by SM Stirling
“One at Dun Juniper, and one at Castle Todenangst. And Eilir is here, at least,” he said aloud.
“I can assure that that will make things worse with your younger sisters, not better, my boy,” he said dryly. “And now take yourself off to the church to await your fate in fear and trembling, and you, young lady, go to your bridesmaids—they’re either that, or a troop of light cavalry, and a most formidable one.”
Artos took a deep breath, squeezed Mathilda’s hand, and did so. Edain was deep in talk with the under-captains of the King’s Archers, and flashed him a smile and a thumbs-up as he passed. The rest were busy sprucing up their gear; most of them had flowers tucked behind their ears.
They have something planned, then.
That worried him a little, thinking of some of the high jinks that went on at a Mackenzie handfasting.
But Edain’s a steady man. He’ll keep them in hand.
A crowd of male friends came with him to the church gates: Ingolf, Fred, Bjarni, a half dozen more including those he hadn’t seen since he left; Alleyne Loring and John Hordle of the Dúnedain for starters. Michael Havel Jr. was there from Larsdalen—though not, he noted, his mother, Signe.
“Mike!” Artos said, grinning as they exchanged a hand-to-forearm grip.
The younger man had grown a good deal since Artos had last seen him, several months before he left for Nantucket; he was past seventeen now, and nearly Artos’height. And their family resemblance was much stronger. That was most apparent in the face, a high-cheeked, square-jawed handsomeness that they’d taken from the Bear Lord, their common father. Signe’s heritage showed in the corn-yellow hair and bright blue eyes. He’d acquired a couple of scars on his face and hands since the questers left too. Then Artos saw the small burn-mark between the other’s brows, made with the touch of a red-hot iron; it was the mark of the A-list, the Bearkiller equivalent of knighthood, and nobody got it for any reason whatsoever except proved merit.
“You’re young for that, boyo!” he said admiringly.
“Ah—” he said, flushing. Then he rallied: “Well, you got yours from Raven when you were only ten!”
His cousin Will Larsson grinned beside him; they were of an age and height, but the son of Signe’s brother had skin the color of light rye toast. He also had the A-list brand.
“We got the combat exemption,” he said proudly. “Fighting at Pendleton, we got caught up in a complete ratfuck during the retreat.”
“And fought like heroes, I have no doubt.”
“Everyone was a hero there. Unfortunately so were the enemy!”
Artos did a few quick introductions. The men who’d stayed in Montival looked curiously at the questers, and met the same regard. Artos smiled to himself at the quick careful appraisals that went back and forth, and the nods of cautious respect.
Eric Larsson of the Bearkillers was among them, Signe Havel’s twin brother and her war-commander; a big scarred blond man in formal Bearkiller denim, a brown so dark it was almost black. He was called Steel-Fist these days. Seeing the gleaming prosthethic where his left hand had been was a vivid reminder that life had gone on here too in the last years . . . and that a lot of it had been war. Right now he grinned and nudged Artos with an elbow; he could tell the Bearkiller was bursting with military news and plans, but he’d put them aside for the moment. His son Will whispered in his ear, and then they both grinned at Artos.
“You’re looking a little peaked all of a sudden, Your Majesty,” Eric said, amused. “Pale and interesting and elfin. Or maybe just so goddamned frightened you’re about to puke.”
“Perish the thought! Artos the First is unmoved. But Rudi Mackenzie, now . . .” He put his hand to his stomach. “Right now he’s feeling nervous, and that’s a fact. I’ve walked towards a shield-wall full of spears and angry strangers with less apprehension.”
“Your dad said the same thing when he and Signe got hitched. Of course, he was marrying Signe, which was enough to frighten the shit out of anyone, even then before she became such a goddamned sh e -drago n .”
Artos laughed: “A fluttering in the gut, perhaps a little wobbling in the knees. Hard to imagine Mike Havel feeling such, but I certainly do!”
They all nodded; the married men among them with rueful understanding. Eric’s good hand slipped inside his jacket with its black-on-black braid-work and snarling red bear’s-head badge. It came out with a silver flask that gave off a welcome flowery scent when he twisted off the cap. Artos took a quick swig, and then another; sweet fire ran down his throat. It was Larsdalen brandy, and well aged in oak.
“Arra, those grapes did not die in vain,” he said. “Many thanks. Too much of this is weakness, but a little can be strength.”
“And that’s our cue,” Ingolf said, as organ music pealed out.
It came through tall doors whose wooden panels were carved with a rather gruesome depiction of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian, in which the archers looked suspiciously like Mackenzies; it had probably been done before the War of the Eye. They all racked their swords in the vestibule just inside it, and Eric’s son looked curiously at the Sword, whistling softly under his breath.
It’s odd how reactions vary, Artos thought. It makes some fear, gives others exaltation, and then again some can only see a sword . . . at least when it’s sheathed and I’m not holding it.
“You don’t mind letting it out of your sight?” he asked Artos, frowning a little.
“I do, Bill,” he replied to the dark young man. “But because it makes me nervous to be without it, so; that’s a side effect of the thing. Not for any fear of what might happen to it; a little fear of what might happen to anyone who tried to touch it, rather.”
