Shadows at Stonewylde (48 page)

She’d almost fainted with ecstasy when he’d found her out one day in the Hall laundry where she worked, and told her solemnly that not only would he be happy to partner her for her Rite if she wished, but had also chosen her to be his May Queen. Rowan had replayed that moment so often in her mind, remembering how she’d been hanging out sheets on the great drying racks at the time in one of the hot basements of the Hall where fires and a boiler roared. She’d been sweating in the heat, her sleeves rolled up and her uniform unbuttoned a little. She’d looked a mess, she thought, her long brown hair tied back in a glossy ponytail with stray curly tendrils stuck to her perspiring cheeks and forehead. She was flushed and damp and the sight of Magus striding through the maze of hanging white sheets calling her name had made her cheeks even rosier. He’d looked down at her, towering over her despite her own height, his dark eyes gleaming and flushed himself from the heat of the place. He’d been wearing his riding clothes and smelt of horse and fresh air.

Rowan closed her eyes and relaxed further back in her chair as she relived the memory for the ten thousandth time. Magus had smiled at her, that enigmatic smile that made the lines around his mouth deepen and showed his white teeth. Then he’d asked her so eloquently if she’d partner him, as if there may be a question of her having to think about her reply. He always did this apparently, never wanting to force a girl who wasn’t eager. She’d gasped with joy and beamed at him, wiping her damp forehead with the back of her hand and stammering her delighted acceptance of the great honour. He’d bowed slightly, told her the honour would be his, and that she’d be taught the rituals she needed to know for the part of May Queen as well as being measured up for her costume, headdress and robes.

‘As for the other side of it, Rowan – we can make that up as we go along. I can promise you it’ll be a memorable experience. It’s slightly more involved as you’ll be the May Queen and I’ll be the Green Man so it won’t just be the simple initiation rites in the Stone Circle. We’ll need to go into the woods for most of the night, for this is a fecundity ritual as well as being your initiation. Can you cope with that, do you think? It can be quite an ordeal and you’ll be exhausted in the morning. I know I always am.’

She’d assured him it would be fine, completely melting inside at the thought of spending the whole night with him in the woods. She’d heard tales from other girls – that he was gentle at first and very skilful, making the experience so pleasurable and unforgettable. How lucky was she? Not only to be initiated by Magus for her Rite of Adulthood but to be his May Queen too! She’d have him all to herself for the night of Beltane Eve in the woods and be by his side all day during Beltane itself, with perhaps that night as well if she proved herself worthy of it. She couldn’t wait to tell her parents – how proud they’d be that their daughter had been chosen for the honour. And as for all her friends …

Magus had smiled at her eagerness, stooping to kiss her lightly on the lips. But Rowan had swayed slightly, her lips apart with longing, and before she knew it he was kissing her long and hard, one strong arm holding her upright as her knees went weak whilst the other hand found her full breast and caressed her with a perfect, knowing touch. On and on it went, his masculinity and passion overwhelming until she was breathless with desire. She was more than ready to lie down on the stone floor of the hot basement, with the white sheets billowing around them, and give herself to him there and then. Fortunately he had more control and reluctantly pulled away. She knew he was very aroused and his dark eyes had practically set her alight the way they burned with that black fire.

‘Well, Rowan,’ he’d chuckled a little shakily, ‘it promises to be a Beltane I’ll never forget. Save yourself for me, won’t you? No sneaking off before then with a Village boy.’

‘Oh no, sir!’ she’d breathed, her chest still rising and falling fast and a flush spreading up over the creamy skin of her throat. ‘It’s only you I want, nor ever will.’

He’d laughed at this.

‘I doubt that very much. Once I’ve given you a taste for it you’ll be favouring the whole Village I’m sure, a beautiful goddess like you. You were made for love with curves like those.’

He’d watched her with admiration as she straightened her clothing and did up a few of the buttons that had burst open under his eager hands. He’d tenderly smoothed the damp wispy curls off her face and kissed her once more, gently this time.

‘Tonight I’ll dream of you lying amongst the bluebells,’ he murmured.

Then he was gone and she was alone amongst the white sheets and the drying racks.

