many hours. There was also, by good luck, a gentle breeze from the west, so that they could hoist the little leather sail and, using a broad oar to steer, sit back and watch the riverbank pass by.
As they slipped away into the stream, Segovax turned round to see his mother by the end of the spit, her pale face watching them depart. He waved, but she did not wave back.
The river beyond Londinos did not widen quickly, and before it did so, the boy knew they must pass through one of the most striking features in its long and winding course.
For though, in its great journey from the island’s interior, the river made many a huge meander, it was just past Londinos that it entered a series of big, tightly packed loops that formed a sort of double S. About a mile from Londinos’s eastern hill, it began a big curve towards the north before swinging completely round to the right and almost doubling back on itself as it went south. At the bottom of this southern curve, still only three miles as the crow flew from the eastern hill, the river’s course passed directly beside the high ground on the southern bank, which rose from the riverside in a large and gracious slope. At this point the river veered clean round north again, and then, after a mile, back once more.
As they passed through the loops, his father watched Segovax with amusement. Every so often he would ask, “Where is Londinos now, then?” Sometimes it lay to the left, sometimes to the right, sometimes behind. Once, when the boy became confused, he laughed aloud. “You see,” he explained, “though we are going away from it, Londinos at this moment is actually ahead of us!” It was a feature of the river well known to those who sailed upon it.
The day was clear. As they progressed downstream, Segovax saw how, just as at Londinos, the water of the river was so clean and clear that the bottom was visible, sometimes sandy, sometimes mud or gravel. At mid-morning they ate the oatcakes Cartimandua had sent with them, and for drink scooped up the sweet-tasting river water with their hands.
It was as the river began gradually to open out that the boy obtained for the first time some sense of the great chalk V in which he had been living.
In Londinos itself, the chalk ridges were not immediately obvious. There were the slopes behind the hamlet, of course. These rose in a series of low ridges for about five miles until they reached a long, high line with sweeping views. But this ridge, formed mainly of clay, lay just within the curving lip of the great chalk downs to the south, and masked them from the world of the river. Similarly, on the river’s northern side, the boy was familiar with the gentle wooded slopes, intersected by streams, that formed a background to the twin hillocks by the riverbank. He could see the rising terraces behind those, and the series of promontories and ridges, several hundred feet high, that extended several miles into the distance. But of the great chalk escarpment that veered away north-eastwards behind these inner ridges of clay and sand, he was unaware.
Now, however, a dozen miles downstream from Londinos, a very different landscape had begun to reveal itself. On the left side of the river, where the northern edge of the great chalk V was already more than thirty miles away, the banks were low and marshy. Beyond the banks, his father explained, lay the huge flat wastes of forest and fen that swept round for a hundred miles and more in a vast, bulging curve to form the eastern coast of the island with its endless, wild seascapes by the cold North Sea. “That’s a vast, raw land,” he remarked to the boy. “Endless beaches. Winds that cut you in half when they come from the east across the sea. Chief Cassivelaunus lives up there.” He shook his head. “They’re wild, independent tribes,” he remarked. “Only
a powerful man like that can master them.”
But if he looked to his right now, to the southern bank, what a contrast. At this point, the great chalk ridge on the south side of the V was approached by the river. Now, instead of gentle slopes, the boy found himself sailing beside a steep, high bank, behind which there rose, hundreds of feet high, a great, striding ridgeway that extended eastwards as far as the eye could see.
“That’s Kent, the land of the Cantii,” his father cheerfully told him. “You can walk for days along those chalk ridges until you get to the great white cliffs at the island’s end.” And he explained the details of the island’s long, south-eastern peninsula and how, on a clear day, you could look across the sea to the new Roman province of Gaul. “There are rich farms in the valleys between the ridges,” he said.
“Are they as wild as the tribes on the north side of the estuary?” Segovax asked.
“No,” his father smiled. “But then they’re richer.”
For a while they continued in silence, the boy filled with wonder, his father meditative.
“Once,” his father said at last, “my grandfather told me something strange. There used to be a song when he was a boy; it said that one time, long ago, there was a huge forest out there,” and he gestured eastwards, in the direction of the sea. “But then there was a great flood and the forest’s been buried ever since.” He paused as they both considered this idea.
“What else did he tell you?”
“He said that at that time, when people first came here, all the land up there” – and now he pointed north – “was covered in ice. It was frozen all the time. And the ice was like a wall.”
“What happened to the ice?”
“I suppose the sun melted it.”
Segovax looked north. It was hard to imagine this green land dark and frozen all the time.
“Could the land freeze again?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t think so,” Segovax said confidently. “The sun always comes up.” He continued to stare at the scenery as the boat progressed down the river, which slowly grew wider. His father gazed affectionately at his son, and said a silent prayer to the gods that, after he was gone, the boy would live and beget children in his turn.
