Rhiannon stepped forward, as if she could leave the tormenting thought behind. Arianhrodd and Ceinwen were quickly beside her. Ceinwen touched her shoulder as they walked. "In the beginning, I was afraid, too," he said in a soft, confiding voice. "It is an awesome thing to face the Goddess, to feel Her power."
"Tell me—what is it like?"
Through some trick of the shifting moonlight, Ceinwen's dark countenance seemed to brighten. "It is to be calm and excited at the same time. To feel the energy flow through your hair and toes and fingertips. To be a part of everything else in the world and yet be more yourself than you have ever known."
Rhiannon shivered again. She felt something touch her, a soft, invisible hand soothing the stiff muscles of her neck and spine. She walked more quickly. "Let us hurry. I didn't mean to delay you."
They made their way deeper into the forest. The strange feeling did not leave Rhiannon, and now she was grateful for Arianhrodd and Ceinwen beside her. The spirits walked this night, and she did not want to be alone. The sweaty, human smell of her companions reassured her.
At last, they reached a clearing. It was not what Rhiannon had expected, merely an open place in the trees, bathed in the silvery, beneficent glow of the moon. The spooky shadows were gone, and the place seemed familiar, welcoming.
A huge oak had once spread its branches far over the forest floor, but now all that remained of the great tree was a large stump in the center of the clearing. Arianhrodd took her bag of supplies to the stump and began to prepare it, in much the way Rhiannon had seen the priest prepare the altar in the chapel at Degannwy. She spread a cloth over the surface, then put down a dish of oat cakes and a skin of mead as offerings.
As Rhiannon watched Arianhrodd, she noticed movement in the shadows around them. Men and women were slowly moving into the clearing. They arrived almost soundlessly, with the quiet grace of people who spend much time in the woods. Rhiannon saw no one she knew, but she grew anxious. What if one of these people recognized her? What if one of them sent word to Maelgwn?
The people gathered and seemed to take little notice of Rhiannon. Gradually she relaxed. Two men stayed off to the side in the shadows, and Rhiannon soon heard the deep thump of a drum and the soft melody of a pipe from that direction. The rest of the people joined hands in a circle, and Ceinwen came to draw Rhiannon into the group. Arianhrodd remained in the center by the stump.
As the people moved around the clearing in a slow circle, Arianhrodd lifted up her arms and began to speak in a low, melodic voice:
"Into our circle, we welcome the Great Lady, the Creator and Protector of all life. The Giver of rain and wind and sunshine. She who brings forth life from the bellies of ewes and mares and does and women. She who makes the flowers blossom and the grain grow ripe and golden. She who fills our hearts with laughter and our eyes with tears of sorrow. She who gives us life. Diana, Rhiannon, Cybele, Isis—by all names we call you. Hear us and breathe your warm breath upon us!"
Rhiannon heard the people around her whispering their own invocations to the Goddess. The mingled sound of their chanting voices filled the clearing with soft music. The circle moved faster. Rhiannon felt herself being pulled along, her feet barely touching the ground. The hair upon the back of her neck stood on end. A warm wind blew through the clearing, and Rhiannon yielded to it, floated upon it.
She was in the water. Everything was white and blue and silver streaked with the gold of the sun. She floated on the waves, bobbing up and down in the massive arms of the Mother Goddess—safe, protected. Her thoughts spun out finer and finer, into gossamer threads dancing over the waves. Then the waves pulled her under, and everything was dark and frightening. Down, down, down, into the darkness she fell, until only the fine fragile threads of her thoughts seemed to be holding her back from the bottom of the sea.
Part of her longed for the bottom, where Esylt waited. She saw Esylt's black hair curling around her face like thick vines, her white skin blurred and almost blue beneath the water. Rhiannon swam to reach her, her chest aching for breath, her arms weak and frail with fatigue. It was so hard, it hurt so much.
She was almost there. She reached out to touch Esylt's face. It was not her mother's face which her fingers grasped but the cold, still flesh of an infant floating in the murky water. She sucked in her breath with a gasp of horror and jerked her hand away. The babe floated, lifeless, pale and eerily beautiful in the blue water. Another scream convulsed in Rhiannon's throat, and this time she could not hold it back. She breathed the cold sea-water; her lungs filled. She struggled against it, against death.
