DAUGHTERS
OF
TIME
In memory of Jan Mark,
writer and friend
(1943∼2006)
‘Truth is the daughter of time.’
Sir Francis Bacon
Introduction
HISTORY AT MY SCHOOL didn’t feature many women. We learned about ‘villeins’, who I thought at first were evil creatures planning world domination. However, they turned out to be peasants in the Middle Ages – and they were all men. Then came more men, doing things like ‘strip farming’ and paying tithes to their feudal lords. And at the other end of the social scale, there were, of course, some kings.
I’m sure if I hadn’t given up history at the age of fourteen, I would have at least been taught about Queen Elizabeth I and Queen Victoria, but I doubt whether, even now, students would come across many of the great women featured in this collection.
From the powerful resistance mounted by Queen Boudica and her fierce daughters, to the courageous protestors who demonstrated against nuclear missiles at Greenham Common, you will find plenty of characters to admire in this anthology.
They weren’t all born to power; in fact, some of them came from very humble beginnings, but they have one thing in common – they were utterly dedicated to whatever their lives led them to do and be.
They were remarkable, but also in some ways completely ordinary, using their talents and gifts to make the very best of their lives, sometimes against tremendous odds.
They were pioneers – whether they were discovering truths about prehistoric life, healing soldiers in battle, flying planes, making their own choices about marriage, fighting for women’s rights or just living a life of faith.
Thirteen authors of historical fiction have imagined what the lives of these inspiring women might have been like and have explained why the individual stories spoke to them.
We hope they will speak to you too.
MARY HOFFMAN
Contents
Introduction
Tasca’s Secret
by KATHERINE ROBERTS (Queen Boudica)
The Lady of the Mercians
by SUE PURKISS (Aethelflaed)
The Queen’s Treasure
by ADÈLE GERAS (Eleanor of Aquitaine)
All Shall Be Well
by KATHERINE LANGRISH (Julian of Norwich)
Learn to Die
by MARY HOFFMAN (Lady Jane Grey)
The Phoenix Bride
by DIANNE HOFMEYR (Elizabeth Stuart)
A Night at the Theatre
by MARIE-LOUISE JENSEN (Aphra Behn)
An Unimportant Woman
by PENNY DOLAN (Mary Wollstonecraft)
Best After Storms
by JOAN LENNON (Mary Anning)
The Lad That Stands Before You
by CATHERINE JOHNSON (Mary Seacole)
Return to Victoria
by CELIA REES (Emily Davison)
The Colours of the Day
by ANNE ROONEY (Amy Johnson)
Please Can I Have a Life?
by LESLIE WILSON
(The Greenham Common Women)
About The History Girls
About the Authors
Tasca’s Secret
A story about Queen Boudica
(c.30–c.60 AD)
BY KATHERINE ROBERTS
WHEN THE SOLDIERS CAME, Tasca had one foot on the shaft of the chariot and one hand twisted in her pony’s mane. Her other hand clutched a spear, balanced overhead as her father had taught her before he died. Her mother thought Tasca too young to fight. Next time they quarrelled with a neighbouring tribe, Tasca would prove her wrong.
The ponies broke into a trot. Tasca took another step along the bouncing shaft.
“Steady!” she hissed at the pair. “This isn’t easy, you know.”
The pony harnessed on the other side – her sister’s mare – snorted at the trees. The air rippled, as it did when the druids called on spirits. Then both ponies reared in terror as the forest exploded with men in leather armour brandishing swords.
Tasca swore as a branch knocked the spear out of her hand. She stumbled back along the chariot shaft and threw herself on to the platform, bruising her elbow. Anger filled her as the chariot careered out of control through the wood. She’d almost managed the trick all the best Iceni warriors used in battle – running along the shaft to surprise an enemy, before ducking back between the ponies for cover.
Then screams sounded in the village, and her anger turned to fear.
