Voices of the Stars

by Rowena Whaling

  It is an irony that on the way from Rowena’s fortress in Gwynedd, one of Gwenyfar’s companions, a girl named Freidl, was doing everything she could to capture my attention. She was a very pretty, blue-eyed Saxon girl, with full voluptuous breasts and a small waist. The latter was unusual – for she also had very round buttocks. Then there were her glossy golden braids falling almost to her knees. The whole, put together, was quite alluring. But I, as if in a Dream when one knows they are Dreaming yet want never to awaken, felt my body’s loyalty was to Gwenyfar.

  “Fool!” I had chided myself. I knew she was not mine... nor would she ever be, for she was Arthur’s. But I would live out this sweet Dream of pretence while it lasted. So, I had not responded to Freidl.

  Now that my feet were back on solid ground and I was with Arthur – I felt well again.

  So, that first Night of our being together, I pushed, prodded, and playfully shamed Arthur into riding to the nearby village with me.

  It had a very large trading market alongside it – with a drinking hall where you could sup and let a room with a woman for the Night. I had heard of this place when I was a boy and had always longed for the adventure of it.

  However, I was only twelve years when The Merlin took us away from our home, so I had never the chance to bed a woman until I was past sixteen years. Since then I have tried to make up the lost Time. Tonight, I expected, would be all the more fun with Arthur there.

  We laughed and drank so much that I do not even remember the woman I was with. But Arthur did join in – and a woman did warm his bed that Night, as well.

  When I awoke I was alone of course, the room was dank and dingy and smelled like soot, piss, and old sex. I have always been very clean with my body, as clean as was ever possible. I shuddered at what small beasties might have invaded my hair from that filthy bed. I quickly dressed, went outside to the Well and splashed Water on my face. I thought we had better find a Stream to bathe in before we saw Igraine again. I waited for Arthur. I was offered some meat with ale and flat breads, which I gratefully paid for, ate and drank.

  Still no Arthur... So I went up the ladder to the two rooms the tavern rented and called out in a loud voice – “Arthur!” I heard something like a wounded Animal... a groan... “Arthur?”

  “I am here...”

  I pulled back the curtain to find him on the floor with his arms wrapped around – and head resting against – the chamber pot.

  I laughed, “You drank yourself sick! I hope you can remember the best parts of last eve’s frolic – that is if you could get your parts to work!”

  “They worked.” He smiled.

  “Let us go get some ale for you.”

  “Oh no!... No more ale.”

  “Oh yes! It will help... I promise you Arthur.”

  We found that Stream, bragged about our sexual prowess and the world was aright again.

  That was to be the first of many years worth of wenching and such frolicking that we did share with each other.

  The Wedding…

  Arthur had sent out messengers to all the lands of the confederacy, to invite those Chieftains, Kings, Queens, Elders, Dux – and their wives or husbands – to come to the wedding celebration.

  In these missives was an alternate invitation: To make plans to meet at Table Rock in Alba, in three Moon Dances, to celebrate with those who were otherwise detained or too far away to attend the wedding and crowning. This was wise of Arthur...

  To the Day of my writing these pages, Arthur has kept the knack of keeping his subjects satisfied – in as far as his remembrance of, and respectful words and deeds toward them.

  Chapter 17

  The Royal Wedding

  Arthur

  Dumnonia was a bustle of activity. Never in my life have I beheld such an elaborate affair.

  Each new party who rode in was more pretentious than the one before. Every woman, man and youth was dressed in costumes of the finest cloth their family’s wealth could purchase. Each one of them had brought gifts for Gwenyfar and me. All were vying for my attention and speaking in great flatteries to Igraine and Gwenyfar. Of course, each family in attendance did have hopes of future favours from their King.

  Oh, let me not be so cynical. Many true and loyal friends of mine were there, too. And as far as flatteries spoken to Igraine and Gwenyfar, well, none of these were exaggerations, as they both were very beautiful.

  I greeted everyone, returning their compliments:

  “My dear Lady, have you grown younger than when last I saw you? And is this your daughter? What a beauty... Why she looks just like her Mother!”

