Celtic culture, reading and viewing suggestions, and an historical novella by Marble
feasts and fires into the night
their virtue to save,
their Champions oft gone on to the grave
and those who crossed them
cursed to roam in living hell
Priestess of the Mother,
or Sorceress of rage,
all have a place in the Celtic mind.
But as the future beckons on
we'll not leave our past behind.
you for the story below)
The War Lord, 1965, Charlton Heston - in Scotland, a Norman Lord takes up residence in a citadel in an unruly area, then demands Prima Nocte from a local lass. He falls in love with her and refuses to release her, and revolt follows. I grew up from an early age loving this movie, it was 1/2 of the twisted shaping of my idea of romance, the other 1/2 being the Cossack rude boy, "Taras Bulba" with Yul Brynner. These films led me to my affinity for rough manly men who take what they want.
Excalibur, 1981, John Boorman directed, the Arthur tale told yet again, but with incredible sets, costumes, cinematography, and a wonderful all-star cast, including Nigel Terry as Arthur, and Cherie Lunghi as Guinevere, with the awesome Nicol Williamson as Merlin, Gabriel Byrne, Liam Neeson, Helen Mirren, and Patrick Stewart. (also see Nicol Williamson in my fav Sherlock Holmes movie- despite the cocaine- "the 7% Solution.")
Becket, 1964, Peter O'Toole, Richard Burton, a classic, plain and simple, nuff said
A Man for All Seasons, 1966, Paul Scofield, DITTO
Anne of the Thousand Days, 1969, Genevieve Bujold, Richard Burton, DOUBLE DITTO!
The Fighting Prince of Donegal, 1966, Disney - I grew up on this movie in school every year. Disney did most of the "edutainment" films shown in schools then. This one was a real swashbuckler, set in 16th century Ireland.
The Name of the Rose, 1986, Sean Connery, medieval murder mystery set in an Abbey in the Dark Ages, good sets and cinematography.
The Seventh Seal, a spooky Ingmar Bergman movie I didn't understand until my teens but remember vividly from childhood. A returning Crusade Knight Templar plays a game of chess with death. As I said, thought-provoking, spooky, very memorable.
The Lion in Winter, 1968, Kathryn Hepburn. I watched this movie every year growing up. Another classic. Highly rated for its accurate portrayal of the royal Plantagenet family's ruthless politricks. Blood isn't always thicker than water.
NEW "CLASSICS"-
Lord of the Rings - 10+ ! ! ! ! And Viggo Mortenson to boot!
Braveheart and Rob Roy, inaccurate historically for the sake of drama, but SO well done it's forgivable, especially when starring two of the sexiest men alive. Amazing performance, by Tim Roth, of English arrogance and evil, in Rob Roy.
The 13th Warrior, the ugly truth about the distant past of the early Scots. Well done! And WHERE did they find those fine Norwegians?
Far and Away, these people were my forefathers (Irish Catholic and Irish Protestant) and Michael Collins, about the struggle for independence from Britain in this century
A Knight's Tale and First Knight, entertainment, not education, but both a lot of fun, Especially love the portrayal of Geoffrey Chaucer in Knight's Tale.
by Marble
Deirdre began to scream as the flames climbed higher and licked at her feet. Across the circle of friends, Fiona began to scream as well and turned her head away from the gruesome sight. The Norman soldier near her slammed his sword hilt into the side of Fiona’s head and blood spurted as she dropped, stunned and limp, to the ground.
He sat like an iron statue on his pure black steed, towering over the cluster of villagers, with hatred and menace engraved upon his countenance. None of the villagers dared raise their eyes to him, but sheltered by her long, unruly red hair, Rhiannon cast a glance his way, then regretted doing so. The arrogance and venom in his gaze sickened her even more than the death of her friend, and she was almost sure he’d had a faint smile on his face just before Deirdre stopped screaming.
