Dreaming the Eagle by Manda Scott Page A

one of them was going to see her, it would be him. She curled herself small and tight and kept her eyes away from his, not to call herself to notice.
    The second faction, grouped beneath an oak on the far side, were led by a red-haired youth on a nervous bay colt that started at every shaken leaf and mouthed constantly at its bit. The rider used his hands roughly and there was blood in the frothing spit. She took note of that, and the colour of their cloaks and the style of their torcs and patterns on their armbands and the accents with which the blackhaired one swore at the weather and her country and the redhead cursed her people and his own father, and then, as the rain fell harder and the noise of it filled her ears and theirs, she edged back, step by careful step, to the place where the grey filly waited.
    The storm was a brief one. It passed before she reached the turf rampart, giving way to rinsed blue skies and a drying sun, so that when she pushed through the gates in the encircling rampart the filly was black with the sweat of the run as much as the steaming after-wash of the rain. Inside, the compound was deserted save for a cluster of hens and a sleeping hound. It was the third day of the midsummer horse fair and every man, woman and child of the Eceni was at the fair ground, securing the last of their bargains and renewing old acquaintanceships over jugs of ale, while the elders of each group prepared for the council gathering in the greathouse. They were not alone in this; across the country, it was the same. Each of the tribes came together in their own homelands at this time. Even the Coritani must speak with their gods and daybreak on the summer solstice was well known as a time when they listened most keenly. Very rarely an individual or a group from one tribe might choose to travel to another’s greathouse for advice from their dreamers or to bring a petition pertaining to war, or its cessation. The truce of the season allowed it and the peace that arose afterwards was understood to be a gift of the gods. Those she had seen on the trackway were not from a people with whom the Eceni were at war but there could be no doubting their intent; they were riding for the sacred land that was the heart of the Eceni nation and their route took them directly past Breaca’s roundhouse.
    It was not done to run horses at speed within the compound but certain circumstances allowed it. Breaca cantered directly for the roundhouse and the women who remained inside. Airmid had heard her coming. She stood waiting outside the door-flap with the elder grandmother at her side. Both were dressed for ceremony. Their tunics hung straight and uncreased and smelled of sage. Black crow’s wings graced the grandmother’s shoulders, their tips falling forward to meet at her breast bone. Airmid wore a necklace of silvered frog bones, a fine, delicate thing that shimmered as she moved. Her black hair, newly combed, was bound at her brow by a thong of palest birch bark, the mark of a dreamer. Gold torcs gleamed at both their necks, giving them added height, making them other and sacred.
    On any other occasion, the sight of Airmid like this would have filled Breaca with pride and a desperate longing. Now, she was part of the new pattern of the day, a thing to be dealt with quickly. She threw her weight back and the grey stopped neatly as they had practised. Airmid reached up for the reins. Her eyes were crisp and clear, with the added depth that came after dreaming. She said, simply, ‘Who are they?’
    ‘Trinovantes. Thirty at least, possibly more. They are armed but the leader wears the band of a messenger on his left arm. They are on the trackway and they will pass here on their way to the gathering. They should be met and greeted.’ She twisted her body to look into the roundhouse. The grey spun and fidgeted under her. She saw nothing and straightened. ‘Where is Macha?’
    ‘With your father. They rode up to the trading fields to