A Circle of Celebrations: The Complete Edition (18 page)

“Ah, well,” she said, with an exaggerated sigh that heaved her generous bosom up and down. “It was but a moment’s notion, and would solve so many problems all at once. The girl’s been after me for a love philter, but I won’t make her one.”

“For him?” Rhodri asked in astonishment.

“For him,” Bronwen said, dimpling.

“Well, there’s no understanding taste, is there?”

“None at all, or would I still fancy you?” She glanced around, and spotted the abused mistletoe against the wall of the dyer’s shop. She picked it up and offered it to Rhodri. He held his hands up, away from the plant. It had lost a good deal of its luster.

“It’s of no use to the grove now that it has touched the ground.” He hesitated, with regret. She would understand the mysteries well, but he was oath-bound not to reveal them to an outsider from the Druidic rites. “I can tell you no more than that.”

She tucked it into the pouch at her belt. “Ah, waste not, want not. The gods be with you, Rhodri.”

“And with you, Mistress Bronwen.”

O O O

The strings of his lap harp jangled under his fingertips. Rhodri had pulled his backless wooden stool just far enough from the fire to protect the instrument from the heat. The smoke, as stirred up as his emotions, swirled around the low room instead of lifting toward the smoke hole in the slate-tiled roof. He rose, lit a cluster of dried leaves from the blaze, and held it near the ceiling until the fumes followed it, like sheep after their wether.

His fellow druids, eleven in number, sat around the fire pit, their woolen hoods thrown back thanks to the warmth. Master Gryffydd sat in the best chair, an oak seat carved in the Roman fashion, though with claws for feet and fantastic beasts painted and incised on every inch of wood in the Celtic manner of ornamentation. His long gray beard lay upon his breast like a grand pectoral of silver. Llew served all of them wine, but he kept his eye especially upon the level in the chief druid’s cup. They were there to discuss the coming Solstice ritual, but no one could keep off the topic of the priest’s assault upon Rhodri.

“So,” Gryffydd asked after the bard had told his tale, “what manner of recompense do you require for the brutal attack Nudd made upon you? Will you ask that he be brought before the tribunal? His highness the king will visit here a few days after the mass of the Christ so the people can drink his health. We have other matters to which we shall need to draw his attention. He struck you in front of witnesses.”

Rhodri pulled his small harp into his lap once more, and plucked a threnody from the thin horsehair strings. The plaintive sound echoed his thoughts.

“My bruises are healing, thanks to Mistress Bronwen,” the bard said, fighting down his immediate impulse to demand retribution. If he ever wanted to take the next step and be admitted to the inner grove of full druids, he had to let such things pass. He took a deep breath. “I’m more offended on behalf of the mistletoe. He cast down some of our most sacred plant. Its power was wasted.”

“Aye,” said old Einar, his winter-white brows jutting out over a clifflike nose. “That lack of respect must be noted.”

The others chimed in their agreement. Gryffydd held up his hand.

“It has been noted. But to rebalance his crime against the mistletoe, and against you as well, he must feel the power of it.”

“In what way, master?” Rhodri asked, concerned that such rebalancing was outside his ability.

“In whatever way fate permits. It need not be force where force was offered. There are so many means of exacting divine justice. The gods love laughter as much as they value reverence. Otherwise, why would they have structured our bodies in such haphazard fashion? When one beholds a stag, majesty and power are evident in the way it springs, the way it carries its head, the antlers that show the masculine anima. Look at men, poor things that we are. We come in all sizes and shapes, and our bodies do not reflect the wisdom or strength of our souls. If your body matched your will and nobility, you would have the stature of a giant, for refusing to call the priest into tribunal.”

“But, master,” Einar protested, “what about the mistletoe?”

Gryffydd smiled, his long, gray mustache lifting at the corners of his mouth. “If the mistletoe was offended, then it must be allowed to take its own vengeance upon the priest, if it will. Otherwise, none of us will raise our hand against him. Are we in agreement?” He turned his keen gaze upon them all until they nodded. “Very well. Let us discuss the coming solstice, when we welcome the return of the sun. Then let us discuss our ritual for the night. It will be a rare and beautiful confluence, the moon full on the very night of the solstice. All the gods will be among us. It will be a night of great power, and thanks to our brother Rhodri’s sharp eyes, we shall have mistletoe born of the oak and the lightning to bless us in the coming seasons.”

