The Tower and the Emerald

by Moyra Caldecott

  Smiling, the old woman nodded. And then she gently withdrew her hands from Viviane’s and felt in a ragged pouch at her waist. It seemed she fumbled a long time, her hands shaking with age, but at last she drew out a magnificent amethyst crystal, as large as a swan’s egg, and held it up to the light for Viviane to enjoy.

  Viviane gasped. In its rich purple depths light glowed and pulsed. If she mourned the loss of the old woman’s first gift, she was now more than comforted. Eagerly she reached out as the woman held it towards her – but at that moment Caradawc burst into the room, his eyes going straight to the amethyst.

  ‘But this is beautiful,’ he said enthusiastically, taking it from her hand. ‘Is it a wedding gift?’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman replied. ‘But it is for the princess alone,’ she added emphatically. Viviane reached out for it, but Caradawc made no attempt to hand it over.

  ‘I’ll put it with the others,’ he said. ‘And now you must leave. The princess has much to do . . .’

  ‘I have time . . .’ Viviane insisted.

  ‘No, my love . . .’ he said firmly. Then he took the old woman by the arm and propelled her towards the door. ‘You have had your wish,’ he said. ‘You have been able to deliver your gift personally. We thank you for it.’

  ‘Caradawc, please . . .’ Viviane could see that the woman was very anxious to tell her something.

  But he would not listen further, and the messenger from the Green Lady was pushed out of the room and delivered into the hands of a passing servant, with quick instructions that she should be given a good place among the guests in the courtyard.

  Viviane felt puzzled and annoyed by his sudden insensitivity. Surely he could see that she particularly wanted to talk to this woman – and particularly wanted to hold her precious gift. But Caradawc gave her a kiss and was gone before she could protest further.

  She stood for a moment, confused, then hurried out of the room hoping still to catch up with the servant escorting the old woman. But already they were nowhere to be found, and her own maids were looking for her, to start dressing her for the ceremony. So she allowed herself to be led to her chamber, there to submit herself to the long and elaborate robing process.

  After brooding a while, she called for Olwen, a trusted childhood friend, who had come with her from her father’s castle, and was now in charge of her serving maids. Quietly she bade her go to the chamber where the wedding gifts were displayed, and bring the great amethyst crystal that she would find there . . .

  The underslip was of fine Roman silk, woven to her father’s specifications and sent as part of her dowry. The over-dress was of silk brocade from Byzantium, threaded with silver and small sapphires and a thousand or more river pearls. Her hair was plaited with sea-pearls. One the size of a grape hung from a silver chain in the middle of her forehead, while others in graded sizes led off on either side to hang over her temples and ears in a thick fringe. As she moved her head the pearls swung softly, glimmering. Beneath this costly veil hung a pair of long earrings of giant sapphires set in silver. The plaits of her red-gold hair were twisted round each other and built high on top of her head so that the queen’s coronet could be mounted on it.

  Viviane’s shoes were pure white doeskin, trimmed with silver and sapphire. Her fingers were laden with rings, each stone brought from lands so distant that merchants and travellers could tell what tales they liked . . . and frequently did. The largest diamond, they said, had been torn from the scaly breastplate of a seven-headed dragon.

  * * * *

  Olwen returned at last in distress to say that there was no sign of an amethyst crystal among the wedding gifts.

  ‘Are you sure? Did you look carefully?’ Viviane looked worried.

  ‘Very carefully, my lady.’

  ‘I think you did not.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lady, but I did. And I asked all in charge of the gifts if they had seen such a thing, and they all denied that it was there.’

  ‘The king himself was to set it among the gifts.’

  ‘The king is busy dressing, my lady. Perhaps it has slipped his mind.’

  Viviane looked very thoughtful for a moment. ‘Olwen, when we are gone to the chapel for the ceremony, go to the king’s chambers and see if you can find it there.’

  Olwen looked shocked. ‘I cannot, lady! The king’s chambers?’

  ‘I will take the responsibility. And when you find it, bring it to me wherever I am – even at the altar – and slip it without a word into my hand. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, my lady, but . . .’

