by J. M. Hofer
Arhianna felt guilty for sowing suspicion. “She may have been mistaken, but I was so frightened, I dared not take the risk.”
“Well, that’s the better question, isn’t it?” Igerna pointed out. “If she wasn’t mistaken, who’s looking for you, and why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps someone who knows about my gift and wishes to give me to Hengist.” Arhianna’s gaze drifted toward the shadows cast by the candlelight on the walls. She thought of everyone in her husband’s clan, but, like Igerna, could not imagine any of them betraying her.
“So he can use your power.”
“Yes.”
“But he can’t force you to use it, can he?”
Arhianna had lost much sleep over that very question. “No, he couldn’t force me to use it, but there are plenty of horrible things he could do. He could threaten my family. He could torture me. He could torture Jørren. He murdered all our chieftains in cold blood. I’m terrified to think of what else he’s capable of.”
Igerna shook her head. “All this, and you still came here for my wedding?”
Arhianna forced herself to smile, determined to lighten the mood. She had been so happy earlier, she refused to let herself fall back into the clutches of her anxiety. “Of course I did—a promise is a promise.”
Igerna flopped back against her pillow, letting out a long sigh. “My confession is nothing in comparison to yours. I’m ashamed to even speak of it.”
Arhianna, relieved her friend had not rejected her, encouraged her to speak. “Oh, please, don’t be.”
“I’ve not told anyone this, but my feelings for Gorlois haven’t grown in the slightest. I don’t know why. He’s handsome. He’s wealthy. He has a beautiful castle, though it seems lonely to me, at the edge of the sea, but…” She shook her head. “Oh, I may as well say it. I’m dreading my wedding day.”
“Oh, Igerna.” She reached over and took her hand. “I’m so sorry.” Arhianna felt horrible for her. All the happiness and promise she had felt in anticipation of her friend’s wedding drained out of her, leaving nothing but a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She waited a moment, and then asked the question she suspected she already knew the answer to. “Do you still long for Uthyr?”
Igerna looked up at the ceiling, her blue eyes glazing over. “Oh, yes. I do. He haunts my dreams.”
“He never called upon you again?” Arhianna found this surprising. She had never seen a man hungrier for a woman than Uthyr for Igerna.
“He was not moved enough, I fear. He had two moons to do so, yet never sent my father a word. Now, I’m engaged to Gorlois, a man who loyally serves his brother. He couldn’t do anything now, even if he wanted to. It wouldn’t be honorable.”
“So, now you wonder what might have been,” Arhianna concluded, more than familiar with the sentiment.
“Yes, I wonder. About a great many things.”
Arhianna did not ask about the things Igerna wondered about, because she knew. She knew she wondered if she would ever find love in her husband’s arms. She knew she wondered whether Uthyr had felt the same way she did the night they first met. She knew she wondered what it would be like to be kissed and held by him, what his skin smelled like, how his voice would sound in her ear telling her how much he wanted her, and how madly he loved her.
That night, after Igerna had fallen asleep, Arhianna shed tears for them both; for Igerna, because she would likely never know that kind of love from Gorlois, and for herself, because she had known it and betrayed it.
***
The following day, Amlawth sent for Arhianna. She had been expecting him to. They had not spoken since the night before her abrupt departure. She met him in the main hall by the hearth, where he liked to drink his wine at night. He smiled and stood up when she arrived. “Good morning, Lady Arhianna. Please, come and sit with me.”
Arhianna sat down in the chair he gestured to, and he poured her some wine.
“I think you should know what I’ve told my people about you, as your presence has surely been noticed.”
“Yes, of course.” Arhianna’s heart beat more quickly as she anticipated what he was about to say.
“I believe I know why you left us at Caer Glou. It was the incident on the road, was it not?”
Feeling it was best not to sow seeds of discord among Amlawth and his ranks right before Igerna’s wedding, Arhianna decided not to tell him about the warning she had received. “Yes.”
“I thought so. Tell me, have you ever heard of Saint Brigid, of Eire?”
