The Curse of Narcissus
In the old Celtic village of Skara Brae, there was no more scandalous person, male or female, than Branwen de Barra, the wild, red-haired, green-eyed lass whose great beauty was exceeded only by her limitless vanity.
Lack of humility was not fair Branwen's only shortcoming. Although she had passed her seventeenth birthday, she still lived in her father's house. She had not married as was expected of all able-bodied young women in Skara Brae. Even worse in the eyes of her fellow villagers, it was common knowledge that Branwen was no longer an innocent maiden. Furthermore, she took no pains to hide her sins. Rather, she brazenly flaunted her immorality. There was not a man in all of Skara Brae with whom she had not flirted and many a one with whom she had shared her charms.
The women of Skara Brae had mixed feelings toward Branwen. They scorned her immodesty, envied her beauty and feared her power over men. Not one of them had ever befriended the fiery-haired vixen. On the contrary, they shunned her as if she were a leper. Consequently, Branwen spent most of her time alone except for those occasions when she was in the company of an ardent admirer.
There was little work for her to do at her father's house since her mother and three younger sisters managed the cooking and household chores quite well without her. With so much time on her hands, Branwen was free to take long walks in the surrounding countryside. She particularly enjoyed strolling along the banks of the lake, where she would stare into its calm waters for hours, marveling at the beauty of her own reflection.
* * *
On the hill overlooking the village of Skara Brae, there sat a grand manor house, home of the Aranrhod clan, one of the wealthiest families in the British Isles. The lord of the manor had died heroically in a war with the Saxons years before, leaving his wife, Lady Cerridwen Aranrhod, in charge of the lands, the livestock and the family fortune. The noble lady handled her heavy responsibilities quite capably, holding the family's great wealth in trust for her son, Connall.
Lady Cerridwen had always doted on her only child, but upon the death of her husband, she unselfishly sent the young heir to live with her brother. Under the tutelage of his uncle, Connall learned how to read and write and do mathematics. He was also schooled in the fine art of warfare, for his uncle was one of the bravest knights of the realm. Recently, however, the young lord had reached manhood and was returning home to assume the responsibilities that accompanied his title.
Connall was tired, hungry and thirsty. He and his two companions had ridden hard for hours. Daylight was waning, and they wanted to arrive at the manor before darkness fell.
"My lord," called Sir Llewelyn, Connall's elderly companion. "We must stop soon and let the horses rest awhile."
"Very well," Connall conceded, although he was anxious to get home and see his beloved mother. "We'll stop in Skara Brae. It's just up ahead, and it's not far from my father's lands."
The old knight chuckled.
"Your father died when my beard was still free of gray. The lands belong to you now."
"I'm fully aware of that fact," the young lord acknowledged with a heavy sigh. "You don't need to remind me."
It was common knowledge among the knights that the brave, adventurous Connall wanted to be a warrior, not a farmer.
As the weary men rode into Skara Brae, word of their arrival spread quickly. Curious villagers briefly stopped their labors to gawk at the fine gentlemen. Connall and Rhys Mac Dónaill, his best friend, had been leading the way and were first to dismount.
"You there," Rhys called to a young peasant boy who had been feeding a flock of chickens. "Our horses need water."
The boy nodded and quickly led the thirsty animals to the nearest watering trough.
"And what of your men, my lord?" a feminine voice called from the doorway of a nearby thatched hut.
Connall and Rhys turned in unison.
"Well, who have we here?" Rhys asked with a friendly smile.
Branwen emerged from the shadows, and Rhys's smile widened at the sight of her.
"Are you gentlemen thirsty, too?" Branwen asked, brazenly swinging her hips as she walked.
Rhys was reminded of the girls who walked the docks, plying their age-old trade. The only difference Rhys could see between them and Branwen was the latter's extraordinary beauty.
"Aye, I would like something to slake my thirst. How about a kiss from your sweet lips, wench?" he asked with a playful laugh.
"Rhys!" Connall admonished him curtly. "I'll not have one of my knights address a lady so."
