As she kept walking, she remembered dipping her fingers in the dark, gooey woad dye and tracing his tattoos. She recalled the tingling in her finger as she painted over the lines of the swirling snake. Warmth had throbbed through her body as she’d gone over the last one, a man. When she’d dropped onto her knees, burning for the taste of him, she’d parted her lips and taken his hard heat into her mouth.
As she wandered through the village, she felt hot from thinking about last night. The ache between her legs had throbbed with a growing hunger, the need to be filled. When he’d dipped his finger into her throbbing, moist heat, it was a firebrand, a hot flame. Her sex clenched just recalling his tongue, afire as it plunged into her depths, bringing her to the point of boiling, of bubbling over.
Then, his sex had plunged into her with a powerful thrust. Her body had thrummed as he’d pumped heat into her. She’d tingled with each thrust, riding wave upon wave of orgasms with him. In the heat of it all, as he called her name aloud, inside her head, she heard Boudica call out, “Tanwen!”
Tanwen smiled as she recalled that at that moment she’d cried out, “Brude, Brude, we shall wed on the morrow, will we not?”
He had said, “Yes.”
Tanwen unfairly gained Brude’s consent in a moment of passion during love play. Also, none of Brude’s ancestors had appeared to him commanding that he marry Tanwen. He hadn’t known anything about her or her intent at securing a betrothal until she’d shown up, a total stranger, declaring she had to marry him. And it seemed he had something against wedding a druidess with their magical abilities and their devotion to tribal duties coming before those to their husband. Still, he did say yes.
Her quest was complete, her destiny set. She would wed the son of Calach as Boudica had commanded. He had promised. She put last night’s memories aside. Now alert to those around her, she called out to the first person she spotted, “Where is Brude?”
“In the fields.”
First harvest, she thought. She wondered, How could I have forgotten? But I’m a druidess; I should be there. He should have woken me, she thought. What else did he choose to exclude me from?
* * * * *
The tribe was in the wheat fields when Brude arrived.
He and all others held scythes at their side as wrinkled, gray-headed Lossio pulled off a few ears of golden wheat. “Brude, should we not consult the druidess? She has the ear of the gods and could best deem if it is time to reap.”
“She is asleep.”
“This late in the day?” Lossio plucked kernels from one ear and rolled the grain between his finger and thumb.
“It is but dawn.”
The elderly man picked the grains off another stalk of wheat and tested it in the same manner. “Does she not wake each dawn to give blessings to her ancestors?”
“Yes,” Brude sighed, “I am sure she does, who does not?”
What could he do? The last person he wanted to see was Tanwen. She was incredible, but he was not about to marry a druidess—heather mead or not, the most beautiful body he had ever seen or not. Never mind if his blood boiled and he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He wouldn’t wed her.
“Yes, we should call for Tanwen.” Brude nodded to Lossio. “Get the druidess.”
His stomach churned and his head ached. He thought, it is naught but the heather mead from last night. As for the druidess, she was a woman like any other. He wasn’t ready to marry her or anyone. His father must have been mad to even suggest it. There were other women—women who weren’t druidesses, women who did not think they had to marry him.
Tanwen walked through the wheat field. Half willow tree, half fey was the only description that fit her. Tall but lithe, her red hair was waving in the wind, streaming down her slender body. Her skin was still pale blue from the woad, giving her the appearance of an enchantress summoned from the other world to bless the crops.
Everyone gazed at her as she walked forward. She halted at a stalk. She plucked an ear of wheat and rolled the grain between her finger and thumb, as Lossio had done. “It is plump and yielding.” She stared at Brude with an intense gaze that set his insides on fire. “Yes, it is time.”
A cheer went up from everyone, but Brude, captured by her gaze, he couldn’t glance away. He didn’t want to. He wanted to step forward, scoop her up into his arms and carry her off to his bed. By the gods, the druidess had enchanted him.
He did not say a word to Tanwen, nor she to him. She turned her head, flipping her red hair across her back as she walked off.
He schooled the desire she raised in him for a moment to take pride in the good crop, which ensured the tribe would fare well in the coming winter. The people watched as he, the son of the chief, moved forward to be the first to reap the wheat.
He worked his firm, muscular arms, swinging the sharp scythe down through the golden crop with an easy rhythm. He did not have to marry her. Boudica was dead, and she wasn't his grandmother. She was not a Caledonian.
He moved the blade forward through the tall stalks. That was what he would tell her. He could not marry Tanwen; he had to marry a Caledonii woman. Yes, he would choose a wife from among the women of his tribe.
As he reeled through the field, cutting the golden grain, Brude gazed at the other fields, full of his tribesmen swinging scythes through crops of oats and barley.
When he turned, he nearly jumped at the sight before him. It was Tanwen with a sharp scythe, heading toward him as she cut down wheat. He stood his ground, waiting for her approach.
“Hail, Tanwen.” He gazed into her bright, beckoning eyes, waiting.
“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 sai
d 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.
The Warrior and the Druidess Page 3
