Once Every Never by Lesley Livingston Page A

her hands. But just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore a sudden, shocking silence descended on the grove. Clare took a chance and peeked around to see what had caused it. And into that stillness walked—well … talk about impressive.
    The sea of revellers parted and into the centre of the stone circle walked Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni. The queen shimmered with gold and amethyst. Deep red garnets hung from her ears and flashed on her fingers and a delicate, braided silver torc encircled her neck. The sword strapped to her waist was, in contrast, plain and workmanlike—battered, well-used, and freshly sharpened.
    At her side strode a tall man who was obviously a king. His long, dark blond hair was held back by a circlet of red gold and he wore a flowing robe girdled with a heavy belt made of linked copper lozenges that held an ornate ceremonial sword to his hip. His chin and cheeks were clean-shaven, but the braided ends of his flowing moustache reached almost down to the line of his strong jaw. His profile, lit by torch flame and silhouetted against the dark of the forest, was regal—handsome and striking—and around his neck he wore a thick golden torc.
    The Snettisham Torc.
    Boudicca turned to address the gathered throng in a clear, ringing voice that carried up and into the waiting shadows of the night. “Tonight, the rising moon of Beltane Eve marks the start of my daughter’s sixteenth year. Tonight, she sheds the skin of childhood to become a woman. Tonight she becomes a warrior!”
    Comorra stood and threw back the cowl of her cloak, turning to face her tribe with a look of fierce pride on her pretty face.
    From the opposite side of the clearing Princess Tasca came forward, smiling broadly at her younger sibling. Clare felt her heart clench at seeing Comorra’s sister alive. The older girl’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled with excitement. Clare had a hard time reconciling that with the image of her lying crumpled and lifeless on the floor of Connal’s chariot. She too wore a blade hanging from her belt—smaller and more slender than her mother’s, made to fit a more delicate hand and a wrist not yet corded with years of strength and use. She carried something wrapped in snow-white doeskin, which she presented to the queen. As Boudicca threw back the leather wrap Clare stepped out from her hiding place and, unnoticed by the crowd, craned her neck to see what it had concealed.
    It was another sword. Polished to a gleam and almost pretty, it looked as though the hilt was made of bronze, with a leaf-shaped, dark-grey iron blade. Alongside it lay a tooled leather sheath that hung from a jewelled leather belt.
    “Comorra.” The queen buckled the sword belt around the girl’s waist and then took the blade from its bed of white leather. “I give you your sword.”
    Simple as that.
    Comorra’s slim fingers reached out—hesitating a moment—and then grasped the sword by the hilt. Its blade was short, no longer than some of the daggers worn by the men, and yet Comorra handled it with grace and assurance. The blade sang as it whipped through the air. Then, with a flourish that was only a little showy, Comorra spun the blade in her palm and slid it home in the scabbard at her side as if it had always belonged to her. Her mother smiled and Princess Tasca beamed with pride at her sister.
    Then Comorra’s father stepped forward.
    Clare watched Boudicca’s expression alter in the nearness of her husband’s presence. Suddenly she was no longer just handsome … she was lovely. Soft and glowing as a girl in the throes of a first love. The look was fleeting, but it made a powerful impression on Clare.
    The king began to speak. “In the world I would make for you, my daughter, you would need never unsheath the blade your mother gives you.” He turned and gestured. With a start Clare saw the young Druid, Connal, step forward. In his hands he held a little carved wooden box. The king reached