Within, the church was a little like being inside a jewelbox, with the evening sun sparkling through the great arches and rondels of stained glass, and the candles high above twinkling in rings of stars amid drifts of blue incense-smoke. The Catholics touched their fingers to the holy water and signed themselves with the Cross, and the women covered their heads as well; Artos and the others of the Old Religion made a reverence towards the altar, and the great Rood on the wall behind. Another, and deeper, to the blue-robed figure of the Virgin in the side chapel; she was shown crowned, with the form of a dove hovering above her head in a burst of radiance. The painting was a little stiff, partly because the limner had been trying for a fourteenth-century style, and more so because this was a remote provincial keep far from the Regent’s art schools.
But there’s Power there, Artos thought. I can feel it, as real as I might in a nemed. Sure it is that They have many faces. All the shapes the Divine shows us are true; and none are all the Truth.
His stomach fluttered again as he took his place at the head of the main aisle of the church, just below the steps to the altar and the carved waist-high wooden screen. The rest of his party took their seats, save for his groomsmen, Ingolf and Fred, at his elbow.
“It’s really happening,” he muttered under his breath. “Sure and I wanted it so badly for so long, and now I’m restraining an impulse to show a pair of heels and run screaming into the mountains looking for a cave to hide in, resident bears or no.”
There was a little cold sweat on his forehead all of a sudden. Fred and Ingolf were close behind him, which was some comfort. His mother was in the front pew, which was more. She caught his eye, then slowly and deliberately winked. He thought her hand moved under a fold of her arsaid; either in the Invoking pentagram, or a simple thumbs-up.
And suddenly I feel better. By the Ever-Changing One, but it’s good to be home and among my kin once more!
“Time,” Ingolf whispered; he’d been raised Catholic and was familiar with the service.
Father Ignatius came out of the Sacristia, bright in his white and gold and crimson vestments, and the folk in the pews rose to their feet. The organ thundered again, and Artos turned to watch Mathilda pace through the door, with Mary and Virginia garlanded as her bridesmaids and matrons of honor. She put
her arm through Sir Nigel’s and continued up the stretch of red carpet, smiling gravely, holding her bouquet in gloved hands. A light gauze veil covered her flower-circled hair and shadowed her face.
She is so beautiful, Artos thought. Enough to make a man ache, and not just in the obvious places.
Not conventionally pretty; her features were bold and a little irregular and her face long—she took after her father in looks, as in her height. But there was a glow to her that went beyond mere youth and health, and her light brown eyes were wells where thoughts moved like golden-scaled fish in the depths. He saw himself reflected in them, and knew she saw herself in his.
And though we have known each other so long, my breath comes fast at the sight of her. With a cool shock: The Goddess is here, here and now. So Maiden becomes Mother, and the Son becomes the Lover. We too are part of all that is.
The music died, and they took the steps to the altar. Ignatius smiled at them; Artos almost thought that he winked a little too. Then he raised his hands and spoke:
“ ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in Paradise . . .’”
The words and gestures went on. At last Ignatius took Artos’ right hand in his own, and Mathilda’s from Sir Nigel’s, and laid them in each other’s. He felt the strong slim calloused fingers of her sword-hand grip his as his smiling stepfather stepped back to join his mother.
“Say after me: I, Rudi Artos Mackenzie—” the priest began, and Artos echoed him.
“. . . and thereunto I plight thee my troth,” he finished, his strong clear voice filling the church.
Mathilda’s answered it: “I, Mathilda Christine Arminger, take thee, Rudi Artos Mackenzie, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to be bonny and buxom at bed and at board, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.”
For a moment Artos knew sickening fear; the whole matter of the rings was suddenly gone from his mind, as if it had stuttered and missed a step. Then Ingolf and Mary each stepped forward with the golden bands on small satin cushions. Ignatius extended his hands over them and raised his voice:
“Bless these Rings, O merciful Lord, that those who wear them, that give and receive them, may be ever faithful to one another, remain in Your peace, and live and grow old together in Your love, under their own vine and fig tree, and seeing their children’s children. Amen.”
The priest’s voice was strong and well-trained, but for a long moment Artos lost the thread of it, simply looking into her smile. Then she squeezed his hand again, and he heard:
“. . . thereto have given and pledged their troth each to the other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce therefore that they be Man and Wife together, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
He took a long deep breath of delight, hearing Ignatius add under his breath: “Bless you, my children.”
“Wife,” he said softly to Mathilda.
“Husband,” she replied.
“It’s not a formal part of a Catholic ceremony,” Ignatius said, “but you may kiss the bride.”
He lifted the veil and did. Her lips were soft and sweet, but the arms that went around him were strong. The scent of her mingled with the flowers in her hair and made him dizzy, as if the great stone mass of the church were tilting slowly.
“And there is a time and place for everything, my son!” Ignatius said, with suppressed laughter in his voice.
Mathilda was flushed and laughing herself as she drew away. Mary stepped closer, elegant in Dúnedain formal black and piratical with her eye patch, and handed Mathilda the bouquet.
“Give everyone a chance to get out, so you can throw it, Matti,” she said. Then she smiled. “Sister.”
