HEAT drained from my face. Memory of Samhain Eve, nine naked men, Carradoc tying me to a pole, replayed across my mind. He prepared me for ritual rape then. Would tonight be any different except for the number of partners?
The few sips of water and bites of bread I had eaten threatened to rise again.
“At least I don’t need to worry about The Merlin stealing my son away. You’ve been puking your guts up every morning for nigh on a week. He can’t claim this child was conceived on Beltane and its parentage in doubt.” Carradoc casually dismissed his threat.
“My father steals children?” I clung to this new topic rather than dwell on tonight’s unpleasantness. I knew Da had taken the son of the Ardh Rhi and his queen for fosterage away from the court. The child Arthur. The King’s son who must succeed him soon.
The other kings must elect an Ardh Rhi. They agreed on so few things, only Uther’s son would gain enough neutral votes to attain the crown.
Another mystery to add to my father. My gentle Da seemed a distant dream. The formidable magician known as The Merlin seemed more shadow and contradiction than the man I had known all my life.
Carradoc didn’t seem aware of my pause. “Every few years The Merlin appears out of nowhere, claiming that children born around Imbolc belong to the gods because they were conceived at Beltane. I lost one son that way. I’ll not lose this one.”
My birthday was on Imbolc. Could I be another Beltane child stolen at birth? No, I had inherited much from Da, including music and magic. Things he couldn’t give a foster child.
The room spun around me. Carradoc placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t let it fret you, Wren. Our son will be safe. And we both know your father always found good places to foster the sons he stole. I’m sure you visited them all on your yearly treks around Britain.”
“We visited many families with foster sons.” The stone floor chilled my feet and legs all the way to my belly. “One of them might have been your son.”
Curyll? Though Carradoc’s hair was dark, worn long with a thin plait decorated with blue beads behind each ear, and Curyll wore his fair hair cropped short in the Roman style, the two men were of similar size and build. I couldn’t tell if their mouths and jaws were similar. Carradoc’s thick beard, also trimmed in gray-blue beads the same color as his eyes, disguised much of his face. They both wielded heavy swords and lances as easily as toys. But Curyll looked to distant horizons with light blue-gray eyes that longed for a different future. Carradoc’s deep, darker gray-blue eyes looked no farther than his own satisfaction.
Had I married the birth father of my beloved Curyll? Only my father knew for sure. The chill spread to my heart.
I hated the depth of The Merlin’s manipulation of people and events to suit his purposes. I doubted Da paid attention to the will of the gods, or the will of the Ardh Rhi. The will of the people wouldn’t touch his reasons for the games he played.
“I am too ill to participate in Beltane this year, Carradoc.” I shuddered from cold within and without “As soon as the Queen of the May has given her virginity to the gods, I must retire.”
“You’ll stay and please me in all ways, Wife. You promised obedience. The circle of the Roman marriage ring on your finger binds you to that promise.”
o0o
Ka-Thump-thm. Ka-Thump-thm-thm. The drums echoed my heartbeat. Faster and faster the drums called the villagers, nobles, and warriors to the Beltane revelries. Higher and higher the bonfires leaped and danced in imitation of Belenos. Three naked youths jumped and defied the growing flames. Only three young athletes remained out of fifteen who had begun the day with games of football and wrestling.
Ale and sacred mead flowed freely among those in the community who had not gone to war behind Carradoc’s banner. The two stags rampant butting heads in battle on the flag flying above the ramparts should have been a stag in rut with a dozen does.
As naked as the rest of my companions, I joined the serpentine dance around the twin bonfires on either side of the central standing stone and the five maidens awaiting the outcome of the athletic contest.
Ka-Thump. Ka-Thump. Ka-Thump. The drums added intensity to the dance with each log added to the fire and each cup of mead swallowed.
I broke free of the dance as we passed the stone for the third time. No Druids remained in our vicinity. Few remained in all of Britain. The ritual of cutting the sigil of fertility into the living soil fell to me, a recently initiated priestess who carried new life within her womb. I should have been honored and joyful at the powerful omen of my role and my pregnancy.
