by J. M. Hofer
When the water turned cold, she stepped out of her bath. She sat down next to the hot coals to oil her skin and comb her hair, all the while imagining Bran touching her, wondering if it were something she would ever tire of, as Rowan had insisted she would.
Sadly, she did not think so.
***
Once they emerged from the bathhouse, the maidens of the village grabbed them, eager to braid flowers and ribbons in their hair. The men were busy stacking towers of wood in the fields that Seren would set aflame after the feast. The massive bonfires would burn all through the night, bright enough that the gods would take notice from the heavens.
“Come feast with us, sisters,” Seren announced happily at their arrival. “We’ll return at sundown to light the fires and ask for the Mother’s blessings.”
She led the way across the village to a well-worn path that led up to the large mountain fortress. It rose more prominently from its mountain perch than Lucia had remembered, jutting out majestically from both the top and side of the mountain and looking down protectively over Bran’s people.
The Oak maidens giggled and sang, teasing each other and asking incessant questions as they made their way up the mountain.
The path eventually led them to two heavy twin doors built of oak and iron that stood like open hands, beckoning them inside. From there, corridors went in different directions, but it was obvious which one they were meant to take. Flowers had been strewn to mark the way. They led them to Bran’s Great Hall, where the smell of roasted meat and the glorious sound of music greeted them. Torches and candles burned in great numbers, dancing on the hall’s golden walls, and musicians played to a colorfully dressed crowd on their flutes, harps and drums.
Impossible to miss, Bran sat like a mountain on a pile of furs at the far end of the hall, directly across from where they entered. Over his head hung a huge shield engraved with an image of the Sacred Oak, the sigil he had chosen for his people. The shields his warriors bore were engraved with the same symbol. Earlier, the young maiden braiding Lucia’s hair had told her about how the warriors of their clan now invoked the power of the Oak before battle, and had yet to lose any men to their enemies.
Bran’s warriors sat proudly around him on skins or cushions in a large circle. The young boys and girls of the clan waited upon them with smiling faces, keeping their drinking horns full and delivering tokens of flowers or jewelry on their behalf to the maidens they favored. Such petitions would continue through the feast and long into the night, until each maiden chose whom she would take into the fields with her, if anyone. A husband would court his wife in the same way, as a loving reminder of his passion for the woman he had chosen to share his life with. Many a marriage bed was kept warm throughout the year by the traditions and fires of Beltane.
Lucia spotted Idris among the warriors. He was indeed a handsome and imposing young man, dark and strong. Great Mother, I pray for Creirwy. May she enjoy the attention of Idris this week, with the unique pleasure and happiness only a lover can provide. She knew that was what Creirwy truly wanted.
Seren escorted them through the boisterous crowd to piles of furs arranged near the fire. The maidens who had accompanied them were quick to fetch cups of mead for them all, returning in a chorus of giggles.
Lucia made herself comfortable and sipped her mead, stealing glimpses of Bran through the revelry that surrounded her. Maur sat beside him, telling what must have been a very animated tale, because Bran’s eyes regularly brightened and crinkled with laughter. As if he could feel her gaze, he looked in her direction. Seeing she had arrived, he grinned and raised his horn toward her.
Creirwy leaned in and whispered, “He only has eyes for you.”
Knowing Bran had not forsaken her, combined with the mead in her belly, set Lucia daydreaming about what life might be like among the Oaks.
The meat came out first. As per tradition, the best portions were set aside for Bran and his warriors, but he insisted they be shared with the sisters, who were their honored guests.
Lucia’s mouth watered. The smell of roasted boar and the aroma of fresh bread had worked her stomach into frenzied growling. She sank her teeth into the meat and sighed with pleasure. Cheese, fish, bread and drink followed the meat in a continual procession until all were satisfied. Afterwards, cakes baked with honey and nuts were passed around to “sweeten the lips and tongue” for love-making.
Bran then called for his bard. “Let the songs begin!”
