Highland Raven (9 page)

A party of five men rode into the coven
. Their rough and brawny appearance made it seem as though we were being invaded by Vikings. But they were the bards of the north, handsome men more built for warfare than music. Each man carried an instrument strapped to his back; some carried a battle axe or a sword as well.

Epona rushed to greet them while Uald helped with their horses.

“Cerridwen?” Epona called.

I crossed the yard to join her.

“This is Bergen,” Epona said, introducing me to a fair-haired giant with a harp strapped across his back, “He is the chief bard amongst this group.” Bergen’s long locks were braided at the temples. He also wore braids in his beard. He had swirling tattoos around his forehead and down his arms.

“My Lord,” I said with a curtsey.

“My my, a Lady amongst your flock, Epona?” he said with a smile.

She smiled in reply but said nothing.

Gwendelofar joined us. “He-hello,” she stammered meekly.

Bergen smiled at her. “Good morrow to you, Mistress. Men, where are your manners? Come meet Epona’s new sisters,” he called to the others, introducing us to Brant, Ivar, Frey, and Sigurd in turn.

The bards bowed to us.

“Ladies, we shall have music tonight!” Brant, a dark-haired bard with a beard that stretched to his belly said as he strummed his lute. “Praise be to the gods!”

The bard introduced as Sigurd, a tall man with fiery red hair and deep blue eyes, laughed. “If you’re not passed out by nightfall!” He then smiled toward Uald and leaned in toward Gwendelofar and me, “I’d recite you fine ladies a romantic ballad, but Uald finds them dull,” he said teasingly.

“Love poetry
is
dull,” Uald replied, just barely hiding her smile, then headed off to the barn with the horses. “Sing about battle,” she called with a laugh.

“Are you sure she isn’t a raven goddess?” Frey, who had a drum strapped on his back, asked Epona.

It was my turn to laugh.

“Perhaps these ladies are more romantically-minded?” Ivar, a slim man whose bald head was covered in tattoos, said to Gwendelofar and me.

Gwendelofar smiled kindly at Ivar then turned to Sigurd. “I would like to hear,”’ she said but blushed and looked down, her long lashes resting on her cheeks. Beltane was truly the holiday for maidens. Gwendelofar looked lovelier than ever; her skin was pale but her cheeks were as rosy as apples.

“You see, there is always one romantic in the crowd,” Sigurd yelled to Uald who waved dismissively, shaking her head. “Of course, My Lady, as you wish” he told Gwendelofar.

I grinned at them.

“Come,” Epona called. She led everyone to the benches around the fire and soon Brant and Bergen were playing a tune. Aridmis and Druanne, who wouldn’t meet my eye, joined us. Aridmis began pouring ale and honey mead for our guest. The sounds of the lute and harp chimed through the forest in harmony.

I headed to the stables to help Uald.

“Lend you a hand?” I called.

“Well, that sliced one will be no good to me for a day or so, but I’ll take the other,” she replied with a laugh. “I’ve just filled the water trough. Mind leading them over?”

Taking the reins of the bards’ horses, I led the motley crew to the water. They drank quickly while they whinnied back and forth with the mares in the pen. Kelpie was not pleased about the competition. He neighed loudly and kicked at the fence in outrage. After all, he’d just become king of his little herd.

Uald laughed. “Bunch of horny lads, just like those men over there. They
are
good men, Corb—Cerridwen, but they are men all the same,” she said as she came to stand beside me, watching the horses drink. Uald leaned against the barn wall, gazed at the bards, then leaned in close to me. “Epona won’t say a word, but Elaine would probably curse me if I didn’t remind you that
your
maidenhead comes with a price…set by the King. Here we are free, but I know it’s not the same for you as it wasn’t with Elaine. But your life is your own. Choose your own path.”

I nodded. I knew her words were true. I had to enter whatever bridal contract was drawn up for me as a maiden. When the Great Mother had ruled the land, women had ruled their wombs, but today this was not so. I felt indignant. If I chanced upon a man I wanted, I would let no such rules stop me.

