Page 22 of Boudicca

“A fierce queen can also show compassion and rule justly. Your mother knew that. Arianell was so proud of you. She said you reminded her of Brigantia’s flame, and she loved you well for it.” With a caress that had me longing for my mother, the healer stroked my cheek. “In these awful days our leaders must be fierce or our people will be completely wiped out by Rome.”

“I will do my best.”

“Of course you will. That is all anyone, even the gods, can ask of you.” Adara patted my arm.

“I must dress. My people will return soon.” I shook off crushing weariness. “Please bring the tea to my bedchamber.”

“I shall, Queen Boudicca.”

***

Slowly, I poured warm water from the cauldron into a bucket, then I went to my bedchamber. The first thing that caught my eye as I entered was the neatly made-up pallet that belonged to my servant, Phaedra. Hastily, I scanned my memory for the girl’s face among the dead.

“No, I did not see you,” I said aloud, and hoped that gentle Phaedra would not be added to that list as the Druids collected the bodies.

I slid off the wide leather strap of the travel satchel that held the torque of Prasutagus. I did not take the golden symbol of leadership out of the bag but did run my hand across the rough leather to caress the outline of the thick torque.

It was still there—tangible proof that I had spent the day in Annwn and had received it as a sacred gift from Andraste. I would reveal my husband’s torque when the time was right. I vowed then that until that time made itself known, I would keep the torque close.

Carefully, painfully, I stripped off the simple linen tunic. It had adhered to my back, and as I pulled it from my wounds they began to weep anew. Grimacing, I used a cloth to clean them as best I could before I dunked my hair in the bucket, washing away blood and sweat and dirt. Then I dried the thick scarlet mass with a woolen blanket and went to my clothing chest. Placed on the top of the clothes, neatly folded, was the dress Mother had embroidered for me as my Beltane gift.

My fingers trembled as they stroked the precious garment. Arianell must have put it in my chamber before the Romans attacked. She had refused to let me see it, saying that it was a gift and meant to be a surprise, so I had not so much as glimpsed it until that moment.

The fine linen gown had been dyed the lightest of blue, the color of the sky when frothy clouds obscured it. Arianell had been a gifted artist. She had used thread that had been dyed a much darker blue—the blue of Iceni woad—to create a tree that began at the hemline of the dress and grew up. I shook out the dress and studied it.

The tree was obviously the grandmother oak, which almost made me smile. I remembered how Mother used to worry when I was a girl and refused to stay out of the uppermost limbs of the mighty oak trees that surrounded Isurium, the royal village of Tribe Brigantes. As my mother’s expert stitches re-created those boughs, they turned into intricate knots and swirls that danced their way up the fabric to form Andraste’s raven, wings spread over the bodice. When the intricate pattern reached the shoulders, the embroidery shifted form again to become the heads of two mighty boars, each capping one of the shoulders. Their tusks met to create the rounded neckline. It wasbeyond beautiful. What my mother had created was a powerful dress for a warrior queen.

I shivered, remembering that my mother had been awake that morning, which seemed so very long ago, because she had been compelled by her goddess to advise her daughter. I wondered what else Brigantia had compelled my mother to do.

I’d watched my mother stitch the girls’ Beltane dresses. They had been covered with flowers and delicate plants and playful baby animals that reflected Enfys and Ceri’s sweet dispositions. My dress was completely different—completely what my people needed to see their queen wear.

“Thank you, Mother.” I wiped tears from my eyes and attempted to put on the dress, but my newly exposed back would not allow me to lace it up, so I smoothed the soft cloth carefully, leaving it unlaced.

Then I sat before the precious mirror my father had traded for and gifted me with when I’d returned from fostering with the chief of the Trinovantes on my seventeenth birthday. As always, there was a wooden pot of woad paste on the table and a small horsehair brush. I dipped the brush into the sticky paint and drew the symbol all tribes knew as distinctly Iceni across my forehead—sickled moons with star points at each of their ends and small, rounded dots clustered in threes. The symbol evoked Andraste’s moons, crescent and full, as well as the curve of the tusk of a boar. Then I lifted a wide-toothed wooden comb and began to work my way through my matted hair.

The pelt curtain moved and Adara’s voice drifted through it. “Queen Boudicca, may I bring the tea to you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The healer approached. She put the cup of fragrant tea on the table and studied me. “Might I help you dress?”

“Yes. My back... I tried, but I could not...” I breathed a long, frustrated sigh. “I do need help. Thank you.”

Adara said, “Just a moment, Queen Boudicca.”

She disappeared through the pelt curtain and returned quickly with a woven basket of healing supplies. First, she applied a salve that stung. I sucked in air at the sharp pain, but within moments myshoulders relaxed and I was filled with relief as the salve worked its herbal magick and my back went completely numb. Then the healer carefully wrapped clean strips of cloth around me and tied the bandages securely in place so that the deepest of the lacerations were covered. Finally, Adara laced up the dress, though not tightly.

The healer breathed a long, appreciative sigh as she studied the garment. “Oh, I would know your mother’s hand anywhere. This is magnificent.”

My fingers reverently stroked the design. “It is perfect.”

Adara gestured at the comb in my hand. “Allow me. I have given the warrior her own tea and your daughters sleep soundly. Some say I am rather skilled at the braiding of hair.”

“I would appreciate your help combing through it, but do not braid it. My mother used to call it my flame, and I would honor Brigantia by allowing it to blaze.”

“As you ask, so will I do,” Adara murmured.

She sectioned off my thick mane and gently worked the comb through it. Neither of us spoke. I gratefully sipped the tea. Its warmth and the magick of the healing herbs soothed me, and for the first time since that terrible dawn, I relaxed. Adara’s ministrations brought to mind the grooming ritual the Iceni women loved so well. Once a week they gathered in the houses of friends and family—and the lodge of their queen—and the women would bathe their hair in herb-scented water. Then, as they shared food and drink and talk, they would brush out each other’s hair and create elaborate braids, woven with beads and feathers and strips of ribbon and brightly dyed cloth.