“The goddess of fire,” Arhianna replied. “Daughter of Dagda. We call her Ffraid and honor her at Imbolc.”
“Almost, but not quite,” Amlawth replied. “On the isle of Eire, there lives a woman known as Naomh Bríd. She is not a goddess, but rather a nun who has performed many miracles. Her mother was a slave in the court of Dubhthach, Chieftain of Leinster, who fathered her. She lives at the site of Brigid’s shrine in Eire, and there, beneath a large oak on the ridge of Drum Criadh, she spreads the word of our Lord and tends a perpetual fire with the help of seven female companions. It is to her that I have attributed the miracle upon the road. My men now believe it was Saint Bríd who worked through you, and that it was by her grace that we were saved.”
“—And not by me,” Arhianna concluded, feeling relieved, yet somehow also unappreciated.
“Yes,” Amlawth answered. “So, you see, you have nothing to worry about. You shall be well-treated and well-respected here.”
Arhianna thanked Amlawth and left, somewhat pensive. She found it disturbing that a miracle performed by a nun was any more acceptable than one performed by a priestess or through the power of a goddess. It’s no different at all. Why is one act reviled and the other revered? So strange, these Christians. I wonder, does Amlawth know what his wife and daughter do upon the moors outside his castle walls? That they call upon the earth and sky and sea? She thought not, but, perhaps. Perhaps, he’s simply being wise. Emrys is a Christian, after all.
***
The day before the wedding, the household became a beehive. Every servant buzzed through the halls with firm purpose, busy with preparations for their journey to Din Tagell, Gorlois’ castle beside the sea, the following morning.
The day of departure, Igerna’s mother and sisters came into Igerna’s bedchamber with a chatty flock of handmaidens. Arhianna left them to their work. “You’ll be the most beautiful bride anyone has ever seen.” She kissed her friend on the cheek and went to find her mother and Inga. She had bathing and dressing to do as well, and did not want to miss watching her mother give Inga her dress. She knocked softly on their door and pushed it open. She felt pleased to see a fire had been started in the hearth and washbasins set out. Inga was boiling water for them. “Look what they’ve brought us,” she said, pointing at a tray beside the washbasins. “Rose petals, lavender, oils, soap—you must smell them all.”
Her mother gave Arhianna a nod and a wink. She went to a trunk and lifted out a dress of fine linen and silk, some slippers made of soft leather, and a gold brooch. The dress had been embroidered with glass beads of many colors around the neckline, the hem, and the ends of the sleeves. She laid them all out upon the bed, and then went over to Inga. “Inga, Arhianna and I have brought something special for you to wear today.” She pointed to the beautiful display she had created at the end of the bed.
Inga stood up and approached the bed as if she were walking across a frozen pond and feared falling in. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she began to cry.
“Oh, no! I’ve made you cry,” Lucia said with a smile. She pulled Inga to her and hugged her tight.
Inga shook her head in disbelief. She went over and picked up the dress, holding it out in front of her. “I’ve never had anything like this.”
“Well, you deserve to.” Lucia told her. “The linen is from Egypt, brought by the Ceffyl Dŵr last summer. The embroidery I did myself. You’ll need a wool shawl against the wind, but it should be warm en
ough inside the castle.”
While Inga explored every detail of her new gifts, Lucia went back to the trunk and lifted out another dress that Arhianna presumed she planned to wear. It was very fine, dyed the color of dark green moss, her mother’s favorite color. “And this is for you, Daughter.”
“Me?” Arhianna became nearly as excited as Inga. “Oh, Mother!” She took the dress and held it up. It was made of soft wool, spun incredibly fine, with intricate workings of gold embroidery around the neckline accented with amber and carnelian beads. She, too, thanked her mother excessively, and then the three of them tended to each other’s hair and fastenings. When it came time to depart, the women rejoined the men in the courtyard.
Their appearance garnered more than the appropriate response from their male escorts, who flattered them excessively. None of them, however, could hold a candle to Igerna, who emerged like a goddess from her father’s castle. Her thick beautiful hair had been braided into a virtual temple atop her head, with strings of tiny pearls sewn into its windows. A gold, gem-encrusted choker graced her slender neck. Her dress was the color of a robin’s egg, and the long cape resting on her proud shoulders the color of sea foam, trimmed in pearls and gold thread.
