Magdalen Rising (26 page)

My next two tosses were as flawless as my first, and each succeeding time I managed to toss the caber further. I was making love to the crowd, as all the best performers do, and the caber, to borrow Queen Maeve's metaphors, was my joy stick, my magic wand.

Then my turn was over, and the crowd that had been eating out of my hand got completely out of hand. Or should I say the crowd began to handle me? Manhandle me, literally. A whole flock of huge, hairy hands lifted me, as if I weighed nothing, and began to parade me around the field. Those who could not touch me cried out to me.

“Marry me, you flame-tipped beauty.”

“No, marry me, radiant spark, sun-borne, I'll make you a queen.”

“Moon-breasted maiden, whose every breath brightens the night, marry me.”

“Marry only me. I will give you a chariot made of pure gold and a pair of horses, black as night, with silver manes and tails.”

Being Celts, they began with words, each one extolling my loveliness more extravagantly than the last; every unfounded offer of riches more fantastical than the one before it. Being Celts, their verbiage was a preliminary to battle; language was an exquisite, artful hors d'oeuvre before the main course: heads rolling on the grass. Hurly anyone?

“I'll tell you what,” the contest official took charge. “You can toss the caber for her and may the best man win.”

His suggestion met with cheers.

“I'll toss for her. She's finer than Gallic wine any day.”

“Sweeter to the tongue and hotter in the blood.”

All this male ardor was very flattering, but in a moment it became frightening. Disputes broke out over whether to start the contest over or to count the tosses already made. The afternoon was hot, and most of the men had been drinking steadily since dawn. Even more than they professed to want me, these warriors wanted a fight. Fists were starting to swing; nose and jaw bones to splinter and crack. It was only a matter of moments before the swords came out. All the while, two men still held me aloft, with one hand each, the other being used to fight off the men who were grabbing for me.

Now in case you've been wondering what first century Celts wore under their tunics, the answer is: nothing. So I couldn't help it, any more than a rose can refuse its scent, that a strong whiff of estrogen wafted out over the heads of the crowd swirling through air already thick with testosterone. What is more, through no fault of my own, the moon nearing the full. So I was wide open and glistening, if anyone cared to look, and clearly they did.

I shouted and shouted for the men to stop, to no effect, which probably comes as no surprise to you. To me it was a shock. Here I was being compared to any number of goddesses and pledged the riches of any number of kingdoms, while no one paid the slightest attention to my words or my wishes. Coveted prizes, I learned that day, have no authority and no control, not even—especially not—over their own persons. In fact, they are no longer persons. You might say I was having an object lesson—with myself as the object. And I objected to it. Strenuously.

I cast about for a way to escape. Only the sky presented itself, empty and blue and silent over the chaotic din on the ground. I closed my eyes for a moment and willed my body to remember its dove shape. If only I could tumble free into the sky, spattering those ridiculous warrior hairdos with guano. Nothing happened. But when I opened my eyes again I saw that something was about to.

A corridor opened in the crowd as warriors sprang apart. Striding down this corridor came Foxface in his spanking white druid robes, oak leaves crowning his head, his tunic gathered at the waist with a gold belt. He made an impressive sight. He was not looking at me as he parted the crowd, leaving silence in his wake, but I feared I was his object, too. The prospect of being handed over to his authority was more daunting than the danger of being carried off by some ham-fisted champion.

Shit. If this was rescue, who needed trouble?

As Foxface came to a halt before them, the two men who had hold of my haunches lowered me to my doom. Still Foxface did not look at me. I know, because although I had an unprecedented urge to hang my head, I resisted it and stared straight at him.

“Gentlemen,” he said—or the P-Celtic equivalent. Gentlemen is a bit of an oxymoron, especially as a description of Celtic warriors. “I would not willingly interrupt your sport. But this rash maiden is under the jurisdiction of the College of druids at Mona, being a first-year student and a dedicate. Therefore, I act
in loco parentis”
—(or the P-Celtic equivalent) —“when I inform you that she is not marriageable.”

“Ergo,” someone from the crowd volunteered, “there is no point in fighting to the death over her?”

“My point precisely,” said Foxface.

“It's a bloody waste of fine woman flesh,” someone muttered.

“How is that?” demanded Foxface. “Speak up, man.”

“A woman like that,” said the man who had offered me a golden chariot, “belongs in the bed and on the battlefield. She's not made for laboring under the stone and cramming her head full of verses. Meaning no disrespect to you, Lovernios,” he added. I realized that as a military strategist Foxface must be well known among warriors.

“This young woman has secured admission to the College, which means she must have brains.” Foxface sounded a little dubious. “Consider this, all of you. Her beauty—”

Beauty? Not that I had ever doubted that I was gorgeous, but that Foxface should note it interested me.

“Her beauty will last but a few seasons. Her strength in battle perhaps a few more. But if she submits her mind to the discipline of study—”

Big if.

“—her mind may be made a treasure house. Long after her breasts have shriveled and her thighs grown slack—”

Really, did he have to make me sound like an overcooked chicken?

“—the treasures of her mind may be poured out to benefit the Combrogos for generations to come.”

“Oh sure,” someone said. “We know you druids have it all over us warriors—long life, health, and wealth, while we spend our short lives fighting and fucking our brains out, such brains as we have. Now you're taking the best women, too. It's not fair.”

“We are not taking them,” said Foxface sharply. “They come to us seeking learning. If they are worthy enough—”

“Or wealthy enough,” someone grumbled.

