Chapter 11
‘He can’t do this to us.’
Goneril stood in the centre of the temple vibrating with fury. Her voice rebounding off the walls.
‘He can and he has,’ replied Regan, who was white-faced and tearful.
‘Pack up what you wish to keep,’ the leader of Lear’s new warriors ordered with a dismissive sneer. ‘After tomorrow, this place will be stripped of your women’s trappings in order to be recreated in Morrigan’s image. Anything remaining will be burned.’
He left, his cold laughter echoing back at them as the women stared at each other in horror.
After Lear had made his dramatic exit, the women had been dragged into the temple by the men Lear claimed were his new priests. Cordelia did not believe this statement, these people were mercenaries, accepting her father’s gold in exchange for the power of violence he offered.
Cordelia turned to Angarad, the Mother of the Temple, who stood beside their altar, her eyes wide with both determination and despair.
‘The goddesses will not allow such destruction,’ said Angarad. ‘The Matronae and the Bee Maidens will show us the way. I shall travel to my guides for wisdom while you clear the temple. We must appear to be complying.’
The women stared at her until Cordelia broke the silence. She bowed low, as was tradition with priestesses and the Mother of the Temple.
‘Yes, Módor,’ said Cordelia using Angarad’s official title. It was only ever used during ceremonies, but the gravity of their situation was such that it felt natural to her lips. ‘We shall follow your wisdom.’
‘May the Triple Goddesses guide your path,’ the other priestesses intoned.
Angarad bowed her head in response, then disappeared through the curtain that divided the main temple from the sacred inner sanctum.
Cordelia gazed around her, the large space was one of peace and serenity, but now it felt tainted.
Goneril and Regan moved further inside before collapsing to the floor, sitting hunched together near the altar.
Becuma and Oudar bustled about, sorting herbs into piles, organising candles, wax votives and other temple paraphernalia into baskets, bags and urns.
Gloigin and Ignogin concentrated on stripping the woven hangings from the walls, folding them with care, revealing the close woven strands of the wattle walls.
‘This is a roundhouse,’ Gloigin said to Cordelia, ‘it doesn’t matter if your father has chosen to change its use. We are high priestesses, all we need are our hearts to create a sanctuary.’
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘It’s a roundhouse, we are the temple makers.’
Re-energised by Gloigin’s words, Cordelia reached up to the shelves where the tools she used as shaman were stored, before turning to the tablets and scrolls containing their prayers and recipes.
She placed it all with care into a series of leather bags.
It was as she lifted her antler headdress that the enormity of the situation hit her fully and an involuntary sob escaped from her lips.
‘Cordelia, you must reach within yourself and find your path too,’ said Gloigin, her voice firm but kind.
‘You’re to be married to a kind man, maybe this was always the intention of the goddesses, for you to be a wife, a mother, a warrior—’ She stopped, her hand over her mouth in surprise at her final word.
‘A warrior?’ said Cordelia. ‘Did you see? Is this a premonition?’
‘No,’ replied Gloigin, ‘I saw no images, but the words came from my heart, rising without effort. You must prepare for what is to come and do not be afraid when you are asked for help.’
Again, Gloigin stopped, looking horrified.
‘Cordelia, I’m sorry, it’s not my place—’
Cordelia reached over and hugged her friend, halting the remainder of the sentence, but Gloigin’s unexpected confusion over her prediction had brought her to her senses.
‘You’re correct, Gloigin,’ she said, feeling her usual serenity return, ‘this is a new path for us all and there must have been a reason why we weren’t shown what has transpired.
The goddesses don’t always reveal events, there are many we must navigate alone.
Let’s clear this space and wait for Angarad to return. She will have answers.’
The women continued their packing in silence, wrapping delicate vases, jars and the heavy pithoi, the storage jars in the corners of the storeroom, in protective wool.
‘How will we carry the pithoi?’ asked Becuma.
‘You can’t,’ said Regan, from where she sat by the altar. ‘They’re too heavy. When we’re able, Goneril and I will have them moved to our roundhouses for safekeeping. We’ll ensure the pithoi remain safe.’
‘But the men said they would destroy anything left inside,’ said Oudar.
‘Then we’ll have to try to take them out through the back entrance and leave them in the stone circle,’ said Goneril and together she and Regan rose, rolling the jars between them as the others continued with their tasks.
Cordelia felt her heart burst with pride for her sisters and their determination to take charge, even if in a small way.
‘Will you remain at the oppidum, Gloigin?’ asked Goneril, as she and Regan returned for another pithoi.
‘No, we shall vanish into the darkness this night,’ Ignogin replied, answering for her sister, pausing in her packing of three leather satchels.
‘The guards will catch you,’ said Cordelia in concern.
‘We are in the dark of the moon,’ said Gloigin.
