Brude stepped forward and added. “By this union, to which we swear a blood oath, we will keep our freedom.”
At his signal, Ciniatha brought him the sacred earthenware cup of his ancestors. It had two handles in the shape of boars with silver fangs and flat feet, which ran from the top to the bottom of the cup. Two people could drink from it at the same time, in the Pictish manner of oath taking. All were silent as Calach withdrew his dagger. He ran the point of the blade down his palm. His scarlet blood dripped into the cup.
Each of the chiefs drew forth their daggers. As Calach approached each one, they cut themselves and their blood flowed into the cup. When the last had bled into the sacred chalice, Calach mixed a portion of wine into the sacred cup. He held the cup up to the first chief. Both placed their lips to the rim and together they took a gulp of the intermingled blood. It was then passed to the next two kings until all had drunk in the same manor.
Tanwen pulled her dagger from the sheath at her waist and walked to Brude. As she held the cup, she gritted her teeth, and held in her pain as she slit her hand and let the blood fall. Brude grabbed the other boar handle, and together they raised the cup to their lips and then gulped. When he lowered the cup, she swore to the oath.
Brude uttered the same pledge. “I swear loyalty this day. I vow we are bound together. If either of us breaks this oath, our blood shall pour out as it does now.”
When he lowered the cup, she gazed at his parted lips. With a tilt of her chin, she covered his mouth with hers. His lips tasted of blood-oath wine. She sealed her vow to marry him, twisting her mouth over his. As she eased her mouth off of his, she wondered if he knew the importance of what had just taken place. They were now bound in the way Boudica had deemed. She’d become his destiny as much as he had always been hers. She gazed into his eyes, intense and assessing. He knew.
The chiefs turned their attention from Brude and Tanwen to Calach, who strode forward. “All of you, from this day forth, solemnly swear to fight the Romans under my banner as war leader. If any of you should prove disloyal to my rule, your blood shall pour out as ours does now as we take the oath.” Calach paused and gazed intensely at each chief. “If anyone breaks this vow, they and their descendants will be forever cursed.”
Tanwen reached out for Brude’s hand and held it to her heart. “It has been done. By uniting the tribes we will conquer the Romans.” Her heart pounded as fast as the feet of a Beltane dancer. She was so excited, as if the final victory had taken place.
More than ever, she was secure in following Boudica’s wishes about Rome.
He draped his arm around her shoulder. “We will defeat them. I swear to you. You no longer have to fear the Romans. They will not penetrate Caledonii territory. This northern land of ours is the safe haven Boudica wanted for her bloodline.”
Her skin tingled from the warmth of his arm around her. “A safe haven for your children, as well. You will be the father of my children, according to Boudica’s wishes.”
“Do not say I am your destiny. I am a free man, a chief’s son. Many choices are before me.” Something flickered in the back of his eyes. “I decide who my bride will be.”
“So you say.” As Tanwen took a deep breath, she thought, it is you who will relent, not I. She smiled. “Come, we must lead the chiefs to the oaken grove. There, I need to make a libation of the remainder of wine and blood in the cup for the war god Belatucadros. Then, he will bless the oath and the alliance and grant us the power to defeat our enemies.”
She inhaled deeply. I need you with me. I want the warmth that radiates from you. The masculinity the fills the air around you and heats my blood. But more so, I need keep you at my side, for I cannot give you time alone, time to think, which will only strengthen your resistance and stubbornness to the destiny Boudica has seen for us. That which will be.
“You ask me to assist you in a ritual?”
She shrugged. “In Albion, other druids, my great uncle Rhys and my foster grandmother, Sulwen, always helped me.”
“But they're druids. You have your Silure warriors to render you aid.”
“Why do you fear druids and gods?”
“I fear nothing.”
“Then you will help me. You worship the war god, Belatucadros. He will bless the Caledonii even more if he sees you, the chief’s son, partaking in a ritual for him. It will please the god.”
“I do serve my tribe and its gods.” He met her gaze. “So be it, if it will so please Belatucadros.”
* * * * *
Beneath the shade of the stretching branches of the oak copse, Brude slapped his palm against the goat skin hide of the war drum while his heart pounded just as fast. As a chief’s son, he knew the ways of music and poetry, so when she placed the drum in his hands, he knew how to play it.
When she placed herself in his hands, he didn’t know what to do with her. To make love to her, yes, wed her, yes, but a thought in the back of his head cautioned not yet. Though that thought grew weaker and he listened to it less. At this moment he could see himself happily wed to her. He was in trouble.
He stared at her slender feet, naked upon the lush forest floor and he noticed she wore rings on her toes in the way of the Picts. He wondered, who gave them to her. It must have been one of those chiefs, howbeit the law of hospitality forces me to refrain from jealousy. Brude took a deep breath. What, no, I cannot be jealous. She does not belong to me. I have no say nor wish for any say over her. It is she who means to hold sway over me. She says I am her destiny …or Boudica, the dead queen, says that.
The gleaming silver bands on Tanwen’s toes drew his eyes to her feet, her shapely calves and up her long legs to those ample thighs that he straddled when in love play. His arousal swelled and throbbed. Flames flickered in him. He was burning up. He needed her like a fire needs wood. He thought, one of those chiefs, mayhaps all of them, gave her those silver toe rings.
