The druidess touched Tanwen’s shoulder.  “If you were not able to fulfill this quest, the gods would not have chosen you. “ Sulwen paused as she stared at the empty air aside Tanwen. “Furthermore, you are not alone for your grandmother, Boudicca, is with you. I can see her spirit standing beside you.”

Tanwen looked around. “I cannot see her.”

Yet, you feel her presence and that shall enhance your bravery. “

Tanwen pulled her plaid bratt tighter around her shoulders as the wind outside the round house door picked up. Sulwen was right, she had felt a warmth over her left shoulder as if someone unseen was standing beside her. Boudicca. “Still, I do not want to go.” She shook her head. “I know little of the Picts, save they all fight naked, even the chiefs and highest nobles.

“Aye, it is so.” The white haired Druid, Rhys nodded his head. “But we do not send you alone.”  He pointed to a man and woman at his side. “These brave Sillure warriors shall guard you well, at all times.”

 “I wish we were coming, but we are too old to go all the way to Caledonia. And we are need here, our love potions and such are selling well at the fort.  I never thought I’d see the day Roman soldiers couldn’t wait to toss their hard earned coins to a druid,” Sulwen quipped dryly.

Laughter freely flowed form Tanwen. “I will miss you so much.” Her copper hued hair whipped about her face from the wind and her brat flapped hard as she pulled it tighter around her.

Tanwen turned to Sulwen and hugged her tightly. As Tanwen pulled back, the druidess said,  “And you, we will miss you so much but your destiny awaits. You shall travel in peace for Elen of the Ways will guide you.”

“Huctia, take care of her. “ Rhys nodded to the short, female warrior with spirals of blue woad painted on her face. Then, he pointed his head toward Gethin, the taller male warrior, with the swarthy skin and curly black hair of the Silures.  “Caledonia can be a cold, barren place and Picts are wild, indeed.”

“I am ready.” Lifting the skirt of her blue druid novice robe, with the Silure warriors at her rear, Tanwen hurried down the steep rock path, putting space between her and the old hill fort afore her tears broke free. “It was but a few years ago, I climbed out of a small coracle and made my way up this mountain, now I am headed back to a boat again.”

“Aye, it is the fastest way to Caledonia.” Huctia  stayed close behind the druidess  until they reached the shore. She was the first to climb in to the ox hide boat. Then, Tanwen followed and Gethin was the last to board.

Quiet, dark-haired Gethin, grabbed an oar. “We shall travel down the coast and walk the rest of the way to Calgacus’ tribe.”

As Gethin rowed, he focused his brown gaze on Tanwen. “Druidess, do you go to Caledonia to gain allies to battle the Romans?”

The hope she saw in his fathomless eyes hurt, because she knew her next words would crush it. “No, here in Britannia our fighting is over. My mother’s tribe, the Iceni were wiped out. My father’s tribe, the Ordovices, were exterminated. If we keep fighting, there will be no Celts left in Britannia.”

“Some say Agricola means to advance into Caledonia and Hibernia.” Huctia drew back on the wooden oar, then pushed forward. “Druidess, if there is any tribe who can stop them, it is the Caledonii. Calgacus is as brave and strong a warrior as Boudica herself.”

Tanwen smiled back. “You ken Calgacus could stop the Romans.”

“I do,” Gethin spoke with conviction.

Tanwen needed to confide in these two people. For many days, perhaps years to come, they would be her only human tie to her life here, for soon she would be a Caledonii princess. “I go to Caledonia to wed Calgacus’ son.” She swallowed, then added, “The spirit of Boudica has declared it my destiny.”

Neither Gethin nor Huctia questioned this. They both spoke to their ancestors daily, it was the Celtic way. 

Gethin nodded his dark head. “It is good, and as a druidess you will be welcomed there.”

 Tanwen clasped her knees to her chest as she sat in the small rocking boat. “There will be druids in Caledonia, though.”

With her lips pressed together, Huctia made an ummm sound. “They are different. I have heard they do not give swords or gifts of iron to the gods.”

“They are not Celts, but Picts, older to the isle. For they were here afore the Celts came.” Tanwen stared northward as she wondered about her husband-to-be and the strange people that would soon become her own.

She recalled the day she had been told of her destiny.  Sulwen had gazed intently into her eyes and told her,. “There is something I need to show you.”

Tanwen had lifted her plaid skirt and scurried behind her, up the narrow mountain path to the ancient Cave of Draigs. There, she was taken back by the energy flowing in the very air, it bounced off the rock walls.  Light flickered in the cave from the flaming firebrands which were jabbed into crevices. Though she and Sulwen appeared to be alone, the presence of others vibrated and pulsated. The dark cavern was filled with sprits.

