She smiled. “Appropriate, is it not? We are liable to catch our death out here.”
I knew she was only commiserating with me; Isolde did not even seem to feel the cold, so great was her excitement. She hadn’t slept more than an hour last night; this was her favorite feast—mainly because it was the only one performed nearly the same as it was in her homeland. It was the one time of year she could erase the miles separating her from her family.
“Wait until you see it, Guinevere; it is truly beautiful. The ritual may be Christian, but the actions and the words are practically the same. Only at home, we don’t carry a statue of stone. We fashion a likeness of Brigid out of straw and carry her in a litter made of rushes.”
Isolde was practically bouncing in place as she spoke, her eyes wild with passion and memory as she watched the cluster of people at the front of the line struggling to lift a heavy stone statue. Lyonesse, for her part, tried to squelch Isolde’s enthusiasm and make her display the proper demeanor. But Isolde didn’t even hear her. To her, reverence and happiness were one and the same; her joy was her prayer.
Among the small crowd were Pellinor and Elaine, who was dressed in white like the rest of us, but her head was veiled in lace and crowned with rushes.
Isolde looked at Elaine with a mixture of envy and sadness, an expression I recognized from my Beltane competition with Morgan.
“I always wanted to be that girl,” she said wistfully.
Her words surprised me. “Did you not take her role in your homeland? You are the eldest royal daughter, so I thought that would be your right.”
A small, bitter laugh escaped her blue lips. “It would have been had I stayed. My mother insisted the representative of the goddess be at least twelve years old so she would be mature enough to understand the ritual and treat the office with respect. I would have been the most devoted Bride anyone had ever seen.” Her eyes searched the western horizon. Did she see the castle walls or the mountains or the icy ocean in between? No, she was searching for home.
Isolde sighed and she was present once again. “Of course, here, Lyonesse would sooner accept the Goddess before she would let me lead the procession.” She paused, looking impish. “Although I hear she came from a pagan family, so there may yet be hope!”
“So if even you have a chance, does that mean it is not always a member of Pellinor’s family who is chosen?” I could practically see my words formed by my icy breath in front of me.
Isolde’s eyes widened and her face shaped into the expression I had come to associate with frustration when she had to explain something to me that she took for granted. “Oh, no. This is Elaine’s year because she is fourteen, marrying age.” She sniffed, a haughty sound that I couldn’t be sure was caused by the cold. “Sadly, rather than treat this holy day as a source of devotion, Pellinor and his princes use it as an excuse to parade their eligible daughters through the streets.” She rolled her eyes.
A slight pain tugged at my heart for Elaine as I watched her take her place in line, reverently balancing the cross and the candle with which she had been entrusted. The poor girl thought she had been chosen for her virtue, when really it was her body on display, not her soul.
The bells tolled, announcing the dawn of the day. The line lurched forward, led by Elaine. Following close behind were Pellinor and three of his lords, each holding one corner of a heavy stone statue depicting the Virgin Mary seated with her divine child in her lap.
The snow crunched softly beneath our feet as we walked in silence, each bearing a candle lit by the priest. We wound our way out of the castle gates, through the village, and into the countryside beyond. People lined the streets, waving rushes, peculiar equal-armed crosses, and dolls made of straw. As the procession passed, many fell to their knees, crying out “thrice be blessed, noble lady!” or asking for the blessing of the goddess Brigid or the Virgin Mary.
By the time we arrived at the church, my hair was wet with matted snow and I scarcely felt the floor beneath me. The litter on which the statue rested was covered in evergreen boughs, seeds, and bowls of milk, offerings of the devotees.
As the church doors swung open to admit us, the small cluster of monks began chanting in Latin.
Pellinor and his companions placed the statue and its offerings on a special altar near the front of the little church. After giving the cross to the priest, Elaine deposited her candle directly in front of the statue, and each of us followed suit, forming a circle around the tall center candle. When Isolde stepped forward to make her offering, her face was glowing with reverent love. I did not miss the slight inclination of her head or the soft bow she made before the statue, and neither did Lyonesse. The latter nodded approvingly, not comprehending the true source of Isolde’s devotion.
