“Are you saying the women and children should stay in the village while the men go to a great battle?” His brown eyes narrowed. “It may be hard to persuade them.”
“No.” Her hands flung up, palms facing him. “They should not stay in the village—not this village,” she said each word slowly with emphasize. “We must find a new village, a hidden place, secret from the Romans, where they will not look for them. If the battle goes awry, at least the women and children will not be massacred. The warriors will also have a place to retreat to where the Romans will not find them.” As she saw his brow crinkle in confusion she added, “The gods have spoken.” Sulwen had often told her the gods carry much more power than a lone druidess when it comes to a chief’s pride at war skills.
His eyes grew brighter as he pondered her words. “Go to one of the lesser villages of the tribe further north, one that the Romans don’t know of.” Gradually, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile.
“Yes.” She bobbed her head excitedly. “The Romans will see us as deserting the village and will think we are scared, or that we are no threat.” A giggle slipped from her lips. “They will not know we have relocated with the warriors who survived the battle and all the women and children intact to fight another day.”
A broad smile spread across Brude’s face. “It is a good plan. If we lose the battle, which everyone think we will win, it means you and,” he shifted his gaze to Ciniatha cradling the now sleeping Boudicius in her arms, “the baby and my mother will be safe no matter what may come.” His gaze fell on Tanwen once more. “We need to do this. I will tell Calach right away. We will send forth men to ready the village to move the women and children just before the grand battle.”
As Tanwen rose, so did Brude. She took a pitcher down from the cupboard and poured them a full cup of mead. Sulwen had explained that a druidess cannot control what a chief will do, but the gods will still help her do what is right for the people. And so it was. She had done her part. The noble Caledonii would not be annihilated like her grandmother’s or her mother’s tribes. It was good. Tanwen lifted her cup toward Brude and raised it high. “To the gods.” Swiftly, she drink the heady, honeyed drink.
Ciniatha stepped up to them with Boudicius in her arms. “Tanwen, I applaud your plan. I want to go with you two when you to speak with Calach.”
“So be it.” Brude grinned. “Let us go.” He wrapped his arm around Tanwen’s shoulder as they walked with his mother and son to the chief’s house, where they would discuss the plan with his father.
* * * * *
Several days later, Lossio and Ciniatha, who was clutching the bawling Boudicius, waved at Tanwen from the last family wagon to roll out of the Caledonii village.
Brude had just spotted Tanwen standing in the road, waving at the baby. He ran up to her, yelling, “Tanwen, why are you not in that wagon?” He waved his arms. “Go with them.”
She glanced down the road. The family wagon was now out of sight. “It is gone now. Husband, you knew I would not leave you or the tribe.”
He let out a loud sigh of vexation. “Tanwen, this is wrong. I told you to take Boudicius to the hidden village with the other women and children.”
“He is safe in the care of your mother and Lossio.” She tossed her head back and placed her hands on her hips. “Yes, I have been told often enough of the plan, but the gods spoke to me. They want me here.”
“Why do the gods never agree with me but always with you?”
“For I am the druid. And do not question the gods.” She shook her finger at him. “It bodes ill, especially before battle.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have married a druidess.” His lips thinned with anger. “In truth, do you mean to go to war? You so recently gave birth, and you are a druid, not a warrior. I will not have my son lose both a mother and a father. One of us should have stayed with him.”
“If I do not go to the battlefield, you will die. I must tell you of my dream from the gods.”
His erratic heartbeat began to slow. “Tell me. I need to know.”
There were three dreams, exactly alike, each one night apart. In the first two, I wasn’t with you, and you perished in them both. In the third, it was exactly the same, but I was on the field with you, and you survived. The gods are not only telling me how to save you, they are asking me to do it. If I ignore them, you will die in this battle. I must go. In the dream, you and I survive. I know you will live through the battle as it is you who will continue to lead the warriors against Rome. For in all three dreams Calach dies.”
“My father!” Brude’s face felt hot, he had trouble breathing and gasped for air.
“I fear it will be so,” Tanwen said in a faint, choked tone.
