The Guinevere's Tale Trilogy

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Summer 495

On Beltane morning, all the daughters of Avalon—young and old—shivered in the chill air as night slowly gave way to dawn. As we traversed the tender grass carpeting the plains between the confluence of the white and red springs, our feet were washed in fresh dew, a silent absolution from the earth herself.

We reached the summit of the Tor in silence and joined hands, feeling the subtle shift of energy as light broke over the horizon. This was a sacred day, one of the most holy of all holidays celebrated by our people. Today was the beginning of summer, the day honoring the union of the Goddess and God and the fertility of all the land.

On Beltane night, every woman was said to be the Goddess incarnate and every man the God. Their s****l union reflected that of the two aspects of Deity, and any child born of such a union was considered blessed by the gods. However, in rare years when the Sacred Marriage was performed, those terms increased ninefold for the couple who invoked the God and Goddess into their bodies in ritual, as well as for their offspring. Today one of us would be chosen, set apart by the Lady to act in her service.

Mona’s clear voice broke the silence in a high, worshipful note as she saluted the rising sun in song, speaking the language of our ancestors. We responded reverently and fell to our knees in unison. Mirroring the actions of the others, I ran my palms across the grass and placed them on my face.

“Through the tears of the earth, may the Goddess grant me health and long youth,” I quietly prayed, echoing the words whispered by each priestess as she washed.

I glanced over in time to catch Morgan shrinking away as Grainne swiped at her hair, trying to get it wet or dirty—I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t help but smile. We were all vowed priestesses now, but in many ways we were still children, still prone to the same mischief as the day we came to the isle.

Rising, I turned to face the circle of standing stones that surrounded us, towering twice my height in some places. Somewhere down below, deep in the forest, Aggrivane and the other Druids hunted. I had heard the low blast of their horn as we gathered at the springs. They had their own sacred rites, their own duties particular to this day and to the ceremony that would be enacted tonight. Under the shelter of the oaks, ash, and elm, they fought to determine who would be the Sacred King.

When I closed my eyes and listened, I thought I could hear them chanting and the occasional cry of one being tested. I tried to center myself and send forth my mind to see their progress, but my efforts were interrupted as Viviane and Argante made their way to the center of the circle.

Argante opened her arms wide and addressed us in a tone of authority. “The Druids have chosen the men from whom will be selected the Sacred King according to the ancient tests. So too have we chosen the one who shall take up the mantle of the Goddess and perform the role of the Virgin Queen.” She inclined her head to the copper-haired priestess next to me. “Morgan, the responsibility has fallen to you. Though this is a great honor, it comes at a heavy price. Do you agree to sacrifice your maidenhead in service to the Great Mother and to do so with utmost humility?”

Morgan nodded silently, barely able to contain her excitement.

“So be it then. Come with me.” Argante gestured for Morgan to follow her out of the circle. “I will prepare you for the ritual.”

Morgan began to follow but then stopped. Slowly, she turned toward me, a triumphant smirk on her face. “Look who is the victor now,” she whispered in my ear. “Lineage or no, it seems I have won our little competition after all. While I am taking part in the most sacred of our rituals with the God himself, you will have to be content whoring away your virginity with a common man.” She shrugged. “But perhaps that is how it should be. The Goddess never errs, you know.”

This, then, was her ultimate revenge—taking the top honor, one that would not be bestowed again, at least not to our generation. I wanted to kill her in that moment, to wrap my hands around her neck or strangle her with the braided rope of her own hair. But Grainne, sensing my tension, held my arms as Morgan gave me one last gloating sneer and swaggered away down the hillside.

I forced my mind back to the present and made myself breathe deeply. “Sweet Mother, give me strength,” I muttered, trying to calm the poisonous brew of hatred and jealousy boiling in my belly.

As I fought for control, the first ray of sunlight peaked over the crest of Pen Hill. It shone directly on the altar stone only twice a year—today, the festival of life, and on Samhain, the day of death. Viviane had placed a polished crystal at an angle on the stone and it captured the light, serving as a natural lens to ignite the tinder beneath. From this tiny fire, she lit a series of small white tapers, which were presented to each of the remaining virgins.

