The Warrior and the Druidess (8 page)

The chiefs, all with long hair and thick mustaches, crowded into the hall with their war bands of young men, eager for battle. Tanwen entered the hall behind them with Brude’s muscular arm draped over her shoulder. Her skin tingled. It seemed he wanted to stay near her as much as she desired to be close to him.

Calach bid Tanwen to sit. He had a bowl of boiled pork and leeks as well as a platter of fresh-baked bread brought to her. She broke her three-day fast by digging into the tender meat. It melted in her mouth. As she savored the fresh, interesting taste that lingered on her tongue, servants rushed here and there, filling cups with heather mead. Everyone drank while the druidess ate. Brude raised his cup, brimming with mead, in her direction and winked. The memory of her first cup of heather mead and the cauldron of woad dye sent a rush of heat through her body, and her cheeks burned. She knew they blushed red. Finished with her meal, she pushed her bowl aside.

Calach made haste to seize the moment. He stood and addressed all those who had gathered in the feasting hall. “Grab your pointed spears, sharpen your long swords and shine your shields until they gleam, for the gods bid us to attack the 9
th
Legion Hispania.”

The Picts lifted their cups high, and mead splashed as they cheered.

When the chief nodded at Tanwen, she stood and raised her arms to the ceiling. The crowd fell silent. Even brave, hot-bloodied warriors would never dare interrupt a druid. “Men of the Pict, the gods gave me a vision of northern tribes united under Calach— one dire army. The gods go with us as we crush the 9th Legion. I shall cast a spell to lull the sentries into a deep sleep, and we shall raid the fort. The gods bid us to take no prisoners.”

Hurrahs rung through the hall. Spear bearers shook their long weapons so hard, the brass apples on them rattled with the din of impending victory. A zealous energy swelled in her. Rome’s demise was near at hand. A desire to scream the war cry of her now extinct tribe, the Ordovices, bubbled inside her. She almost grabbed a spear and led them all to war, as her grandmother had done.

Instead, having taken a deep breath, she pointed to the man at her side, her husband-to-be. “Brude, son of Calach, will lead the surprise attack.” In her mind, she saw him battling the Romans, brandishing his gleaming long sword. “Out-manned and caught off guard, the sleeping legionaries will not even have their armor on.” She gazed into the eyes of the chiefs standing before her, and she felt like a war leader, like Boudica. “Do not take time to sever their heads for battle trophies. Hasten to slay as many as you can, and then retreat into the woods before dawn.”

“So be it,” the men roared. “Victory is ours.”

Brude swung his head toward Calach. “Father, I bid we march now.” He turned to stare hard in the faces of each of the northern chiefs, challenging them to join Calach. “We ride to war to kill the Roman dogs and leave Governor Agricola shaking in his hobnail boots.”

Every chief, to a man, matched the young warrior’s gaze. Brude swallowed and kept his body straight with the full aplomb of a great war leader.

Tanwen schooled herself to not whoop with glee as tremulous pride rippled through her when, one by one, the northern chiefs stepped forward and swore allegiance to Brude.

Then, in a great flurry, the men scattered to their wheelhouses. Almost as suddenly, each returned, naked save for the permanent tattoos on their legs, arms, and chests. When the Morrigan gazed down on them from the sky, she saw only symbols of her power. No armor was stronger than bare skin with magical markings to insure the gods’ favor. The nobles clutched long swords and the other warriors grasped spears and shields. Tanwen smiled with pride.

Gethin ran to her, wearing only his braies. Huctia sprinted beside him, dressed in naught but a tunic. Each handed Tanwen a jug of leek oil.

“My thanks.” She turned to see that the warriors had lined up in front of her. Lossio stood beside her. She called upon the gods to be with the warriors as she and Lossio rubbed their muscular bodies with potent leek oil. Lastly, Tanwen rubbed the oil deep into Gethin’s chest and smoothed the leek potion  over Huctia's toned arms and legs.

She grasped both of their hands. “Take care, my dear friends, and kill as many Romans as you can.”

“So be it,” said Gethin.

“That we will do,” added Huctia.

