Chapter 9
The sun was high, beaming down from a flawless sky on to Cordelia, Regan and Goneril as they gathered on the flat ground near the unusual green stones in the circle known as the Three Sisters.
They had promised to teach the eager suitors the basic steps of the dance they had performed on the night of the solstice and as the lessons began, the noisy group attracted a great deal of amused attention from the rest of the encampment as the men variously stumbled or excelled.
Maglaurus proved to have natural rhythm, slipping into the dance with ease.
Goneril was enjoying every opportunity to take his hand or insist he wrap his arm around her slender waist as she demonstrated the steps.
Regan was teasing Henwinus, dividing her attention between him and Ebraucus.
Both young men were showing more enthusiasm than skill in their desire to impress her.
Cordelia was laughing as Aganippus tried to master the complicated series of steps they used when crossing in front of each other, before swirling around and spinning back to the starting position.
‘Like this,’ Cordelia said, her mouth twitching with suppressed laughter as Aganippus lost his balance. ‘Careful.’ She reached out to steady him.
‘I’m no dancer,’ he said, resting his hand in hers as Goneril and Maglaurus spun past in perfect unison.
‘You’re improving,’ said Cordelia, but when she caught his eye, he looked sceptical and they both giggled. ‘We’ll try one more time.’
She placed her hand on his forearm, instructing him to look at her feet as she demonstrated the steps again.
She found it hard to concentrate, his nearness and the thrill of his hand on her skin sent shivers through her.
The swooping feeling of excitement deep within her soul, in her heart and between her legs was one she had never before experienced.
Once again, she felt a pang of regret that her path was to remain at the hill fort as the tribe’s shaman, rather than marry this man and spend her days teaching him to dance.
‘Try again,’ she said and wound her arm around his waist, guiding him.
A crease appeared between his eyebrows as he concentrated, but as he followed her deft feet, he relaxed and the manoeuvre was completed in one swift, perfect motion.
A huge cheer went up as they finished and he grabbed Cordelia, spinning her around in delight.
She laughed as their eyes met, an intensity passing between them.
She was savouring the moment when a keening shout of despair ripped through the camp, shattering the carefree mood.
‘Come! Quick!’ Ivor’s voice roared as he ran towards them, his tunic stained with fresh blood. ‘Cordelia, come, you must come…’
Locrinus, the male healer and Ivor’s father, hurried from his roundhouse. ‘What’s happened? Are we under attack?’
‘There’s been an accident. Fa, bring your potions!’ shouted Ivor before his green eyes fixed on Cordelia, his voice tense with urgency. ‘Cordelia, you must come. It’s your father, he’s…’
He did not finish the sentence, instead he turned and ran back to the main gates that marked the entrance to the settlement, where a group of men were staggering towards the largest roundhouse.
‘Fa,’ she said, all the laughter draining from her as she ran after Ivor, ‘what’s happened…?’
The end of her question was lost as she saw Dardan, her father’s steward, drenched in blood, his face whiter than the winter snows as he directed the three men carrying a stretcher-bound Lear towards the chieftain’s roundhouse.
The crowd parted as the men moved as quickly as they dared, and as they passed, people reacted with terror and revulsion.
Cordelia heard someone vomit and turned to see who was afflicted.
The noise acted as a catalyst on her sisters.
Goneril and Regan had been standing as though entranced, silent, watchful, but the dreadful wet, squelching sound shook them from their horror and they both screamed in anguish.
‘Fa!’ howled Goneril dashing towards their father, Regan a heartbeat behind.
Cordelia swallowed hard, her own stomach churning with nausea and shock as she saw the full extent of the damage her father had incurred.
Lear lay unmoving, drenched in blood, a broken wooden spike protruded from the top of his head.
It had entered through his left cheek, passing at an angle behind his eye.
Cordelia’s gaze travelled to her father’s chest and she saw shallow movement.
He was alive, but she did not know for how much longer.
‘He was inspecting the works when he slipped…’ Dardan began before his voice stuck in his throat.
All day, the men had been placing sharpened stakes around the perimeter of the hill fort as extra protection from raiders and wandering tribes.
‘Come, you must bring your herbs. You are the only one who can save him,’ he said.
Cordelia’s years of training had taught her to resist fear, to put aside feelings of hopelessness, despair and uncertainty, to channel her healing spirits and ask for their help in making her herbal potions more potent.
As dread rose inside her, she forced herself to breathe in a controlled manner, to focus on what was important: healing the esteemed leader of her tribe but also the man she loved more than any other in the world.
She ran across the compound towards the temple to gather all she would need, but Becuma met her halfway, one of the priestess’s white willow healing baskets in her hands.
‘Here,’ said Becuma, ‘there is witch hazel and rose to staunch the blood. Wild garlic for his wounds, with honey and goldenseal to keep it clean. We’ll follow with more but this will be enough to start your father’s recovery.’
Cordelia looked down, checking the contents of the basket.
It was lined with the softest of down gathered from the hedgerows where the sheep’s wool had snagged on thorns.
Inside were stoppered clay jars containing tinctures, small parcels of premixed cures, bunches of herbs, a bottle of vegetable oil and a flagon of the distilled ale they used in ceremonies.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Cordelia stumbled across the compound, the bright sunshine blinding her, the basket banging against her legs as she hurried across the stubbly, dry summer grass to her father’s roundhouse, the largest in the oppidum.