His friend was about to question the appropriateness of the word lady to describe so common a girl as Branwen, but he thought better of it and held his tongue.
Connall, dazzled by Branwen's beauty, bowed low and gallantly declared, "My dear lady, I apologize for the vulgar, unchivalrous behavior of my friend here."
Branwen was impressed by Connall's fine manners as well as with Rhys's rugged masculinity and handsomeness.
"Would you like a drink of cold water, m'lord?" she asked, casting her eyes down demurely, pretending a modesty she did not possess.
"Yes, thank you," Connall replied.
Branwen went inside her father's hut and returned momentarily with an earthenware pitcher. She then went to the well, filled it with cold water and handed it to Connall. As he slaked his thirst with the water, his eyes also drank in the beauty of the bewitching young woman. The color of her hair reminded him of the gold and red rays of a summer sunset, the color of her eyes of a field of green clover. Connall's appreciation of her charms did not stop at her face either. Her body seemed to be the epitome of womanhood in all its glory.
The goddess herself must surely have a body such as this, he thought.
Rhys, too, was impressed with Branwen's looks and form. Had it not been for Connall's presence, he would have attempted to corner the young woman, hoping to seduce her or steal a kiss, at the very least. From the furtive looks Branwen threw in his direction, Rhys assumed he would have gotten a good deal more.
When Sir Llewelyn, who had been overseeing the care of the horses, joined his two young companions, he immediately saw the attention Connall was giving the redhead.
"You there, girl," he called, addressing Branwen directly, "where is your husband, out working in the field?"
In truth, Llewelyn could not care less about the whereabouts of a common farm laborer. His question was for Connall's benefit, meant only to call attention to the girl's probable marital status.
"Oh, I'm not married, sir," she said arrogantly, as though that fact set her above the young matrons of the village.
Her green eyes locked with Connall's before returning to Llewelyn's. The old man was flustered. His attempts to extricate his young friend from a potentially dangerous situation had backfired. He had to take a more direct course.
"We had better be on our way, Connall," the old man said, "if we want to make it to Aranrhod Manor before night falls."
"You're going to visit the manor house?" Branwen asked excitedly.
"More than that," Connall replied. "I'm going to live there."
Rhys chuckled at the young woman's ignorance.
"Girl, did you not realize that the man you have been flirting with is none other than Lord Aranrhod himself?"
Branwen curtseyed, giving Connall an excellent view of her rather low-cut neckline.
"Forgive me for not paying you proper respect, your lordship."
Llewelyn tugged at Connall's sleeve and announced, "The horses are ready."
Connall paid him no mind.
"You say you have no husband, but surely a young woman your age must be spoken for."
"I'm afraid not. I still live here in my father's house," she replied, waving her hand at the humble abode.
Sir Llewelyn mounted his horse, signaling to Rhys to do the same. With his two friends so eager to continue their journey, Connall had no choice but to say farewell to the red-haired, green-eyed Branwen. But even as he pointed his horse in the direction of Aranrhod Manor, he was already making plans to see her again.
* * *
The following day, a squire from the manor appeared in the village of Skara Brae.
"What can we do for you?" the village smithy asked him.
"I'm here on an errand for my master. I'm looking for a girl with red hair and green eyes."
"That would be Branwen de Barra," the smithy replied. "What does your master want with her?"
"I've been sent here to offer her work at the manor house."
The smithy raised his eyebrows, instantly suspicious of Connall's motives, but before the blacksmith could question the squire further, Branwen came from the direction of the river, her hair still wet from its recent washing. The squire approached her and informed her of his lord's generous offer. Branwen paused to consider it.
"Just what kind of work would I have to do?" she asked.
The squire was taken aback. He had expected the girl to accept her good fortune with alacrity.
"I don't know. I would imagine you would have to help out with the household chores: sewing, cooking, cleaning, things like that."
Although Branwen would dearly love to live in the splendid manor house, she did not like being cast in the role of a mere servant. Nor did the idea of cooking and cleaning appeal to her, for she was as lazy as she was vain.