“You know, I saw you once when you were just a little girl,” Uald continued. “Elaine met me at the brook to show you to me. What a darling thing you were, pretty raven-headed child. She loved you so much. You were wicked though. You damned near drowned just trying to splash her. Boite’s daughter. A wild little pixie.” She paused and looked at me. “Ah, what the hell, come on, let’s go get drunk,” she said with a laugh. Taking me by the arm, Uald led me across the yard and filled us tankards of ale. We sat down by the fire and drank.

Soon Aridmis joined the men in song. They began to recite the tale of Emer and Cú Chulainn. I cast a glance around the circle. Emer. It had been my mother’s name. How odd she would find me there.

I knew the story well. In my mind, it had become one with the tale of my own father and mother:

In the land of Ulster across the sea

The Lady Emer possessed great beauty

Adored by the hero Cú Chulainn

Emer would wife this man of legend

Forgall sent brave Cú Chulainn to Alba

To Skye and the lady of Shadows

Mighty Cú Chulainn would prove his prowess

If he would win the fair Emer

Sword, shield, and axe did the Lady teach

But still Forgall denied Cú Chulainn’s reach

So brave Cú Chulainn wrung Emer from her father’s side

To wed her and bed her and make her a bride

Fair Emer, whose love never faltered

And Cú Chulainn whose love never died

Forever they live in the land of the young

In bliss

Aridmis’ voice was sweet and rung like a bell. Her words echoed across the hills. The legend of Emer soaked into the land, and I wondered, not for the first time, about my family across the sea. To my Irish family, I was nothing more than a bastard. But whose bastard was I? On what throne on the Isle of the Mighty did my maternal grandfather sit? Whose Irish blood ran in my veins? All my life I was told, and I knew from my father, that I was the kin of Kenneth MacAlpin, the great hero of Alba, the man who had quelled the Picts, united the clans, a High King of Scotland. I was a MacAlpin. But to what other family did I belong? Why did no one ever speak of it? Maybe, my mother and father both gone, no one knew anymore. The thought saddened me.

Between playing songs, the men talked of their travels and gave us news of the outside world. Through them I learned that King Malcolm was busy fighting King Magnus of Norway from his shores and was at odds with Lord Thorfinn over the ownership of the northern-most provinces of Scotland. To the south, English King Cnut was fighting amongst his own people and lesser lords who had risen against him. Unsurprisingly, the affairs of men were the same as always.

Bride poured ale for the men and laughed as they flirted teasingly with her.

“You lads would be surprised,” she told them. “I am, after all, named Bride. Why do you think they gave the name of the loveliest maidens to me? When I was their age,” she said, motioning to Gwendelofar and me, “you would have lined up to woo me.”

“I’ll still form a line!” Brant exclaimed.

“Can you even see your cock over that belly?” Bride asked, causing everyone to burst out laughing, Bergen spitting his ale out his nose.

The day wore on and by the time the second party of men arrived, everyone was quite drunk, myself included.

“One of the last bands of Druids,” Aridmis said when Epona went to greet them.

I raised an eyebrow at her. “One of?”

“There are more…small, secret groups. Their order is all but done, but when they can, they still guide kings…and queens,” she said, casting a glance at me.

I watched them dismount, my eyes resting on the youngest of them, a man maybe five years older than myself. He was tall, nicely built, and his brownish-red hair simmered in the light of the fire. Moments later I found myself on my feet, joining Epona to meet them. I felt almost like some force had snared me and pulled me—to him.

“Ah, Cerridwen, this is Balor. He is an Arch Druid,” Epona introduced. Balor was a thin, bald-headed man who wore long gray robes. His eyes matched their stormy color.

Balor looked closely at me. “My Lady,” he said with sincerity.

I understood then that he knew who I was, who I really was, but I knew my secret would be safe with such a man. I had never been in the presence of an Arch Druid before. The enormity of his title struck me deeply. “An honor,” I said.

Balor nodded kindly toward me.