He was the leader of their settlement, he ruled with wisdom and kindness.
He has no sons, if he were to die, who will succeed him?
she thought. Her mind flickered towards her uncle, Kamber, the younger brother of her father, who was chieftain of Credenhill, the settlement that bordered their own.
Would he take over the hill fort of the Golden Dobvnni or would there be a battle for supremacy?
The line of succession did not always follow the trail of family blood.
Then she scolded herself. ‘He will live,’ she said aloud as she ducked into the shade of the roundhouse.
For a moment, she was blinded, blinking away the dazzle of the sun in the gloom of the interior, but as her sight adjusted, she saw her two sisters waiting, their arms around each other, both ashen-faced. They had slipped inside in the few minutes it had taken Cordelia to converse with Becuma.
‘Cordelia,’ Goneril exclaimed. ‘He is…’ Her voice tailed away into sobs.
‘You must use your powers to save him,’ said Regan, before her voice cracked and halted as tears streamed down her face. Regan pushed Cordelia towards the private rooms at the rear of the building.
When she entered, her father lay motionless on his bed. His face was grey with pain, but he was alive. Locrinus kneeled beside Lear, inspecting the wound. He turned when he heard Cordelia’s footstep.
‘We must combine our skills,’ he said, drawing her close. ‘I’ve given your father poppy seed, willow bark and camomile in mead to ease his pain, but we must remove the stake or he will never heal.’
‘Remove it?’ she whispered.
‘Wait outside, Lagon will help me.’
‘No, I…’ began Cordelia but the rustle of the curtain and Lagon’s appearance in a long clean robe halted her.
‘We don’t doubt your healing abilities,’ Lagon said, ‘but he is your father and it will be too distressing for you to watch. Let us use our skills to take the spike from the wound, then you can use your powers to heal him and ensure he does not journey too far into the Everywhen.’
Angarad and Becuma entered the room behind Lagon, carrying a steaming pot of water and a leather bag containing bowls, spoons, knives, spatulas and linen bandages, bleached white in the sun.
‘They’re correct, Cordelia,’ said Angarad, who had heard the final part of Lagon’s entreaty. ‘Your skills are better employed mixing the balms to speed his healing. Becuma will accompany you while we prepare your father for treatment.’
Cordelia stared down at her father, his face waxy, his breath shallow and forced her racing heart to calm. He needed her strength as a shaman and healer, not the tears of his youngest daughter. With great reluctance, she allowed Becuma to lead her away to a small antechamber.
The murmur of voices surrounded them like a spell as, with trembling fingers, Cordelia mixed her potions.
She knew her measuring and combining of the correct ingredients had never been more important.
Many of the plants she used could be poisonous if incorrectly prepared and she could not afford to make a mistake.
In silence, Becuma passed her each herb or flower, their joint knowledge blending seamlessly as Cordelia mixed the strongest remedies of their tribe.
From the other side of the curtain dividing them from the bedroom, there was an unearthly sucking noise and a cry of distress from her father.
‘Fa,’ Cordelia whispered, biting her lip to prevent herself from sobbing.
‘The stake is out,’ said Angarad, pulling the curtain aside. ‘Let us clean the wound before you look, Cordelia.’
There was silence as they worked, then Angarad said, ‘The honey and wild garlic, please, Cordelia.’
Cordelia stepped forward, ready with the healing herbs, her wits gathered once more as she helped the healers, her friends, to aid her father. Angarad knelt beside Lear, a smoothly polished spatula in her hand as she anointed the wound on his cheek with the salve.
‘His head,’ said Lagon. ‘We must cover the wound.’
On the bed, Lear twitched, then his eyes opened and, with a rush, he leaned over the side of the bed and vomited. Blood and brain spattered from the wound across Locrinus’s face. Nobody moved, then Lear spoke.
‘Sorry, old friend,’ he said, reaching a trembling hand towards Locrinus. ‘You look a mess.’
Lear lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling before closing his eyes and falling into a deep sleep.
Locrinus stared down at Lear, then said, ‘My work here is done, the fate of our leader is in the hands of the goddesses and the gods.’
He touched his forehead and, after one last look at the prone figure in the bed, disappeared outside, tears streaming down his face.
‘Go with him, Lagon,’ instructed Angarad. ‘He’s in shock, he’ll need care too. They’ve been friends since boyhood, like brothers. Brew him a blend of poppy seed, willow bark and mead and encourage him to rest.’
‘Leave him with me,’ said Lagon and hurried after his father.
‘And we will do all we can to ease the Chieftain’s pain,’ said Angarad.
After an hour, Lear was clean, comfortable and breathing more easily.
‘We must go to the temple,’ said Cordelia.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Angarad.
‘I am the shaman. If it were anyone else, you would not question the next stage of the healing process. This is my role. We have done all we can to heal the body, now I must speak with his soul and encourage him to stay on this plane.’
‘No, Cordelia,’ said Angarad. ‘We must let the salves do their work. Then, when you have recovered from your own shock at your father’s injury, we will speak with his soul.’
Cordelia knew Angarad spoke sense, but she was desperate to reach out to her father, to heal him in the best way she knew, but then images from her visions flashed across her mind, his anger, his hatred, his cruelty, all opposed to the kind, wise man who lay sleeping, his head and face swathed in bandages.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But if he worsens, I shall journey to the Everywhen.’