The Fires of Beltain

[igraineofcornwall]

Igraine of Cornwall
Camelot mythos
4103 words


4103


King Yvain was a handsome man with fair hair, tanned skin, and green eyes. Astride a powerful stallion, he rode through the thick forests of the Summer Country. His youth, while privileged, had been spent in hard apprenticeship to a knight. His body was firm, his muscles toned from such work. From this knight, he had learned weaponry and warfare and horsemanship. He had been schooled in the graces of court and chivalry, and the knight's wife had taught him of chaste, courtly love.

During his years with the knight, Yvain saw the land change. Churches dedicated to the Christian's God and Father raised their crosses to the sky as priests set fire to the temples of the pagan Mother Goddess. Convents took the willing and willful, their fathers and husbands granted their rightful place at head of the house. The priestesses of the Goddess were put to the flame, save for those who stood firm in Lothian, the Summer Country, Cornwall, and the sacred isle of Avalon. There the Mother remained strong, supported by Her proud daughters who ruled as queens alone and the Lady of the Lake, Her most blessed servant in this world. The God-kings and Goddess-queens stood always at the brink of war.

Yvain ruled the kingdom of Gore, one of many lands that proclaimed themselves Christian. His father had converted long before Yvain was born, one of the first kings after Uther Pendragon, and his son had been raised by those values alone. In addition to chivalry, Yvain had pledged himself to the seven virtues of the Holy Church: temperance, charity, diligence, patience, kindness, humility, fidelity in marriage and chastity until such vows were made. Strife within the kingdom had distracted him from thoughts of nuptials for several years, though he had recently sent gifts and pleas for favor to the king of Listinoise for his daughter's hand. The princess was reported to be fair, but Yvain knew that every country boasted of the beauty of their women, particularly those born to royal families. What he knew for certain was that she had been brought up as a pious Christian woman. Her first twenty years had been spent in a cloister, and now she resided in her father's castle, attended by only women and with no contact with men save her father and the priest who administered sermons and blessings as was proper.

The princess of Listinoise would make a fine wife, Yvain knew. She would come to him quiet and pure, an untouched lily clad in white. She would bear his children and never waver. He could not fathom how any man could suffer a woman of the Goddess when God offered such docile daughters. The women of the Mother ruled their homes and countries, and their husbands and fathers dared not admonish them. They offered the warmth of their beds and the company of their bodies to any man they chose, whether or not one or both were married already. Their queens took consorts often, claiming their whorish ways revitalized the land as spring after winter. Such practices were abominations in the eyes of the Lord, Yvain knew, but the magic their demons gave them made such women dangerous foes.

A singular form rose in Yvain's mind. He had seen her only once, but he would never forget her for as long as he lived. Morgan le Fay, so called for her supposed connection to the Fair Folk who walked the world in the few hours between night and day, commanded attention even in memory. Her ashen skin stood in stark contrast to her simple black garments. Her hair, dark as any raven's feather, whipped about her in a tempest wind, the heart of which rested in her night sky eyes. Her plum-colored lips twisted into a wicked smile. Hated as she was to him, Yvain's loins ached for his father's second wife and murderer. Any man would desire her, wish to claim her as his own, no matter what harm she had done him and his kin. He found no wonder in the sin she had beguiled her half-brother, the High King while he lived, into committing. A monastic brother would have struggled to deny Morgan the pleasures of his flesh. What hope could Arthur have had, when he had succumbed first to marry the pagan queen of the Summer Country, Guenevere?

Yvain's thoughts were disturbed. He looked at the man riding beside him, one of the many knights he had brought to protect himself against the Goddess-queens and their followers. “Forgive me, Sir Dermid,” he said. “My mind was on the task at hand. What did you say?”

The knight frowned at his king, but he held his tongue. “Tonight is the first night of Beltain, my lord,” he answered. “We would be safest if we made camp here, away from Cornwall.”