"Well, girl?" the squire demanded to know. "Will you be coming back to Aranrhod Manor with me or not?"
Branwen looked at the smithy. She and he had enjoyed more than one tumble in the field behind his shop. His body was strong and his features pleasing, but he, like all the inhabitants of Skara Brae, was poor. Branwen felt she had been born for better things and decided her best opportunities—at least for the time being—lay in Aranrhod Manor.
* * *
In the few weeks that Branwen had been at the great house, she managed to alienate almost the entire household staff. The men, who at first had been drawn to the beautiful new kitchen maid, were later offended when she haughtily refused their advances. The women at the manor disliked her for the same reasons as those in Skara Brae had. She was not only an insufferable snob, but she also posed a threat to every woman who could not hold a candle to her physical perfection.
Surprisingly enough, Branwen enjoyed working at the manor. For one thing, most of her hours were spent in the company of Connall. Apparently, the young lord was bewitched by the beautiful redhead, and despite his mother's disapproval, he sought her company whenever he was free. Another thing Branwen enjoyed was the fine silver dining service that the noble family used. In and of themselves, the silver dishes were not very impressive, but Branwen learned while she was polishing a dinner plate one day, that if she held it a certain way, she could see her image in its center. The reflection in the plate was so much clearer than that in the lake, and Branwen took every opportunity to gaze at her own likeness.
Late one afternoon, as Branwen was gathering herbs in the kitchen garden, Connall came up behind her and grabbed her by the waist.
"Stop that!" she said, playfully slapping his hands away.
"Did I scare you?" he laughed.
"Yes. Besides," whined said slyly, "your mother might be around."
Branwen knew that Lady Cerridwen had spoken to her son about the kitchen servant on several occasions. The lady didn't want him to become too attached to one so far beneath him in station.
"Why must you always speak of my mother?" Connall asked, his good humor suddenly fading.
"What would you have me speak of then? The proper way to prepare a side of beef? Or maybe you would rather we debate whether mutton should be seasoned with thyme or with sage."
"I have a better idea," he said, pulling her away from the house by the arm. "Let's take a walk along the river bank."
Branwen dropped the herbs she had picked and followed Connall. Once they were out of sight of the house, the young lord stopped and kissed her. Branwen pulled away.
"I have a present for you," he said, reaching into his shirt and pulling out two emerald green ribbons. "These will look beautiful in those fiery locks of yours."
"Thank you," she said sweetly. "But you really shouldn't spoil me so."
"Why not? I like making you happy," he said, again pulling her into his arms.
"Then why must you buy me things I can't possibly use? What good are hair ribbons and other such finery to a servant?"
"Please don't start that again."
"Why not? You always tell me how much you love me, yet you have not asked me to marry you."
His face a mask of sadness, Connall lowered his head and shook it.
"You know I can't do that."
When he raised his head and looked at her, his eyes revealed the pain he felt.
"As much as I love you, I need to marry a noblewoman, one who will provide me with an heir to the Aranrhod estates."
Branwen angrily threw the ribbons at his feet.
"Then keep your gifts. Give them to your noblewoman when you find her."
The tempestuous redhead then haughtily stormed off toward the manor, ignoring Connall's pleas for her to come back.
* * *
In the ensuing weeks, Branwen drove Connall to distraction, refusing to either speak to him or see him in private. The young lord was miserable without her, but Branwen, secure in her own beauty and her ability to manipulate men, would hold him at bay until she had broken his opposition to marriage. She never doubted for a moment that she would win in the end. In the meantime, there was the handsome, desirable Rhys Mac Dónaill to alleviate her boredom.
Rhys, unlike his lifelong friend, Connall, was not blinded by Branwen's beauty. He neither trusted nor respected the girl, nor did he bring her gifts as Connall had, but he did enjoy the pleasure of her company. He was a strong, virile young man, after all, and she was a vain young woman who basked in the attention of men.
"I've got to get back to the house," Branwen announced. "That old witch keeps a close eye on me lately."
