If I had any notion of simply saying a few words before the priest and carrying off my bride to a little greenwood bower in the manner of my English father, that idea was dashed to pieces quicker than it takes a fella to spit and say "I do!" The forest folk fell to with a will. I suppose the safe and successful return of the rescue party was the best excuse any of them had had to celebrate anything in many a month, and the people were that eager to make a fair run at it. Noin and I were immediately caught up in the preparations for this sudden celebration.
The cooking fire was built up; partridges and quail were pulled from the snares, then plucked and spitted along with half a young wild pig, and six coneys and a score of barley loaves set to bake. The children were sent into the thickets to gather raspberries and red currants, which were mixed with honey and made into a deep red compote; asparagus and wild mushrooms were likewise picked, chopped, and boiled into a stew with borage and herbs; the last of the walnuts which had been dried over the winter were shelled into a broth of milk and honey; and many another dish to make the heart glad. Whatever stores had been set aside against even leaner days were brought out for our wedding feast, and it did rightly make a humble man of me, I can tell you.
While the men constructed a bower of birch branches for us to enjoy our first night together, some of the women gathered flowers to strew our path and for Noin to carry, and one or two of the younger ones helped dress the bride and make her even more lovely in my eyes.
As for myself, with little else to do, I set about trying to drag a razor through the tough tangle of my beard. I succeeded in cutting myself in such extravagant fashion that our good friar took the blade from my hand, sat me down and, expert barber that he was, shaved me clean as a newborn. He also combed and cut my hair so that I appeared almost a nobleman when my clothes were brushed and my shoes washed. He found a new belt for me and a clean cloak of handsome green. "There now!" he declared, like God regarding Adam with a critical eye. "I have made me a man."
I thanked him kindly for his attentions, and observed that my only regret was that I had no ring to give my bride. "A ring is a fine thing, is it not?" he agreed. "But it is by no means necessary. A coin will do; and some, I have heard, have a smith bend the coin to make a ring. You might easily do this."
This cheered me no end. "You are a wonder, no mistake," I told him. "I can get a coin." And, leaving the friar to his own preparations, I set off to do just that.
The first person I went to was Bran. "My lord," I said, "I do not think I have asked a boon of you since swearing the oath of fealty."
Lord Bran allowed that, as he could not think of any occasions, either.
"Then, if it please you, my lord," I continued, "I will make bold to request the small favour of a coin to give my bride." I quickly went on to explain that I had no ring, but that Tuck had said a coin would serve as a suitable token.
"Indeed?" wondered Bran. "Then leave it to me."
Well, we were soon caught up in countless small activities and the mood was high. Before I knew it, the sun had already begun its descent when our good friar declared that all was finally ready and we gathered beneath the Council Oak to speak our vows before our friends. Tuck, scrubbed until he gleamed, and beaming like a cherub fresh from the Radiant Presence, took his place before us and called all to solemn purpose. "This is a holy time," he said, "and a joyous celebration. Our Heavenly Father delights in love in all its wondrous forms. Especially dear to him is the love between a husband and wife. May such love increase!"
This brought a rousing chorus of agreement from the onlookers, and Tuck waited for silence before continuing. "Therefore," he said, "let us ask the Author and Sustainer of our love and life to bless the union of these two dear people who have pledged life and love to one another."
With that he began to pray and prayed so long I feared we would not finish the ceremony until the sun had gone down, or possibly the next morning. Eventually, he ran out of words to say to bless and beseech, and moved on to the vows, which we spoke out as Tuck instructed. There in the greenwood, beneath that venerable oak, we pledged life to life, come what may, and I took Noin to be my wife. When the time came to give my bride a token of honour, I turned to Bran and, taking my one good hand in both of his, he pressed a coin into my palm. "With greatest esteem and pleasure," he said.
I looked down and saw that he had given me a solid gold byzant, gleaming dull and heavy in my hand. I gazed at that rare coin as at a fortune entire. Truly, I had never had anything worth so much in all my life. That he should think so much of me made the tears come to my eyes. The long months of my captivity were somehow redeemed in that moment as I placed that matchless coin in the hand of my beloved, pledging to honour and keep her through all things forever more.
Then it was another prayer-this one for children aplenty to bless us and keep us in our old age-and we knelt together as Tuck placed a hand on each of our heads and proclaimed, "I present to you Master William Scatlocke and his wife, Noinina. All praise to our Lord and Kind Creator for his wise provision!"
Of the feast, I remember little. I am told it was very good, and I must have tasted some of it. But my appetite was elsewhere by then, and I could not wait until Noin and I could be together. We sat on the bench at the head of the board and received the good wishes of our friends. Merian, with Lord Bran in tow, came by twice to say how much she had longed for this day on our behalf. Iwan and Siarles came to give us an old poem that they knew, full of words with double meanings which soon had everyone screaming with laughter. The celebration was so light and full of joy that I clean forgot about my mangled fingers, and I cannot recall giving them a solitary thought all that fine and happy day.
When the moon rose and the fire was banked high, Angharad brought out her harp and began to sing. She sang a song unknown to me, as to most of us, I suppose, about a beautiful maiden who conceived a love for a man she had seen passing by her window one day. The young woman decided to follow the stranger, braving great hardship crossing mountain and moor in her quest to find him once more and declare her love for him. She persevered through many terrors and misfortunes and at last came into the valley where her love lived. He saw her approaching-her beautiful gown begrimed and bedraggled, her fine leather shoes worn through and wrapped in rags, her beautiful hair dull with dust from the road, her once-fair cheeks sunken with hunger, her slender fingers worn, her full lips chapped and bleeding-and ran to meet her. As she came near, however, she chanced to see her own reflection in a puddle in the road, and horrified at what she saw, she turned and ran away. The man pursued her and caught her, and knowing what she had endured to find him, his heart swelled with love for her. And in that moment, he saw her as she was, and the power of his love transformed her broken form into one even more beautiful than that which had been.
I confess, there might have been more, but I was only listening with half an ear, for I was gazing at my own lovely bride and wishing we could steal away to the birch bower in the wood. Bran must have guessed what was in my mind, for as the song concluded and the people called for another, he came up behind me and said, "Go now, both of you. Merian and I will take your places."
We did not need urging. That quick I was up and out of my seat and taking Noin by the hand. We flitted off into the wood, leaving Bran and Merian at the board. By the light of a summer moon, we made our way along the path to the bower, where candles were already lit and the mead in a jar warming by a small fire. Fleeces had been spread on a bed of fresh rushes. There was food beneath a cloth for us to break our fast in the morning. "Oh, Will!" said Noin, when she saw it, "It is lovely-just as I always hoped it would be."