The air filled with the stench of death, burning death. None of the women, or even the young girls, fainted. They'd seen this day coming a week since when Aidan had been killed the day of his wedding and Deirdre had disappeared. Life had always been harsh and cruel, and clan women were strong and hard. As the wind changed and blew the smoke and acrid odors toward the company of Norman and Saxon soldiers, they began to cough and choke, and cast glances at their commander. But the villagers, most of them women, never gave the English the satisfaction of shedding a tear or begging for mercy. There’d be enough time for tears later, and the English Lords never had shown the slightest mercy.
Just two months earlier, forty miles to the west, an English Duke had tied a mother and her three small children to poles implanted in the sea bed at low tide. Then they had forced the father of the family to watch while the tide came in, promising to release his family if he would sign over title of his land to the Duke. Eventually, as the water lapped up around his children’s knees, he relented and signed the papers, but the Duke beat the father, Ian McLowery, to unconsciousness and when he awoke he found himself alone on the beach, his entire family drowned fifty yards offshore. ‘That was a fine example of English mercy,’ Rhiannon thought.
Eventually the English Lord’s entertainment was finished and he allowed the group to disband, with the warning, “The next of you whores that bethinks herself so highly to hold back what belongs to her Masters will plead for the fate which you have just witnessed.”
He rode off with his company following, except for a small contingent left to guard against any small uprising the day’s events might inspire.
The small crowd of villagers dispersed in deathly silence, leaving only the maid’s father behind to await the cooling of the embers, to give service to whatever remained after. Rhiannon tried to walk away but had to move very slowly, as her knees were weak and she felt light-headed. She asked herself what she would do in a year or so, when she found herself in the same situation. At sixteen she would be considered ripe for “marriage” and Prima Nocte. She thought she’d rather die than have the Lord’s hands on her, or any of those guards’ hands. Those hands that had tied her friend Deirdre to that post. Those hands that had lit the fire at her feet. The hands that had dragged Deirdre from the forest where she’d been hiding to avoid the “duties” of Prima Nocte.
As Rhiannon walked away her anger was mixed with guilt. She felt a stabbing pain of remorse when she remembered her last encounter with Deirdre, out in the woods, where she had taken her food every day for a week. Had she been followed? How had they found Deirdre? She tortured herself with these questions, and with the bigger question, ‘Is our honor worth our lives?’
As if in answer to the thought read from her mind, a quiet whisper responded, “Some things are worth dying for. Some things are worth killing for.”
Rhiannon looked up, startled, glancing around her, searching for the source of the whispered answer to her thoughts. Between two huts she saw an English soldier crouching, and her demeanor instantly changed from guilt and sorrow to uncontrollable rage. She lunged forward and struck him on his ears and his face, with a flood of tears and release of emotion strengthening her blows.
He caught her by her wrists and dragged her into one of the huts, just as another guard a hundred yards away noticed the commotion and looked his way. He held her wrists tight and she cursed him. She struggled to free herself but he brought her wrists above her head and held them with one large hand, then clapped his other hand over her mouth. A pair of guards walked past the huts outside as she struggled beneath him.
“Check over there, I’ll circle about o’er this way. I knows what I seen, there’s something out of order ‘bout ere.” The voices faded as the guards moved toward the outskirts of the village.
She glared up at her captor, and the glint in his eye triggered a memory, one she could not identify. He looked down at her and noticed her recognition. “So you’ve placed me then, Miss Molly McGee.” He said, jeeringly. He took a chance and removed his hand from her mouth.
She spat at him. He wiped his face with his free hand. She said, “My name isn’t Molly, fool. You English dogs all think we’re Molly. And you think we’re all afraid of you. Kill me now then, because you won’t have me . . .
He threw his head back and laughed at the conclusion she’d made, that he was about to rape her.
“. . . just like you didn’t have, could never have, Deirdre.”
He stopped laughing. He looked down at her with genuine sorrow, and sympathy. She saw the sincerity in his face and something else, something familiar. He took his free hand and removed his helmet. Long, curly red hair fell out of the headpiece as he removed it and a look of complete surprise covered her face, and then, recognition.
“Ciaran?” she exclaimed. “Ciaran MacDonald is that you in the flesh?”