Rhys lay back in the hay, making no attempt to detain her. Branwen straightened her clothes, patted down her tousled hair and left the stables. As she neared the manor house, she spotted Connall headed in her direction. She quickened her pace, trying to avoid him.
"Branwen, wait," he cried. "I have to talk to you."
She ignored him and continued on toward the manor.
"I can't go on like this," the young nobleman cried. "I want to marry you."
Branwen stopped short, savoring her moment of triumph. The victorious smile on her face was hidden from her lovesick lord.
"Your mother will never allow it," she taunted him heartlessly.
"I don't care. I'm old enough to make my own decisions. And I want you.
She finally turned and faced him. This was the closest she had been to him in several weeks, and she was shocked at how awful he looked. He was too thin, and there were dark circles under his eyes. It appeared as though he had not eaten or slept much since she had broken off their relationship. As she stared at the lovesick young lord, Branwen felt no pity or concern, only a strong sense of pride in that she, a common peasant girl, had brought the wealthy nobleman to his knees.
* * *
The servants took no joy in preparing for the wedding of Lord Connall Aranrhod to the future Lady Branwen, for it was a ceremony that no one except the bride and groom themselves wanted to take place. Lady Cerridwen was most displeased, yet as her son had said, he was old enough to make his own decisions. He was now the lord of the manor, and his word was law.
Despite the fervent prayers of so many people at Aranrhod Manor, the day of the wedding arrived, and Connall and Branwen were married. Lady Cerridwen tried to take some small comfort in the look of pure joy on her son's handsome face, but she knew that the pleasure of young love was fleeting, that it would probably last only a few months, a year at most. Yet even Connall's mother would never have guessed that within days of taking his vows, her son's matrimonial bliss would be completely shattered.
It was a hot, sunny day, and Connall felt it was far too warm for him to be inside. He would much rather go swimming in the pond with Branwen. After fruitlessly searching the house, he decided to look for her on the manor grounds.
"Has my wife passed by this way?" Connall asked one of the young squires.
"I saw her just a moment ago, my lord. She was heading toward the stables."
Why would Branwen go to the stables? he wondered. She doesn't ride, and she doesn't particularly care for horses. Still, the boy said she went there; perhaps he is right.
As he neared the stalls, Connall heard a low, deep chuckle. It was a man's laughter.
"I can't believe even you have the nerve to show up here barely a week after you were married."
Connall recognized the voice; it belonged to Rhys, and his words were dripping with contempt.
"What has my marriage to do with us?"
The second voice was familiar, too. It was Branwen's.
Rhys laughed again.
"I admit I had no qualms about carrying on with you when you were a servant, but now you are the lady of the manor."
He found it hard to imagine Branwen, beautiful though she was, as anything but a peasant.
"Besides," he continued, "your husband is my best friend. Perhaps you don't mind deceiving him, but I do."
"Oh, really? I will give you a few days, a week or two at most, and you will be begging for me," Branwen prophesied.
"Nay, lass. I won't be rolling in the hay with you anymore."
Connall had heard enough. He boldly strode into the stable and confronted his wife and his boyhood friend.
"You wretched swine!" he shouted, focusing all his anger on Rhys. "I loved you like a brother. How dare you take advantage of my wife, my hospitality, my friendship?"
Branwen smiled smugly at her husband. She felt neither guilt nor shame at being discovered in the act of trying to seduce another man. Rhys, on the other hand, sympathized with his friend's pain and hated himself for contributing to the cause of it.
"I'm sorry, Connall. I truly am. I wish there was some way I could undo what has been done, but there isn't any. All I can do is beg for your forgiveness."
"How can I ever forgive you for bringing such dishonor to my wife, for taking advantage of a young girl's innocence?"
Rhys couldn't believe that Connall had been so blinded by love.
"What I did was wrong, and I admit it, but you cannot hold your wife entirely blameless."
"How dare you suggest that she would welcome your advances?"
"My advances? She was the one who threw herself at me."