Her gracefully curving legs flowed from the short tunic, which allowed freedom of movement for dancing. When dancing in rituals, druidesses often disrobed, to stand bare before the gods in body and spirit.
Brude sighed as he thought, Gods help me; if she undresses I will burst. I won’t be able to stand it. His palms began to burn as he continued to beat the drum.
Fighting to regain his composure, he shifted his gaze to Lossio, who held the sacred oath cup and its remnants of blood and wine. But the moment Tanwen stepped into the center of the ancient circle of long stones, his gaze fell on her. As she leaned her head back, her long, loose, red hair tumbled in ripples down to her thighs. She lifted her arms high in the air and invoked the war god.
“Belatucadros, god of war.
From beyond the oak door,
heed our call
Come to us all.”
She took the cup from Lossio and raised it high, chanting,
“Belatucadros god of war.
Honor us as we honor you.
Give to us as we give to you.
Take our oath of unity,
bravery and feats of battle.
Give us victory.
Leave Agricola in a death rattle.”
Brude stood mesmerized as he watched Tanwen, with a twist of her wrist, fling the red liquid from the cup to splash and run down the standing stone. Resting her hands against her back just above her waist, she began to dance in a circle around the gray standing stone. The soles of her feet slapped and shuffled across the dirt of the grove. Brude’s palms tapped the bodhran as his heart hammered in his chest. Tanwen kicked one foot in front of the other. As she leapt in the air, her breast jiggled against the wool of her tunic dress, and a wisp of red hair fell across her face. It appeared like she climbed up her own legs as she moved one foot then the other to the front and then the back of her leg. When she kicked and leapt, her hips and rear wiggled wildly.
Gazing at the silver rings glistening on her toes, her shapely legs, twitching hips and bouncing breast, he could hardly breathe. It was a dance to boil the blood
of a war god, a dance to unite the wild tribes of Caledonia and drive them to war against Rome. It was the dance of a woman who could steal his soul and leave him grateful for it.
The leaves on the forest floor fluttered as her feet hopped and glided. Brude turned his head. He had to use every ounce of strength to find a way to leave her, for if he fell into her arms or grabbed her into his, which was even more likely, he would be done for.
In an instant, Tanwen came to a stop, her breast heaving with huffing breath. Sweat covered her skin. She raised her arms into the air and bowed her head as she chanted,
“Our thanks to you,
God of War,
for with your might
blessing our fight,
we shall bring the Romans
to their knees.
Rid our shore
of them, send them
back across the seas,
leaving us free
forevermore.”
She stared at him and reached out her hands.
Unable to turn away from her gaze, Brude pushed the drum into her hands instead of falling into her arms himself. Before she could speak, he said, “My father needs me. We must have a war council now. I shall see you on the morrow.”
“Do you not want a druid there?”
“No,” he managed to say before wheeling about and then walking away. He increased his pace, flying through the forest to run off the tension at turning away from what his body, his mind and his soul screamed forr. But he couldn’t let her know. He had to maintain control.
* * * * *
The next morn, Tanwen watched as the Smertae chief, Nectan, rode out. Brude told her the Smertae got their name from smearing red blood over their bodies, specifically the blood of their enemies. The way he looked the cattle over as he rode past the Caledonii fields sent an alarm through her, so that when she felt another's presence, she jumped.
"Brude, it’s you.”
“Yes. I saw you were watching Nectan.”
“He eyes the cattle as if they belong to him.”
“It is the season for cattle raids. He will be back to try to take them.”
“I think it is so.” She paused, noticing that the idea didn’t alarm Brude. He’d probably participated in many cattle raids himself. Some of the vast heard of Caledonii cattle may well have once belonged to other tribes. “He did not drink the blood oath.”
“He does not want to fight under my father as war leader. He said that he alone will lead his people into battle.”
“The fool,” Tanwen said with scorn. “Were he and his tribe the reason Calach called that private war counsel last night?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t believe him. The war counsel was an excuse to get away from her. But it wasn’t going to be that easy. She’d see to it. “Did you come up with a way to get him to join us in fighting the Romans?”
“No.”
“Did you come up with a way to stop him from raiding your cattle?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Nectan. He won’t take our cattle.”
“He and his men are accomplished warriors.”
“So am I, and so are my warriors.”
“This is true.”
“You are gazing at him a long time.”
“He concerns me.”
“I noticed you have toe rings in the style of Caledonian men and women.”
“Yes. They were a gift.”
“From one of the chiefs, no doubt.”
“Did you want to praise the generosity of the giver on my behalf?”
“No.”
“Then for what reason do you ask?”
“I suppose Nectan gave them to you.”‘
“No. He gave me no gifts. He just seemed to scowl a lot, at me and everyone else.”
“It is the Smertae way.” Brude paused. “Who gave you the rings, then?”
“They were a gift from your mother, Ciniatha.”
“My mother is known for her generosity, as befits the wife of the chief of the Caledonii.”