“I will order more warriors around him. Command them to watch his back,” Brude said.
“And so you should. But know this, if the gods do take him, his will be a warrior’s death, Calach is destined to die bravely, battling his enemies. I and other druids will sang of his glory for ages to come; forever. He will never be forgotten,” Tanwen said in a strong yet soothing tone.
“Yes, it is a fitting death for my father, the greatest chief the Caledonii have ever known. If he is to die on the field on the morrow then he will do so while delivering death blows to the Romans attacking him.”
“This is so.”
“My father as chief has to be on the field to lead us all to battle. Yet you should not be there. Tanwen, you are a druidess, not a warrior. You should not go. Why would the gods ask this of you?”
“I must be there,” Tanwen said firmly.
“I am not afraid to die,” Brude said.
“Even if you were not my husband, even if I didn’t love you—if I hated you—I still could not let you die. The gods have now revealed to me that you are the warrior chief who will keep the Romans from subduing the northern tribes. You must live. You are the reason Boudica sent me here. Have you so easily forgotten? You cannot be selfish. You must honor your ancestors, your tribe, and your land. You must live.”
“So you want me only for my destiny.”
“At first it was so, but I have come to love you. I will not have you leave me a widow and our son fatherless. So, you cannot die. I will curse you for all time if you do.”
“I ken how you feel for I could barely continue to live if anything happened to you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Tanwen and Brude awoke before dawn. He stood, nude but for the gold torque banding his neck. He placed a conical bronze helmet on his head, and Tanwen set a feathered headdress on hers. Tanwen wrapped a bull hide cloak over her red tunic and plaid skirt. He grabbed his iron spear, his long sword and his shield. stood before him, gazing intensely at every line and feature of his face and body. She took in every curve of the blue tattoos covering his bare skin, etching and embedding him into her memory. If the gods were not with them this day, she wanted to remember every detail of him for the rest of her life. She had to. He was the only man she would ever love, the father of her first-born child.
Brude tilted his head down and pressed his lips to hers, covering her mouth. She might never again feel the heat of his lips, the delicious sensation of his mouth on hers. She savored every moment of his wet, firm lips pressing against hers. When the lingering kiss finally ended, it left Tanwen’s lips still burning.
“Nothing bad shall happen to either of us,“ he whispered.
“In truth, I am sure of it.” She flashed the broadest smile she could as a voice in her head reminded the gods once more that they had better watch over Brude.
With his shoulder draped over her, they walked to the center of the village, which was crowded with Caledonii heading for battle. He guided Tanwen to his chariot as Huctia harnessed two roan ponies to it.
Brude leapt onto the platform of the light, Celtic chariot and reached out to his hand to help Tanwen climb aboard. Standing on the floorboards of the chariot, she gazed at the two Celtic ponies as they nickered softly. Put
ting a large hand on Tanwen’s waist, Brude drew her to him. She leaned in closer to him. As her hands roamed up his smooth, bare back, the muscles and tiny whorls of hair on his chest pressed against her bull hide war cloak. He brought his mouth to hers. His lips were full and warm. The heated kiss set her heart hammering. For a magical moment, she knew nothing about Agricola or war. She lost herself in his kiss.
When their lips parted, she gazed into his eyes. “Fear not for me. I will be busy with rituals. Don’t spare a moment to look at or think about what I’m doing.”
“And you listen to me for once. If anything happens to me, you fight on. You save yourself and leave me behind.” He pierced her with his gaze as if pondering whether she would do as he asked. “I mean it,” he said in a firmer tone.
Huctia leapt onto the chariot with them. “I will drive for you Brude, while you throw spears and while you,” she grinned at Tanwen, “call upon the gods to save us all.”
“I am glad you are here.” Brude patted Huctia on the back.
A throng of warriors with blue tattoos adorning their gleaming, leek-oiled bodies filled the road behind the chariots. Calach, leading this mix of northern tribes, spread his feet in a warrior stance as he stood aplomb in the chariot in front of Brude’s. With a slap of the reins, Calach yelled, “To high land, to the Graupius Mountain to fight the Romans.”
