Page 12 of Boudicca

With Derwyn’s approval, I ordered everything prepared and the funeral pyre to be lit at dusk, the beginning of Beltane, when

the veil between Annwn, the realm of the gods, and Arbred, the world of mortals, is so thin that it is often such an easy

thing to slip between the two. On Beltane the Iceni lit many bonfires throughout Tasceni and kept them burning all night long—beacons

to guide the spirits of our ancestors home.

In total, ninety-eight people, including my mother, died at the hands of the Romans. Twenty sows, two boars, and ten goats

were needlessly butchered by the soldiers. Five horses were trapped and perished in the burning barn. Two more died of their

wounds the following day.

I ordered the tenderest flanks of the sows to be divided among the dead and offered on their mass pyre. The bodies of the

two horses, as well as the charred bones of the other five, were added to the pyre, too.

I decreed the tribe would continue our tradition of Beltane feasting and revelry—dedicating the night to my mother, who had

a special love for that particular festival as it was a favorite of her fiery patron goddess, Brigantia.

Preparation of the pyre and tending of the wounded had to take precedence, so I was unable to hold a formal meeting with Chief

Addedomaros, my husband’s old friend, ally, and neighbor. I knew I must not avoid that meeting long, so I invited him and

the Chief’s Guard who had accompanied him to stay for Beltane, which he graciously accepted.

Then, as dusk turned the clear spring day to a cool night, all that was left for me to do was to stand witness to the funeral rite Derwyn would lead and then open the feast by lighting the pyre and sending the Iceni dead to Annwn.

Phaedra carefully cleaned my wounds and Adara reapplied the numbing salve. To my fierce Beltane dress I added a green cloak

Arianell had embroidered years before with black thread in spirals and knots that formed charging boars. I hadn’t often worn

the cloak. She had asked me once, several years ago, why I rarely wore it. I explained to my mother that it was a glorious

cloak, perfect for a warrior queen of the Iceni but not the gentle, peaceful wife of a prosperous chief. I remembered how

Arianell had smiled knowingly at me that day and said nothing.

I fingered the cloak and whispered, “You knew, didn’t you? You always knew someday I would have to be fierce enough to wear

it.”

Phaedra stepped back, admiring me. “You look magnificent. I know it is tradition to braid and dress your hair, but I like

that you decided to leave it unbound. It is somehow fitting.”

I responded with the simple truth. “It is free; that is why it is fitting.”

The pelt door rustled and Rhan stepped within. A smile lit her entire face, as it used to when we were youths. I thought she

looked like a girl again, impishly mischievous and eager for adventure. But it was the mature seer who spoke, though the smile

remained in her dark eyes.

“The Iceni are ready. They await their queen.”

“What of my daughters?”

Rhan’s expression sobered. “They dressed and allowed the attendants to braid their hair, but they are still in much pain—in

their minds as well as their bodies. I have heard Ceri say that she cannot bear to go to the warriors’ practice grounds again.”

I nodded slowly. The weight of my daughters’ distress pressed down upon me. “I will speak with Adara and with them. Perhaps

I should not force them to do anything that frightens them until their bodies are stronger. Please, come with me, my friend.”

Rhan followed as I headed to my mother’s spacious rooms, which my daughters had claimed as their own.

The wounded had been moved to neighboring huts and the lodge transformed from a place of death and sadness to something much more familiar—the site of an upcoming feast. Long trestle tables laden with clay pitchers of beer and ale, as well as great plates filled with bread and others with wheels of rich cheese, stretched from wall to wall. On every table were bouquets of spring lavender and lilac, as well as sprigs of fragrant apple and lime blossoms. All around the lodge, those tending the cooking fires had been busy grilling spitted pork and goat, and the succulent aromas permeated the daub-and-wattle walls and the elaborate tapestries that decorated them.

I nodded approval to the cooks and servers, who paused in their last-minute touches to bow to me.

Briallen intercepted me halfway to Mother’s chamber. The warrior’s face was purple and yellow with bruises, but a sliver of

blue peeked through her swollen lid and I was relieved to see that there were no bloody spots on her tunic from wounds breaking

open or seeping.

Briallen cleared her throat and said, “My queen, I’ve been speaking with your daughters.”

“Yes, I know they’re frightened. I was just going to check with the healer before I went to them.”

The warrior clasped her hands behind her back and looked down at her leather sandals. “I have done something. Forgive me if

I overreached.”

Curiosity piqued, I asked, “What have you done?”