When she came to herself she was lying on the cold ground. Arianhrodd was very near, although her voice seemed to come from far away.
"Rhiannon? Are you all right?"
Rhiannon nodded numbly. The terrible fear was leaving her, but she still felt light-headed and breathless. "I... I was afraid," she whispered.
"Of what, Rhiannon? What did you see?"
Rhiannon shook her head slowly. "I'm not sure. I was in the water. I saw my mother. And then..." She could not go on; she could not tell them about the babe.
"What did your mother say? Did she speak to you?"
"I don't know. I couldn't reach her."
"It's just as well," Arianhrodd said with a slight sigh. "I don't think you are strong enough yet to visit the spirit world."
"The spirit world?"
"Aye. Where did you think you had gone?"
Rhiannon said nothing. Much of her life she had longed to cross over to the other side, to see what it was like. In the past few weeks she had done it twice, and found nothing but death and cold fear.
Arianhrodd helped Rhiannon to stand, and the people gathered around her began to move away. Rhiannon could not stop shivering. Ceinwen took off his ratty old wolfskin and draped it around her. Even then, it took a long time for her to get warm.
The rest of the night was uneventful. The people built a fire and cooked some savory stew which they shared as they talked. To Rhiannon's surprise, the strangers around her seemed genuinely concerned for her—although no one asked prying questions or brought up her strange experience during the ceremony. She could not help contrasting Goddess worship with the religious ceremonies of the Brigantes. At the festivals in Manau Gotodin, there had always been an element of danger in the air—a mingling of suppressed violence and sexual tension. Perhaps it was because there, cruel Llewenon led the ceremonies, and here, Arianhrodd was the leader. Her spirit of warmth and benevolence pervaded everything.
When the moon was high and the air black with the chill of midnight, people began to leave, disappearing into the forest as quietly as they had come.
"Come, Rhiannon, it's too cold to stay here all night." Ceinwen helped Rhiannon up from her spot near the fire.
"Where is Arianhrodd?" Rhiannon asked, glancing around the deserted grove. She realized she had not seen the priestess for some time.
"She usually goes off by herself after the ceremony," Ceinwen answered. "Drawing down the power of the Goddess takes a great deal of energy and leaves her very tired."
"She will be all right?"
"Arianhrodd is a very powerful priestess. I would not worry about her. The Goddess protects Her own."
Rhiannon was not entirely convinced, nor did she really want to be alone with Ceinwen. For all his kindness, he was a man, and she could not forget the last time she had been alone in the forest at night with a man she trusted. She shifted awkwardly against the pressure of his arm beneath her ribs, and Ceinwen released her.
"What's wrong, Rhiannon?"
"I'm afraid."
"Of me?" Ceinwen gazed at her with wide eyes. "It was a man who cut your leg, wasn't it? You still fear him." Rhiannon shook her head.
"Tell me who he is, and your hurt shall be avenged." Rhiannon stared at Ceinwen's dark, angry face. She was touched by his concern, but she dreaded the thought of him confronting Maelgwn.
"I cannot tell you. Anyway, I don't want to
be avenged. I have no desire to see anyone else suffer."
Ceinwen gazed at her a moment longer, as if trying to read her thoughts. Then he took her arm again and they began to walk.
"I would never hurt a woman," said Ceinwen softly. "I'm sworn to serve the Goddess... and all women."
Rhiannon wondered again about this strange religion Ceinwen and Arianhrodd believed in. It was odd to think that women should be honored, treated as more exalted than men. The Brigantes were a warrior race, and prized males above females in all things. The Cymry were a bit better in their treatment of women, but it was clear they still considered them inferior. She had been given to Maelgwn like a mare left to run with the stallion, and he had taken her body as no more than his due.
A feeling of anger crept over Rhiannon. If she was sure Ceinwen would not be hurt, would she not perhaps wish to see Maelgwn suffer a little?