Mathilda blinked in surprise. “We are now, aren’t we?” she said, delight still bubbling in her voice.
The great doors spread wide, and they walked towards them. Mathilda’s eyes went wide as well, as the pipers of the High King’s Archers sounded off on either side of the portals; the sound was stunning-huge, magnified by the high walls that surrounded the keep of Castle Corbec, and the superb acoustics of the church.
“Edain, I’m going to skin you!” Artos muttered.
Then he saw his mother grinning, and knew the Archer hadn’t been alone in it. These weren’t the sweet uilleann instruments usually played at a handfasting either, since nobody had thought to bring those from the Clan’s territory in a time of battle and tumult; they were the píob mhór, the great war-pipes, and from the sudden rattling roar beneath the savage drone someone had dragged a Lambeg along as well. The ranks of the High King’s Archers stood without, with their bows raised to make an arch.
At least they’re not playing “The Ravens’ Pibroch” or “Hecate’s Wolves Their Howl,” he thought; it was a march, his own mother’s “My Heart Sees Green Hills in the Mist.”
There was no choice but to pace forward to the stately rhythm. Mathilda’s hand tightened on his, and he could see she was fighting not to smile. Then as they crossed the threshold—someone had the minimal tact to wait until they were off the consecrated ground—Mary snatched a besom from a girl behind her and laid it before them with a sweeping gesture.
Oh, well, Artos thought, and caught Mathilda up in his arms.
“Over the broom and into new life!” his clansfolk shouted, as he stepped over it.
He kissed Mathilda again, and then the Mackenzies stormed forward, cheering. The men among them grabbed him and tossed him up and bore him overhead on their upthrust arms, and the women did likewise for Mathilda. Then they began to dance, two lines curling around each other deosil and tuathal to the music of pipe and drum, faster and faster until both the newlyweds were tossing and whirling like boats on a stormy sea. At last they stopped, threw both upward with a great shout, and then set them on their feet. The pair staggered together, arms around each other’s shoulders.
“Well, at least they didn’t strip us naked, carry us upstairs and throw us into bed,” Artos said in Mathilda’s ear.
She blushed—exactly that wasn’t uncommon at a Clan wedding—and they straightened as the bagpipes fell silent.
Voices rang out instead, and somewhere a flute, both high and sweet. He recognized his mother’s soprano, still effortless on the higher notes, and then saw his nearest kin standing about her, with his elder half sister Eilir swaying and Signing the lyrics as the others sang:
“Fly we on o’er hill and dale
Spruces guard our faery tale
Hemlock branches bless and say
Upon my lovely’s wedding day
Joy on thy fair handfasting day!”
Juniper stepped forward and sang:
“Tide will roll and bridge stand fast
Eagles watch and breezes pass
Ebb and flow whilst ravens play
Upon my fair son’s wedding day
Joy on thy fair handfasting day!”
Then Mary and Eilir took the forward place:
“Upon my fair brother’s wedding day
Joy on thy fair handfasting day!”
Juniper herself brought him the plate with the fruitcake, though Sandra was beside her.
“Made with my own hands,” the Mackenzie chieftainness said.
“I threw in some currants,” Sandra added. “Really, it’s all right, dear. I checked; this isn’t a pagan rite. Well, no more than Christmas. And it will make the Mackenzies happy.”
“I’m not worried,” Mathilda said. “I’m—” She checked and cuffed at her eyes. “I’m almost crying, and I don’t know why.”
Artos pulled the sgian dubh out of his knee-hose and cut the round cake. There was another cheer as he and Mathilda e
ach fed the other a bite. He leaned close in the course of it.
“Only a little longer to wait.”
“Rudi...” she said two hours later.
“Yes, my darling one?”
“I . . . um, could you leave the Sword outside?”
“I can deny you nothing.”
The castellan of Corbec had given up his private quarters in the South Tower with every evidence of willingness at the bridal feast.
Mind you, with Sandra here so would I, in his position!
Those quarters were a suite of rooms just below the machicolations of the tower. Edain and a squad of his King’s Archers were a floor below, and had cheerfully promised to pitch anyone who came up the spiral staircase right back down again, or out an arrow-slit and into the lake. The stairs gave directly onto a semicircular space, and the doors leading to the individual rooms opened off that. Artos drew the Sword—
Shock.
Gentle this time, distant, like a chiming of bells and the scent of mulled wine.
—and thrust it into the floor before the entrance to the sleeping quarters. The surface was granite tiles on concrete beams, but the blade sank in a double handspan and stood quivering.
“I think that will ensure us all the privacy we need,” he said.
“You’re showing off!”
“To be sure. And when better?”
Corbec was at nearly five thousand feet, and the nights were chill. A crackling pine-scented fire was burning in a big tiled hearth in the bedchamber, and it was pleasantly warm, smelling of blossoms and clean linen. There were wildflowers on the tables and headboards and in the arched windows, pale yellow and bright gold, blue and purple and crimson—saxifrage, mountain jasmine and penstemon and more. Artos could sense Mathilda’s nervousness, and he crossed to the table and poured them both a glass of white wine from the bottle that rested in its silver ewer full of snow.
