In fact, the water was boiling. They tempered it with fresh water from the well and then reveled in the indulgence of an unlimited water supply. Caddaric had prepared everything, down to the presence of old blankets which had been cut into rectangles to serve as towels. Jilana washed her hair first and wrapped it in one of the towels. Caddaric had washed his hair as well, and now, from the corner of her eye, Jilana saw him strip off the last of his clothing. Her ingrained sense of modesty was offended, but not enough to prevent her gaze from traveling the length of his back and legs before turning her attention back to her own bath.
Caddaric’s actions were correct, Jilana decided after she had mentally struggled with the problem of how to bathe without removing her clothes. Modesty between them at this point was ridiculous. She slipped out of her stola, folded it carefully, and placed it out of harm’s way.
Caddaric covertly watched Jilana as he went about his ablutions. He nearly smiled when she shed her gown— nearly. The sight of the chains drowned his pleasure. He scrubbed at his skin until it hurt.
Jilana hurried through her bath. The brush of wind against her wet skin set her teeth to chattering, a condition that was not relieved until she wore her stola once again. Caddaric, of course, seemed impervious to the discomfort and Jilana shook her head in disbelief as he sluiced pail after pail of well water over his shoulders. He must be made of stone to endure that, Jilana concluded, and then turned quickly away before she was caught spying.
They left the farm in gathering darkness and once again the ride was accomplished in silence. Caddaric seemed lost in thought and the lack of conversation did not bother Jilana. She was growing accustomed to the fact that Caddaric did not make idle small talk or partake in the wild storytelling that passed the nights around the campfires.
Such pursuits were not in his nature. His was a quiet personality; even in a gathering of his friends, he seemed a little apart, isolated, sharing his thoughts and himself only with his father and Heall. His trust was not easily given, nor won, but once it was, he would be loyal unto death itself.
The camp was controlled chaos when they reached it. People hurried this way and that in preparation for the evening’s celebration, and a hushed expectancy hung in the air. Caddaric cared for the horses while Jilana prepared a light meal. When they had eaten, Caddaric unexpectedly gave Jilana first use of the tent so that she might change in privacy. At first she had argued against attending Beltane, but Caddaric had been adamant and Jilana had capitulated. Besides, her curiosity about the celebration outweighed her trepidation at being the cynosure of Iceni eyes. Jilana was ready and waiting when Caddaric emerged from the tent. The bright blue cloak she had seen in his kist now swung from his shoulders; beneath it, his black tunic and breeks were a solemn contrast. The bronze torque at his throat glowed in the firelight.
Caddaric admired Jilana’s appearance as silently as she admired his. She had changed into her remaining white stola and brushed her hair dry by the fire. Now the red-gold mass hung in shining waves down to her waist, trapping his gaze. The only discordant note was the clanking of those damnable chains as she rose and moved toward him. A beautiful woman, Caddaric thought when Jilana came to a halt beside him; the man who claimed her loyalty would be truly blessed.
They left the campsite and joined the river of people flowing to the east. Half the distance had been covered when Jilana felt an unfamiliar pressure at her waist. Caddaric had settled his arm around her. It meant nothing, Jilana told herself; he meant only to keep them from being separated in the crush. But her heart was not convinced and gave an elated thump against her ribcage. As the press of people grew heavier, it seemed only natural to move closer to Caddaric until her shoulder was comfortably ensconced beneath his arm. Was it only her imagination, or had Caddaric’s hand squeezed her briefly when she moved nearer? As they walked, Jilana noted that the cook fires were extinguished as the people left their camps, just as Caddaric had extinguished theirs.
