Chapter 12
‘Wake up, you useless scum.’
As the sun rose, the man’s rough voice outside the temple entrance felt as though it came from another realm.
‘Is he speaking to us?’ murmured Regan from where she was curled up asleep next to Cordelia.
‘No, he must be talking to the guards,’ she replied. ‘Oudar gave them a huge dose of valerian, I doubt any of them will wake properly until evening.’
The commotion continued outside the temple, with drowsy-voiced men protesting against what sounded like slaps and kicks from their compatriots. At last, the curtain was pulled back and a group of wives from the oppidum, laden with baskets, hurried inside.
‘We are here to help you prepare,’ said Sadiald, the wife of Dardan.
She and the other women looked wary and one had a swollen eye.
‘What’s happening outside?’ asked Cordelia.
‘Your father has been in his roundhouse with Dardan, Aganippus, Maglaurus, Henwinus and the leader of the new men, who I think is called Caradoc. He claims to be a priest, but he is like no holy man I’ve ever seen.’
‘What of Locrinus and his sons?’ asked Angarad.
‘Locrinus has been banished to his roundhouse after he tried to reason with Lear, questioning the chief’s decision,’ said Sadiald. ‘He attempted to persuade him to stop the marriages, but Lear refused. When the new guards threw him from Lear’s dwelling, Lagon ran to his aid and he was beaten.’
‘No,’ gasped Cordelia, ‘is he…?’
‘He lives,’ said Sadiald, ‘but he has sustained injuries. When the other men saw what had happened to him, they retreated.’
‘Cowards,’ said Goneril in contempt.
‘Not to hide but to work on a strategy,’ retorted Sadiald. ‘Lear has always taught us to search for weaknesses in our adversaries and this is what the men are doing. They know Lear is a good man and this madness can’t last, they want to help him return to himself.’
‘He won’t,’ replied Regan. ‘He is no longer our Fa. The gods have sent a changeling in his place.’
‘I fear Regan is correct,’ said Cordelia. ‘We don’t know this man.’
Angarad sat in silence as two of the older wives plaited her hair, winding coloured thread through the intricate style.
‘You will be queen,’ one of the women whispered, trying to raise the mood.
‘I shall not,’ replied Angarad, but her tone was kind. ‘There will be no queen and there will be no male heirs.’
Cordelia was unable to turn to look at her friend as Gael, Ivor’s betrothed, was applying delicate swirling patterns of blue woad to her cheeks, but the way she spoke felt unreal, as though it were Angarad, and not Lear, who was possessed.
‘The suitors came prepared,’ said Goneril as she was laced into a dress of forest green embroidered with leaves provided by Maglaurus.
‘They were told to bring bridal chests,’ said Regan. ‘They knew they would marry us, it was why they accepted Fa’s invitation.’
Cordelia glanced over, Regan was looking down at the gown supplied by Henwinus in dismay. It was a periwinkle blue and far too big for her petite frame, two of the other women were intent on shortening it and tightening the bodice.
‘We usually have more time to fit the bridal attire,’ said one, near to tears.
‘You’re doing your best and I’m grateful,’ said Regan and the woman gave a sob.
‘Here, Cordelia.’ Gael held up a gown of pale ivory.
It was unlike any clothing Cordelia had ever seen, the fabric was soft and pliable with a sheen all of its own.
When it was lowered over her head, it rustled, cool and supple against her skin.
The sleeves whispered down her arms and, as they did, she noticed more of the strange silver lines had appeared, swirling around her wrists.
‘Aganippus said it’s called silk,’ explained Gael, drawing Cordelia’s attention away from the marks on her skin. ‘He bought it from a merchant who had travelled east. He told me his mother had worn a similar dress when she married his father and he wanted a version of his own for his future wife.’
‘It bears the triskele,’ remarked Cordelia, looking at the sleeves where the Celtic symbol was embroidered in blue.
‘He asked me to sew those last night,’ said Gael. ‘I’m sorry they’re so hurried.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ said Cordelia and for a moment she forgot the horror of the previous day and allowed her thoughts to roam to Aganippus and what marriage to him would entail.
‘The sun is nearly at its highest,’ came a male voice from outside and all the women except Angarad jumped, their nerves taut. ‘Everyone but the brides must leave.’
‘Where are Gloigin, Ignogin and Oudar?’ whispered Gael to Cordelia as she gathered together the trappings and cast-offs of the bridal preparations.
‘They fled in the night,’ she replied. ‘We’ll have to pretend they left without anyone seeing them and are somewhere in the oppidum.’