“I won't allow a pagan display of depravity to delay us,” Yvain said. He sat up straighter in his saddle.

“The queen will not meet with you until after the tournament tomorrow.”

“She cannot deny another monarch an audience.”

“She will be at the fires with painted face and dancing with abandonment, waiting for her demonic consort to claim her.”

Yvain scowled. He had no illusions to the contrary—Queen Igraine of Cornwall, a name and title she shared with her grandmother, was no less a witch than her mother. Her mother, his own step-mother, had bewitched Arthur a second time and given birth to a daughter as dark as her sin-filled son who had destroyed his father, himself, and all his father had built. Morgan's marriage to Ursien, Yvain's father, had bestowed the title of Queen of Gore upon her, even though his father’s death had spared him from consummating his union with the witch. Her daughter might, as the followers of the Goddess taught was natural, attempt to invoke the Mother-right and claim Yvain's lands, given to him as his father's only son, for her own. He knew he would have to prove himself an opponent not to be crossed if he wanted to keep what was rightfully his, and he swore he would do so, even if it required a show of force. He hoped, not wanting bloodshed if it were not necessary, that firm words in their conference and bold acts by himself and his knights in the tournament over these next two days might be enough to convince her that she would do well not to cross him. But he was prepared. The arrogance of and unnatural power held by the Goddess-queens was a force Yvain knew he could not afford to underestimate. If Igraine wanted a war with Gore, he would give her that, and he would spare her only if she sincerely knelt before the one true God.

“We will press on,” he announced.

The forest gradually gave way, and the plain stretched before them. Bonfires glittered as crowds of men and women danced together. Their barely-clad bodies writhed, and some slid together into tents. The sounds of their laborious pleasure joined the music the others danced to. The pagans claimed that on this night, the veil between this world and that of their unholy gods was thinnest. By the light of their fires, men and women crept about, their identities unknown. Mixed among the mortals were demons in forms both masculine and feminine, or so the lore went. The shadows of the Otherworld came to seek lovers, to further drag the heathens to the pits of Hell as they fulfilled carnal rites with abandon. The men and women who celebrated this so-called holy day thought it an honor to meet a strange partner, to engage in acts of lust with no shame. Their gods blessed them with such a union, they claimed, but any God-fearing soul knew that these nameless shades who drifted amongst them were servants to the Prince of Darkness, the King of Lies himself, and those who they joined in union with would never escape his hold to know the Heavenly Prince’s light and love.

Yvain’s head jerked, and he dismounted.

“Dermid, take my horse. I shall join you at the castle.”

“Sire—”

Yvain ignored him and strode forward, sure he saw a woman with plum-colored lips beckoning him. His very soul knew his purpose. The whore-witch, that mistress of Satan, who had killed his father still lived, and God had brought him to this carnal worship of His enemy to strike her down. Where she led, he would follow to avenge his father. He saw her eyes twinkling, and her laugh, echoing in the deepest recesses of his mind, led him through the crowd. For every righteous step he took, her dark powers granted her three.

A demon grabbed his arm, and the spectre of Morgan le Fay vanished. Yvain turned and saw no devil, only a woman. Her skin was painted alabaster, and khol markings decorated her face and arms. The bonfire illuminated eyes the color of dawn. Her lips parted in a smile.

“You look so solemn, Sir Knight,” she teased. “You must dance with me.” Her voice lilted, almost in time with a bard's flute.

“I must go.”

“You must dance.”

She grasped his hand and drew nearer. Her touch bound him as some enchantment stole from her lips in the guise of an innocent breath. Yvain could think of no other reason why he allowed himself to go with her to the fire. The flame itself seemed her partner as she moved, throwing light then shadow against her sharp features and slender frame. Her billowing form and gentle hands led him through unfamiliar steps until they felt as natural as walking. Her back arched, and her cool palm stroked his cheek. Her lips parted only enough for a half-sung invocation of the Goddess to escape.