Holding the chariot reins, Huctia followed Calach out of the Caledonii village. They headed toward the distant ridge of the blue-toned mountain range to battle Agricola’s legions. The vast Pictish army of northern tribes, who put aside ancient grudges and tribal rivalries to unite under the war leader, Calach, snaked its way down winding dirt roads to the rhythmic beat of the bodhran war drum.
Tanwen gripped the side of the chariot with both hands, bracing against the rough ride. The pouch at her waist held bits of rowan wood, flint, hemp rope for knot tying and other supplies for druidry. She would cast spells upon the Romans, battling them in this manner. She would give the Picts an edge to sway the battle, though she knew there would be heavy Pict loses. She gulped and shut her eyes for a moment, pushing aside her doubts and fears.
The mountains that had once loomed before them now appeared green rather than blue, and they seemed larger as they drew nearer. Huctia whipped the reins down. Following the chief, she drove the chariot onto the rock-strewn, heather-covered moor. Clumps of trees were scattered here and there. The ponies snorted as she drew them to a halt on this battlefield at the foot of the mountains. Steep slopes rose above them on all sides.
Calach barked his commands, and the woad-painted warriors scurried into tiers in a horseshoe formation on the slopes. Brude and the others in chariots, as well as those on horseback, took their places on the moor. They yelled out war cries as they waited for the Romans to advance.
Standing on the chariot platform next to Tanwen, Brude cupped her chin, gazed into her eyes and softly but firmly said, “Stay in the chariot and duck down. Keep the shield over your head.”
She leaned her head forward and planted a fluttery kiss on his full lips. Her mouth tingled. “Fear not. I have no plans to fight Romans at your side. I will be busy with rituals.”
He wound his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. “I should not worry, but how can I not? I cannot bear the thought of any harm coming to you.”
She wrapped her arms around him and shook her head. “I cannot be a distraction to you. I am here to keep you alive. Through my dreams, the gods have foretold that I must be at your side this day. Let the gods watch over me.”
“How can I not think about you?”
“By concentrating on beating the Romans.” She smiled at him and then shifted her gaze to Huctia. “You take care, as well.”
“Worry not for me, druidess. I do not plan to die this day.” Huctia replied.
The ground shook as the Romans, gripping large, red shields, marched in uniform rhythm onto the rubble-strewn moor. The chariots and horses now filling the battlefield were as numerous as the stalks of heather blooming there. The air rang with the high-pitched, reverberating blare of the long carnyxs trumpets. Brude let out a fierce Caledonii war cry.
At Calach’s orders, the warriors on the moor launched their spears, which flew hard at the Romans, piercing and killing many of them. With perfect precision, the Romans reared their arms back and let loose a hail of javelins flying over the Picts’ heads. Tanwen and Brude’s arms fell to their sides as they ducked down. Huctia gripped the reins tight.
As the onslaught of javelins subsided, Brude drew in a deep breath. “It is naught. Our greater numbers and the steep slopes give us an advantage.”
“We have other advantages as well.” Tanwen drew pieces of rowan wood from her leather pouch and lit them with a flint.
“What are you doing?” Huctia asked.
“Conjuring battle mist with the magic of rowan smoke to cover the battlefield so, as the Romans charge, they cannot see our true numbers. It will confuse them, and they will be vulnerable to our attack.”
Tanwen stood and held her arms out to the side. “I call forth the in-between. Neither sky nor water, druid mist, I summon to you.” She raised her arms over her head. “Spread around me, beneath me, above me.” She brought her hand over her heart. “I acknowledge the mist.” Standing on the wood platform of the chariot with her arms spread, she turned around three times.
"Manawydan fab Llyr, Lord of the Mist, I seek the mist. I invoke your power. Keep our warriors from harm by the stealth of the mist. I acknowledge the shroud of the mist that covers the battlefield, the mist that protects our warriors.” A white fog enveloped her and spread out from the moor to the slopes of the mountain. "Manawydan fab Llyr, keep us safe in the mist.”