The priest swung a censor around all sides of the statue, filling the room with a sweet, pungent odor that seemed out of place in the bitter cold. Elaine came forward and stood next to the statue, her face now completely obscured by her veil. She held the bowl of cold, clear water the priest had just blessed and sprinkled each member of the assembled crowd as they came forward to pay their respects.
Slaves, servants, and poor workers laid their tools at the feet of the Virgin, along with the seeds they would begin planting once the earth thawed. Finally, one member of each household—a female servant, slave, or the eldest daughter—came forward and lit a candle from the one Elaine had held, carrying with it the Virgin’s blessing. From this one light, each hearth fire and lamp in Pellinor’s kingdom would be lit; the light had come once again to the earth to melt its frozen soil.
As Mass began, I wished it could also thaw my frozen feet.
The great hall was warm, the air thick with smoke and the scent of mingled food, wine, and ale, and buzzing with the sound of merry chatter and the tinkling of dishes. Each year, on the evening of Candlemas, Lord Pellinor held a great feast for his subjects. It was another of his rituals of penance. To atone for the sins his wealth brought upon him and to imitate as closely as possible the generous heart of Christ, on this night, he feasted the poorest of his people. Farmers, tradesmen, orphans, homeless, thieves, and prostitutes, all were welcome with open arms. Each was given a sumptuous meal, and if they lived far away or had no homes to return to, he paid the nightly fee at a nearby inn so they could slumber free of worry or fear.
Although this was not an entirely new idea—many lords held similar celebrations on Christmas or Easter—I had to admire Pellinor for doing it, and not just out of obligation; he seemed to truly enjoy himself. He went around to each table, speaking freely with every guest, asking about their wants or needs. A scribe followed quietly behind, noting what was said so it could be acted upon at daybreak. Many times I saw him discreetly press a fistful of coins into a needy hand, to be met with stunned silence, a whispered blessing, or tearful gratitude.
This is the definition of Christian love and mercy, not the doctrine of fear and guilt Father Marius proclaims in my father’s house.
I had been thinking of them both a great deal lately, and as I wrestled the meat from a chicken bone, I wondered at my father’s welfare. There had been no news, which was not surprising, given the bitter winter weather, but still I worried for him, alone in Northgallis with only his memories and that wretched priest to keep him company.
Elaine too looked preoccupied. She stared at her plate, mindlessly pushing at her food with her knife rather than eating it. She looked tired and very apprehensive. Perhaps Isolde had told her of her father’s intentions of showing her off, or maybe she had figured it out. One thing was certain—something weighed heavy on her mind.
Isolde appeared to be enjoying herself, chatting merrily with one of the household servants. She was only a few seats down from where I sat, so I could hear snippets of their conversation. Earlier she had explained to the baker’s black-haired daughter that this was the only day of the year she felt at ease; despite the title she held in her native land, it was the only time she’d felt equal t
o everyone else in the room. Now, a few cups into the evening, they were apparently discussing lovers past and presently desired, and were in the midst of a lengthy discussion about the physical merits of the blacksmith’s son.
I turned away, embarrassed to overhear some of their more unguarded comments. I said a quiet prayer of thanks that Lyonesse was seated at the opposite end of the long wooden bench, where Isolde’s drunken discourse could not reach her ears.
My eyes followed my thoughts, involuntarily seeking out Lyonesse’s face. There was no head table tonight, no dais, as all were to be equal at this feast, so Lyonesse had nowhere to which she could escape. She looked absolutely miserable, sitting rigidly amidst the wives of the innkeeper, the blacksmith, and some of the soldiers, all of whom were raucously celebrating. Her pale hair was piled high and tight on her head, making her look harsh, an effect only magnified by her scowl.