Rhodri let out his breath slowly. He was satisfied, and Gryffydd had seen him exercise restraint. The turn of the year toward growing light was a time to let go of old grudges and move toward purity and reason.

O O O

That Saturday night, under the full moon, the druids in their white woolen robes and crowns of holly leaves sacrificed the white bull of prophecy beneath the lightning-struck oak tree. The portents for the year ahead that they read in his blood were better than any of them dared hope. The harvests would be rich, the flocks were destined to increase well, and no loss was foreseen among the children that would be born to the women of the village.

The youngest of the druid caste, Tamsin, scaled the mighty tree and cut away all the gold stems and leaves and white berries of the gift from the gods as Rhodri in his clear tenor voice sang the prayers. The plant was bursting with power, shooting miniature green lightning bolts in every direction. Gryffydd looked decades younger in their light. He led the chanting as all twelve initiates held their right hands over the plants, asking for the gods’ blessings on the mistletoe. Those of the outer grove peered over their shoulders at the marvel. The shining berries gleamed like the full moon overhead.

“Let protection, wisdom, fertility, prosperity, and health be the gifts the gods give to us this year,” the chief druid intoned.

“So mote it be,” the entire grove responded.

“And let the energy we raise here tonight be within us, now and forever.” Gryffydd drew in a deep breath. The others followed suit. Rhodri felt as though he was buoyed up by the moonlight, the smell of bull’s blood, and the lightning. When the senior druid spoke again, his voice was full of power. “We will share this gift with all of the people of Llyn. Such is our vow.”

“So mote it be,” the whole grove responded. Rhodri thought that he could hear other voices in the distance: female voices, chanting the same words. He smiled to himself. Bronwen and her circle were celebrating the sabbat, too.

The morning following the solstice celebration, Rhodri still felt as though he was walking upon clouds rimmed with fire. In a pouch of purest white cloth, he had sprigs of the mistletoe, still expelling tiny bolts of green fire. He and his brothers of the grove were abroad to distribute the blessing to everyone. Llew carried a basket with a ball of twine and hooks to hang the gifts up above the door of every house.

The townsfolk knew what he was about. Most of them met him at the door as he approached.

“Gods’ grace upon you, Rhodri Tailor,” Mistress Norda said.

“Gods be with you, too,” Rhodri replied. He offered a branch of mistletoe to her. “Grant you and your family prosperity and fertility throughout this year.”

“The gods be thanked,” Norda said. She had three sons but desperately wanted a daughter. “My husband is getting firewood. Would you affix it over the door?” She smiled broadly. “I want to greet him properly when he returns.”

“My pleasure,” Rhodri said. Llew unspooled two lengths of string and handed them over one at a time. As Rhodri tied the branch over the low lintel, he felt the bolts of power flow into the framework of the house, settling into the earth and surrounding the small building with the strength of oak.

“Rhodri!” He heard footsteps squelching through the mud and turned to see Bronwen hurrying toward him. “Come quick. Nudd has gone mad.”

Rhodri followed her through the narrow lane that passed between the butcher’s house and the candlemaker’s.

“He came to visit this morning, no doubt to chide me for missing prayers, as if I was going to be abroad at dawn after last night, and tore your gift of mistletoe from my doorpost. I only know what happened when I heard the plant cry out.”

Indeed, it seemed as though the priest had lost his senses. He ran from house to house, his black skirts flying, grabbing at the mistletoe springs and throwing them to the ground. A monk picked up the discarded branches. On the steps of the small, slate-roofed church, the monks were throwing the mistletoe sprigs on a bonfire. As the flames touched them, they expelled one final burst of brilliant green force, then died. Rhodri felt the loss. It filled him with rage so fierce that he did not recognize himself. They insulted his faith and left the villagers open to ill luck and bad spirits!

“This must be stopped,” he said. “Llew, with me!” He took a thin log from beside the door of the nearest house and stalked toward the priest. The boy grabbed a stick and hurried after him.

“That’s not the way,” Bronwen said, stepping between. She planted her hands on his chest He could feel their heat through his heavy cloak. Her deep blue eyes bored into his. “Please, as you love me, do not strike him down! It will go ill for all. Think of your soul! Any ill you do him will rebound upon you threefold.”