The women helped her into the awaiting litter. Once they had tucked every inch of her beautiful gown and cape safely in behind her and drawn the curtains, the procession departed the castle.
The sun came out to bless them and the winds had perhaps conferred and decided that, on this day alone, they would rest and allow the ladies one day of splendor.
Arhianna had always found Midsummer a magical time, and today was no exception. She only wished her dear friend were on her way to marry a man she could at least imagine loving in the future. She comforted herself by noting Gorlois was not unattractive, and Igerna would never want for anything. That indeed counts for something in these dangerous times. She may yet grow to love him.
They arrived at the gates of Din Tagell late in the afternoon. The gates stood upon the mainland. From there, a road had been built atop a wall that spanned the narrow strip of rocky land to a peninsula. The main fortress sat there perched like a hawk at the end of the world, looking out over a windblown sea with a stern eye. Arhianna knew one thing for certain—her friend would be quite safe there. It was the most defensible fortress she had ever seen.
Din Tagell, though foreboding, had been made as warm and welcoming as possible for its future duchess. Gorlois’ banners flew from every rampart, and hundreds stood cheering and throwing blooms as they rode by on their way to the ceremony.
Gorlois looked like a boy of ten watching Igerna emerge from her litter. His proud and eager look kindled Arhianna’s hopes. The ceremony took place outside, pleasant and short, followed by dancing and feasting well into the night. Igerna played her part well, smiling beside her new husband, who beamed by her side.
Arhianna took comfort in his constant regard for her. It was obvious he was taken with his bride and would be less likely to strike or mistreat her. She whispered a silent prayer to Freya and the Great Mother. “Bless the union of Igerna and Gorlois. Open her heart to him, that she might grow to love him in time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Myrthin
“I will stay until your husband returns, Lady Lucia,” the strange man insisted.
“I’m sorry, but I truly don’t know when that will be.” Lucia felt herself growing impatient. She shot Gareth an exasperated look. He came and stood by her side in support. “Again, you may deliver your message to me, and I will relay it to him when he returns.”
Her visitor, a man who simply called himself Myrthin, arrived earlier that afternoon on a sad-looking horse. Idris had encountered him at the edge of the forest, not far from the village, and ridden ahead to warn Lucia. “At first, I thought he was just a poor traveler looking for a meal and a bed for the night, but he says he has a message from Emrys. I don’t know whether to believe him or not.”
Out of curiosity, Lucia had agreed to receive him in the motherhouse but was beginning to regret it. Something about him put her ill at ease, as if he could read her mind, or see through her clothing. His hair was full of leaves and twigs, but he did not seem to care. He wore several necklaces strung with teeth, bones and feathers, which hung down to his waist. What parts of his body Lucia could see were stained with symbols, some of which she knew, but most she did not. His long brown robe was tied at the waist with a thick strip of leather that had several pouches attached to it. She shuddered. Gods only know what’s in those.
“You misunderstand me.” Myrthin looked at her with a gaze that bordered on impropriety, and she felt Gareth bristle by her side. “Your beauty and fierceness in battle are well-known as is your wisdom as a servant of the Great Mother. It is not that I feel you are unworthy of relaying the king’s message. It is only that I expect your husband shall soon return—so soon, in fact, that I suggest you begin preparing a feast. Until then, I shall stay in the Grove with its caretaker. Send someone to fetch me you’re your husband arrives.” He left with a courteous nod and a flourishing bow that seemed almost mocking.
“And I thought Islwyn was peculiar,” Gareth whispered under his breath. “He’s the strangest druid I’ve seen yet.”
“That he is,” Lucia agreed, “but let’s hope it’s because he’s more in tune with unseen forces than he is with social graces. I hope to the gods he speaks the truth.”
