Brasus was relieved not to be sent with the envoys, for he feared seeing the queen again. She had been there when they broke through the gate, snatching his victory away as she rode behind her warriors, urging them on. Brasus and his men had had to fall back or be slaughtered for no purpose, but as they stepped back, shields facing the enemy, he had seen the queen throw a javelin which had struck the man beside him in the face. To see a woman kill like that was new to him and wholly disturbing.

Instead of Brasus, Diegis chose another chieftain, and it was hard to know whether this was a mark of favour or punishment. Yet the commander had been as surprised as any at what had happened, and his rage stirred the anger of the men into that rash and futile attack. It did not seem feigned, but Brasus wondered whether the plan had always been to get Ivonercus or Piso or both inside the fort. Men whispered that they were spies and would open a gate during the night or murder the Roman centurion who led the defence. Brasus was more than ever convinced that Ferox was a great leader and warrior and part of him did not like the thought of such a man being murdered rather than falling in honourable combat. He also doubted that Ferox was the key to unlocking the fort, for he had seen a small figure with long red hair up on the tower when the envoy had been killed and the prisoner escaped, and he sensed her power everywhere.

Brasus was not sleeping well, unable to clear his mind, although so far he was healthy. He had always considered cleanliness a fitting accompaniment to purity of the soul. Yet all around him he saw pollution and he knew that his spirit was succumbing. Sleep had become harder, his mind refusing to empty of thoughts no matter how tired he was. When he did sleep he dreamed, and each night it seemed to be of the queen. Sometimes she stood over him, driving a spear deep into his naked flesh and sometimes she was naked too, as desirable as she was terrifying. Yet the other dreams were almost worse, when he pictured encounters, whether amid the crunching leaves of an autumn forest or a meadow rich with spring flowers, and she smiled at him, a little afraid, a little excited. Each time he woke up as he was undressing her and felt such bitter loss. For a man to take a woman as bride was right and natural, for the pure must father more souls to climb to purity of their own. Brasus should have longed and lusted for his bride to be, even though on the one occasion he had met the king’s daughter she had struck him as insipid, albeit pretty enough. Now a spell had fallen on him, cast by the sorceress from Britannia and his soul was growing dark. Brasus worried that his mistrust of Diegis was fuelled by her magic.