“COME with me,” Nimuë ordered her two sisters. “We must reset the wards about the caer.” She beckoned Berminia and Marnia to follow her.
“I don’t want to,” Marnia whined. Scrawny and colorless, she drifted like a ghost of herself back toward the chamber they shared on the south side of the Hall.
“This isn’t a matter of want. We NEED to reset the wards if we are to keep Caer Tair Cigfran ours.” Nimuë marched toward the north tower of the second rampart.
“But Gran set wards just before she died,” Berminia protested. She waddled in Nimuë’s wake, munching on a chicken leg.
“And the wards died with Gran. Just as her Gran’s did and her Gran’s before her. This is something that has to be done with each new generation. I reset the spells before we left for Venta Belgarum last summer. Now that Carradoc has brought another woman into the caer, we need to set them again.”
“What difference does Wren make?” Marnia asked. She stayed a few paces behind Nimuë but didn’t retreat farther.
“Carradoc’s new wife upsets the balance!” Nimuë guessed at the answer. “She has magic and negates the wards.” Besides, Nimuë needed to set up the spells to repel Wren from within as well as enemies from without. Carradoc had no right to pass the caer to Wren’s son — if indeed she carried one. That would have to be remedied, too — later.
The caer and the magic and the ancient secrets within Caer Tair Cigfran belonged to the women’s line. Carradoc was the first man to inherit in more generations than Nimuë could count. The only reason he was able to claim it was because his three sisters had died before they could wed and bear daughters of their own.
Nimuë suspected Carradoc had murdered his sisters. She’d wanted to murder her own often enough. But just because he had warped the line of succession didn’t mean he had to continue it. Caer Tair Cigfran was hers and no one else’s.
“Why do you need us?” Berminia looked avidly at the rabbit Nimuë carried in a basket.
They had stolen the creature from Cook. It should have been part of the evening meal. Nimuë would have preferred a chicken for this task. She had less trouble wringing their necks. But her mentor insisted that true magic required the sacrifice of fur-bearing animals. The demon who still hovered in the back of Nimuë’s head agreed.
“I need you, because we three are of Gran’s blood. We three are all that’s left of her line of powerful women. The three of us will make the magic stronger.” One maiden and two women not yet matrons. They needed a crone, and probably a woman who had actually borne a child, not just been initiated into sexual union. But Nimuë didn’t have time to search out the other women. She should have performed this ritual at dawn, but she’d overslept and now the sun approached noon. She thought she had to complete this spell before the sun reached its zenith and started down again. That’s what Gran had said. Her mentor hadn’t specified.
They reached the outer wall of the north tower. The guard who patrolled the rampart had reached the south tower and lingered, flirting with the kitchen girl Nimuë had sent to intercept him.
Slowly she took three deep breaths to calm her anxious nerves. Then she set out the bitter herbs she had collected under the dark of the moon. She hoped she’d gotten the right combination out of the kitchen garden in Venta Belgarum. Her shielded lantern hadn’t given her enough light to distinguish one plant from the other.
“Fire, Berminia.” She snapped her fingers to gain her sister’s wandering attention.
Berminia placed a bundle of kindling around the pile of herbs. She took her time and placed each stick methodically in a tent over the mound of herbs.
“Hurry up! They don’t have to be neat. They just have to hold the flame a few moments!”
“Gran said they have to go in order,” Marnia reminded Nimuë.
She still sounded petulant and close to tears. She kept looking toward the postern gate that would take her back within the safety of the compound.
“I’ve studied magic, and you haven’t,” Nimuë snapped. “Let’s get on with it.”
Berminia struck flint against iron, sending a spark into the herbs and kindling with her first try. Like a good housewife.
Nimuë bit her lip to keep herself from shouting with jealousy. Tanio never obeyed her so quickly.
“Now for the finish.” She took the rabbit from the basket, holding it by the scruff of the neck. It wiggled its little pink nose. Marnia’s hesitant expression softened at the sight of the squirming animal. The little twit looked as if she wanted to pet the damn thing, like it was one of the innumerable cats who hung around Wren, including the gray-and-white one that had followed her all the way from Venta Belgarum.
Shuddering with disgust for her sister’s softness, Nimuë wrapped her hands around the rabbit’s neck, ready to wrench it around in one quick twist.
“What are you doing?” Marnia cried. She held both hands to her mouth and her face turned a sickly shade of green.
“I am going to kill it,” Nimuë replied, disgusted with Marnia’s squeamishness.
“Cook said you have to slit its throat and drain it of blood,” Berminia corrected her sister.
“If I were going to cook it, I would.” Nimuë sighed as she explained. “I’m sacrificing it. Therefore, I have to break its neck first.” Before she finished speaking, she did the deed. The rabbit’s neck bones ground out of place. It screamed and kicked with its hind legs.
Marnia screamed and looked ready to faint. Hand to mouth, nearly blinded by tears, she screamed again and again — sounding strangely like the rabbit — and stumbled toward the gate.
