The Warrior and the Druidess (6 page)

“It is being in a new place and having so much happen to me. I had a long talk with Brude yesterday, and I feel better knowing he hates the Romans as much as I do. He does not trust the broch dwellers.”

As they walked back into the village, each carrying a basket full of medicinal flowers, Tanwen heard the pounding of horses' hooves. “More riders.”

Three men approached on strong, healthy horses. They held large, bronze-hilted swords. Long cloaks of six hues, including blue, purple and crimson, were draped across their broad shoulders and pinned with gold brooches.

Tanwen called out to a redheaded Caledonii maiden passing by. “Where are these chiefs from?”

“Bright One, these are the chiefs of the fiercest northwest tribes, the Cereni, Smertae, and Carnonacae. They smear their faces with the blood of slain foes.”

“Ah, these are the wild Picts everyone in Albion tells stories about. I did not think they were real.” Tanwen gazed after them. “If any of the broch dwellers do come to feast, we shall sit the Cereni, Smertae, and Carnonacae chiefs next to them.”

“You are truly wise, Druidess.” Huctia chuckled. “If any broch dwellers say one wrong word to them, such as speak of the luxuries they have gained from trade with Rome, the chiefs will just kill them.”

For the rest of the day, they spoke of the horse races—and who would win—as they dried the borage and the chamomile, then stored them in clay vessels.

Tanwen crushed some marjoram into a yellow oil to ease pain, and then she and poured it into small clay bottles. The pale pink tufts of the rest of the marjoram simmered in a large cauldron. Her mind and muscles relaxed from its sweet, spicy fragrance drifting through the wheelhouse. When the marjoram cooked into a liquid, turning into a rich purple dye, she tossed in a bolt of woolen cloth the chief’s wife had given her as a gift. Later, she would speckle it with gold flakes and fashion it into a druid robe to wear at the bonfire.

She worked all night. She even finished dying and fashioning the purple cloth into a robe, and then laid it by the fire to dry. While it was still dark outside, she stuck her finger in the bowl of blue woad paint and drew a sun on her forehead, with spikes for rays extending out from a circle of Celtic knots. The power of Lleu flowed through her mind. The sun's beaming energy streamed into her, and she bubbled with excitement.

When she unfastened her braids, her long hair hung down to her thighs. Huctia draped the purple robe speckled with gold flakes over Tanwen. With a silver broach, she fastened a flowing white robe speckled with gold over it. She placed the gold torque on Tanwen’s neck and clipped gold clasps on her dainty ears. “You look beautiful, Bright One.”

“I think Boudica will be proud of me this day.” Tanwen smiled.

“All your ancestors, you mother, father, aunts, Sulwen and Rhys, will all be so proud.”

With Huctia and Gethin following her, she walked up an old path to the hill where the chieftains gathered. She scanned the faces of the men and women standing around the bonfire. Strength and intelligence shone in their eyes. The men had long mustaches, and a few had pointed beards. Some chiefs were garbed in crimson cloaks, some in cloaks of green. Some had straight long hair and others had curly hair. The women chiefs wore their hair plaited in four braids with a ball of gold on the end of each.

These were the leaders who would do what the tribes of Albion had not— keep the Roman invaders out of their land. This was why she’d left Sulwen and Rhys, at the bidding of her ancestor, to wed a man who would lead the chieftains of Caledonia against Rome.

Amid roaring and shouting from the crowd, Tanwen led the chiefs around a standing stone nine times. She dipped her cupped hands into the pond by the megalith and drank of its water for clarity and wisdom.

Tribesman blew bronze horns and their pipes blared as Tanwen moved toward a large, spoked wagon wheel coated with black, gooey tar. From the hill, she gazed down at the fertile fields below.

Brude, the chieftains and the crowd joined her as she chanted, “The sun burns, yet winter nears. The season turns. Summer comes to an end. Sun and earth, Lleu and Macha. Life to death, the wheel turns, Lughnassa, Lughnassa.”

Brude handed her a firebrand, and she lit the wheel aflame.
My life has turned in a new direction like a wheel on a wagon rolling from one street to go down another. Will my life with Brude be as passionate as the fiery wheel?
Her mind filled with the memory of the wild pleasure of his firm, muscular body taking her over the crest until she’d screamed in ecstasy.