He got up from on top of her and stood. “In the flesh.” He answered, with a low bow and flourish. “The prodigal son returns.”
“This is no time for levity, Ciaran MacDonald!” Rhiannon scolded. “I’m cut to the quick. My heart’s feeling as though it was sliced in two.” She looked into his eyes and broke down then. She began sobbing and couldn’t stop herself. “How could they, can you tell me? How could they do it?” she wailed.
He took her in his arms and tried to comfort her. “Hush now me girl child. Hush. Deirdre’s gone and we can’t bring her back. She’s gone on to the Wolfshead, he’ll lead her on home now. Never you fear.”
She looked up at him but would not be consoled. She pulled together her strength and fell back again on her anger. She thumped his chainmail, hard. “What the fecking hell are you wearing this shite for, Ciaran?”
“Come.” He took her by the hand and led her out of the hut. “I’ll be explaining that to you soon, but not here and not now. Take the logwood road out to the falls. I’ll meet you there at half five. Be careful you’re not followed.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and a slap on the fanny and took off, leaving her in a swirl of emotion.
“It’s like the ice caves of Guldean in here, Ma. What're you thinking?” she asked conversationally, knowing full well why her mother wasn’t going about her home, business as usual.
But before her daughter could get a good blaze going and get some warmth into the room, Myrtle MacDonald jumped to her feet and shouted, “No! Not in this house! Put it out! There’ll be no fires in this room tonight!” She dropped back into the chair after a moment, limp and lifeless, and Rhiannon rushed to her side, kneeling on the floor and hugging her mother, who began to wail pitifully.
“It was me brung her, Rhiannon! I it was who pulled her out and cut the cord. I was the first to lay eyes on that child, you know!” her mother cried out. “I walloped Deirdre on her little backside and oh, such a wailing when she caught her first breath! What a handful she was! Let out a banshee cry to wake the dead! Such a ruckus I nearly dropped the little tyke.” Her mother’s head dropped to her chest as she flowed forth with a river of tears.
It was too much for Rhiannon and her head fell into her mother’s lap. They cried together without words, for nearly twenty minutes, until Uncle Aidan hobbled in and slammed the door behind him. He looked over at the women as they lifted their reddened eyes and blurry vision to behold him.
“Enough of that now. Time to be strong.” he said gently. “Some of them McPhersons a heerd bout the outrage and come over. Our own men’s come down from the hills, some uh them. Meeting tonight at Glenfinnich Meadows. That boy Ciaran’s come home from the games and God Knows Where! That boy's been gone so long!" he shook his head and continued, "The boy says it’s time for action. Called a meeting, big as life, like an elder, the arrogant sod! But he’s right bout one thing. We not to stand nuh more now. They gone too far!” Uncle Aidan slammed his fist down on the table, hard.
‘Ciaran!’ Rhiannon jumped to her feet. She’d forgotten to meet him! It had been well past an hour since they’d parted. She grabbed up her shawl and ran toward the door.
“Where you think you’re heading off to alone, when it soon be dark?” Aidan asked.
As she opened the door to the cold twilight, Rhiannon responded, “No time to explain now, Uncle. But I’ll be back soon. I promise!” She turned and pecked him on the cheek, then ran out into the dusky late afternoon.
She hurried along as darkness descended. She was cold and tired and emotionally spent as she entered the clearing at the base of the falls. "Ciaran!" she whispered, but loudly. "Keeee-rrran!" she called in a low voice. She listened but there was no answer, no movement. The moon would not be up for another hour and it was black as pitch. She could hear the water rushing down the cliff face and gurgling toward her in one of the many brooks branching off from the river.
'Damn' she thought. 'Out here alone in the dark, Ciaran's come and gone. And to make matters worse, I'm here dying to let off water.'
She groped a way off the path, finding a large boulder to lean against, and squatted, fumbling with her skirts and bloomers to free herself. Rhiannon had just begun to relieve herself when the sharp tip of a blade pressed ever-so-lightly against the small of her back. "How do you, Lady?" a deep voice inquired.