A man came forward, whom Lucia knew well. “Teirtu!” she exclaimed, ecstatic. “Oh, his voice beckons the gods!”
Teirtu had sung in the South, bard to the late Cadoc and to Aelhaearn for the short while that he ruled the clan. She had never heard a voice more divine.
“We’re in luck.” Creirwy nodded with a smile. “He’s the finest bard I’ve ever heard.”
The girls came to refill their cups again, never allowing them to run dry, and then Teirtu began to sing. His first ballad was to their noble lord, Bran the Golden. It praised his fierceness in battle and his courageous journey to the land of Annwn, from where few had ever returned. At the end of his ballad, the entire clan raised horns in Bran’s name, including Lucia, who was filled with pride for him.
Songs of love and springtime followed, beginning with delicate, sweet melodies that brought a tear to the eye. As the afternoon wore on, the songs became more lustful, with rousing rhythms and bawdy choruses that all the guests knew and shouted out together, followed by fits of laughter.
Eventually Bran stood up and motioned toward the small patches of sky that could be glimpsed through the smoke holes overhead. “Night is falling! Let us light the bonfires!”
As was the custom, Seren and the sisters led the way down the mountain to the fields to ask for the Great Mother’s blessings on their crops and livestock. The clan gathered around them, watching the sky slowly turn from pink to dusky purple until the sun dipped below the horizon. The moment it disappeared, Seren set both towers of wood alight in tandem, sending flames roaring toward the heavens. Children squealed with excitement and the clan cheered, praising the Guardians and the Great Mother.
One by one, families brought their livestock into the field. The sisters led the animals between the bonfires while the clan chanted and drummed, asking that they be blessed with health and fertility.
Soon after the last of the livestock were blessed, stars began to wink into view. The musicians resumed playing, and wine and ale were passed around. Men and women paired up to dance and make love in the open fields where the Great Mother could look down upon them. If pleased with their offerings, she would bless their fields, and come late summer, there would be a great harvest that would provide for them all through the winter.
Lucia clapped her hands, dizzy with mead and excitement, happy to see so many couples arm in arm spinning around the bonfires. It was not long before Bran came to her and offered his arm, which she accepted with a surge of joy.
Soon, they, too, were swallowed up by the swirl of rhythm and motion, Bran weaving them in and out of the other couples, occasionally lifting her up above the dance as if she weighed nothing.
Lucia surrendered to it all—the music, the stars, the wine, and the bliss of having Bran’s arms around her—until her worries became no more than faint whispers she could scarcely hear.
When the music died down, Bran took her hand and led her away from the fires and out into the fields. He spread out his thick cloak like a raft and invited her aboard. They gazed at the crescent moon, between the mountain’s rocky knees, her curve as smooth as the supple bow her patron goddess carried. Adorned with a spray of stars, sitting gracefully upon her throne, she whispered to them of the wondrous things that were yet to come. Her celestial sister, Venus, hanging low on the horizon, emanated a rosy-orange glow, like a woman flushed with passion.
Bran held her close as they watched the regal procession and talked, watching for the occasional flash of a falling star to spark the visual
silence of the heavens.
Then, there were no more words. Between ever more intense spells of wine-filled kisses, Lucia found herself floating on waves of pleasure, mouth dry, heart quickening, until she felt as if she were spanning out in all directions. She clung to Bran’s body and the sound of his voice, letting him tether her to the earth—feeling that if she were to let go of him, she might float away and blissfully disappear into the ether.
***
Lucia awoke late in the night. Bran’s arms were still wrapped around her like a cloak, holding her close. She felt his strong heartbeat against her back and his steady breath on her neck, and relaxed into a feeling of deep contentment. She was sweetly sore in all her tender places, which called out to him, aching for his touch again.
She lay awake for hours, until the sun began to rise in the east, slowly overpowering the sky.
Lucia turned toward Bran, away from the sun, and looked west. She fixed her eyes on the setting moon and her few starry handmaidens, pleading with them to stay.
Please, I don’t want this night to end.
