In fact, no one had used that tub in quite some time, Rhiannon surmised, evident by a thick layer of dust inside. She longed to fill it and bathe, because, in truth, except for a few sponge baths, she’d not even done so on the night of her nuptials. She’d donned that beautiful wedding dress with a week’s worth of grime on her person. And so, it seemed, she might yet get the chance, because when everyone claimed a room, they conveniently left the lord’s chamber for the “newly wedded couple.”
Regardless, Rhiannon was quite sure it wasn’t entirely charitable; the stench of the room was difficult to bear. Therefore, after she finished placing a few more wards about the inner bailey, she mounted the stairs again to begin repairing the room as best she could.
Really, considering what they were about to face, it was perhaps of little consequence, but some small part of her longed to spend at least one night with her husband that was… special—not that she would live to remember it, mind you, but it was important to her that she at least have one moment of joy to cherish.
Indeed, she still had cause to be vexed with Cael, but the time for petty grievances was over. He was here, with her, and he had, indeed, confessed his love.
Sadly, they were not even promised one evening together, much less the morrow. Therefore, if they were still alive and breathing after the Golden Hour—which she knew intuitively would be their greatest hour of peril—she intended to make the most of her time with Cael.
At any rate, ever since her conversation with Marcella about the particulars of congress, she very much longed to… explore.
To that end, she found a lovely, but scandalously diaphanous shift hidden away in a wooden coffer that appeared as though it might be part of a bride’s trousseau. The contents were musty, but everything inside the chest was of the utmost quality—all women’s garments.
There was also a small armoire in the room with the remnants of a man’s wardrobe. Most of what it once contained was gone. However, within it she discovered a single sherte, one pair of very pointy shoes, and a rich, blue velvet surcoat that was heavy with dust.
Such as it was, there were no other signs of a woman’s touch in these quarters. The coffer, she surmised, must have been a gift in wait for a bride—very convenient, she decided, considering that she herself was a newly wedded bride.
In fact, she might have presumed this one was meant for the lord’s sister, since Cael had said she was recently wed, but the garments were not at all what Rhiannon would suppose a brother would provide for a sister.
For example: The chainse was as sheer as a woodland mist, and there were gowns inside that trousseau that revealed more than was prudent, or even acceptable.
To be sure, there were some women at court who dressed so outrageously, but not even Morwen had dared.
Rhiannon hadn’t any interest in those, but she did intend to make use of the sherte, exchanging it for the smelly tunic Marcella had given her. She no longer needed the masking philter, and though it was a little too big, she could easily tuck the sherte into her breeches, at least until she could wash the tunic she was given. She couldn’t very well wear some silly gown whilst wielding a sword, nor could she use the ringmail without some protection for her skin.
It was easy to imagine why Marcella wore such garb. No gown was suitable for warfare. She could easily trip over the hem and injure herself, and Rhiannon didn’t intend to unintentionally aid her mother’s cause. They would need every sword arm they had to bear, even if Rhiannon’s was less than able. But at least she had her magik, which was growing stronger and stronger by the hour.
She found a set of clean bedsheets in a storeroom, and after changing the bedding, she put the delicate chainse on the bed, turning her attention to the remainder of the room.
By the time she was finished cleaning, the sun was already lowering to the west—a beautiful view from the lord’s window, where she could peruse the outer bailey and the parklands beyond.
For the time being, the tree line in the distance revealed no sign of movement and neither was there any sign of Morwen’s birds, except for that one. For this, Rhiannon breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps they would be spared tonight—she hoped. She had a strong intuition for which there were no promises. Still, though she felt a terrible ramping of tensions in her soul, the moment right now was serene. The sky was beautiful, with shades of lavender, peach and pink, and she sighed wistfully, considering the beauty of the moment. It was no wonder these were called the Golden Hours. It was a time of limitless possibility if only one had the will to open their hearts. Here and now it was impossible to believe that somewhere out there her mother was preparing to butcher them. And yet, Rhiannon knew it was true. There was no way that Morwen would let this be; she was like a wounded beast no longer caged.
Hic est Draco…
Here be the dragon.
Only now she truly understood what that meant—the inscription writ upon her bracelets…
In their purest forms, the Sylphkind were winged creatures, like dragons, both beautiful and terrifying at once. For love of these famed creatures, the kings of Wales had all named themselves the Dragon’s Disciples, and it was for the Sylphkind they’d decorated their banners.
Hic est Draco…
Rhiannon herself was a Pendragon, named for Uther, whose pennants he stole from the true Dragon Lord. Anglesey was said to be the cradle of Wales. Ynys Dywyll, as her people once called it—the Dark Isle. And Môn Mam Cymru—Mother of Wales. Rhiannon had never been there, but she’d been told much about this sister isle to Avalon. It was said to be riddled with menhirs—the standing stones of the gods. These days it was Owain Gwynedd who raised the dragon pennant, but Rhiannon knew by the way he spoke of it that her husband had bartered his fealty for the payment of this county in Wales. He longed to have and hold the Dark Isle.
Hic est Draco…
If, indeed, Morwen was Cerridwen, then she was the true mother of Wales, and all its people—Cael included—were honor-bound to rise to her defense.
Was this, then, the crux of Marcella’s story?
Was this her dire warning?
Was it from Cael and not her sisters that she must be wary of betrayal? She thought about that as she filled the tub—an easy enough endeavor with her strengthening magik. There was so much moisture on the ground after last night’s deluge, even after a full day in the sun, that it took little effort to gather the moisture into droplets and the droplets into a lovely shower. She stood inside the tub, naked as the day she was born, allowing herself to be showered by the gifts of the Mother, feeling anew the thrill of magik hum through her veins and the gentle downpour of cleansing water rushing over her face.
This was what she was made for!
These were the moments when she felt whole!
It could be, in truth, that her husband was still her enemy, but for this one night alone, he would be her lover. This, she knew in her woman’s heart. For better or worse, tonight… they would consummate their vows.
32
Cael froze, stunned by the vision that greeted him upon entering the lord’s chamber—the sight both startling and surreal. Never in his wildest dreams could he have conjured an image so fine as the one he saw before him.
Rhiannon.
But Rhiannon as he had never witnessed her before. Gloriously made, unashamed, reveling in the pagan magik that fed her soul.