As I held mine, I suddenly realized what was to come tonight—the full significance of the candle. It was permission to take a lover, to engage fully in the festival. This flame, lit not by human hands but by the sun, the symbol of the God, was the flame of passion which drew him to the Goddess. Its heat seemed to travel from my fingertips, up my arm, and through my veins, warming my blood. I felt my cheeks flush and my breasts tingle. An unfamiliar stirring below my belly told me I was ready to experience the full extent of the mystery this night would bring.

As we traipsed through the forest, we sang ancient festival songs and others made up on the spot, gathering wands and flowers, weaving them into garlands and wreaths, bedecking one another and any sacred tree, stream, or well we could find. Some of the Druids had begun drinking already, so to them, everything was sacred and deserving of a floral crown.

“They say the Sacred King is quite a strapping man,” Mona said above the boisterous laughter. “Good thing I wasn’t chosen for his queen or he’d have crushed my delicate frame.” She swept a hand down the length of her slender body to emphasize her point.

“You’ll have no such problem from Connor,” teased one of the Druids, poking a smaller man in the ribs. “Wiry as a stork, he is.”

Connor grabbed the teasing Druid around the neck playfully and pretended to bash in his head.

“Guinevere, did you hear Aggrivane took second?” Grainne yelled over her shoulder to me, never loosening her grip on the man at her side.

“He did?” That meant Aggrivane was the Sacred King’s champion, and thus allowed to choose his mate from among the virgin priestesses. It was not as holy an office as the Sacred King, but an honor nonetheless. Suddenly, I was afraid. What if he wanted someone else? Worse yet—what if I, in my innocence, was a disappointment to him? All of my earlier confidence drained away, and I began to wonder if attending the ritual was such a good idea.

“Where is he anyway?” asked a man whose name I did not know. “It is unlike any son of Lothian to miss a celebration.”

We continued on, the boys harassing the girls like children and making jokes that on any other day would have been considered lewd. From time to time, a couple lingered behind to steal a few kisses or inspect a grove or meadow and claim it as their own for later in the night.

We were nearing the apple orchards when we crossed paths with another group, Aggrivane among them. He smiled when he saw me and motioned me off the path into a small stand of trees. I followed in breathless anticipation, palms sweaty, heart thumping.

When we were alone, he drew me toward him. I ran my fingers through the thick mass of dark curls at the base of his neck and smiled, breathing in his scent. It took me a moment to notice there was something in his right hand. A golden arrow with a crystal tip shimmered as the wind waved the branches overhead. It was his prize as second.

“I have made my choice,” he whispered into my hair, kissing the top of my head.

“And I, mine.” I melted into his arms, reveling in a state of pure bliss.

An hour later, the sun was high overhead. The wind had stilled, holding its breath in imitation of the crowd.

At the center of the clearing, the two opponents stood, facing one another on the axis of a great circle drawn in the dirt. On one side stood the morning’s victor, a large man who had been transformed into the Oak King, naked save for a loincloth the color of tree bark and the oak leaves twined in his yellow hair. Tiny painted vines and leaves wound their way around his sinuous flesh, tracing the contours of toned muscle in his arms, legs, and torso. His face had been painted green, so his identity was unknown to all but a select few.

Across from him, sweating in fur as white as snow, was the Holly King, a crown of prickly green leaves and bright red berries upon his brow. Merlin, being the last man to hold the office of Sacred King, fulfilled this role. Just as each year light conquered darkness, so too would this newcomer have to defeat him in order to claim the favor of the Goddess and restore the balance of power in the heavens and on the earth.

As I stood at the edge of the circle, Aggrivane’s arms protectively encircling me, I caught a whiff of roasting flesh from the stag sacrificed by the Druids, our food at the feast that would follow. I shivered, suddenly aware of the pungent reminder that although this battle was mock, it served a great significance in the cycle of life and death.

Argante stood in the circle between the two men, cloaked in silver from head to toe, the goddess of the stars who directed the wheel of time and decreed all things. She attentively watched the midday sky, waiting for the precise moment between day and night when all things hung in perfect balance.

Looking at her now, I could see no trace of the illness that had kept her confined to her hut the last several weeks. Worried that the ritual might further damage Argante’s health, Viviane had asked to take her place, but Argante insisted on fulfilling the role that was her due as Lady of the Lake.

Soundlessly, she gave the signal and glided out of the circle. The two men began to shift, testing one another as in a real duel. As prescribed by the ancient ritual, each man was armed only with a staff made of the wood whose spirit he embodied. Neither was allowed to cross his half of the circle, for it represented the light and dark halves of the year, which twice annually stood in equilibrium but never overlapped.

