The Wolf and the Crown by Attanasio A. A

Author:Attanasio, A. A.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: A. A. Attanasio
Published: 2013-12-20T16:00:00+00:00

Celtic Christmas

On Christmas morning, Lord Urien Durotriges, chieftain of the Celtic clans of the coast, knelt before King Arthor in the temple of the goddess Aradia and pledged himself and his clan to the service of the young monarch. A cold rain drizzled through the enclosing aspens, and fog climbed the hillcrest of Maiden Castle, where three nights earlier Wolf Warriors had reveled.

The priests who accompanied Lord Marcus and Chief Kyner refused to set foot in the pagan temple. They had advised the young king to seek the conversion of both Urien and Lot, and Arthor refused. He considered himself king of all Britain, and Christians and worshipers of the old ways were equally his subjects. With that in mind, he agreed to accept Lord Urien's pledge within the ancient temple.

Bedevere reluctantly accompanied him. He remembered nothing of the dark battle where Arthor had intervened to save the Celtic chieftain's life. For an entire day afterward, he had lain unconscious. Even now, three days later, his head still ached from the blow that had toppled him into darkness, and his wallet of medicinal herbs from the Orient offered no remedy.

The sight of his steward doddering between incense trays, his bald head bandaged, stirred remorse in King Arthor. When the elaborate ceremonies of chants, bard songs, stick dances, and incense evocations of the Daoine Sid ended and Lord Urien and his clan chiefs had all knelt before him and been dubbed by the touch of Excalibur, he sat with Bedevere on the temple steps.

Ritual fires blazed on the temple grounds, and Druids in white cloaks and five-sided clogs oversaw rites of torch-juggling and round dances.

"Kyner admonished me for sacrificing so many to save Urien," Arthor said, noting the pallor of his steward's gaunt cheeks. "I'm relieved to find you well enough to attend these rites. It's God's gift to me on the birthday of his Son, our good shepherd."

"Shepherding is a despised trade in the Holy Land," Bedevere said quietly, watching the Celtic dancers spiral among the fires. "Shepherds are like thieves. They graze their sheep on other people's lands, and they pilfer. They're not allowed to fulfill judicial office or serve as witnesses in court. No one buys from them, for it can be assumed that they possess only stolen property. And yet our Savior identified himself with them."

"Messiah born in a manger—friend to tax collectors, lepers, and prostitutes—executed ignominiously—" Arthor shook his head. "He surely delivered God's love to where that love is most needed."

"And so we find you, a Christian king, here among the pagans." Bedevere smiled wanly. "You are an unusual king, sire."

"I was not always noble." He clasped Bedevere's hand gratefully. "Until this past summer, I believed myself lowborn. There is no God-given difference between high and low—I see that now. That distinction is an artifice. The Savior knew."

Bedevere nodded wearily. "And he died for us to know it."

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