24 The Fiery CrossThe rain had dripped down on Boudicca’s encampment for half a day, and the narrow streets between the huts were almost knee-deep in water and mud and dung. Even the great summer pavilion let in this rain, which swept in mad gusts between the hide curtains and down between the hastily erected planks of the dome roof.
The Queen lay in her sheepskin bed, silent and moody. Her daughters lay beside her, sleeping. Three tribal leaders crouched by the altar fire, trying to dry their leather jerkins and their sodden woollen plaids. The fire smoked, filling the place with choking fumes, as the rain sputtered into it from a hole in the roof.
At last the oldest of the tribesmen rose and went towards the Queen’s bed, making a low obeisance as he drew near it.
‘Boudicca,’ he said,
