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.
As Tanwen beckoned Ciniatha to step forward with the first baked bread, she chanted, “Shining One, Lleu of the sure hand, we come together to share our first baked loaf. For, as you honored us with a fruitful harvest, we honor you with our labor in reaping, threshing and baking.”
With her arms raised high, Tanwen invoked, “Great goddess of lughnassa, Blodeuwedd, you give us seeds for sowing. Your womb of earth birthed our wheat, which gives us life. From your bounty, we glean the first grains to bake the first bread and to brew the first ale.”
Ciniatha handed Tanwen the loaf. She broke off a piece and handed it to Calach, who tore off another and gave it to Brude, who passed it to Ciniatha, and the bread was passed in turn to each member of the noble ranks.
Tanwen gave Huctia and Gethin one piece each. Her heart clinched. She wanted to reach out and hug them. They were like her family now. As she performed the ceremony, she thought of the druids who had taught it to her, Rhys and Sulwen. She missed them so much, and she missed the entire Silure tribe, who gave her succor and sanctuary. She gulped, smiled at her guards and then continued the ritual.
She tore her hunk of bread into two pieces and shook them in the air. “Goddess of seed and flower, as you give to us, we give to you. Accept our offering. Lleu, Sun King, Lord of Summer, we partake of this sacred bread, which ripened under your sultry heat so the tribe will be bountiful, live long and sire many children. God and Goddess, as you, the earth and sun, conceived our grain, we bless you. We call on you to bless our tribe as we share this bread.”
Tanwen tossed a piece of bread into the central hearth. As it burned to a crisp, the smoke curled and rose to the gods. She let her sadness over leaving Sulwen and Rhys—and the death of her family—melt away. This was her new tribe and she loved them.
She led the chief’s household and her two guards in a circle around the central hearth as she chanted, “Earth gave us life. Death returns us to her womb. Unending, the circle runs forevermore. Sun, earth, and grain, all which falls, shall rise again.”
And that is why I’m here, Tanwen realized. She symbolized two great tribes destroyed by Rome. Yet, with Brude, she would make a stand to keep the brutal foreign force from Caledonia’s borders. She and Brude would see to it that no Pict tribe would be annihilated. Her descendants would teach the Celtic ways to those in the future, who, after accepting foreign beliefs, would come to forget their ancestors. In that, she was like the goddess. She carried the seed of rebirth, so that which had fallen would rise again.
Now, she was hopeful for this marriage. A soft, warm feeling rose in her and spread its optimistic glow through her body. She knew her face had broken into a smile. Boudica was wise and had led her to the right tribe, the right man. Her new tribe, the Caledonii, would not be annihilated by Rome, as was her mother’s and her grandmother's. She and Brude would rouse the northern tribes to fight the Romans and win at last. They would keep her new tribe and her future family, the children she would have with Brude, safe and free from Rome.
At that moment, her eyes were caught in Brude’s fiery gaze. He wanted her and she wanted him. The gods had made it so.
Tanwen stuffed the piece of bread into her mouth as the others did the same. The soft warmth melted on her tongue as she chewed. It was so delicious, so filling —so blessed.
Chapter Four
Tanwen gripped a wicker basket and then headed to the apple grove with Huctia. The sun shone golden and bright on the trees, which were bursting with red fruit.
She glanced at Huctia, who had plucked a ripe apple and munched on it. “Are you joining the games?”
“No, but Gethin’s in the stone throw and the caber toss.” Huctia threw the apple core down, reached up high into the tree and plucked enough sweet fruit to fill the basket that dangled on her arm.
“Brude will join the games.” Tanwen moved to the next tree. “He’ll show off his warrior skills.” She looked down to see that her basket was almost filled with shiny apples. “I think we have enough.”
“Yes.” Huctia pointed toward the forest. “But we need more hazelnuts and mushrooms.” She followed her down a narrow path between tall, ancient trees. Her eyes fell on one leafy tree where three chirping wrens fluttered from branch to branch. Tanwen’s skin soaked up the warmth of the sun, which was shining on her. She loved this time of year—harvest—but she knew the warm days were numbered. Frost would chill the air before the moon-long festival ended.