Yvain sought to pull himself from her spell in vain. He wondered if the Devil could take so pleasing a shape, and he tried to will the Lord's name to his lips, but no verse would come. Instead, he watched his captor as a hunger he had never known before rose in him. His hands trembled as he thought of stroking her ebony hair. His lips dried out as he imagined what hers might taste like. His body betrayed him as he pictured her beneath him.

“Sir Knight.”

Her voice robbed him of the power to speak for several moments. She laughed, and her spell was broken.

“My lady?”

“Come,” she bade him. Her hand took his, and she stepped toward a tent.

“I mustn't. I am—”

She put her finger to his lips to silence his confession. “Names mean nothing on the nights of Beltain. While the fires burn, you are my knight. I am your lady, and I am yours entirely if you will have me.”

The fire illuminated her willing face and simple dress, and Yvaine knew he was lost. He drew her near, claiming her lips with his own. He tried to pray for strength, but the sweetness he tasted froze his tongue. He tried to think of his confession when he next saw a priest, but her soft hands clouded his mind. Helpless, he went with her.

In the darkness of the tent, he felt her quiver. Her hands fumbled to remove his armor, and he found the laces of her dress. They disrobed each other in silence, stealing kisses as they went. He imagined a sort of shyness in her touch, and her gasp when his hand found her bare breast masqueraded as abandoned virtue. She stroked him with a wonderful act of uncertainty, and he almost laughed as she pretended to be nervous when she pressed her lithe form against him.

She led him to the covered ground, and he assumed a man's natural position of dominance. He thanked God that, even in such temptation, this demon's whore would not rob him of his pride in his superiority. Faint traces of firelight managed to invade the tent, and Yvain saw the woman spread before him. The seductress had lured him from his vows, driven him from his God, and now urged him to defile himself with her. Despite his mind’s awareness of the depravity of all she represented, his body and soul ached for her. He seized her hips and claimed her. The king tried to use her roughly, to repay what she had stolen with pain, but the distressed noises that left her sinful lips eased his passions, slowed his movements to a lover’s pace.

How long they remained entwined, Yvain knew not. Sleep washed over him at some hour, and he woke alone. The king dressed, sick with shame. As he ventured into the morning light, he glanced back and saw the bedding. Where the lady had lain the night before, there was a spattering of blood. Yvain had only a moment to wonder if servants of Satan could leave such imitations of virgin blood behind.

Sir Dermid approached. Yvain hastily closed the tent when he saw him, and he watched the knight's expression change from concern to relief. The two friends embraced.

“I feared you had come to harm, Sire,” the knight said.

Yvain smiled. “A thousand apologies. I grew weary and allowed myself a short respite.”

“Queen Igraine has left her castle to attend the tournament. She assured me that she would meet with you after the evening meal tonight.”

“Thank you, my friend. I hope that she did not indicate I was to meet her alone?”

“Unarmed,” Dermid said, “but with your knights if you choose, my liege.”

“You are all I need, unless she calls her knights to attend.” Yvain smiled again. “Shall we go, then? The tournament waits.”

The two walked together, a vow of silence regarding the previous night taking hold. Yvain would not recount his actions and tell of the woman he had taken, and Dermid would ask no questions as to the king’s absence and his presence among the pagan structures used the night before in their ritual.

“What do you make of the queen?” Yvain asked his friend.

“I saw her only briefly, once as she stole into the castle from her pagan rites and again when she greeted me and bade my deliver the message I have before leaving with her women for the tournament.” After some thought, the knight went on. “She is as her mother was before her—a witch and a whore.”

Yvain nodded. His mind would not stay on the task at hand, would not focus on the enemy he would face, on the whore-queen he must either flatter or destroy if he were to protect his lands. Instead, it conjured the image of the woman who had danced, laughed, and touched him. He wanted her—needed her—would have her—no matter the cost. He looked to Dermid with an almost mournful gaze and said, “Cornwall has many witches.”