She gathered up the trailing reins, her heart thudding as she regained her balance and slowed the chariot. But before she could turn the ponies, a boy in a mud-splashed Roman tunic leapt into her path and flung himself at their bridles, dragging them to a stop.
“Don’t go back there!” he warned.
Tasca scowled, recognising Marcus, the son of the local Roman governor. Her father, in his role as king of the Iceni, used to invite the boy’s father to feasts in their roundhouse. Marcus would bring her little model horses, which he carved himself. Then the king had died and left half his lands to Tasca and her sister, and the governor had come no more. He did not feast with women, he said. This was the first time she’d seen her friend since her father’s funeral, and she couldn’t think what he was doing with the soldiers. The boy was no warrior.
“Marcus!” she said in relief. “Let go. I nearly ran you over.”
But the boy clung on, white-faced. “No, Tasca, I’m serious. Father sent those men here. I came as fast as I could to warn you. They’ve orders to teach your mother a lesson.”
She frowned. “What sort of lesson?” Then she smelled smoke and heard more screams. “They’re burning our village!”
“They’ll do worse if you try to help. Quick, someone’s coming… hide!” Marcus grabbed her long braid, pulling her off the platform and into the bushes. The ponies bolted with the empty chariot bouncing behind them.
Some soldiers ran past, dragging a girl with copper hair between them. The golden torc of a princess gleamed around her neck. Her wrists had been bound, but she was fighting her captors like a true Iceni warrior. “Camorra!” Tasca yelled, realising the captive was her sister.
Marcus put his hand over her mouth. “Shh,” he hissed. “You can’t help her now, or those men will catch you, too. Come with me. You’ll be safe in my father’s house – put this on.” He pulled a ragged dress out of the bag he was carrying.
Tasca stared at the dress. It was filthy and smelled of somebody else’s sweat. “I’m not wearing that—” Her words ended in a splutter as Marcus scooped up some mud and smeared it across her mouth.
He smiled grimly at her expression. “No one’ll recognise you now. Keep your head down. I’ll smuggle you in the back gate of our camp. It’s the last place they’ll look for you.”
As they travelled through the forest, Tasca worried about her family. She whistled for her ponies, worried about them too. But only the wind replied, moaning though the trees like druid horns. She shuddered and hurried to catch up with her friend.
The Roman camp was more organised than their village. It had huts arranged in a grid, a big house for the governor, and a ditch all around with stakes driven into the ground to keep enemies and wild animals out. And keep the British slaves in.
Two nights passed. Marcus showed Tasca where she could sleep, and smuggled her food from his father’s table. She discovered she could wander freely around the camp, as long as she stayed inside the stakes. She passed the time gathering useful leaves and roots, which she slipped into an old pouch she’d found.
Wounded men began to limp out of the woods. Some were carried in on stretchers and taken to the blood tent, where doctors worked to heal the injured. Tasca crept i
n after them to find out what had happened to her people.
While she hesitated at the tent flap, a soldier called out to her: “You, girl! Bring me water!”
Tasca scowled. She opened her mouth to protest that she wasn’t a slave. Then, remembering her disguise, she ducked her head and picked up the water jug.
The wounded soldier spat. “Told you a whipping wouldn’t stop the crazy woman, didn’t I?” he grumbled to his friends. “Now she’s roused the Trinovantes against us! We should’ve crucified the druid-lover and her wildcat of a daughter while we had the chance, instead of letting them run off to wail to the other tribes about what we did to them. Mars only knows where the other girl got to.”
Tasca clenched her fist and wished she still had her spear. She poured water into a bowl and carefully added a few crushed leaves from her pouch. She took the soldier his water. The wounded man snatched it from her and drank deeply.
“Taste good, Roman?” Tasca whispered in Latin. “That’s for what you just called my mother and sister.”
He looked up in surprise. His eyes widened as he realised who she must be. Then he died.