‘I shall say I saw them on the other side of the fort,’ whispered Gael, ‘and will ask the other women to do the same; we’ll be able to keep their disappearance secret for a while at least.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cordelia.
Gael smiled, then hurried after the other women.
There was a tramping of feet and Lagon’s voice reached them through the curtained entrance.
‘You are summoned to your handfasting ceremonies,’ he stated. ‘I am to be your chaperone.’
‘Thank you,’ said Angarad, but her voice was once again flat and dull.
Goneril squared her shoulders, her eyes swimming with tears. Regan scowled and Cordelia raised her chin, thinking of her mother and how she would have reacted to such treatment. She would have fought back, she thought, and so shall I, as courage surged through her.
‘Our new high priest, Caradoc, will perform the ceremony,’ Lagon said as the women walked into the bright sunlight.
Lagon was surrounded by a phalanx of soldiers, his right eye was swollen shut and his lip split. Cordelia felt her hope falter, until Lagon turned to look at her and the defiance in his eyes bolstered her resolve.
We are women, she thought, as she followed her sisters, we have been forced into marriages with strangers for centuries.
She remembered her mother, Estrildis Loegriadohtor, had been the third daughter of a third daughter like Cordelia and the youngest princess of a tribe on the other side of the Golden Valley. Her home had been in Castell Dinas on the borders of the territory of Demetae.
‘Your father and I met on our wedding day,’ she had told Cordelia. ‘It was frightening, but your father is a good man. There are many good men.’
Aganippus is a good man, Cordelia reminded herself.
‘Follow me,’ said Lagon.
Angarad and Goneril fell into step behind him, walking side by side, clutching each other’s hands for comfort.
Cordelia and Regan followed, with the soldiers at the rear ensuring the women reached their destination with no interruptions from the sullen crowd who lined the way to the centre of the oppidum.
* * *
As was tradition with the tribe of the Golden Dobvnni, a marriage altar had been built overnight around the menhir at the heart of their meeting place.
There was a sweeping archway made from oak branches decorated with flowers standing at the entrance of a walkway of colourfully woven mats.
These were loaned by each of the family groups within the hill fort and the majority were heirlooms, passed down through the years.
Nearest to the standing stone was the most elaborate of all, the carpet belonging to the Bladud family, the longest line of leaders of the tribe.
On this was a wooden table draped in linen where four elaborately woven cords, each a different colour, waited for the handfasting ceremony.
A tall, thin man stood behind the makeshift altar and Cordelia surmised this must be Caradoc, her father’s new high priest. He wore the white robes of a Druid, but a scar ran the length of his right cheek and his shoulders were broad as though he might once have wielded a weapon.
Cordelia could see unease in his eyes, but, despite Sadiald’s comments, she sensed Caradoc was a genuine wise man, although perhaps not a Druid.
She wondered what lies he had been told to bring him here, what promises had been made to keep him onside with her father’s new regime.
On the table in front him, near the handfasting cords, was the Weddian Scroll of the Golden Dobvnni.
Each tribe owned such a document, where the marriages, births and deaths for each year were recorded.
A new scroll was created with the coming of Alban Arthuran, the Yuletide celebrations of the winter solstice, and these lists were considered to be the history of their people.
As each new scroll was created, a ceremony would be held as the old one was retired into the inner sanctum of the temple.
Alas, now, they are piled into the boxes and chests, thought Cordelia as Caradoc began to speak. Will they ever be given the proper reverence or consideration again or will they be used to light fires now the temple has been defiled?
Lagon halted at the entrance to the walkway and the soldiers fanned out, making their way to the edges of the crowd, a wall of potential violence holding the Golden Dobvnni people in the meeting place.
The bridegrooms waited beside the oak arch, each in clothing which matched the dresses of the women.
Lear was seated, his bejewelled eye-patch once again glinting with other-worldly light in the sun, his other eye closed, whether in contemplation, sleep or pain, Cordelia could not decide.
Aganippus stepped forward, taking first Cordelia’s hand, then Angarad’s, leading them through the arch onto the walkway.
‘I apologise,’ he whispered to Angarad, ‘your betrothed has not the strength to stand throughout the other ceremonies and he asked me to be your chaperone.’
Angarad did not reply but gave a small nod, then stood beside Cordelia.
Maglaurus led Goneril to the opposite side of the walkway, followed by Henwinus and Regan.
‘Goneril and Maglaurus, step forward,’ said Caradoc.