“Oh, for Dana’s sake.” Berminia grabbed the rabbit away from Nimuë and finished the murder. With a final kick the rabbit ceased its horrible noise and emptied its bowels. The spray hit Nimuë’s gown rather than Berminia’s. “I’ll take it back to Cook,” Berminia chuckled. “You’d better bathe and change before Carradoc smells you and asks questions.” She turned to follow Marnia.
“Don’t you dare!” Nimuë grabbed the rabbit back. She fumbled for her knife.
“You’ve ruined it,” Berminia said disgustedly. “What good is it if we can’t eat it.”
“This isn’t about food. This is about magic and protection,” Nimuë snapped. She finally managed to slash the cutting edge of her blade across the rabbit’s neck. A pitiful amount of blood dribbled onto the almost dead fire.
“I told you we should blood it first, while its heart still beats,” Berminia said.
Nimuë ignored her. A wall of power rose from the stinking fire. She opened herself to embrace the energy and channel it to the west, her next stop in her circuit around the wall.
Pain, sharp and hot, lanced from her throat to her eyes and then down to her toes. Her joints ached as if she’d broken every bone in her body. Her skin felt aflame. All of her senses shut down.
She knew only pain. She dropped the rabbit, needing both hands to bury her face, to find her balance, to keep from screaming.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the pain retreated.
Cautiously, Nimuë peered through her fingers to see what had assaulted her. Her mentor had said that magic would make her tired and achy. She hadn’t warned her of this awful pain, as if demons burned through her.
Then she saw it. A small pile of clean white ashes two steps away.
Wren had already set her own wards around the caer, stronger, more resilient.
Nimuë didn’t know how to counter them.
“I’ll just have to try something else,” she resolved. But first she needed to sleep and bathe in cool water.
In the back of her head, the demon laughed uproariously.
o0o
A predawn chill woke me. Outside the central Long Hall of Caer Tair Cigfran a small bird chirped a question. Is it time to get up yet?
Hush, a few moments more, I told the bird with my mind. Just a few moments more, please. Sleep sand kept my eyes glued shut and my mind tended to drift back to quiet slumber. My bladder had other ideas.
Cautiously I pried one eye open. A faint rosy glow around the edges of the shuttered window of our bedchamber hinted that Belenos, the sun, was near to making his morning appearance.
Carradoc heaved himself over in his sleep, muttering something unintelligible. One of his long arms landed on top of my abdomen. My bladder protested the weight. His hand instinctively closed around my hip. My stomach complained about life in general.
Without delicacy or caution I scrambled from the high bed, grabbing a light robe in my hasty trek to the privy. For once Newynog didn’t follow me, though she slept at the foot of the bed. She raised one eyelid and moaned as if she sympathized with my distress.
For the fourth morning in a row I retched and heaved for endless moments. My belly ached from the repeated convulsions. Cold sweat ran down my face and between my breasts. Tremors in my hands and knees kept me sprawled on the cold dirt floor of the outdoor necessary shed. My hair hung in limp strands, devoid of its natural curl.
When it was over, I sat up, still weak. Strength and alertness deserted me. Only the chill seeping through my bones seemed real.
“You finished, Wren?” Carradoc asked through the door.
This privy was tucked between the back of the hall, where we lived, and the exterior wall. It was indeed private and reserved for the use of the lord’s family. The hole ran deep into the ground before exiting halfway down the steepest portion of the cliff.
“No, I don’t know,” I replied weakly. Though empty, my insides continued to churn.
He threw open the door anyway. I wanted to scream at him to go away. Instead I snuggled into the warmth of the blanket he dropped around my shoulders.
“By my figures the child will be born around the Winter Solstice.” He picked me up and carried me back to our bedroom. “Admirable of you to conceive so readily. I still have the entire campaign season ahead of me.”
His priorities revolved around his warband rather than his family. At least his pattern remained consistent, predictable.
“When will you leave?” I sipped at the water and ate the stale bread he handed me. In a few moments, the last remnants of my earlier discomfort departed. How did he know what I needed?
Our life together seemed to alternate between thoughtful concern and open animosity. Nothing in between. Sex had become rare between us. In some ways I missed the unbridled stimulation. At others, like now, I didn’t want him to touch me again. Ever.
Newynog seemed in agreement as she wormed her huge head between Carradoc and me. I scratched her ears, welcoming the added warmth her fur gave me.
“I leave tomorrow or the day after. Bad omen if I leave on Beltane.”
“Croo-awk, croo-awk,” cried one of the three ravens that hung around Carradoc’s dark fortress. The enclosure perched atop its hill like a squat spider waiting for prey. Even the labyrinthine processional way on the gentle southern slope resembled a spiderweb. Generations had added to the original hill fort without plan or symmetry. Most of the additions — which should have been conical one and two room huts — reflected the Roman influence of sharp angles and squares. Unnatural. Appropriate hiding places for demons.
I shuddered in memory of my encounter with Carradoc last Samhain. Every time I saw the tattoos on his chest, I remembered his capacity for inflicting pain and terror. Best if he took himself off to war soon and vented his demons on the Saxons.
“I must greet the dawn.” Still a little weak-kneed, I struggled to my feet. Sandals, my shift and gown, a hairbrush. What else did I need to make myself presentable enough to walk through the hall and to the palisade gate? I wouldn’t greet the day inside. I needed fresh air.