The thought of his name evoked a sharp pang in her belly, a reminder of her loss. She quickly pushed the memories away. She was not ready to face what Maelgwn had meant to her.
"It's cold," she murmured to Ceinwen. "Let us hurry."
Rhiannon soon grew too numb and tired to think. She leaned heavily on Ceinwen, willing herself to take the next step, and the next. She scarcely remembered reaching the hut or climbing into her bed-place.
It was near morn when she woke. The fire was kindled but Ceinwen was gone. That did not surprise Rhiannon, for she knew the fisherman always left for his boat before dawn. But Arianhrodd was not back yet either, which concerned her.
Rhiannon rose quickly and went to the fire. She sat down at the hearth and warmed her fingers over the flames. A dull heaviness filled her this morn. She could not shake the memory of her vision during the ceremony. It kept returning to her, the beauty of the glittering waves, the cold darkness of the sea below, the sight of Esylt floating with the seaweed.
Rhiannon closed her eyes tightly, as if she could block out the memory. It was her child that waited in the cold depths, the babe she lost. It had been a girl, she had seen that. A daughter with a face like Maelgwn's.
A deep, keening wail came from Rhiannon's throat. She could suppress the grief no longer. She had lost everything—her future, Maelgwn's love, their child. The pain crashed over her, and she rocked blindly, trying to hold her body together, to keep the agony from tearing her asunder.
Her child! A daughter, a sweet daughter. If she had not killed it, the babe would be with her still, growing under her heart. Soon it would be born, and she could hold it in her arms. It would be hers, and she would love it. She would not be so alone, so terribly alone!
When Arianhrodd came into the hut a few hours later, Rhiannon's grief was spent. She had returned to her weaving, and was considering the next part of the pattern for Ceinwen's blue and red tunic. She was dry-eyed but shaky. She nodded to Arianhrodd as she entered and called good morning, but did not trust herself to speak.
Arianhrodd approached her silently. She smelled of pine and sunshine as she took Rhiannon in her arms and embraced her.
Chapter 24
"Maelgwn!"
Maelgwn swayed slightly. Had he dozed, even dreamed? In the dim atmosphere of the chapel, he could not guess the time. Had he been kneeling for minutes? Hours? Days?
"Maelgwn!"
The call came again, more urgent this time. He stumbled to his feet. Searing pain shot down his calves. Damn the Christians for choosing this miserably uncomfortable position for praying. For a soldier, whose legs were invariably scarred with old wounds and the joints stiff from years of riding, kneeling was pure torture.
"Sweet Jesu, Maelgwn, I've been looking everywhere for you!" Balyn was beside him, shaking him. "It's the Irish. They've landed at a fishing village below Llandudno. It's a raid, Maelgwn."
A raid—how long had it been since he heard the word spoken in fear and dread? Two years or more. But the word had not lost its power to quicken his heartbeat. "Have you sounded the alert?"
"Aye."
"And our horses—we are ready to ride?"
"The men wait only for you."
In what seemed like seconds, he was armed and ready. He mounted Cynraith and joined his men at the gate. As they cantered down the coast road, Maelgwn felt the battle fever rush through him. How wonderful it was to be riding to face a real enemy, to know the wind in his face, to see the glint of polished armor and weapons all around him. Too long, he had been weighed down with sorrow and worry; it was time he took up his sword and acted like a warrior again.
The little fishing village was not far, but they rode like madmen to reach it, afraid they would be too late. A pall of smoke from the burning huts marked the place, but all seemed deserted. The village had been no more than a gathering of rude dwellings, poorly defended and simply poor. There was no wealth or supplies to steal here, few women or children to carry off as slaves. These raiders came for wanton destruction, nothing more.
Anger made Maelgwn spur his horse faster, and the others quickened their pace to match. As they drew abreast of the smoking village, they saw the raiders making for their little leather boats, called coracles. The Irish were burdened with what little booty they had claimed, but their number gave Maelgwn pause. His force was relatively small, and although their weapons and armor were superior, the Cymry would clearly be outnumbered. He calculated quickly, decided they had sufficient men to attack, then led the charge.