With an iron rod, she rolled the blazing wheel down the hill. “The end of Lleu’s reign, god of the sun.”

As she ran with the rolling symbol of the sun, she glanced at Brude, who kept pace with her on the other side of the burning wheel, garbed in a red tunic interwoven with gold and draped with a plaid
brat
of blue, green, purple, gray, white, and black. Tanwen’s gaze fell to his eyes, which smoldered with heat and enflamed her with desire. Smoke rose, as flames ate the wood.

The flaming wheel reached its end and crumbled into pieces of burning wood. The crowd stopped in their tracks and circled the symbol of the dying Lleu.

She spread her arms into the air and focused on the gods. “The sun begins its journey into dark winter. The season turns, sun and earth, Lleu and Macha, life to death. Winter nears, Lughnassa, Lughnassa.”

I’m part of the turning season. Soon I’ll transform from maiden to wife and then mother
. With the fire nothing more than smoldering embers and the wheel no more than ashes, and with Brude at her side, she led the crowd back up the hill.

The gentle wind tousled her hair as she whispered to the rising moon, “You come so soon now.”

She glanced at Brude, who stood beside her, and followed his gaze to nine warriors climbing the steep path toward them, each clutching a stack of wood.

Warmth and energy flowed through her as, one by one, each man gave her a bundle of one of the nine sacred woods. She greeted the men in turn, “Hail, willow of the streams, hazel of the rocks. Welcome, alder of the marshes, birch of the waterfalls. Greetings rowan of the shade, yew of resilience, elm of the brae, oak of the sun, and sweet pinewood.” Tanwen bowed to each. “Great blessings to you for feeding the sacred fire.”

She piled the blessed wood together. The chosen men made several trips up the hill, delivering stack after stack until she’d created a towering Lughnasa bonfire.

Lossio’s wrinkled hands trembled as they struck sparks from flint, lighting the firebrand aflame. The crowd grew silent as Lossio handed the torch over to her. She raised the firebrand high and walked full circle around the tower of wood, which reached to the sky. She lit the Lughnasa fire. Brude’s shouts of glee rang through the air as it ignited. The sparks flared into a rising flame. Hungrily devouring the nine sacred woods, the amber blaze roared.

As the harpist’s vibrating notes danced to the height of the raving mountain of fire, Lossio stirred the hearts of all gathered there as he sang ancient paeans to brave heroes of bygone days. The smoke rose and vanished in the vast, ebony sky. Tanwen opened her mouth and rang out a melodic song.

“Boudica,

championed by the goddess,

Andraste’s image adorned your hilt.

Your white blade drank Roman blood.

The Celts were strong.

The gods were happy.

Boudica,

championed by the goddess,

hear the carnyxs blow.

Hear the drums beat.

Up the slope you led us,

but Rome struck with venom.

Boudica,

championed by the goddess.

We took death, like our queen,

fell on Roman blades,

robbing Rome of

prisoners and slaves.

Boudica,

championed by the goddess,

sure as dragons

slay eagles,

the day shall come

when Rome leaves these shores,

and Celts stand evermore.”

Tanwen brushed a wayward tear from her eye. Druidess Sulwen wrote that song. She had also told Tanwen  about the Lughnassa festivals of old, when a chosen one, the god king, was sacrificed so the deities would protect the tribe. Boudica gave her life to the gods when the final battle was lost. When Tanwen came to Caledonia, she felt like a sacrifice, here to wed a man she’d never met, who didn’t know her or love her. But now she felt blessed. She could not imagine having another man for her husband. If only Brude felt the same way about her.

As Tanwen stood next to Brude, she burned for him. She laced her fingers with his and led him in a circle around the roaring blaze. Fire pulsated through her blood. The harpists and pipers played as the drummer kept a fast beat on the bodhran.

Tanwen and Brude whirled together, singing, “Lughnasa, sun and earth, Lleu and Macha, life to death, the wheel turns, Lughnasa, Lughnasa.”

Tanwen leapt high, bouncing up and down on her feet and laughing. As soon as the dance ended, Brude pushed a cup of heather mead into her hands. As she drank it down, mellow warmth flowed through her.

* * * * *

Brude couldn’t tear his eyes from her, nor could he rub out the memory of her long shapely legs entwined with his. The way she looked in the firelight, covered in warrior paint—she was the perfect wife for a Pict warrior, save for her powers. She could read his mind, affect his dreams.