But Carradoc’s perversion of the ritual joining of Dana and Belenos, female and male, mother and father, left me empty. Any of the four maidens who waited with Marnia would make a better Queen of the May. They were all healthier and stronger than my stepdaughter. If Marnia conceived a child tonight, I doubted her extremely narrow hips would allow her to carry the child to term. A malformed or stillborn Beltane child portended famine and plague next year.
With that thought in mind, I paid closer attention to the symbols I cut into the earth around the stone with my athame. Male, female, birth, and death enclosed within infinity, enclosed with a circle. I cut birth deeper and bigger than the other marks, praying for the fertility of the fields and the Queen of the May. Death’s symbol barely broke the surface of the soil.
They should all have been equal, part of a balanced life pattern. Did my manipulation of the sigils equal my father’s manipulation of people and events? Perhaps. But I had to balance my husband’s distortions of the ritual.
The bonfire flared, close enough to warm my bare back and thighs. Its brightness stained my sigils red. Though shallow, Death seemed to bleed.
I clutched my arms across my belly, feeling the cold hand of the Netherworld.
The encouraging shouts around the closest bonfire turned into a wild chant. I stood to watch the young men leap the roaring flames.
Carradoc raced toward the burning logs of last year’s Yule decorations. Firelight turned his bronze torc blood red. Every household had contributed branches of greenery that had resided inside their homes for a full cycle of seasons. The larger the village, the higher the bonfire. Carradoc’s lands had resisted plague and invasion this past year. That made this village more prosperous and larger than most. Only a man of extraordinary strength and courage could jump over the fire.
As lord of these people and a proven warrior he had every right to join the competition. Carradoc had not been among the football players, wrestlers, and stone hurlers earlier today — nearly all of them torcless peasants since the warband had gone ahead to the battlefront. I had expected Carradoc to leave the competition to younger men now that we were married.
My husband had the strength of body to compete. I had no doubt he could clear the flames untouched. But why? He was no longer a bachelor, no longer young. And this year’s Queen of the May, the woman destined to receive the seed of the man who leaped the highest and farthest, was his own daughter.
The chant turned into a roar. Carradoc’s well-muscled legs pumped hard. He swung his arms and breathed deeply.
One moment he was on the ground, speeding forward, the next he soared through the air, well clear of the climbing bonfire.
Marnia lost all color in her face. She reached for her crown of flowers, her only clothing on this night. Nimuë forcibly restrained her from casting away the symbol of her status.
A tight knot formed in my belly. How could my husband profane this most sacred of rituals?
Carradoc landed heavily in a bone-jarring tumble. He paused while he regained his balance. Then he stood, arms up in triumph as he approached the waiting virgins. He placed a loving arm around the waiting Queen of the May. She shrank away from him, unable to break his hold upon her.
I leaned against the standing stone, gasping for breath. The ancient granite held the lingering warmth of the sun, but chilled rapidly. As rapidly as I. No comfort in knowing how many rituals had been performed within its shadow. Many of them might very well have involved father and daughter. Many of them had included human sacrifice, too. I turned my back on the stone, on the bonfire, on the celebrants, and the sigils I had cut into the living Goddess. I could not sanction this Beltane.
A huge chanting roar signaled another man approaching the bonfire. I watched over my shoulder, praying this man, whoever he might be, surpassed my husband’s feat of prowess. Light brown hair flying about the man’s face helped me identify him. He had requested the right to join Carradoc’s warband just last week. Llandoc by name. Son of a blacksmith. Carradoc had refused him. His heritage was not worthy of elevation to warrior, no matter his strength and skill. He’d never wear a torc.
If my husband had told Llandoc how essential his skills as a smith were to the entire army, and the village, the young man might have been content to remain a craftsman; might never have the angry courage to challenge Carradoc in this competition.