By the time the tournament and feast following it concluded, night had fallen. The bonfires for the second eve of Beltain burned just outside the stronghold of Tintagel, Igraine’s castle in Cornwall. As he waited with the faithful Dermid, King Yvain thought of the strange woman he had encountered the previous evening.

Was she dancing by the same fire, waiting for some new lover to seduce? Was she praying to her whore-goddess that She would send him to her again? In a moment of weakness and blasphemy, Yvain asked God to keep him in the heathen’s thoughts.

“I do not question you, my lord, but I hope Queen Igraine takes no offense to this deception,” Dermid said.

Yvain frowned. On the field, the sun and his visor kept him from clearly seeing the pagan queen, and the events of the day had not allowed him to approach her. At the banquet, she had devoted her attention to the young knight who had bested all others in the day’s games. No doubt, the Christian king knew, he was the queen’s chosen consort this eve. He was a knight of her dark religion, one who could not resist the allure of a queen’s bedchamber and the rights due to a champion, even if he wore another lady’s favor in the lists. His scorned beloved would find solace in some other knight’s bed.

“A ruler reveals themselves most,” Yvain said, “when speaking to those beneath them. The queen owes a king a certain reception, dislike him as she may.” He grinned at his friend. “How this whore treats two knights of the king she wishes to speak with will tell us much.”

Dermid bowed his head in assent.

So they waited together for several moments more. Yvain wore the clothes of his men, rather than the royal regalia he should have donned. Dermid raised his head when the door of the chamber slid open. Yvain rose and waited.

It was not Igraine who entered, Yvain noted with distaste. She had sent a messenger at the banquet, and now another servant approached. Her white dress was decorated with gold stitching, and the jeweled bangles around her arms spoke to importance without nobility. Her dark hair framed her thin, unpainted face, and Yvain met her dawn-colored eyes with realization.

Was it the work of God or Satan, he wondered, that this particular woman stood before him?

The maid saw him and, he felt sure, gave a smile meant only for his eyes. A moment later, she cast her gaze down and spoke. Unlike the night before, Yvain heard modesty and respect in her voice. It seemed ill-suited to her, he thought. She had seemed the type of woman to commune easily with spirits, to have no hesitation in calling forth their power. Not the sort of woman to defer to another as she did now. “Good sirs, pardon my intrusion. I come from my lady, Queen Igraine of Cornwall, with a message for your lord, King Yvain of Gore.”

Yvain gave her a gallant smile. “I am afraid, gentle maid, that the king our lord is unable to receive even a message as fair as you at the present moment. If you will give us the queen’s message, Sir Dermid will deliver it as soon as he may.”

The girl seemed annoyed but did not resist. She waited a moment before speaking. “My lady apologizes. The Goddess has called her to honor Beltain this second night, so she cannot meet with him. She craves his pardon and hopes he will consent to join her party at dawn to go Maying in the forest.”

Dermid looked at Yvain, waiting to catch his eyes before he nodded. “The king will not be pleased, but I shall take the message to him.” Another glance from Yvain made him bow. “I shall see if he will admit me now.”

“My thanks, good sir,” the woman said as he departed.

Yvain could not hold his tongue. “Are all servants of the queen so curious, my lady?”

“You know me.”

“You came to me.”

“I did.”

“You did not seem a servant last night,” Yvain said.

The maid smiled. “No man or woman is a servant by the fires of Beltain, sir, save to the Goddess.”

Yvain ushered the woman into Dermid’s rooms. His own were unsuitable, as they would expose his deception, and he dared not ruin his masquerade with this woman yet. His friend would forgive him this indiscretion.

“The fires of Beltain burn again,” he said.

“And my obligations to my lady are fulfilled,” she answered with a smile.