“I hope I’ve made your bairns feel safe again.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“’Tis easier to show than tell. Will you trust me, my queen?”

I answered with no hesitation. “With my life.”

“Aye, well then. With your permission I will get the girls.”

I glanced at Rhan, who caught my eye and gave a slight nod. “All right.”

Briallen led the way to Arianell’s chamber. She swept aside the thick tapestry door. Enfys and Ceri sat on the edge of their

grandmother’s large bed pallet. They stood as I entered, holding hands and looking pale and nervous.

The Druid nodded respectfully to me. “Queen Boudicca, your daughters are healing well.”

I smiled at my girls. “And they look lovely in the dresses Mother stitched for them.” Arianell had decorated the matching

green dresses with blue stitching that had spirals of baby animals, flowers, and birds frolicking all along their hems and

bodices. I remembered watching Mother bend over the clothes as she lovingly embroidered them. The memory caused my breath

to hitch. Will I ever be able to think of my mother without it causing such sharp, terrible grief?

Enfys’s chin shook as she spoke, but she did not cry. “Mama, I do not want to see Nain’s pyre.”

“I know, love, but your nain is dead and we must witness her funeral rites and then send her off to Annwn with our people.

This is what she would want.”

“It is very hard,” said my eldest child.

“It is,” I agreed. “But it is also something we must do for her because of how much we love her.”

Ceri spoke suddenly. Her voice trembled and sounded as wan and fragile as she looked. “Mama, I-I do not think I can go there.

B-back to that p-place.”

Before I could formulate a reply Briallen stepped forward and knelt in front of the girls. She repeated the question she had

so recently asked me. “Do you trust me?”

They, too, did not hesitate in their answer. Both girls nodded.

“Will you believe—if I give you my word—that I have found a way to make you feel safe, even there, on that field?”

Again, they nodded, though more slowly than before.

“Then let us go and show everyone the courage of the daughters of Queen Boudicca.” Briallen straightened and held out her

hands, so that each girl took one. Then she bowed to me. “We follow you, my queen.”

“Rhan, please walk with us,” I said.

My friend bowed her head slightly. “As you ask, so will I do.”

I walked from my mother’s chamber through the lodge, which was now completely empty. At the closed doors, I fisted my hand and rapped three times against the thick wood. Two Queen’s Guards flung the doors wide open, and what I saw made me gasp in awe and appreciation and pride.

Before us, stretching all the way through the village and down to the massive pyre, were the women of the Iceni tribe. Dressed

in their finest to honor their fallen loved ones, as well as their queen’s mother, they faced one another. Each woman held

a long strip of blue-dyed cloth over her head, connecting her to the woman across from her so that it seemed they had built

a tunnel of women and Iceni woad, surrounding my daughters and me with the maternal strength of our tribe.

Humbled by the love of my people, I bowed my head and whispered a prayer. Mighty Andraste, help me to be worthy of them. Then I looked back at my daughters. Their eyes were wide and round with wonder. Ceri was smiling. My gaze lifted from them

to the silent warrior standing at my side.

“This is what you did?”

“Aye, my queen.”

I went to the warrior, and as Briallen bowed before me I lifted her by placing my hands on her bruised cheeks, and—just as

my mother would have—kissed her gently, there in front of the watching tribe, before I spoke in a voice that carried with

the breeze, floating to the women like the blue banners over their heads.

“Briallen, let it be known that for this kindness I name you leader of the Queen’s Guard. You have my eternal gratitude.”

Then I turned to face the tunnel of woad. My gaze scanned the Iceni women. “You have my eternal gratitude as well.”

As one, the women shouted the Iceni war cry, which lifted and fell with the wind. Then the drummers began and the pounding

of the tribe’s bodhráns, handheld drums that were beaten by carved wooden sticks called tippers, pulsed around us. Using powerful

flicks of the wrist, the drummers beat out the untamed music of the Iceni.

Head held high, followed by a seer, a battered warrior, and my two brave daughters, I strode through the tunnel of women and

woad as the pulse of the Iceni filled the night.

At the practice grounds, the tribe, once again, surrounded the pyre in a living circle. Arianell’s body was the center point. Her section of the pyre had been elevated. At her head were the antlers of a stag, and around her wrapped body on the flat wooden litter were hunks of meat, mounds of herbs, pots filled with dye, precious spices, and her favorite perfumed oils—as well as the body of her beloved servant and friend.

