PRAISE FOR THE MAEVE CHRONICLES
“From the beginning we are caught up in a cocky irreverence that is captivating. Wrestling with destiny as all true heroines must, Maeve searches for the land of Mona and its famous Druid university. Once she is there, prophesies begin to fulfill themselves and we are swept into an adventure that tugs at our hearts and minds. This amazing book could well become a classic of women’s literature.”
-Booklist, Starred Review
(Magdalen Rising)
“Magdalene fans are in for more surprises in Cunningham’s classy, sexy novel… this will be snapped up by Magdelene fans as well as Celtophiles, feminists and lovers of a good yarn—controversial.”
-Booklist, Starred Review
(The Passion of Mary Magdalen)
“[The Passion of Mary Magdalen] gives readers what [The Da Vinci Code] does not… freedom from a false claim that historical elements in the book are factual….there is engaging language, too, such as her intriguing description of Jesus as “a man who broke Sabbath rules like fingernails.”
-Kansas City Star
“[The Passion] offers a digestive to Mel Gibson’s film, The Passion of the Christ, and a fascination way beyond Dan Brown’s exploitation in The Da Vinci Code.”
-Pages Magazine
“As you might imagine, The Passion of Mary Magdalen is hardly traditional—and is all the better for it. Sassy, salty, sexy—all three words aptly describe Cunningham’s prose, her heroine, and The Passion of Mary Magdalen as a whole. Those without an irreverent sense of humor will likely balk, but that just leaves more copies for the rest of us to pass around.”
-LesbianNation.com
“Amazing story!”
-Historical Novels Review (The Passion of Mary Magdalen)
“This year’s must-have summer reading.”
-Kink Radio (The Passion of Mary Magdalen)
“The Passion of Mary Magdalen is certain to appeal to fans of historical fiction, to Celtophiles, to those who love fantasy, to feminists, and to anyone who loves a great story. Unconventional? Controversial? You bet. It kept me up all night, and I loved it!”
-MyShelf.com
“I now see The Passion is a Pagan book…. I am sitting on the edge of my seat waiting for the sequel.”
-Pagan News and Links
“High adventure, magic, a detailed look at the world of the ancient Druids, and the most engaging heroine of recent goddess fiction come together to make Magdalen Rising a must-have for any lover of historical or goddess-oriented fantasy.”
-SageWoman Magazine
(Magdalen Rising)
“Cunningham weaves Hebrew Scripture, Celtic and Egyptian mythology, and early Christian legend into a nearly seamless whole, creating an unforgettable fifth gospel story in which the women most involved in Jesus’s ministry are given far more representation....”
-Library Journal (The Passion of Mary Magdalen)
“If you’re a Mists of Avalon type, you’ll be thrilled with this sexy, women-centric take on life.”
-Hot Picks, The Advocate (The Passion of Mary Magdalen)
“Gleefully iconoclastic!”
-Kirkus (Bright Dark Madonna)
Other Novels by Elizabeth Cunningham
The Return of the Goddess, A Divine Comedy
The Wild Mother
How To Spin Gold, A Woman’s Tale
THE MAEVE CHRONICLES
Magdalen Rising
The Passion of Mary Magdalen
Bright Dark Madonna
Poetry
Small Bird
Wild Mercy
Musical Work
MaevenSong: A Musical Odyssey through The Maeve Chronicles
Red-Robed Priestess © 2011 by Elizabeth Cunningham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in critical articles and reviews. Contact the publisher for information.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover illustration: Leonardo da Vinci (attributed), Mary Magdalene, c. 1515. Private collection, in trust of The Rossana and Carlo Pedretti Foundation, Los Angeles, California.
Book and cover design by Georgia Dent
eISBN 9780983358992
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cunningham, Elizabeth, 1953-
Red-robed priestess / Elizabeth Cunningham.
