An Ancient Celtic Wedding, Part II

In this post, Christian author Mark Fisher concludes his tale of a Celtic wedding. (Click here for Part I.) Last time, through the father’s eyes, we looked in on a forest clearing and saw Airril mac Earnan wed to Brigid nic Dubh. Earnan is Airril’s father and the Rí Tuath, or leader, of Airril’s clan. Brigid’s father, Dubh, is also flaith, or nobility, a ruler of his clan and a lord from distant Tara.

The Caim

Though the ceremony was over, Earnan knew something was missing. The young priest raised both hands. The men playing the bone whistle and bodhrán ceased. Still thronged about the couple, the crowd quieted and gave them space. The priest began the Caim:

“May the power and protection of God’s right hand
Be upon your form and frame;
May the encircling power of the Great High King,
And the grace of the Trinity
Be upon you and abide forever.
May the Spirit of the One God shield you this day.
May the compassing of the Three shield you this night
From all hate, from all harm, from all evil acts, and from all ill.
Amen.”

The clan again mobbed the young lovers. Earnan made his way into the group’s midst. “Let me through, lads. Canna a father congratulate his own son on his wedding day?”

Everyone parted as he found his son and new daughter-in-law in the center. He grabbed Airril by the shoulders, held his gaze, and hugged him so hard he heard the air gush from his lungs. Next, he hugged Brigid, her face radiant under the wreath of eyebrights and daisies atop her head. He planted a kiss on her cheeks. “Welcome to the clan, lass. May you have many sons.”

“Thank you, father-in-law.” She blushed.

Dubh made his way up beside them, embraced Airril as if he were his own and kissed his daughter. “A fine couple they make, hey, Earnan?”

“That they do.”

“Do you ken if we’ll have a surprise visitor today?”

“I donna ken. ’Tis late, so perhaps not.” The rumors must have been nothing but idle talk.

The Pebbles

Then Dubh opened his palm, revealing two pebbles. Earnan had nearly forgotten that Dubh had insisted on doing this, even over the priest’s objections. The couple each took a stone and made separate prayers over them. Then Dubh led the entire group down the path to where it bordered the stream. Water crashed over the rocks, hurrying away rafts of yellow and brown leaves. Samhain, and Winter’s Begin, would soon be here. When the young lovers tossed their stones into the water, Dubh smiled and announced, “Sure, and now prosperity they’ll have. And on their great day, when they’re most vulnerable, the faery folk willna bother them.”

The crowd laughed and clapped Dubh and the young couple on their backs.

Earnan caught a glimpse of the priest, standing behind the group, frowning. Turning his gaze to the lovers and the throng, Earnan roared as loud as he could, “Now to the venison, the mead, and the feast!”

A Celtic Feast

As he led everyone down the trail to his village, the crowd engaged in boisterous, happy conversation. Awaiting them in the center of the roundhouses were three long planks thrown over wooden supports low to the ground. A fourth plank anchored the head, with spots for the visitors. Earnan now feared they would miss the festivities entirely. The women were just pulling leeks, turnips, and fermented cabbage from their underground earth ovens. They’d been cooking all morning wrapped in leaves with butter, beef fat, and salt. His mouth watered at the smell.

Taking a seat cross-legged on the ground in the center of the fourth plank, he motioned for all to sit. After the priest said a prayer of thanksgiving, the women fetched brass pitchers of honey mead and filled the clay cups at each place. When all were served, Earnan raised his cup and shouted, “Let us drink to the young couple—to long life, many sons, and full larders.” Choruses of sláinte followed all around.

Soon, the women set at every table trays of fresh wheat bread with honey and butter, platters heaped with venison, and juicy beef sliced off the spit. He took his two knives, sliced some meat off a platter, and scooped it onto the bread trencher before him.

Now someone played a sprightly tune on the harp, accompanied by another on the bone whistle, while a third joined in with the beat of a bodhrán.

Just then, four men in leather armor, and one in expensive chain mail, rode into the village. Alarmed, Earnan stood, took two steps toward the men, his hand grasping for a sword that wasn’t there. Then he relaxed. “My lord Túathal, welcome! Grand, indeed, that the Ard Rí of Tara would pay a visit to my humble tuath.”

The King of Tara dismounted, followed by his entourage. He glanced around the men and women, the clans of Dubh and Earnan, put hands on his hips, and smiled. “Forgive my tardiness, Earnan mac Barra. We were delayed in the matter of some cattle thievery. ’Twas na my wish to miss the wedding of two of my most loyal Rí Tuath. And what a handsome couple your lad and lass do make!”

“Thank you, my lord.” Earnan bowed low. “Now if it please you, fain join the feast. There’s plenty for all.”

Túathal  mac Cormaic, King of Tara, nodded as his party took seats beside Earnan and Dubh at the head of the group.

Later, when the meal was done and the music and dancing begun, Dubh said to his host, “’Tis a grand affair, this wedding. I congratulate you.”

“Thank you.” Earnan smiled. “And now I do believe I’ll dance.”

Read More of Mark’s Stories

To read more of Mark’s storytelling, check out The Bonfires of Beltane, a novel of ancient Celtic Ireland in the time of St. Patrick. Next time we’ll look at Celtic artisans and craftsmen.