***
Myrthin made his way through the forest to the Sacred Grove, eager to see it with something other than his mind's eye. I’ve been away from this land for too long. Though he knew it could not have been otherwise, his soul lamented the number of years he had spent in Armorica, away from the land of his birth. Away from Nimue.
He had seen but thirty turns of the sun when he had escorted Constantine’s two youngest sons, Emrys and Uthyr, to the safety of Budic’s court across the sea. There, under his ever-watchful eye, he prepared the boys to seize back their rightful place in the world. Uthyr had been by far the worst of the two. That boy would have sailed across the sea at the age of twelve and tried to strangle Vortigern with his bare hands, if he’d had the chance.
When the boys came of age, he turned his attention toward the heavens, waiting patiently, night after night, moon after moon, for the stars to auspiciously align. Uthyr thought it was folly, and told him so. Myrthin shook his head, remembering the night Uthyr had snapped. “We have waited long enough! We have the forces and the means, yet you would have us sit here on our hands as more of our people die? As that snake, Vortigern, begets that Saxon whore with sons and lets Hengist take our land and rape our women? You’re just an old fool who talks to trees and drools at the stars! You understand nothing!”
That was the last time Uthyr had spoken to him.
Emrys, on the other hand, had always deferred to his wisdom. Fortunately, he was the elder of the two and next in line to assume his father’s place as high commander of Brython. Only when Myrthin determined the time was right did Emrys agree to launch the ships and return to their homeland.
And I was right, wasn’t I? Look at him now—moving through the western lands like a titan! Since the moment his ships slid upon Brython’s shores, Emrys had campaigned ceaselessly, visiting every duke, chieftain, prince and lord in the western lands and rallying them beneath his banners. With every moon, Emrys gained more followers and pledges of fealty. The people are hungry for a noble king. He will lead them to victory.
Myrthin noticed the trail he was on had disappeared. He stopped to assess his surroundings, looking for clues upon the trunks of the trees or rocks below. Well-hidden. Yes, well-hidden, indeed—but I shall find it. He opened one of the pouches hanging from his belt and pulled out a handful of bones. He tossed them in the air, watched where they fell, and soon determined the direction he should go. He smiled and moved on, ever deeper into the trees.
Yes, the time is right for Emrys. Now that he’s defeated Vortigern, nothing can stop him.
He thought back to the recent and glorious day Emrys had defeated the vile traitor. One warrior in particular had gained Emrys’ favor above all others, for he had single-handedly secured their victory by burning his way through the fortress. He had trapped Vortigern atop one of the towers, where he engulfed the wretch in flames. Only a few of us understand how he did it. He could not help but chuckle. The guardians were rarely so obvious about their desires, but they could not have been any clearer about their choice for Brython’s next king save materializing and shouting it from the mountaintops. They sent us a male Firebrand! Gods be praised. I didn’t even know they still existed. He had wanted to steal the man away for questioning, but Emrys had refused to let him anywhere near him. “I forbid it, Myrthin. You will leave the poor man alone. He’s been through enough, don’t you think? When you return, you can ask him anything you like. For now, let him be.” Been through a lot. Bah! Who did Emrys think his hero was? A wee virgin on her wedding night? The man’s a bloody mercenary! I’d wager my life upon it. Mercenaries, assassins, criminals—Myrthin could read the sum total of a man’s deeds upon his face, and he had read plenty upon—What was his name again? Oh, yes—Aelhaearn. Yes, he had read plenty upon his face.
After defeating Vortigern, Emrys marched his army east, leaving Myrthin behind to rally the local chieftains to his side. The Saxon threat had risen once more, lathering in the east in the mouth of Hengist, who had been infused with fervor once learning of Vortigern’s defeat. Like Emrys, he saw his son-in-law’s demise as an opportunity to take the lands that now hung in the balance and had raised an ever-growing army for the cause. He had marched his army westward, stabbing into their boundaries with their greedy, tireless spears.
It was upon this king’s errand that Myrthin had set out for Mynyth Aur, but, upon the way, he had discovered something far more precious dwelled at the foot of the mountain than the chieftain he sought to enlist. Far, far more precious.