That evening, Tasca pushed past the guards at the door and marched into the governor’s house. She found Marcus reclining on a couch beside his father, eating grapes and cheese from a low table. The governor wore a toga and was using his dagger to eat. He frowned at Tasca.
“I’m not one of your slaves!” she said, glaring at her friend. “I’m a princess of the Iceni. And I want to go home now.”
Marcus sat up with a start. He shook his head urgently at her. One of the guards stepped forward, but the governor raised a hand. He swung his feet to the floor and looked Tasca in the eye. He did not seem surprised by her announcement, and a little chill went down her back.
“It’s just a story to keep you safe,” the governor said, glancing at Marcus, who avoided Tasca’s gaze. “Words can’t hurt you, can they?”
“But your men are talking about crucifying my mother and sister!” Tasca said.
“Small chance of that,” muttered the governor, looking thoughtfully at her. “The queen must know we have you by now, yet she refuses to stop fighting. Perhaps she needs more encouragement. Come here.”
He picked up his dagger and wiped it clean on his leg. Marcus paled.
Tasca stiffened and looked over her shoulder. The guards stood right behind her, ready to catch her if she tried to run. She shouldn’t have burst in here like this. She should have climbed the fence and run away into the woods…
The governor laughed. “I’m not going to kill you, silly girl! I could have done that a hundred times already, while you slept under my roof. I just want some of that bright hair.”
He lifted her braid and sliced it off. He passed the coil of copper hair to one of his men and muttered an order.
Tasca shook her head, which felt strangely light.
“Don’t look at me like that,” the governor said. “They’ll give it to your mother with a message from me, and then maybe she’ll see sense and give herself up. You can’t go back to your village anyway – it’s not there any more. The queen of the Iceni is on the road with her army, burning cities and terrorising decent, law-abiding people. She’s got to be stopped.”
Tasca glared at Marcus. “You brought me here to be your hostage, didn’t you? I hate you!”
“I saved your life,” Marcus mumbled, his dark eyes full of pain.
“I’ll kill you if you hurt my mother and sister.”
The governor sighed. “That’s exactly what the queen said about you, so we’d better make sure you stay alive, hadn’t we?”
To find out what was happening outside the camp, Tasca took water to the wounded. If they were kind to her, she used her knowledge of herbs to ease their pain. If they were rude about her family, they died.
She discovered that her mother had burned the towns of Camulodunum and Londinium. Some said the Iceni queen had ten thousand warriors, others claimed a hundred thousand. The Romans were panicking and calling their legions back from the druid stronghold of Mona. The countryside was full of refugees, smoke and rumours.
In her dreams, Tasca caught glimpses of battle and blood, and began to worry about her ponies again. Had her mother used them to pull a chariot in battle? They would be frightened and bolt, and then the queen would get angry and whip them. She should never have let Marcus talk her into leaving them behind.
Towards the end of summer, a messenger arrived on a sweaty horse. “Where’s the governor?” he yelled. “I bring a message from Suetonius Paullinus! He’s got a plan to finish the demon queen, once and for all.”
Tasca turned cold. She followed the messenger into the governor’s house and listened at the door, but could hear nothing. Then the door opened and Marcus rushed out, almost knocking her over.
“You’ve got to warn your mother!” he hissed, grabbing her wrist and dragging her outside. “They’re going to set an ambush. If she brings her army along Watling Street, everyone’s going to die, my people as well as yours. Take my dagger and go – you’re the only one who can stop her.”
Tasca stared at the weapon. “If this is another trick…”
“It’s not a trick!” His anguished look told her he spoke the truth. “Please go, Tasca. You were right, before. Father wants to use you as bait for the trap, and I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt.” He slipped the dagger into her belt and pushed her towards the fence.
Tasca didn’t need to be told twice. While Marcus distracted the sentries, she darkened her cheeks with mud and crawled along the ditch until she’d passed the final guard. Then she squeezed through the stakes and ran into the forest, hiding herself between the roots of a tree.