  “Who has sewn your marvelous tunic, my good Sir? I must remember their name when next I am in need of a new wardrobe...”

  “Are these your sons? What fine, strong men they will become – Perhaps, one Day, future Commanders – Goddess willing?”

  And so on and so forth...

  Just as soon as I felt that I had satisfied protocol and good manners, I fled the scene!

  My eyes kept searching for Morgan and Lady Vivianne. Two young Hunter Priests had arrived the Day before to assure us of their coming! I wondered what was keeping them.

  I went outside to the Sacred Well, drank some of its Waters and splashed some on my face.

  “Oh Morgan,” I thought. “What a farce this is. Why could not all marriages be as was ours?” Then I caught myself. “But no... GREAT GODDESS, I mean no offence. I know that the Sacred Marriage in the Wildwood was not that of Arthur and Morgan; it was the Stag King and the Great Mother. Regardless, the memory of it – of its beautiful simplicity and true Love’s expression – takes my breath away.”

  I sat for another while longer at the Well... Then I heard their voices, and the jingle of the bells on Morgan’s and Lady Vivianne’s ankle braces. My heart leapt. My stomach ached. I ran to meet them.

  Proud and stately were they. Morgan grew more beautiful every Time my eyes beheld her.

  They were guarded by only two older Warrior Priests. Why so few? But then I realised; why need they ever fear? Their Magics alone are but all they need for protection! Not to mention their unseen Guardians.

  By the Time I reached them they had dismounted. I ran up to them and smiled. As protocol demanded I greeted Lady Vivianne first. She bowed her head to me and said, “May the Goddess bless you, my King.”

  “And may she always hold you in her Love, my Lady.”

  Then I embraced Morgan.

  “Sister...”

  What more could be said?

  On the Day of the wedding...

  All who entered the fortress that Day must come through the main gates, which led them directly past Nodens’ Well. As soon as all arrangements had been meticulously overseen, Igraine met and welcomed them there. Many wished for her blessing as Seer of the Well. All who asked were blessed by the Waters of the Spring and I am sure many were Healed of their maladies.

  My Lady Mother Igraine had prompted her folk of the Old Dark Tribes to come out of their twisted Forests to pay homage to her son’s and their High King’s wedding, which they did. Twenty of them came, dressed in all their gold and finery. Igraine had painted the Tribal black dots on her own forehead and cheekbones to honour them. How stunning she looked.

  I looked at her in wonder – still so beautiful – she must be near to her fiftieth year-turn by now. Would Morgan be like Igraine in this way too?

  A realization made me smile... I knew that Morgan would always be beautiful in my eyes. If I am to live long enough to see her face wrinkled and marred by the ravages of Time – or if her long black hair be streaked white as Snow or silvered like the hair of the Star Goddess in the Heavens, or if her deep eyes be clouded over from the blindness of old age – no matter what changes must be endured, I will always be dazzled by her beautiful, exquisite Spirit.

  Oh, Morgan, I am doomed and blessed to suffer this Love in silence.

  I waited until Igraine was alone at the Well, then I went to her.

 
“Lady Mother, can you or your Well Heal me of that which consumes me?”

  She looked deeply into my eyes. I lowered them in shame. I felt my face flush.

  “It does you no good to try to hide this from me, Arthur. I have seen this Love in you since you were a boy. I had hoped... But never mind that. The Waters of Nodens’ Well might give you the strength to live with this burden, but no, they will not Heal you of it.

  “Here, drink Arthur; know that these Waters, my regard, and yes, my Love for you, my son and King, will be here always. As I can help you, I will. Even after I have passed through the Veil, you will always be able to find me here. As for now, I will do what I can to help you pass through this Day and the next few as easily and with as much comfort as possible. Do you want me to prepare some of the Herbed wine, which is used at the Sacred Marriage – the fertility rights – for your wedding Night?”

  “I thank you, but no... I think Gwenyfar will need it more than I – she disdains me. She cringed when I kissed her cheek in welcome. She is afraid of me! I wish that it were not this way. Now I am to ravage this young maiden to get a child upon her...”

  “I can read her, Arthur. She has her own reasons for avoiding your touch and they have nothing to do with you.”

