The Warrior and the Druidess (20 page)

Both Huctia and Ciniatha laughed at her stubbornness, demanding to lead the Lughnassa rituals while giving birth to a child.

“It is birthwort, to ease the pangs." Ciniatha held a cup up to Tanwen’s dry lips. She drank deeply.

Huctia sat behind Tanwen. That way Tanwen could lean her back into her for comfort while she gave birth. She pushed her back against the Silure warrior as she let out another strong scream.

“The pains are coming faster,” Huctia said.

“That is good,” Tanwen panted. “I can’t take much more of this. I need to deliver this babe soon.”

“It will come when it comes,” Ciniatha said.

Tanwen screamed again.

Ciniatha smiled up at her from the foot of the bed. “Push, Tanwen. I can see the baby’s head.”

Sweat beaded on Tanwen’s forehead. She grunted and panted from the strain and pain of bringing the child into the world.

Brude rushed into the room. “Tanwen.”

Ciniatha turned to her son. “The child is coming.”

“Brude,” Tanwen cried out as another pain shot through her.

He rushed to her and eased down on the bed at her side. As the next contraction cut through her, she shrieked.

“Help her!” Brude yelled at his mother with concern.

“It won’t be long. I see the head,” Ciniatha shouted with joy. “Push, Tanwen. Push hard.”

She bore down with all her might and thrust forward. Her blaring scream pierced the air. The intense pain tore through her. She felt like she’d been ripped in two. Another shriek filled the air, but it was followed by a steadier, loud bawl— the cries of a babe.

“Let me see my baby.”

“Tanwen.” Brude’s eyes gleamed with rapt joy as Ciniatha held the wrinkled infant up to them.

“It’s a boy,” Ciniatha proudly announced.

The babe cried like he was mad, and he would rarely stop for several tides of the sun.

“You know who screamed like that when he was angry, when a lad?” Ciniatha asked. “Brude.”

“Me?” He shook his head.

“Did you? I was thinking of my brother, Boudicius, killed by the Romans. He was named after my grandmother. When he was little, he yelled for hours like that.” Tanwen cradled the infant against her breasts.

“And it was her sprit that brought you to me.” Brude leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against her sweat-drenched forehead.

“I think I know what you will name him.” Huctia smiled sweetly at the baby, who waved its tiny arms erratically.

“Boudicius,“ Brude said.

“Yes, it is the best name for our son.” Tanwen gazed deep into Brude’s, gleaming eyes.

Ciniatha took the baby from Tanwen and washed the blood off the child using a clean cloth dipped in the laver bowl. She then placed the infant in Brude’s arms and showed him how to support the baby’s head.

Huctia got the other large bowl of water, cleaned up the afterbirth and then washed Tanwen.

Brude stared at the squirming infant. His eyes were still closed, and his small mouth was opened wide as he continued to yell. "Boudicius, my son.” Brude cooed gently to the baby and snuggled up against Tanwen, kissing her cheek and chin. “You have made me so happy.” Brude’s throat was muted with joy. He turned his gaze to the pink-faced, screaming baby and softly fluttered his lips upon its tiny forehead. The baby hushed.

Tanwen gently ran her hands across the babe’s head. “Greetings, my son. Boudicius, you are welcomed here in the Caledonii tribe, land of the Picts, free of Roman rule.” She smiled and sung softly. “Hush little one, while I sing to you our father, mother baby song.”

“He has the look of you, Brude,” Ciniatha said.

Everyone but Ciniatha and the baby broke out in laughter.

Tanwen grinned at her mother-by-marriage. “I do not see the resemblance right now, but I’m sure you are right.”

“Wise answer.” Brude chuckled.

“Here.” Huctia handed Tanwen a goblet she just filled with ale.

Tanwen sipped it slowly, savoring each calming drop.

“I need one as well.” Brude poured a cup of ale and gulped it down. “The Lughnasa fire and wheel will be lit at dawn. Did you want to have the first grain ceremony now?”

“Yes. Bring the loaf,” Tanwen said.

“No,” Huctia chided. “You must rest.”

“Boudicius is the son of a druidess. It is good that in less than a span of the sun after his birth, he witnesses a Lughnassa ceremony. He will love it. Bring the sacred bread.”

