Page 2 of Boudicca

The Druids called it the breath of the dragon. When fog rolled in with the dawn, thick and swirling with a life of its own,

it made the mundane seem mysterious and the extraordinary seem mundane. That morning it blanketed the village.

The two Queen’s Guards snapped to attention when I joined them on the wide, raised wooden entrance to my roundhouse lodge.

They were part of the twelve elite warriors, men and women of the Iceni, whose honor it was to protect their queen.

“Be at ease, Bryn and Briallen.” As my warriors relaxed I studied the thick fog that swirled throughout the village. “It is

late in the year for the dragon’s breath, isn’t it?”

“Aye, it’s a strange one this morn,” said Bryn. He gestured with his long spear out at the fog.

Briallen, a tall, slender woman who was Bryn’s twin sister, teasingly used the blunt end of her spear to tap my shoulder.

“Worried that it be Stoorworm coming to get you, my queen?”

I acted instantly, brushing aside the spear with one hand and stepping inside the reach of Briallen’s weapon. I pulled her

short sword free of the scabbard at her waist and pressed the blade of it against the warrior’s throat.

Like all Iceni women, I have been trained in close combat as well as with the blade and spear and bow. Ironically, it was

Briallen who had drilled me over and over again so that I was strong, confident, and accurate with all three.

“It does not worry me at all. How about you?” I said nonchalantly.

Briallen’s brother threw back his head and his laughter boomed across the quiet settlement, causing a chicken to squawk irritably.

That made him slap his thick thigh and laugh again.

A smile spread across Briallen’s broad, intelligent face. She spoke slowly, careful not to move her throat. “No, my queen. It does not worry me overmuch.”

Not long after I married Prasutagus, Briallen and Bryn had come to Tasceni. They’d been barely older than me but had left

their northern Caledonia tribe already well-respected warriors looking for adventure. They had been so skilled that they had

quickly been absorbed into my personal guard, and they were fiercely loyal to me. I had always loved their guttural Northern

accent, which got more pronounced when either was stressed. I sheathed Briallen’s dagger back in her waist scabbard and grinned

at her.

“Well, may the joy of the day be with both of you. I must be off.”

“Did you change your mind and decide to join the warriors?” Briallen’s voice lifted with excitement. “If we ride hard we should

catch them before they enter Trinovantes territory.”

“Aye! They left just before the fog began,” Bryn added, grinning in anticipation of being allowed to join the rest of the

Iceni warriors at the annual spring games with their neighbors, Tribe Trinovantes. At the spring games they traded horses,

sought and found mates, and competed in tests of strength.

“No, I just go to forage truffles for Derwyn. You must remain with your queen as I must be here to greet the leader of the

Druids,” I said, then added, “I am sorry you two are missing out on the spring games, though.”

“It is an honor to do our duty.” Briallen bowed, the familiar tone she usually took with me shifting to one that was far more

formal.

“We prefer to remain with our queen,” added her brother, his tone also turned formal. “The rest of the warriors will only

be gone one night and back in time for Beltane. We choose Herself over revelry.” Bryn bowed with a flourish, which made me

smile. I had been fond of these twins for many years. They had been the first of my personal guard to take a knee before me

when I became queen.

“Your queen appreciates you.” My legs would not stay still any longer and I strode toward the forest.

When Briallen and Bryn moved to accompany me, the words staying them came from deep within. “No. Remain here. Watch over my daughters and my mother.”

There was a slight pause, and then the response I expected came to me on the cool morning fog. “Aye, it shall be as you say,

my queen,” Bryn said.

“And may the blessings of the earth be on you.” Briallen’s voice echoed eerily as the gray mist closed behind me.

My steps were sure as I moved through my village. Even though that morning it was like walking in a cloud, the fog did not

slow my steps. I knew my home so well that I could have found my way through Tasceni blindfolded. The village was the heart

of the Iceni tribe, usually home to up to four thousand souls, though that day we were considerably fewer with so many warriors

absent. At Beltane, when they returned, the village numbers would swell to close to ten thousand as many Iceni made the trek

to the home of their royal family to feast and celebrate the spring festival.

Tasceni was more than the heart of the Iceni. It was my home, my joy, my beloved domain. I knew and appreciated every part

of it—from the grand lodge in which my daughters had been born, to the swine wallows and the herb gardens that were the pride

of the Iceni cooks. It had been such since I’d first arrived, just turned eighteen and the new bride of their chief. I loved

Tasceni as I had loved Prasutagus, at first sight, and the tribe had returned my affection in kind.

