The Warrior and the Druidess (4 page)

“Brude, good morn.” She scowled.

He glanced around to see if her guards were nearby, but then they didn’t need to be. Tanwen was more intimidating than any army as she stared daggers at him and grasped the sharp scythe.

“Tanwen, put the scythe down.”

She tightened her hold. “Why? I have come to cut the wheat with my betrothed. Is it not so? You said last night we would marry today. Did you not?”

Deny it
. The thought blared in his head. After all, he had drunk a great deal of heather mead, and so had she. No one would hold him to a betrothal made in such a state— drunk, naked and covered in blue woad paint. “I do not recall.”

She raised the scythe a bit higher. Her eyes sparked with anger. “But last eve, you swore we would be wed this day.”

“We were both drunk and naked.” Her glaring eyes were like sharp claws holding him down. And her lips thinned with anger. Would she really swing the scythe at him? His stomach knotted. He fought to keep his composure. “Why don’t you put down the scythe? You are a druidess, Boudica’s granddaughter. My father has offered you full hospitality. You do not need to cut wheat. There are many women in the tribe who can do that. Sit and rest.”

Her gaze bore into him with a stabbing anger, but she did not say a word.

“Do you not ken it to be best?” Brude asked, shaken by her piercing gaze.

“No. I think it best you announce our betrothal.”

“I decide when and whom I wed.” He felt the heat of everyone’s gazes on him. But it was too late to back down. “I have no plans to marry you. I recant any promise I did or did not make last eve when we coupled afore the fire.”

“An oath sworn by a warrior of the Caledonii should be held to. I will take the matter up with Chief Calach. In the name of my grandmother, Queen Boudica, I demand justice.”

In a blink of an eye, Huctia and Gethin appeared at Tanwen’s side with scythes in their hands.

Where did they come from? Brude thought.
It has all gone too far. I cannot dishonor my father by breaking an oath.

“Huctia, Gethin, good news. Tanwen and I have chosen to wed.” He feigned a pleasing tone and forced a smile for the two guards. He jerked his head back to Tanwen. “If you wish to wed me, so be it. I hope you do not come to regret your choice of groom.”

The venomous threat spilled from his mouth before he even knew he had said it. He spoke in anger, which was why he didn’t want to marry a druidess. Brude couldn’t think straight around them. They gave orders and worked magic. Let her go back to Britannia where she belonged.

But he saw the pain in her eyes at his words, and his guilt hit him like a Roman whip in the face. “Tanwen, if you will have me, I will wed you.” He bit his tongue and thought,
what did I say
?

“So be it. I will wed you, as my grandmother wishes.” Tanwen spoke each with evenly-spaced words and in a calm tone, and then she loosened her grip on the scythe.

Huctia walked up to Tanwen and hugged her. “Congratulations, Bright One.”

“My thanks.”

“Now that it is settled, let us get back to work,” Brude said.
For a second time, I’ve promised to wed the druidess. How did that happen?
Brude nodded at Tanwen then turned away and moved through the fields. He pushed conflicting thoughts aside and focused on the simple work of the harvest.

The day went by fast. The entire tribe worked alongside Brude and Tanwen, cutting down crops of oats
, barley, and rye.

Tanwen
wiped the sweat from her brow. Then, she
took twelve sheaves,
wound a long straw of hay around them and then knotted the end. She glanced up to see that Brude and the other villagers were doing the same.

She stepped back and watched Brude and Gethin throw the stooks into a wagon.

The driver gave Tanwen a hand, helping her up onto the wagon seat. As she rode back to the village, he told her, “It is good to have a druidess here to bless the wheat for reaping.”

“I was glad to do it. Do you not have a druid?”

“Our younger druid died. We have Druid Lossio, but he is elderly and ailing. Though the gods give him strength, there are many days when it is not enough, and he lays in his bed in pain.” The driver pulled the wagon to a halt near a stone house not far from the chief’s. “But the gods blessed us by sending you.” The driver leapt off the wagon and then unloaded the stooks. He carried them on his shoulder, one at a time, into the threshing house.

A warm sensation filled Tanwen at the man’s words. She left him to his task and strolled to her small wheelhouse. Exhausted from the day of hard work, she dropped down on her pallet and fell asleep.

