“There you are!” Lord Ched’s voice boomed out behind them before he could pull Ginger into his arms.
They turned to face the chieftain, and the trio of men that followed him into the bathhouse. Ched had a smile plastered on his face, but there was anger in his eyes. His hand was on the pommel of a dagger on his belt. Bern had been prepared to tell the man he had no interest in his game of kings and priestesses, but decided this might not be the right time to assert his opinion.
“What’s wrong?” he asked instead. He put his arm protectively around Ginger’s shoulders. He was aware of the way she leaned into him all down the length of his body.
“You’re a clever one,” Ched said, nodding approvingly.
“I know trouble when I see it. And it’s in your eyes right now.”
His impulse was to gather his squad and see what was going on for himself, but he waited for an explanation. Even if the Saxons were attacking the gates it wasn’t his problem unless the team he’d been sent to save was in immediate danger. He was not in charge of the indigenous situation here, and wasn’t going to interfere with the locals despite the chieftain’s plans or Ginger’s visions.
Ched cleared his throat, and Bern realized he was embarrassed. “It’s something to do with your daughter, isn’t it?”
“Morga’s run off,” Ched said. “And the Year King ran with her.” He sighed.
“But she’s the Mother’s priestess!” Ginger gasped. “And he’s—”
“You’ve been spending too much time with the locals,” Bern whispered to her in English. “A pair of runaways is not your problem.”
“But—the ceremony is tonight.” She, too, spoke English.
Ched might not have understood what Ginger said, but he recognized the desperation in her tone. “You see the problem, don’t you, Lady of the Spring? Oh, we could go after those foolish children. But if we drag them back I’ll have to execute my own daughter to appease the crowd gathered for the festival. And you’ll have to kill that stripling she’s bonded with.”
“But what about the ceremony?” a one-eyed man asked. “Tradition—”
“We’ve changed tradition before,” Ched cut him off. He looked at one of the other men, a wizened, white-bearded fellow in rough brown robes. “Haven’t we, Bishop Myrdyn?”
The old man was carrying a gnarled staff, and reminded Bern of Gandalf.
“You’re not thinking of giving up your heathen fertility festival, are you?” the old man asked.
“Of course not!” Ched answered. “The people would riot for sure if we changed custom that far.”
“There you go again—you promise to change your pagan ways, but you always find a way out of your promises.”
“Didn’t I say I’d let you baptize as many folk as you wanted tomorrow morning? And in our own sacred pool?”
“That you did,” the Christian cleric conceded. He tugged thoughtfully on his earlobe. “Once the people are sated and sore from the sex, and their heads are splitting from too much drink, I’ll preach a sermon that will lure them to save their souls from the great sins they’re going to commit this night. It will be a fine harvest of souls. They’ll be crying for forgiveness. You’ll make a fine Year King,” he added, looking Bern over. “I’ll give my blessing to that.”
“But we need a priestess for the king to mate with,” the one-eyed man insisted. “The crops will wither without the spring mating.”
“Well, if I’m going to turn the pool into a baptismal fount, it won’t need a priestess anymore, will it?” the bishop said, eyeing Ginger critically. He pointed at her. “Use this priestess instead of the one that’s run off.”
“That’ll work,” Lord Ched said, clapping Myrdyn on the shoulder. “One priestess is as good as another in the eyes of the goddess.”
“But—I’m not a virgin,” Ginger blurted. “The priestess of the Mother must be a virgin when she lies with her first Year King.”
“Don’t encourage them,” Bern complained. Then he realized where she was going with this and spoke loudly. “We can’t offend the goddess. I’m no virgin, either.”
Ched waved his hand dismissively. “You were both virgins once, after all. It’s virility and fertility that matter most. You’ll both do. I’m glad that’s settled.” He began to turn away.
“But I don’t want to be king,” Bern said.
“What man doesn’t want to be king?” Ched asked, turning back. “Especially when the choice is between becoming Year King or going to the goddess with the priestess and all of your men sacrificed inside the burning belly of the wicker man?” His smile had more than a touch of threat in it.
“Sex or death,” Myrdyn said. “Either way, the crowd will be entertained.”
They weren’t making hollow promises. Bern had seen the piles of kindling and a crudely woven straw statue in a field on his way into the stockade. He knew that criminals were often burned alive inside such structures during the spring festival. Lord Ched could probably get the mob angry enough at missing out on the orgy to attack his team. The ensuing massacre wouldn’t look good on Bern’s record. And there was the chance that some of his people could get hurt. He wasn’t ready to risk any of them, especially Ginger.
All he had to do was be the Year King.
It wasn’t like he minded having sex with Ginger White.
“King it is then,” Bern said.
“Good,” Lord Ched said, and he and his people marched away.
When they were gone, Ginger asked, “Now what are we going to do?”
Bern was still grinning as he took her in his arms. “Why, rehearse for the fertility ceremony, of course.”
“You’ll have to wear a pair of stag horns, you know.”
He grimaced. “And what will you be wearing?”
“Not a damn thing.”
The grimace turned into a grin. “I can live with that.”
“Yes, but—”
“My name’s Andrew.” He picked her up and carried her toward the narrow bed. “Colonel Andrew Bern. Just Bern to almost everybody.” He kissed her before adding. “Under the circumstances, I thought we ought to be formally introduced.”
She twined her arms around his neck. “Nice name. Kiss me again.”
“All over,” he promised.
Night had fallen, sacred fires were lit, and hundreds of pilgrims were waiting within their glow just outside the front of the estate. The ceremony was ready to begin.
“I wasn’t this nervous at my wedding,” Bern confided. “Or my divorce hearing.”
Ginger rounded on him. “You’re married? I do not have sex with married men.”
“Then you’re in luck, because I’m not married.”
“Oh. Right. Divorced. Sorry.” She rested her forehead against his bare chest. “I am so nervous that I don’t know what I’m saying or doing. I’ve never done anything like this my whole life.”
“Just enjoy the moment. Don’t think about anything but me. I promise, I won’t be thinking about anything but you. You look beautiful,” he told her. “Like the bride of the summer god ought to look.”
They had braided spring flowers into her thick red curls, and she was wearing Morga’s most diaphanous white silk dress. He was wearing a doe-skin loincloth. He had to claim the Summer King’s sword, then be acclaimed by the people. After that they’d get naked and down to business.
They made their way through the watching crowd to where Lord Ched stood between two widely spaced bonfires. Ginger was deeply aware of the expectant mood of the hundreds of watching people. She told herself that Bern was the only thing that was real here, that everything else was a dream. She concentrated on the feel of him where his skin touched hers. Being near him truly did make her body ripe with need.
When they reached the chieftain, Ched held up a richly decorated sword and shouted, “Behold your priestess and her new Summer King!” While the crowd cheered, Ched plunged the tip of the sword into the soft, spring earth.