Chapter 12 #2
Cordelia noticed he did not bother to introduce himself.
Was he ashamed? she wondered. Or was this another of her father’s directives?
Remain aloof, explain nothing, cause tension and fear.
The image of Regan with her head shaved, Goneril being brutalised by their father flashed through her mind.
She felt the ground lurch beneath her, but a strong hand gripped her, holding her upright.
‘I’m here,’ said a low voice and she felt a rush of gratitude towards Aganippus.
There was a rustle of fabric and Goneril stepped forward, taking her place beside the menhir.
‘There is a word my people use,’ said Angarad in a low voice to Cordelia. ‘“Wěding”, it is not dissimilar to your tribe’s words, “wedd” and “weddian” which both mean to engage, to pledge oneself, to marry, but our word has a very different meaning.’
‘What does it mean in your language?’
‘Madness.’
As though at a distance, Cordelia heard Goneril and Maglaurus repeat the words of the ancient handfasting ceremony, promising devotion and honesty, fruitfulness and support, love and family.
They joined hands and the first cord was draped across their wrists, knots were tied to seal their bond as the high priest intoned the Druidic prayers of love, fecundity and steadfastness.
Regan and Henwinus followed, tears rolling down her cheeks as she repeated her vows and the knots were tied.
Then, feeling as though she were in a trance, Aganippus led Cordelia forward.
Cordelia stood beside the menhir, it felt both familiar and strange, while Aganippus took his position opposite her.
She had watched many handfasting ceremonies but had never considered she would one day participate.
Her unfamiliar dress rustled in the breeze and as Caradoc said her name, she stared up at Aganippus.
‘Shall you offer your body and your spirit to this man?’ asked the high priest.
‘I shall,’ she said.
‘Shall you care for and adore this man?’
‘I shall.’
‘Shall you obey this man?’
She hesitated and a small movement at his side caught her eye, he had crossed his fingers, she shot him a confused look, then she understood.
This was the old wives’ tale that if you cross your fingers a promise did not count, she crossed her fingers too and he gave a small, approving nod, as she said, ‘I shall.’
‘You now, Aganippus,’ said Caradoc, and while he offered his own troth, Cordelia wondered again about this man to whom she was bound. Why would he release her from the command to obey?
‘Join hands,’ ordered Caradoc.
Aganippus’s palm was dry and strong against her own, she could feel callouses from his years of riding and hunting, but beneath its strength she felt gentleness.
These hands held no cruelty and for this she was grateful.
The cord to bind them was as blue as her eyes, a silken skein dyed in woad and decorated with white flowers.
She knotted the cord, Aganippus added his knot and the priest combined the two.
They unclasped their grip and the priest slipped the woven fabric from their wrists.
He laid the knotted cord on the table beside those of her sisters and indicated for them to take their place with the other couples to the side of the menhir.
They were married. It was a situation she could not fully comprehend.
‘And now, our final ceremony,’ the high priest announced. ‘I, Caradoc, of the Druidstone of the Blackwood, do hereby join Lear Bladudsunu, Chief of the Golden Dobvnni in the Druidstone of Dobvnni, with Angarad Hrocdohtor, the Chosen Maiden of the Druidstone of Halliggye.’
Lear was helped to his feet by Dardan and his son, Cangu. Cordelia watched as Angarad followed her father to the standing stone. Lear glared down at her, but Angarad’s eyes remained strangely blank.
‘I, Lear Bladudsunu, leader of the Tribe of the Golden Dobvnni, welcome you, Angarad Hrocdohtor.’
Caradoc turned to Angarad and stated the words for her to repeat. There was silence, she remained motionless and gave no indication she had even heard the high priest speak. Caradoc looked at Lear, who took Angarad’s limp hand.
‘Answer, woman,’ he commanded.
Angarad wrenched her hand from Lear’s, her eyes suddenly wild and feverish. She moved closer to him, then opened her mouth and emitted an eldritch howl. Her eyes rolled and she turned to look at Cordelia, then swung back to Lear, focusing all her energy and power upon him.
‘I, Angarad Hrocdohtor, Chosen Maiden and High Priestess of the Temple of the Matronae Melissae, do curse you, Lear Bladudsunu!’ she roared and above them a huge cloud covered the sun, a gust of wind rattled the leaves of the trees and in the distance dogs barked and wolves howled.
Her voice was wild, unearthly, gaining in volume and strength as she continued, ‘You trade your daughters as though they are cattle.
You defile our sanctuary for your male vanity.
‘You shall never bear sons. Your daughters shall never bear sons.
All shall have three girls. Three by three by three by three by three until one shall come, a youngest child of a youngest child of a youngest child who shall have the power to heal this curse.
One becomes two; two becomes three; and out of the third comes the fourth, the One.
‘The triple goddess of the bees curses you. In the glory of the goddess, your line will remain ever female. No sons shall be born to the House of Lear until the day the Charmed One heals the pain of the past, present and future. As punishment for your disrespect of the feminine, you will bear the greatest of all pain, one of such magnitude your mind will shatter into dust for all eternity!’
Screaming in triumph, Angarad pulled a bottle from her sleeve and drank its contents in one gulp.
‘No!’ shouted Cordelia, lunging forward, but she knew it was too late because she recognised the small vial. It contained their purest, most deadly hemlock.
Angarad was dead before she hit the floor and as screams and howls of terror filled the air, hail poured from the huge cloud, bouncing off the ground with icy viciousness. Cordelia cradled her friend’s head in her lap and allowed her tears to fall.