Tanwen’s heart beat as fast and as loud as a
bodhran
as she watched Brude vault onto his stallion. Swirls of blue tattoos etched into his flesh spread up his legs, from just below his knees up his sinewy, muscular thighs. Engraved with the warrior design, his body was an absolute living work of art—and a deadly weapon. Blue Celtic tracery swirled to his buttocks, which were as firm and rounded as a standing stone. His waist was the only part of him not bare; it was ringed by a belt of hemp, dyed blue with woad and tied in intricate Celtic knots, one after the other, from which his sword hung. Wild beasts drawn with swirls of blue flowed up the plane of his back, across the bunched muscles and streamed to his shoulders and down his arm.

She took a deep breath. Her burning, throbbing body lurched forward, urging her to leap on the horse with him. She clutched her chest.
Gods, bring him back safely. He cannot end up covered with blood. He is needed by his tribe, all of Caledonia, and me.

She hung her head and solemnly prayed to the gods with all her might. Lifting her eyes, she watched the other Pict nobles vault onto their horses. The rode at a gallop behind Brude. Then, at their rear, Huctia, Gethin and the other foot warriors ran toward the camp of the 9
th
Legion.

* * * * *

A dry wind whipped Tanwen’s hair about her face as she took the well-worn dirt path to the top of the green hill. She raised her arms to the night sky.

“Hail, Goddess Andraste.

War is in your heart,

and you are in

the heart of warriors.”

Her arms tingled as the energy of the goddess streamed through her.

“Onward to battle.

In your wake,

our enemies quake.”

An inner heat pulsated from her toes to her fingertips to the top of her head.

“Come Forth, Andraste,

undefeated battle heroine,

mounted on Maten,

galloping across the sky.”

The vitality of the goddess flowed in her.

“Hear my call.

On magic stallion,

fly to me,

goddess of victory.”

She leaned her head back and let the goddess form her words as she chanted a sleeping spell to cast the Roman guards into a deep slumber.

“Drift away.” Images of Roman sentries dropping off to sleep filled her mind. She was but a breeze circling around the legionaries. “Deep, deep, deep in sleep.” Though they were far away, she magically surrounded them and lulled them. “Sleep, Roman sentries, sleep.”

The virile energy which had jolted through her now vanished. Dizzy and spent, she sat down on the ground, crossed her legs in druid fashion then breathed deeply to restore her stamina. Brude and his men would slay the slumbering guards with ease and take the fort by surprise. She’d given Brude the advantage he needed, calling for the justice and vengeance of the goddess’s long ash spear. Now, she but waited for him to return alive and whole.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the image of Brude’s full smile, which lit up his entire face, with its evenly spaced features and magnetic eyes that her soul dove into. She could gaze at him forever. She whispered aloud to the wind, “Brude, I love you.”

* * * * *

The nude Pict warriors rode and ran into the dense forest that bordered the fort. Those on horses dismounted. They gathered around Brude, along with the warriors on foot.

“Here, under the cover of bush and bracken, we will hide until night conceals all in darkness. Then, we attack. “Brude watched over the warriors of the confederated army of northern tribes as they climbed up trees and hid behind trunks, their flesh bare like the other animals of the woods. Only they were deadlier than the beasts. Brude set his mind to think like an animal, for he had to kill or be killed. He would run as fast as a galloping horse and attack with the viciousness of a female boar. He would tear into his enemies like a wild wolf and strike as silently as a snake.

The massacres at the druid learning center on Ynys Mon kindled his rage.  The Romans had slaughtered sacred peacekeepers, holy men and women. He recalled stories of women, even maidens who had not yet reached womanhood, raped by gangs of legionaries and auxiliaries. Women and children were captured and enslaved by Romans, shackled in heavy chains and then shipped overseas. Dogs were not treated as cruelly as the Romans treated his people.

With his blood lust boiling and a war scowl on his face, Brude led his men through the forest. He and his warriors stepped so lightly, their footsteps fell silent. The men near nut trees and berry bushes picked nuts and fruit and then dispersed them to the others. They all munched like squirrels, more to pass the time as they waited than to stave off hunger.