***
“Are you certain, Lucia?” Elayn asked.
“Yes,” she answered with a pang of sadness.
“You must be certain, child.”
“I am,” she lied.
Refusing Bran in favor of the Sisterhood was the hardest decision Lucia had ever made. His proposal had been painfully ironic. As Protector to his sister, Seren, priestess of his clan, it was tradition for him to dedicate himself exclusively to her welfare. Seren was a Firebrand and obviously needed no protector, yet Lucia had not come to this logical conclusion. She had assumed marrying Bran was an impossibility, so when he asked her to be his queen, she had been utterly unprepared.
A few miles into the ride home she panicked, fearing she had made a mistake. She nearly turned her horse around to gallop back to him, but, in the end, her mind had brought her heart to heel. She loved Bran, that was certain, but she also knew full well the reality of being a powerful man’s wife. It was not the life of freedom she had become accustomed to. Though a life at Bran’s side would surely be different than the life she had led with Camulos, she was wise enough to know she would likely live out her days never mastering or understanding her gift, and that frightened her.
She had seen through the gates of the spirit world many times, but, until recently, they had remained resistant to her will. They opened only in her dreams, and with very few exceptions, only for calamities. Her grandmother had insisted it did not have to be that way, and that those blessed with the Sight had a deep responsibility to the Great Mother to be her voice upon the earth. There was no greater honor.
“You must become master of the songs your mind sings, and once you are, you will be ready to shadow-walk, moving through the Otherworld whenever you wish,” her grandmother had told her. “There will be no place you cannot go, and nothing you cannot know, but for such power, you must pledge yourself to the Great Mother completely in body, mind, and spirit.”
There was a reason the sisters took an oath before undertaking the training of a higher initiate and pursuing the art of shadow-walking. A little knowledge was a dangerous thing. Those who were able to shadow-walk but lacked sufficient training could go mad, or end up possessed by malevolent spirits. It was paramount, therefore, that Lucia continued to receive proper training and guidance, and she knew her grandmother did not have many moons left among the living. Shortly before leaving for Beltane, her grandmother had confided in her that she had seen the terrible figure of Arawn standing over her as she slept, his great red cape surrounding her bed. Lucia had taken it as a warning that if she did not return to the Isle, she would lose her only opportunity to truly master her gift. Losing Bran was the price of that opportunity.
“Sometimes the Mother tests us beyond what we think we can bear,” Elayn said, as if she had read Lucia’s thoughts, “but she is not cruel, Lucia. I promise, if you trust her, she will lead you to more happiness than what you think you have turned your back on today.”
Tears welled up in Lucia’s eyes as she clutched the reins, digging her fingernails into her palms in defiance of a sob.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Question of Ula
“I don’t believe it,” Maur said in shock. “She’s too old to begin the trainin’ of a High Priestess!”
“It seems not,” Bran answered curtly, setting another log on its end and splitting it. He threw it onto an enormous pile of wood and reached for another.
“You’ve chopped enough wood for a hundred winters, my friend. Give it a rest, eh?”
Bran stood up and leaned on his axe, ignoring the comment. “I must go to Maes Gwythno, to speak with the Lord Garanhir,” he said, changing the subject, “and I want you to come with me.”
“Maes Gwythno?” Maur asked, his eyes lighting up. “You’ll not have to ask me twice! Lord Garanhir’s hospitality is well-known. When does he expect you?”
“Well,” Bran paused, “he doesn’t. There’s a woman under his roof whom I owe my life to, and I have reason to believe she may be there against her will. If that’s the truth, I’m prepared to secure her freedom with gold or blood, whichever price Lord Garanhir requires.”
Maur furrowed his brow. “Against her will, eh? Seems at odds with what I’ve heard of the man, but stranger things have happened. Either way, count me in. When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. Choose a small company of warriors. I’ll not provoke him by taking them to his gates, but I want them close at hand in case there’s trouble. I don’t know this lord—or his people.”