The queen mother was joined by a full circle, wheel-like, of shrouded bodies. They lay side by side, with items of value and

importance to each of them at their feet and head: more choice hunks of meat, favorite pieces of jewelry, shields, and spears,

as well as carved images of patron gods or goddesses. Completing the circle were the bodies of our beloved horses and woven

baskets filled with grain.

Derwyn waited at the end of the tunnel of women with a burning brand held in his hand. He had not changed his robes, and the

outline of Andraste’s raven had turned a dark, rusted color that was even more pronounced against the otherwise spotless white.

He turned to greet me and the tribe went silent.

“Are you ready, queen of the Iceni?” the Druid asked.

“I am.”

He faced the east, lifting his arms. With him the tribe turned to face east as well. Derwyn’s voice filled the darkening night

with the power of nwyfre, the life force that runs through the earth, sky, and water around us and fills each of the Iceni

with a spark of immortal spirit.

“Bright Brigantia, I call on you first as patron goddess of Arianell, mother of the queen of the Iceni. Let your fire cleanse

her of the pain of leaving this world!”

Derwyn and the tribe turned to face south. “Gracious Brigantia, I ask that your snow-white hart guide Arianell to your side,

where she may feast the night away!”

The Druid and the tribe continued to turn, now facing west. “Next, I beseech the god of youth, Mabon ap Modron, to touch Arianell and those who perished with her and breathe youthful joy into them. Lead Arianell and her people in revelry tonight and many nights hence with dance and drink and feasting befitting a beloved Iceni matriarch!”

Finally Derwyn turned to the north, facing the pyre. “Lastly, I call forth Andraste! Patron goddess of the Iceni, triple-faced

goddess of fertility, the hearth, home, and war. Many of your children died with the Iceni’s queen mother, so many that I

know this night your feast table will be long and filled with familiar faces. You will sacrifice the fattest sow and open

the golden casks of ale for all— all died the death of warriors and all are worthy !”

He nodded to the other Druids who stood beside him, and as he finished the prayer, they stepped forward to lay woven sprigs

of sacred mistletoe at the feet of the dead atop the mound of dried boughs. Then he finished the funeral rite, speaking the

final prayer.

Arrayed in some new flesh disguise

Another mother gives birth.

With sturdy limbs and bright new brain.

The old soul will someday take the well-traveled road to Arbred again, again, again.

The Druids disappeared silently into the circles surrounding the pyre as Derwyn turned and called to the shield of the Iceni.

“Cadoc, it is now!”

“Bows!” Cadoc shouted.

From all around the circle, Iceni warriors, dressed in their finest clothes and jewels, took a step forward. They each held

a longbow and one arrow, notched and ready to fire. Their flint tips were wrapped in lard-soaked cloth.

Then the aged warrior went to me. Cadoc bowed deeply, respectfully, before handing me a longbow and another prepared arrow.

“They await you, Queen Boudicca.”

I fitted the arrow and then nodded at Derwyn, who touched his torch to the arrowhead, igniting it. All around the circle, Iceni holding torches stepped forward to light the arrows of the warriors. I steeled myself against the pain in my back and drew the bow along with a deep breath. I aimed up into the charcoal sky, sighted, and held my breath. I released my breath and the arrow together. All around me the twangs of many arrows sizzled through the night as flaming brands lifted to the sky after mine, hesitated, and then, as if called back by their fallen tribesmen and -women, they rushed to earth, embedding in the tinderbox that was the pyre.

I stood there as long as I could bear it. Heat eddies lifted my mass of hair and curled my cloak. Later the tribe whispered

that their queen had seemed to be Andraste herself standing fierce and immortal before the roaring pyre, but that night I

did not feel fierce or immortal. I was an orphan who longed for something I would not know again in this lifetime—my mother’s

touch. I would never hear her voice again. I would never see her smile again. She would never comfort me or share her wisdom

with me again. I stood there, as close to her as possible, as her pyre dried the tears that washed my face.

I did not want to look away from Arianell, who was illuminated by the licking flames. I wished so badly for one last touch,

one last word.

And as I wept and squinted against the brightness of the fire, I was rewarded. The smoke that curled up from the center of

the pyre, thick and grayish white, danced and flowed over and around itself until it took the shape of a mighty hart, whose

face was as familiar to me as my mother’s.

My tears did little to protect me from the heat. Just as Rhan took my arm and whispered, “Boudicca, you must come away now,”

the sky above us opened and a gentle rain began to fall as the night wept with the Iceni.