Make Haste to the Wedding by Kate K.
The Zanga Warriors had taken Lord John Roxton in hand at first light.
They dragged him off to a bathing pool straight off and oversaw his ablutions. He bathed with the special soap and rubbed a particular plant essence on his skin and hair. It had a spicy, almost heady scent, which was quite nice. When he attempted to ask what it was and why he had to use it, the explanation included gestures that left no doubt about the properties of the botanical oil. Malone grinned like an idiot at that, despite Roxton's glare. Even Challenger couldn't hold back his amusement.
The warriors had taken away his clothes and lobbied hard to convince him to wear a bright red pair of the blousy, sarong trousers that they wore, but John put his foot down. He'd get married in his own trousers, and that was that, even if they were an inauspicious color. He wasn't going to risk a knot slipping and being starkers on his wedding day. Each warrior placed something on him. One put his knife on John's belt, to show that he hunts well for his bride. A different one gave him a pouch with fish hooks and weights. Another placed a cloth, kilt like, over John's shoulder, so he might have a good home for her, another put an animal tooth pendant around his neck, so he would protect her from all dangers. An older warrior put a small flask of the oil in a pouch and gave it to Roxton with a lusty old man's smirk. Assais' husband, Jarl, gave him a pouch with small wooden carvings of a woman and children, to have their spirit with John wherever he may wander.
The shaman priest came and looked John over, and nodded his approval. His acolyte held out a shell with some small smoldering pieces of wood. The Shaman held the small planks in his fingers and moved around John making sure the fragrant smoke flowed over him. He then ground up some leaves and small lumps of red pigment with a mortar and then with his fingers, drew symbols and pictographs on John's bare chest and arms. The warriors chanted prayers as this went on. The Priest turned to Malone and Challenger and with his thumb made a streak on both men between the brows. He then pointed that they should take their places by Roxton's side.
The Shaman took his staff and shook it several times, and the empty seed-pods tied to the top rattled loudly. This seemed to be a cue to the warriors who started to sing. Another took up a hand drum and found the beat. A small one played a pottery flute he wore on a leather thong around his neck. The priest thumped the staff and turned, leading the men in procession. John took up step behind him and the acolyte after a couple of light shoves from the others made him realize he had to go first.
As they walked, despite the cheerful singing, anxiety bloomed in John's stomach. She wouldn't change her mind, would she? He knew that Marguerite loved him, and knew she was probably the bravest woman he knew. But this was one area where she might take flight. Had he pushed her too far? What if she lost her nerve? Was he was asking too much? Could he not be happy with what they were? No, she mattered more to him than a lover or a mistress. Might he lose her? No, she loved him. He knew she loved him. He had to keep faith in that. His bride would be waiting. She would.
The beautiful scenery went by without John really seeing it. It was without doubt the first time he'd walked through the Plateau jungle without watching for predators, keeping his mind alert to danger. Now, he just allowed himself be led. The Shaman walked confidently forward ahead of him, taking John to his fate. No one on Earth had ever meant as much to him as this woman. Not his brother, his father or his mother. He loved her more than he thought was possible for him to love anyone. He would make Marguerite a good husband. He would protect her; stand by her, rest beside her to the end of days. Any secrets she had left, she would face with him by her side. The more he had discovered of her dangerous and dark past the more he was convinced that she had been sinned against more than she had sinned. He would give her a home, love, a family, and a name. Here or England or the end of the world. Roxton heard a roar in his head and thought it was his anxious mind, but he was wrong.
The parade moved around a bend in the trail and John heard Malone gasp aloud. He looked up, finally giving his surroundings his attention. They were in a small glade, full of graduating green plants, scented flowers, and a small beautiful waterfall and pool that were as clear as glass. He looked around, momentarily speechless. In the smooth stone around the waterfall, there were carvings in the rock of entwined men and women, reminding all of the beauty of physical love. Below the exquisite and erotic pictures were handprints on the smooth stone, handprints in red, scores, maybe hundreds of them, of the lovers who had come to this place to pledge their troth.
The Shaman stopped and thumped his staff on the ground. The men completed their song, announcing their presence. Assai came forward through a curving trellis of ginger flowers. She was smiling, fresh and sunny in bright colors and adorned with flowers. She wore her father's old headdress, showing her authority as Queen of the Zanga. She and the priest bowed before each other with a smile. The priest and acolyte stepped aside to the edge of the beautiful pool. Assai came up to John and with a smile, draped a lei of fragrant red flowers around his neck. She bowed before him, and rather nervously, he bowed back. She turned then and reached out a hand to the path behind her. He looked at the path, and saw his bride and suddenly could no longer breathe.
Marguerite walked forward, pale and shivering like a willow tree in a gale. She was dressed in red, shimmering and bright. One piece of cloth was twisted and tied around her breasts like a wide ribbon, covering them completely, but still accentuating their curves. Her midriff was bare, save for a leather thong with a red jewel pendant around her waist. Another piece of cloth was tucked around her hips, creating a skirt that floated around her long, lovely legs. Her dark hair was plaited up with more of the red flowers, showing her pretty, swan neck. More flowers were at her bosom, softening the edge of her top. Her skin was the color of cream with a tiny hint of honey; her green eyes were luminous and very bright. Around her neck was her silver heart locket, the one she'd had since she was a baby. All the silks and jewels in the world couldn't have made her more beautiful to him.