“There is no stopping her,” Brude said to Huctia.

Ciniatha smiled. “I will bring the loaf.” She left to get the bread that the other women had baked from the first grain while she had helped her grandson come into the world.

Brude handed the baby back to Tanwen, and they sat together on the bed, peering and cooing at the now quiet child. Huctia sat on the chair at Tanwen’s bedside.

Ciniatha retuned, cradling the sacred, golden-brown loaf in her hands. “Look who I brought.”

Lossio entered behind her. He flashed a radiant smile at first sight of the baby. “A fine son. The gods have been good.”

“Yes.” Tanwen flashed a beaming smile at him.

“I will perform the ritual while you stay in bed with the baby.”

“I will not argue with you, Lossio.” Feeling exhausted and light headed, she didn’t think she could get up if she wanted to.

“The moon has risen, so it is time to begin.” Lossio spread his arms wide. The weathered man looked regal in his flowing, gold-speckled robe.

Calach entered the chamber, bringing Gethin and Laca with him. Brude eased off the bed and stood like everyone else except for Tanwen, who stayed in bed, cradling Boudicius in her arms.

“Lleu Long Arm, shining one, god of the sun, we gather here to give thanks for the bounty of your harvest. For the light you shined on the crops, we honor you. Our bellies will be full, even in the dark of winter.”

Ciniatha stepped forward. “Lleu of the sure hand, we come together to share our first baked loaf. As you honored us with a fruitful harvest, we honor you with our labor in reaping, threshing and baking.”

Tanwen lifted little Boudicius into the air and invoked, “Great Goddess of Lughnassa, Macha, your womb of earth birthed our wheat, which gives us life. You bless us with fertility. On this, your day, I gave birth to my first born son. I thank you for our bountiful crops. I thank you for Boudicius and the other children which have been born to the tribe from the last Lughnassa to this one.”

Ciniatha handed Lossio the loaf. He broke off a piece and passed it to Calach, who tore off another and gave it to Brude and handed the bread to Ciniatha, who in turn gave it to Huctia, who passed it to Gethin, who gave it to Laca.

Tanwen’s heart clinched. She smiled down on her newborn son, an incredible miracle from the gods. This was her family, her husband, her mother and father by marriage and the others were brothers and sisters to her, even Laca. She knew Boudica was looking on. Again, she wished so much that Rhys and Sulwen could be here.

Lossio took the loaf from the Roman and handed it to Tanwen. She broke off her hunk of bread. “Goddess of fertility, of seed and flower, as you give to us, we give to you. Accept our offering.” She handed the last chunk of bread to Lossio.

“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.” Lossio walked out of the chamber to the fire in the central hearth of the round house. He tossed a piece of bread into the flames. As it burned to a crisp, the smoke curled and rose to the gods. He danced around the blaze, chanting.

From her perch on the bed, with Boudicius in her arms, Tanwen chanted with him. “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.”

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. Then, she bared her breast and put Boudicius to her nipple. Her breast tingled as his lips clasped around her nipple and his tiny mouth began to suckle her milk.

* * * * *

At dawn’s light, as Tanwen and his baby boy slept, Brude led Huctia, Gethin and the Roman up an old path to the hill where the Caledonii tribe and the visiting chiefs waited for them. Brude grinned broadly as people congratulated him. He was a father. He had a baby. This was the best Lughnassa ever. His eyes drank in the beauty of the vibrant, azure sky, which began so pale then deepened to the truest blue. He gazed up at the brilliant, glowing ball, the hue of the bit of bright orange tuft on a Caledonian bee. Joy beamed within him, as dazzling as the dawn sun. His spirit floated high in the sky. He’d never known he could be so happy.

Lossio led Brude, Calach and the others around the tall standing stone nine times. Cupping his hands, the gray-headed druid dipped them into the pond by the megalith and drank of its water for clarity and wisdom. From the hill, Brude gazed at the fertile fields below. Tribesman blared bronze horns and blew their pipes as Lossio approached the spoked wagon wheel, which was coated with black, gooey tar.

Brude joined in the chant as Lossio led, “The sun burns, yet winter nears. The season turns. Summer comes to an end. Sun and earth, Lleu and Macha. Life to death, the wheel turns, Lughnassa, Lughnassa.”