Rowan roused herself from her reverie, not wanting to start Beltane right now. She’d save that memory for later. As always when reliving her perfect moments with Magus, she came out of it feeling depressed and bitter. It had been so short-lived – Beltane itself and a few more times after that during the month of May when she’d managed to be in the right place at the right time. But by the end of May it was over for Magus had moved on to another for the Blue Moon at the end of the month – Miranda.

Rowan felt the familiar tide of jealousy flood through her. Why would he prefer a woman in her thirties, and an Outsider at that, to a ripe young girl like her? She knew she’d pleased him – she’d worn herself out pleasing him and she knew it had been good because he’d come back for more, which he rarely did. But then he’d passed her over for Miranda whom he’d continued to favour that summer, although Rowan knew that he’d been with others too including the young doctor up at the Hall. A man like her Magus needed many women and there was no shortage of offers. Rowan’s rapture at discovering she was carrying Magus’ baby – his first child, or so everyone had thought then, since Buzz – had been marred by the fact that a month later, Miranda had also fallen pregnant. The news had only added fuel to her resentment of the red-haired Outsider.

And then of course by the autumn he was sniffing around that skinny girl Sylvie. The gossip was that he was totally obsessed with her in a way he’d never, ever been with a Stonewylde girl, except perhaps Maizie, some said, several years before. He’d practically locked Sylvie up with him in his rooms throughout December and Rowan, heavily pregnant at the time, had wanted to die. She could’ve accepted him acting normally and having a different woman every Moon Fullness and every festival. But she couldn’t bear to think of him constantly with one girl and besotted with her. It twisted Rowan’s heart and made her baby leap inside her … and then at the Solstice, her beloved Magus had died. Yul and Sylvie – they were the ones to blame. Rowan had never forgiven them and she never would.

When her baby was born just after Imbolc she’d hoped desperately for a boy just like his father. But the tiny girl was beautiful and had Magus’ eyes. Rowan had named her Faun in memory of the night of Beltane Eve spent in the green woods with her very own Green Man, when they’d stumbled on a faun lying camouflaged amongst the undergrowth. Magus had talked to it softly and it had stayed there, mesmerised by his deep voice, and she’d stroked its woolly hide and looked into its velvet eyes. So the baby was named Faun, but even that had been spoiled by the early birth a week later of Miranda’s baby, Rufus. Once again Rowan was hideously jealous, especially as Miranda had a son who also had Magus’ dark eyes. But Rowan had been remarkably adept at hiding her bitter jealousy of Sylvie, Miranda and Rufus, and her hatred of Yul. She was a proud girl and kept her feelings to herself, which was just as well. To this day she’d never shown anyone truly how she felt. But her feelings of adoration for Magus were as strong today as they’d been that Beltane almost fourteen years ago; nobody else could ever compare to him.

Faun opened her eyes and gazed sleepily at her mother, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire. Rowan was struck again by her daughter’s beauty and ached with love for her.

‘Hello, sleepy-head. Did you have a good day at school?’

‘No!’ said Faun petulantly, frowning at her mother. ‘It was horrible.’

‘Why? I thought you loved Hall School.’

‘It’s Leveret – she makes me sick!’

‘Ah yes, the Maiden.’

‘
Why
was she chosen, Mother? I thought I was to be Bright Maiden this year? You said—’

‘No, my darling girl, I never said you’d be Maiden. I said ‘twas possible but you’re still too young really. It’s usually an older girl, fourteen or fifteen, so maybe next year.’

‘But it’s not fair! I’m much, much prettier than her – everyone says so. She’s ugly and skinny with that horrible wild black hair and that nasty pointed little face. Her teeth are like a rat’s and her eyes like a cat’s. She’ll be an awful Maiden.’

‘I know. I can’t understand why they chose her either.’

Rowan had a very good idea why but she kept it to herself. She was fed up with Yul and Sylvie’s family being chosen for all the honours whilst her lovely girl – Magus’ daughter – was overlooked. Everyone seemed to forget that Faun was a Hallchild but that seemed to count for nothing any more, not like in the old days when she’d have had special privileges.

Rowan’s mother called in for the table to be laid ready for supper and Rowan automatically stood up to do the task. Faun was never expected to do any of the work and the three adults were happy to run around after her and spoil her. Faun watched her mother spreading out the tablecloth and fetching a jug of water and glasses.

