“I don’t doubt it.” Jack paused, suddenly thinking of something. “And the reason the Luftwaffe didn’t come back last night?”
“A sudden fog on the Channel coast, Jack. Most unfortunate.”
“And that…”
“And that I could not have done without the Sidlesaghes’ knowledge, their oneness with the land, at my back.”
“Ah, Grace…”
They sat in silence for a while, holding hands, taking comfort in each other’s presence.
Finally Jack spoke. “One of the first things we may be able to clarify is what connection the White Queen has to Malcolm.”
Grace raised an eyebrow.
“Malcolm—Prasutagus—and Boudicca want to meet with us tonight. Do you feel well enough?”
Grace took a breath, then nodded.
FOURTEEN
Copt Hall
Tuesday, 31st December, 1940 New Year’s Eve
Later that night Jack wrapped Grace in a thick blanket over her dressing gown, picked her up, and carried her down to the front door of Copt Hall.
Malcolm was waiting there, but not in his usual guise. He’d lost his gentleman’s clothes, and was instead dressed in leather trousers with a thickly woven tartan woollen cape thrown over his bare chest. His feet were likewise bare, and he had painted his face—a bland mask of austerity—with lines of blue woad.
“Prasutagus,” Jack said.
Prasutagus nodded, then looked at Grace, staring curiously at him from the safety of Jack’s arms.
“You are not afraid?” Prasutagus said.
She smiled. “No. I have grown sick of fear.”
“And thus you are here,” Prasutagus said. “We have waited a long time for this night.”
“We?” said Grace.
“My wife and I,” said Prasutagus. “Britain has waited a long time for this night. You are sick of fear, and we of the invader.”
His eyes slipped to Jack as he said that, and Jack grinned.
“The barb no longer sticks, Prasutagus. I am now as much of this land as you.”
Prasutagus’ face relaxed from its sternness. “Naturally. If not I would have taken the opportunity to slip nightshade into your evening cocoa long before this.”
That earned Prasutagus a sharp glance from Jack, but he chose not to respond to the remark. “Grace is not strong, Prasutagus. I can’t think why we can’t do this indoors.”
“My wife does not want to move far from the trees,” said Prasutagus, and tipped his head towards the door. “If you please.”
Outside, the night was cold, and so still that it seemed as if life had stopped. There was a light sprinkling of snow on the ground which had frozen into a crackling crispness. While he had wrapped Grace well, Jack was himself dressed only in trousers and a pair of leather slip-on shoes, leaving his upper body bare. Now, standing on the threshold of the door, Jack shivered, and hugged Grace a little tighter to him.
There was silence to the south from London. For the past two nights, ever since the terrible raid of the twenty-ninth, the Luftwaffe had stayed away.
Jack walked slowly onto the driveway. To his left was a stand of trees, the remnant of Epping Forest’s once-close embrace, which sheltered his Austin convertible. Before him were low shrubs separating the driveway from a field. To his right another stand of trees, but at a greater distance than those to his left.
It was from these trees that the deer emerged.
Jack turned slightly to watch them, balancing Grace more firmly in his arms. She was no weight at all, but he worried that the pressure from his arms would discomfort her almost fleshless frame.
There were five of them, three fallow deer and three roe, all cautious, if not nervous.
Prasutagus came to stand at Jack’s side, his eyes fixed on the trees just behind the deer.
A woman emerged from underneath the trees, and Jack heard Prasutagus draw in a sharp breath.
She was in her early thirties, tall and lithe with the muscular arms of a warrior, and long dark, silverlaced hair twisted in a loose rope that hung over her left shoulder. Her face had a wide and high forehead, and was marked with lines of woad.
Her eyes were a lively hazel, and Jack could distinguish their sharp intelligence even at this distance.
She wore a tartan wool sleeveless robe, sashed about her waist with a belt of blue leather, and splashed about its hem with blood.
The woman reached the deer, paused long enough to lay a hand on the shoulder of one, then stepped forward.
