“You are right, I know it, but still . . .” He pulled her to him roughly, but his voice was very gentle as he said, “It’s Beltane. Lie with me tonight, and your family will be glad enough to let us marry.”
Her mouth was too young to be so bitter. “Perhaps you would like to explain nicely to my father how it happened? Or to yours.”
He said, “Bendeigid is not my father.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “Not that it makes any difference. But whether he is your father or not, Ardanos is mine, and he would strangle me and take a bullwhip to you. It is done, whether I like it or not. I am now a pledged virgin of the Sacred Grove and you are a Druid’s son – well, at least you have been raised as one – and you are the son of a priestess in any case,” she added quickly. “Cynric, you said it yourself. I can ask to be released at the end of three years. And then —”
“And then,” he promised, “I will take you away to the other end of the earth if that is what I have to do.”
“But you said you ought not to encumber yourself with wife or children,” she protested, for the sake of hearing him say, “I don’t care what I said; I want you.”
Then he added, “Sit here beside me, then; let us watch the fires. It may be for the last time. Or for three years, which,” he added despondently, “is almost the same thing.”
The Arch-Druid of Britain stood at the gateway to the Forest House, watching the last light fade from the sky. From the hilltop he could hear the sounds of many voices, their clamor faded by distance to a music like a lake full of migrating birds, and beneath the other sounds, the deep heartbeat of the drums. Soon they would be lighting the Beltane fires.
Though time was passing, Ardanos felt curiously unwilling to move. That morning he had been in Deva, listening to the Roman Prefect. Tonight he would have to hear the complaints of the people the Romans ruled. There was no way he could satisfy all of them. The best he could hope for was to maintain an uneasy balance until – what, really, was he waiting for? — for all the old wounds to heal?
You will be dead before that happens, old man! he told himself. And Lhiannon too. He sighed, and saw that the first star had pricked through the darkening sky.
“The Lady is ready,” said a soft voice behind him. Ardanos turned and saw one of the maidens, Miellyn, he thought, holding open the door.
Lhiannon’s chamber was lit by hanging lamps of bronze. In their flickering light he saw her already slumped in her chair, Caillean standing watchfully by her side. For a moment the younger priestess met his gaze defiantly, then she stepped aside.
“She has taken the sacred herbs,” Caillean said in a neutral tone.
Ardanos nodded. He was well aware of the girl’s hostility, but as long as Caillean observed the forms of respect, he cared little what she thought of him. It was enough that she was devoted to Lhiannon.
Still frowning, Caillean left them alone. At such a time, when the High Priestess was already beneath the shadow of the Goddess she served, even her bodyguard might not be present here.
“Lhiannon,” he said softly, and saw a tremor run through her thin frame. “Can you hear me?” There was a long silence.
“I always hear you . . .” the High Priestess said at last.
“You know that I would not be doing this, my dear,” he said, almost to himself, “if there were any other way. But I have learned that there is more trouble over the levies. Bendeigid’s son-in-law Rhodri went after the men they took from the Druid’s clan and attacked the soldiers who were guarding them. There was a fight and Rhodri was captured.
“Macellius has managed to keep his identity a secret, but there is no way he can save him. The fool was taken in arms against Rome. If that word gets out there surely will be a rebellion. You must counsel peace, my dear.” His voice dropped to a croon. “Let there be peace in the land — the Goddess wills it. Rome’s time will come, but not yet, and not through war. The people must help one another and be patient – tell them, Lady. Let them pray for peace to the gods.”