It was mid-afternoon when they came in sight of the estuary. They had just rounded a large bend. The river was already a mile wide. And there it lay before them.
“You wanted to see the sea,” his father said quietly.
“Oh yes.” It was all the boy could say.
How long the estuary was. On the left, the low shoreline began its slow curve, opening ever wider; on the right, the high chalk ridges of Kent stretched straight to the horizon. And between them, the open sea.
It was not quite as he had expected. He had supposed the sea would seem, somehow, to sink away towards the horizon, but if anything the open expanse of waters appeared to swell up, as though the whole ocean was not content to stay where it was, but was anxious to move swiftly forward and pay the river a visit. He gazed at the sea, saw its choppy waves and the patches of darker water that lay across it. He smelt the rich, salty air. And he felt a huge thrill of excitement. Ahead of him lay this great adventure. The estuary was a gateway, and Londinos itself, he now realized, was not just a pleasant place by the river, but the starting point for a journey that led to this wonderful, open world. He stared at it, rapt.
“Over there on the right,” his father remarked, “there’s a big river.” And he pointed to a place some miles along the high coastline where, behind a headland, the great Kentish stream of the Medway came down through a break in the chalk ridge to join the river.
For another hour they drifted down the estuary. The current was becoming slower, the water more choppy. The wicker boat began to bounce about, water slopping over its side. The water seemed greener now, darker. The bottom was no longer visible, and when he scooped some water into his mouth, the boy found that it was salty. His father smiled.
“Tide’s turning,” he remarked.
To his surprise, Segovax suddenly found that the motion of the little boat was making him feel queasy. He frowned, but his father chuckled.
“Feeling sick? It gets worse if you go out there.” He waved towards the sea. Segovax looked at the distant, rolling waters doubtfully. “But you’d still like to go?” his father asked, reading his thoughts.
“I think so. One day.”
“The river’s safer,” his father remarked. “Men drown out there in the sea. It’s cruel.”
Young Segovax nodded. He was suddenly feeling very sick. But one day, he secretly vowed, however sick it made him, he would taste that great adventure.
“Time to go back,” his father said. And then: “There’s a bit of luck. The wind’s changing.”
It was indeed. With a hidden kindness, the wind had dropped and then shifted to the south-east quarter. The little sail flapped as the fisherman put the boat about and started inching back.
Young Segovax sighed. It seemed to him that no day in his life could ever be as perfect as this, alone in the wicker boat with his father, in sight of the sea. The water was gradually getting smoother. The afternoon sun was warm. He felt rather sleepy.
Segovax woke with a start as his father nudged him. They had been progressing very slowly. Though an hour had passed since he had closed his eyes, they were still only just entering the bend of the river, the open estuary behind them. As he woke, however, he gave a little cry of surprise, and his father muttered: “Look at this, now.” He was pointing to an object not half a mile away.
Upon the river, they saw a large raft slowly making its way from the north shore. Some twenty men with long poles were pushing it across the stream. Behind them, Segovax could see, another raft was setting off. But what was remarkable was not the large rafts, but their cargo. For each carried, strapped to its deck, a single magnificent chariot.
The Celtic chariot was a fearsome weapon. Pulled by swift horses, it was a light, stable, two-wheeled machine, capable of carrying a fully armed warrior and a couple of helpers. Highly manoeuvrable, these chariots could dash in and out of a mêlée while their occupants darted spears or shot arrows right and left. Sometimes warriors fixed scythe blades to their wheels, which cut to pieces anyone who came close. The chariot on the raft was magnificent. Painted red and black, it gleamed in the sun. Fascinated, Segovax gazed at it while his father turned their boat to accompany this wonder to the southern bank.
But if the boy was taken with the raft and its shining cargo, it was nothing compared with his excitement when, as they neared the shore, his father suddenly exclaimed: “By the gods, Segovax. Do you see that big man on the black horse?”
And when the boy nodded, his father explained: “That’s Cassivelaunus himself.”
The next two hours were thrilling. While he was made to wait by the wicker boat, his father was busy speaking with the men and helping them get the rafts to shore.
For as Segovax sat waiting by the little boat, no less than twenty chariots were brought across the river and some fifty horses as well. These horses were no less magnificent than the chariots. Some, the largest, were to carry individual warriors. Others, small but swift, were for the chariots. All, he could see, were carefully bred. A quantity of men crossed, too, with cartloads of weapons. Some of them were splendidly arrayed in brightly coloured cloaks and jewellery of shining gold. The boy’s heart swelled with pride to see this noble show of his brave, Celtic people. But best of all was when the great chief 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.