Sposalizio del Mare

from "The Red Book of Rhiannon"

(Go to All The Red Book of Rhiannon stories.)

If you’re new to The Môrdreigiau Chronicles, welcome! You might find the Glossary helpful for some of these words.

Rhiannon’s Red Book holds many interesting tales, including this one about the Venetian ritual of marrying the sea. This one hasn’t a date set for it, but I’m guessing early Victorian, and if you remember any of this when book four comes out, you may well have a conniption. This story stands on its own, but of course, there is more to this story than this snippet…

“It’s all a sham.” Her honeyed voice spoke from behind Drustan Trevisan’s shoulder. He ignored from the spectacle on the Grand Canal, for she sounded familiar.

The gilded barge, the flotilla of smaller boats surrounding it, and the press of people along the canal, faded into nothing when he saw who spoke.

Her.

They had danced at a masked ball last night, more than once. He recognised her by the pearls still in her hair and the heart-shaped lips that had smiled so wide at his witty remarks. He’d never found out her name.

A local, judging by her light olive skin, paler than most, and her long dark hair, caught up in strings of peals and abalone shells. Her dark-eyed forthright gaze in a delicately featured face met his.

He cleared his throat, found his voice. “Signorina, what do you mean? ‘Tis the feast of the Ascension.”

“That—“ She pointed at the great golden barge now floating—bobbing really with gondolas and smaller skiffs buffeting it. He followed her direction. “That has nothing to do with your Christ and worse, it’s but a shadow of the true ritual of marrying the sea.”

“Then what—“ He turned but the woman had gone. He stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd, hoping to catch sight of her. She wore a turquoise gown along with those pearls in her hair. The pleated lines of her bodice angled to her slender, corseted, waist. Had she worn a cloak instead of a pelisse?

There. The flash of turquoise taffeta as a gondolier handed a young woman into his craft.

Drustan wove through the crowd, but by the time he reached the short jetty, her gondola had traversed halfway across the grand canal, bobbing in the wake of the gilded barque loaded with officials and the remains of local nobility.

She did not follow it but headed for San Giorgio Maggiore, a massive white marble church with a bell tower built of red brick.

He hailed a gondolier, stepping in after jingling his coin pouch. “Segui quella Gondola!” He pointed across the canal.

Plenty of craft bobbed in the waters, following the barque out into the lagoon, causing choppy waves to buffet the narrow black gondola, already so low to the water’s surface.

Ahead, the woman disembarked gracefully, crossing the small plaza dotted with spectators looking to avoid the crush of San Marco Square.

She looked over her shoulder. Despite the distance between them, she stared into his soul. A hint of a smile graced her lips. She turned, her navy-blue cloak floating in the breeze that whipped across the island. She passed through an arched gate embedded in a reddish brick wall.

Drustan leant forwards, willing his gondolier to go faster. Arriving at the San Maggiore steps, he leapt from the gondola, almost slipping on the slick stone steps. He crossed the tessellated pavement and headed for the gate.

A guard stepped into his path, sticking a rifle in his way. “Halt!” Drustan assumed he said in Italian.

“La signorina!” Drustan pointed into the complex. It looked like a monastery, but the armed guards told a different story.

The guard’s expression faded into a wary blank. His attention reverted to Drustan. He said something in Italian and handed him a brass token.

“I don’t understand.” Drustan glanced at the token. Embossed on it was an insignia made up of a moon and fishtail.

“Left,” the guard replied in crisp English. “Continue straight until you reach the water. Show that to any who challenge you.”

Drustan hurried through the complex, the cloisters nothing but dust and dirt, surrounded by bullet-pitted colonnades.

He reached the water but saw no sign of her. He scoured the shoreline. To his left, the gilded barge hove into view. Not far from him, a patch of lagoon water refracted into turquoise silk. Drustan marveled at how the colours of the canal shifted and changed in the light, even to the point of looking like a sinking dress.

Why had she led him here? Revelry echoed across the water from the mayor’s barge. What if he … what if he stopped this ritual? Is that what the signorina wanted? For him to intervene?

A tethered rowboat bumped against the low island wall. Drustan scrambled into it. Grateful for his years of rowing at Oxford, Drustan pulled hard on the oars. He set a course for the Lido. He rowed ahead of the ungainly barque, ignoring the rowdy jeers coming from other boats. He jostled and shoved the little rowboat until it bobbed in the waters directly before the barge’s prow.

The jeers turned into angry shouts and arm-waving. Even with the language barrier, Drustan understood that he steered too close.

From the barge’s deck, high above him, he heard Latin words intoned, caught the heady whiff of incense.