His hand trembled a tiny bit as he reached for hers. Her hand was cool and held his tight. "My God, you're beautiful, Marguerite."
"You're not so bad yourself, Lord Roxton." She whispered back. "The tribal look suits you."
"Ready to do this?"
"Of course." She smiled, gamely. "I'm not about to give all these beautiful presents back."
John laughed and kissed her hand. The Priest thumped his staff again, the rattle cutting through their mirth. He gestured them to come forward. Hands clasped, they moved before him.
John heard the giggles of women and the soft murmur of the warriors greeting them, but he didn't look away from the beautiful vision in front of him. Assai translated for the Priest, but she might as well have not bothered for how much John took it in. All that he was aware of was Marguerite. She smiled, a beautiful infectious smile, and he didn't quite understand why until the acolyte prodded him to get his attention.
John was handed a bowl with some sort of juice in it. After being mimed instructions, John sipped it, it was sweet and good, but could have been sulfuric for all that he noticed. He handed it to Marguerite and she sipped it with more grace. The priest then made some hand gestures over some cakes that the acolyte held and the couple shared those as well.
The Priest looked at John and spoke something clearly at him and waited for a reply. John blinked nervously. The Shaman stared at him. John stared back. Assai started to translate, but the Shaman shushed her. "This woman is your wife?" He asked in careful, halting English.
John nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes! She is."
"Then tell her so." The Shaman pointed at Marguerite.
John turned to his bride. He swallowed nervously. "Marguerite..." his mind went blank, he struggled to find words. Then he felt something press into his hand. He turned and saw Malone step back to Veronica's side and take her hand. Roxton looked at his palm and the ring, Marguerite's ring that he had kept for so long, shone there.
He and Challenger had removed the original cheap glass stone and dipped the setting in another layer of purer gold. After many nights, the two of them patiently had cut an emerald to fit the set. John chose an emerald for loyalty and faithful love. The stone was a deep, clear, beautiful green. What he never realized is that it was close to the same shade as his own eyes.
Reaching out, he took her hand. He slid the ring on her finger. The old words filled his mind and he found his voice with conviction. "I, John Roxton, take thee, Marguerite Krux, as my lawful wife, from this day forth to have and hold, for wealth and poverty, for joy and hardship, in sickness and in health, to love, to honor, and to cherish as long as we both live." He kissed the ring and her finger. "With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship. All my material goods, I thee endow. Forsaking all others, cleaving only unto you as long as we live."
There were murmurs of approval as Assai translated for the Shaman and the rest of the company. John heard Challenger's, "Hmmm," of agreement, and he could swear that Veronica sniffled. John kept his eyes on Marguerite, waiting to see what she would do.
Marguerite's lovely jade eyes filled with tears as she looked at the ring and the hand that held her own. Her lower lip trembled and she bit it for a second. Then, she pulled her hand free and her fingers flew to her neck. She took off the heart locket, her most treasured possession. Hands shaking, she stepped forward to put it around his throat. Her fingers were clumsy, it took several seconds for her to work the clasp, and he could hear her breath hitching with emotion. She rested her fingers on the silver heart. His fingers rose in surprise and covered her own. Before the Priest could say anything, she spoke.
"I, Marguerite Krux, take thee, John Roxton, as my lawful husband." Tears escaped her eyes and slid down her cheeks but she smiled all the same. "From this day forward. To have and to hold, in wealth and in poverty, in joy and hardship, during sickness and health." The words came out in a rush. "I will love, honor and trust you as long as we live. Even longer." She swallowed and sniffled. The word 'trust' echoed in John's mind and heart. He had her trust, which was harder to win than her heart. "With this heart, I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship. Forsaking all others, cleaving only unto you as long as we live." She took a deep breath, and her eyes sparkled. "And all my material goods, I thee endow – if I have to."
John fought the urge to laugh. He wanted to sweep her up and swing her around. He wanted to kiss her for days.
The Shaman smiled at Marguerite, even though it looked like she'd jumped her cue. "This man is your husband?"
She nodded slowly and smiled. She spoke first in the Zanga dialect and then in English. "Yes, he is."
"Take his hands."
The Shaman took a long leather cord that had been braided with small stones, feathers, little carvings of bone and tiny pouches. He wrapped it around their joined hands. He tied a knot on top, with enough slack that their hands could slip out.
"That which was apart is joined together. You make a home together. The spirits smile on you, have many children!! Keep this for your children's' grandchildren, to show you honor the spirits and the Zanga." Everyone seemed like they were holding their breath, and John wondered if it was over. The Shaman and acolyte stared at him. He stared back. They kept staring, and John just looked back at them. The Priest finally shook the staff impatiently and gestured to Marguerite. "Kiss your wife!"
John didn't need to be told twice.