p. cm. -- (The Maeve chronicles ; 4)
ISBN 978-0-9823246-9-1 (hard cover : alk. paper)
1. Mary Magdalene, Saint--Fiction. 2. Women priests--Fiction. 3. Women, Celtic--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.U473R43 2011
813’.54--dc23
Monkfish Book Publishing Company
22 East Market Street
Suite 304
Rhinebeck, New York 12572
www.monkfishpublishing.com
USA 845-876-4861
Table of Contents
PRAISE FOR THE MAEVE CHRONICLES
Other Novels by Elizabeth Cunningham
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PREFACE - WELCOME TO MAEVE’S WORLD
Maeve’s updated curriculum vitae
Historical Note
PROLOGUE - OUT OF RETIREMENT INTO THE CELTIC KNOT
PART ONE - Water
CHAPTER ONE - CLIFF HANGER
CHAPTER TWO - THE MORNING AFTER
CHAPTER THREE - ON GUARD
CHAPTER FOUR - THE VIEW THROUGH THE FOG
CHAPTER FIVE - HOME
CHAPTER SIX - TOO LATE
CHAPTER SEVEN - JOSEPH
CHAPTER EIGHT - SPIRAL PATH
CHAPTER NINE - CLASS REUNION
CHAPTER TEN - BOUDICA
CHAPTER ELEVEN - WHERE NOT ALL THINGS ARE REVEALED
PART TWO - Fire
CHAPTER TWELVE - PASSING THROUGH
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - LOVER OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - FILIAL WRATH
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - TRUTH?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - FACE TO FACE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - CIVIL DISUNION
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - MOTHER-IN-LAW
CHAPTER NINETEEN - THE HERO’S CUT
CHAPTER TWENTY - HERO’S TALE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - BETWEEN STORIES
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - HEART TO HEART
PART THREE - Earth
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - GREY ONE, RED ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - INHERITANCE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - THE RETURN OF MAEVE RHUAD
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - THE DRUIDS OF MONA: REPRISE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - THE MOTION OF TIME
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - IN THE DARK
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - OVER THE RIVER HARD TO SEE
CHAPTER THIRTY - THE ORDER
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - A MORNING’S WORK
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - THE STORY ONE LAST TIME
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - SINGLE COMBAT
PART FOUR - Air
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - AWAY TO THE EAST AGAIN
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - REPORTING
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - DAUGHTER OF ESUS
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - ANDRASTE
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - LOAVES AND FISHES
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE - MATRILINEAGE
CHAPTER FORTY - FOR THIS SHE WAS BORN
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE - HAWK AND DOVE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO - BATTLE
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE - CALLED BACK
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR - THE END IS IN THE BEGINNING
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SOURCE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONSITE RESEARCH
MAEVE
&
nbsp; for Hawksbrother
PREFACE
WELCOME TO MAEVE’S WORLD
WELCOME to the fourth and final volume of The Maeve Chronicles. Be assured that you can read the last book first and the first, last—or in any order you please. Each novel is designed to stand alone as well as to continue the account of Maeve’s adventures from birth to, well, you’ll see. Occasionally passages from other volumes of The Maeve Chronicles are woven into this story. These quotations appear in italics.
When I began to write Maeve’s story in 1991 I did not expect to write more than one book. Early in the writing, I decided I would have to write three, a good Celtic number. In Magdalen Rising, I planted the seed for the story you are about to read, hinting that Maeve had a connection with the rebel Queen Boudica. Partway through the writing of Bright Dark Madonna, I realized that the story of Maeve’s return to Britain required its own volume.
Red-Robed Priestess surprised me by being the most compelling and challenging book I have yet written. There were times when I sorely wished I had not entwined Maeve’s life with Boudica’s, for this story has demanded that I stretch my imagination and my heart beyond where I thought I could. That said, I also found it deeply satisfying to revisit places and people Maeve knew in her youth as she comes full circle. Longtime readers, I hope you will, too.
Readers new to Maeve: her resumé follows, everything you need to know about her to begin reading Red-Robed Priestess. Welcome to Maeve’s world.
Maeve’s updated curriculum vitae
She was born on the Isle of Women in the Celtic Otherworld and raised by eight warrior-witch mothers.
She attended druid school where she studied to be a bard—until she got kicked out, which is to say exiled, for saving the life of a certain young foreign exchange student.
She left behind an infant daughter stolen from her arms by the druids.
She was sold into prostitution in Rome and worked at a brothel named The Vine and Fig Tree.
She eventually founded her own holy whorehouse in Magdala, Galilee.
She is a healer with “the fire of the stars” in her hands.
She loved and loves Jesus from “before and beyond time in all the worlds.”
She never became his disciple—or anyone else’s, for that matter. She is not disciple material.
She has a daughter by Jesus named Sarah.
She gave the Early Church a run for its money and had a particularly fraught relationship with Paul of Tarsus.
She is incapable of staying out of trouble.
She is telling her story to you. Now. In the twenty-first century.
Historical Note
Boudica (also spelled Boudicca and Boadicea) Queen of the Iceni tribe is an historic figure. Other historic figures appearing in this novel include Boudica’s husband Prasutagus, her two daughters, Governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, and the Roman procurator of Britain, Catus Decianus. Accounts of Suetonius’s attack on the druid Isle of Mona and of Boudica’s uprising, the last significant rebellion against Roman rule in the British Isles, can be found in the writings of Roman historians Tacitus and Dio Cassius. For more information on my research, see source acknowledgments.
I followed historic fact as closely as possible in depicting the battles as well as the events and conditions that led to them. Red-Robed Priestess, like all The Maeve Chronicles, is a work of fiction. My interpretation of the characters and their relationships to each other and to Maeve is entirely imaginative.