  ‘Olwen, this is very important to me. And the king will understand. I’ll explain it all to him. Don’t be afraid.’

  Olwen looked extremely unhappy as she slipped out of the room to wait where she could watch the king’s chambers and judge when it would be relatively safe to approach.

  At last Viviane was dressed, and when the trumpeters started their fanfare she was ready to head her own procession to the chapel.

  The route was lined with smiling, waving people, the women and children pelting her with flowers. She thought the woods and meadows must be bare for all the flowers that were in the castle that day. Every musical instrument she could think of was playing: at least twenty flutes trilled and warbled; drummers in royal red and gold carried their drums at their hips and jauntily twirled their sticks between beating the skins; pipes and cymbals and rattles sounded everywhere. In the chapel there would be the gentler music of the harps, and high, fine singing – but outside there was a jamboree of sound, even the yard dogs joining in . . .

  What did they expect of her, these people, Viviane wondered. It was not just to provide an heir to succeed Caradawc; it was that they should share her life in imagination – live through her in silks and pearls; bed with the handsome king; eat finely prepared food and sleep warm and soft. She looked at their eager, loving, happy faces, and suddenly felt a chill. If she were to disappoint them . . . if she were to live her life differently from what they expected . . . if they knew some of the thoughts and desires that troubled her – then these same faces would turn cold and hard, these same waving hands would pick up stones to throw. She felt she was a prisoner of their love. No, she was a prisoner of their image of love – and that bore as much relation to real love as an artist’s painting of a flower bore to a living bloom.

  She scanned around for the old woman in her mother’s blue cloak, but she was nowhere to be seen. Caradawc had ordered her to be given a good place, so perhaps she would be among the honoured few inside the chapel.

  But she was not.

  At the far end of the chapel the king waited for Viviane, splendid in white and gold. The altar shone with candlelight on gold ornaments and crosses. The noise, the hot bright light, the pushing jovial crowd were shut out and she walked into a cool quiet place, rippling with harp music and drawn by a golden thread of light towards the man she loved. She was embarrassed that she had reacted so strongly over the wedding gift, and now wished that she had not sent Olwen spying into his chambers, though she could not get out of her mind the thought that the woman had come to her with this particular gift at this particular time for some purpose. But what could happen here? Caradawc was waiting for her. The priest was praying. Above them at the ends of the roof beams little wooden angels painted gold smiled down on them.

  Everyone turned to look at her except Gerin. He stared fixedly at the candle flame straight ahead of him. His shoulders were straight: his bearing severe. She knew that he loved her: but he could not and would not show it.

  Shafts of sunlight from the high windows crossed the chapel, reminding her of the rods of light that had cut away the black fog when she had been so sure she wanted to die. She smiled now, confident that benign spiritual beings watched over her, and now she was to have Caradawc as well, strong and human, warm and loving, to help her to face what she had so foolishly unleashed from the ancient stone circle. She began to relax inwardly and could not resist raising her
lips to his when she joined him at the altar – though this was against tradition.

  The priest smiled indulgently as they kissed, and then he joined their hands, speaking the potent words of the Christian marriage spell over them.

  When they walked out hand in hand through the main door the cheers were deafening. Children were held up high above the heads of the crowd, the smaller ones crying, not knowing what all the noise and excitement were about; the older ones waving flowers. Viviane could feel men’s eyes on her, the women’s on Caradawc. There was no doubt they would share their bed tonight with the thoughts of many of their subjects.

  The smell of roasting was pungent as smoke from the spits rose high; and ale flowed freely. The mass of people ate at the trestle tables in the great courtyard; only the nobles, companions and relatives were invited into the Great Hall for a feast that would be talked about for many years. All the family’s best tapestries had been taken out of store and hung around the hall, glowing with red and green and blue. Fields of blossoms in spring could not compete with the intricate working of flowers at the feet of the elegant ladies and gentlemen in the tapestries, nor Caradawc’s warriors in all their armour compete with the splendour of the knights in the tableaux on the walls. All the images were caught at a moment of perfection and preserved smiling or scowling for as long as the cloth would last – making the living people below feel it incumbent upon them to strut and pose and imitate as best they could.