“This is true. She reminds me of my own mother and my foster mother, Sulwen.” Tanwen wondered if he was jealous. That is a good sign. He thought Nectan had given me the toe rings, and this made him angry. I should bait him a bit to show him I know he’s jealous. “The people of Caledonia are most generous. Many chiefs have bestowed gifts on me.”
“As it should be. You are a druid, and the granddaughter of Boudica. Did you not know we follow the laws of hospitality as well as any of the tribes in Britannia? ”
She smoothed her hair with her fingers. “It is odd that I have not received a gift from you.”
“I will have to remedy it.” His even, white teeth shown as he flashed a wry smile. “I would not have you telling others that Calach‘s son is not generous and hospitable.”
“I would not say that, not precisely.”
“Yes. Well I am off to seek a gift for you.” Brude brushed his lips across her cheek in a butterfly kiss. He flashed a bright smile. “I’ve been meaning to give you one. I should have done so sooner.” He slowly stepped away from her turned and walked toward the Jewelry maker’s wheelhouse.
Filled with a warm, bottomless joy, Tanwen smiled. Her ancestor, Boudica, would
be pleased. The chiefs had united against Rome, and she vowed to unite with
Brude in marriage as Boudica bid. In truth, wedding him had become Tanwen’s
deepest desire.
Chapter Nine
Tanwen’s eyes flew open. Her heart raced and she pulled the tartan cover tight around her as she lay on her pallet. She shivered with cold. A loud roar outside drew her attention. It was the wind. The weather had changed. It must have affected the nightmare she’d just awoken from. She sighed. This time it wasn’t a memory, but a portent of things to come. In her dream, it was winter here in the Caledonii village. Skinny children cried out with hunger pangs. She spent all day going from child to child trying to heal them of the sicknesses that come with starvation. The mothers shook their heads saying, “There's no beef. “
What did it foretell? Would a disease kill the tribe’s cattle? She’d look at the stock first thing in the morning. Tanwen laid her head back down then shot up into a sitting position. Unable to sleep, she’d have to look at the cattle now.
Tanwen rose, pulled on a tunic, wrapped a plaid skirt around her waist, and fastened her woolen cloak with a large round brooch pin. As she headed down the moonlit trail to the cattle pen, sounds of croaking frogs and chirping crickets filled the night air.
She grew alert at the unexpected sound of horse’s hooves. As the chill wind whipped her hair around her face, she watched men ride into the village and rein in at the pasture. The cattle. It was a raid. Without beef for winter, the Caladonii could die from starvation. These were her people now. She had to alert Brude.
From deep in her gut she screeched the Ordovices battle cry into the wailing wind. They heard her, and warriors poured out of stone wheelhouses with spears and long swords drawn. She pulled her cloak tighter against the bite of the icy wind.
The raiders shouted protest about leaving the cattle behind, but one of them, a man with a deep, gruff voice shouted over the wind, “We have something better.”
A rider was upon her before she knew it. He draped a cloak over her head and wound a rope around it. She was trapped. All was dark. With her face covered and her voice muffled, she couldn’t see or cry out. She was thrown over the saddle like a bag of oats, and the man rode off with his prize.
Unable to see, Tanwen’s stomach jolted as she bounced on the galloping horse as the rider gripped her tightly. Though she kept struggling, she couldn’t break loose. The hand clutching her tightened its grip so she wouldn’t fall off. In addition to the rage knotting inside her, nausea overcame her. She quivered from both her queasy stomach and from the cold, riding at a gallop in the icy wind.
Panic rioted within her. What were they going to do with her? Would they sell her to the
Romans? Did some minor chief mean to force a marriage so he could wed the granddaughter of Boudica? Would they hurt her? Unable to do anything now, she kept her composure. Once they untied her, she’d tear that cloth off her head and she’d escape. She’d have her chance as soon as they arrived at whatever tribal village they were headed to.
* * * * *
“Where is Tanwen?” Brude bellowed above the blustering wind at Huctia and Gethin.
“It was she who yelled out the Ordovices’ war cry,” Gethin said clutching a sword in his hand.
“Where were you two? You came all the way from Britannia to guard her.” Brude wheeled around facing his own men. “Where were my guards? Why was the druidess the only one who alerted us of a cattle raid? And so close to winter.”
“We must find Tanwen and rescue her from the Smertae,” Huctia said.
“Are we sure it was the Smertae who took her?” Brude took a deep breath.
“Yes,” one of his men spoke up. “I recognized Nectan. He grabbed the druidess and rode off with her flung over his lap.”
“The beast,” Huctia snapped.
“I will save her,” Brude swore. At that moment, tiny white specks swirled thought the air. As he drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders, a chill filled Brude’s insides as guilt gripped him. He should have protected her. How did this happen? He couldn’t fault the Smertae for raiding their cattle, but to attack a druidess? Even worse, to take Boudica’s granddaughter? Nectan must be addled. “If they have hurt her in any way, it will be war.”
What he had to do now was get her back home. The village had become her home. He thought of her as part of the tribe now. They needed a druidess. The needed her. He needed her too. But she deserved better than him. She deserved a husband who would protect her.
The Warrior and the Druidess Page 9