Clywd had found a low, broad hill for his ceremony. Two days of work by his army of volunteers had flattened the top of the rise so that it could accommodate the rough, stone altar that had been constructed under Clywd’s watchful eye. Now the surface of the altar was covered with brush and overlaid with small logs; unlit torches were piled around the foot of the hill. It took Clywd fifteen paces to cover the distance from one end of the altar to the other. When the Beltane fire was lit, it would be seen for miles around. Beltane! Clywd’s spirit leaped proudly as he surveyed his altar and the people gathering at the foot of the hill. For nearly two decades his people had been denied the presence of Druids for this celebration; for the past weeks they had lived with bloodshed and death but now they would celebrate life and the coming year. If they died tomorrow, or next week, or next month, they would have the memory of their own gods and their own ceremonies to comfort them before the final darkness closed their eyes.
Caddaric cleared a way for the two of them to the front of the crowd. No one objected; he was the Druid’s son and a fierce warrior, deserving of a place of honor. Jilana gazed upward and found Clywd in the flickering light thrown by the torches which stood at intervals around the sides and back of the altar. He paced back and forth in front of the altar, the silver streak in his beard moving as he spoke to himself. Was he rehearsing his prayer? Jilana wondered, and she smiled at the thought. It seemed that Clywd was forever mumbling to himself, as if in constant communication with his gods to the exclusion of this world. She caught sight of Lhwyd some distance away, unmistakable in his robe of pure white, with Ede at his side. She quickly averted her eyes and fought the chill which crept up her spine.
Caddaric felt the tremor. Bending down, he asked, “Are you cold?”
“Nay.” Jilana met his eyes and tried to smile. To her surprise, his lips twitched briefly in what might have been a like response, but the movement was gone so quickly that Jilana could not say for certain. “Lhwyd is here.”
Caddaric glanced around until he found the Druid. In a protective gesture, he pulled Jilana in front of him and wrapped both his arms around her waist. His lips brushed her ear as he murmured, “So am I. When will you believe that Lhwyd will have you only over my cold body?”
There was no need for Jilana to reply, nor did she protest the embrace for three reasons. First, held fast as she was, Caddaric’s arm blocked the sight of Lhwyd; second, Caddaric’s body blocked the cool night air and warmed her with its heat; and third—ahh, third—it was wonderful to be held in those strong arms. It was all Jilana could do not to sigh aloud her pleasure.
“We are gathered to celebrate Beltane!”
The voice rolled down from the hilltop like gentle thunder, surprising Jilana with its force. Looking up, Jilana saw that Clywd had moved behind the altar and now stood with both arms upraised and a warm smile on his face. His expression was far different from the one the Roman priests usually wore on such solemn occasions.
“The snow and cold of winter are past; the earth warms and buds appear on the trees. Soon will come the time to till the fields and watch the mares foal their young.” Clywd’s face sobered. “But not this year. This Beltane we celebrate the rebirth of our tribes, our nations, and ourselves. This year we sow not the seeds of wheat but of independence; seeds that, by the grace of the gods, will ripen and be reaped by our children.” The shout of approval that went up from the assemblage forced Clywd into momentary silence. When the cheering died, he resumed. “Our offering to Be’al this year is in thanks for our victories and his continued beneficence as we seek to reclaim what is rightfully ours.”
Clywd lifted a large copper bowl from beside the altar and raised it high above his head. “Accept the sacrifice of this wheat, O mighty Be’al; ‘twas grown in the earth you warmed and nurtured by the rains you sent. As you give us the means of sustaining life, so do you give us life. Do not turn from us, we beg of you, even though we must take the lives of your other creatures in order to bring freedom to our land.” He placed the bow
l on top of the log-filled altar and touched one of the torches to the grain. The grain took fire, the breeze freshened, and where Jilana stood, she could smell the sharp odor of burning wheat. While Jilana watched, the smoke from the bowl turned from gray to purple to red, and then burst into a rainbow of bright colors that shot skyward. The torch flames bent and flickered with the force of the wind. Around them, the Iceni murmured in awe and Jilana gasped at this obvious sign of Be’al’s acceptance of the sacrifice.