“In this place,” Tanwen had paused, to collect her thoughts, “the veil is weak.  It is a portal to the Otherworld, is it not?”

“Yes, there is great power here,” Sulwen took her hand in hers, then added, “and for you, my dear, answers.”

“Answers?” Tanwen rubbed her small chin.  What is she speaking of now?

“Of where you should go, what you should do.”

“Are you saying, my grandmother, Boudicca, has these answers?”

“It is so and you must listen to her. “Sulwen flashed a warm smile then walked out of the cave, leaving Tanwen alone, save for the surrounding sprits who pressed against her.

A sudden white light flashed before her and formed an outline of a woman. After releasing a gasp from her tightening throat, still barley able to speak, Tanwen managed to squeak out the name, “Boudicca?”

“Greetings granddaughter, what would you ask of me?” The image of a transparent woman floated in the air, her long hair was as a brilliant red and her eyes were piercing green, Tanwen was taken aback by how much she looked like her own mother and even seemed to be an older yet almost identical figure of her.

 “You need to go to Caledonia, to a tribe of strong warriors who have never known the yoke of Rome. There, your fate lies.”

“Caledonia?”  It is cold and wild. I know no one there.

 “The great war chief Calgacus has a son who will be the next chief of the Caledones. And you, dear granddaughter, are destined to be his wife.”

What? Tanwen peered intently at her grandmother’s spirit. Wife? “Do you mean I am to go to the Caledone village and announce to Calgacus that I am Boudicca’s granddaughter, come to wed his son.”

“Yes, that is so.”

And this will make sense to him, when it does not even make any sense to me? Tanwen clutched her forehead. “There must be a better way.”

“And you shall find it. But first, hasten to Caledonia, the winds of autumn come soon, and the journey will grow dangerous once frost hangs in the air.” 

And as swiftly as the image of Boudicca appeared, she vanished before Tanwen’s eyes when a whift of cheese shot a jolt of hunger rose through her. She turned toward Gethin who had pulled out a leather bag of cheese, oat cakes, and a skin of ale.

“I have heard this as well.” Gethin broke off a chunk of yellow cheese and handed it to Tanwen.  “The oldest of the gods are with them.” 

She munched down on the soft, rich-flavored snack. “We may need that ancient power to keep the Romans out of Caledonia.”

Gethin nodded in agreement then broke off a hunk of bread and passed it to Huctia. Then, he then took a swig from the ale skin before giving it to Tanwen.

As the druidess gulped from the ale skin, the warm and soothing brew ran down her throat. She relaxed with the sway of the boat.

The ox-hide coracle kept to its course, down the shoreline of Britannia to Caledonia, where the Picts dwelled.

Soon moonlight glistened on the water as the salty, fishy smell of the sea assailed Tanwen’s nostrils. The small, oval boat bobbed upon the ocean like a walnut floating in a puddle. With the rocking of the coracle, Tanwen’s mind swayed to and fro, drowsy and heavy, and she drifted to sleep. She kept nodding off for moments at a time, only to then yank awake, causing the coracle to jerk with her. But this time when she woke with a start and clutched the side of the boat, it was still. She gazed up at a rock-strewn coast. They had come to shore.

Gethin scanned the area as if he expected trouble.

Tanwen stepped out of the coracle onto the shore. “Is something amiss?”

“No.” Huctia shook her head “But these Picts are the best of warriors and silent in their movements. They are watching us and will soon approach.”

“Once they find out who you are and why you are here, they will not harm you.” Gethin offered a slight smile.

“Once they find out?” Alarms sounded in Tanwen’s head.

Huctia led them down a well-worn path from the shore into the forest. Suddenly, Tanwen froze at the sound of loud grunts and yells, a charging animal and pursuing warriors.  She barely managed to leap out of the way of a raging, sharp-tusked, mad boar.

A warrior burst forth from the woods with more fierceness than the boar. He leapt like a deer, his long, lean legs raced at the speed of a bird in flight. Pulling to a halt with the flexibility of a leather thong, as if his whole body was a sling, he bent back and then leaned forward, launching a long, black spear, which soared through the air. It struck hard and pierced the boar. The tusked beast squealed in agony as it fell into death throes.

Tanwen ran toward the warrior and his prize. “Good throw.”

 “My lady.”  He flashed a wide, warm smile. “Do I know you?”

“No.” His eyes were compelling, bright, and hot, like fire. The air crackled around him with masculine energy. Tanwen’s breath caught in her throat. “I am from the Silure village on Eyri.”

“With the Romans afoot, there are few druids yet alive in Britannia.” He stepped toward her.

Heat ignited inside her as she gazed at his evenly proportioned face and his hair, thick from lime wash and spiked like a hedgehog’s pelt, with strands ranging from dark brown to a golden hue.