Right now, I encouraged him. He had to surpass his lord in this competition. He had to!
I had to help him. As a priestess, I wasn’t supposed to interfere with the selection of tonight’s champion. As a priestess, I had to prevent the celebration from falling into further perversion, even if it meant using my magic on others. Regretfully, I summoned the power within me that would help me control this situation — as my father would have.
Pridd, Awyr, Tanio, and Dwfr were present already. I had prepared myself for ritual at the beginning of the evening. Magic resonated throughout the land. Magic that was supposed to be used to invoke the Goddess and ensure fertility. Healthy fertility, not an abomination born of a father and daughter coupling.
The pattern of my life realigned a little. My purpose in life as a priestess was to insure the fertility of the land and the people. My gift of magic should be used to help that end.
I borrowed a little of the power singing through the land and reached into Llandoc’s mind. Determination, courage, and anger fueled his straining body. Don’t think. Push more blood into your legs. Let the Goddess propel you. Don’t think about it, just jump. Now!
Praise Dana, he soared high, impossibly high. A trail of sparks flowed from his heels. The flames seemed to pause, perhaps recede. The crowd held their collective breaths.
Carradoc stood with his mouth hanging open. Terrible anger burned in his eyes.
Llandoc landed lightly, evenly, almost as if the Pridd rose up and cradled his descent.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Marnia rushed forward, arms open to welcome her champion.
Nimuë laughed long and loud as she caressed her father’s shoulder. She ran her fingers up and down his arm intimately, seductively.
Carradoc wrapped his arm around her naked body and pulled her into the shadows. Anger still boiled out of his aura. He beckoned the half dozen of his warriors who hadn’t left for battle yet. One of them held rope.
My stepdaughter accompanied her father willingly. She glanced around her at the six extra men and smiled. As darkness enfolded them, she looked back over her shoulder and smiled triumphantly at me. I don’t need a husband, I have yours, she said into my mind.
o0o
Carradoc did not return to my bed that night. I left the Beltane festival as soon as I saw Llandoc lift Marnia in his arms and carry her to the freshly cut sigils by the standing stone. She wrapped her arms around his neck in the closest thing to enthusiasm I had seen in the girl.
The cheers and songs of drunken revelry drifted through the unshuttered windows of Caer Tair Cigfran all night. Sleep would have eluded me even in silence. So I sat in a large chair beside the window, fully clothed, a blanket wrapped around me to ward off the chill of my thoughts as well as the night dampness.
A kitchen cat purred in my lap. I stroked her ordinary tabby fur, wishing she wore the orange-and-white coloring of Helwriaeth. This cat did not know her name and didn’t care if she had one. Her rumbling contentment provided a counterpoint to the rhythm of merriment outside. A song tempted me to pick up my small harp. But music would have diverted my thoughts. I made do with a hum in the back of my throat, much like the cat’s.
At my feet, Newynog, Carradoc’s aging and heavily pregnant wolfhound bitch, dozed and snored. She had embraced me as her own the moment I had entered the environs of Caer Tair Cigfran. Previously she had acknowledged only Carradoc as senior to her in authority of the diverse pack of humans. Now she ignored him completely or fled his presence in fear. She had been trained as a war dog and only recently retired to breed more war dogs. Defense of Carradoc should have been her primary objective in life. Her shift in loyalty provided only one of many irritations in my dealing with my husband.
I did not light a fire or candle during my vigil. The flames would have drawn my eyes and induced visions. I didn’t need pictures caught in fire to tell me whose arms welcomed my husband. Nor that he and his eldest daughter were familiar partners.
The Lord and the Land are one. This fortress of three ravens carried an appropriate name. The misfortune that followed the omen wrapped the inhabitants in perversion. Carradoc’s incest with Nimuë would come back to him in stunted crops, sickly villagers, and crumbling wealth.
The ladies in Ygraina’s bower openly discussed Nimuë’s promiscuity. Yet no hint of Carradoc’s participation entered the conversation. Had they both sought other partners this past winter, or had they been incredibly discreet?