Lughnassa was one of her favorite festivals. She and Brude would pick bilberries together and stay out until dark. He would thread the dark berries they gathered into a bracelet for her to wear that day— he should, at least. She imagined his lips on hers, pressing down, hot and wet, kissing her beneath the light of the white moon, his mouth and breath tasting of sweet, juicy bilberries. Her lips burned.
She could almost feel the warmth of his strong arms wrapped around her while, in her daydream, he carried her back to his wheelhouse. They would lie together by candlelight, bodies entwined, moving as one, moaning and panting from one explosion of ecstasy to the next. And in the morning when the tribes gathered, he would announce she was the woman he wanted to wed over all others. All the tribes and their chiefs would shout cheers and clap spears against their shields in celebration of her marriage.
But he was a real man, not a girlish dream. He had made it clear that he didn’t wish to marry her. But the gods wanted it, so it would be. Through Boudica, they led Tanwen to grasp the need for the union, and they would guide Brude to believe in it, as well.
Tanwen spotted a clump of bluish-tinged, violet-capped mushrooms. Bending down, she raked her fingers through the dirt to dig them up.
“Do not get your cloak dirty, Bright One,” Huctia called out. “You must look regal, like a druid priestess. Word of your betrothal to Brude has spread. His people love him well and will watch you warily.”
“Brude will proclaim the betrothal next week when the tribes gather.” She threw some mushrooms into her wicker basket.
“I don't see why the son of the chief must wait to make the announcement.” Huctia plucked hazelnuts and tossed them into her wicker basket.
“I do not either, but as long as he does wed me, I do not care.” With the basket of mushrooms swinging on one arm, Tanwen clung to the basket full of apples in her other hand as she walked over to Huctia. “Whether he announces it or not, it is the gods’ will, and it will take place.”
“How can any man not wish to wed you?” Huctia leaned her back against a hazel tree. Her forehead furrowed as she paused, as if thinking hard on her own question. She took a deep breath and her eyes brightened as if she had it. “He is afraid. You are a druidess and your power threatens
his place in your life. I have seen this before.”
“Do you think there is any hope of this becoming a love match?” Tanwen set the basket of apples down on the grass then plucked hazelnuts. She dropped a handful of nuts on top of the mushrooms.
“Boudica would have never sent you here if it was not so.” Huctia turned and moved to the next tree to gather more nuts.
“She died before I was born. I did not know her.”
“Neither did I, but I know of her. She is celebrated here in Caledonia and throughout Albion at the harvest festival as a great warrior like the god Lleu. She would never want her granddaughter to be unhappy.”
“Do you think Brude will ever fall in love with me?”
“I think he has. I think that is the problem. That is what scares him the most.”
Tanwen laughed. Brude had never acted like he loved her, the closest had been the night she seduced him, and that was lust. “I do not think so, Huctia.”
“I am sure of it.” Huctia crossed her arms over her chest. “Pay attention a bit more to your betrothed and you shall see what I mean.”
Tanwen shook her head. How could she pay attention to Brude? He avoided her since the harvest. By the gods, he ignored her the day of the harvest. She had to approach him.
As they returned to the village with their baskets full, heavy-set fell ponies carrying riders with helmets on their heads, gold torques on their necks and gold bracelets on their arms and wrists rode pass them. Tanwen gazed at one man wrapped in a cloak of six colors, including crimson, blue and purple, all sprinkled with gold. She stopped to ask one of the villagers who they were.
“Bright One, those are the three chiefs—of the Venicones, Vacomagi and Epiddi. Chief Calach summoned the northern tribes to gather for Lughnassa. These tribes want nothing to do with the Romans or their ways.” The old woman paused. “You know of the tribes of the hill country, the Selgovae, known as the hunters? The tribe they are an offshoot of, the Votadini to their east—a tribe that gave in to the Romans’ bribes—and the Novantae to their west, were both conquered by Agricola, so they are not here.”
“Yes, I know the governor crushed those tribes. We will pray for all those under the yoke of Rome at the feast.” She smiled at the gray-headed woman and then strode with Huctia to the village.
As she brewed apple cider with the other women, her mind flitted between thoughts. She recalled that when Brude smiled, the angles of his face and his eyes softened. Then, there was his stubbornness, the firm set of his jaw, the arch of his eyebrows, the slight tilt of his head and the intensity of his gaze. He was so set on not wedding her. She had to keep faith that he would come around to the idea of their marriage. It was why she was here. Her head also filled with thoughts of the gathering of the tribes and the need for Calach to persuade them to fight the Romans under his lead. Agricola had advanced to the Tay and was already building forts there.