“You have traveled far with naught but two warriors for an escort. Tell me, what business have you with the Caledonii?” He spoke in a melodic voice, sweet yet strong like that of bard and a war leader fused into one.

Tanwen could taste the sweetness on her tongue. “I seek the village of Chief Calgacus.” A fire ignited in her belly at the sound of his voice. “I have urgent dealings with his son.”

He stared at her, open mouthed. “The son of Calgacus?” His eyebrows arched. “Do you mean Brude?”

Tanwen felt uncomfortable as if she had said something wrong. “Yes, if he is the elder.”

“What do you want with Brude?”

She would not let this stunning warrior’s intense gaze unnerve her. Tanwen was not about to tell him she was wandering around the wilds of Caledonia to make her own match for a husband. It was not her idea anyway, her ancestor Boudica had called her to it. It was her destiny, and none of this warrior’s business. “It is a private matter.”

“In truth?” He stepped forward without taking his eyes off her, as if he enjoyed gazing at her, and didn’t want to stop. As if he enjoyed looking at her as much as she did him.

But she was here for Calgacus’ son, not a mere warrior. She could not put aside the quest Boudica laid before her. Tanwen’s destiny had been chosen, the gods had decided her fate.

“How intriguing.” His ample lips opened to a smile, revealing an even row of white teeth.

“In truth.” Tanwen was thinking not of Brude but the man she was currently gaping at.

 “Calgacus is my chief.”

“Then you must know Brude as well?”

His lips parted and he chuckled warmly. “You could say that.”

“’Tis good, then you may introduce me to him.”

“I could.” The man’s intense eyes narrowed and his voice grew softer, almost like a whisper. “If I knew who you are?”

His breath blew against her neck and left her skin tingling. “Oh.” She had forgotten to give him her name. “I am Tanwen ferch Wena ferch Boudica of two extinct tribes, the Iceni and the Ordovices.”

“Boudica!” His gaze was steady as he apprised her. “Granddaughter of the rebel queen, you are welcome in Caledonia.” Warmly, he cupped her shoulder. “Come, I’ll show you the Caledonii village.”

Gethin and Huctia walked at their heels as the other hunters followed, carrying the dead boar, trussed on a large stick.

As the path led out of the forest and into open farmland, they passed fields of wheat, rye, and barley. Tanwen gazed ahead at the village that would be her home for the remainder of her days, once she wed Brude. She wondered what he looked like as she took in rows of wheel houses, built of flat stones tightly stacked together to form circular walls, topped with roofs of wood and thatch.

The boar hunter moved with sure steps across the earth as if he was king over it, giving off strength and confidence. There was no bounce or sway in his walk, as he led her to the tallest and largest house.

Tanwen walked under the archway, across the stone floor, to a rectangular hearth where an amber blaze danced beside a black cauldron.

A tall man sat on a pile of lush furs near the fire, addressing his spearmen. He glanced up as they approached. “Welcome to my village, I am Calgacus, chief of the Caledonii.”

“I am Tanwen ferch Wena ferch Boudica and I have traveled from the snow-topped peaks of the grandmother mountain of Eryri. I call upon your hospitality.”

“Greetings, Druidess, we know of Boudica and have long mourned her passing.”

“My thanks, Chief Calgacus.”

“Sit and share my ale.”

Three of the spearmen stood and motioned to Tanwen and her two guards to take their place. After curious glances at the three foreigners, the spearmen rose and they all left, including the boar hunter. So Tanwen, Gethin, and Huctia sat alone with the chief.

“You know of my grandmother.” The druidess gazed into Calgacus’ brown eyes. “I am here at her urging.”

The chief leaned his broad body toward her. “What message does she send from the otherworld?”

“The Romans will march into Caledonia.”

“They have never ventured here afore.” Calgacus stared into the flames. “But I am not surprised. I have expected the invasion for some time.”

“My ancestor, Boudica, feels you can stop them.”

“It is good. Has she sent you to use your druid gifts to aid us in repelling the enemy?”

“My grandmother bade me to marry your son and keep her bloodline alive. And yes, somehow that will repel the Romans from your shores.”

Calgacus’ brows arched as he gazed at Tanwen in silence.

“I know not the why or how of it, only this is what Boudica bade.” Tanwen shrugged her shoulders as she said on a sigh, “I must do as she wills.”

“You may deem you need to marry Brude, but I know not how he will take the news. His ancestors have not bid him to wed you. Yet, I will speak to him.” Calgacus pointed toward the flap. “Go now into the feast house where you will be given food and mead. The servants are roasting a boar Brude brought back from his hunt. You were with him, I believe.”

Brude? He was the warrior who boiled her blood? She was sure her eyes must be as large as apples, her mouth hanging open. “By the Goddess.”