  On three sides of the hall the warriors had hung up their polished shields, and above the great carved wooden chairs of the king and queen hung the family’s emblem, an eagle, emblazoned in gold, with wings spread wide and fierce eye staring.

  Course after course was brought on in procession: river trout and salmon; wild fowl; roast venison and wild boar; rye and barley bread to mop up the juices; fine wheat bread to accompany the cheeses . . . And with every course wines from France and mead from the king’s own honeybees.

  Viviane’s cheeks were soon flushed with wine and excitement. She and Caradawc felt almost painfully aware of each other’s physical proximity though apparently absorbed in speaking to others. Each found excuses to touch as they reached for wine or food; each pretending that no thrill of desire had shot through them at the touch; each savouring the apparent separation while thinking of nothing but the final coming together. Bards recounted interminable love stories; minstrels sang of love; and the dancers expressed in their movements the pleasures of the wedding night.

  As the wine and mead were constantly poured by efficient and attentive servants, the feasting revellers grew ever more noisy and ribald . . . Remarks were called out that made Viviane’s cheeks more flushed, her body even more aware of Caradawc’s. Then men and women were openly fondling each other, and some were even falling together under the table. The elegant model of the tapestries was abandoned as life’s strong and untidy passions took over.

  At the height of all this revelling Olwen came up to Viviane and surreptitiously slipped the amethyst crystal into her hand. For a moment she stared at the girl in surprise, having totally forgotten the old woman and her gift. The coolness of the crystal on her hot hand momentarily sobered her, and she struggled to remember why it had seemed so important to her. But Caradawc leaned across at that moment, his mouth against her ear, his breath and tongue probing it. She nearly let the crystal fall, and it would have except that Olwen, who had been to great trouble to find it and was not about to let her work come to nothing, caught it and pushed it into the tiny silk pouch that Viviane’s wedding dress carried at its waist.

  From her ear Caradawc’s tongue found her mouth and they gave up all pretence of dignity. Tables were pushed over as the crowds rushed to get a better view. Viviane did not care that hundreds of lascivious eyes were watching them, she could think of nothing but Caradawc’s touch, Caradawc’s mouth on her breast, Caradawc’s rising passion pushing against her.

  ‘Lady!’ cried Olwen in dismay. She tugged at her arm. ‘Lady! Go to your chamber for this! Come . . . your chamber!’ She pulled at her frantically, but Viviane pushed her aside impatiently and gave herself totally to Caradawc there on the table among the gnawed bones and the spilled wine of the wedding feast, with the crowds all around cheering and leering . . .

  At the back of the hall, Gerin, like Olwen still sober, turned away and strode into the night.

  Once release had come, realization of where she was and what she had done came too. Caradawc rose, pulling on his breeches, flushed and laughing, his companions slapping him on the back, praising his performance.

  Viviane drew away, white and shaking.

  She saw Olwen’s anguished face and flung herself into her arms. Together the two women rushed unnoticed from the hall, as the men thronged around Caradawc. Some women were still locked in the embraces of their own lovers . . . others, like Viviane, drew back into the shadow, shocked and upset.

  Once outside, the cool night air sobered Viviane rapidly, and she sobbed uncontrollably as Olwen hurried her towards the new bedchamber she would share with Caradawc. How she had longed for this night – to be alone and in a bed at last with him . . . not on some river bank, not beside a forest path, but in a bed with four walls keeping out the world . . . alone and together and private!

  Olwen gave her fresh water to drink, wiped her face and helped her out of the heavy brocade dress. Carefully she laid aside the coronet and undid the strings of pearls that held the fire-red hair in place.

  ‘Stay with me, Olwen,’ Viviane whispered. ‘Stay till he comes.’