"Aaah!" Rhiannon lost her balance and fell forward.
"You sneaky popinjay!" she fumed as as she picked herself up and straightened up her mess. "You're more the slippery snake than ever, Ciaran! By the Goddess! I didn't hear a sound til I felt your blade in me back."
"Well I'm hoping you didn't piss yourself, ya little Pagan. By the Goddess, is it? It'll be your head if you let that one slip on Market Day."
Rhiannon clicked her tongue and spat, scowling at the inference of the English and their religion. "The Old Ways are for us, Ciaran, you and me. You know that. They come with their priests to try and turn us all into sheep for the slaughter."
She dusted off the last of the twigs and dirt from her skirt, then turned to face him. "Ten commandments, psst! Turn the other cheek, eh? Turned us away from the Goddess to worship a mortal man! Ban our feasts, and death for us if we get caught at Beltaine! But by the Goddess, if a lass is fair, their ten commandments don't add up on First Night!"
“It’s not in me to dispute you, Lady.” Ciaran quipped. “Any religion brought by force is no religion of the heart. But I don’t think we walked out into the dark, cold night to debate Gods, did we?” he smiled widely, mocking a leer, and gave her bum a squeeze.
Rhiannon whirled and slapped his arm away forcefully. “Those days are passed, Ciaran. I’m not your little playmate down the way. Watch where you put your hands or one day Hamish’ll be taking them off for you.”
“Hamish! So it’s to be Hamish is it? Be it like you to settle for half the man ya could have by your fire at night.”
It was Rhiannon’s turn for touchy-feely. She patted Ciaran’s belly and answered, “I believe you’re right there, you know.” Casting her gaze to his midsection, she continued, “Just about half the man.” She chuckled loudly. “It’s not Hamish spending all his wages in every mead house from here to Kilmarnock. It’s no surprise ya come limping home from the games with no stories to tell. I’d a wonder if ya’d made it through the first round of the logs.”
Ciaran smiled, relishing his coming victory in this test of wits. “Well, now, there I will have to dispute you Lady.”
He pushed his heavy cloak aside, then his sword in its scabbard, and pulled at his leather waist pouch, releasing its clasp and reaching inside. Rhiannon’s attention turned to his hand as she saw a brief twinkle in the now-rising moonlight; just a momentary glint of light in the darkness.
He took up her hand and lay over it, a lovely, sparkling crystal, dangling from a finely-made silver chain crafted in Sterling to the South. Her breath caught when she held it up in the moolight to look at it. It was fine, more beautiful than any jewelry she’d ever seen, although she hadn’t seen much.
“Rhiannon?” Ciaran inquired, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “Are ya well?”
She looked at him blankly for a moment, then focused and replied, “Yes Ciaran, what is it?” as if they’d just met a moment ago on the path.
“Well, I’ll be damned! I thought I had ya there, Ree. But ya one-upped me again. So it’s nothing to ya then, eh? I’ll be taking it back if you please. Eileen’ll be loving a bauble round her neck for sure. And at least she’ll show me some nice warm gratitude I'd never see from you.”
She looked at him a little confused then followed his glance to her still-open hand, where the amulet caught the now-risen full moon’s light and sent sparks of light into the night as her hand trembled. A moment of recognition ensued, and she came back to Ciaran’s side from her dazed journey.
“Oh no,” she breathed as she stared at the crystal. “It’s wonderful and I love it! You mustn’t take it away, least of all to the likes of Eileen!” She closed her fist around the pendant and gave Ciaran and warm hug. “It’s for me, I know it. It must be!”
He hugged her back and his voice softened. “Of course it’s for you, Ree. You daft? It’s in ya hand ain’t it?”
She released him and opened her fist to look again at the crystal. Her hand was still trembling. Ciaran pulled off his cloak and laid it round her shoulders. “Poor Lass, ya must be freezing your arse off. Ya shaking like a leaf in a gale.”
“Put it on me, Ciaran. Please.” was all she replied.
