The Warrior and the Druidess Read Online Free PDF

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