Chapter 2 #2
‘Thank you,’ he said and returned to his seat.
Cordelia watched him as he sampled the bread, smiling as he looked at her and pretended to swoon at its deliciousness.
You’re a priestess, she reminded herself. You were born to serve your people, not flirt with potential suitors.
Yet, for the first time, she felt a small pang of disappointment and as this unexpected feeling washed over her, she heard the distant caw of a rook.
A shiver ran down her spine and she turned to look at the small copse of hazel trees nearby.
A rook was watching her from a high branch, its black eyes narrowed, its white beak shimmering in the first rays of moonlight.
As their eyes locked, the rook bowed its head before taking flight into the summer evening.
Cordelia watched as it disappeared into the shadows and whispered a blessing.
A rook accompanied her when she undertook her shamanic journeys. It was her spirit guide and offered her safe flight home from the Everywhen should her journey become too dangerous or disturbing. She was used to the corporeal birds acknowledging her too.
* * *
By the time the food was finished, diamond-bright stars hung in the clear sky.
Even without the glowing embers of the dying fire, the air was warm and groups of people milled around, chatting, laughing, enjoying the festivities.
The musicians played gentle tunes, their drums, pipes and harps blending together in a magical conjunction.
Cordelia sat between Aganippus and Ebraucus, listening with interest to the different methods of worshipping the solstice in the provinces of Gallia and Brigantes, the homes of the two men. Both were similar, but she winced when Ebraucus boasted of sacrificing a young deer.
‘Is this not a waste?’ asked Cordelia. ‘If left to mature, these animals could bring greater prosperity to the tribe with their offspring.’
‘It’s a sign we believe the gods will provide,’ said Ebraucus, his words slurred from a surfeit of mead, spittle on his chin which he did not wipe away. ‘The gods are pleased by our humility, they provide us with excellent hunting.’
Cordelia did not believe in sacrificing any living creature. Her worship was goddess-led and they had never once craved fresh blood, preferring a symbolic offering, like the straw man.
‘The Brigantes tribe decided to make do with deer after their elders banned human sacrifice,’ said Aganippus, who was watching Ebraucus in disgust.
‘They practised human sacrifice?’ said Cordelia, horrified.
‘Until a few years ago,’ replied Aganippus.
‘Do you not do the same here?’ said Ebraucus.
‘No, we’re not savages,’ said Cordelia, revolted by the idea. ‘The Druids and other wise leaders have long since made it known these practices are frowned upon—’
Before she could continue, her father came striding towards them.
‘Come, my daughters,’ he said, taking her by the hand and beckoning Goneril and Regan, ‘it is time for you to dance.’
Goneril opened her mouth, about to protest, then she saw Lagon and Ivor walking towards them holding three batons made from bronze, the ends wrapped in rags which were soaked in vegetable oil from the previous year’s press.
‘The fire dance?’ she exclaimed.
‘It would please me to see my daughters dance together one more time,’ Lear beamed. ‘I believe change is in the air and this might be the last time I am afforded the joy of having my trio, my triskele of daughters, by my side.’
He glanced over at Maglaurus before winking at Goneril, who blushed.
‘Come, Goneril,’ said Regan, taking her sister’s hand. ‘Let us indulge our loving father.’
Cordelia stood between her sisters, a sudden wave of sadness washing over her.
Would this be their last dance? she wondered.
They had always been together, but the stark realisation she might never see them again once they were married engulfed her and she felt their bond of love tighten.
They might bicker and tease each other, but they were the best of friends, as well as sisters.
She looked at Regan, who was plaiting her hair to keep it from her face.
Regan was an elegant dancer and Cordelia knew her sister saw this performance as another chance to impress Henwinus.
He was an orphan but had been raised by his uncle and would inherit his vast tracts of land in Dvmnonii.
Cordelia waited for a flash of insight as to whether Regan and Henwinus would be married, but nothing materialised.
Decisions are yet to be made, she thought, something else must happen first.
Perhaps, it was the dance. A chance for Henwinus to fall in love with Regan as she swirled in the firelight.
Lagon handed Cordelia her baton.
‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘The rags are smouldering. As soon as they receive a rush of air, they’ll burst into flame.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling up at him.
Lagon was a constant presence in her life, a best friend, perhaps a brother to replace the one she and her sisters had lost so many years earlier. Although, her feelings towards Lagon were not always sisterly. As they had grown, she had often experienced sparks of attraction towards him.
Ivor, older than Lagon by two winters, handed the remaining two poles to Goneril and Regan. ‘Dance with care, my beautiful princesses,’ he said and bowed low from the waist as he backed away from them.
‘Fool,’ laughed Goneril, but Cordelia noticed the flush on her sister’s cheek.
Ivor, too, was handsome but in a different way to Lagon.
The men were half-brothers, sharing the same father but being born from Locrinus’s two marriages.
Ivor favoured his late mother’s sandy-coloured hair and brown eyes, while Lagon followed their shared father’s look, with dark hair and blue eyes.
The three sisters took their positions in a line.
Around them, the inhabitants of the hill fort gathered, the air heavy with expectation.
The fire dance was one for which they were famed and, as such, they practised the routine at least twice a week.
Cordelia always took the lead and when both her sisters had whispered, ‘Ready,’ she nodded towards the band, giving them the cue to begin.
Music filled the air, ancient in its beauty, the harp and the drum weaving the tale of the goddesses of old when they walked in the land of Albion.
The three sisters, their feet slow at first, quickly found their way into the well-worn groove of their story-telling.
As each twirled their baton, the soaked rags burst into flame, causing a wave of noise and excitement from the onlookers.
The intensity of the tune increased, the steps became more complex, but still the sisters’ feet were deft and skilful as they spun and weaved, their hair flying in the summer night, the moon bathing them with silver.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cordelia saw Becuma dart forward and throw a handful of tiny wax disks into the flames.
She knew what would happen next; it was a trick they used when wishing to impress during their rituals.
There was an exclamation as the flames flashed blue, then green, before returning to their normal hue, but as they did, Cordelia felt the earth shift.
‘No,’ she gasped, ‘not here.’
‘Cordelia, what’s wrong?’ Regan’s voice was urgent.
Cordelia’s knees buckled, causing her to stumble, but she managed to regain her balance, her eyes closed as lights swirled in an arc.
The vision was vivid: all around her was devastation, destruction and despair, pouring rain and shouts of anguish.
A man, her father, his face streaked with blood, his teeth bared and one eye covered in a bloodied patch, stood over a lifeless body, his sword raised, his mouth open in a silent scream.
‘No,’ she gasped, but the vision had passed and she was back in the present.
Regan and Goneril danced around her, their batons twirling, affording her a chance to recover.
She nodded to her concerned sisters, indicating she was able to continue and threw her flaming stick in the air, catching it deftly as her sisters followed suit.
They slipped easily back into their dance with few noticing the unexpected changes.
The song reached a crescendo and the three women tossed their sticks to each other in a blur of speed and expertise, criss-crossing in and out, the flames creating the burning image of the triskele, the symbol of the triple goddess.
A roar of wonder raised from the crowd as the music reached its dramatic climax and the three daughters of Lear finished in a triangle, their backs to each other, their right hands raised as the flames on their batons flared against the night sky.
Above them, three rooks circled, their caws filling the night sky, and Cordelia collapsed in a dead faint at her sisters’ feet.