She held out her hand to him, and he took the crystal from her. She pulled aside her long red hair. Facing her, he gently unclasped the latch and brought each end behind her neck to re-attach the chain. She dropped her hair and looked down to see the pendant dangling between her breasts. Ciaran slowly traced the path of the silver chain down her neck and below with his fingertips. He lifted the crystal with one finger and they both stared at it for a moment.
“Maybe it’s magic, girl. Looks well old. The Lord up a Kilmarnock bought it from some old peddler on the road, thinking it’d make a good prize for the games. And now it’s yours.”
She murmured, without conviction, “I shouldn’t you know, Ciaran. You earned it and your Ma could use the money sure enough if ya’d sell it. You shouldn’t come away empty-handed for ya troubles.”
“This here is a gold hilt, me dear.” he boasted, holding the dagger up close for Rhiannon to inspect.
The knotwork along the hilt was intricately woven in the finest yellow gold, the handle seemed to be the white animal stone from across the world, and a family seal was skillfully wrought in pewter on its end. As he turned it over in the moonlight she caught a glimpse of red.
As she peered at the dagger and appreciated it fine workmanship, a sense of familiarity creeped up on her, until she realized where she'd seen the dagger, just a few moments earlier.
"You mustn't remove the stone nor sell the dagger." she told him. "Trust me. I can't tell you why but you must not do it." He shrugged casually, and she continued, "I am serious! More than that, Ciaran MacDonald, you must not tell anyone you have this. NO ONE! I mean it. Where did you get it? This is no prize for swordplay up a Kilmarnock. Don't think me a fool."
He looked at her with a smug expression and replied, "Well, now, that's another story. As me eagle was flying high after the games up a Kilmarnock, I took myself over to Glasgow, to find a little good fortune there."
She started, "if you're about to try and tell me you won this on the tables . . . " but he interrupted her.
"Nonesuch, darling. I'm quite good with my blade you know. Used the pendant to enter myself in the tournament there. Took it off a knight there in fair play, and he with armor and me in me chainmail vest only."
"If you expect me to believe . . ."
"Darling, if you'd keep on ya bloomers I'd finish me story. Women! Can't get a word in edge-wise!"
She closed her mouth and looked up at him sheepishly, then replied sarcastically, "Oh do tell, brave sir, your story of valor."
He sighed and continued, "Well not much of a story really. The whole thing happened pretty fast. He had me sure enough. He hadn't drawn first blood but me blows weren't getting through and my arm was tiring bad enough." He looked down to make sure he had her attention and respect.
"Then I landed a lucky blow or two and the knight went mad on me. He drew up this here dagger from under his armor and lunged for my throat with the bloody thing! He missed, as ya can see me standing here, and the crowd hissed and booed at him. Then me drop my blade quick and tripped him right up. He fell right forward onto his face. The crowd broke up laughing and the knight fumbled himself up and ran at me again. Well, that heavy armor may be nice for battle but I'll take me little chainmail anyday. The knight couldn't catch me as I did duck and dodge with him. With the crowd laughing and the nobles fidgeting in their chairs, the Earl had enough of this little common man fooling with his knight and stood up, shouted, 'Enough!' and that was that."
Rhiannon's admiration was plain on her face.
"As the rules didn't allow for the cheatin' bastard to come at me with knife, the Earl declared me victor and awarded me the dagger. But I think to myself it was more from that a common man made fool of a noble. He sent the knight away from the tourney. No more contest for him that week."
"Who was the knight, Ciaran?" Saxon, Norman? Who?" she asked a little too forcefully.
"I never knew, Ree. Nobody bout there did. He disappeared quick like after that and the talk said he was new round those parts. Big mystery." He looked down again at the dagger. "Great mystery for them. Great good fortune for me."
"Just you hang onto it and hide it well, somewhere, Ciaran. I have a strong feeling on this. Sell the necklace if you need to but I am sure this dagger is important to us, to all of us."
She reached up to unclasp the necklace but he stopped her. "No need for that, Ree. It's yours. And I promise to keep this, for now. We'll get by somehow, I know."