Brude spun around in the thick fog. “You have called down the druid mist. It’s incredible.”
The thick mist covered the ground, and Tanwen couldn’t see further than the length of three horses in front of her. “I told you I needed to come with you.”
“And you are here. But hold that shield tightly over you.”
The din of war cries filled the air. Though she couldn’t see them well, by the thundering noise of marching hobnail boots pounding the ground, Tanwen knew the legions moved toward them.
“Here they come.” Huctia drove the chariot down the moor toward the Romans.
Tanwen clutched the shield as they rode into the bloody battle. Huctia whipped the reins downward, driving the ponies as fast as she could. Tanwen clutched the side of the chariot with one hand and held the long shield in front of her with the other. The druid mist had thinned, Tanwen could see before her now. As Brude stood in a battle stance on the flat platform brandishing his iron spear, the two muscular ponies galloped forward, goaded by Huctia. Two of Brude’s war dogs, large, shaggy wolfhounds, ran beside them, growling fiercely, hungry to dig their large teeth into Roman flesh.
The chariot sped forward to the line of Roman soldiers running toward them. As they rolled across the moor, Brude threw his spear and impaled a Roman horseman. Tanwen crouched down, picked up another spear from the floor board and then handed it to him. Romans dropped to the ground, impaled by his spears. He picked up his long sword and swung it at the Romans as Huctia drove the chariot back and forth across the blood-soaked moor.
Bare-headed Pictish warriors, with jagged, dark blue lines and circular patterns on their faces and bare chests, and with hair spiked with lime wash like a hedgehogs pelt, rushed the Roman force. Agricola’s reserve cavalry wheeled and struck the rear of the Caledonians on the moor. Huctia had to drive the chariot up the slope as the Roman force pushed all the Picts up hill.
The Romans moved in, stabbing Picts with their short swords. Tanwen could barely see their faces, just helmets, shields and short blades. They all looked the same, and they all moved the same; the Romans fought like a machine rather than individual warriors. The coppery smell of blood filled the air. The two chariot ponies neighed loudly as warriors and soldiers locke
d in hand-to-hand combat began to push against them.
Huctia yelled out, “I can’t move forward.”
Brude fought from the chariot, jabbing the Romans with his long sword.
Tanwen squatted on the chariot platform, holding the long narrow shield over her. She pulled out a wad of hemp rope and laid it on the floorboard so there were three points— north, west east, and two ends pointing south. She drew the ends up and over the east point and pulled that over to the left, so it faced the west. She pulled the north point over and down, then tucked it under. Bringing the west point over the right, she pulled it through and drew the ends of the rope to tighten the knot. Tanwen blew upon the magical Celtic knot with the words of a curse upon her breath. “This day, the Romans shall pay. Agricola shall leave this land. Legions shall perish this day by the spears of Pict war bands.” She tossed the tied knot to the earth to emit its magical power to curse Agricola.
Tanwen looked up as the Caledonian army on the slopes climbed down, rushing the Romans and charging their flank. Tanwen gasped as Agricola’s four squadrons of reserves countered the charge. Her heart hammered as her stomach flipped over. Tanwen gazed around. The summer grass that had been so green now looked scarlet, drenched with blood.
it was high summer so she streamed with sweat. It plastered her long hair against her bull hide cloak, but it was the war cloak of a druid. It had to be worn in battle, regardless the heat. All who saw a figure in a bull cape knew a druid was there and the gods were with them, so they fought bravely. The thick, boiled leather hide acted as a type of armor for her and it connected her to the otherworld, which helped her work with the gods to keep as many of her people alive as she could and to help dispatch those who died to the otherworld as swiftly as possible.
The Picts held their shields tight as they ran with spears and swords held outward. The tattoos on their legs and arms were splattered with blood. Bravely, Calach’s men fought on, filled with battle lust. But Tanwen watched in terror as the Pict’s long, slashing swords hindered them in the tight melee. Without having the room for an arched, hacking swing, the Romans smashed the Picts in the face with their heavy shield bosses and pushed them back.
The Warrior and the Druidess Page 17