Walden and Bayard crouched low in the grasses beyond the crumbling stone wall outside Carmarthen Abbey. The young squire's leather skull-cap kept slipping down over his eyes each time his jaw turned and stretched wide to gnaw off another bite from the mutton-shank he held in his greasy, dirt-stained hands. Bayard, Knight's Yeoman to Sir Setheryn of Tye Gwyneth, elbowed the heaving rib-cage of the young squire crouched beside him sharply, the politest gesture he could manage in his present state of mind, to get the boy to share their meager dinner. Without taking his eyes off the lamp-lit lunette window high above them in the rectory tower, he grabbed the half-denuded mutton-leg and hungrily took a chomp.
"What's this for, mate? What're we doin', Bay?" the squire asked, with his mouth full of sheep grease.
"His Lordship's orders, boy. Now shut your greasy yap before I shut it for ye," Bayard grumbled, as he tore off strings of gristle with his yellowed teeth, "Bahhh, ye've left me nuthin, ye bastard!"
Walden straightened his cap again and nervously shuffled sideways on his knees, fearing another painful poke to his ribs from Bayard's sharp elbow, but his right knee unexpectedly slid out from under him when it squished down into a soft patty of fresh cow-shit a Holstein had deposited near the monastery's outer wall a few hours earlier.
"Sard!" he bellowed, quickly lifting his soiled knee from the stinking pile, but Bayard clamped his palm over the boy's mouth before another expletive could emerge.
"Shut yer blooming' hole, ya imbecile! You want the dogs to come out after us?"
"Bay! Look!" The young squire pointed up to the tower, where a woman had just appeared at the window, silhouetted by the torchlight from the wall behind her. She was naked.
"Celibates, my arse!" The Yeoman sneered. "Her hair. What color is her hair?"
"Can't tell," Walden replied. "Why?" The woman turned from the window, and her large, pendulous breasts caught the light at the same time as her coal black hair. A naked monk appeared and spun her back around, leaning her roughly over the sill of the window. They watched as the monk splayed her buttocks in twain and thrust himself inside her. She let out a guttural gasp that woke the cows, and lurched towards the window opening again and again, as he pounded her from behind. "Sard!" Walden exclaimed, as they watched the ribald tableau from below.
"What's the matter, boy? Never seen a bitch take it the hard way?" Bayard chuckled. "Anyway, it's not her," muttered the Yeoman.
"Who?"
"Arianrhod!"
* * *
Setheryn Bale, Lord Widdlesten of Gwyneth Borough, sat in his horse-hair padded curule chair, warming his feet by the stone fireplace his great-grandfather had laid. He was draining the last swigs from a tankard of ale, and tossing scraps of food to his lazy sheepdog lounging at his feet. On the wooden bench by the hearth sat his friend, the vicar, warming his hands by the fire, after his long, uphill walk from the village to Widdlesten Manner.
"Jus Primae Noctis. The law of the first night," his Lordship mused aloud, "Since King Gilgamesh of old, have the rights of lords and priests been fairly practiced. A good tradition, no?"
"Yes, m'Lord," replied the Vicar, "Young Padrig will receive a worthy bride in fair Arianrhod, if the Abbot returns in time for their marriage. If not, the claim falls to you, Sir Widdlesten. The Church will defer to your honor, should his Eminency be detained."
The knight errant's rough-hewn features betrayed no emotion at the vicar's comment, but Lord Bale had already set in motion the very instruments of the Abbot's untimely delay, and he was determined that young Padrig's beautiful bride would be his to deflower on the couple's fast-approaching wedding night. Should the Church be unable to consecrate the young girl's honey-pot, and verify her purity, the next in line for the ordinance of the right of lords, fell to Sir Setheryn, as local magistrate. Since he had first beheld fair Arianrhod as a young girl, he had vowed to himself to take her maidenhood.
* * *
"So, Gwillem, when's the big day?" the smithy bellowed over the roar of the forge.
"The old hag's decreed it be Monday, to honor the moon-goddess, or some such pagan nonsense," Gwillem replied, as he heaved down on the bellows, making the embers glow brightly under the red-hot iron.