Brude rubbed his forehead as he thought, who would marry a druidess?

He would. Though known for his cunning and his ability to overcome obstacles, Brude couldn't fathom a way out of this. He’d never been so trapped in all his life. He stood with aplomb, as the son of a chief must, but his mind turned in chaos, disturbed and exuberant with thoughts of Tanwen.

His gaze slid from the smooth skin and full lips of her oval face down to her up-tilted breasts and her slim waist, which flared into rounded hips. This was an eve for pairing and coupling around the bonfire. He didn’t want to marry a druidess, yet she enthralled him like no other woman ever had. His hands slipped up her warm arms, and he dug his fingers into the soft flesh, massaging her shapely shoulders. One whiff of the sweet yet earthy scent of her hair had him lightheaded and giddy.

He whispered, “Will you share my bed tonight?

“Yes, my husband-to-be.”

His lips captured hers in a fiery kiss, melting away all his concerns. He swayed, dancing like a flame of the great fire, leaping as the heat built. He grabbed her hand and pulled her along, running to the wheelhouse. He lifted her into his arms, carried her through the entrance and then laid her on the bull hide-covered pallet.

He unfastened the silver brooch that pinned her gold speckled cloak. Underneath was the ceremonial garb of a druidess. Brude slipped the purple robe bedecked with gold flakes up, slowly revealing her smooth calves and then her knees, and finally her arched thighs. He cupped her slender foot at the ankle and kissed his way up her long, shapely leg.

Brude’s fingers wandered up her soft inner thighs, and she writhed at his touch. Tanwen curled her arms around his broad shoulders and crushed her lips against his. With his fingers still stroking her inner thighs, his hand rested on the tuft of hair between her legs. She gasped. He probed the wet crevice there. As the kiss lingered, he slipped his tongue between her lips, thrusting in and out while his finger plundered her sex in matching rhythm. Her heart raced. He pulled his lips from her and withdrew his finger. She groaned. Hastily, she slipped off her cloak and robe.

He pushed her dress over her flat belly to her breasts and then tugged it off over her head. She smiled up at him. She wore a gleaming gold torque around her neck and gold clasps on her ears, but the rest of her body was bare for him. He pulled out his brooch pin and tossed it down as the plaid cloak it had fastened fell to the floor. He tugged his red tunic off over his head and threw it on top of the other clothes. He unbelted his checkered braies and kicked them off his feet, then slipped his leather shoes off.

Standing nude before her, he reached out, kneading and stroking each aching breast. Brude lowered his head and reclaimed her mouth. He sucked her trembling, swollen lips as his hands pressed her breasts hard. As he palmed and molded her soft flesh, his tongue stroked her mouth to ecstasy. He withdrew his lips and gazed at her curved mounds and rosy teats. He rolled the nipples and they tightened to pebble hardness. She gasped as he flicked each one.

Cupping one breast, he lowered his head and captured the nipple between his wet lips. He sucked the throbbing peak. He moved to the other breast, covered the pink bud with his mouth and, taking it between his teeth, he nibbled the tortured nipple. She cried out.

He was on fire. She was not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but, by the gods, she was the most alluring. He wanted no one but her.

He slid his hand back down to the hot cleft between her legs and probed the curly mound. He plunged one finger into the damp, deep heat within. She spread her legs further apart as he pumped his finger into her soft flesh. Fast breathing turned to urgent gasps.

Between pants, she breathily commanded, “Take me.”

He slid deep into her, emitting a low, soft grunt of primeval pleasure. Ecstasy thrummed through every pore of his being. “You are so tight. It feels so good.”

She rasped, “Yes. Yes.”

He was as hot as a spark from a flint, and he had the same need—to be placed on a candlewick to burn the wax down to nothing, or to set to a pile of wood and engulf it in a roaring fire. He was driven to consume her, or he would flicker out. He was aflame and had to engulf her in his heat.

As he rode her in a hard, rocking rhythm, she matched his every thrust. Her raw desire took him to a great height of arousal. He pumped harder. Passion raged until he burst within her. Never had he celebrated Lughnassa so well. He wouldn’t want to make merry at the fire festival with anyone but her—ever.