I paused and breathed deeply, tasting the air. As the sluggish breeze teased from the east, smelling of mud and fish, I oriented

myself. The village was west of the mighty river Tas, just beyond the fen and spring floodplain—though this spring the season

had been especially wet, which was the reason the redolent odor of fish and mud seemed so close.

Beyond the eastern bank of the Tas stretched fertile fields that were already green with thriving crops that carpeted the land all the way to the coast, which was a half day’s ride from the river. North of the fen and fields, near the joining of the river Tas and river Yare, was the Chief’s Barrow. On a clear day, if I climbed the tallest of the ancient oaks in the forest outside Tasceni I could see the large, rocky hillock, surrounded by half a dozen smaller barrows. Inside the Chief’s Barrow, my husband, his favorite stallion, and a generous offering of goods, weapons, and ornaments had been entombed on a rainy day three months ago. With him was his wide chief’s torque of braided gold, unique in how the jeweler had stamped it with charging boars and ended it with two circles of their golden tusks.

In the weeks since his death I had often wished I were still a girl so that I might climb an ancient oak and seek the comfort

of the sight of the barrow. But I was not a girl. I was a queen who had left her tree climbing behind in Brigantes when she’d

married Prasutagus.

I had not visited the barrow since the day they’d walled his body within the tomb. Others, including my mother, went often,

leaving offerings tucked into the rocks and crags of the large hillock. But not me. I could not.

I was surprised that my feet immediately led me to the west, away from the scents of mud and fish. A sow, one of the many

pigs that wandered the village like ill-tempered dogs, snorted unenthusiastically at me. I smiled as she gave me a view of

her fat rear end and a small, curled tail wagging before she disappeared back into the gray.

Within just a few strides, the delicious aromas of bread and the fish stew the tribe baked in rounded stone bowls swirled

to me with the mist. I knew to turn right and then left again, winding my way through the kitchens and the clay pits that

cooked much of the tribe’s food. I heard the musical sound of women’s voices and caught glimpses of fires, like flickering

specters in the mist, as the cooks were already hard at work preparing for tomorrow’s Beltane feast and today’s soon-to-be-waking

tribe.

The scent of goat overpowered the baking, and I slowed to pick my way around pens filled with sleepy animals. Gossiping chickens

added their music to the occasional lazy bleat as I moved quietly past them.

In the distance the low of a cow sounded eerily from the mist. The cattle were kept north of the tribe, at the edge of the

forest. Again, I used sound to alter my course.

Familiar smells of sweet mash and warm flesh told me I neared the group of sturdy log buildings where I’d spent countless days—the tribe’s elaborate stables, which were currently more than half empty. A favorite aspect of the brief spring games with Tribe Trinovantes was the trading and breeding of horses. I felt a pang of regret that I wouldn’t be there with them, but the regret passed quickly. The Druids were deeply woven into the lives of the Iceni and all of the Briton tribes, and it was a special honor to host the high Druid, Derwyn. It would insult him if Iceni’s queen was not here to greet him, especially as this was the first time he had visited Tasceni since the entombing of Prasutagus. Regret gone, I breathed deeply the homey scent of horses. In my mind’s eye I could clearly see the lovingly carved doorposts dedicated to Epona that stood guardian before the stables. Automatically, I whispered a brief prayer to the horse goddess to keep the herd safe while it traveled with the warriors.

I shifted to a jog. The well-worn path that led from the stables and into the beginnings of the forest was immaculately tended

and free of rocks and ruts. My nose wrinkled when the pungent odor of horse piss seemed to drip out of the mist, marking the

area of the road that split, with one fork turning toward the grounds where the warriors held daily practice and drills. The

woad fields and dyeing stations used urine collected in huge wooden steeping vats to extract the blue pigment the tribe used

to dye their clothing.

Then the earth beneath my leather-clad feet became hard packed and the spring scent of growing wheat told me that I was crossing

the warriors’ practice grounds. I jogged through the familiar area until, abruptly, the earthy scent of the fields was supplanted

by the sweetness of the tall, budding lime trees that were harbingers of the oak forest just beyond.

The first of the ancient trees came into view as dawn finally split the fog, turning the day from gray to pale mauve and violet.