I bet she would crawl through her own skin if it meant she could escape the gaggle of joyful women around her. She caught my eye, and I braced myself for the dart sure to be thrown my way, but to my surprise, rather than glare, Lyonesse smiled. It was just a twitch of her lips, but it was the first positive gesture she’d shown me since I arrived.
Pleased and shocked, I grabbed the nearest serving girl and instructed her to keep watch over Lyonesse’s cup. Perhaps the atmosphere was finally rubbing off on her. Or maybe it was the wine. Whatever the solution, I wanted to keep her happy for as long as possible.
After the dishes were cleared, the court minstrels struck up a lively tune, giving everyone the chance to dance for a bit before the evening drew to a close. The baker’s daughter had found a dance partner and so had Isolde—the blacksmith’s son, judging by her earlier description. She whooped audibly as he spun her past my table. I couldn’t help but smile. Even Elaine had timidly accepted the hand of a young soldier. I had seen him earlier today during the procession. Tall, strong, and dark-skinned, he was the son of one Pellinor’s underlords, one of the many who had turned out to see Elaine on display. Now, as she hesitantly held his hand and let him lead her through the steps, she looked to Lyonesse for approval. The latter nodded encouragingly.
I had no desire to dance, and fortunately, no one seemed to notice me. As the night went on and the candles burned low, my thoughts turned to Aggrivane, as they so often did when my mind was not otherwise occupied. He would have loved an evening such as this, where one was free to be at ease, where customs and rules did not apply. He might even have taken the idea as a model back to his father in Lothian. We certainly would have done the same in our kingdom, had we married.
My brooding was interrupted by the sight of Pellinor approaching Lyonesse and softly taking her hand. She blushed at whatever he said and rose from her chair, smiling. They too began to dance, whispering in one another’s ears whenever the steps brought them close. I had to look away; the intimacy of their exchange made me feel as though I was intruding on a private moment.
I rested my head on my arm to avoid seeing any of the dancers. Instead, I focused on the music and indulged my thoughts of Aggrivane. How I would have loved to have joined in the dancing were he my partner. I imagined him guiding me assuredly across the dance floor, pulling me close and then spinning me around until I dizzily fell into his waiting arms.
The Goddess brought us together twice. I had to trust she would do so again. It was the only thing keeping me from losing my mind in this strange house of piety and politics, where I was forced into a mold that I did not fit because it could never contain my soul.
But the Goddess also took him from you twice, answered a dark voice somewhere in the recesses of my mind.
But I am her priestess and must adhere to her will, no matter how loathsome it may be, I reminded myself.
Then you must realize you may never see him again, it answered, sending an icy fissure through my heart.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I didn’t know when I fell asleep, but the next thing I knew, the hall was quiet, nearly empty. It must have been well after midnight. I rubbed my aching head—perhaps I had one glass too many—stretched, yawned, and looked around. Elaine and Isolde were having an animated conversation in the corner. From their wide grins and excited eyes, I guessed they were discussing their respective dance partners. Lyonesse was flitting about, loudly directing the servants who had stayed behind to clean up, her good mood having faded along with the effects of the wine. In another corner, Pellinor was gently removing the last of the loitering guests, a particularly troublesome man who it appeared would need more than persuasive words to convince him to leave.
“My good sir, the night draws late and snow falls deep. Will you not please accept an escort back to your home from one of my men? If you have no lodging, I will provide one night’s rest for you in town,” Pellinor was saying, his voice tender with compassion.
“A generous offer, my lord,” the hooded man replied, looking up for the first time. “But would Christ turn his own kin out into the cold?”
As the man removed his hood, Pellinor turned a sickly shade of gray, and I gasped, recognizing Merlin at once.
“Come now, brother,” he continued. “Has it been so long that you have forgotten me?”
Pellinor struggled to regain his ability to speak. “Taliesin—Merlin,” he corrected himself from Merlin’s given name to the Archdruid’s official title with much effort. He gulped and staggered backward onto a bench. “You come only when there is news.” He looked worried, aging well beyond his years in only a few moments. “What news?”