‘Can’t you say something to Yul about it, Mother?’

‘No, darling, it wouldn’t do any good.’

‘But it’s not fair! I’d be the best Bright Maiden and I was so hoping they’d choose me. Wouldn’t I be the best?’

‘Of course you would. Nobody’s as beautiful as you, Faun – nobody. Don’t be upset, please. I can’t bear for you to be upset. Just think of how lovely you’ll look in your Imbolc dress, joining in the Dance of the Maidens. And you can choose a fine young partner to dance with and be your escort now you’re at Hall School.’

‘Yes, but I want Kestrel and he’s the Archer of Imbolc again. So Leveret will have him as well as being the Maiden, and even if I am Maiden next year then I won’t have him because he’ll be too old to be the Archer. I can’t stand it!’

‘Think of your new dress, darling. Granny’s spent hours making it beautiful for you. Have you seen all the special embroidery she’s done? You’ll look so lovely and I’ll curl your hair if you like.’

‘Will you? Really curly so it falls in ringlets?’

‘If that’s what you want, my darling. We’ll be up half the night putting in the rags but it’ll be worth it.’

‘Do you think Kestrel will notice me even though he’s partnering Leveret?’

‘Of course he will! All the boys’ll notice you but especially Kestrel. You’ll be the most beautiful girl there and everyone’ll say what a terrible mistake they made choosing Leveret.’

Faun giggled at this and sat down at the table so her grandmother could serve her a generous helping of beef stew, making sure she had all the tastiest pieces of meat and the softest end of the bread. Nothing was too good for their Faun.

It was just over a week until Imbolc and preparations were well under way. This festival was held largely in the Village itself, using the Green and the Barn. With so many young girls taking part in the ceremonies it was just too cold up in the Stone Circle. The beginning of February could be bitter, or worse, very wet. So the archery was done on the Green and all the dancing, singing and poetry in the Barn, as well as the usual feast and dance in the evening. Only a few hardy Stonewylders went up to the Stone Circle to welcome in the dawn of Imbolc, but the stones were decorated nevertheless with the symbols of the festival.

The snowdrop was the first flower to push through the frozen soil and show that spring was on its way and the earth was reawakening after its winter sleep. The bulb was the symbol of new life growing in the earth full of the promise of fertility. The flame of a white candle symbolised the spark of feminine intuition and creativity burning brightly within the breast of the Maiden. But the most important symbol of all was the silver crescent moon, which was also the bow of the Maiden Huntress. For although Imbolc celebrated purity and virginity, hence the young girls all dressed in white, it was also about the potential of later fecundity stored deep within. Imbolc celebrated too the young female as the harbinger of intelligence and wisdom, and powerful sexuality and fertility.

The cart full of painting materials went up to the Stone Circle to begin the task of decorating the stones with these motifs. First they must be scrubbed clean of the faded Yule symbols, so the mistletoe, holly, ivy, deer and golden suns were erased until the next year and briefly the great stones faced the Circle in their unadorned and natural state. Then the Imbolc designs could be charcoaled on by the artists whilst Greenbough, now in his seventies and feeling every one of his hard-working years, supervised the cleaning of the site and the laying of a small bonfire.

The new art teacher had requested that his young protégé Magpie be allowed to help with painting the stones for this festival. David had never seen such raw talent and was convinced he’d something very special on his hands. Magpie wasn’t cluttered with formal education and established ways of thinking; he was a true natural and his gift came from the soul, not from studying or art history. Miranda had agreed to Magpie helping Merewen and the team, but only on the condition that David looked out for the boy himself.

David and Magpie strolled up the Long Walk, the avenue of smaller stones overhung with bare branches which in warmer months made a long green tunnel. Magpie was very excited and understood about decorating the stones. Every year of his life during the eight festivals he’d gazed in simple wonder at the beautiful paintings on the stones. The symbols were ingrained in his soul and were a major factor in the way he made sense of the world. He knew what Imbolc represented at a deeper level than those who understood it intellectually. Magpie’s mind operated at the subconscious level, not analysing but absorbing, not interpreting the symbols of life but echoing them. The symbols resonated within him and now he longed to let images flow from his fingers with paint and brushes, those magic wands that enabled him finally to unlock the treasure trove that was his creative psyche.