“Life to death, a new life had come last night. His own son. With that though he repeated the chant even louder. “The Seasons turn. Life to death. Lughnassa.”

Garbed in a gold-speckled robe, Lossio struck a flint and held that spark to a torch so it flared into a brilliant flame. With that firebrand, he lit the wheel on fire. With an iron rod in hand, he rolled it down the hill. “The end of Lleu’s reign, god of the sun.”

Brude kept pace with Lossio as he ran with the burning wheel, the rolling symbol of the sun. The flaming wheel reached its end and crumbed into burning wood and ash. The crowd stopped in their tracks, took each other’s hands and moved in a slow circle around the dying Lleu.

Focusing on the gods, Lossio spread his arms into the air. “The sun begins its journey into dark winter. The season turns, sun and earth, life to death. Winter nears, Lughnassa, Lughnassa.”

Brude was part of the turning season. He’d transformed from warrior to husband and now to father. With the fire nothing more than smoldering embers and the wheel no more than ashes, he knew his future consisted of Tanwen, Boudicius and their other children to come. That thought was on his mind when he turned his head to the sound of riders.

A small group of Romans rode away from the pits where the grain was stored. He could barely make out the billowing smoke in the dark of night. But he knew. His stomach lurched. “How did they get by us?”

He charged down the hill and to the stables and quickly mounted, as did his men. Lossio and others from the Lughnassa celebration handed torches to several of the riders so they could easily follow the Romans in the dark. Those not clutching firebrands held long spears at the ready.

Brude raised his long, black, iron weapon in the air. “After them.” He slapped his thighs against his stallion’s flanks and took off at a dirt-kicking gallop.

His men spurred into a hard gait behind him in pursuit of the fleeing Romans. The foreign soldiers had a head start, but they were riding in the dark and were unfamiliar with the territory. Brude and his men gained on them. When Brude had them close in his sights, he aimed and hurled his spear, which struck and impaled one Roman. The man fell to the ground, quivering in death throes. The others tried to escape, but Brude’s men launched their spears. Soon, only three Romans were left alive. They reined their horses in and surrendered to Brude.

“What do we do with these three?” Gethin asked.

“Sever their heads. We will dip them in cedar oil and tie them around our horses. They will come to know that if they battle with us, their souls are forfeit. When the Romans see their comrades’ heads hanging on our horses, they’ll
ken
it then.”

“If I follow your advice, the tribe will never make it through the winter.” Calach’s brows drew together.

“A battle will not change that.” Sitting on a fox pelt facing his father, Brude leaned closer to him. Sunlight flitted through the tiny slits between the thatch of the roof. Having just had a son himself, Brude noticed the creases at his father’s eyes and the lines at his mouth, the signs of aging. “Do not forget, the raids are working. They burnt the grain to push us into a battle on their terms. Just ask Laca or Tanwen. They’ll tell you about Agricola’s tactics.” His voice grew louder. “Her mother’s tribe, the Iceni, were wiped out when they fought them on a battlefield rather than small surprise attacks.”

Sitting face to face, Calach peered deeply into his son’s eyes. “What happened to our neighbors in Albion has much to do with my decision. We are at the farthest north of the island, the last of the free, save for those in Erinn. If we don’t stop the Romans, they will attack Erinn next. We were shrouded by obscurity, but now we lie open to our enemies.”

“So we must stop them, on that Tanwen and I agree with you. This you know. And to that end, the raids are best.”

“If we win the battle, the Romans will be gone for good and, yes, it will help. We will have the supplies from their forts to see us through. It’s better to die in battle than to starve.” Calach lifted his chin in the air.

Brude drew in a long breath. “This is true, and I feel the same way.”

“Tanwen knows, as do all Celts, that what the Romans call government is, in truth, robbery, butchery and rape. They create deserted villages, destroy entire tribes and call it peace. If you and others do not choose to follow me into battle, you will end up submitting to Roman taxes, unjust laws and laboring in the dark mines like slaves,” Calach said in a firm tone of authority. “Think of your son. If you and Tanwen do not want Boudicius to endure atrocities his entire life, then you will join me for a quick end and swift revenge. For by fighting Agricola in a great battle, we will be victorious.”