Lyonesse, Elaine, Isolde, and I rushed to Pellinor’s side, blinking dumbly at one another, unsure of what to do.
Merlin held Pellinor’s gaze, obviously enjoying his discomfort. “Greetings of peace to you as well.” He almost laughed, extending out a strong hand to Pellinor. “Please, you must introduce me to your extended family. Your company has grown since last we met.”
Once the introductions were made, Pellinor dismissed the servants and we all took seats, eager to find out the cause of Merlin’s unexpected visit. Lyonesse was on my left, Isolde on my right, and Merlin took the seat directly across from me. His bronze hair gleamed in the low light of the fire that cast shadows over the planes of his face and accentuated his high cheek bones and smooth, unwrinkled skin.
While the men exchanged pleasantries, I leaned over to Lyonesse, who finally had managed to close her mouth and was now clenching her jaw as if foresworn never to open it again.
“Why does Merlin call him brother?” I asked.
“They are kin—cousins, I think, related through the maternal line. They have spoken to each other as brothers as long as I have known them,” she whispered in disgust.
I smiled to myself. So the saintly Pellinor was related by blood to the Archdruid of Britain. I could not have asked for a more interesting turn of events. I wondered how Pellinor kept this family secret quiet and what advantage the silence brought to Merlin.
“You asked if I bring news,” Merlin was saying. “Indeed, I bring great news. I have come to tell you of the coronation of your high king.” More quietly he added to me, “And I have a message for you.”
Isolde and Elaine sat up straighter and regarded me with wonder. Lyonesse leaned forward on the table, giving me a look that could only be described as lethal. If I valued my life, it said, the message better not bring any scandal upon her house—and she silently demanded to know what it was.
Pellinor, who had missed the aside, sat back, glowering. “That was two months ago, Tali—Merlin. Why do you bring this news to us now?”
“Why were you not present to witness it yourself?” Merlin countered, his hands steepled in front of him, elbows resting lightly on the table.
“Yes, Father, why did we not attend?” Elaine asked, her face aglow with curiosity.
It was the first time I’d ever heard her speak out of turn.
“Glynis, Lord Lansdowne’s daughter, said it was the grandest spectacle in three generati
ons,” she added a bit peevishly.
Lyonesse’s expression had cooled from murderous to livid. “Yes, husband, tell me why I was the only tribal queen who did not witness her high king’s installation.”
Leave it to Lyonesse to make this about herself.
Pellinor shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought it best to send a representative in my stead. The weather was beginning to turn poor,” he explained feebly, “and Strathclyde is such a long journey—”
Lyonesse cut him off, fuming. “You made the journey many times when Uther had need of you. What made this time any different?”
Pellinor stood, enraged by the accusation in her voice. He brought his palm flat down upon the table. The smack reverberated around the deserted hall. “How would it look for a Christian king to attend the coronation of a man who is at best unknown and at worst a heathen bastard?” His voice was somewhere between a growl and a roar.
Merlin regarded him calmly, untroubled by Pellinor’s outburst. “It would look like you were in unity with your high king, and that was all anyone was asking. Arthur does not demand that his subjects agree with all that he does or believes. He simply asks for your trust and your loyalty.”
As he realized Merlin was right, Pellinor sank back into his seat. The fire in him had gone out.
“So what happened? What did we miss?” Elaine asked eagerly as though the previous exchange had not taken place.
Merlin chuckled at her enthusiasm as he reached behind his back to remove his harp from beneath his cloak. “I will tell you everything that took place, down to the last detail, but it is better if I do so with this.” He ran his fingers lovingly along the bow in the wood. “The ancients say that one note of a song is twenty times more powerful than a single word, and that only in song can truth be clearly perceived, for though words can harbor lies, music cannot abide them.”
He strummed an opening note.
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