Light glinted on an object tossed overboard. Drustan leapt for it, fingers closing about the gold ring. He plunged into the lagoon’s cold and murky waters. He kicked to dive deep, despite his initial awkward entry, thinking to come up on the other side of the barge where nobody would look for him.

Up from the gloom below, a hand reached for him, pale and long-fingered. He swam towards it, thinking to rescue them. Long black hair rippled in the current, dotted with tiny shells and pearls.

The signorina! He kicked hard.

Her head tilted, looking up at him. Scales covered her face that wasn’t even a face but some horrific mask with a short bewhiskered snout and a wide mouth with protruding fangs.

He screamed. The last of his remaining air expelled, he choked, the seawater invading his throat, his lungs. His fist loosened, the gold wedding ring sinking until it caught on her claw.

The last thing Drustan saw was her great horrible mouth, opening wide, her serpent’s tongue lolling within.

He lay on his stomach, face mashed into mud and whip-sharp reeds. He coughed, tasting grit on his lips and teeth.

“Thank the Lady,” The contralto voice of a young woman sounded vaguely familiar.

The signorina. He recalled fangs…

He rolled, patting his face and body, searching for damage. He found only cold, grey mud. His linen shirt stuck to his skin, his unbuttoned coat similarly smeared.

The signorina, for it was she, knelt beside him, utterly naked, her dark eyes watchful.

“Signorina, your clothing!” He struggled with the buttons of his jacket, struggled again when the superfine material stuck fast to his shoulders and refused to budge.

She waved him off. “I do not feel the cold, signore.”

“You are naked.” He hoped he sounded horrified, rather than titillated.

“There is nobody to see but my husband.” She held up her left hand. A gold ring gleamed on her fourth finger. “You gave me this.”

“There was … there was a—“

She grimaced. “I should have glamoured—or at least warned you.”

He stared, forgetting to breathe. “That—that was you? You’re dreigiau môr? I—I’ve seen them in pictures but never in person.”

A series of emotions flitted across her face: hurt, curiosity, a wary watchfulness. “You scream like a girl.”

Mud cracked on his forehead, his brow rising. “How could you tell? I was underwater.”

She covered her mouth, her head ducking. By the way her eyes crinkled, he could tell she smiled.

“We cannot be married,” he continued, “for we have not exchanged vows. Indeed, how could we? I do not even know your name.”

“Vows do not need to be said, if they are felt in the heart.” She clasped her hands to her chest.

He averted his gaze. “But I am a stranger!”

“Less of one than the man who threw the ring overboard.” She lifted a shoulder, let it fall.

“Signorina!”

“You pursued me, signore. If not to wed the sea, then why?”

His mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish on the shore. He looked behind him. A tall, crumbling ruin almost lay within reach. It lacked a roof and stood two storeys high. “Where are we?”

“The island of Madonna del Monte.”

“How … how do we get back?” Other islands in the lagoon lay in sight. He could probably swim to one of them, but what of the signorina? Would one of the ferries pass close enough to hail?

She canted her head. “Could we not consider this our honeymoon?”

He frowned. “I’m cold, wet, and there’s no food or shelter. Unless you wish to be widowed…”

She heaved a sigh. “Follow me.”

She clambered through a blown out window, a scattering of bricks making it easy to ascend and pass through.

A rough lean-to of brick and driftwood had been fashioned against one of the walls. Inside, heavy-laden woven baskets hung from the ceiling. On a raised brick and wood platform lay a pile of blankets.

In front, the shoulder-high weeds had been cleared for a small fire ring with firewood stacked ready to light. Over it swung a blackened pot.

She turned to him, her long black hair covering her breasts. “I can forage greens for us too.”

He folded his arms, his coat pulling tight over his shoulders. “You planned this.”

Her lip creased in an apologetic smile. “I hoped you would answer the call.”

“Who are you?”

“Mairenn ferch Cychwr.” She curtsied.

Oh no. Her words sat like lead on his chest. “Idris’s little sister?”

Her pert chin jutted up. “Not so little any more.”

He raked his bedraggled dark curls. “He’s going to kill me.”

She snorted. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

Like I said, it’s a snippet. I can’t believe that the kids of those in the Chosen Court are mentioned in the Red Book of Rhiannon, but there you go. I guess she had some auntie vibes happening and wanted to document? There is more but … there’s all of a novella and book 4 to come yet. Patience, dear reader!

Oh and also this is part of Moll Moonlight’s Valentines Cafe. Check out all the stories in the Valentine’s Cafe.

(Go to All The Red Book of Rhiannon stories.)