Connall exploded. He lunged at his friend, his fists flailing. Although he did his best to ward off Connall's blows, Rhys would not raise a hand to him.
"Stop it, Connall," he cried. "We've been friends all our lives. Don't let a pretty face and a shapely figure come between us."
However, the irate young lord continued to fight. Not only was his pride injured, but his heart had been broken.
"Connall, please! She's not worth it."
Branwen eagerly watched the two men battling, her eyes wide with rapt attention. Rather than being horrified over the brutal contest, she was actually enjoying it. After all, it fed her vanity that her beauty had been the cause of the altercation between the two friends. The only disappointment she felt was that Rhys refused to fight back. He was better built and much stronger than Connall; he could easily have beaten her husband.
Suddenly, the struggle came to an abrupt and deadly conclusion. Rhys, knocked off balance by one of Connall's vicious blows, fell back and struck his head on the stone watering trough. He died instantly. Although Branwen felt no love or affection for either man, she was disappointed that Rhys had been the one to die. Had it been her husband lying on the ground with his head bashed in, she would now be a widow, the lady of the manor, with no lord to curtail her freedom.
The sight of his friend's bloodied, lifeless body had a profound effect on Connall. He no longer saw Rhys as a rival or an enemy. Once again, he was the little boy who had made Connall feel better when the young lord woke up in the night crying for his mother. He was the adolescent with whom Connall jousted and hunted. The Lord of Aranrhod had been closer to Rhys than to any other person, including his uncle, his mother and his wife.
His wife! Connall turned and stared at Branwen. There were no tears in her eyes as she gazed at the dead man lying at her feet. She was so lacking in human feeling that she might as well have been made of stone.
"Tell me, my lady," Connall asked with despair, "if it were me lying there dead would you be grieving?"
"Why should I waste my tears? Men fight; men die. You were the one who thought you could heal your injured pride by beating your friend senseless. What now, Connall? Am I next? Do you plan on hitting me?"
"No. I've had enough of fighting, for not only have I murdered my best friend, but I killed him over something as foolish and meaningless as a common whore."
Connall turned and walked out of the stable, a miserable, broken man, oblivious to the vile curses and crude insults that Branwen hurled at his departing figure.
* * *
When Branwen sat down for supper that night, her husband was nowhere in sight. Lady Cerridwen, who did her best to avoid her daughter-in-law, was also absent. As Branwen sat alone at the long table waiting for the serving girl to bring in the roasted pork, she picked up a silver plate and gazed at her winsome reflection. As her soft, dainty hand caressed her creamy complexion, she smiled and took note of the mischievous sparkle in her green eyes and the golden highlights in her red hair.
Lady Cerridwen came through the doorway of the dining hall and watched with disgust as her daughter-in-law preened and primped in front of her makeshift mirror.
"If the plates are not clean enough for your satisfaction, perhaps you ought to take them into the kitchen and polish them," the lady of the manor said, reminding Branwen of her former position in the household.
Branwen, however, was not one to be humbled or humiliated, especially not by her mother-in-law. She considered herself as good as, if not better than, the noble lords and ladies of the realm.
"You need not worry; the plates are not dirty," she retorted. "I was simply admiring the firmness of my skin and the vibrant color of my hair. Honestly, I don't know how you can stand looking so old."
Lady Cerridwen wanted to reach out and slap the smirk off her daughter-in-law's face, to remind the impudent Branwen that one day her skin would be wrinkled, her hair would turn gray and her body would bear the signs of age. But why bother? Branwen was a vain, ignorant girl; she would have to learn the hard way.
"I'm looking for my son," the lady announced. "Have you seen him?"
"Not since this morning."
"No one has seen him."
As she turned to leave the dining hall, Lady Cerridwen could hear the shouting in the courtyard. A terrible foreboding gripped her. Perhaps if she stood perfectly still and silent, the horror wouldn't find her. But it did.
"My lady?" Sir Llewelyn called frantically. "Lady Cerridwen?"
The frightened mother fought down her rising panic.