Of the crowd, only Caddaric and Lhwyd were unmoved, although Caddaric’s mouth twisted in appreciation of the phenomenon his father had created. No doubt Clywd had added some of his special herbs to the wheat in order to generate the colors, but how he had managed to force the smoke straight up when the wind so obviously eddied about the altar was a mystery. Jilana’s head moved against Caddaric’s chest, and he looked down. Her face held a rapt expression of awe as she watched the spectrum of colors burst against the night sky. Caddaric chuckled silently and then sobered. ‘Twould be nice to believe in the miracle of such things, even for a few moments.
Lhwyd stood stiffly at the front of the crowd; the only hint of his disgust were the bright points of light that danced in his eyes. To ask forgiveness for the slaying of the enemy, Lhwyd thought with an inward sneer. They should be celebrating Beltane with a sacrifice of Roman blood, complete with thanks to the Morrigan! The goddess had made the victories possible, not Be’al. Were it not for the fact that the old man was respected and admired by the people, Lhwyd would have stayed away from this celebration—as Clywd so pointedly avoided those in honor of the Morrigan—but he dared not. While the people enjoyed his living sacrifices to the goddess, their enjoyment sprang only from seeing their enemies killed, not in the honor thus paid to the Morrigan. Lhwyd had only a few devoted followers; before he could challenge Clywd’s position, he needed to expand his power and this could not be done if he directly insulted Clywd.
If only I could have remained on Mona, Lhwyd thought as he watched the older Druid through hate-filled eyes, and learned the different arts that Clywd has at his command. But the chief Druid on the island had stumbled upon Lhwyd during one of his private sacrifices to the Morrigan and, upon seeing the pain the young acolyte inflicted before allowing death to claim the sacrifice, had exiled Lhwyd from Mona. Now, remembering, Lhwyd’s mouth curled in contempt for the chief Druid and all those—such as Clywd—who worshiped at the altar of the soft gods. His spirit demanded devotion to a harsher deity.
Clywd began the song of praise and thanks to Be’al, a song that had not been heard in this land for nearly twenty years. One by one, hesitantly at first, and then with greater assurance, other voices joined Clywd’s as words long unused sprang from the depths of memory. As the song rose in strength and emotion, Clywd removed the bowl from the altar, took one of the torches from its holder and walked with stately grace the perimeter of the altar. Just as the song ended, Clywd touched the torch to the center of the altar.
The dry tinder caught; the fire raced from the center outward, visible to those below only as a glow that illuminated the Druid’s face. Then, with an audible whoosh, the split logs caught as one and the flames rose, obscuring Clywd from sight. In the ensuing tumult, Lhwyd turned and elbowed his way toward the rear of the cheering crowd; he would not be missed. The flames died down and one by one, the people moved forward to take one of the torches from the pile stacked around the foot of the hill.
At first the movement of the crowd frightened Jilana, for it was impossible to resist and she was torn from Caddaric’s arms and swept along in its tide. Just as she started to panic, Jilana felt a strong arm go around her waist and a quick look over her shoulder showed that Caddaric was right behind her. She relaxed and observed the ritual going on around her. Two lines had formed, each making its way up one side of the low hill to the ends of the altar. The two lines met in the center of the altar where Clywd stood. The Druid blessed each person and passed a sprig of sacred mistletoe across their forehead; then the worshiper lit his torch from the altar fire and descended the hill. Twenty years past, the torch the Iceni carried would have lit the fires in the hearth so that every house would know the blessing of Be’al. This night, Be’al’s hallowed flame would have only lowly campfires to grace.
I should not be here, Jilana thought as her turn came to receive Clywd’s blessing. I do not know this god, have not worshiped at his altar. But retreat was impossible, so she swallowed and gave Clywd an apologetic look. “Forgive me, Clywd; I do not mean to profane your god.”
Clywd smiled gently. “All are Be’al’s children.” He brushed the mistletoe across Jilana’s brow saying, “The blessings of Be’al go with you this night,” and then raised his eyes to his son. “You should no longer doubt the power of the gods, especially Be’al’s, for through his magic, here you are, awaiting the blessing.” Before Caddaric could reply, Clywd murmured the blessing, touched the mistletoe to his brow, and then presented his back to his son in order to receive the next supplicant.