* * * * *

Tanwen woke early—at sunrise—and walked to the threshing house. As she picked up a flail, her mind transformed the pile of golden wheat into a tall man with a broad, well-defined chest, thick, sinewy arms and legs and a comely oval face capped with thick brown hair.

Boudica’s own granddaughter. A sacred druidess of Ynys Mon. And plenty have told me, a beautiful woman. But still not good enough for you to marry
. She whacked the wheat with all her might. Again, she hit it, thrashing the wheat but imagining it was Brude. She pounded it with rhythmic movements, shaking all the kernels loose from the husks. Once she was done with the threshing, she gathered all of it in large, flat winnowing baskets. She felt light and free. She drew in a deep breath.

Outside, she raised the wicker basket above her head and shook it while swaying side to side in a fast, rhythmic dance. All thoughts flew from her mind. Her body spoke for her and her mind fell still. With graceful movements, she swirled with the wind as the wispy chaff caught in the breeze and floated above her head. Her arms and legs moved at will as the husks and kernels leapt up in the basket that she shook. The wind left the heavier grain behind in the baskets. It was as if the worries in her mind drifted away with the wind, as well. It was first harvest— a celebration. She would make it a happy day, no matter what.

After the winnowing, the women carried the grain inside to store it in baskets and clay jars. They put some of the grain aside to brew the first ale of the harvest. Her mouth watered for the taste of it, but not yet—there was something more important to do first. She swung a basket of grain in her arm as she walked to the chief’s wheelhouse.

There, Calach’s tall, slender wife, with pale skin and raven hair, greeted her. “Welcome druidess. I am Ciniatha ferch Ninia ferch Tava. I have seen you, but have not met you as yet. I was away visiting my sister. She just birthed her seventh son.”

“My blessings to your sister and her family.” She nodded her head in greeting. “I am glad to meet you. I am Tanwen ferch Wena ferch Boudica of the last of the two extinct tribes, the Iceni and the Ordovices.”

“Oh, I have heard all about you.” Ciniatha handed Tanwen a stone pestle and mortar. “You wish to marry my son.”

“It is so. My ancestor sent me.” Tanwen grabbed the pestle and then pounded away at the grain. As she beat it into fine flour, she was lost in thought.
It is unfair that all explanations of this strange destiny are upon me. I didn’t ask to have a sacred bloodline, to be the only survivor of the Iceni and the Ordovices and the only living descendant of Boudica. No one understands.
She pounded the grain harder. “Brude has agreed. I am sure he will announce the betrothal at the moonrise ritual tonight.” She smiled at Brude’s mother. As the chief’s wife, she could speed the wedding feast along—and she could get all this over with, finally.

“This eve?”

“Yes, at the ceremony we are making this loaf of bread for. It will be the best time to announce the wedding, since it is to take place so soon.” As she worked the pestle, she vowed to keep this a happy day, a day to celebrate the harvest. She smiled, and bubbling warmth floated through her.

“Yes, there will be merriment, of course, with the first night of Lughnassa. But, after all, the games and the feasting are a moon long, and the tribes won’t gather here until next week. That is the best time for my husband to announce your betrothal to Brude.” She laid her hand gently on Tanwen’s shoulder as she continued to pound the grain. “I welcome you to the family and to the Caledonii tribe.”

“You have my thanks, Ciniatha.”
I can wait one more week if I have to.
Tanwen sat on the floor in front of a small, short table that was covered with a sheepskin. She gazed fondly at Brude’s mother. She reminded Tanwen of the Druidess Sulwen, whom she had to leave behind at the Silure hill fort.

Tanwen dumped the flour on the sheepskin and then dipped her hands into the washing bowl Ciniatha held. After sprinkling droplets of water on the flour, Tanwen dug her hands into it. She loved this part of baking. As she slammed the dough on the sheepskin, she wished she could pound and shape Brude as well, to make him hasten the wedding. It seemed odd to her that Calach would not announce the wedding feast tonight. Could she trust Brude to go through with the marriage? He had lied about it once already.

She pounded the dough hard with her fist.
At least Ciniatha is on my side. Surely she’ll encourage Brude to marry me, and as soon as possible. But will he listen to his mother?

The door flap opened, and a dark-headed boy ran forward with a stack of hazel wood cradled in his skinny arms. This would be used to fire up the flat, stone hearth on which Ciniatha, as the chief’s wife, would bake the first loaf.