"Oh, my dear lady," Llewelyn said sadly as he approached her. "I have terrible news."
"What is going on here, old man?" Branwen asked, demanding the attention due to her as the current lady of the manor.
Sir Llewelyn could scarcely hide his contempt.
"I was speaking to my lady," he said, firmly dismissing Branwen. "My dear Cerridwen, it's Connall. He's ...."
"No!" Cerridwen screamed.
She would have fallen to the ground had Llewelyn not caught her in his arms.
"No. No. No," she moaned.
"My husband is dead?" Branwen asked with surprise but not grief. "How did it happen?"
Llewelyn did his best to ignore her.
"I demand you tell me how my husband died!" the woman shouted.
"Be quiet, woman. Can't you see how upset his mother is?"
"What you can't seem to understand is that with Connall gone, I will run this manor. Now I insist you tell me how my husband died."
Holding Lady Cerridwen close to him as if he could shield her from further pain, Sir Llewelyn replied, "He hanged himself, madam. No doubt something or someone made him desperately unhappy."
* * *
Lady Cerridwen remained at Aranrhod Manor to see both her son and his friend, Sir Rhys Mac Dónaill, properly buried. Out of respect for the dead, she kept peace with Branwen, much as it pained her to do so. But after Connall's body was placed in the family crypt, the truce came to an end and the battle was renewed.
Branwen, drunk with self-importance, boldly marched into Cerridwen's room and arrogantly declared, "Now that I am the lady of the manor, there will be some changes around here."
Cerridwen smiled sadly and calmly addressed her daughter-in-law.
"I would imagine so, but I shan't be here to see them."
"What do you mean?"
Branwen was aghast. She needed Cerridwen to see to the day-to-day management of the house and grounds, for she knew nothing about running a house, much less an entire estate. She eyed the older woman suspiciously.
"Wait, you won't leave. This is your home."
"No, these were my husband's lands and then they passed on to my son when his father died. But they are both gone, and as you have said more than once, you are the lady here now. As for me, I am going home to live with my brother."
"You can't go. Think of Connall. You owe it to his memory to look after the Aranrhod lands and fortune."
"For the first time, I agree with you. I do owe a debt to Connall's memory, and it is one I fully intend to pay."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No, I don't suppose you do. You see, I loved my husband, and I was only slightly older than you are now when he died in battle. I was shattered. I would have gone mad had it not been for Connall. My son became my whole world."
"And now you are left with no one," Branwen said cruelly. "I pity you, old woman."
"Save your pity, Branwen. You're the one who needs it most. At least I have known love, but you've never loved anyone except yourself."
* * *
The following morning Lady Cerridwen said her tearful farewells to those who had served her well during her tenure at Aranrhod Manor, all of whom were greatly saddened to see her go. Unlike Branwen, Cerridwen was admired and respected by all for her kind, humble and virtuous nature.
Sir Llewelyn, who was to accompany Cerridwen on her journey, helped her mount her horse.
"I've purchased a wagon to carry your belongings, my lady. I didn't think you would want to be beholding to that woman for anything. I have also arranged for twenty men to ride with us."
"I don't think that will be necessary, my old friend."
"Nonsense. We must think of your safety."
Although their journey had taken more than a week, Lady Cerridwen was not home for more than a few hours, when she mounted her horse and rode off into the dense forest that surrounded her brother's estate. It had been twenty-two years since she had last traveled the steep path that led to the high plain, but she remembered it well.
"Cerridwen of Aranrhod," a voice called. "I have been expecting you."
Morgan, as mysterious as ever, greeted her old friend, and Lady Cerridwen hugged the powerful Druid priestess.
"You know what happened?" the grieving mother asked.
Morgan nodded.
"I saw it all in a vision. Rest easy, dear Cerridwen, your son's widow will pay for the harm she has caused. On the night of the next full moon, you and I will enter the sacred circle of stones. There I will cast a spell that will avenge poor Connall and his friend Rhys."
"Will she die?"
"No, for one such as her, there are fates worse than death."