They came after her, of course. Soldiers prodded the leaves so close to her hand that a spear grazed her fingers. She kept very still, biting her lip so she wouldn’t cry out. When they had gone, she bound the wound with a rag torn from the hem of her dress. Then she took the secret paths deep into the forest, until she found the druid grove where her mother worshipped the goddess.
She climbed the sacred oak, blew the horn that hung in its branches, and waited.
Tasca spent three uncomfortable nights up the ancient tree, wondering if any of her people were left alive to hear the call of the horn. Once a troop of Roman soldiers ran underneath, boasting about what they would do to the Iceni queen once they captured her. With only the mistletoe to hide her, Tasca broke into a sweat. But the goddess must have been protecting her, because they did not look up and see her. She dozed off again. Then she heard a familiar snort below, and jerked awake.
She looked down. A chariot had entered the grove, drawn by a pair of limping ponies. One of them raised its head and whickered. Tasca slid stiffly down the tree and hugged her pony. “Poor thing,” she whispered. “What has Mother done to you?”
The pony blew into her shorn hair, while the driver of the chariot stared coldly down at her. It was her sister Camorra.
“Had enough of your Roman friends, then?” she asked.
“I came to warn you!” Tasca blurted out. “They’re setting an ambush. They’ve got a legion, at least. You mustn’t go any further—”
“Bring her here,” a woman called from the edge of the trees.
Tasca shivered. She barely recognised her mother. The queen’s grey-streaked hair had been braided with human bones. Her arms and cheeks were painted with blue spirals. Roman heads, buzzing with flies and crusted with blood, hung from the shaft of her chariot. Tasca felt the chill of the queen’s gaze as two Iceni warriors rushed to catch her arms.
“Let go of me,” she said. “I’m not running away. I came to find you. A Roman legion is waiting to ambush you!”
“Good,” said the queen. “Show us where, and I’ll add a thousand Roman heads to my chariot shaft.”
“But you can’t fight them,” Tasca said. “Don’t you understand? It’s an ambush! They’ve been planning it for months. You must turn back.”
/> “Not another word!” the queen said, her expression furious. “We outnumber them ten to one. You can ride with your sister, and when we’ve defeated these Romans maybe I’ll let you help me take revenge for what they did to us. We’ll see how tough they are, when I hold their governor’s child helpless in my camp.”
The warriors lifted Tasca into the chariot, and Camorra whipped the ponies into a gallop. Tasca tried to protest that they were lame, but her sister did not seem to hear.
They came upon the Roman army at dawn. The legion waited in a glittering line at the edge of the wood, above where the road passed through a narrow valley. The Iceni army was strung out as far as the river. A line of carts carrying small children and supplies rumbled along at the back.
A shiver went down Tasca’s spine. The Romans stood eerily silent, their big shields joined together like a wall and their swords pointing through the gaps. Her mother’s army, in contrast, yelled and whooped defiantly, while the druids blew their horns to call on the favour of the goddess. Some young Trinovante warriors, caught up in the battle fever, raced up the slope to attack the Roman line, but died on the sharp swords.
The Roman general, Suetonius Paullinus, sat his big black horse at the top of the hill, directing his men. The queen pointed to him and yelled, “My best stallion and a chariot of gold for the warrior who brings me that man’s head!”
The horns blew. The army whooped its delight at the challenge. “Boudica!” yelled ten thousand throats. “Queen Boudica for victory!” Men and women brandished their weapons and rushed the Roman line. The Romans pressed forwards down the slope, and people began to scream and die.
Tasca huddled in the chariot, sickened by the blood, as Camorra drove up the hill. Thankfully, the ponies were too lame to keep up with the charge. Her mother’s chariot thundered past them, the queen yelling encouragement and brandishing her spear. Camorra shouted at Tasca to take the reins and leapt for the back of the queen’s chariot. But she missed her footing and clung on with one hand, hanging dangerously over the edge.