Gossip hadn’t connected Curyll with Morgaine either, and I knew they had spent many nights together. In fact I was surprised they hadn’t married along with the other seven couples the day before we left the capital.
Life in Caer Tair Cigfran had to change. Carradoc would leave at dawn to join the army. He wouldn’t be around to interfere with my life. He’d already entrusted me with the keys to every room in the caer, symbols of my authority to act in his stead.
The dark of the moon neared; a time for purging negativity from our souls and banishing curses. I had the tools — magical and mundane — to bring light and life back into balance here.
I’d begin as soon as he left. Alone if I had to. Some of the villagers might help.
As the bonfires dimmed to glowing embers and the sounds of Beltane faded to sleepy murmurs, I crept back to my bed, still fully clothed. Newynog and the cat joined me, sprawling over the wide mattress, completely filling it.
A few moments later, the door creaked open. Newynog growled a low warning. Cat’s fur stood up as her ears twitched.
I stiffened, prepared to reject Carradoc.
“Wren?” Berminia whispered.
“Yes.” I sat up hastily, more surprised than alarmed. I had to kick Newynog to make room for my legs to move.
“Can we talk?” Berminia moved into the chamber hesitantly.
I lit a small lamp beside the bed, needing to read her face and posture. I hadn’t learned to fully trust my interpretation of the shimmering aura of energy I perceived around every living thing — even without light.
Berminia had donned her clothes as well. She hugged herself and looked at the floor. Her blonde braids hung limp and greasy over the plump shoulder. Her sadness and disappointment filled the room.
I sat up and reached out a tentative hand in mute comfort and empathy.
She lifted her head at my touch but didn’t pull away from me. “Will you teach me how to be a priestess?” Determination firmed her jaw.
“Why?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Possibilities and questions ran through my mind, each vying for dominance.
“I won’t be humiliated again at Beltane. I want to go to Avalon where there are no men.” Her voice choked but no trace of tears rose in her eyes.
“Avalon is empty now. You’d be totally alone. Besides, men used to go to Avalon for Beltane and other festivals. They climb the ritual labyrinth on the tor several times a year. Priestesses participate fully in Beltane.” I stalled.
“But those men respect the priestesses.”
“Who treated you with less respect than they would offer Dana this night?” Every woman represented the Goddess, especially on Beltane.
“No one!” she replied defensively. “At least... Toutates the smith, Llandoc’s father, joined with me tonight. He offered me marriage. Me, the daughter of the lord! As if I must settle for a mere smith.”
“He is a respected craftsman, Berminia,” I said. Her indignation wasn’t as firm as her father’s would be when he heard the offer. If Berminia bothered to tell him. “You are not yet past the age when no one will consider you for a bride. Nimuë is two years older.”
“Hmf,” she snorted. “You know as well as I that Nimuë isn’t interested in a husband unless he can give her power. She runs this caer like it was her own.”
“But she is not your father’s wife and never can be.” I shuddered at renewed images of Carradoc caressing his daughter’s breasts as intimately as he did mine.
“No. She delights in being his forbidden mistress! His plaything in perversion. It’s the only way she can control him and make him give her what she wants.”
The spoken words had more power to hurt than the mere thought. Everyone must know my humiliation at being married to a man who preferred incest with his beautiful daughter rather than a healthy relationship with his new wife. I’d never deluded myself that I could be as lovely as Nimuë. Tall and faery slim, she glided gracefully through life. My short legs and broadening hips stumped along with too much purpose and determination to be called lovely. But I had hoped... Never mind what I hoped. ’Twas time to deal with reality.
“Carradoc gave me the keys to Caer Tair Cigfran,” I reminded her, and myself. “Your sister no longer has authority here. Perhaps now she will accept a husband.”