* * *
Branwen, Lady of Aranrhod, woke early. When she opened her eyes, a pain seared her brain. For the remainder of the day, she stayed in her room with the windows covered to block out the sunlight that burned her eyes. The herbs that normally helped relieve her aches and pains proved useless against the agony she felt.
When dusk passed and nighttime came, however, Branwen's health greatly improved. With her pain gone, she felt a tremendous hunger. She went down to the kitchen in search of food. But although her empty stomach cried out for sustenance, Branwen couldn't eat. Each time she took a bite, she gagged. When she took a sip of wine, her stomach turned and she spit it up.
"What is the matter with me?" Branwen cried with fear. "Has one of those hateful kitchen wenches tried to poison me?"
The fear of death was suddenly overshadowed by the dread that her illness would have a devastating effect on her appearance. She had seen villagers in Skara Brae, the young and the old, wither away, and had seen disease leave its mark on their faces and their bodies.
"Oh, no! That cannot happen to me! I would rather die than lose my beauty."
She crossed the kitchen toward the great dining hall where the silver plates were kept.
"Excuse me, m'lady."
A young servant, new to the manor, had heard the mistress searching the kitchen and came to offer her assistance.
"You have not eaten anything all day. Would you like me to prepare something for you?"
The sight of the girl's slight frame and, in particular, her slender neck caused an unfamiliar yearning in the lady of the manor.
"If you do not mind my saying so, m'lady, you really should eat something. You are looking very pale."
Branwen's stomach started to growl. Her hunger grew so strong she could hardly stand. The young servant saw her mistress start to swoon and rushed forward to support her.
"Sit down, m'lady," the girl said, putting her arm around Branwen's waist and leading her toward the kitchen table.
"I'm all right; I just ...."
Branwen took one more look at the soft, tender flesh of the servant's neck and, without fully understanding why, she leaned forward and bit it. The girl screamed and tried to pull away. Branwen held on and sunk her teeth deeper into the helpless maiden's flesh. When the lady tasted the warm, salty blood, she became insatiable. She cupped her hands over the girl's mouth to silence her screams and then proceeded to drain her dry.
As the servant's lifeless body dropped to the floor, Branwen felt a warm, heady euphoria overpower her.
I'll bet I don't look so bad after all, she thought dreamily.
Stepping over the bloodless corpse of the young girl, Branwen headed toward the great hall. She picked up a silver plate, quickly polished it with the sleeve of her dress and held it up to her face. She turned it this way and that. Again, she tried polishing the silver. It did no good; Branwen could no longer see her reflection.
Emitting a piercing scream of rage coupled with fear, she hurled the plate across the great hall. She picked up another plate, then another and another. In each instance, the result was the same.
In a fit of desperation, she picked up a freshly honed carving knife and thrust it into her own chest. The pain was severe but brief. When Branwen removed the knife, her wound bled for a moment or two and then the flow of blood stopped. By all rights, she should be dead, but she wasn't.
"I am not dead, nor am I alive," she said with sudden insight. "I am now one of the undead, a monster who must walk the night and feed on the blood of the living."
The Lady of Aranrhod, who had felt no sympathy for either Rhys or Lady Cerridwen, or even for her own husband, was overcome with pity for herself.
"What good is my great beauty if I must stay hidden during the day and only emerge under the cover of darkness, if I may never again look upon the image that is so dear to me?"
Branwen fell to the ground sobbing. Her sanity left her, and she began pulling out strands of her golden red hair by the handful.
"How can I bear this curse," she screamed, "knowing full well that it must go on and on with no surcease for time without end?"
* * *
Many miles away, on a high plain surrounded by dense forest, two robed women stood within a circle of tall stones. They held hands before the altar and stared into a smoking cauldron.
"You see, my dear Cerridwen," the high priestess Morgan said, "I told you that for a vain, selfish woman such as Branwen, there are fates far worse than death."
No, Salem doesn't suffer from the curse of Narcissus. He just wants to wash the chocolate off his paws and whiskers.
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