‘Oudar is preparing jugs of our strongest mead laced with valerian root. We wondered if Goneril and Regan would be prepared to offer it to the guards? If it came from Lear’s daughters, we think they are more likely to accept and drink it.
Valerian is a potent sleeping draught and when they are in the depths of slumber, we will be shadows in the night. ’
‘Where will you go?’ asked Cordelia.
‘To Credenhill, the home of Kamber Bladudsunu, your uncle,’ Gloigin replied. ‘It’s the home of our mother’s people too. We shall be welcomed there and Oudar will be safe because she is our companion.’
‘We’ll do whatever is necessary to help,’ said Regan as they gathered the final jar. ‘Would it be possible to give the guards such a powerful dose of valerian they never awake?’
‘And face charges of treason with its death penalty?’ asked Oudar. ‘No, it’s enough they’ll fall into an unnatural torpor and suffer dreams from Dubnos, the dark underworld.’
‘I pray to the goddess their night is full of torment,’ hissed Regan, bitterness in her voice. ‘Would you like me to take the drink now?’
‘The herbs must steep, we shall deliver our gift as the first stars appear. The longer the valerian swims in the mead, the more wicked her power will become as it whispers through their blood.’
The women exchanged looks of complicity.
‘And you, Becuma?’ asked Goneril.
‘It is written, my fate is tied to Cordelia’s,’ she said. ‘Our paths are entwined, we have known this since childhood when your mother assigned me to the temple.’
‘I am to marry Aganippus though,’ said Cordelia.
‘Who will no doubt allow you an entourage of your own, or at least a woman to accompany you,’ said Becuma. ‘I shall be by your side.’
‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Cordelia.
‘And what will become of us?’ wailed Goneril.
‘You will survive,’ said Angarad. Her voice was low and calm as she reappeared through the curtain, her face remaining in shadow. ‘Do not fear, Goneril. However, to survive you must leave this place; the oppidum is no longer safe for you.’
‘Leave?’ said Goneril in surprise.
‘Yes, both of you. If you stay, the pathway will be different,’ said Angarad.
‘Módor, what did you see?’ Cordelia asked, unnerved by the flatness of Angarad’s voice.
‘Darkness,’ she replied. ‘A strange place of mists and unformed sorrows. My pathway will change all our lives,’ she replied.
‘Please, Módor,’ said Regan, echoing Cordelia’s formal address to Angarad. ‘Tell us how we can best protect each other and our tribe.’
‘I cannot,’ Angarad responded. ‘The goddesses have shown me how this ends and it is my burden to bear.’
‘Flee with the others,’ said Cordelia, as icy tremors flooded her. ‘Don’t let my father force you into marriage. You swore to serve the goddess, you must remain true to your oath.’
‘You are young, Cordelia, I see a path of happiness for you with the potential for healing. However, mine is different. The goddesses have never yet been wrong and I shall follow their words.’
‘But your vows,’ said Cordelia.
‘They shall remain unbroken,’ Angarad replied.
She took a deep shuddering breath and Cordelia felt fear run down her spine.
‘Sisters, you have done well,’ said Angarad to the women, her voice more like her usual self.
‘Cordelia, Becuma, Goneril, Regan and I will finish packing away our treasures. Gloigin, Ignogin, Oudar, you must rest, you will need your strength for your night walk. Your paths will be winding, but you will reach your destination, and one day, this hurt will be healed.’
Angarad radiated a quiet power and the other women followed her instructions, busying themselves with tidying and cleaning the temple, an unspoken decision reached by them all to leave the place stripped clean of the goddesses, to leave no trace and allow no one to sully their years of worship.
Food was delivered, shoved through the curtained entrance, and Angarad advised them all to eat.
‘We must stay strong for ourselves, for no one else,’ she said and, again, the women did as they were bid.
* * *
When the day began to fade, Oudar roused herself from her slumbers to drain the mead and sweeten it with extra honey in order to disguise any lingering bitterness from the valerian.
Goneril and Regan twisted each other’s hair into plaits, which Cordelia adorned with flowers and feathers from their trove of ingredients.
‘Here,’ said Oudar, handing them a heavy jug each, ‘I’ll follow with the beakers.’
Cordelia waited inside, relieved to hear the faux giggles of her sisters as they engaged their best flirting techniques with the guards.
‘Pig-headed fools,’ she murmured to Angarad. ‘They are arrogant enough to believe my beautiful sisters would stoop to their level. None of them are good enough to lick the mud from Goneril and Regan’s boots.’
‘They’ll soon be in Dubnos,’ said Angarad. ‘But, for now, we must wait.’
At the zenith of the dark moon, as the guards snored and twitched, Gloigin, Ignogin and Oudar dressed in dark cloaks, bade their farewells and merged into the shadows. Each carried a bag filled with herbs, a skin of water and food. Angarad blessed them as they left.
‘We shall meet again,’ she said, but Cordelia could sense the sadness in her lie.