I paused for just a moment in front of the massive tree and placed my palm against the rough bark. “Good morning, Grandmother

Oak.” Looking up at the ancient tree, I greeted the familiar sentinel. She was fully in bloom, so that the yellowish flowers

that dangled from her new growth made the tree appear as if she wore a maid’s Beltane headdress.

“May the blessed sun shine upon you and warm you, old friend, and may the rain nurture you,” I whispered to the tree and as always, I was rewarded with the sense of feeling the ancient one inhale and exhale beneath my hand. I stroked the tree in parting, as if it were my favorite mare.

In the oak grove not far from the grandmother tree was an altar dedicated to Andraste, patron goddess of the Iceni. I went

to the carved wooden image that rested atop a circular slab of sandstone held waist-high off the ground by miniature columns.

The image of the goddess had softened with weather and the touch of adoring hands, but the strength in her face was clearly

visible. The goddess’s features were powerful—she was strong jawed and broad shouldered. On one shoulder sat a somber-eyed

raven. Andraste held a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. Around her feet shells and beads, wooden bowls filled

with honey and goat’s milk, and a collection of other offerings filled the top of the flat stone. I bowed my head, kissed

my fingers, and then touched her feet, which were wet with morning mist. “May the joy of the day be with you, mighty goddess,”

I murmured before I bowed again and jogged away, heading deeper into the forest.

As the fog continued to disperse and the light filtered through the boughs of the oak grove, I stopped long enough to tie

my skirt up so that I was free to run. I increased my pace and at the same time heard my mother’s voice drifting like the

lifting mist: Listen to the forest .

I relaxed my upper body, allowing my arms to move smoothly, rhythmically, with my legs, and let the forest guide me.

At a full run, I felt flush with energy. It seemed as if the matriarch oak had breathed power into my body. I was the swiftest of the Iceni women and was faster than most of the men. My legs were long and strong. My body was fit. Though I had never been in battle, I loved the way training and pushing myself to physical exhaustion made me feel. Warriors move with grace and confidence because they continually ask more and more of themselves. I was a peacetime queen of a prosperous tribe, but that did not mean I was weak or a coward. I fiercely shouted the Iceni war cry when I practiced hand-to-hand fighting with my guard. I stood taller than most men, something Prasutagus took great pride in—almost as great as the pride I took in myself.

I was queen of the Iceni, and the Iceni were not meek. Nor was their queen.

Like a creature of the forest, I leaped over fallen boughs and ferns that curled with new growth, dodged around the gnarled

trunks of the trees that grew increasingly close together, and sprinted through the clearings that became farther and farther

apart. My thick braid lifted whenever I leaped, allowing the back of my neck to briefly cool.

I didn’t slow until the distant music of a stream passing over stones came to me on the morning breeze. Though I was not winded,

my stride shortened and I changed direction so that I headed directly toward the sound, as if the murmuring water called to

me.

The oaks thinned and gave way to white willows. Surprise made me stumble to a walk. White willows were sacred and only grew

on the banks of rivers. They needed more water than a small forest stream provided.

My well-trained eyes searched for landmarks—trees, rocks, deer paths—that should have been familiar.

Nothing was familiar.

I shook myself. It felt as if I had just awakened from yet another dream. I had raced through the forest without noticing

that the mauve and violet of dawn had burned through the fog but never matured to morning-sunlight yellow. I peered overhead,

and though the day was clear I could see no cornflower sky, but only more layers of pink and purple. Still, I was not afraid.

The forest was as much my home as Tasceni. It had always fed, clothed, and comforted the Iceni. It was a good friend, though

one that often kept secrets. I walked on more cautiously.

Through the willows, the reflection of the unusual light off a small but quickly moving stream caused specks of brightness

to obscure my vision. I blinked to clear my eyes and then my breath caught in my throat.

A mighty hart stood before me, just outside the willow wall. His back was to me as he drank from the stream. His coat was as white as goat’s milk and glistened with colors like the inside of an oyster’s shell. His beauty stopped my breath. I made no sound, but the stag lifted his head and looked directly at me. I stared back at him in wonder. He was crowned by horns so massive I wondered how even his thick neck could carry them. The creature showed no fear but met my gaze steadily.

The hart’s eyes were as emerald green as my own and glistened as brilliantly as the pendant that lay between my breasts.