The combatants poked at one another with their staffs until they reached the center of the circle. Then their branches crossed, crackling and popping as each tried to overtake the other. The sound brought back memories of a forgotten life—a time in my youth when the young boys and I would practice fencing with blunted wooden swords under my mother’s direction.

They danced along the center line, bobbing and weaving to avoid each other’s swings, while trying to find the weakness in the other, the opportunity to overpower. It did not take long for the stalwart Oak King to topple the lithe Holly King, though Merlin was a much better fighter than I had anticipated. He had a speed and skill belied by his size. Still, that was not of much consequence when he lay supine on the ground, the Oak King’s foot resting lightly on his throat.

“The Holly King has died! The Oak King is reborn! The light ascends once again!”

The cry echoed through the isle as the victor helped Merlin to his feet. The time for ritual drama was at an end; the time for celebration had begun.

In the valley at the foot of the Tor, hundreds of bonfires lit up the night, surrounded by circles of merry priestesses in pale blue ritual robes, Druids in white and royal blue, and nobles loyal to the ancient ways spanning every color in between. Fire was everywhere. It lit up the night and ignited the spirits of the revelers. A handful of men and women made their way through the crowd, twirling staffs with blazing tips, while some brave souls were rolling fire wheels down the hillside into the lake.

Everywhere drums echoed the heartbeat of the earth, whipping us into an ecstasy of wild abandon. Laughter and lively conversation mingled with smoke and the intoxicating scent of ritual herbs, a potion of joy carried on the warm night breeze. A makeshift musical troupe of harpists, pipers, drummers, and singers gathered to play traditional songs of the twelve ancient tribes. Some of the more intoxicated revelers were singing along, while the more sober conversed, told off-color stories, or continued the luck-bestowing tradition of jumping over the smoldering embers from the fire that had cooked the ritual meal.

In the center of the valley was the largest fire, built of the nine sacred woods. Around it, the Archdruid, the Lady of the Lake, Viviane, Morgan, and the Sacred King sat, breaking their ritual fast on the flesh of the fallen stag. The shadows in which he sat made it difficult for me to see the Sacred King clearly, but I could tell that he was now dressed in animal pelts and his face was painted with sacred markings.

While I was watching them, grateful to have claimed Aggrivane as my own but still a tiny bit jealous of Morgan, the drummers shifted to a lively tune. Aggrivane tossed off his cloak and grabbed my hand, easily whisking me to my feet. I laughed and stumbled as he pulled me toward the center of the festivities and we joined a train of dancers whirling between the bonfires. I lifted my skirts in my right hand and struggled to hold on to his with my left as we spun between the bonfires in a dizzying dance of freedom. Faces swirled past—Mona, Grainne, Rowena, Druids I had come to recognize but whose names I did not know—each one seemed more joyous than the last. Finally, the song came to an end, and Aggrivane scooped me up, breathless, in his arms.

“Look.” He pointed at the main fire. “The Sacred Marriage is about to begin.”

The drums ended on a sharp beat, and silence settled over the valley. The high note of a bell rang out, and the Virgin Queen was led forward by the Lady of the Lake. I would not have guessed it to be Morgan had I not already known. Her face was hidden from view by a gauzy white veil, but her hair flowed softly over her shoulders, blazing brighter than the bonfires, and upon her head rested a crown of spring flowers. A flowing white skirt concealed her thighs from view, but her breasts remained bare, revealing that each of her n*****s and her navel had been adorned with paint in the shape of a small blue spiral. After a few instructive words from Argante, she stood barefoot before her consort.

She bestowed her blessing upon the Sacred King, anointing him with the blood of the stag and investing him with the sacred sword of Avalon, the first of the treasures to be returned to the outside world, according to the Goddess’s decree. He, in turn, gave her the lingering kiss of knowing, which signaled the start of the most sacred part of the evening.

The couple was blocked from my sight as Merlin and Argante stood in front of them, conducting the rest of the ritual in secret. I could only guess that what was taking place was a magnified version of the ritual the spectators were about to perform in pairs. After the sacred couple was led off to the area reserved for their union, other pairs followed suit, fanning off to secluded groves, caves, and other private areas across the island.

Aggrivane led me by the hand down through the orchard along a winding path, his boots making soft indentations in the dirt in front of me. The apple blossoms breathed their perfume into the air as we passed. My heartbeat quickened with each step.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Aggrivane chuckled but did not reply.

