Boadicea's Last Stand

  As her sword went in with a sickening crunch, she twisted her head in revulsion. 130 soldiers had succumbed to her sword, and yet, the sight of the weapon drawing blood filled her being with a nameless disgust. The weapon itself was a legend, straight out of fables and tales. Cortana, as it was called, was crafted by one of the first blacksmiths ever, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durandel, the weapons of the archangels. But killing was not nearly as easy as it sounds, and that is saying a lot! To take a life was the ultimate sin, however illustrious the lineage of the blade.

     But alas! Needs must as the devil drives. There was no other way Boadicea cold save her soldiers from certain slaughter. They had proclaimed their unswerving loyalty by riding out to war with her, and she had to do everything in her power to be worthy of that loyalty. At that moment, her horse leaped over a jagged rock and she was jolted to her senses. The brief respite from the ongoing carnage had come to an abrupt end. She was inside the castle now, the conch signalling the 2-hour break for both sides to pay proper homage to the martyred. She was safe for now, and the familiar tugging of memory pulled her under.

        It had all begun nearly 4 months ago. On a seemingly ordinary day, the court had had an unexpected visitor. The messenger was from the famed High King Peter’s kingdom. He had brought with him an elegant piece of parchment stamped with his seal. Little had Boadicea known, that the paper was to be the petition for her doom. After receiving him with befitting honor, she had asked that he deliver the message for which he had no doubt traveled long and far.

“By the order of the High King, it is hereby made known that Queen Boadicea of the Welsh kingdom is to surrender all the treasury and troops she now has under command. “

Boadicea was seething. Oh, the nerve! “On what grounds?”, she ground out through clenched teeth. The messenger had seemed clearly reluctant, but managed to speak.

“It is His Highness’ belief that a woman is incapable of leading an army, much less ruling a kingdom of the size and status as Wales. He is generously offering that you surrender yourself and assume your rightful position in his palace – beneath him.” That was all she needed to hear. Anger was scorching through her veins, hot as liquid fire. Rising to her full height, she raised her chin defiantly.

“No.” The smallest, most simple of words. “With all due respect, fair sir, I refuse.”

“Your Majesty, I must warn you. Your recalcitrance is but an invitation or war. If you refuse to humble your pride now, the blood of your soldiers will be on your hands.”

Boadicea heaved a melancholic sigh. “That’s what it means to be Queen, sir. The blood of my soldiers will always be on my hands.”

As promised, the very next day, another announcement was made, but this time, it was for the whole province. Two weeks hence, the two armies were to clash in a fearsome battle. Any ruler who lends any form of aid to the Queen would meet the same terrible fate. And that had been it. No king was willing to lend their soldiers for fear that they would also be slaughtered. 

 Alone and helpless, she had begun assembling her troops for war. It was not a matter of pride, but of self-esteem and honor. It had been her late father’s dying wish that she be named as the heir apparent of the throne. And she had to fulfill this last desire of his. And so, at a tender age of 18, the crown had rested uneasily atop her head. But her heart had been in the right place. Mere months later, the kingdom was flourishing; trade had never been better, the streets were all the more safe, and everyone was content with the fair and just rule of the young monarch. She had inspired a sort of loyalty in her subjects that she knew Peter would never have managed. And it was for this reason that he so deeply resented her.

Another conch blew in the distance, and Boadicea clambered onto her horse once more. They couldn’t hold out for much longer, she knew. The vial in the leather pouch on her hip felt as heavy as a rock, and she knew the end was nigh.

The battlefield was strewn liberally with the corpses of the dead. Beautiful birdsong had been replaced by cries of anguish. No sooner had she thought this that sudden realization crashed onto her. She was surrounded! Her moment of distraction had cost her dearly. Ten men stood around her in a tight circle, swords pointing straight ahead. A man came forward, braided loops of rope clutched in his hand. He snatched her sword from her and force her to dismount. One of them held her to the floor, while another kept a tight hold on her feet. A third bound her arms behind her and she grinned in satisfaction at the number of men required to restrain a ‘mere woman’. Roughly jerking her up, they marched her across the battleground, towards the tent where the High King resided.

The tent was the very embodiment of extravagance. The insides were tastefully decorated with the choicest silks and priceless artifacts from his various expeditions all across the globe. And on a plush divan was his Highness himself. In full battle regalia, he reclined across its length. At the sight of her, tied up and helpless, he clambered hastily to his feet, a slow and cocky smile stretching across his face. Boadicea was fuming now. Enjoying her apparent custody, he lifted her face with his fingers. Rebelling with all her strength, she turned her head and spat at his shoes. Looking mildly put out, he addressed her: “Now, now, my dear! Is that any way to greet your king?” When she said nothing, she saw the blaze of anger behind his mask of indifference. “Kneel.”

“Not to you.” He kicked out at her knees, and she fell to the ground onto her knees.

“Much better.”

She only needed a little time. She had to get her hands on the vial. And she knew just the way to do it. “Scared, Peter? Lashing out at a woman, bound at that, hardly proves your might. You’re a coward, hiding behind your soldiers in this disgustingly luxurious space, while they sacrifice their lives to satiate your ego.”

That was it. A dagger flashed into his hand and he placed it beneath her chin. A tiny spot of red bloomed and a bead of scarlet liquid fell onto the carpet. “I am not a coward.”

“Then prove it.” She knew very well she was goading him. She was walking on thin ice here… But there was no other way. “Untie me and then fight me. If you win, I’ll gladly surrender. I’ll call off my troops and assume what you believe is my rightful position - as a slave in your palace.”

Despite the ministers and viziers dissuading him, he cut at her binds with the same dagger and they fell to the floor in a heap. Yes! She only had to keep him talking for a little while longer. She knew she could never best him in a fair fight. Her body was exhausted from days of fighting and every part of her was saddle-sore. If he had his way, she was sure to end up as a slave, and the idea was more than she could bear. That left Boadicea with only on alternative. Appealing to his vanity, she pretended to be intrigued and asked, “Tell me, Peter. How did you manage to capture me? It was a brilliant plan, I must admit. Surely a lot of thought must have gone into this idea of yours.”

“Yes, of course.” A flash of surprise flitted across his features, and he quickly turned his back to her. Not the wisest of moves, especially when you had a prisoner. “You see, I knew of your tendencies to slip into the past.” She wasn’t hearing anymore. Her hand had begun inching downwards and towards the pouch on her hip. Slowly, steadily. She was almost there. Just a little more. Her fingers found the string that held it together, and she yanked on it, ever so slightly. The vial felt cool in her hand and she held onto it. He was still talking, and quick as a whip, she pulled her hand out of the pouch and uncorked the bottle. Catching the movement, Peter turned, but he was too late. She had already tipped the contents into her mouth and gulped, even as Peter reached out a hand to stop her.

She dropped a mock curtsy, and said “Your Highness.” Promptly, she collapsed and the last thing she heard was the tormented cry of the King, a beautifully satisfying sound. Little had she known, that she was to become an inspiration for women of the future. Boadicea, the brave Queen who drank poison than being enslaved by her enemies.