The Warrior and the Druidess (11 page)

“We Picts know of swearing allegiance.” He devoured a heavy spoonful of thick porridge. “We perform a ritual, unfamiliar to you and the tribes of Albion. We bind all oaths and allegiances by blood. No Pict has ever broken a vow such sworn.”

"And the tribes have sworn a blood oath to your sire?” She thought, while you get oaths from the tribal chiefs, I am going to get a pledge of betrothal from you.

* * * * *

Tanwen entered the feasting hall, where clanking sounds made by cups and pottery filled the air. Women brushed past her, carrying jugs/ of heather ale to keep all the feasters’ cups filled. After dodging a sweaty-faced servant lugging a platter piled with fine fare, Tanwen took her rightful place as tribe druidess at the chief’s table. As she sat next to Brude, four boys carried in a huge tray holding a plump boar. One whiff revealed it had been boiled in ale with leeks and wild carrots.

The noisy hall fell to a hush as Calach rose. With a huge grin on his face, he gripped his dagger tightly, stabbed the sharp blade into the boiled flesh of the boar and sliced off a meaty joint. “The champion portion for the warrior who led the raid against the fort of the ninth Hispania.” He laid it on a plate and then handed it to Brude.

The din of men beating spears against shields and women and children whooping loudly with glee was music for the celebration. Tanwen dug her spoon into the soft flesh of a salmon from the Tay and chewed the tender flakes. They melted on her tongue with a distinctive, somewhat buttery taste. She took a bite of wild boar and ate it slowly it, savoring the strong, sweet and nutty taste. Dishes of mushrooms and leeks, apples boiled with hazelnuts, fennel seeds and honey were passed around. Tanwin inhaled the rich, sweet aroma of one of the apples, which Ciniatha had roasted to a light brown on a spit.  There was an abundance of fresh baked bread and sweet, creamy butter churned by Ciniatha, as well.

Lossio stood along with the bard of the Boresti tribe. They stepped forward to add true music to the feast. Tanwen smiled at Brude and then glanced at the bard, who used a circular breathing rhythm to play the triple pipes. With one flute longer and of a deeper pitch than the other two, it created the soft barrage of a vibrating hum.

Calach rose. “My chiefs, take these gifts I offer you.” Servants carried finely crafted silver bows engraved with Pictish symbols and penannular brooches. They handed one of each to every chief at the feast.

Everyone stood and raised their cups, toasting Calach’s generosity.

When the din quieted down, Calach said, “I bequest these gifts to you, great chiefs of Caledonia, to show our unity. For if we are to defeat Agricola, we must unite under one war leader.”

Calach waited until the rumble of agreements ended. “We have with us the granddaughter of a great war leader. I speak of Boudica of the Iceni.” He motioned for Tanwen to stand. “Great chiefs, I give to you our honored guest, the holy druidess, Tanwen ferch Wena ferch Boudica.”

She felt the heated gaze of all eyes upon her as she stepped forward with her harp. Turning, she looked every chieftain in the eye and spoke with a clear, strong voice. “In Britannia, the Romans take our cattle, our harvest—all our goods—for their tribute. Worse, they take our greatest treasure, kith and kin. The Romans tear children, wives and husbands from their families and make them slaves to work clearing forest and toil in the dark mines under the lash.” Tanwen strummed her harp as she sung the paean to Boudica that Druidess Sulwen taught her.

"Skin of cream,

hair of flame,

swift chariot,

spear held high,

Boudica avenged

her daughters’ pain.

Hear the drums beat,

the carnyxs blow.

Woad warriors

with whetted swords

slew the Roman scourge.

Warrior queen

Andraste’s image

on her hilt.

Her white blade

drank red blood.

Celts were strong.

Gods were happy.

Slaughtered by Rome,

we took death

like our queen.

Dragons slay eagles.

The day will come

when Rome falls,

we will yet stand."

Calach stepped forward and spoke. “In truth, under the leadership of Boudica, the Albioni burned the Roman capital of Albion, destroyed a rich merchant town and, had the battle not ended badly, might have thrown off the yoke of Rome. We are new to this war with Rome, but we are an unconquered people and will not let anyone take our freedom. Let us show these Romans from the outset what heroes we have in Caledonia.”

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.