"Ah, be careful, lad! Callin' Murhwyn a hag'll get ye cursed! That witch is capable of it, ye know!"
"Aye, but let her curse me after my son's married her darlin' Arianrhod!"
"Padrig's a lucky boy, Gwillem. Many a man would kill to be in his shoes." The blacksmith lowered his head and lifted his gaze from under his sweat-soaked leather brow-band, as if to warn his apprentice.
"Tell me more about that kegelin' game ye saw in Germania, when ye traveled there with the master?" Gwillem changed the subject. "Ya know, we could clear a bowling green in the woods behind the abbey."
"And wake the dead in the cemetery, ta boot?" joked the old smith, "Those skittle-pins make the devil's own noise when ye bowl 'em over, lad. But I'll ask his Lordship. He may be in a fair mood, owing to the occasion - 'specially if he gets to deflower the bride!"
"But that's the Church's province. The old Abbot won't allow that."
"According to Bayard, his Eminence may not be back in time for the wedding night. His Lordship's had his eye on that young maiden for years. Sumthin's up! Told me this mornin', he did. This here clevis we're heating up is from the hitch on the Yeoman's old livery-cart."
"Sumthin's up, alright!" Gwillem smirked back, "Sir Setheryn's noble pecker!" The old smith laughed, over the pounding of his hammer.
* * *
Murhwyn Tilgrynen tucked a thin, wet lath into the collar of the basket she was weaving, and pulled it taut as she looked out her window, craning her neck to see if her daughter was around the house. Meghyn was told to stay close to their little stone cottage today, but she was wont to wonder, especially if Arianrhod was with her. The two girls were usually inseparable, and often roamed the woods together, searching for mushrooms and wildflowers, the latter of which Arianrhod often wore woven into the braids of her strawberry blond hair. Meghyn adored the older girl, her step-sister since Arianrhod had first appeared in the village years ago as a child, alone and abandoned. No one knew where she came from, or what had become of her parents, but Murhwyn had taken her in, when no one else seemed to know what to do with the unusual orphan.
The mystery of Arianrhod's origins, over the years, had only been embellished by the local townspeople, to an almost fanciful degree. She spoke with an unusual Gaelic inflection, casting her from the outset as an outsider, but also imbuing her with an exotic quality, which was only enhanced by her growing pulchritude. Beyond her astonishing beauty, there was also a fey, almost other-worldliness to her nature, which the villagers attributed variously from her being the offspring of faeries to her upbringing in the house of the local witch. Murhwyn's reputation itself was none too respectable, and by extension, her two daughters were often viewed by the townspeople with a suspicious eye. While the other daughters in the village were usually married off soon after puberty, Arianrhod, despite her beauty, was nearly an old spinster at the age of seventeen.
Not that the boys didn't look! Most were struck dumb in her presence, as if she herself had bewitched them with her charms, leaving them with stiff members and buttoned lips - too intimidated by her beauty to engage her in conversation. Padrig, son of Gwillem, had somehow summoned the courage to speak to her one spring day, and at sixteen, they had become friends. Meghyn often teased her step-sister about the son of the smithy's apprentice, but Arianrhod judged the boy to have a brave heart, and encouraged his attentions, despite her younger sister's derision. After a year of coy and joyful courtship, he had asked for her hand, and to everyone's surprise, she had accepted.
Their engagement had served to ameliorate Arianrhod's peculiarity, somewhat, in the villagers' eyes, and she began to be regarded with a more inclusive attitude by her peers. But she still retained her native mystery, as her long jaunts around the countryside with her sister to gather herbs and roots for Murhwyn's potions were perceived as proof that Arianrhod might be a student of the witch's dark craft. The magic of Arianrhod's allure was attributed by some to be the result of Murhwyn's witchcraft, rather than her own elusive origins.
Murhwyn was a necessary enigma in the borough, as she often cured the ailments of those who put themselves in her hands as a last resort, when their maladies were not healed by the local physician or the priest's prayers. Leechcraft, and the bleeding of evil humors was the prevailing science of men schooled in medicine, but wise women had passed down the lore of herbs and tree-bark medicines for centuries, at the risk of being cast as witches by their male counterparts. The women of the village knew when to avail themselves of Murhwyn's skills, even when the menfolk balked, and feared the old woman's arcane knowledge.
