Chapter 26
Cordelia sat beside Aganippus on their ornate chairs.
Carved from oak, each was decorated with a myriad of animal designs, patterns and the traditional triskele.
They reminded Cordelia of the chair her father had used for important gatherings but these were more impressive.
They were dressed in regal finery and Cordelia had been surprised when shortly before they took their places in the great hall, Aganippus had presented her with a heavy torc of twisted golden strands studded with amethysts and a matching circlet for her head.
‘You are queen,’ he had said as he placed the crown on her extravagantly braided hair, ‘your father must remember your position.’
The great hall shimmered with light from a multitude of lamps, spotlessly clean and decorated with the finest hangings, rugs and throws loaned from villagers throughout the oppidum.
The ranks of people who lined the long room in welcome were equally as impressive, dressed in an array of colours in fine fabrics with no workaday homespun clothing on show.
This was a display of power as well as a diplomatic greeting.
Cordelia burst with pride at the reception Aganippus had insisted upon for the official entry of her father.
‘He’s a great man,’ Aganippus had said. ‘Many have heard tales of his leadership; thankfully, fewer stories of his madness have circulated and he is still viewed with deference.’
The heartbeat thud of approaching drums caused a ripple of anticipation in the hall and, as the huge double doors were thrown open, pipes sounded, heralding the arrival of a visiting monarch.
Lagon entered first, the emissary of peace bearing a sword with a garnet-encrusted handle, sheathed in a bejewelled scabbard.
He held the blade flat across his outstretched hands in a gesture of fealty rather than as an act of aggression.
Behind him were two more men from the Golden Dobvnni who Cordelia recognised as being loyal soldiers to her father in past skirmishes and walking alone, his eye covered in a golden patch, was Lear Bladudsunu.
He was dressed in the robes supplied by Cordelia and Aganippus, as were his entourage.
After Lagon’s visit, Cordelia had insisted her father be treated with dignity and respect.
She had discussed her thoughts with Aganippus and he had agreed it was imperative to send money, food, clothes and horses to restore her father to his proper position.
An official invitation was issued to Lear Bladudsunu, King of Britain and Chieftain of the Golden Dobvnni, and plans were made for his royal visit.
Lagon knelt before Aganippus, who indicated for Buel to take the sword offered as a gift.
No one but the inner circle around Cordelia and Aganippus knew they had given the sword to Lagon.
He moved aside and the two warriors knelt fealty before leaving a cloak of supple leather as another token of their respect, then Lear moved into position.
Cordelia felt her heart clench; this close she could see the man beneath the expensive clothes and it was a shock.
Her father always so strong, with powerful shoulders and muscular arms, was reduced to half his size.
His arms and hands were wrinkled and wizened, his cheeks sunken and his mouth lined from the pain and suffering he had endured.
‘King Aganippus of Gallia, Queen Cordelia of Gallia, I, King Lear Bladudsunu, come in a gesture of friendship, peace and to request your help,’ he said and Cordelia wiped away a tear of sadness at the quaver in his once booming voice.
‘We welcome you to our home,’ said Aganippus. ‘We offer you and your men the protection of beini, the age-old custom of hospitality and safety.’
He stood, helping the older man to a chair on his left, and as Lear settled on a vast cushion, his face grey with exhaustion, Buel led the traditional cheers of welcome. He and Becuma stepped forward, organising the arrival of the food and the arrangement of the long tables.
Cordelia leapt from her seat and hurried through the milling people to her father, her legs trembling, unsure if he had recognised her, wondering whether he continued to bear her ill will.
‘Fa?’ she said in a soft voice.
Lear turned and his lips trembled. ‘Cordelia,’ he said, ‘my youngest daughter, my shaman. Can you ever forgive me for the pain I have caused you?’
Cordelia waved to Guardid, a small, dark-haired woman, who stood at the back of the hall in the shadows, an excited child in her arms.
‘Of course, Fa,’ she said. ‘You were not yourself, but perhaps the path you forced me on to was the correct one. There is someone you should meet.’
She took the baby from Guardid and placed her on Lear’s lap.
‘This is your granddaughter, Nest Aganippusdohtor.’
‘My granddaughter?’ he murmured, looking down at the smiling child. ‘A daughter…’
His voice tailed away and Cordelia stiffened, ready to snatch her little girl to safety in case her father’s malady took control of his mind again.