* * * * *
The next day, Tanwen and Huctia walked into the forest with baskets in hand. “I need to gather birthwort.”
Huctia wheeled around facing Tanwen. “Be you…”
“No, I am not with child.” Tanwen took a deep breath and slipped her hand against her chest. “I need the leaves and petals for a brew to ease birth pangs for the village women and any cows or mares that have trouble with birthing.”
“Well, it does like to grow along the border of the forest.” Huctia shrugged. “Just look for flies; they’re always about it.”
“Here are some.” Tanwen waved one hand at the pesky flies to shoo them away, while she clamped down on her nose with her other hand. “I hate the smell. It’s like a rotting corpse.”
“In truth, birthwort stinks like naught else.” Huctia turned her head away.
Tanwen plucked a clump of the yellow-green flowers and then tossed them into her wicker basket. “I love Lughnassa, but, as the only druidess, all the preparations and sacred rites fall to me.”
Huctia tossed a bunch of birthwort into her basket. “Gethin and I are here to help you, as is the chief’s wife, Ciniatha, and the elder druid, Lossio.”
“Yes, but I am little more than a novice. I was young when Agricola destroyed the druid center for the final time. Sulwen and Rhys taught me and a few other young people of the Silure hill fort, where we took refuge.” Tanwen threw more of the medicinal herbs into her wicker basket.
“But you learn fast, and Sulwen would not have let you travel here as a druidess if she did not feel you are worthy of the task. Neither would Rhys.”
“But all these chiefs are coming here.” Tanwen brushed the dirt off her hands.
Huctia shrugged. “I do not even know how many northern tribes there are.”
“Neither do I. Since Rome conquered Albion, the Picts stay away from us, save the ones on the Orkney Isles.” Tanwen glanced down at her basket. “We have enough now.”
“Yes, the broch dwellers want Roman rule. They befriend and trade with Rome.”
“Brude said those tribes asked Agricola to invade Caledonia.” She walked down the woodland path towards the village.
“They are crazy to want Roman rule.” Huctia followed.
“Do you think any of them will come to the feast?” As she stepped out of the forest and onto the side of the main road to the village, she heard the rhythmic clip of trotting horses and came to a halt.
“I hope not.” Huctia stood at her side.
Tanwen gazed at two sturdy Celtic ponies trotting pass them toward the village. One rider was a lean yet muscular redheaded man, and the other was stout and dark-headed. Both were adorned with thick, twisted torques on their necks, rings on their fingers, bracelets and ear clasps of gold. Long, clanking swords hung by silver chains tied onto their belts. They were draped in plaid cloaks in six colors and wore hooded black cowls. Tanwen saw a village boy watching the men as well, and called him over. “Who are these chiefs?”
“Druidess, the tall one is chief of the Boresti. they live at the end of the island and are true Picts who can be trusted.”
“It is good.” She smiled and turned to Huctia. “We need to hasten and finish our work.”
Once they were back in the village, Tanwen and Huctia discussed the Roman invasion of Caledonia as they ground up the birthwort petals and flowers then mixed them with honey. Tanwen stored the potion in clay vessels on a cupboard in her wheelhouse and then lay on the soft pallet to sleep.
Her thoughts spun, worrying over all she had to do for Lughnassa, the invasion of Agricola, and, most of all, Brude's feelings toward her. “If only Sulwen were here, she would tell me what to do,” she whispered.
* * * * *
The buzz of busy bees sung through the air. Tanwen and Huctia wandered into the forest to gather a wild harvest. They skirted clear of a full hive hanging from a tree.
Tanwen pointed out a clump of blue, star-shaped borage flowers. “Warriors eat them raw before battle to exhilarate their minds.”
They both bent down to pick them. Next, Tanwen pointed at a stalky marjoram plant. “It makes a potent painkiller.”
After picking the sweet-scented marjoram for their baskets, they moved on to the chamomile flowers to make a remedy for stomach problems and sleeplessness.
“You need to make a draft of chamomile yourself, Bright One. You have not been sleeping well.” As she threw a bunch of the shiny yellow flowers into her basket, Huctia sniffed the delicate scent.
“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.
The Warrior and the Druidess Page 4