  “What then?”

  “These reasons I may not speak of. This problem is between you and your royal wife. But remember Arthur, why we are doing this.”

  “I know... I know – it is political – and the Kingdom must have an heir...”

  “You must get through this somehow... But mind my words Arthur – there must be blood on the sheets tonight! Do you understand?”

  “I will not rape her! Surely you could not condone this, Igraine? I mean... My Lady Mother...”

  “No, of course not Arthur, use your vast intelligence along with your great and compassionate heart – find a way Arthur... blood on the sheets.”

  Soon after, I was taken by my companions to my personal chamber, dressed and vulgarly given much advice about the marriage bed. The jesting was all very funny! So, my spirits lifted a little and I drank; but only a bit, so as not to offend Gwenyfar.

  Many and more Gifts...

  Princess Rowena had arrived three Days before the wedding. She had ridden her war Stallion, with only an axe, her long dagger, and one guard – all the way from her fortress in Gwynedd. She had brought an extra Horse along to carry – rolled and covered upon its saddle – a beautiful Saxon wedding gown for Gwenyfar. It was the same in which she had been married to Vortigern. Of course, the seamstresses hastened to shorten it substantially, for Princess Rowena was a much taller woman than Gwenyfar. So that there be no bad luck in our marriage, she had cleansed it in the Well Water at her fortress and hung it in the light of Sol to bless it – for she had had little Love for Vortigern.

  She had brought two more wedding gifts: a silver and amber ring for her sister and a solid gold brooch for me, which was emblazoned with the Pen Dragon standard on its front. On its back was engraved, in Latin, “Rex Regis of Totus Nostrum Populus.” “King of all our People.” How delicately tactful a reminder was this to me of my vows of showing equality and tolerance towards all the Tribes and Clans of our Islands – including Hengist’s Saxons.

  The Priestesses of the Isle of Apples gifted blue and purple dyed cloth, which they themselves had woven. They had been sent by courier to Igraine at Mid-Summer. Igraine had then fashioned my tunic and breeches from these with Magical stitches and knotted threads. She then embroidered many symbols of the Tribes upon the front of my tunic. Upon the back – with threads of pure gold – she had embroidered the Pen Dragon sigil. The sleeves were fixed with vertical lines of scrollwork of the Saxons, Picti, and the Clans. In addition to the fabric, the Lady of the Lake sent many clay jars filled with the Isle’s fabled honey and many baskets of early Apples from the Order’s orchards.

  A Picti Chieftain, from the far North had brought a wood and leathern shield – with many of their strange pictures etched into the leather, as a gift for me.

  From the Clans of the Cymru had come a silver wrist torque for me of a style similar to the ones I had seen on their War Chieftains’ wrists. For Gwenyfar, they presented fanciful iron Fire Dogs, similar to the ones in Princess Rowena’s Great Hall.

  By the Northern Clans, from just South of Table Rock, in Alba, a ribbon of checked cloth was presented – which had obviously been woven by hand with much finesse. Many hours of labor had been spent upon it. It was vibrantly coloured in scarlet, purple and blue. I tied it to the braces of my wedding outfit.

  It was so like Hengist to have sent his son – Thüringen Red Wolf, his youngest – in his stead and with no excuses for his absence. Still, it has never been said that Hengist is a stingy man; he sent with his son a short dagger with a gold and silver Boar’s head hilt as a gift for me. It came with a fine handcrafted leather scabbard. This I slid into the side of my right boot.

  A Christian Monk representing a male Monastery of ten men arrived thence with a Cross for me. I was greatly offended in my heart. Although everyone knew that I honoured each one’s leaning toward the Gods of their desires, they also knew that I worshiped the Old Gods. I could not help suspecting it as a trick – or was it a trust? Trust that I would indeed defend and treat all on these, Our Fair Isles, equally well? In any case, I graciously accepted it.

  One of the Monks then asked if he might have the honour of meeting Gwenyfar one Day. I, of course, did not refuse – that was “entirely at Gwenyfar’s discretion” said I – then quickly excused myself.

  The list of gifts went on and on...

  Later that Day, I asked Igraine “Lady Mother, what am I to do with this cross?”