Tanwen jabbed pieces of wood into the flames. As she fed the fire, she knew the great blaze of destiny couldn’t be changed by one week of waiting. Whether they moved forward today or a week from now, their actions fed the fire of fate, all the same.

“What will be, will be.” She smiled at Ciniatha. “I shall return this eve for the sacred ceremony of the first bread.”

“Druidess, I am so pleased that you will perform the ritual for us this night.” Ciniatha took the rest of the kindling from her.

Tanwen pushed the door flap aside to walk outside into the balmy summer evening. She cast her eyes up to the sky. The moon would soon rise. She had to hurry. The ceremony of first bread must be tonight; it couldn’t wait a week.

When she entered her stone house, tallow candles burned brightly throughout the home. Both Gethin and Huctia sat around the central hearth.

Eager to splash cool, soothing water all over her dirty, tired body, Tanwen nodded to her guard and friend. “Huctia, you must help me bathe and dress as fast as I can for the moonrise ceremony.”

“Yes, you have been working in the threshing hut all day. You need a bath.” Huctia turned to the tall, muscular warrior. “Gethin, go fetch water.”

Gethin grabbed a bucket then ducked outside.

“As soon as he gets back, you can wash. But now, let me style your hair.”

“Yes, we must hasten.” Tanwen sat on a pelt and pulled the torque off her neck. She placed it in her lap. She closed her eyes as Huctia untied her braids and massaged her scalp. Her head tingled as tired muscles throughout her body relaxed under her friend’s tender care.

“There, now you look like the daughter of Boudica.” Huctia stuck a bronze mirror into her hands.

Tanwen wrapped her fingers around the bottom loop of the handle and gazed into the well-polished bronze at her face, which was so like her mother’s. “They said my
mam
looked like Boudica.”

“Yes, and as you are the spitting image of your mother, you must favor your grandmother, as well.”

“It is she, the warrior queen, who bade me marry Brude. But the wedding will not be announced until the other tribes gather here.”

Huctia smiled. “It matters not when it will be announced. It was made clear this day. He will hold to his oath. You will wed the chief’s son as your ancestor deemed.”

“Yet, I shall have a marriage with an unwilling husband, who no doubt
kens
he was forced into it.”

“You will have a marriage declared by the gods. Brude will come around. He is young, as are you.”

“Mayhaps. If not, I shall be in for a bitter life.”

“I think not.” Huctia’s voice grew softer. “Remember, you are helping the people. The union will keep the Romans from moving deeper into Caledonia, and it will also help our people regain the old ways when they forget them in the years to come.”

Tanwen sighed. “It is so, for Boudica spoke of it, and the great druidess, Sulwen, foretold of it, as well. Though Brude may never love me, I will be thwarting the Romans. That is worth it.”

Gethin returned with a pail of water, with which he filled the large, shallow laver bowl. Tanwen dipped her hands into the cool water, splashed her face, then washed her hands and feet, as well. She sighed, and her clean skin tingled. She peeled off her dress, and then threw on a blue tunic that fell between her ankles and calves. She wrapped a new cloak of red, white, black, green and yellow plaid around her waist then tied it tight with a rope belt. She admired her curves.

She waved her fingers in front of her face to ward off the heat that rose in her at the memory of Brude’s warm, bare skin rubbing against hers, his full, wet lips stroking hers as they burned. Her body had throbbed with the need for more. She’d found what she was seeking when they came together in a frenzy of molten sensations— shuddering, clenching and then erupting.

Tanwen placed the torque back around her neck. She walked as regally as Boudica herself to the chief’s house, holding her head erect and her shoulders back.

Everyone stood as the druidess entered. She held her arms out to them. “The moon has risen. It is time to begin the ritual.”

Her two guards, as well as Calach, Brude, Ciniatha and the other nobles gathered in a circle around the druidess.

A glow of warmth filled her, as if family gathered around her, taking comfort in rituals and traditions. She loved conducting celebrations better than all the other duties of a druidess.

Tanwen spread her arms wide. “Lleu Strong Hand, god of sun and war, we, the druidess, chief and high nobles of the Caledonii give thanks for the bountiful harvest. For the light you shone on the crops, we honor you. Our bellies will be full, even in the dark of winter.” A warm, soft, purring-cat vibration began in her chest and spread to every pore in her body.