Maur nodded. “Good timin’. The young girls are all still starry-eyed from Beltane and wantin’ sweet words from ‘em. I know more than a few lads who’ll be happy for a reason to sharpen their swords and saddle their horses.” He winked and turned to go.
“Oh, one more thing,” Bran added.
“Yes?”
“She has a young babe, still at the breast.”
“Ah,” Maur said, visibly disappointed. “It’s going to be a family affair, is it?”
“Maur, you’ve got four!”
“True, but I never knew what to do with ‘em ‘til they were old enough to throw a spear or swing a hammer. ‘Til then, I left ‘em to their mother.”
“Well, don’t despair. You’re not coming to be the child’s nurse-maid—just to help me keep mother and child safe from harm.”
“That I can do,” Maur consented. “Well, if there’s nothin’ more, I’ll be off to round up some men.”
“No, that’s it. Have them report to the stables at dawn.”
“Consider it done.” Maur took his leave.
Bran then sought out Neirin and gave him the honor of acting chieftain in his absence. “I’m not certain how long we’ll be gone, but I don’t suspect it will be more than a moon.”
“You can count on me, Pennaeth,” Neirin replied with a nod, his shoulders erect.
“I know I can.” Bran clapped him on the shoulder and smiled in farewell.
***
Bran was eager for the road, ready to leave the memories of Beltane behind. Lucia’s refusal had cleaved a deep wound in his heart that ached whenever he thought of her, but he spoke of it to no one.
He could not stop thinking of how she had clung to him in the field on Beltane Eve, as if she had no desire to ever leave his arms. Dawn woke them the following morning, and with their senses no longer dulled by wine, it was not long before they were again pursuing the pleasures of the night before. She had been just as ardent that morning—more so, in fact. They spent the day together, riding through the valley, sharing plans and stories. They rode out onto the moor and stopped to let the horses graze. It was there, while watching the clouds after another round of love-making, that he asked her to be his. She had thrown her arms around him and cried. Like a fool, he had assumed that meant ‘yes.’
He simply could not reconcile her behavior with her refusal. From the time she had arrived until
the moment she left, she had gazed at him with the complete surrender that he knew belonged only to a woman in love.
What did I do wrong? He could think of nothing. He had offered her his love and every luxury she had ever had before, yet still she had chosen the life of a priestess over the life of a queen. It made no sense. She was far too playful and passionate for such a serious life, and he could not help but think it had to be her grandmother’s doing. The other women he understood. They had grown up on the Isle, or had the personalities for a quiet life of study, but not Lucia. No. Lucia was meant to be his queen.
Bran finished chopping the rest of the wood, stacked it, and then set out for the Grove to speak with Islwyn. The old druid had known Ula far longer than he had, and was the only person who could truly understand her now that Gwion was gone. He also wanted to know if there was anything more he could tell him about Garanhir or Tegid Voel’s intentions if Ula did not return to him as promised. Though Bran assumed she was there against her will, he had to consider the possibility that she might be happy under Garanhir’s roof and had simply chosen not to return. For all he knew, Garanhir could be the father of her child.
The whitebeam trees were in full blossom, their petals fluttering down around him like snowflakes, but the beauty of the walk to the Grove was wasted on him today. He was sick of flowers.
He finally reached the Grove and found Islwyn in his hut drying herbs and stocking his apothecary.
“I’m coming with you,” the old man announced as Bran stooped to enter his hut.
“Good!” Bran smiled. “Now, what more can you tell me of Tegid and his intentions?”
Islwyn put back the clay jar he was holding and sat down near the fire, beckoning Bran to do the same. As usual, there was a pot of something steaming over the fire. Islwyn ladled out two cups and handed him one. Bran knew better than to ask what it was, and sipped it politely.
“There are many river spirits that dwell within the waters that flow from Lake Tegid to the sea,” Islwyn began. “Spirits loyal to me. They have told me Tegid has vowed to dry up your wells and lead the rivers away from your land if you do not return Ula to him.”
