An Irish Flower (Medieval Romance/Adventure Story)

CHapter 9: The Wedding

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Chapter 9

The morning of her wedding dawned with torrents of rain, matching Maeve's mood. After Camlin's attack she had cried well into the night. This morning her red, puffy eyes were the only traces of the incident; she was determined to not have a repeat of the event, so she would do her best to follow the rules and play the perfect wife to Weylin. She determined last night that she would give herself to him right away and bear him the child his father wanted to badly. If she did, she would be safe from Camlin's advances and she would be able to leave the castle again. Perhaps she could even consider escaping.

The maids came in like a floor to prepare her for the ceremony. “Mornin', my lady! Did you sleep well?” Maeve smiled thinly. “Yes, thank you.” The maids smiled and continued bathing and dressing her. When she looked in the mirror she saw a beautiful white dress with long bell sleeves, covered in gold embroidery and intricate yellow stitching. The servants pulled her black hair into a complicated knot with gold chains interspersed. A gold necklace and pearl earrings completed the ensemble. A dress fit for a queen- and yet she wished she could tear it all off and put on her simple green dress from home and ride away, never looking back.

But that wasn't an option; in just a few moments she would be married to the son of the most brutal man in all of Ireland.

Holding back a tear, she bravely stepped out of her room and fell in line with her escort of guards and servants who adjusted her dress as she walked. She came to the entrance of the great hall, which had been decorated with bright flowers and was filled with people. Some of them were from townships supposedly honouring the treaty with her father; her blood boiled at their treachery. She wondered if they had been in league with her kidnappers. Other people were from townships on the other side of Camlin's kingdom, places that were too far from home for her to know any of them.

At the far end of the hall sat Camlin and Weylin. Dressed in their best clothes they looked handsome and very much alike; but even from across the room Maeve could see the hardness of Camlin's eyes contrasting with the softness of Weylin's. His eyes caught hers, and he gave her a small smile. Gaining courage from their eye contact, Maeve started across the floor towards her soon to be husband- and lover.

Weylin caught his breath when he saw her; she was so beautiful. Their brief moment of eye contact made his heart catch in his throat. He watched as the crowd parted to let her through, letting her come to him. Her journey across the long hall seemed to take a lifetime. Finally she reached him, and the ceremony commenced. His father believed in the old religion, so a priestess of the goddess was there to perform the ceremony as well as a fertility rite.

Maeve stood tall and straight, putting on her bravest face as the priestess chanted. She and Weylin both faced the priestess, but she saw him glance at her out of the corner of her eye. She resisted the urge to do the same; she did not want to displease Camlin again.

Finally the ceremonies were done, and the feasting time began. Weylin led his new bride to the head table where they would sit next to his father. As he took Maeve's hand to help help her sit down, he noticed that her hand trembled slightly. He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Are you unwell?” She managed a smile. “No my lord, I am just tired from the long preparations today.” Surprised at her formality, he wondered if his father had threatened her after their ride yesterday. “Then we shall leave soon so you can rest.” He fully intended to find out why she was acting so strangely. She nodded in assent as a servant brought the first platters of food.

Despite the solemness of Maeve's mood, she had to admit that the hall's atmosphere was perfect for a wedding: musicians played lively music, people danced in the open space in the center of the hall, everyone wore beautiful clothes, and there were mountains of food. Oh the food! Even at Fir Domnan's finest events she had never seen some of these delicacies: Fruits that she could not name, Weylin said they were called Pineapples and Mangoes and were imported from far away at great expense; cheeses and breads made with imported spices; pastries filled with what Weylin called grape jam. Even the roasted fowl had a different taste; the imported spices seemed to be used on everything.

She only wished that she could have enjoyed it all under better circumstances.