  “I think you must place it on the Christian Altar, which Gorlois set up in the back corner of the courtyard. Did you ever realise that he had done that, Arthur?”

  “Yes, but I had forgotten.”

  “He, like you, was a man who kept his word. When he agreed that all were welcome at the Holy Well, he realised that those who had travelled from long distances would require hospitality, a bed, and food. He said that if Christians wished to partake of the Water for Healing, they might also want to pray to their God – or Angels – or Saints. He, being kind and thoughtful, set up a lovely and comfortable haven for any Christian who would wish to pray or make offerings to their God or to the poor. There he erected a small Altar.

  “He and I had spoken of this when I first arrived here, as his wife. We agreed with each other that the Holy Spring had been revered for thousands of years, perhaps even before the Old Tribes – my people – had arrived and long before the Clans and the Romans.

  “The Well is owned by no one and everyone. He said that, perhaps someday, even a Christian Holy person might be Guardian of the Well. At this I inwardly laughed, but then wondered... for Gorlois was a very wise man. I had said nothing.

  “At that shrine and Altar – that is where I think you should put your Cross, as a gesture of good will; after all, you are King of all the Britons.”

  “Igraine... I mean, Lady Mother, wish for me that someday I have but a portion of your Wisdom.”

  She smiled... “You must go now, Arthur, it is near to the Time.”

  Much fuss was made over Gwenyfar, and she and her Ladies In Waiting remaining in seclusion. Those who would be dressing Gwenyfar were: Branwen, Freidl, my Lady Mother Igraine, and Princess Rowena. They were the only ones who were allowed into the bride’s presence. The doors to Gwenyfar’s chamber remained barred all Day. The only contact with the world outside of this sacrosanct conclave was through a spy hole in the door – from which requests for anything needed or desired could be spoken to her “Outside Court” attendants, included Tangwen, the Mother of my heart.

  Igraine had tried to persuade Gwenyfar to include Tangwen into her Inner Chamber ladies – explaining that she was the only woman I had known as Mother through my childhood and even unto less than two years past. But Gwenyfar protested – stating that it would not
suit, for Tangwen’s being of a lower station than she. None argued the obvious – that Branwen and Freidl were but servants to Gwenyfar’s household.

  Much later it was expressed to me – with no excuses made – by Princess Rowena that she and Igraine had greatly disapproved of Gwenyfar’s pompous attitude. I hoped this was only due to the stressfulness of the occasion.

  The Wedding Feast...

  It was nearing the season of the First Harvest – of Grains and of Herbs. The late Summer Flowers were heavy with their blooms. They were lush in their bounty. My Lady Mother had transformed the Great Hall into a Magical land of a Mid-Summer’s Dream. Sweet scents perfumed the Air and everywhere I looked, a bounty of Flora bewitched the senses! Even the oil torches were lightly scented with Rosemary.

  Hung from high up in the smoke blackened beams, were banners representing – in one way or another – every Tribe, Clan, and Great House of our alliance. Grey doves and Tree Finches flew ‘round the rafters.

  The processional path, upon which we, as well as the six Holy Ones and the Sages were to walk, was carpeted with sweet and spicy scented gifts of the Earth Mother. Where had Igraine found so many? Never had I seen, but in the wilds of Nature, such beauty.

  And Gwenyfar, I must say, seemed to spring from the same source. She blended in as if a delicate white Flower had sprung up between the wild Ferns and Mosses.

  She was beautiful – in her pale way.

  She was dressed in the gown that Princess Rowena had gifted to her. All a-shimmer was she in its Lavender blue chemise, with a long, open weave, light grey sleeveless tunic atop it. There were pearls and amber beads sewn to the tunic in a pattern of Vines. She wore the ring of silver and amber which Rowena had given to her and an exquisite twisted golden neck torque with Saxon Horse heads sigils on each end, identifying her as a royal Princess of her Father’s line. Her long flaxen hair had been braided and put atop her head, with many white flowers, Lavender Herbs, and delicate ribbons woven in. The only adornment upon skin her was the extract of boiled juice of berries, carefully staining her perfectly formed lips.