“She won’t give up her power without a fight. Carradoc is the first man of his line to inherit the caer. It has always passed to the husband of the eldest daughter. Nimuë wants to restore the ways of our grandmother. You need allies. Teach me to be a priestess. We can fight her together,” Berminia pleaded.
“I am sorry for the passing of old ways. But we live in a new era. The kings will enforce Carradoc’s right to pass his land and his caer to his son,” I said, while I thought frantically for a defense against Nimuë.
Berminia made sense. Part of me withdrew from sharing my knowledge with her. I sensed no magic in her. Nor did I see any dormant power in her aura. She might learn enough to participate in rituals, prepare herbal remedies, and pay proper homage to the gods, the role of an acolyte. But without the ability to manipulate the energies of nature to restore balances upset by humans, she’d never progress beyond the level of a follower. A priestess needed to be a leader.
Perhaps that would be enough for her. Perhaps not. Only time and discipline would reveal her full potential. In the meantime, I had an ally in the changes I must make to this gloomy caer. Together we would restore the pattern of life around here, and in the process perhaps we would restore the balance within Berminia to improve her health and self-confidence.
“I will teach you what I can, Berminia.” I stood up and embraced her with a kiss of peace upon her cheek. To my surprise, I tasted salty tears on her face.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “When can we start?”
“Tomorrow. After your father leaves for the battlefront.”
Newynog thumped her massive tail against the mattress in agreement with me.
“Before Nimuë wakes up and interferes.” Berminia giggled. “She’ll sleep until noon. She always does after Beltane.”
“Wren?” Marnia asked from the still open doorway. “Can we talk?” She didn’t sound quite as forlorn as her sister had, but a note of urgency shadowed her request.
I opened my arms to include her in the embrace I shared with Berminia. She came to us in a rush with hugs for both of us.
“Thank you for whatever you did to help Llandoc win. I couldn’t have stood it if Papa had been... you know.” She gulped and bit her lip. She ran her hands through her unbound hair. Sprigs of flowers floated free of the tangles. She had discarded her crown of flowers. A warm shift covered her from neck to toe.
“What makes you think I did anything to help?” If Marnia had sensed the extra “push” I gave her champion, then perhaps she had magic within her. Another ally or potential rival?
“I don’t know.” She tangled her fingers in her hair again and shrugged. “I just knew you were the only one brave enough to defy Papa. You and Llandoc. But you know this means he can’t stay. He’ll have to leave before Papa remembers to be angry with him — and me.”
“And when will that be?”
“That depends on how much Nimuë lets him hurt her,” both girls replied.
My insides threatened to freeze.
“Marnia, will you join us in the morning? Berminia has asked for me to teach her to be a priestess.”
“Yes! I’d really like that — even if I don’t have any magic.” Marnia smiled. For the first time I saw the potential beauty beneath her sallow skin and too thin body. “And Nimuë will be green with envy. She wants to be a priestess, too, but only for the power and magic. Not that she’d work for it. She wants everything given to her.”
They told me how their older sister had botched the attempt to break the benevolent wards I’d set around the first rampart. Their story ended in a rash of giggles that didn’t quite mask the horror they truly felt.
“I promise you, I do not sacrifice innocents in my magic,” I reassured them. “We must rest now. In the morning we will bathe and break our fast. Then we’ll begin with some simple herbs. Violets and cedar to start. Betony, I think, and burdock. Hyssop if we can find some.” All of those plants cleansed and purified. I had the help I needed to cleanse this fortress.
“Can we stay with you? I don’t want to sleep alone.” Marnia looked longingly at the wide bed.
The bed I had shared with Carradoc.
I didn’t like the idea of my husband returning and finding the three of us together — as if we waited for him.
On the other hand, we were all clothed, and all determined to refuse his attentions. Allies. Newynog and the cat filled any space left over in the bed. Carradoc couldn’t defeat all of us. Just as the Saxons could not fight all of Britain united in a common defense.
Was I as strong a leader as Uther? Or would my allies desert me at the first sign of trouble?