PROLOGUE
OUT OF RETIREMENT INTO THE CELTIC KNOT
I AM SUPPOSED TO BE OLD NOW, though age is not as fixed or reliable as it seems. I am not as wise as I might wish, but I feel I have earned the right to make cryptic prophecies impossible to interpret till after the fact—just as old women did over me all my life. I would like to hum and sing maddening songs like Miriam of Nazareth, my eternal mother-in-law. I wouldn’t mind my own well of eels like Dwynwyn of Mona and young girls coming to me for love divination so that I can console and ridicule them in equal measure. Or a valley with a sacred spring and nine hazelnut trees, like the Cailleach on Tir na mBan. At the very least, I should have doves flocking to me like Anna the Prophetess of Jerusalem and flying where I bid them from my outstretched hands.
In fact, for awhile I had a pretty good arrangement in a cave in southern Gaul where the local populace revered me for no particular reason and brought me offerings, kegs of wine, wheels of cheese, fruit and flowers in season. They said my presence in the cave filled the valley with the smell of roses.
That’s what I had in mind for my retirement.
Here is a word of advice: If that’s what you want, too, don’t leave any unfinished business. Or have a daughter who won’t let you rest till you face a past that is really none of her business, no matter what she thinks. Don’t adore her so much that you’ll do anything she says: leave your comfortable cave, travel across the whole of Gaul on horseback (when you’ve hardly even ridden a donkey) to return to a people who exiled you long ago for meddling in high mysteries, exiled you so thoroughly that they did not expect you to survive, or they would not have sent you out with the tide, beyond the ninth wave, in a tiny boat without sail or oar.
Above all, do not ever leave behind a child, your first-born, forcibly taken from your arms, a child whose name you don’t even know, a child you can never forget no matter how old you’ve grown. No matter how much or little she might welcome your return—if you can ever find her.
These circumstances, mine, pretty much rule out a peaceful, permanent retirement and pretty much dictate a last quest, foolish, heroic or both.
A story must begin (or begin again) somewhere, though this story, I must warn you, is a story mostly of endings. I will forego adjectives for now. You might argue that the story really began long ago, when I conceived this child by rape, or before that, with what drove that man, my own father, to such madness. The end of a story is in its beginning, the beginning in the end, as a seed lies at the heart of the fruit.
But there are many strands to a story. I have already told many of the tales that will weave their way into this story. But there is one new strand, one new twist that binds all the stories into an impossible Celtic knot, one that with all my blinding flashes of second sight I never saw coming.
And so I begin again.
Here. On the northern coast of Gaul on a full moon night in Spring.
PART ONE
Water
Back From Beyond The Ninth Wave
CHAPTER ONE
CLIFF HANGER
I WAS WALKING on a cliff path looking across the narrows of the sea to the answering cliffs I could just see on the other side. It was clear as the moonlight that some catastrophic flood had torn these shores apart, and they still looked stark and startled at the sudden separation.
I had, perhaps foolishly, slipped away from our camp, leaving my daughter Sarah and her companions sleeping, exhausted from a hard day’s ride. Despite my own fatigue, I was wakeful, restless. I wanted some time alone. Tomorrow we would go to Portus Itius to seek passage across the channel. Though we had traveled for weeks over land, for me the short voyage over water would mark a point of no return in my return to what my people called the Holy Isles, as if my life would come full circle and then close over my head—like a noose. Well, not quite a full circle. I had been set adrift from the Isle of Mona far to the west of here. And I would set foot again in the Holy Isles in the southeast, at the very site of the recent Roman invasion, the fortress settlement at Rutupiae.
I had to wonder: did the druids still blame me for the Romans’ success? Did they still think the human sacrifice I had stolen from under their noses would have saved the Holy Isles from Roman occupation?
“Well,” I stopped and spoke aloud to them, as if they were even now arrayed in judgment against me in their full-feathered druid regalia. “If it makes any difference to you, it didn’t save him, either. Esus, the one you called the Stranger. Not in the end. Not fro
m the god-making death.”
I stopped and gazed at the water. More than sunlight, moonlight appeared to make a path, illuminated the cross-hatch and ripples of the waves, a bright way across the darkness. My vision skimmed along it to the shining cliffs and the dark land beyond. I had been punished thoroughly for my crime. Not only by exile. The druids had stolen my daughter from my arms only hours after her birth and sent her to foster among the Iceni in the east, territory now under Roman rule.
Who was lost, who was saved? Who was wrong and who wronged? And how do you tell the difference?
I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the pebbles on the shingle beach below being raked and rolled over and over by the waves. Even at this height, I could smell the seaweed; the tide must be going out.
“Beloved,” I whispered; for he had said he was always with me, although I did not always believe it. “I am going to find her at last, the misbegotten child of a misbegotten child. Do you remember the druids called her that? I am going with our own Sarah. It was her idea, really. But cariad, what if I am making a terrible mistake? Before Sarah came to find me, I had such terrifying dreams. Maybe they were meant to warn us away. What if I am taking Sarah into danger? What if—”
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