Her sister's upcoming nuptials were troubling Meghyn, even though Arianrhod assured her that their bond as loving sisters would never change. Arianrhod exuded a confidence that never abided a fear of the uncertain future. She took every day as it came, innocently believing the beauty of the world around her could be no less than her own, but her sister knew that the ugliness of people's prejudices and fears were an unfortunate part of the beautiful world her sister inhabited. Meghyn could not let that ugliness harm her beloved sister, and took her fears to Murhwyn.
"Mother, why must Arianrhod be given over to the priest on her wedding night. It does not seem fair to Padrig."
"It is tradition, daughter," the old woman replied, "Men of power and station have always enforced their rights over our daughters upon their bridal nights, saying they are blessing the union for the success of the marriage, and verifying the purity of the bride's virginity. It has been done for centuries, child. Jus Primae Noctis, they say in Latin - the law of the first night. Droit du seigneur they have called it in Gaul. It is the practice in every fiefdom. Priests and nobility have always availed themselves of virgin girls before their bridegrooms may lay with them. It's just the way it has always been, since the kings of old."
"But shouldn't Padrig be the first to mate with his bride? She is his, after all. The Priest is committing fornication, isn't he? How can a successful marriage begin with a sin by the Church?"
"Meghyn, you ask sensible questions, but the world makes little sense. Men with power make the rules for their own benefit. They cloak it, saying they are God's representative on Earth, acting in His stead. It does not have to make sense when they justify it with such nonsense. Why are you troubled so, daughter?" Meghyn hesitated, then leaned over to her mother and whispered in her ear. The old crone's eyebrows raised in surprise, then a shallow sigh escaped from her lips. "Are you sure?" Meghyn nodded, and they sat in silence. Murhwyn sat in deep thought.
* * *
"Where the fuck are we, boy?" the Abbot shouted to the monk, who shook the reins of the covered oxcart to drive it out of a muddy rut. The Abbot's tonsured head poked out through the canvas curtaining the front of the rickety wagon, and he looked around the sylvan lane for signposts or landmarks. He was in a hurry to get back to the monastery, but their progress had been deterred by a string of unusual mishaps along the road, and the driver had taken a detour through an unfamiliar woods.
"It grows dark, Sire. We'd best pull up for the night," the young monk advised cautiously.
"Bahhh! We've been on this accursed trail for days! How far have we yet to travel?"
"I'm not sure, Sire. This forest is unfamiliar to me, your Grace. Maybe the signs posted when we detoured were wrong?"
"Where is the map the Knight gave us?" the Abbot moaned, "Surely you can follow a map, can't you, lad?"
"The map does not show this road. I have been following the sun to keep us headed in the right direction, but we have passed many side-paths that aren't on the map either."
"Bahhh! We are going to miss Sunday mass!" the Abbot fumed, and disappeared inside the cart again. "Come inside, boy! We will undress, and sleep till morning. We must keep each other warm yet another lonely night!"
* * *
Arianrhod uncovered the basket she had filled with fresh Morels gathered from the edge of the woods, and dumped them into a pile on the wooden table where Murhwyn sat, stretching a pigeon's stomach with a small, wooden pestle. Arianrhod displayed no curiosity at the strange activity. Instead, she pulled Meghyn from her seat in the corner to dance around the room with her, to a melody she had heard in her mind, as the breeze whistled through the treetops during her hunt for mushrooms. They whirled and twirled in crazy circles around the table until they were dizzy, then Meghyn collapsed in Arianrhod's lap in the chair across from their mother.
"Will you be so carefree on your wedding night, child?" her step-mother asked. "What do you imagine the Abbot will do when he finds no blood on his cock?" Arianrhod's eyes widened, then cast downwards over her sister's shoulders.
"He will say I'm a whore, and I will be one for fucking another man when my bridegroom sits alone in our house, suffering like a cuck!" She gave Meghyn a playful push from her lap to the other empty chair.