Thoughts of Tanwen filled Brude’s mind as he squatted behind the trunk of an ancient oak. The confidence by which she held her head high and her piercing, eyes lent strength and bravery to her beauty, enhancing the delicate features of her face. Thoughts of her legs, her hips, her breasts, all slender yet curvy, scorched his blood and powered his heart into a pounding rhythm. But to wake up to the same woman each day, eat all meals with the same woman and to have to wait while she healed someone or performed a ritual to the gods—the services of a tribe druid would be more important than being with her husband.

There would be no marriage. He was not ready.

Passion rose in him like a hot fire as he thought of sleeping with her every night. His heart felt warm and buoyant with pride for Tanwen, if  not for her druid skills, they wouldn’t have this victory in their grasp. She was their druid now. The tribe needed her, and so did he.

And it would be useful to have a wife favored by the gods. As the tribe’s druidess, she would be the one to conduct the bull dream and see his visage during the ritual. She would choose him as the new chief. When she told him Boudica chose him to be her husband, he knew it meant he would be the next chief. She’d already blessed him with that news and this battle. He had itched for the chance to kill Romans since the 9
th
Hispania moved to the Tay. Men among that legion had raped and murdered several women from local tribes. Knowing these women, and imagining the changes the attacks had brought on them, caused hot rage to rise in him. If anything ever happened to Tanwen—if a Roman ever touched her …

That was why each Pict longed to stab a sword into the cold, hard hearts of the brutes of the 9
th
Hispania. Finally, now, the Romans would pay. And it was Tanwen who made this possible.

His heart throbbed as he recalled the warmth of her skin and the feel of her soft flesh in his arms, but his mind ached with a torrent of thoughts, tugging him this way and that. Women looked at him with heat in their eyes and many sought him out for love making because they burned for him. He should marry a woman like that. Tanwen came to him because her ancestor told her to. A man should have a woman devoted to him alone, as a druid she would serve and dote on the entire tribe. It was unwise to marry her, but he wanted to. When he lay with her he knew her body burned for him. She desired him as much as he wanted her, and it wasn’t because her ancestor commanded it. When Brude held her in his arms, he knew her mind focused on him alone. Tanwen showed more devotion to him and his tribe than any woman he’d ever known.  He could no longer deny that he’d fallen in love with Tanwen. He had to have her, in marriage and all.

Soon the forest was covered in darkness. Brude stood at his father’s side as he ordered his best spearmen to key positions to halt any fleeing legionnaires. Once the men were in place, Calach and Brude chose the strongest warriors to advance and kill the guards.

“The sentries should be in deep slumber.” Brude gazed into the eyes of his chosen men. “Yet, keep sword and shield ready, for their gods may have empowered them to resist Tanwen’s spell.”

They flew through the woods to their task and Brude, Calach, and the other men waited in silence. The chosen warriors let out caws like ravens as they each slew a sentry. Brude's heart raced. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He would kill many Romans this eve. Brude unsheathed his long sword and brandished the naked blade. He pushed his muscled legs into a hard run. He rushed into the fort with Calach at his side and the confederated army of northern tribes at his back.

With their mouths open wide, the naked Picts let out blood-hurdling war cries, which reverberated in the air. With no further warning, Brude’s men filtered through the dense growth of trees, poured out of the woods and attacked the fort.

Amber flames rose against the ebony sky, gaining strength by feeding on the wooden gate of the Roman fort. Sweating from the heat of the fire, with the smell of smoke and burning wood assailing him, Brude stormed the fort, blaring the Caledonii war cry. The Pict warriors brandished barbed spears and sharp swords in their muscular hands. Free of the restraints of clothing, their long legs, tattooed with Pict symbols, leapt into the air. Calach charged from the rear. The united Pict army poured into the fort in the thousands, all ready to die rather than be ruled by Rome.

Awakened from sleep, the Romans were bare of armor and weapons as armed Picts struck with strong shields, sharpened swords and deadly spears.

Legionnaires scattered like ants in a stomped hill. Many dropped to their knees and begged Brude for their lives. A few Romans were able to grab armor, but most could barely pick up a sword, as they were all asleep when the fort was lit a fire by Caledonii torches. The Picts in bare skin and the Romans in red tunics, metal clanged against metal as they clashed hand to hand.