“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.