“—we accept them as students. As to the respective privileges and merits of druids and warriors, each calling is rewarding if it is our own and we answer it. Pardon this intrusion. Let the games continue.” To me he said, “Come.”

Without looking at me, he turned and began to walk. I came to heel, feeling like a bad little dog back in its master's control. I was somewhat heartened by the subdued cheers that followed me from the field. But the fear in my stomach was worse than any indigestion I'd ever had. I felt as though I'd swallowed a study stone. Whole. Still, I held my head high and smiled and waved as I went. I saw poor Branwen biting her nails down to the cuticles on my behalf. At the edge of the field, looking up and away from Foxface's rigid back and taut neck, I spied Esus in the branches of a silver fir where he must have had a fine view of the whole event. He caught my eye and winked. Clearly he did not share Branwen's concern for me. As a matter of fact, he was laughing. The whole tree shook with his laughter. And suddenly—after all the strain how could I possibly help it?—I burst into laughter myself.

Foxface rounded on me. “You dare to laugh!” he hissed. “Your brazen behavior put at risk the lives of some of the finest champions in the Holy Isles and Gaul.”

I sobered right up. “I didn't mean to” was all I could think of to say.

Foxface took a step closer to me. I had all I could do to keep from backing away. His right hand closed on my left arm. The ferocity of his grip sent shock waves through my whole body.

“Come along,” he growled.

Indeed I had little choice. He kept his grip on me and hustled me further from the crowds to a secluded spot under some beech trees. He released my arm abruptly. For a moment all I could think was that it felt good to be out of the sun. My arm, though sore, felt light and springy now that he'd let it go. I put my right hand over the bruised spot; my arm sheltering my breasts. The V-neck I'd cut in my tunic had ripped. My breasts were all but exposed, not to mention streaked with dirt and sweat and reddened where the caber had rested. I could hardly have been more at a disadvantage, but I managed a defiant stare.

To my consternation, I found Foxface staring back at me in what appeared to be utter confusion. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow. He looked the way you feel when you wake from a nightmare and haven't yet realized you were dreaming. Then he recovered himself, as I had seen him do before, his face reordering itself into austere lines, his fox eyes sharp and watchful.

“Have you anything to say for yourself, young woman?” He was back in arch high school principal mode.

“What should I say?” At least
my
character is consistent.

“Do you care to explain your extraordinary behavior?”

“To me it was not extraordinary. At home I always toss the caber on
Lughnasad.”

“And where is home?”

Wait a minute. Hadn't we been through this before? Could he possibly not remember catching me out of bounds in the Dark Grove? I was a bit miffed to think that I might be so unmemorable, but I wasn't stupid enough to remind him of the incident. And I wasn't about to risk pronouncing the words Tir na mBan either.

“Oh, just a little island. You wouldn't know it.”

It looked for a moment as though his strange panic might come back, but then it passed.

“And women there participate in caber tossing?”

“Yes,” I said, not elaborating.

“Perhaps you may be excused on the grounds of naivete. It is not, however, an excuse you can use for long. Personally, I am a proponent of absolute equality between the sexes. I don't approve of separate rites or schools or dwelling places. It may be that women ought to be included in all contests of skill and strength. You did not, however, see any other women waiting to toss the caber today.”

“No,” I conceded.

“In your naivete, you may not understand: warriors are simple men, rather like dogs, loyal and useful when well-trained, but easily distracted. Throw a bone into their midst, and they will forget discipline and fight. No rabbit would have been as stupid as you were today.”

Stupid?

“In addition—”

There was more?

“You did not see any of your fellow students, male or female, participating.”

“No,” I had to admit.

“It is unseemly behavior for a dedicate. Everyone has a function. Bards, ovates, and druids are not the muscle of the tribes, they are the mind. We and our students must conduct ourselves accordingly. What you did today, young woman, was both thoughtless and mindless.”

He was not angry anymore, I sensed. He was enjoying himself. I didn't like it. I preferred his rage, antagonism, that tonic edge of fear between us. Now he was being merely pompous. He might have been lecturing anyone. I had become generic student instead of myself, Maeve Rhuad, whose name he appeared to have forgotten.

“It was not mindless,” I contradicted him boldly. “I thought very carefully, from choosing the caber to the moment of each toss. You've obviously never tossed a caber if you think it's just a matter of muscle. You have to think with your whole body. And my body—” Here I dropped my arm and displayed my breasts full force. “—happens to be very intelligent!”

I succeeded in throwing him off balance. For an instant his face was as naked as my breasts. My own daring excited me. I did not know what would happen next, and I did not care. I wanted to get to the heart of the matter. Why did he frighten me so much? Why did I frighten him? With my whole body, I dared him to bare himself. It was a big mistake.

His face closed like a fist. With his eyes looking just past me, he spoke through clenched teeth.

“Go back to Caer Leb and stay there. Don't let me find you on the fields again.”

I made no move.

“Go!”

“But I am to recite a tale tonight. And I want to go to arbitrations. King Bran is making a case.”

“What do you know of King Bran's affairs?” he demanded.

“I am his foster daughter,” I said proudly.

Foxface frowned. Bran was a wealthy, powerful king, active in the resistance to Roman incursions. Until that moment, I thought Bran had adopted me purely out of affection for my mothers and because I was Branwen's friend, as no doubt he had. Perhaps he also wanted to make sure I had a male protector, something it had never occurred to me I would need—until now.

“Go clean yourself up,” Foxface said curtly.

This time he did not wait for me to comply. Without another word, he stalked past me back towards the playing fields, leaving me standing under the attentive trees.