The Warrior and the Druidess Read Free

they not the eyes of a goddess?”
    “She is Boudica’s granddaughter.”
    “That must be it.” Brude reached out for the jug sitting on the floor and filled his cup to the brim. “So, do you think she is telling the truth about that?”
    “Aye, she is a druidess. They do not lie.”
    “Druids are well known for speaking in rhymes and answering questions with questions so no one understands what they truly mean.” Brude took a gulp of mead.
    “She has not done that.” Calach grinned. “When it comes to who she is and why she is here, she has been most plain.” He laughed heartily. “There have been no rhymes or guessing games there. She has made it quite clear. She is here to wed you because her ancestor told her to.”
    Mead sputtered out of Brude’s mouth. “She wants marriage? With me?”
    “Yes.” Calach rubbed his chin. “Boudica’s spirit appeared to the lass and commanded a union to keep the queen’s bloodline alive.”
    “Marriage to a druidess, with secrets and spells beneath my own roof? I won’t have it. Never.” He set his cup of mead down. “Sire, it is moon madness. All of Caledonia honors Boudica for her battle prowess and courage against the Romans, but I will not let her ghost dictate whom I shall wed.”
    “No, you will never marry her. You are just passing time, speaking on and on about her eyes.” Calach rocked with laugher. “And what is this of her eyes? Have you not taken a look at the rest of her?”
    Brude couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, Father, I have noticed her body.” It heats my blood to a boil, he thought.
    His mind wandered. There is an immortal perfection. Though she has a slender build, aspects which are ample on a fuller figure stand out on her as well. Her breasts appear small until you truly gaze at them, and then they are a feast, an unexpected treat for the eyes. Plump and full and as ample as breasts can be on a body so thin. They jiggled when she walked beside me; it was all I could do to not reach out and touch them. And when my gaze lowers to her hips, there again, though she seems thin as a pole, there are slight, yet vividly enticing curves. I long to place my hands on her firm, tight hips, my palms itch and burn for the touch of her flesh. Brude leaned his head back then dumped the entire cup of mead into his mouth. It burned a trail of fire down his parched throat. “Mayhaps I will marry her.” He didn’t laugh.
    Calach was silent. The unmistakable twinkle in his eyes was his only response.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Brude walked to the clearing on the other side of a cluster of wheelhouses. There, Tanwen stood before the cauldron, in the open air, brewing a mix of blue woad dye while her two guards tended to the horses.
    He gazed across the amber blaze at her and basked in the heat of the flames. As he listened to the crackle and spit of the fire, he realized there was an easy way to discover how powerful a druid she was. He needed to know if she could enchant him, read his mind, or control his dreams. A good warrior never underestimates his foe. “On Ynys Mon,” he paused and looked deep into her eyes, “were you chosen to gather the all heal?”
    “No.” She shook her head. “I am but a novice, but I accompanied the arch druid when he reaped the mistletoe with the golden sickle.” She stood over the cauldron of dye and stirred the thickening brew with the wooden spoon she’d tied onto a large stick.
    A novice mayhaps, but still Boudica’s granddaughter, he thought. He sensed that there was power in her. “The druids do not share the secrets of the mistletoe.”
    “It is a sacred plant. If handled by those unknown to it, mistletoe can be deadly.” She withdrew the spoon from the dye and checked the thickness of the woad paste.
    “The all heal is poisonous, yet druids use it to save lives. If I ate it, I would die,” he said, “but if you—an oak seer—gave it to me it would cause no harm.”
    “It is true, for I would brew the right