| Boudica Queen of Celts, continued |
| That foolish Rhianna had already borne a child to a traveling minstrel, who kept on traveling when he learned of the news. She is an incurable romantic as well. Strangely, her lover's disappearance didn't get her down for long; she was soon back to her flights of fancy. The child was sent to be fostered in far-off Caledonia, where he would be safe and unknown....until such time as an heir might be needed. They would never had needed to hide a royal son but for disapproving Romans and their idea of female chastity. As if any of them are chaste. She almost started laughing and had to stifle it so no one would think her mad, giggling in a corner by herself. When she thought that she did laugh, or rather catch herself and cough, causing Rayell to turn. "Mother? Everything all right?" she asked. "Oh, I'm fine, really. I must be getting like your sister; thinking too much." Rayell grinned. “Not if you're thinking about the right things." "And what might that be, pray tell? It wouldn't be tall, handsome and named after Fion MacCumhail, would it?" "It might," she said, fidgeting. "Well, stop fidgeting and go help your sister." |
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| *** Anfhail sat fingering the Andraste amulet around her neck, drawing strength and patience from it. They were waiting for the Roman representative to arrive and be ushered into the main receiving room. She motioned her captain of the guard over to her. “You will of course keep an eye out, won’t you?” “Well of course,” Fionnbar replied, looking at her face. “Are you aware of something I should know about?” “Nay, not really, my dear,” she said, a smile pulling at her ample lips. “It never hurts to be on guard, does it?” “Not at all, my queen,” he said, saluting her. She knew he would be at the ready, she didn’t trust Romans, even now. Her daughters were at her side also, ever watching. |
| Finally, Seutonius Paullinus entered the hall, with his assistants flanking him. He was attired in his best Roman garb, smooth-shaven, hair trimmed short and outer toga draped over his right arm. Anfhail would’ve recognized him still, after two decades. Same military bearing, same dark hair and squared features. He bowed slightly, saying “Greetings to the rulers of the Iceni, King Prasutagus and Queen Anfhail.” “Welcome General Paullinus, commander of the Valeria Legions,” spoke Prasutagus. He chuckled. “We don’t need to be so formal, old friend. Pray, come sit with us,” he gestured, and a seat was brought for the Roman. Seutonius grinned, saying, “It has been a long time.” “May I present my daughters,” Prasutagus went on, gesturing to the two teenaged females sitting nearby. “This is the oldest and heir to the throne, Rhianna,” she stood and nodded her red head. “And this is my younger and next-in-line, Rayell,” and she stood, eyeing the Roman unabashedly but friendly. Seutonius smiled at her, getting back in the swing of being around females who are your equals. It was actually kind of refreshing; women back home could get so tiresome. It was time for the evening meal, and he was conducted to the next room, where a fine feast was being laid out. It was spacious and relatively unchanged from the way he remembered it. There were some new tapestries and a great new mead-hall table, but it was pretty much the same. The Roman general turned his attention back to Anfhail, striding gracefully to her place at the table. She was large, but didn’t move like it, moving with ease and grace to match someone much smaller and younger; in fact, it was hard to guess her age. He figured close to his own age, nearly 4 decades, but it was hard to tell with these Celts, they were rather long-lived. Anfhail was wearing a cream-colored underskirt with a green and gold woolen overdress, and the traditional bronze adornments. Seutonius had forgotten just how nice it was to watch her…he’d better behave himself, at least in public. They began the meal after Aither had asked the Great Goddess for blessing, Seutonius obviously enjoying himself. “As you can see,” spoke Anfhail, “We don’t have any Mediterranean cooks, but I did instruct them not to go heavy on the butter.” Seutonius mumbled his approval at the fare, nice breads (he did always like Iceni bread) good beef and mutton, and even a salad for the Romans. There was a dish of cooked vegetables and soft goat cheese to spread on the bread, almost like the cream cheeses back home. Sadly, no wine, but good smooth ale (usqueba or whiskey as his men say it burns his insides up) was just fine in his book. They spoke of recent happenings and other day-to-day things, while the general’s Roman comrades dug into the good British beef with uncommon enthusiasm, then Prasutagus spoke up. “I see the looks you’re giving my daughters,” he said equably. “They are lovely; but the oldest doesn’t look anything like me, does she?” Seutonius choked, and all the other Romans went very quiet. What was Prasutagus trying to say? He looked over at the Iceni King then burst out laughing. He was kidding! Scorpio, his assistant, looked scandalized and the two girls’ head snapped around to look at their mother. Of course they didn’t know Paullinus, the elder was still a toddler the last time he went back to Rome. Prasutagus started laughing too, saying, “I had you going there, didn’t I?” Scorpio turned to Seutonius, blinking. “What is he insinuating? That you bedded his wife?,” he huffed. “Have you no sense of shame?!,” he asked Prasutagus, who merely smiled at him. “Well, I did,” the general said evenly, “And the King was poking at me good-naturedly. I take it you haven’t been around Celts much, Scorpio?” The lieutenant shook his head, shocked, while the rest of the Roman retinue looked like they’d just been fed ox testicles. “The good Paullinus and I were lovers for a time, when I was first married to Prasutagus,” Anfhail spoke unashamed. “It was a charach union, but it was ended a long time ago, and I have been happy with my husband ever since.” |
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