They hit the shoreline at a dead run, using the speed of their horses to cut down as many of the enemy as they could in one swift assault. But after the first shouts of fear and surprise, the Irish began to rally. The rocky, uneven beach made a poor battleground for mounted men, and the Cymry horsemen were quickly surrounded—three Irishmen to one defender on average. Maelgwn felt a twinge of unease. His men held their own, but only barely. If they couldn't scare the Irish off quickly, they might be forced to retreat.
The battlefield was grimly quiet, and sweat dripped down Maelgwn's face despite the cool breeze. His arm ached from lashing out with his sword. The attacking Irishmen seemed endless, their faces melding into a blur. The enemy's plan appeared to be to disable the horses so the Cymry would have to fight on foot. Four men rushed him at once. Maelgwn swerved, trying to guide his horse from their deadly swords. Cynraith was not so cautious. The stallion's eyes went wild, and he lashed out at the Irishmen with his huge hooves. Two of them ran, but the others pressed on, wielding their weapons dangerously close to the stallion's underbelly. Cynraith maneuvered smoothly, gracefully, playing the deadly game with relish. Maelgwn held his breath. If only he could get close enough to use his sword.
One man miscalculated—a second slow, and his body was shattered by a powerful hoof. But the death blow cost Maelgwn as well. The impact made Cynraith stumble, and his rider, leaning to the side and pulled off-balance by the weight of his sword, found himself thrown from the saddle. Maelgwn landed awkwardly, one leg twisted beneath him. A scorching pain burned through his ankle. He ignored it and lurched to his feet in time to face his first challenger. The man was grinning, and he shouted some sneering curse in Gaelic.
The enemy's moment of gloating cost him dearly. Maelgwn had time to draw back his immense sword and swing it across the man's chest. The force of it knocked the Irishman off balance, and as he struggled to right himself, Maelgwn was upon him. He crumpled the Irishman to the ground with another blow to his legs, then loomed over him, his sword pointed at the man's unprotected throat.
Then a strange thing happened. As the warrior lifted his head to defend himself, his leather helmet tumbled off, revealing long, vivid red hair. A mist seemed to pass before Maelgwn's eyes. When he could see again, it was Rhiannon's face that looked up from beneath his sword. He froze, unable to take his eyes from the sight of his dead wife, staring at him with a look of utter dread. His grip loosened upon his sword. His knees buckled beneath him. A trickle of blood had begun at his victim's neck, where the sword had pricked it. Maelgwn gaped at the crimson stream blurring into th
e long red hair.
Abruptly, the face changed back to that of a young Irish warrior. The man's blue eyes bulged and then turned glassy.
"Maelgwn! For God's sake!"
He turned to see Balyn. The big man had a cut on his forehead, and the blood dribbled down his temple, mingling with the dirt and sweat. He looked angry.
"Maelgwn, what's wrong with you? You very nearly got yourself killed!"
Maelgwn stood up, struggling to keep his legs steady. He looked down at his opponent. The man was dead. Blood trickled from his slack mouth, and his body trembled with a ghastly quiver as life left it. Balyn's sword jutted out of the man's side at an evil angle.
"He had a knife," Balyn said in a strained, gasping voice. "If I had not come along when I did, he would have stabbed you for certes!"
Maelgwn nodded dumbly. The dead man's fingers still twitched near the fallen dagger. Thinking of what would have happened if Balyn had not come to his aid, Maelgwn shuddered. For a moment, he had been absolutely helpless.
"Blessed Christos, you gave me a scare!" Balyn's voice cracked. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
"Cynraith threw me, and my ankle turned. But it was more than that...for a moment... I couldn't see clearly."
"Let's get you out of here." Balyn grasped Maelgwn's shoulder and led him away from the battlefield.
The fighting was nearly over, and Maelgwn watched the last skirmishes from a grassy knoll. The Irish finally made for their boats. Only a few unfortunate men remained, surrounded by the angry Cymry. In moments the stragglers gave up and allowed themselves to be captured. They would be taken back to the fortress and made to serve as slaves. In a few years, if they lived, they might yet buy their freedom and return to their native land.
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