Jilana started to move down the hill but Caddaric’s hand upon her wrist stopped her. Caddaric handed Jilana the torch and then wrapped his large hand around hers and together they dipped it to the sacred flame. “So the blessing will extend to all in our camp,” Caddaric explained when she gave him a curious glance.
It seemed to take forever before they were free of the gathering, and as they walked back to their camp, Jilana could see fires springing up as other worshipers returned to their camps. The torch lit their path, and as they turned into the campsite, Jilana saw a lone figure sitting in front of the dead fire. It turned at the sound of their approach and the light from the torch fell upon familiar features.
“Heall!” Jilana broke away from Caddaric and hurried to her friend. Without a moment’s hesitation, she threw her arms around the older man’s neck in a joyful embrace. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you, child.” Heall held her with one arm and extended the other to Caddaric.
Caddaric grasped Heall’s forearm. “‘Tis good to see you once more, old friend.”
“And you.” Heall pulled Jilana’s arms from his neck so that he could peer down into her face. “And you, little one. Are you well?”
“Aye.” Jilana studied Heall’s face just as intently, her hands framing his jaw through the graying beard, and wanted to weep at the sorrow reflected in his eyes. “You will stay with us?”
“I will make my camp with Clywd,” Heall replied, “but this night I would welcome your company—and a piece of that venison I smell cooking.”
“In a moment,” Caddaric broke in. “First we have one last ritual to attend to.” Handing the torch to Jilana, he knelt and laid fresh wood and kindling. Hesitantly, Caddaric spoke the words he had heard his father say in private for so many years. “The blessing of Beltane enter our home. May Be’al find favor with us and see us safely through the coming year.” He looked at Jilana. “Put the torch into the wood.”
Heall had to bite back the cry of surprise that sprang to his lips at Caddaric’s order. Tradition held that the man of the house laid the fire but his mate, if he had one, placed the Beltane fire upon the hearth. It was an honor not lightly taken, but Jilana was obviously ignorant of that fact. While she appeared pleased to have been included in the ritual, she placed no special significance upon the act.
Jilana thrust the torch into the pyramid Caddaric had created out of wood and smiled as first the kindling and then the logs caught fire. Being included in the festival of Beltane had brought a rare peace to her heart. And, from the laughter and singing that issued from the surrounding camps, it seemed to Jilana that the peace extended to everyone. There was a gay air to the Iceni host tonight that had not-been present after Lhwyd’s ceremonies. Humming softly, Jilana went to the wagon and laid out the wine, honeyed mead, wheat cakes and preserves which would be served along with the venison to their guests.
No sooner had Jilana completed this task—and Caddaric declared the veniso
n roasted to perfection—than the night’s revels began. People stopped by the campsite and, after the exchange of greetings and blessings of Be’al, helped themselves to the food and drink. They had brought their own drinking cups and cut the venison with their own daggers and when Jilana made to serve them she was gently, but firmly, refused. Confused, she went to Caddaric and, after timidly pulling him away from a conversation, asked what she should do.
“There is nothing for you to do, save to converse with the guests,” Caddaric explained. “In time we will leave and visit other camps; there we will be expected to wait upon ourselves, even as they do here.”
Jilana started to protest that such behavior was improper for a slave, but Caddaric had already rejoined his friends. Shrugging, she wandered around and greeted the strangers who made themselves at home in the camp. Soon she was caught up in the celebration and forgot her status, as did those around her. High spirits and laughter reigned; wine and the fermented mead flowed freely and the bards told stories of great battles and sang of the glory of Albion and her people.
Jilana poured wine for herself, sipped it, and then cut the wine with water until it was the proper consistency. She saw Heall standing apart from the rest and went to him. “This must be difficult for you, Heall. I am sorry.”
Heall shook his shaggy head. “The sadness I feel is only because Artair did not live to see the old ways publicly celebrated, but I do not mourn him any longer. Annwn, so the priests tell us, is a happy place. If I close my eyes, I can hear his laughter.”
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