He led me to a small copse of dense oak trees. Their base formed a nearly perfect circle, roots intertwining deep in the ground beneath. A carpet of soft moss blanketed the base, nurtured by the shade of the branches above. Moonlight filtered down through the leaves, throwing glittering shadows before us.

The grove would have been breathtaking alone, but it had been decorated for the feast. Strings of white hawthorn blossoms hung from the lowest branches overhead, and a rainbow of wildflower petals were strewn among the moss and ferns, making the grove appear much like a faerie queen’s bridal bower.

“I found this place not long after we arrived to await the firedrake,” Aggrivane explained. “It has been my own personal paradise. I had no way of knowing if you would say yes, but I wanted to make it special, just in case.” He scratched the back of his neck nervously as he spoke.

“It is beautiful.” I could say no more, emotion choking my voice. That he would do something so thoughtful reassured me that whatever passed between us tonight would be something much greater than lust incited by the festival.

Aggrivane c****d his head to the side as the tempo of the far-off drums shifted. They were softer now, but somehow more insistent. He removed his cloak and laid it on the ground before pulling me to him and cupping my cheek in his hand. I was suddenly paralyzed with nerves, but as I gazed in to his eyes, I knew I was safe.

The thrum of ritual became like a dance as we moved ever closer, drawn in by the steady musical pounding and the pulsing of blood in our veins. His fingertips sent shivers up my spine as he ran them up the length of my body, from hips to shoulders, bringing the fabric of my dress along with them. I reached out a shaking hand to untie his belt and remove his clothing, aided by his more knowledgeable hands.

For a moment, we simply stood, marveling at the sight of one another. Then Aggrivane took a small step toward me, closing the gap between us. Gently, he brushed his lips against my skin in the sacred triune kiss, lightly touching the crescent on my brow, pausing to taste my lips, and trailing down to my heart.

I ran my fingers through his hair, every nerve begging him to remain there, to do what he willed. But mindful of my sovereignty, he looked up, wide eyes seeking permission to continue. I smiled softly and nodded, sending a private prayer to the Goddess to guide me as I trod unknown paths.

His lips closed on my breast, and I arched my back in unexpected pleasure, grateful for the circle of his arms around my hips to keep me upright. As if sensing my thoughts, Aggrivane slowly eased me to the ground, where his cloak waited to enfold me.

He eased himself down on top of me, slowly tracing his way down my body with a litany of kisses and delicate caresses, each one increasing my longing. As the heat of his skin seeped into mine, I lost all sense of space and time, until the boundaries between us melted away.

A quick stab of pain followed as the veil within me was rent and we became one with the heavens and the earth. He was the velvet black of midnight enfolding and embracing me. I was the silver moon that called the tides of our joining and lit up his darkness. Together, we feverishly fought against the coming dawn, only too aware it would tear us apart forever.

Far too soon, the pale light of morning began to erase the night. We clung to each other, shivering, unwilling to do what must be done. The ecstasy of the festival had long since faded, and with it, the surety of divine expansiveness. I keenly felt the insignificance of my humanity, how small and helpless I was in the face of the cruel fate that befell all couples of the festival fires.

In the distance, the low moan of the Druids’ horn broke the silence.

“They are calling me,” Aggrivane whispered, lips grazing my cheek.

“Calling us to part.” I said what he did not. Then I kissed him slowly, imparting my unspoken emotions in that single act.

The horn sounded a second time, and Aggrivane reluctantly pulled away.

“Do you see that?” He pointed toward the eastern sky, where a single star still glowed with the fierce brilliance of midnight. “That’s the morning star, named by the Greeks for the goddess of love. When you see it, think of me and I will think of you.”

“No.” I shook my head, wondering how many other lovers were now making that same pledge. “That star is the herald of the dawn that now takes you from me. I don’t wish to relive this pain, nor should you. I will think of you on the rising of its counterpart, the one that signals the coming darkness, for it was under that starry veil our love was conceived and consummated.”

He held my hands between his and kissed them. “My love, most of the year they are one and the same star. Just as we cannot think of one another without remembering our parting, neither can they be separated. But as you will it, so shall it be. I will think of you when the stars emerge from their daylight retreat.”

With one last kiss, he was gone and I was alone in my despair, certain this moment was the worst I would ever experience.