  Olwen quietly took up her mistress’s silver comb, and while Viviane sat naked on the edge of the bed Olwen combed her hair, crooning a lullaby as though she were a child, soothing her, calming her.

  When she heard the heavy, lurching steps of the men escorting the king towards his bridal chamber, she helped Viviane into bed, blew out one of the lamps and prepared to leave. The queen’s face was calm now, but very pale. Not knowing why she did it, Olwen paused before she left to take out the amethyst. She placed it on Viviane’s breast and folded her hands over it.

  ‘You wanted this, my lady,’ she said – and departed.

  Caradawc and his friends stayed outside the door for what seemed an age, talking and lurching drunkenly about.

  Viviane lay in silence inside the chamber, clutching the crystal and beginning to feel very strange, as though she was floating away from her body. She was thinking about Caradawc and how much she loved him . . . not blaming him for the shameful incident in the hall because she knew that she had been as responsible as he.

  Dreamlike images began to come to her, as though she were falling asleep – though she was awake enough to he aware of the noise the men were making in the corridor. She seemed to see Caradawc floating in an extraordinary starless darkness . . . reaching out his arms to her . . . calling to her for help . . . trying to reach her, yet with every movement he made towards her somehow drifting further and further away . . .

  She clasped the huge amethyst on her breast, and she could feel her heart beating against it.

  At last the door was flung open – and a figure stood in the doorway.

  Shocked, she sat bolt upright, clutching the wraps against her breasts; her eyes wide and startled. Gone was the feeling of floating; gone the tenuous vision of Caradawc.

  Idoc!

  So with this new gift she could see through illusion!

  Idoc!

  Her heart was pounding.

  He moved a step into the room and closed the door behind him. He wore the white and gold of Caradawc’s wedding clothes. She had married Idoc! On the table in the great hall that sensual ecstasy had been induced by Idoc . . . On the path near the dark tower, again it must have been Idoc . . .

  Hastily, while his back was turned, she slipped the amethyst crystal under the bed. Now she knew why he had tried to keep it from her. Now she knew why the old woman had tried so hard to press it into her own hand . . .

  And when he tur
ned back to her he was once more in the guise of Caradawc.

  * * * *

  Viviane spent the rest of that night lying wide awake, her head pounding with the wine she had consumed and the shock she had received, her husband’s heavy, inert body pinning her to the bed. Desperately she considered what to do. That she should flee once more to Father Brendan seemed the only course, but to flee again and be pursued again was almost more than she could bear. This time she must be more cunning, and she cursed herself for having drunk so much the night before – her mind was sluggish and thoughts reached for slipped away before she could fully grasp them.

  When the dawn came she was exhausted, and she still had no firm plan.

  The sun was already streaming through the window when her companion’s body rolled off her. She lay very still as Idoc half opened his eyes, groaned, and then fell back to sleep again.

  She would do it now! As soon as she was sure he would not wake again, she slid from his side and silently dressed herself in the hunting tunic and leather trousers she had worn as a young girl, lacing on the soft buckskin boots, tying a hunting bag to her hip and filling it with everything she might need. For a weapon she took up Caradawc’s knife.

  Just before leaving she stood beside the bed and looked down at the man lying there. He sprawled on his back, his right arm flung wide and hanging over the edge of the bed, his chest bare, his face in profile on the pillow – Caradawc’s face. She stooped over him for a moment, yearning to stay with him, to creep back into the bed beside him. But the vision she had seen of the real Caradawc drifting away into the void returned, and she knew that it was urgent that she seek help from a master of mysteries at least as skilled as Idoc himself. Father Brendan was such a man and this time she was determined she would reach him. Without another backward glance she hurried from the room and down the now deserted passages.

  Then, hearing loud voices in the courtyard, she drew back into the shadow of the doorway lest she was spotted. A considerable force of warriors was assembled outside. Were Neol’s men attacking? She leant forward as far as she dared to catch what was being said. It soon became clear that the king himself had summoned this force to gather in readiness to attack Huandaw’s castle as soon as the wedding night was over because Neol had refused to take the oath of allegiance.