Yvain watched how easily the woman sat on the bed she assumed was his, as if she were sure that his ownership of it transferred to her. Perhaps, the thought crept upon him as he admired her form, the light of God’s word would pierce the darkness that would doom her to Hell if unchecked. Such a beautiful woman did not deserve eternal torment. He approached her and touched her cheek.

“Might I know my lady’s name?”

“If I may know my knight’s.” When he hesitated, she smiled wider. “Beltain is about love, Sir Knight. This love is that of souls and needs no name to cement it.” It was her turn to caress him. “Come. You owe me nothing save your love tonight.”

“It is not love you speak of,” Yvain said before he could silence himself. “You speak of carnal lust.”

“In the eyes of your God, perhaps.” Yvain struggled with admiration and frustration in the face of her lilting voice and calm nature. “My Goddess sees these rites as love, as something that goes beyond mortal understanding.”

“The women of your so-called goddess flit from man to man with no regard but their own pleasure.” He could not check his temper. “They are nothing more than whores.”

Yvain regretted his words even before the woman’s eyes narrowed. She rose from the bed, drew herself up, and threw back her head. “You have spent a night with such a whore.” An adder’s bite would have contained less venom. “And you brought her to your chambers to take her again. Confess that to your God, do penance for the sin you were eager to commit again.”

Yvain seized her arm to prevent her departure. This woman had to be a witch, but he was powerless to resist her spell. “I will have to beg God’s forgiveness,” he said, “but first, I need yours.”

“Release me.”

“My lady, I beg you.” Even furious, she was beautiful, Yvain thought. If anything, rage accented her looks as timidity could not. Her dawn-colored eyes were wide and lit with what her people would call an Otherworldly fire. Her skin was flushed, and her lips barely parted. The sight of her passion stoked his need for her. “My insult was undeserved, and life shall be beyond bearing if you depart in anger.” The Christian in him balked, but the hunger for her would allow nothing less. “I beg you—let me love you.”

She stared at him a long while before she drew near. He released her arm and claimed her lips with his. Her hand clasped his, and Yvain surrendered to whatever powers she controlled.

True to his word, Yvain loved her. His body and soul joined together in their desire to please the maid. He kissed and caressed her, rewarded in kind for every effort. He felt sure, from her soft hands to her movements beneath him, that she sought nothing but his pleasure. When she at last untangled herself from him and began to dress, his very being ached.

He sat and kissed her neck as she replaced her jewelry. “Stay,” he whispered in her ear, and she leaned back against him.

“The queen expects me. She must be ready for Maying.”

She turned to kiss him again, and he held her. Would the queen never cease disturbing him? She threatened his rule, worshipped pagan gods, put off meeting with him, and now called this woman from him. He released the maid, and she went after one more kiss.


A different servant delivered news that Queen Igraine and her handmaiden would ride with three knights. Yvain selected three of his knights and met her party at the castle gates with Dermid by his side. Both his steed and garments spoke to his rank now.

“King Yvain of Gore,” Dermid announced as they neared.

Igraine’s maid, dressed in white and wearing jeweled bangles, greeted the proclamation with her own. “Queen Igraine of Cornwall.”

Despite her dress, Yvain was disappointed that this was not his lady. Her skin was ruddy, and her hair was red. She was comely, but she lacked the strange allure of the woman he had known.

“I thank you for coming, King Yvain. I apologize to have kept you waiting so long, but religious rites must take precedence over minor political concerns.” Igraine spoke softly as she steered her hose to the front of the Maying party, but her power could not be denied. Her green and silver dress gave Yvain the sense of speaking to the May Queen, the Goddess of these pagans Herself. Her pale skin all but glistened in the early light, and her midnight hair framed her sharp features.

As he took her in, Yvain replied. “While I understand the need for religious observation, Queen Igraine, I hope we may conduct matters of state now.”

He met her gaze, and his irritation gave way. He felt a kind of terror seize him as he looked into wide eyes the color of dawn.