Jack walked to meet her, Grace watchful and tense in his arms.
“Boudicca,” Jack said as he halted before her.
Boudicca acknowledged him with a tip of her head and an assessing glance from her sharp eyes, then turned her attention to Grace.
“Can you not stand?” Boudicca said.
“I’m sorry,” said Grace, struggling a little in Jack’s arms, and he set her down carefully, keeping a hand on her waist for support. “She has been ill,” he said to Boudicca. “She is weak.”
Again a glance from those sharp eyes. “I know that,” said Boudicca, then she looked past Jack and Grace to where Prasutagus had stepped up, and smiled so gloriously that Jack felt his heart stop for a brief moment.
“Prasutagus!” Boudicca said, and her husband moved past Jack and Grace and took Boudicca in his arms, kissing her brow, her eyes and then her mouth before hugging her tightly to him.
“We have not seen each other for some time,” said Prasutagus, finally letting his wife go. “Not since I came back as Malcolm.”
“Why didn’t you both come back?” Jack said.
“Prasutagus was always the stronger druid,” said Boudicca. “He had the strength, not I.”
“And why are you back, whether in flesh or spirit?” said Jack. “Is it to reclaim your sword? To wield it?”
Prasutagus put a hand on Boudicca’s shoulder, and looked at Jack and Grace. “We did not wish to speak to you until you knew of the woman you call the White Queen.”
“Your sword,” said Jack. “The druid’s sword.”
“Your daughter,” said Boudicca, “and Grace’s sister.”
“Tell me of her,” said Grace. She was now leaning against Jack for support, and he had an arm about her waist. “How is it she is involved in this? And what is your role?”
Prasutagus briefly told them of his and Boudicca’s background. How they’d ruled over the Iceni, and how they’d attempted to negotiate a settlement with the invading Roman army.
“But then something poisoned my husband,” said Boudicca, “and he died.”
“In death,” Prasutagus said, “I became aware that a terrible calamity had befallen this land. It had been infected with a presence so loathsome that I despaired. But then a little girl came to me, a girl with a cold, cold face and an icicle for a heart, and told me she could be my sword, the land’s sword, if we conducted an alliance with her.”
Jack almost could not breathe. He wondered why Prasutagus had done this, why he’d taken the risk.
“Because nothing else could have saved the land,” Boudicca said. “You couldn’t.”
Jack winced at that.
“Why did she need you?” said Grace. “Why approach you?”
“She needed to be bound to the land in order to create what she needed,” said Prasutagus. “She needed Boudicca and me to arrange a Seething, a druid ritual of binding, so powerful it needs a death to work it. We trusted her.”
“But I think we may have been ensorcelled,” said Boudicca, “to ensure we did what she wanted.”
Jack closed his eyes momentarily, his hand unconsciously tightening about Grace. “And thus, ensorcelled and trusting, you killed yourself,” he said finally, looking at Boudicca.
She shrugged a little. “I thought it was for a good reason.”
“For gods’ sakes,” Jack said. “Are you here to tell us that this White Queen, your sword, is as bad as that which you hoped she would destroy?”
“No, actually,” said Prasutagus. “We have watched the White Queen for two thousand years. She’s not particularly likeable, and some of her methods are damnably frightening, but we think we were right to trust her.”
“Then why are you back now, in this lifetime?” said Jack. “Why here now, to talk to us? Why drag Grace out in the middle of the night, when she should be asleep?”
“I am back in this lifetime to guide you, and to serve you,” said Prasutagus. “This is the lifetime in which all will be won or lost. Boudicca would have returned also, but she did not have the power for rebirth.”
“And we called you out here tonight,” said Boudicca, “because it is a night of power, the turning of the year, and we wanted to bless you, and wish you well. Do what the White Queen asks of you. It is your only hope, and it is the land’s only hope.”
“There’s another reason you’re here, isn’t there?” Grace said.
“Aye,” Boudicca said softly. “Do what the White Queen asks, but remember always that she is the druid’s sword.”