The song of thanksgiving for the day already thrummed in the back of my throat. Magical power lay dormant beneath the song, waiting to be tapped. The wards I had set around the caer answered the harmony that tickled my throat.
“Why get up now? You need your rest. Stay where you are until you feel stronger.” He pushed me back onto the bed. Newynog lay her head on the mattress beside me, whining her agreement with Carradoc.
I didn’t want to be there. Now that the initial weakness had passed, my mind cleared and my stomach wanted food. “I am a priestess. I will greet the dawn with song and praise and thanks, as I have every day of my life.” I reached for my clothes.
Carradoc’s face darkened with anger. His fist clenched. A knotted muscle pulsed beneath an old scar on his left shoulder.
“I forbid you to leave this room until you have eaten and bathed!”
“You dare forbid a priestess to perform her rituals?” I glared at him in defiance. “I should have known that anyone who ordered the desecration of standing stones honors no god.”
In less than a day he would leave. Out of my life for many months. Maybe forever if he fell victim to a Saxon ax.
No, I mustn’t think along those lines. Morgaine had arranged the death of her first husband. I would not do the same, even in my thoughts.
“I honor warriors and heroes. I respect practicality, not placating ritual that serves no purpose. Sing from the window, then. You must take care of yourself. Surely, even a priestess is allowed some variance of ritual to preserve her health during pregnancy.”
I didn’t know. None of the Ladies of Avalon had been young enough to conceive while I studied there.
“Please, Wren, do not risk the child by rushing outside too soon.” Gently he caressed my hair and cheek with one of his big callused hands.
For a moment, I almost trusted that he held my best interests in his heart.
“Very well. Will you join me at the window?” In the month we had been married, he had yet to join me in the morning ritual so dear to all the Druid-trained. I fully expected him to retreat.
Instead he led me to the east-facing opening and threw open the shutters. He draped a solicitous arm about my waist. We left our clothing behind; ready to let the first rays of sunlight caress us without interference.
Pink, orange, and yellow lit the horizon with a joyous glow. At the moment Belenos shot the first fiery arrow into the sky I lifted my voice in song. A new day had come. Yesterday was a memory. Tomorrow a dream yet to come. Thank you, God of Light and blessed sun, for the day. Thank you Goddess of Light and bountiful Pridd, for a new day to make right all that I survey.
Carradoc bellowed the words beside me in a deep voice that filled me with contentment. Though not as polished or melodious as a trained Druid or bard, he sang pleasantly and maintained a harmony against my high tones.
I could make magic of our harmony, beautiful magic. But Carradoc wasn’t beautiful. Anger and cruelty shadowed his aura.
If our marriage continued as comfortably as these moments of harmony, I could be content. I did not love this man. Only occasionally did I trust him. It had to be enough.
“A good beginning to Beltane, Wren. When we have broken our fast and you have rested, we will join my people in celebration. There will be dancing and music, feasting and sacrifices. And then when the sun sets, we will guarantee the fertility of the fields with our symbolic joinings.” He held me tight, caressing my back and bottom in a suggestive way. Fire warmed my blood as the sun could not deep within these stout walls.
I had proved my fertility. Tonight I would celebrate life with my husband.
“Who will reign as Queen of the May?” I asked. Though we’d been here a month, I did not yet know all of the villagers.
“Marnia, of course. She is the highest ranking virgin of the proper age.”
A little chill crawled up my back, replacing the warmth he invoked. Queen of the May should be selected for health, strength, grace, and accomplishment, not rank. The symbolic joining of Dana and Belenos needed to be performed by the most suitable virgin and the strongest, most agile warrior and athlete to ensure bountiful crops and healthy livestock.
Marnia, Carradoc’s youngest daughter, was far too skinny for health and fertility and just like her sister, Berminia, she had oily, pimply skin. Another year might give her enough maturity to reflect the best of nature.
“Last year I allowed Marnia to join the festivities. She was probably too young, her breasts hadn’t developed at all. No man approached her. This year the men will have no choice.” He buried his face in my hair, nuzzling my ear. The stirrings of his manhood against my belly warned me of his next thoughts. For once, I did not respond.
“I shall truly enjoy laying you upon the sigil of fertility in the center of the newly plowed field and taking you in full view of the village.” He thrust his hips at me suggestively.
“After I have proved you to be my wife for the benefit of my people, I must spread my seed to as many as I can.”
“Beltane symbolizes much more than just sex! It is for honoring the Goddess and celebrating life.”
“And sex is the best medium for demonstrating our joy in life and how we honor the Goddess. Remember, you promised me fidelity, sealed in a circle. You are mine, now, and even on Beltane, only I shall have you.”
“And does not the promise of fidelity extend to you, my lord and husband?”
“Of course not. If I don’t sire at least three bastards tonight, no one will believe me virile enough, strong enough to hold this land. By the same token, if you should ever seek another lover, the people will believe me incapable of satisfying you and therefore incapable of satisfying the Goddess. You will remain faithful, or I will kill you. Most painfully.”
Newynog skulked into a corner and whined in distress.