There was no birdsong in the trees, and even the music of the stream was muted. The stag turned and slowly began walking along

the edge of the water. He’d only moved a few paces when he paused and glanced back at me.

I followed, though I did not try to move closer to the stag; instead, I walked beside him, parallel, but kept the willows

between us. If I lagged he would pause and look back until I caught up with him.

I lost all sense of time. The strange light remained the same, so I had no way to judge whether a moment or a day had passed,

but it seemed soon that the stream took an abrupt curve to the right. The hart stopped and then turned to face the stream.

I halted as well. The willows had thinned, so I could clearly see that the stag was standing in front of two rowan trees.

They were covered with white flowers the same color as the hart’s miraculous coat and grew so close together that their uppermost

branches intertwined to form a living arch.

Once more the deer turned his head to look back at me. I saw a question in his eyes before he walked between the two trees

and plunged into the crystal stream. On the far side of the stream he followed a slim path that led up and over what had become

a steep bank and disappeared.

Face hot and flushed with anticipation, I followed the stag and stepped between the rowan trees, striding confidently to the

stream, planning to cross it and climb the bank after the hart. At the edge of the water I paused to glance down to pick my

way carefully over the slick, smooth stones.

“Are you lost, child?”

The creaking voice startled me. My gaze darted up to see an old woman on the opposite side of the stream—exactly in the middle of the path the stag had just taken. The crone sat on a stump beside an elaborately carved cauldron suspended over the remains of a cold fire by a rough tripod made of boughs. Around her feet, wild hares nibbled tender grasses, tame as puppies, and in the willow behind her dozens of ravens stared silently.

I blinked rapidly and cleared my throat to find my voice. “No, Grandmother,” I said respectfully. “This is my forest. I could

not be lost here, but you do not look familiar to me. Could it be you who is lost?”

The old woman cackled and the ravens croaked delightedly, echoing her. “I am never lost but rarely found—and always exactly

where I should be.”

I shifted from foot to foot. I knew the crone was more than what she appeared to be, though how much more I was not yet sure.

“Well, Grandmother, do you need aid?” I reached into the folds of my hunting cloak and took out the carefully wrapped food.

“I would gladly share my lunch with you. The village of my tribe is not far from here, and we welcome visitors. Might I guide

you there?”

The old woman sat up straighter, her dark eyes alight with intelligence. “I do not need your aid, nor require your guidance,

and I am well fed—but if freely given, I would accept an offering.”

An offering... an offering... an offering...

The crone’s words took form around me, swirling like fog, thick as the breath of the dragon.

As if Mother stood before me again, I heard her voice mix with the crone’s. I give this to you freely... to leave as an offering...

Realization shivered through me. The creature most closely associated with Arianell’s patron goddess, Brigantia, was the white

hart. My body moved before I could form another thought. I splashed hastily through the stream, paying no heed to the icy

water.

“I have an offering to give, and I do so freely.” I took the silver chain from around my neck and held it out to the old woman.

The lovely silver hart was suspended, swaying gently.

“I accept your offering with gratitude. Please help me on with it, child. These old hands are not as nimble as they once were.”

“Of course, Grandmother.” The crone bowed so that I could slip it over her head.

There was an enormous inrushing of air, and fog blanketed us, obscuring my sight. When it cleared, the crone was gone. In

her place stood a tall woman in the prime of her life. Her beauty was as wild and untamed as the mass of her thick hair that

hung past her waist. It was the black of a raven’s wing and its ends were dyed the blue of the darkest, richest Iceni woad.

Her body was tattooed in the same sapphire color in impossibly intricate knots and swirls that covered her bare, muscular

arms and shoulders, and even decorated one side of her neck. Within the knots there were circles of hares and ravens in flight.

In one hand the woman held a spear. The other rested on the generous curve of her waist. Her cloak was the scarlet of new

blood, held in place by a thick golden chain. The cloak was stitched with gold and lifted in a breeze that touched nothing

else, so that I could see the embroidery created a massive shield decorated with a charging boar that covered the entire garment

and glittered with a life of its own.

I knew then in whose presence I stood. This wasn’t one of the fey. It also wasn’t my mother’s patroness, Brigantia. And with

that realization my body went hot and then cold. I dropped quickly to my knees, bowed my head, and pressed my hands together

to stop their trembling.

“Ah, Queen Boudicca, so you do recognize me!”