Rhodri pulled in a deep breath. He knew the witches’ rede. The sacred law was as true for the druids as for them. He dropped the log. It fell to the wet stones with a clatter. Llew took both pieces of wood and set them back on the pile. “Then, what?”

“This is the season for new beginnings,” she said. “Let us give Nudd something to rejoice in.”

“Bring
him
joy?” Rhodri asked. “How?”

She glanced around. “There!”

The priest was at the edge of the open square opposite the headman’s house, which had not yet been gifted. The commotion, of villagers protesting the destruction of the mistletoe and the religious haranguing them, had drawn the curiosity of the chief’s house. The door unlatched, but instead of the headman, his yellow-haired daughter peered out. She saw the priest, and her lovely face filled with confusion.

“Her?”

“Her.”

“But what about your own vow? ‘An it harm none, do what thou wilt’?”

“This will not harm them. It will do them both good. Do you not trust your gods to do what’s right? Well, then.”

Bronwen bustled to young Wynedd. Rhodri followed, uncertainty warring with hope in his heart.

“What is he doing, Mistress?” the girl asked, in bewilderment, watching the priest storming from house to house.

The witch threw an arm around her shoulders. “Come inside with me, girl.” She beamed at the headman, who sat at his table with his morning ale and a round loaf of white wheaten bread. The long room was warm and cozy. Its walls were lined with hand-wrought tapestries, and the air smelled of savory cooking. Master Huw’s mother, seated by the hearth, her back straight in spite of her ancient years, nodded to Bronwen, sister to sister. Rhodri’s long-held guess that Mistress Mhairi was also of the coven was fairly well confirmed. Llew came in shyly and stood as close to the fire as he dared.

“Good day to you, Mistress Bronwen, Master Bard, boy,” Master Huw said heartily. “Are you here to give us the blessing?

“I am,” Rhodri said. “But the protection this year may take a turn you have not seen before. Have you noted the chaos going on out in the street?”

“Ach, that madman?” Huw said. He shook his head impatiently. “He was a bright, normal lad. I wish he had kept the wisdom in his head and farmed sheep with his father instead of taking the joy out of everyone else’s life.”

Bronwen bent to look Wynedd in the eyes. “You have held that wild fellow out there in esteem for some time, have you not?”

The girl’s round cheeks reddened. She looked shy to speak before the bard and her father, but her feelings came out all in a rush.

“I do, Mistress Bronwen!”

“Well, then! Let me and Master Rhodri make for you a symbol of hope and fertility for the coming year. We will make this special. Take the gift from your bag, master bard.”

Rhodri drew the finest sprig from among the boughs of mistletoe and held it between them. As if it knew what they had planned for it, it erupted in a cascade of tiny green lightnings that lit up the long, dim room. Rhodri willed all power and protection he could summon from sky and root into the golden plant. Bronwen held her hands above and below the bough, without touching it.

“I call earth and water,” she said, and warm, red power flowed from her palms into the mistletoe. “Let the power of the gods bestow health, wealth, and joy upon this household on this joyous day of the winter solstice.”

“I call air and fire,” Rhodri said, smiling at Bronwen. He felt the bond form between them as it once had been. “Let the power of the gods bestow wisdom, fertility, and protection upon this household on this joyous day when the sun returns to the land.” The green lightning shot out in all directions, then arrowed inward. Instead of warring, as he feared, the two magics combined, evoking images in colored fire: a rose, a holly wreath, a crown of bright jewels, a sword, and a cup. The images died away as Rhodri sealed the spell. The plant then looked as ordinary as any he had placed around the village. Only those with the sight would be able to see the two forces within suffusing every cell of the mistletoe. He placed it over the lintel just inside the door.

“Thank you, wise … bard, and gracious lady,” Huw said. He reached into his belt pouch and put silver into their hands, the value of a gold coin apiece.

Heavy pounding interrupted them. The wooden door flew open, letting in a gust of freezing air.

“Master Huw!” Father Nudd intoned. His black skirts swirled with the wind. His black hood flapped on his shoulders. The long face could not have looked more forbidding or disapproving. “May I enter?”