“These are Balor’s students. Calean, I know,” Epona said, introducing me to a young man with long, straight black hair. She turned to the young, handsome druid. “And Lord Banquo, isn’t it?” Epona asked.

“I’ll leave the titles to my father. Here, I’m just a servant of the ancient ones,” Banquo said, motioning to the small tattoo of a stag’s head on his brow. Such designs were frowned upon by the priests of the White Christ, but the worshippers of the old ways would know the symbol. A man could only receive the mark of the stag after being initiated in the rites of Cernunnos, the Lord of the Forest. “Just Banquo, please,” he told Epona, but I couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were on me.

I smiled at him as I eyed him over. His muscular arms were tattooed with the swirling Pictish designs of animals, trees, leaves, and birds. Banquo’s skin was tanned from hours in the sun. His brown hair, touched lightly with red, curled softly around his face. He was the most handsome man I had even seen…save, perhaps, the black-haired man in my visions.

Banquo’s dark eyes met mine. He winked playfully at me.

I looked away, surprised to feel my cheeks redden.

“Cerridwen, perhaps Banquo would like some wine?” Epona suggested then left us, escorting Balor and Calean to the other side of the fire.

“Please,” I said to Banquo, motioning to a bench nearby. I turned, reached for the jug of wine, but felt Banquo’s hand on mine.

“Please, My Lady, allow me,” he said, taking the bottle from my hand. “I hope you take no offense, but my mother would never forgive me if I let a daughter of the goddess serve me.”

“Your mother is very wise,” I said with a nervous laugh. My hands shook. I felt like a fool.

“So…Cerridwen?” Banquo asked as he handed me the drink. “Named for the Welsh cauldron goddess?” I noticed then that he had stags’ heads tattooed on his hands as well, the antlers extended out onto his fingers. He must have participated in heavy earth magic to earn such marks.

“Cerridwen, yes, amongst other names,” I said with a sly grin. I realized my voice was slurring somewhat.

“Ah, yes, Cerridwen would be your goddess name. Now,” he said, leaning in toward me as he sipped his wine, “tell me why you look so familiar. Have we met before?”

I looked closely at him. His eyes were dark brown, the color of acorns in fall. He had a strong, square jaw and just the hint of a beard. He was so striking. I would remember such a fine man visiting Alister’s estate, but no man so lovely had ever graced those halls. And yet, I recognized him. The ale and the magic of Beltane had my mind lost in a haze. “No, we haven’t, but you look familiar to me too,” I told him. My stomach fluttered.

Banquo smiled, his cheeks dimpling. “Perhaps…Inverness?”

I shook my head. “I’ve never been there.”

“Maybe we were friends in another life,” Banquo said and took my hands. “Let me see. Your callouses are new, your fingernails are unbroken, such lovely, soft, sweet hands. Are you from a royal house?”

“Aren’t you, Lord Banquo?” I smiled at him and squeezed his hands.

“I suppose I am,” he said with a laugh.

“Do you suppose that’s why Epona left us alone?” I said in a mock-suspicious whisper.

“Shall we talk affairs of state?” he asked with a sarcastic deepening of his voice. “Which successor do you favor, Lady? Duncan, Thorfinn, or Macbeth? Or do you promote Moray? Shall we plot the line of succession or shall we discuss the life in service of spirit? Which do you prefer?” He paused. His voice calmed. “Let’s start with how you find this life?”

His boldness surprised me. It caught me off guard to hear my cousins’ names bandied about so freely. Banquo didn’t know who I was, how important the next successor was to the course of my life. The thought that, in this place, it mattered so little, amused me. I chuckled. “Let the Wyrds sort out the kingdom. The castle was a prison. This life is far more preferable.”

Banquo lifted his cup. “I’ll drink to that,” he said, taking a swallow. He gazed into his cup. “The castle life…I agree, a prison…a brothel…or worse. My father liked his whores more than his children. The castle is no place for me either.”

“How terrible for you.”

“It’s worse for my mother,” he said with a frown. His soft features hardened a bit, and I saw the pain behind his eyes.