‘Daughters are precious,’ Lear continued, stroking the baby’s cheek, ‘they are the strength and heart of this life. How was I foolish enough to lose my own daughters?’
Guardid stepped forward as Lear passed the child to Cordelia.
‘I have failed you and your sisters,’ he said. ‘I failed Angarad. You deserved better.’
‘Your injury took you from us but your senses have returned,’ she said.
‘Perhaps,’ he replied, ‘but at least you remain unchanged. Your sisters are no longer what they once were, they have become cold, cruel women and it is my fault.’
‘The path could have been far darker, Fa.’
He narrowed his one eye at her. ‘Did you see this?’ he asked.
‘What transpired was not as devastating as the potential,’ she said. ‘Angarad explained that often we are shown the worst possible outcome. With this knowledge, we are able to repair the damage before it happens.’
‘Did you see an end to the curse? Did it die with Angarad?’
‘Her death was the beginning, she sealed the curse with her final breath,’ said Cordelia. ‘At present, there is no end in sight.’
‘Cursed,’ he lamented. ‘The fault was mine, I violated her vows. Her Druid magic was strong and she used it in revenge for my stupidity. Tell me, what else did you see?’
‘It no longer matters, Fa,’ she said.
‘Tell me what you saw,’ he begged, his withered hand shooting out with unexpected speed and determination, clasping her wrist in a desperate, vice-like grip.
She winced, struggling to release herself.
‘All that matters is that you are well and we shall restore you to your kingdom.’
‘Even if it means fighting your sisters?’
‘If we must,’ she replied and he loosened his grip, a sad smile on his lips, ‘but let us hope this will be unnecessary.’
‘I shall be king,’ he said in a low voice, as though he was speaking to himself, ‘but will it be a hollow crown? Will any bow fealty to me again after my cruel transgressions? I do not deserve their compassion or forgiveness.’
Before Cordelia could reply, Aganippus called for Lear to join him in the antechamber while the food was laid out. No one else knew Locrinus was secreted there, with Becuma checking the injuries inflicted by Maglaurus’s commands.
Cordelia stared down at the red marks on her wrist left by her father and saw them, the silver lines, swirling up her skin, around the patterns of the triskele on her inner arms.
An unexpected shiver ran down her spine and she remembered Gloigin’s words as they had cleared the temple, ‘This was always the intention of the goddesses, for you to be a wife, a mother, a warrior… You must prepare for what is to come and do not be afraid when you are asked for help.’
The image of her father wielding a sword over her prone body flashed across her mind and she felt a sting in the words of her friend’s prophecy. How much help would the goddess desire in repayment for the gifts she had bestowed upon her? Unable to help herself, Cordelia shuddered in fear.
* * *
The following night, Cordelia and Becuma stood inside the cavern of the dead, waiting for the singing moon to rise.
It was Alban Elued, the autumn equinox, and Spaden, who had visited the settlement many times before on his travels, had told them of the magical light that suffused the inner cavern when the full moon struck the walls.
‘This cavern worships both birth and death,’ he had explained to Cordelia and Becuma not long after their arrival as he had led them through the winding tunnels.
‘This gallery’ – he indicated the lavishly decorated pillars – ‘is aligned to face the southerly moonrise of the Alban Elued, while this opening draws the light of the Alban Arthuran sunrise – the point of midwinter where Yule is celebrated and the darkness begins its slow retreat. This white pillar of quartz is the point where the lines of the sun and moon cross, it is our most sacred place.’
‘Do you recognise the spring and summer rites?’ Becuma had asked.
‘We do, but they are welcomed in the stone circle to the west of the oppidum,’ he had said.
‘This is the tomb of the ancestors and they prefer the shadowy days of the autumn and winter, its silver light echoes the realm of Dubnos, the underworld, where they dwell. The stone circle is a place of light, a celebration of Albios, the home of our benevolent goddesses and gods, while we mortals scurry hither and thither in this mortal plane of Bitu. These are sacred places and we must be mindful of their power.’
‘Are you sure this is wise?’ asked Becuma now as she gazed around.
‘Yes,’ Cordelia replied. ‘At the feast of welcome, a shade overwhelmed my father and his words changed from those of sorrow and respect to destruction and war. We must know if he speaks true when he requests our armies to save the Golden Dobvnni or whether he is possessed by the evil of his madness.’
‘It’s been many moons since you walked in the Everywhen,’ said Becuma.